Not Like Paris Hilton

Well LARPing happened, but judging by the hundreds of photos of me looking like a vibrant blue teepee in my surgical scrubs, I’ll be better off making the tea in future. Running, check. Falling on rocks, check. Ambling through the forest with the grace of a wheezing, landed manatee, oh fuck yeah, check.

I’m now so fat my shoulders are wider than my head – sideways. How the hell did this happen? I mean sure, I’ve spent the last twelve months eating pizza and watching increasingly banal TV, but four stone? Are you serious? I can now cradle my lap flab in my arms. If there was one part of my body which was always ok-ish, it was my stomach. Nowadays I could piss in a PCs helmet and he’d never know it was because I was too fat to lope to a bog. Unless he had a Clearblue on him, but I reckon it would rattle about in the cosh holder too much. God, I hope the gym tomorrow isn’t full of Smug Thins who’ll laugh at my Tesco exercise pants and Nintendo T-shirt. Yes, it really has taken me a whole month to actually motivate myself into going. At this rate I might get up a really good head of steam and attempt more than ten push-ups in time to witness the end of the universe. Actually, with a speck of perspective, a flat stomach sort of pales in comparison. Nah, I’d die if David Tennant turned up in the TARDIS (note uber-nerd capitalisation there. Athangyew) and witnessed me flobbering into the fall-out shelter. Even worse, he could be splattered with three stone of gelatinous breast tissue as I am vaporized into the ether once and for all.

How cheerful.

 

Still, despite the fact that this weekend has opened my eyes to the possibility that I might actually have surpassed the old “curvy” delusion, and taken a stalling u-turn into what is almost surely clinical obesity, I had a nice, if occasionally terrifying, humiliating and utterly intimidating weekend. I honestly did not think it would be so nasty being surrounded by four grown men wielding rubber spears and realising that I have absolutely no idea how to fight back. Obviously, being me, my first reaction was to twat them with the business end of a nearby branch, but this was a game, and somehow I struggled with the concept of waving my own (tiny) rubber weapon at them and shouting “MAJOR, MAJOR, CRITICAL”. I believe that this is very common amongst noobs, and perhaps with practice I would improve, but I’ve been honest, and the most honest assessment I can make is that I was actually cripplingly shy throughout the whole thing. It’s not a customary emotion for me to experience, brazening most awkwardness out with stupid faces as I normally do, but I just felt so inexperienced and well, fat all weekend, that I was rubbish, frankly. I do forget that I haven’t acted for at least ten years, and that when cornered I more likely to offer apologies for things than run screaming at people, and I really shouldn’t. I would like to therefore state once and for all, that at any given moment of pressure, I am probably operating on 67% bullshit factor and in reality wetting my massive pants and wishing that I was at home with a copy of Vurt, the cat and a special pizza.

 

Cheer up Arnold, you miserable cow, it’s almost Saturday.

Almost.

 

Laters

xx

Sooooo….

 

I passed my driving test. Hurrah! And first time, too! (The time I failed when I was 17 doesn’t count. It doesn’t.) I was so convinced that I’d failed (I started to cry during my third attempt to reverse round a corner) that I replied “That’s not funny or appropriate” when the man told me I’d passed. He asked me if I’d like him to reconsider. I almost said yes, such a hash had been made. Still, no-one was killed or even seriously injured, and looking back, I did handle the Pramface walking out in front of me with plenty of skill. And considering we took the only one of the twelve test routes that I had never driven on, through some very busy areas on a Saturday, I can’t say I’m displeased with my performance. Crying might have been a bit much, like. Especially with half an hour left of the test.  Can’t drive anywhere till June 24^th, like because The Mam is insured with Saga, and they won’t insure me because I’ve still got my own teeth, or something. But still, phase one of Operation Lifestyle is complete. Operation Lifestyle is broken into several important phases. I wrote it on the back of someone’s parking ticket one day at work and it reads as follows:

 

1) Pass driving test.

2) Find meaningful career.

3) Stop being fat.

4) Make effort with appearance.

5) Read some classics and not just Hornblower novels.

 

As you can see, I am charging down the Lifestyle Highway in my Positivitymobile. I’m even joining the gym tomorrow (hereafter to be known as “The James” because that’s what I like to call it – go figure).

It’s nice to have a plan.

 

I’m also going LARPing with BFEmma (oh yeah, there goes our cool Emma, I just went public) in June. We accepted the invite on the basis that it is being organised by our good friend Sarah, and will not involve corsets, but will involve gore. And corpses. I am anticipating a fine weekend. And hopefully lots of lovely pictures of me dressed up like a mental patient.

 

Work is still wack, although I was given the opportunity to step into my manager’s shoes the other day, which says more about how desperate they were than how good I am. I spent the entire day, admittedly in “The Big Chair”, but with the heater going up me keks and subsequently ended the afternoon sweating like a fat lass. A problem made infinitely worse with the realisation that everything was going wrong. I mean, who would give me fourteen thousand quid to cash up and not think that something wouldn’t balance? Seriously? I was more than glad to resume pleb status in the morning. If my career track in the Civil Service is going to involve counting, it’ll be even longer than previously anticipated before I get on the ladder. The future of such a position is sitting here, watching Chelsea lose in a Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles (original) T-shirt and drinking orange pop from a Carry on Doctor mug, having previously been reading Bizarre magazine which this month features an amputee fetish model on the cover. I had, as Olivia Newton John is wont to say, better shape up if I’m to do any better in this life.

 

I’m off to attempt to put the cat’s feet in the sink and feel all warm inside about Ronaldo missing his penalty. Even if I was supporting Man U.

 

Laters.

xx

Fuck me, I hadn’t realised it had been so long…

 

I can’t be arsed to go “well this is what I’ve been doing”, because what I’ve been doing is about as interesting as watching a documentary devoted entirely to people driving to the shops.

I have however, developed an exciting new medical condition, and let’s face it: That’s really why you’re all here.

 

I had my tooth out in October (probably, I’m not sure I was actually even participating in the latter part of last year because I can’t remember a thing about it. Work, you see, has destroyed what was left of my mind after that year in Leeds) and it was, frankly, longer than Rip Van Winkle’s champion snooze. In fact, the dentist had to break part of my jaw to get the vile bugger out. I should point out here that the tooth had to come out due to a financial issue, viz I couldn’t afford the three hunnerd quid for root canal, and not due to any hideous oral hygiene issues which I should be ashamed of. Just saying, in case anyone thinks that I have teeth like something walking down a Sunderland back alley offering fifty pence a go. So long tooth comes out. Infection, or "dry socket" as it is somewhat cryptically known, follows. Mostly, I might as well admit, because I wasn’t about to stop smoking for anything less than a miraculous pregnancy. So, my own fault...

Or was it??

*tension music a la The Apprentice or something*

It turns out, after two lots of sinusitis and a couple of visits to the dental hospital, that my tooth, my tooth, was lodged happily in my sinus cavity for twenty years before its untimely departure into the real world and subsequently under my pillow. (I’m still waiting, you unreliable cow – and it had better be worth it.)

So, I now have a lovely, smooth, well-healed tunnel running from my mouth (the side I chew, of course, it would have to be, this is me) directly into my sinus. I have since been on three courses of anti-biotics (the kind that make you puke and have to drink several Actimels a day in order to prevent unthinkable evils possibly in the pant area) and will “probably” have to have a bone graft in my face. That’s In. My. Face.

Could you please take a moment to reflect on how one person can have so, so much wrong with them, to the point where a simple tooth can be welded into their nasal cavities and therefore grant them the power to sneeze remnants of their lunch out after twenty minutes? Oh, and you should have seen me try to blow up a balloon the other day – can you imagine how distressing my work mates found it when the air came rushing out of my nose? Inexplicably, seemingly more distressing than I found it.

And the best part is that I have to wear a fucking gum shield all the time which not only reaches the parts other humiliations cannot by making me look like Kurt Angle, but also brings the pain more subtly in my new unwavering resemblance when attempting to communicate to the beaver off Winnie The Pooh. (Thanks “BF”Emma, for that confidence-boosting analogy.) Have I worn it constantly as directed? Have I fanny. But I have to go back on Friday to see the specialist (The students were almost pissing themselves in excitement when I went in the first time  - their usual fare consisting mostly of charvers with teeth knocked out in fights and people won’t pay for a toothache to be looked at until an abscess forms which actually eats away half of their faces) and I know for a fact I can’t garner enough wear and tear on the thing to convince them otherwise. Knackers. I’m going to get wrong, aren’t I?

Still, at least I’m not bald.

 

But I am now frantically touching every wooden surface within reach to ensure that this does NOT happen.

 

Oh, and I have a boyfriend. But you probably guessed as much, didn’t you? He’s a lucky bugger: “Well MY girlfriend wears a gumshield and can shoot chicken korma out of her nose, and in three months’ time will almost certainly resemble Kojak thanks to her inability to keep her mouth shut and stop tempting fate…”

Good job he’s pragmatic.

 

Laters.

xx

At the risk of this blog requiring imminent re-naming, viz “Pustules, Pox and Plague: My life in Illness”, I would like to report that the hole in my gum which coincidentally connects directly to my sinuses due to the removal of an abnormally long tooth, has officially gone bad and decided that this week, it will have an abscess. Cue much facial throbbing and a general inability to eat on the right hand side of my face for the seventh consecutive month. I can come to no conclusion other than the fact that I seem to be very Like Paris Hilton these days, crawling as I am, with diseases.

 

Still, giant oral pus balls aside, life is pootling along in familiar style. Another week, another job application, another vast gaping void where a response should be, etc etc. Either I’m a complete chuffer with no viable skills and the CV of a 12 year-old feral child, or my postman hates me and uses any mail other than bills to wipe his forehead on whilst climbing the violently steep hill which crests at my house. I believe I may have been raised by chimps, because my postman drives a van. What the hell, I’m the finest Fixed Penalty clerk there will ever be.

My spell-checker tells me that the “I’m” in that last sentence is grammatically incorrect and should be “I is”. Apparently, my spell-checker is an offensive African-American slave stereotype.

Speaking of offensive stereotypes, I purchased the following T-shirt off the nets last week:

 

 I thought it was cool. However, upon showing mine housemates, I was informed that the children were not the happy specimens I had hitherto assumed them to be. They are (as Stu put it), Retards.

Excellent, I may have bought the most offensive T-shirt since a uni mate of mine wore his “Fuck Jesus” jumper to a Bingo night. The fule.

 

Please tell me they are naught more than happy chidlers… Please…?

 

Laters.

xx

 

 

 

I am sorry for the last entry. Oh yes.

 

I remember being angry about something on the way into work this morning, but I have absolutely no idea what it was. I think it was something to do with .. aha! I remember.

I am absolutely, utterly, completely pig-ranting sick of cover versions of songs. I hate the way that smug music types feel the need to “re-imagine” decent tunes in their chosen genre, and in doing so, achieve nothing more than to make them selves look even more bereft of creativity. I’m one of those music Nazis, who thinks that genuine talent comes from the ability to not only warble a decent tune, but also to create (ie write) one too. This is the X-Factor-factor. Nowadays, and awld tit with a trendy haircut and a power-ballads CD can be feted by the popular media as a “musical talent”. It’s interesting to compare these people to those slogging away on the club scene with no real recognition, The only difference is that they have: a) stolen the face of a two year old child; b) Listened to enough early Mariah Carey to know that hitting more than one octave in a single phrase can occasionally work; or c) prepared a suitable heart-warming story, usually involving some form of socially-crippling affectation or life-threatening illness. And if you’re attractive, then so much the better. I know that looks have always played a part in popular music, but fck me, if it hasn’t become the be-all and end all. We are even now at the point where some ratty little fucker with buck teeth can be given a “make-over” (tin-tin fringe / mullet and shiny suit for the boys, cack weave and leggings for the girls) and turned into a sex symbol whereas before you would have ignored them on the street.

I’m interested in which of the most popular artists of our day actually write their own songs. Call it a social experiment. Or something. So I’m referring to Auntie for The BBC’s Top Five Selling Albums of 2007. Woo-hoo. Prepare ye the way for the “talent”, and let’s see if they actually write any of the stuff that they produce from their geet mouths. And for good measure, are they sexy?

 

1) Amy Winehouse. Now don’t get me started. I’m being impartial.

Writes? Co-writes (which sounds suspiciously like “adds the word ‘hey’ a lot”, but I actually think she’s probably a bit better than that.)

Sexy? Errr, I don’t think that was how she was marketed. (?)

Can sing? Say what you like, and I can’t stand her, but by God she can sing.

 

2) Leona Lewis. Our first entry from the world of the post X-Factor marketing machine.

Writes? Same as above, but with added cynicism. Oh, and neither of her biggest hits were hers.

Sexy? Pretty, but over-glammed to obvious effect.  Proof that even a plain, slightly horse-faced young lady can be transformed into… er, Mariah Carey before she misplaced her sanity.

Can sing? The benevolent liberal in me says that a decent enough Whitney Houston impression is very hard to do. The bastard in me tells me that the producer has this machine, right? And it makes people sound good…

 

3) Mika. He’s Lebanese. He’s camper than a leather wigwam. He can sing really high about happee things. I love him even though it’s wrong.

Writes? Yes. Occasionally with others, but so far the one with the most solo-written hits. Go team Mika!

Sexy? Yes. He’s not exactly been marketed as a munter, has he?

Can sing? Yes. Even if you hate it, he’s not your usual male singer, being that he tends to hit notes that even the castrati balked at.

 

4) Take That. Which makes me very, very happy.

Writes? 11 of the 12 tracks on their new album are written by the band. Not just Gary Barlow, you know.

Sexy? They started off dancing in lycra for gays. Yes.

Can sing? It took a while, but I suppose they can.

 

5) Westlife. No comment. The bile would erode my keyboard.

Write? Almost every song they do is a cover. They are Daniel O’Donnell for the 21^st Century.

Sexy? I can hardly bring myself to say it, but apparently, people fancy them.

Can sing? I reckon one or two can. The others simply mug furiously and perform the key-change dip when required. And do that hand on heart thing on their stools. For fuck’s sake.

 

So, we can see that I’m probably wrong. Most artists at least have a hand in their songs. But Christ, Westlife at number five? The top five besy selling album of 2007? Bloody hell, this country is wank.

 

Let’s reassess so that I at least seem to be slightly right.

Mark Ronson.

Mark effffffffing Ronson.

Mark “I can make a hit out of a song that somebody else wrote simply by adding a cocking trumpet” Ronson.

Mark “let’s make Radiohead a trumpety playtime” Ronson.

Mark “I blow my trumpet where Ra declines to drive his chariot” Ronson.

 

I rest my case.

I first noticed that it hurt when I sat down two nights ago.

 

And then I made my first mistake.

 

I should have told my friends at work the truth, to wit: that my coccyx seemed to be hurting. But no. Surely not. I blazed in and practically shouted that my arse hurt and I couldn't sit straight.

Two hours later I have people randomly asking me in cautious yet amused voices if this is due to some rampant sexual frivolity.

I can;t even begin to calculate how many times I've said "it's my coccyx" today. Even better, someone (a man, obviously with nothing better to do) actually went "hurr hurr, cock." I despair, I really do.

 

Anyway, being me, I decided to do a little net research and actually, everything makes sense. I already knew that I have Spina Bifida Occultus (really common; no biggie), but the interesting part is that my delicate problem is actually connected, recognised and of course, has it's own wealth of websites and "support networks". American, obviously. And then, because, and I stress, this is me, I start zipping round the various sites, looking for treatments etc - pick up some good tips and feel better about everything - and eventually (naturally) click on a "photos" option. And discover that one day, should I fail to use antibacterial shower gel and pack my crack, I could end up like this poor sap. Yes folks, that is his arse. Now call me paranoid, call me a hypochonriac, but I'm going to the fucking doctors on Monday - sore coccyx or no. I fully intend to nip this mother-licker in the bud well before I have my cleft extended by two feet and (inexplicably) experience the urge to photograph it and POST IT ON THE INTERNET. Gillian's threatening to take the laptop away if I don't stop frightening myself stupid. Obviously this guy (I hope it's a guy, if not then I think a Veet intervention is not far off) has reached the ultimate endgame in the fight against a simple sore arse, and I have in no way reached that stage yet. But still...

 

Anyway, it got me thinking about common illnesses and their potential to destroy lives. I get coldsores on my nose. Could I end up like this? Or my tendency to get the odd mouth ulcer? Oh yeah... Treat that, Bongela. And don't even get me started on those crazy episodes we all get from time to time. It could get messy.

 

I feel better when I think about how much worse it could be.

 

Laters.

xx

 

UPDATE: One of the potential side effects of Spina Bifida Occultus is the development of a vestigal tail.

Oh Sweet Jesus Christ.