They say the camera adds ten pounds. In televisual terms the camera must add thousands of pounds in sexual currency. For instance there exists living, breathing people out there who find Michael McIntyre attractive. MICHAEL MCINTYRE for fucksake, a man with all the sexual allure and charisma of a cold calling salesman picking his nose. He looks like a man perpetually enjoying a thorough rectal examination. If he served you in Asda you wouldn’t linger long enough to catch his faint whiff of desperation.But put him on the tellybox and he is somehow drenched in sexy lust vibes.
Also, Benedict Cumberbatch – a man who, in his own words looks like an “otter which is vaguely attractive” – admits to being bewildered by the sudden sex symbol status he has achieved. I agree with him and yet if I were to meet him I would lick him all over as though he could jizz vintage brandy. Because Sherlock, right? Jesus.
Put me on the telly please. I haven’t got some for ages. I’m not attractive – on a good day I look like Charlotte Church coming round from an anaesthetic – but I could do with the allure which the gogglebox seems to provide. Problem is I’m not sure I could do with inevitable fall out which my ‘AU natural’ appearance would generate. Any public appearance by me would be blanketed by a general murmur of disappointment as my big moon face loomed into view. I would catch mutterings of “She’s much fatter in real life” and “Nah mate, nah” as I walked past.
My sparkling telly generated charisma would evaporate on contact with the public and I would stammer my way through scripted answers, the smile frozen on my fizzog until I looked like a cryogenic Joker.
“How does it feel to be in Hounslow Shopping Centre?” the interviewer would ask me as the pissed off public melted away from my appearance both public and personal.
“How does it feel to have your new clothing range out?” And I’d look at the acres of stretched neon lycra and acrylic of my bodycon dress – my actual flesh and bone body subjected to so much scrutiny I’d Spanxed and barricaded all my flesh behind steel undergarms – and the flammable chiffon of my fucking sweatshop made creations and I would try not to cry. Then someone would shove their phone in my face for a picture only the angle would be all wrong and they wouldn’t add the right filters and I’d look like a colossal prick and they’d put it on Twitter and I’d have to block the noise of the masses from my feed because I DON’T LIKE ANY CRITICISM EXCEPT MY OWN SO FUCK YOU FAME I DON’T EVEN WANT YOU ANYWAY.
I love haiku, the ancient Japanese form of poetry, but you wouldn’t know it from these horrors I dreamed up waiting for a train yesterday. Because I realised, as the wind blow litter and rain into my actual face, that if we all pooled the money we as a human race had collectively spent watching either one of the Charlie’s Angels films at the cinema we could have eased the poverty of a large portion of the globe.
But alas. We did not. Because given the choice between feeding one more starving moron and watching Lucy Lui dead eye her way through a stripper routine I know where my bucks are going, baby.
Kicky boom women
Sometimes they are in outfits
Look at my hair, wheee!
This film should be called
“Charlie’s Angel’s : Jesus Wept”
or “Shouty Pain Gang”
Who the hell was Boz?
Did he have a golden cock
which jizzed diamonds?
Here comes Tim Curry!
Is it good he is in this?
Face falls. It’s Bill Murray.
Giggle! Tits! Roundhouse!
Groin shot like you wouldn’t believe
Your dad looks turned on 😦
I rode a motorbike into a convent the other day. Flustered some nuns.
“Young lady!” the elderly sister with the cataracts said, “This is a House of God!”
“Well now,” I replied, jumping off the bike as it screeched to a halt, “it’s the House of RAD!”
and I moonwalked into the vestry and flipped everyone the bird.
It’s hard to be relevant when you’re this old, so bitches best stop hatin’. Instead, check out this boner inducing apron I bought myself. Oxfam, £2.99 and all the whelks they could eat (none)
And this! Skirt! In electro tartan! It was one fair poundlington and is made of all the wool. Someone recently described it as looking a bit Vivienne Westwood and I tried to nod coolly while inside me there was a spontaneous inferno of joy and jizz.
Ladylike dress in black cotton with a nine foot wraparound belt which makes me look dignified and elegant and shiz. Also like a ladyninja with razor blades in her brassiere. Oxfamijamidingdong £7.99 (I know, but what the heck, right?)
THIS JUMPER COST TWENTY FIVE PENCE NEWSFLASH
I know I’ve mentioned it before but it bears repeating – I’ve got a bike you can ride it if you like, but only if you’re under five foot four and built like a slender Twiglet. I got this bad boy on Freecycle. It has an original bell and brakes and is ab-crunchingly joyful to ride, especially when someone is telling you to get the fuck out of their way or beeping at you with their beeper from their automobile because they are riding in their steel and metal deathcages and you are IN THEIR FUCKING WAY, MAN. Still, Freecycle, for free, from a lovely lady.
I went swimming yesterday. Yeah, yeah I know. Whoop-de–do, right? Unless you’ve got rabies this is a pretty meh to thing to crow about. It’s never going to make the front cover of Take A Break, where all your bleak myopic fantasies can and will come true.
However what if I told you I went swimming out-of-doors? Now I’ve got your attention, haven’t I? Damn! You’re thinking, hot diggity damn! Outside you say?
Well yes I do say sir, I do. I swam outside. With a famous.
A famous? (You)
For real? (You’re saying)
No. No that last bit was a lie to entice you. If you really think that Jay-Z is putting an appearance in at the Lewes Lido any time soon you’ve more problems than this blog can help you with, friend. Ninety nine of them, come to think about it.
But the point still remains. I screwed my courage to the sticking place and went for an outdoors dip. And my God it was HELLISHLY cold. Good saintin’ Jesus it was BITTER.
Do you get this? I feel cold IN MY BONES. It manifests itself as a gnawing, bitter ache in my marrow and permeates my brain with fierce words of defeat. I know an awful lot of curse words and had used them all up and had invented a fair few new ones by the time the water was up to my knees. I went blue. My skin appeared to be made almost entirely of raw nerve endings lit up like Christmas.
We all know I’m a pussy. I would never claim to be anything different. Under torture I’d talk, and your secrets would be the first ones I’d spill. It wouldn’t even have to be proper torture either. If someone threatened to cut my fringe I’d be handing over the secret documents. I am a coward, a yellow belly, a scaredy cat, and I can’t handle the cold.
But you know what? I did it. I braved the pool which was a few degrees below ARCTIC FUCKING TUNDRA on my internal thermometer and swam into the water, gasping, whooping and wheezing as my heart stuttered in protest.
I did it, so where’s my badge?
But seriously. If you like heart-clenchingly icy water and the feeling of imminent death over your shoulder as you paddle frantically to the deep end you ought to find out where your local lido is (or ‘sea’ for you coastal types) and brace yourself for a dip so invigorating it’ll feel as though someone has taken a steel brush to the inside of your skull.
next week: para-fucking-gliding.
When I was a kid I was the subject of a school assembly. I’d totally wanged someone in the neck in the school playground and hurt them quite badly. The next day the headmaster had walked up and down the stage lecturing us on the dangers of VIOLENCE, and how TERRIBLE a thing it is.
It was terrifying.
As he strode up and down, up and down I could hear the creak of his leather shoes and see his fingers interlaced behind his back. He had hairy fingers, black wiry curls down to the knuckle. Up and down. He will NOT TOLERATE VIOLENCE IN HIS SCHOOL. Up and down.
I was sweating. It is a sin TO DELIBERATELY AND INTENTIONALLY HURT ANOTHER PERSON. The tiny me, bewildered and horribly guilt stricken thought that the police were about to smash into the room and pull me out by the hair, or set an Alsatian on me while stamping on my head.
When the assembly finished and it became clear that I was not going to be imprisoned in a windowless cell underground I breathed out a sigh of relief so huge that I lifted the hair of every single person in Cornwall. I had been sweating so much I could literally glide across the polished floors like a greased eel. Never was I so happy to leave a room, not even when I had a job interview at a prestigious educational establishment and my dress fell open and even though I had a rad bra on and pretty good tits the panel were still unimpressed.
I don’t know where I’m going with this. I was meant to be telling you about this awesome shit which I’ve got recently. But I’ll let my old headmaster do it.
I WILL NOT TOLERATE PUPILS NOT WEARING AWESOME KNEE HIGH ELECTRIC BLUE SOCKS.
DO NOT NEGLECT YOUR READING, IT IS THE FOUNDATION OF LEARNING.
Old wooden box used as bedside table, £1 Cancer Research.
MISS PEARCE. THIS IS THE WORST EXAMPLE OF A DRESSING TABLE I HAVE EVER SEEN. DETENTION.
But sir, it only cost £8 from Furniture Now!
THAT SHIRT IS NOT, REPEAT NOT REGULATION SCHOOL UNIFORM.
YOU KNOW THE RULES. JIGSAW PUZZLES MOST FEATURE AT LEAST ONE IMAGE OF A SCREAMING CHILD.
Jigsaw featuring emotional infant 99pentigrams, Oxfam.
I made some small talk earlier. You know, small talk. Something about the weather, and then something about some plants. I don’t fucking remember, I was terrible at it. If approached in a public space by some well meaning stranger just looking for a simple chat to pass the time or to muse on the latest bus timetable I clam up. I sweat. I grimace as though I am passing a particularly painful kidney stone through an inflamed urethra. I yip, cringe and generally buffoon myself into a new dimension. It’s little wonder therefore that now I’m forced to do it often I spend a majority of my days glowering at the world defensively.
I’m so bad at it but so keen to make a decent impression that I often wonder what the hell people are thinking of me. I usually do this while I’m talking, thereby derailing whatever I was saying so that I just….trail….off…..slowly. As another conversational turd floats by.
Here’s an example. This is an ACTUAL conversation which ACTUALLY HAPPENED sometime today. These words below are the ACTUAL ones spoken by me with my big flapping mouth and my social skills which could fit on the head of a pin.
Person; “Isn’t it a lovely day?”
Me; “Yes haha, good to see the sun again. Was beginning to think it was a nuclear winter. Is that a thing, a nuclear winter? Or does a bomb have to be dropped first?”
Person; “I’m not sure -”
Me; “I suppose if a bomb did have to be dropped first a ‘nuclear winter’ would be one in which we’re all mutants and victims of radiation, wouldn’t it?”
Me: “Would make Christmas a bit depressing wouldn’t it, haha. Still, we’ll probably all end up moaning about the sun in a week or so won’t we? Aren’t humans funny? OUR ATTITUDE STINKS. And a book of stamps, please.”
I can’t do smalltalk. Similarly, I can’t do ‘Play it Cool’ either. You know what ‘Play it Cool’ is, right? For instance;
“Look over there Daisy, it’s hot early nineties hunk Keanu Reeves. He’s been checking you out for ages fly girl so I’m going to go to the bar and give him the opportunity to cruise over here.
Play it Cool, alright?”
I immediately start breaking out some freaky body popping, or breakdance my way into the future, or talk about bumsex or try out a new yodel. Awful.
NO WONDER I NEVER HAD SEX WITH KEANU REEVES IN THE NINETIES.
One of the joys (for me at least) of living alone is the mind-bending outfits I’m currently rocking in the evenings.
That and having a widdle with the door open.
And strutting about in my birthday suit singing ‘Me and My Bobby McGee’ with a small paper hat on my head and red lipstick.
But mainly it’s the outfit. Right now I’m dressing for comfort and warmth, a combination which makes me look as though I’m on an ethnic journey through a psychedelic minefield. Colour? I got your colours right here baby, big bright blocks of the shit like an explosion in a Timmy Mallet factory. Camper than a Gay Pride parade in Pat Sharp’s Funhouse. You want Ethnic prints? I look like the Khao San Road at sundown. I look as though I invented Yoga.
You get the picture. I am currently very colourful, very cosy, baggy and shapeless like an amoeba. Sexy I am not. Wearing what I’m wearing right now I couldn’t get laid if I had a solid gold vagina and a pearl for a clitoris.