Last night I was taken to the theatre by Maw, Paw and No1 Auntie to see a play. The whole evening had the air of a surreal anxiety induced dream. It wasn't unpleasant. It was just odd. It is very hard to explain so I think it best to simply describe what happened and allow the reader to draw their own conclusions.
We went to a boring Italian restaurant for a pre-theatre. The food was acceptable but tended towards the dull. I had a Penne Arrabbiata. Apparently Arrabbiata translates as angry or enraged, mine just seemed a bit grumpy. The pasta was nice and firm. There was a sinister waiter who called me darling and asked me why I didn't like Parmesan and at one point where I was going when I tried to escape. I really didn't see what business it was of his and found his tone altogether too rapey for my liking. I'm not suggesting he was entranced by my lumpy exterior (no one with better things to do has wanted a shot of me since 1990) but he struck me as a man who would fuck a hole in a barber's shop floor. I went all stiff and pretended to be a conifer until he went away.
Post-meal we toddled up Hope St for a pre-theatre drink in Cafe Hula which passed without incident. Then we rose from our slightly dirty table and strutted on to the theatre and that is where the evening took on a surreal air. As I was invited as an afterthought I was seated at the end of the row away from my family. We were in the very front row so had an abundance of leg room. This also gave my mother room to start darting about. I was dreamily staring into space when all of a sudden my mother appeared in front of me and roared "DO YOU WANT SOME WERTHERS ORGINAL?" before I had the chance to say "obviously not" a handful of Werthers were thrust into my lap. I thought the woman sitting next to was going to pass out laughing. I should stress this was before curtain up. No show was harmed during this startling episode. I gathered the Werthers and placed them in my handbag because I am not a litterbug and resumed staring into space. After about a minute my mother appeared in front of me with "A BOTTLE OF TAP WATER IN CASE YOU GET THIRSTY". I turned to the near hysterical woman next to me and said "I only just met her in the foyer".
It was at this point the woman sitting immediately behind me came to my attention. She was most aggrieved that the show was a whole three minutes late starting. I expect they were waiting for my mother to sit down and stop zipping about the stalls with boiled sweets. I shall refer to the woman immediately behind me as "Backbird" as she will feature a lot and typing WIBM in full is tiresome.
At last the curtain rose and things took place on the stage. I should probably mention at this point that the show starred TV's Shane Richie. This seemed to blow Backbird's mind. She stage whispered to the poor chap next to her who I suppose I should call Backchap "It's Alfie Moon". Backchap seized his chance to look like a boffin and replied "I think it's Shane Richie". This sailed over Backbird's head so she replied "I wonder if Kat is going to come on". On and on it went Backbird spent the whole of the first act tutting, puffing and muttering "that isn't my Roy Grace, I've read the books that's Alfie Moon -where's Kat, Alfie, where is Nana Moon?".
I thought Shane Richie did a competent job depicting a fairly standard issue, harassed, middle aged detective. This wouldn't be a problem for me until the end of the play. Backbird on the other hand was enraged. I too, find the world's habit of failing to measure up to the things I imagine somewhat tiresome and I expect it has caused me to act the goat at times but I've never disrupted a play with my witterings.* I am better than Backbird.
Any hope I had that Backbird might break with convention and remain silent during half time was misplaced. She spent the entire interval muttering "I've read all the books" before going on to insist that Backchap's friend had taken part in initiation rituals in order to join a motorcycle gang, specifically gang raping a woman with the rest of the gang. Backchap was unconvinced by her startling assertion and stuck to the line that his friend wasn't in a gang but just went out to "Loch Lomond and stuff" with "a couple of mates who are into bikes". Backbird was not to be deterred, it turns out she had "done a lot and I mean A LOT of reading about biker gangs". Well there's an open and shut case Backchap's Leader of the Pack is a rapist who ought be drowned.
I will pause for reflection here. I have often sneered at people who don't read and snarked that dumbos ought to read a book but should they? What if Lady Bracknell was right when she said "I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone"? Maybe by shaming stupid folk, we're causing them to read and become overexcited. Perhaps we should celebrate thickos and allow them to live untroubled by knowledge. I don't claim to have all the answers but I am prepared to support anything that makes thickos quiet and isn't murderous. Let them live quietly and happily in their community.
Anyway the curtain shot back up and the play rattled along. I don't want to give anything away so I shall avoid details. For me trying to work out whodunnit was a bit like one of those annoying fox,chicken, bag of corn, farmer over the river problems in that I was certain I could work out the answer if I had to but I can't see the point in working it out because someone is going to tell me the answer. For anyone interested my answer to the fox,chicken, bag of corn, farmer over the river problem is as follows. The fox and chicken form a union, toss the farmer into the river, split the corn 50/50, take the boat and have adventures. The real answer is tedious and involves too much back and forth. I don't like things like that.
It was the last few scenes that startled me. Naturally we established whodunnit. Then it all got a bit camp and overacted to the point of being quite the hoot. Shane Richie appeared oblivious to wild acting going on around him and continued to play it straight. The thing is I honestly don't know who I should praise or snort at here. If it was meant to be a big, camp hoot then I shall snort at the Richie, if it was meant to be straight drama then I shall snort at everyone else. Either way it was an ephemeral goggler and I rather liked it in the same way I enjoy a good Jackie Collins.
I did mean to write a proper restaurant and theatre review but then I typed all these other words. Should we teach Secretarial Studies to compulsive ramblers? Join me here on PONTEFRACT next week for the answers.
* Well there was the 1979 nativity play in Penilee Nursery but it deserved it, I was hopelessly miscast, the costumes were a joke anyone in my position would have spent the entire morning sobbing and staring at their feet.
Saturday, 8 April 2017
Friday, 10 March 2017
I do like a bit of perfume.
I have always loved perfume or rather I have always loved some perfume. Lets not fool ourselves a good deal of it is weak fruity water that someone bought in Asda because it was on special. I should ignore that thin gruel if I were you and concentrate on the good stuff.
Having inexplicably been born into the wrong social class for my needs, I have always regarded perfume as a distress call to my lost aristocratic parents. I like to imagine my aristo folks have been frantic with worry since the nanny mislaid me in a train station. They haven't, they don't exist, there was no nanny, there was no station, there were no aristocratic parents, I was a random burden placed on people who hoped for better, God is dead, no one is coming, I am alone.
Recently, living in a damp, collapsing flat, early middle age and the realisation that my entire career is one enormous, pointless dead end have taken their toll and I find myself disappointed I didn't die in my sleep each morning. I do not want to live this life but I'm too whatever it is I am to change it.
I really don't understand very much about my life. Everything I ever tried at or felt passionately about failed and as I'm by the halfway mark I don't see that changing. I made my bed but I didn't mean to make it this way and there doesn't seem to be any better way available to make it. I was trying, really trying. I'm stuck and marooned.
A sensual, transporting scent to mask the whiff of this rotten gutter is what is required. If I can't be somewhere else, somewhere better then I'd at least like to smell like I am. With that in mind these are my current favourite perfumes in no particular order.
Penhaligon's Halfeti- An unusual choice for me as it was only released in 2015 so is dead modern. It also appears to be unisex, which I tend to avoid as I feel disappointing enough without anyone getting the notion I have a cock. Nevertheless it's a rich, oudy, smoky, woody scent that smells how I'd like to feel in life.
Guerlain's: L'Heure Bleue- My all time favourite, it's powdery, odd, haunting, ideal for a cold day and feminine without being a lisping twit about it. If it were a woman it could go in go a bar and drink alone making it very much a bird I can do business with.
Guerlain's Shalimar- As above but with added sweet vanilla. It is Barbara Windsor's signature perfume.
Coty- L'Aimant- Deeply underrated because it is as cheap as chips and very old. This is a powdery, comforting, sweet treat of a perfume. It doesn't last very long on the skin and needs topped up throughout the day but it's a beautiful scent.
Yves Saint Laurent- Rive Gauche- This manages to smell clean but probably up for a knee trembler at the same time. It's soapy and comforting and reminds me of a dirty Nivea. I am very fond and go through stupid amounts of it. A fine day perfume.
Estee Lauder- Youth Dew- Smells like the late 70s, perms, nights out being babysat, excitement.
Dior-Poison- The first time I caught a whiff of this I was being tortured in a bathroom. The slightly overweight tall girl was pressing my hand on to a hot radiator whilst the thin and slightly mannish one was trying to force me to say "I am an ugly spastic" and threatening to burn all my skin off. I can admit now that I was somewhat distressed by their behaviour towards me but was determined to stare into space and feign indifference. After a while they got bored and picked up a roundish, purple bottle and started trying to spray it into my eyes. It was Poison! I turned my head to the wall so most of it went on my hair and in my ear. I immediately concluded that I wanted to smell like this for the rest of my life but would prefer not to be tortured in a bathroom. I broke free, went home and wept partly from grief at the way I'd been treated and partly from joy at how fucking foxy I smelled. A little goes a long way but it's a no holds barred whopper of a perfume, a French Joan Crawford in a bottle.
Honourable mentions: Vivienne Westwood- Let it Rock & Boudoir, Chanel No 5, Revlon-Charlie Red, Kate Moss- Vintage Muse (smells like rotten fruit and fucking for about 3 minutes) L'Artisan Perfumer- Timbuktu & Rose Privee , Cacherel.- Lou Lou
Having inexplicably been born into the wrong social class for my needs, I have always regarded perfume as a distress call to my lost aristocratic parents. I like to imagine my aristo folks have been frantic with worry since the nanny mislaid me in a train station. They haven't, they don't exist, there was no nanny, there was no station, there were no aristocratic parents, I was a random burden placed on people who hoped for better, God is dead, no one is coming, I am alone.
Recently, living in a damp, collapsing flat, early middle age and the realisation that my entire career is one enormous, pointless dead end have taken their toll and I find myself disappointed I didn't die in my sleep each morning. I do not want to live this life but I'm too whatever it is I am to change it.
I really don't understand very much about my life. Everything I ever tried at or felt passionately about failed and as I'm by the halfway mark I don't see that changing. I made my bed but I didn't mean to make it this way and there doesn't seem to be any better way available to make it. I was trying, really trying. I'm stuck and marooned.
A sensual, transporting scent to mask the whiff of this rotten gutter is what is required. If I can't be somewhere else, somewhere better then I'd at least like to smell like I am. With that in mind these are my current favourite perfumes in no particular order.
Penhaligon's Halfeti- An unusual choice for me as it was only released in 2015 so is dead modern. It also appears to be unisex, which I tend to avoid as I feel disappointing enough without anyone getting the notion I have a cock. Nevertheless it's a rich, oudy, smoky, woody scent that smells how I'd like to feel in life.
Guerlain's: L'Heure Bleue- My all time favourite, it's powdery, odd, haunting, ideal for a cold day and feminine without being a lisping twit about it. If it were a woman it could go in go a bar and drink alone making it very much a bird I can do business with.
Guerlain's Shalimar- As above but with added sweet vanilla. It is Barbara Windsor's signature perfume.
Coty- L'Aimant- Deeply underrated because it is as cheap as chips and very old. This is a powdery, comforting, sweet treat of a perfume. It doesn't last very long on the skin and needs topped up throughout the day but it's a beautiful scent.
Yves Saint Laurent- Rive Gauche- This manages to smell clean but probably up for a knee trembler at the same time. It's soapy and comforting and reminds me of a dirty Nivea. I am very fond and go through stupid amounts of it. A fine day perfume.
Estee Lauder- Youth Dew- Smells like the late 70s, perms, nights out being babysat, excitement.
Dior-Poison- The first time I caught a whiff of this I was being tortured in a bathroom. The slightly overweight tall girl was pressing my hand on to a hot radiator whilst the thin and slightly mannish one was trying to force me to say "I am an ugly spastic" and threatening to burn all my skin off. I can admit now that I was somewhat distressed by their behaviour towards me but was determined to stare into space and feign indifference. After a while they got bored and picked up a roundish, purple bottle and started trying to spray it into my eyes. It was Poison! I turned my head to the wall so most of it went on my hair and in my ear. I immediately concluded that I wanted to smell like this for the rest of my life but would prefer not to be tortured in a bathroom. I broke free, went home and wept partly from grief at the way I'd been treated and partly from joy at how fucking foxy I smelled. A little goes a long way but it's a no holds barred whopper of a perfume, a French Joan Crawford in a bottle.
Honourable mentions: Vivienne Westwood- Let it Rock & Boudoir, Chanel No 5, Revlon-Charlie Red, Kate Moss- Vintage Muse (smells like rotten fruit and fucking for about 3 minutes) L'Artisan Perfumer- Timbuktu & Rose Privee , Cacherel.- Lou Lou
Saturday, 24 September 2016
Far From the Right Time.
Today, in the spirit of adventure I did something I have never done before. You'll think me mad but I went to the theatre in the afternoon. To be clear I have been in a theatre before and not just for pantos. I have have seen operas, ballets, comedians and the odd play. However I have always waited until the evening to indulge. I now realise that pure instinct kept me from experiencing the most frightful ordeal.
Oh it wasn't the show. The show was quite the hoot and along with the wine provided the only happiness I experienced during the hell of the matinee. It's hard to describe what I've been through but I shall do my best to set it out in my own words. It may well be needed in some ground breaking legal case in the very near future.
I have always loved the word matinee. It's redolent of lovely things, like Dirk Bogarde twinkling down from a cinema poster. The reality is far from lovely. We all know that strangers are just foul irritants we haven't met yet but when one is forced to encounter them, I now know it is less painful to do so at night. The evening theatre audience is rendered docile by a wee pre-theatre and a half bottle of wine. The matinee crowd want the back of their legs slapping.
I have spent four decades being herded around with you cattle but not once have I ever encountered such a relentlessly irritating bunch and believe me I've met some fiends on the way.
Naturally I took my seat early on. I was positioned on a fairly empty row Q only to find myself trapped between an awkward middle aged "date" and a family. I thought I might die. Row P was occupied by arthritic pensioners who shot up and massaged their lower backs and upper buttocks, quite without warning. Everyone in row P appeared to be called "Maggie". The one with the "tramp stamp" kept telling us to "keep smiling". I didn't. She was bossy and I was compelled to defy her.
I can only assume someone had starved this assortment of monsters before they entered the theatre. Other than the sort of eating disorder that ends in one being removed from ones digs in a crane, there is no explanation for the relentless rustling and chewing. On and on it went. Splatty chew, rustle, splatty chew, splatty chew, audible fart, rustle, chew. Right through both acts. That would never happen in the evening.
It was something of a relief when the curtain finally rose. Rather, it should have been a relief but the nasally child weasel next to me had memorised both script and songs. I thought about telling it I was best friends with Rose West or that I could get it sent to live with Karen Mathews but I kept quiet and tried to cause deafness in my right ear by sheer will power. After a time, I either deafened myself to the right or the creature ran out of puff and shut up.
Of course trouble flared up when the odd man to my left spotted the wine in my handbag and started loudly whispering to his partner that "other people" had "carry outs". He was a rotter and an ill informed rotter at that. I did not have a "carry out", I had a blue package ticket which comes with a small bottle. A small bottle that I required in order to deal with my surroundings. I had cause to curse this gentleman again during the interval when he remarked to the red faced woman he was with that I was "having another one but not from a bottle". I think he was jealous but it was medicinal and necessary. Like a wheelchair ramp.
Contributing to my sense of being hemmed in by cunts was Row R to my rear. This was all in the stalls. I dread to think what was taking place in the dress circle. Anyway Row R was occupied by hair tossing, up speaking, weak bladders. They barely got through ten minutes without clambering out their row, roaring sorry, like it's a question and vanishing. Only to return and do it all again. Repeatedly.
Show 3/5
Audience 0/5
I shall never enter a theatre in the daytime again.
Oh it wasn't the show. The show was quite the hoot and along with the wine provided the only happiness I experienced during the hell of the matinee. It's hard to describe what I've been through but I shall do my best to set it out in my own words. It may well be needed in some ground breaking legal case in the very near future.
I have always loved the word matinee. It's redolent of lovely things, like Dirk Bogarde twinkling down from a cinema poster. The reality is far from lovely. We all know that strangers are just foul irritants we haven't met yet but when one is forced to encounter them, I now know it is less painful to do so at night. The evening theatre audience is rendered docile by a wee pre-theatre and a half bottle of wine. The matinee crowd want the back of their legs slapping.
I have spent four decades being herded around with you cattle but not once have I ever encountered such a relentlessly irritating bunch and believe me I've met some fiends on the way.
Naturally I took my seat early on. I was positioned on a fairly empty row Q only to find myself trapped between an awkward middle aged "date" and a family. I thought I might die. Row P was occupied by arthritic pensioners who shot up and massaged their lower backs and upper buttocks, quite without warning. Everyone in row P appeared to be called "Maggie". The one with the "tramp stamp" kept telling us to "keep smiling". I didn't. She was bossy and I was compelled to defy her.
I can only assume someone had starved this assortment of monsters before they entered the theatre. Other than the sort of eating disorder that ends in one being removed from ones digs in a crane, there is no explanation for the relentless rustling and chewing. On and on it went. Splatty chew, rustle, splatty chew, splatty chew, audible fart, rustle, chew. Right through both acts. That would never happen in the evening.
It was something of a relief when the curtain finally rose. Rather, it should have been a relief but the nasally child weasel next to me had memorised both script and songs. I thought about telling it I was best friends with Rose West or that I could get it sent to live with Karen Mathews but I kept quiet and tried to cause deafness in my right ear by sheer will power. After a time, I either deafened myself to the right or the creature ran out of puff and shut up.
Of course trouble flared up when the odd man to my left spotted the wine in my handbag and started loudly whispering to his partner that "other people" had "carry outs". He was a rotter and an ill informed rotter at that. I did not have a "carry out", I had a blue package ticket which comes with a small bottle. A small bottle that I required in order to deal with my surroundings. I had cause to curse this gentleman again during the interval when he remarked to the red faced woman he was with that I was "having another one but not from a bottle". I think he was jealous but it was medicinal and necessary. Like a wheelchair ramp.
Contributing to my sense of being hemmed in by cunts was Row R to my rear. This was all in the stalls. I dread to think what was taking place in the dress circle. Anyway Row R was occupied by hair tossing, up speaking, weak bladders. They barely got through ten minutes without clambering out their row, roaring sorry, like it's a question and vanishing. Only to return and do it all again. Repeatedly.
Show 3/5
Audience 0/5
I shall never enter a theatre in the daytime again.
Sunday, 24 April 2016
Being An Ugly Young Woman Was a Bit Challenging or Why I Think I Became a Fucktard Freak.
I have been ruminating and since misery loves company I choose to make the world suffer alongside me. Also I've had one of my periodic episodes this week and said some stuff that I would have been wiser not to, what follows is as near as you'll get to an explanation for my behaviour.
I have arrived at the conclusion that I possess two brains. This isn't a wild boast about how brainy I am. Quite the contrary, think of it as my version of the variously attributed quote about how having a penis is like being chained to a mad man. As I don't have a penis I'm putting it down to an additional and unruly brain. I wouldn't mind a penis, I find them fairly predictable in a comforting way and I could be self pollinating like an autogamous flower. One only has to survey the ongoing car crash that is my life to know that I have a flair for idiocy and awful decisions. I repeat I am not brainy. Whatever my other faults I am not clever or at least not clever in a way that's serves my own interests.
I should also stress that this isn't a scientific conclusion coming after years of gruelling study. I have no flair for the sciences, I'm afraid. I attribute this to being taught the various branches of science by a very hairy man with a fondness for sleeping with under age girl pupils, an elderly, very fierce woman who whiffed a bit, banned experiments in the lab and wore the same vile dress to work every day and a startlingly overweight man who claimed all my problems in life could be attributed to having a mother who smoked during pregnancy.
Like I say I'm not clever at all but I am clever enough to know that a fact delivered by a total zoomer is still a fact. That said I hope you'll empathise with a distraught teenager regarding her deeply anti-social science teachers and their mutterings about bulls and test tubes with a degree of scepticism. Charlie the Cat who I still revere for his wise advice to children was pretty clear that strangers were to be regarded as wicked liars with a hidden agenda and you couldn't have found more classic strangers than the science department at my school.
This brings me to an early example of my two brain syndrome. During the whole time hairy science teacher was merrily shagging his way through the schoolies, my response to his jailbait a gogo rampage was to wear a lot of black, smoke and glower at folk. Once, in one of my more dramatic moods, I scratched the words "FUCK OFF" into my skin with a pair of scissors because he touched my arm and I was appalled to the point of vomiting. It was years after I left school before all the obvious stuff occurred to me like nicknaming him the "Virgin Surgeon" or carving him up with a pair of scissors instead and years after those thoughts before I realised I should probably have told a grown up we were being taught and molested by a hirsute nonce.
I live in fear of there being a Saville style enquiry at my old school. Imagine me sitting in the dock telling a lawyer that my response to a paedophile in the school was to attack myself with a pair of scissors. The lawyer would probably call me madam in a really sarcastic and condescending way whilst peering over his spectacles and say "Madam, do you honestly ask this court to believe that a rapist was on the loose in your school and in response, you assaulted yourself?". I'd have to concede he had a point. The rapist would cheat the noose and I'd be scorned by the distraught victims who were hoping for a new conservatory off the back of their compo.
Had I come up with a better response to the whole raping of my classmates scandal than wearing black and scissor carving I may have avoided the tragedy that was to befall me as a direct result of his antics. As a teenager I owned the grand total of one Smiths T-shirt. I adored it and treated it as a devout Christian might treat the hem of yon Virgin Mary's robe.
After a long period of negotiation, my parents had kindly consented to temporarily leave the country and go to Gran Canaria for a fortnight leaving me running the show at home in their absence. I was merrily not attending school whilst reclining on a sofa and smoking, high as a kite on mushrooms, only to have the peace shattered by a schoolmate repeatedly ringing my bell. I'd long regarded her as visually interesting enough to overlook her foul personality so I let her in. She was somewhat aggrieved that she'd attracted the attentions of the hairy monster after outrageously flirting with him for four years.
Having spent the last four years listening to her tell me that she was wild for hairy teacher and that the only reason I wasn't was due to be being an "ugly retarded spastic", I was somewhat surprised to learn she was at all distressed by him mounting her in the south gym but she was and as an adult he should have risen above her girlish madness and rebuffed her advances. She went on to tell me that I would never know what it's like to be attractive and a target for sexual assaults.
As I'd attributed every sexual assault I'd been subjected to since the age of 10 to begging for it like a XXX slut by being relatively tall in a built up area and being so ugly, the perp reasoned that no one would care if I was violated, I inwardly disagreed with her assessment but chose to cut her some slack as she was clearly a noob to the whole getting molested scene.
Fat lot of good that did me. After insisting I run her a bath and demanding clothes from my wardrobe. She then demanded I wash the clothes she stood up in, and spent the next few hours telling me that anyone normal who was as ugly as I was would kill themselves and expressed complete bafflement that I only self harmed when she'd told me time and time again how to successfully cut my wrists.
In fairness I was thinking it was a terrible shame such a fine pair of tits were attached to a monster and that the world be a better place if she was just her tits and the rest of her didn't exist. So I'm not much better than her, really. Or Rapey Science, come to that. In my defence I allowed her to eat an entire box of potato waffles and a tin of Safeway beans that I'd been saving for a special tea. I am not all bad. Mostly I'm just bewildered.
She responded to all this by stealing my clothes and to this day I'm still vexed about my Smiths T-shirt. It resurfaces in unexpected ways, two of my work colleagues were gutting themselves laughing at the very notion I'd ever heard of sex, let alone had it at all. I should have felt upset at their total dismissal of me as a whole and valid human being and to be honest, being dismissed as too repulsive and uptight to fuck hurts but my mind drifted back to the the lost Smiths t-shirt. I bring it on myself, really.
If I could tell young women anything about life and have them get it, I'd say that I stupidly never reported any sexual assault because I thought the police wouldn't believe anyone had put their penis in me on purpose. I expected to be laughed at and humiliated. You should understand that that men will stick it any old compliant hole. They will fuck anything compliant and obliging. It's neither a compliment, nor an insult. Report the fuckers. Even if you're ugly, I believe that the police are as far on as the 20th century, there might be justice.
I think what I'm struggling to say is that I'm not calm, I'm fucking frozen with fear. Being a girl is not pleasant. It's mostly like this.
I have arrived at the conclusion that I possess two brains. This isn't a wild boast about how brainy I am. Quite the contrary, think of it as my version of the variously attributed quote about how having a penis is like being chained to a mad man. As I don't have a penis I'm putting it down to an additional and unruly brain. I wouldn't mind a penis, I find them fairly predictable in a comforting way and I could be self pollinating like an autogamous flower. One only has to survey the ongoing car crash that is my life to know that I have a flair for idiocy and awful decisions. I repeat I am not brainy. Whatever my other faults I am not clever or at least not clever in a way that's serves my own interests.
I should also stress that this isn't a scientific conclusion coming after years of gruelling study. I have no flair for the sciences, I'm afraid. I attribute this to being taught the various branches of science by a very hairy man with a fondness for sleeping with under age girl pupils, an elderly, very fierce woman who whiffed a bit, banned experiments in the lab and wore the same vile dress to work every day and a startlingly overweight man who claimed all my problems in life could be attributed to having a mother who smoked during pregnancy.
Like I say I'm not clever at all but I am clever enough to know that a fact delivered by a total zoomer is still a fact. That said I hope you'll empathise with a distraught teenager regarding her deeply anti-social science teachers and their mutterings about bulls and test tubes with a degree of scepticism. Charlie the Cat who I still revere for his wise advice to children was pretty clear that strangers were to be regarded as wicked liars with a hidden agenda and you couldn't have found more classic strangers than the science department at my school.
This brings me to an early example of my two brain syndrome. During the whole time hairy science teacher was merrily shagging his way through the schoolies, my response to his jailbait a gogo rampage was to wear a lot of black, smoke and glower at folk. Once, in one of my more dramatic moods, I scratched the words "FUCK OFF" into my skin with a pair of scissors because he touched my arm and I was appalled to the point of vomiting. It was years after I left school before all the obvious stuff occurred to me like nicknaming him the "Virgin Surgeon" or carving him up with a pair of scissors instead and years after those thoughts before I realised I should probably have told a grown up we were being taught and molested by a hirsute nonce.
I live in fear of there being a Saville style enquiry at my old school. Imagine me sitting in the dock telling a lawyer that my response to a paedophile in the school was to attack myself with a pair of scissors. The lawyer would probably call me madam in a really sarcastic and condescending way whilst peering over his spectacles and say "Madam, do you honestly ask this court to believe that a rapist was on the loose in your school and in response, you assaulted yourself?". I'd have to concede he had a point. The rapist would cheat the noose and I'd be scorned by the distraught victims who were hoping for a new conservatory off the back of their compo.
Had I come up with a better response to the whole raping of my classmates scandal than wearing black and scissor carving I may have avoided the tragedy that was to befall me as a direct result of his antics. As a teenager I owned the grand total of one Smiths T-shirt. I adored it and treated it as a devout Christian might treat the hem of yon Virgin Mary's robe.
After a long period of negotiation, my parents had kindly consented to temporarily leave the country and go to Gran Canaria for a fortnight leaving me running the show at home in their absence. I was merrily not attending school whilst reclining on a sofa and smoking, high as a kite on mushrooms, only to have the peace shattered by a schoolmate repeatedly ringing my bell. I'd long regarded her as visually interesting enough to overlook her foul personality so I let her in. She was somewhat aggrieved that she'd attracted the attentions of the hairy monster after outrageously flirting with him for four years.
Having spent the last four years listening to her tell me that she was wild for hairy teacher and that the only reason I wasn't was due to be being an "ugly retarded spastic", I was somewhat surprised to learn she was at all distressed by him mounting her in the south gym but she was and as an adult he should have risen above her girlish madness and rebuffed her advances. She went on to tell me that I would never know what it's like to be attractive and a target for sexual assaults.
As I'd attributed every sexual assault I'd been subjected to since the age of 10 to begging for it like a XXX slut by being relatively tall in a built up area and being so ugly, the perp reasoned that no one would care if I was violated, I inwardly disagreed with her assessment but chose to cut her some slack as she was clearly a noob to the whole getting molested scene.
Fat lot of good that did me. After insisting I run her a bath and demanding clothes from my wardrobe. She then demanded I wash the clothes she stood up in, and spent the next few hours telling me that anyone normal who was as ugly as I was would kill themselves and expressed complete bafflement that I only self harmed when she'd told me time and time again how to successfully cut my wrists.
In fairness I was thinking it was a terrible shame such a fine pair of tits were attached to a monster and that the world be a better place if she was just her tits and the rest of her didn't exist. So I'm not much better than her, really. Or Rapey Science, come to that. In my defence I allowed her to eat an entire box of potato waffles and a tin of Safeway beans that I'd been saving for a special tea. I am not all bad. Mostly I'm just bewildered.
She responded to all this by stealing my clothes and to this day I'm still vexed about my Smiths T-shirt. It resurfaces in unexpected ways, two of my work colleagues were gutting themselves laughing at the very notion I'd ever heard of sex, let alone had it at all. I should have felt upset at their total dismissal of me as a whole and valid human being and to be honest, being dismissed as too repulsive and uptight to fuck hurts but my mind drifted back to the the lost Smiths t-shirt. I bring it on myself, really.
If I could tell young women anything about life and have them get it, I'd say that I stupidly never reported any sexual assault because I thought the police wouldn't believe anyone had put their penis in me on purpose. I expected to be laughed at and humiliated. You should understand that that men will stick it any old compliant hole. They will fuck anything compliant and obliging. It's neither a compliment, nor an insult. Report the fuckers. Even if you're ugly, I believe that the police are as far on as the 20th century, there might be justice.
I think what I'm struggling to say is that I'm not calm, I'm fucking frozen with fear. Being a girl is not pleasant. It's mostly like this.
Saturday, 27 February 2016
A short play about God and the world of the humans.
I have written a short one act play in which our Lord God receives an update on the humans and their antics. It was inspired by a picture of a pink horse which clip clopped it's way on to my Twitter feed and made me have to go in to another room to be upset because people were being mean to a horse.
God: Hey Archangel Gabriel, what are the humans up to this weather?
Archangel Gabriel: Well they're planning to put Trump in charge of the USA and some guy has painted a horse pink.
God: I see.
Archangel Gabriel: Thunderbolts?
God: Fuck them. No warning call. Flood the fuckers. Drown them all.
Archangel Gabriel: Righto chief.
God: Hey Archangel Gabriel, what are the humans up to this weather?
Archangel Gabriel: Well they're planning to put Trump in charge of the USA and some guy has painted a horse pink.
God: I see.
Archangel Gabriel: Thunderbolts?
God: Fuck them. No warning call. Flood the fuckers. Drown them all.
Archangel Gabriel: Righto chief.
What kind of arse witted monster does this?
Sunday, 31 January 2016
Back away from the words, you sweaty moon units, or I'll burst yer baw.
I'm in a fucking throbber of a mood and feel keen to share the misery. I declare today that football bores the arse off me. It's not footballs fault, it's just that it doesn't move me and that's OK. Despite this I remain tolerant, I avoid public transport when I know a match is happening so as to avoid being verbally abused and jostled for no reason. I even once wrote a stiff letter to my MSP about the Offensive Behaviour at Football Act, defending the rights of zoomers to sing any old shite they like at each other on account of free speech and that. Besides, what mad Christian sects get up to in their own playpens is none of my beeswax.
When some mouth breather stands outside my window farting out some sectarian or boak inducing sentimental pish at 3am. I lie silently raging at the inconsiderate thundercunt for waking me up. I don't call the police or give in to my baser urge to behead the bunnyrimmer and kick his severed head into a bin on account of tolerating different lifestyles like a civilized human. Through my shining example, a world where everyone simply minds their own business will be born.
I know I'm just a bag with holes instead of a cock and a team like a real person but is there any chance baw zoomers could try a wee bit of tolerance towards me? It irks me that folk are getting punted from The Herald on account of some sort of Rangers related moon units throwing a tantrum. Who the fuck asked Rangers to edit the Sunday Herald? I don't want to be snooty but I can't think of another way to say it: football types are a tad too ITV for broadsheet, hiring and firing. That doesn't make them bad people, my Auntie May would pass out if someone put BBC4 on in her house and she's a lovely woman but I wouldn't pick her to edit The Herald.
Reading is my thing, my sport, if you will. I don't interrupt football matches demanding everyone listen to me reading a bit of P.G Wodehouse or a particularly hooty chapter from Three Men in a Boat, so I think it only fair that football reciprocates and leaves me alone. I'm resigned to these chimpanzees being unable to use public transport quietly, all I ask is one corner of my life to be football free.
When some mouth breather stands outside my window farting out some sectarian or boak inducing sentimental pish at 3am. I lie silently raging at the inconsiderate thundercunt for waking me up. I don't call the police or give in to my baser urge to behead the bunnyrimmer and kick his severed head into a bin on account of tolerating different lifestyles like a civilized human. Through my shining example, a world where everyone simply minds their own business will be born.
I know I'm just a bag with holes instead of a cock and a team like a real person but is there any chance baw zoomers could try a wee bit of tolerance towards me? It irks me that folk are getting punted from The Herald on account of some sort of Rangers related moon units throwing a tantrum. Who the fuck asked Rangers to edit the Sunday Herald? I don't want to be snooty but I can't think of another way to say it: football types are a tad too ITV for broadsheet, hiring and firing. That doesn't make them bad people, my Auntie May would pass out if someone put BBC4 on in her house and she's a lovely woman but I wouldn't pick her to edit The Herald.
Reading is my thing, my sport, if you will. I don't interrupt football matches demanding everyone listen to me reading a bit of P.G Wodehouse or a particularly hooty chapter from Three Men in a Boat, so I think it only fair that football reciprocates and leaves me alone. I'm resigned to these chimpanzees being unable to use public transport quietly, all I ask is one corner of my life to be football free.
I've done nothing but avoid eye contact and mind my own business with these roasters, I've even taken action to defend their right to sing demented songs at football matches. I just like a bit of Angela Haggerty on a Sunday and given the shite I've quietly tolerated being flung at me by inconsiderate titwanks over the years I think I'd more than earned my right to read her. Any chance we can have readers editing the papers rather than thin skinned football fannybaws?
Just a few of my thoughts. Here's another FUCK ALL SPORT EXCEPT BOXING, SPEEDWAY, DOGS AND DARTS.
Tuesday, 19 January 2016
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