superman i got plans for you

you know how in 'lifestyle' magazines and weekend supplements people are always being asked which superpower they would like to possess, and they always say 'i'd like to be invisible' or 'i'd like to fly'. well, i can see the appeal of both of those but i've decided that if i were granted a super ability i'd like to be able to fire a fetid liquid at will. i take my inspiration from the humble skunk.
how great, next time someone gets on your nerves, to be able to just lower your trousers (half moon, you understand, there need be no genetalia on display) and fire a revolting smelling jet of something in their direction.
regular readers will know how much it irritates me when i hold the door open for someone and they do not acknowledge me. i'm sure they'd be slightly more expressive once i'd done my 'human stink bomb' act on them.

now you're talking durdy!

yesterday there was an old lady pushing a trolley along the street (she was a trolley lady rather than a bag lady) wearing a t-shirt that said SHAG on it. i wonder if she knew what it meant. it reminded me of my friend Veronica who tells a story about her mum who, for a while, took to talking about herself as Mrs Smegma – apparently this was a character from some sketch her mum had seen. Veronica was mortified to have to tell her mum what smegma actually was. but not quite as mortified as the mum who'd been joking about the name with her laydee friends.
this, by the way, was the same woman who said 'i don't believe people do things like that' when Veronica had to explain to her what a blow job was.

starz in their eyez

last night i dreamt that i was helping Kylie Minogue with a dance routine!
i can't believe i had such a gay dream when i pride myself on being so unmainstream.
isn't it terrible when you let yourself down like that....

no, you hang up!

we once did some research for a magazine i used to work on. questionairres were put into an issue and readers completed them and sent them back.
my favourite response came from Darren in Clapham (unfortunately he didn't put his last name or address – he would definitely have won the prize we were offering for his efforts).
Darren had personally scrawled all over the questionairre – which had a photo of me and a letter encouraging people to answer.
As well as calling me a 'dickhead' and saying that as a result of reading the magazine he had contemplated suicide (no, really) he described me as an 'overpaid arsewipe ponce who speaks too loudly on his mobile in restaurants'.
which is, as i am sure you will agree, just priceless.
i was reminded of Dazza this morning as i sat in cafe nero trying to enjoy some me time with my cappuccino. i was unable to concentrate on my Metro because there was a young lady a few tables away droning on and on on her mobile phone in a voice which can only be described as too f-ing loud.
her conversation involved her 1. boss 2. flatmate 3. outfit for Friday night.
if there were a nobel prize for conversation, let's just say she wouldn't make the longlist.
i wasn't the only one on whose nerves she was getting – if looks could kill the woman opposite her would now be on the run!
needless to say no one did anything about it - we just sat there glowering. i'm sure if Darren had been around he would have shouted something suitably witty and cutting and she would have hung up immediately.
but it was most annoying.
and while were on the subject of irritating phone behaviour: how annoying is it when someone cold calls you during your lunchbreak!

wake up and eyes down

my friend Maryanne, who has relocated to Californ-i-a with hilarious results (read all about them on www.alifelessdamp.blogspot.com) has just posted about her five year old son's nocturnal habit of joining her and her husband in bed.
i warned her that she was probably in for the long haul. i regularly joined my folks until the ripe old age of 10 (though Mum would probably say 14 or 15 – you know how family like to exaggerate). for years i was woken up to the sound of a lighter being ignited as Mum lit her first fag.
here are a couple of memorable 'in bed with mother moments'
1. trying and trying to wake her up to no avail. grizzling at being an orphan only for her to wake up and ask what was the matter with me!
2. her waking me up with the news that Marc Bolan had been killed in a car crash!
3. camping in the back garden. i went to bed in the tent but mysteriously woke up in my normal position (ie between mum and dad) fully dressed and wearing my parka and wellies.

and on another note. i had another one of those 'oh my god you were so drunk' evenings on Sunday courtesy of my mate Andy (Ma) Butcher and gay bingo at the achingly fabulous shoreditch house. fortunately i didn't end up staggering around in a cheap n nasty blonde wig this time (imagine), i was however slurring somewhat. i never realised how hard bingo was. particularly speed bingo. i have new found respect for the Gala grannies who can manage multiple bingo cards and rollups at the same time. now can someone tell Ma Butcher that pink pants on anyone who is not 1) genetically female and 2) under four years of age are just plain weird.

doctor, doctor

so. boozy lunch yesterday. come home stuffed and slightly hungover. at 7pm! i felt like i'd been up for about 49 hours doing god only knows what. make the fatal mistake of having a nap. after which neiher me nor boyfriend was in any state to do anything other than watch tv. actually we watched an hour and a half of the last David Lynch film but that's a whole other post. eastenders it wasn't!
today get up and go for breakfast. once again i am feeling shattered.
me: why am i so tired all the time? i feel like someone is poking their fingers in my eyes!
him: you might have a viral infection.
me: is there anything i can take for it?
him: no, you just have to let it run itself.
me: oh.
him: but then again you have been burning the candle at both ends all week. you've also gone to the gym every morning and you are drinking too much and not eating properly.
me: apart from that what do you think it could be?
i came home and had an hour nap with the papers.
feel much better now. waiter...

more that words

there was a man opposite me on the tube this morning who kept clearing his throat. at first it was really annoying - he would start with a mini 'hmmm' before progressing to a full on hoik (i was preparing to be outraged and not say anything as he spat on the floor but sadly he denied me the opportunity, prefering to swallow!). but after a while i found it oddly fascnating - i kept waiting for his next emission.
he reminded me of a woman who is sometimes in front of me in the queue at Cafe Nero who continually clears her throat with a little 'herm' noise.
i started imagining that they were actually speaking some foreign language – imagine if both Cafe Nero woman and Tube man were in the same place at the same time and they realised they could communicate with each other merely by making gutteral noises.
the man on the tube got off at Leicester Square and was wearing the worst snow-washed jeans i've ever seen. thought i'd share that with you.