Fucking bastarding fucking hell. This really, really needs to go away before I hurt someone.

 

I really must love more than 147 songs.

 

I bought the shittiest ipod I could (I am POOR), and I still can even fill the bastard. Having made a rule that I wouldn't put anything on it that I have on CD (what's the point?), I find myself staring into space for at least three hours a day trying to decide what to download.

And even then, I get the thing out on the bus and invariably discover that if I shuffle the songs, I get The Backstreet Boys, Sugababes and Girls Aloud followed by MC Hammer, Vangelis, then The Nine Inch mother-loving Nails. I mean, how am I supposed to relax after that?? I'm not thinking, am I?

 

God, I can't remember the last time I thought straight properly. I currently have the attention span of a dragonfly with ADHD and the mental capacity of Jade Goody. Which isn't fair, because Jade is a millionaire, and I have thirty six pence and some lint.

I think my problems could be sorted out with a fairly comprehensive bout of having a life, but thirty six pence is no longer even enough to afford a kipper in a bun in this town, and I may have to consider hitching a ride to the developing world if I ever want to have a night out. Or alternatively, the Arctic if I want to go clubbing - arf.

 

No, this is stupid and counter-productive. It's cos I've been in the house so much recently with no-one to talk to except to (spoilt) dogs and a slightly thick cat. I say thick, it does that "I'm looking at you while you talk to me but that doesn't mean I know, or even care, what you are saying" face which actually freaks me out more than it sounds like it should.

I have also discovered that UKTV G2 and UKTV People really do not show anything other than Top Gear. Which is far too tempting. I think I have watched James May's hair grow and grey twice now in the last three days.

 

I should be working. That's for sure.

 

Anyone else bored? I really ought to learn how to drive: you know, get out and about and all that. Actually, considering it further, I wouldn't have enough money to afford petrol, would I? Bum.

 

I'm doomed.

 

*tum-te-tum*

 

Still, on the plus side, I'm getting a cold.

 

Oh, hang on, I have a text.....

Bollocks, as if anything could have made it worse, its from a guy I know who is in Vegas. By a pool. With a cocktail.

Where's my bloody atom bomb? Hang on..... Message sent.......

 

It said "cock".

 

Things wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't of discovered that I have been a pawn in someone's big fat ego fest for the last three months. I was told this a long time ago, but I needed to have it from the horse's mouth and I got that today. Hooray for the Grand National: Break it's legs and shoot the fucker. Left me in a right good mood, that did. All I need now is for my ipod to fill itself with Bon Jovi and fucking Power Ballads III and I can die unhappy.

 

I just went on Bearshare to see if there are any Monkees songs on there that I don't have. (NB: There aren't. There aren't any recorded that I don't have. Yes, yes, I know: Not a proper band, blah blah. Sod off.) And now I have to do a whole Top Ten Things That Make Me Fucking Cry For Humanity list because of one thing.

 

1)      People who call “Daydream Believer” “Cheer Up Sleepy Jean”. Is the British National Anthem called “Happy and Glorious”, like a Noel Coward ditty? No.

2)      Dog food. I think they might make it smell like that on purpose, so that people who live in Gateshead don’t stop buying McDonalds.

3)      That bloody HORRIBLE new Frosties advert. Why do I have to be assaulted with the insufferable cheerfulness of Sylvia Young’s latest bootlick? Cheerfulness of that sort has a name: In a few years it will be “gayness”. Fuck off and leave me alone. They don’t taste great, your dancing is reminiscent of the Flower Pot men, and your grasp of rhythmic meter is third rate at best. Git.

4)      Goldfish. I want a pet. Goldfish are potentially my best option as I am not allowed a cat or a dog and a house-rabbits frighten me (give it a knife and fork it’ll evolve to true sentience and have us all, I tell you.). Having said this, I went to the pet shop and looked at them a bit and they are crap. They do nothing. They are not relaxing and they smell. And die. Big wow, and I’m an animal-lover.

5)      Middle class food. Bloody zebra milk mozzarella, or whatever. Stupid. And eating alligator? Call me old fashioned, but when did we start eating other apex predators? Isn’t that just as bad as GM crops and all the other stuff that the hateful 4x4 types rebel against?

6)      The phone book. Because I’m running out of ideas and there’s one in front of me. Anyway, it’ll soon be redundant once someone writes a book about telecommunications that EVERYONE WILL BUY. (You are getting sleeeeepy….)

7)      People going on holiday. I’m not. I was supposed to be going to Turkey but I got dumped instead. Perhaps something to do with my rosy attitude towards life?

8)      The Cider revival. Is it just me or is the TV full of smug Irish voice-overs about “traditional, satisfying cider”? Does this mean that the man who sits at the foot of my stairs and smells of piss can now be referred to as a “Metrosexual”? (Note: I drink cider all the time. I just don’t expect to pay three quid for a half pint bottle of it so that I can look like a bird in a black cocktail dress watching a firework display like on the ads.)

9)      West Highland Terriers. I don’t get them, they aren’t cute.

10)  Books I should have read but can’t manage. Oh come on, I can barely manage Neighbours. Why should I be able to get through Tristram Shandy after six years of trying?

 

I’m off for a lie down. I have bile-blindness. Sorry about the vitriol. It’s been a shite day.

 

Laters.

xx

Rule Number One of Knowing Xine:

 

Do NOT leave her in a house with a full packet of bacon, eight sausages, eggs, mushrooms and  nice bread.

It will result in her being unable to move for two consecutive days.

 

Oh well, at least the appetite’s back.

 

My good mood on whatever day it was (Wednesday? Yes.) was more or less completely gone by midday on Thursday. Not sure where it went, but it was nowhere to be found, and I even looked down the back of the settee and in the dog’s mouth. I’ve been trying to do work but really only managed to go on a vile and destructive bender on Thursday night, and then barely make it into Gateshead town to pick up some work on Friday. The bender, you see, had resulted in me on my hands and knees in Newcastle’s Time Square at three am vomiting around 76% of my body’s total moisture. And when I say that; I’m not lying. It was all water, and I hadn’t been drinking water. Frightening, and probably quite funny considering I was kneeling in it and blaming it on “claustrophobia”. We’d been stuck in a crowd trying to leave, you see, and I don’t do sick in the street as a general rule. Thanks anyway to Aidan Henderson who looked after me when I refused to go home with everyone else at one, even if we did spend most of the next two hours bickering about whether or not he was allowed to refer to me as his “ex” after three weeks when we were 15. Ah, the past… Will you never fail to let me argue with people?

 

So, the last two days have been pretty miserable, from the weather, to my poor pounding head. I need to motivate myself if I’m going to enjoy the Orange Evolution festival on Monday. I went last year (the pics are on here somewhere), but SFA were playing so I was stupidly excited. And it was sunny. It’s not sunny now, and I’m pretty sure it will piss it down on Monday. Still, its free, Graham Coxon is playing, and I’ll be with my lovely friends. So long as I don’t run in to anyone I don’t want to see, it should be ok. Oh, who am I kidding, I’ll be cold and poor. How much more fun can it get?

 

Oh dear, I’m going. I’m not much fun, am I?

 

Laters.

xx

Finally, FINALLY I was visited today by the happiness whore and whisked off to LaLa Land.

About fucking time, too.

 

I went into the publishers’ office to learn how to copy edit and was presented with a book on how to do it and a typescript to edit and some dehydrated tea, and I spent the happiest six hours of my year so far absorbing what most people would consider to be a living, breathing nightmare.

 

Grammar.

 

I LOVE it. Happy me, in my happy bubble of english fun: learning about hyphens and colons and correct usage of the term “running head” (not, as I had suspected, anything to do with either acne or extreme sex Olympics). I can now safely say that I am the saddest person that I know. I familiarised myself with modern editing shorthand, arranged all of the hierarchal headers and sub-headers (oh, sweet joy…. Is anyone still reading?) in the text, created a basic set of “house rules” and discovered that I have been (oh, dear God) using elipses incorrectly at the end of sentences… (.)

By the time it was time to go I was volunteering to go back tomorrow and finish off. Its been so long since I actually used my brain for anything other than over-analysing my relationship that I was almost giddy with it all.

Yay!

 

Anyway, if anyone is still reading, hello, and if you aren’t, how can I trust that you aren’t?

 

Dog-sitting began in earnest tonight, and I’ve already had a tantrum because the dogs’ suspicions were realised around ten when my parents still hadn’t returned from “church”. “Church” is where we always say we’re going when we want the dogs to chill out and let us leave to go somewhere more exciting. Its one of those little family quirks (we also always called the remote “The Contraption” which caused hours of hilarity when I went to uni and no-one had a clue what the fuck I was looking for when I went barrelling round the lounge making that funny snipping motion with my hands that you do when you lose something. I digress…). So, when I saw the dogs eyeing me with suspicion and sitting in front of the window in a manner that would make even Walt Disney spin like a turbine, I knew I was in for some howling fun.

The big black one goes: “Warooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo”. The little brown goes: “Awr awr awr awr awr awr awr arwwwwww”. I, whilst sitting with my face against the screen watching Big Bro’s Big Mouth (I can never get too close to Russell. I am single. I have embarrassing crushes because I am ALLOWED), go: “Its ok, its fine, I’m here, it’ll be alright, don’t panic, get a cuddle, s’ok…”. The dogs, realising that things must be bad if the human who doesn’t even live there isn’t at church and is worse, consoling them, spend the next half hour sitting directly opposite me and staring.

Eventually, when my vision has become so distorted that all I can see are four eyes like some multiple Sauron, and I find myself unable to blink, let alone spend some Russell-time, I physically pick the brown one up (sensible move – the black one would have had an eye out, at least) and place it in the back garden where it sits like a weird gnome for a bit then comes back in. The black one, sensing defeat begins to carry on as normal with me. That is, lightly touching any exposed skin with its nose, which is wetter than Shamu, and colder than Satan’s ball-sack. Oh well… only five more days to go.

 

Can you buy pet valium?

 

Anyway, one last thing before you all go. I need an idea for one of those books that you get for Christmas off people who don’t know you very well: like Crap Towns or The Little Book of Chav. I’m actually being serious here as well, I need to write something stupid and diverting that will sell but not actually cause me any bother. Not “A Brief Comedy Guide to Choosing a Fancy Hen” or anything. Although I’m feeling a lot of love for that. Some of them have wicked big tails.

 

Hope the Lord plucks you from his happy-tombola: Take care.

 

Laters.

xx

Spent most of today gazing at my feet and feeling depressed in Aldi because I couldn't afford any of their cheap, pointless crap. Obviously, being completely and utterly skinted means that I really REALLY need a two man tent and a Monsters Inc single duvet cover. Why God, why?

Still, bonuses to be had in that I am dog-sitting this weekend whilst The Mam and The Dad go to Budapest (The Dad bought a DVD about the Hungarian Uprising from ebay... The Mam hopes this will not mean endless tours of revolutionary places and points of "interest"), so I got to go food shopping and pick whatever I wanted. Having regained my absent appetite thanks to Chris and his generous applications of Jaffacakes in a field in Keilder, this mostly involved me backing up the old JCB and getting all Action Jackson in Asda. The first time they went away I lived on creme caramels because I had gingivitis. This time I will be treating a nasty coldsore with cheese sticks and Happy Hippos (or Smiling Rhinos or something... we did go to Aldi - keep up at the back...). I love eating. It forms a major part of my day.

 

I am going to do my stint as a publishing intern tommorrow, with potentially hilarious results. Not having any experience of copy editing or line editing (if its a line it should be be er, long and possibly straight or wavy with two ends - there's one for the emos out there; "Describe a line. What is a line?"), and with probably only half an hour's briefing before I get on the phone to London and start ballsing up, this could be fair game for a laugh. Alternatively, I could do really well at it and discover that I am, in fact, Lord of the bullet-point. Beats treasury tags, I reckon. I'll let you know. But either way, I will be doing my "tall" hair (common stress effect of the curly-inclined) and trying to remember that I once (twice) went to uni and that punching holes* in Crown Court files is not all that I know how to do. Go me. I rule. Ad nauseum...

 

Today I had a visit from the works Welfare Officer, and utterly nice guy who holds the honour of being the only person in the Depeartmemt of Constitutional Affairs above a certain span who actually regards humble admin workers as being human. This visit mostly involved me sniffling into an impressive collection of paper hankies (all paid for by the dept, dontcha know) and trying to convey my utter hatred for my current work situation. Not easy without a dartboard and a picture of my boss. And others. But I think I got my point across and he agreed that I should transfer to another court. Ha! Fuck you managerial red-tape! I laugh in your face. Of course, the suggestion will be overruled and I'll have to leave and work in a shop again. If its Forbidden Planet I'll be happy. If I have to go back to HMV or La Senza, you may well see me on the news wearing a balaclava and clutching a cross-eyed sock puppet. Only time will tell.

 

I'm off to get some sleep and try to remember what punctuation is. I am a product of Thatcher's Britain and can therefore describe the "cracking" techniques utilised in the oil industry, but go strangely quiet at parties when someone mentions past perfect tenses. I must be going to the wrong sort of parties. Most girls from Newcastle would automatically start describing the best orgasm they ever had.

 

Bed for me. Or, at least lying on my bed and panicking gently. Hooray for British reserve.

 

Laters (Fuck you Street-Porter.)

xx

 

*Interesting point - my laptop buttons are more difficult to press than an oily tory, and this sentence originally contained the enchanting words "punching hos in the Crown Court". I was going to leave it as was (STET, we say in publishing - wooooo, get me!!! I am so sad it breaks my metatarsal), but thought you might a) have me arrested or b) guess me and Cortina Chris' secret plan to get me on WWE by the end of next year.

Adieu! x

 

 

Right, here’s the deal.

 

Everything went tits up.

 

Balls to the wall.

 

So, in the spirit of all things fresh, new and spunky, I’m going to impart nothing more than the briefest expo before starting again. Would that be ok?

I think so.

 

1)      I got dumped for someone else.

2)      I had a “disagreement” with my boss who wouldn’t allow me a transfer to escape from point 1.

3)      I stopped eating. (If you know me, you will know this is about as normal as Jordan buying a bra from La Senza.)

4)      I got signed on the sick for a month after having a delightful experience involving panic attacks and a hole in my right tonsil.

5)      I went rallying and had lots of fun and rediscovered my appetite.

6)      I offered to do a bit of copy editing and line editing with the publishers for the experience, despite not knowing what either involves.

7)      I almost moved abroad.

8)      I went to Norfolk on a pilgrimage.

9)      I fell in love (see below*)

10)  I tided the flat.

11)  I ran out of money two days after payday and lived on seventy quid for four weeks.

12)  I went to one of my mate’s weddings in an Asda outfit and discovered that all of my other friends can now afford Jasper Conran.

13)  I read a lot.

 

That’s it. No more on the last two months because they have been absolutely shite.

 

Ta da!

 

I promise I’ll be better and more um… here, in future. Promise promise promise.

 

I hope you are all ok, anyway, and happy floating aboot in cyber-land whilst simultaneously leading other, less happy “real” lives. I hope Ben is doing ok with exams, and that Aircuart can find his muse: That Mr Steve doesn’t think I’m dead, that Prenin keeps on being Mr Community and rightly feeling the love for it, and that Chris doesn’t hate me too much for not being more sympathetic about Arsenal the other night. I hope Cortina Chris can beat the minimum-wage-slave blues, that Cap’n B is still deliriously silly, and that Bertykat has all the cake she likes, and that Joss remains as erudite and witty as ever. Innes-Smith I hope will be honoured by an article in The Fortean Times soon, and that Anguaji will honour me with that elusive pint when I have more than 67p to spend. The Mam is cool as ever, I know this because if I ever feel sad or anxious for more than ten seconds, her uterus sense starts tingling and she’s at my side making everything feel a little bit more bearable. I love her, I do.

 

Apropos to my falling in love; I have, and it was so sudden that I wasn’t even sure what was going on. Her name was Polly and she was a black and white whippet and she nearly got stolen because I loved her so much. I need a whippet fairly urgently now. It’s sad!

 

In other news, I’m straight into Big Bro, I have already got my favourites and my utter non-favourites, and I think I would like to marry Pete. We could move to Hollywood and be foley artists and get rich. Liking the gender politics and the large quantity of hateable people in there. Not liking the gender politics and the large number of hateable people in there. Ah well, it’s the nature of the beast, innit?

 

And another thing, why can I always lose weight when I can’t afford new clothes? I found myself on the Pilgrim’s Mile in Walsingham in pissing rain wearing a pair of cheap jeans which seemingly contain lycra. Fucking lycra, who invented that then? Obviously someone who had never had to experience wet denim creeping down their thighs in a religious environment. Not only did I have a good fifty years on almost everyone else in the village (save for the kid with the Carlito T-Shirt – The Mam wouldn’t let me speak to him. Something about “frightening” him… whatever..), but I my already very slim pulling chances were rendered null entirely by having a set of Primark keks failing round my ankles. I did cautiously take my remaining eight quid into Gateshead the other day and do the charity shops on the off-chance, but me being me, I came home with a melon baller, a tobacco tin and a picture of Jesus. I shit you not. 

 

Well, Raw is on, so I simply must go and look at oiled man-beasts. It’s a hard-knock life. honestly, it is. I may have to resort to self-harm to make it all right.

 

Oh yes, it’s time for Crabbies…..

 

Being single, I am available for meaningful relationship applications, provided you are:

a)      Russell Crowe

b)      Jason Lee

c)      David Tennant

d)      Graham Coxon

e)      Luke Wilson

f)        Gruff Rhys

g)      Mark Steel

h)      Russell Brand

i)        Carlito

 

Or alternatively, if you bear a passing resemblance and can buy my drinks all night.

 

Laters.

Xx

 

PS: I was dismayed to see on the first episode of Never Mind the Full Stops that people who say “Laters” are abhorrent. Like I ever wanted Carol Thatcher or Janet Street Porter to love me. I’d rather read the Da Vinci Code again…

 

Take care. I’ll be back before you can say “nut sack” with your mouth full. X

 

*Not a sick perv, despite what people say. (I mean, it can be described as a noble Japanese art form....What am I talking about? Only two people in the whole world know. Aint that freaky? One's a cock and the other one is still in therapy.)

Normal service will be resumed as soon as I experience something fun.

 

Which should, fingers crossed, be after this weekend. (No pressure, Chris.)

 

And, I will tell you all why I am off work; one and a half stone lighter; and ready to shave my head and buy some dungarees.

 

It's about to get nasty.....

 

Hold on to your hats.

 

(Kidding!)

 

Laters.

xx

 

PS: Not about the work and the weight and the dungas. Just about the nastiness. I couldn't.... I'm "too nice".

 

x

.....And I've lost it.

 

Hurrah.

 

Sorry.

 

x