One dark and bitter winter’s night on All Hallows Eve many moons ago, in a desolate graveyard where only the mutilated corpses of thieves and beggars were laid to rest, came a faint murmuring from a tombstone dating back to the 443 AD.
A tiny crack appeared in the frozen soil, which quickly branched into several cracks until, like a mole, a withered hand emerged from beneath.
Clawing at the snowy ground the hand was followed by an arm, a shoulder, another hand and finally, a face so startling it would turn Medusa to stone.
With a manic glint in its eye the figure stared up at the full moon and yowled a piercing yowl before sprinting off into the darkness.
The very next day Dave, the graveyard caretaker, popped in to check everything was in good nick. Engrossed by the plight of a robin redbreast wrestling a squirrel for an acorn, Dave failed to see the gaping chasm where the corpse once lay and, tripping over the piles of soil that remained, fell in with a gargantuan thud, creating a mudslide so dense it buried him alive.
Poor Dave. No one ever discovered the evil that occurred that fateful day because the rotting corpse, whose grave it was, had witnessed the entire event.
Spying this too-good-to miss opportunity, the corpse hopped aboard the 121 bus and nipped down to the high street. There she begged together enough pennies to purchase a khaki boiler suit and a pair of steel-toe-cap Doctor Martens, which has always been the bog-standard dress code of graveyard caretakers, even in 443 AD.
Wearing the outfit later that day, the corpse ran from the graveyard and hurtled herself off a nearby cliff. Several eyewitness accounts reported the body of Dave smashing against the rocks below, before being engulfed by a Tsunami sized wave and carried out to sea.
Journalists had a field day, interviewing colleagues, acquaintances and his wife, Gillian, all of who said: “He was a simple sort who kept himself to himself. “
This made for a pretty boring story and the newspapers instead wrote about a turnip farm, which had just opened up down the road. And so Dave became a distant memory before he was even cold in the corpse’s grave.
For years and years the corpse lived a feral life, eating the brains of various wild animals as well as the odd poodle, which had escaped from its owner. It was about 1,576 years later, which seems nothing to the average dead person, that the boredom of such a low standard of living drove her near stir crazy. Craving human company, a plot formed in her decayed mind.
We’ve all seen, reader, the magazine articles encouraging people to starve themselves to gravely malnourished yet “In Vogue” proportions. And the zombie was no different. Flicking through these magazines had helped her realise that she had “the look to die for”, quite literally, and that this would most certainly allow her to create an army of followers so large she would be able blend into the crowd – no questions asked. At last she would be able to move into a house, maybe get a cat, and go to such social events as Tupperware parties, Pilates and knit and natter sessions down her local W.I.
The possibilities were endless!
And so, naming herself after Dave’s wife, Gillian McKeith soon became a teatime sensation. People settled down with their microwave ready meals to observe the faeces of the morbidly obese being scrutinised and all but nuts and cabbage seized from their homes.
That friends, is the long sought after proof that Gillian, as we know her today, is in fact a zombie. With the death-span of Adolf Hitler, Elvis Presley, Henry VIII, James Corden (we can but dream), and countless others put together, she is something of a medical phenomenon.
Now that we know the truth Miss Mckeith must be captured immediately before she devours the brains of her little-heard-of jungle dwelling comrades, leaving incoherent Stacey Solomon to be crowned Queen.
Friday, 3 December 2010
Friday, 12 November 2010
A man wearing Crocs created irreversible evil
Once upon a time, a heavily expectant mother was crammed into a rickety old bus in the Australian outback.
Unfortunately for the lowly damsel, there is no such thing as a “baby on board badge” in the outback so no one felt bullied into sacrificing their seat and the bumpy bus bumped and jostled so much so that it induced an untimely labour.
And with a splosh splish splash, her waters broke, soaking the feet and slapping up the legs of other passengers. Including one young man called Bruce who was wearing his spanking new shiny pink Crocs for the first time.
Bruce was so disgruntled at the soiling of what he considered to be an impeccable choice of footwear that he lifted the fat mum-to-be with one arm and ejected her from the moving bus with the force and prowess of a professional shot-putter.
Plummeting through the air, the poor mother landed some 263 yards away, dying on impact. Two hours later a pack of vultures, out for an evening stroll, came upon her corpse. Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, and being quite peckish, the birds decided the free feast was too good to pass up, and so in they tucked.
But they were halted in their tracks when, upon eating through the stomach lining, they were confronted by a tiny baby boy.
Now for all their bad press, what with mutilating rodents and rummaging through rubbish, it may surprise you to discover that vultures do in fact have a bit of a soft spot for small children. And this babe had them up in arms, cooing and pulling silly faces to calm his sobs.
There is an unwritten law that, if you find a Boy of no ownership (or BONO for short) in the desert, and no-one claims him after 28 days, he is yours to keep.
And so after a month had passed, the young BONO was raised and nurtured by the birds of prey, who treated him much like a domesticated pet.
As he grew, the boy seemed to develop a number of vulture like characteristics. The hooked nose, evil eyes, balding forehead and wan demeanour. This excited his adopted family greatly as they truly believed BONO may be morphing into a vulture before their beady little eyes.
Unfortunately as time went on, despite these traits, try as they may, they could not teach their unfortunate tot to fly.
And it was when BONO reached not much more than 19 years old that they grew tired of him and one night, while he slept on his perch, the vultures swept him up, flew out to sea and traded him to a bearded fisherman for a bucket of whelks.
Next morning the splash of seawater awoke BONO with a start. He was disturbed and disorientated by the sound of birds cawing. It wasn’t the familiar sound of Mummy vulture singing as she fried worms and ostrich eggs for breakfast. It was more high-pitched.
“All right you young rapscallion” boomed the fisherman, lunging toward BONO with his bristly white beard, “no time for rest now, we got fish to catch.”
And so for the next six months BONO sailed the seas, collecting scallops, tuna and the occasional clown fish until at last – they reached land and dropped anchor on the shores of Ireland. You may be thinking, reader, that Ireland is a mighty long way from Australia and you’re right. But the seas were choppy and the fisherman’s compass was claimed by a giant wave. So they sailed aimlessly, surviving off raw fish and their own urine, until they stumbled upon land ahoy.
BONO was off faster than a punter up a hooker, leaving the fisherman to tend to his weather-beaten vessel. Exercising the skills he had learnt from the vultures, he survived for weeks, foraging in bins and rubbish dumps for sustenance until he came across a guitar which, all be it a bit rusty and out of tune, gave BONO a light-bulb pingingly brilliant idea.
Having seen people busking in the street he realised that by showcasing his newly discovered relic in Dublin city centre, he could make himself a pound or two.
So he sat outside Pound Stretcher strumming the songs he had learned from Mummy Vulture, about beautiful days and other such nonsense, while the crowds gathered round.
People were so in awe of BONO’s weird and wonderful life that he gained global notoriety. Panel show producers were desperate for him to make a guest appearance and grandmothers everywhere posted him hand-knitted cardigans and tea-cosies.
All too soon the fame shot to BONO’s head and he began preaching about the hardships of the world, even managing to squeeze in interviews amid a hectic life of private jets and overindulging to the point of sickness on caviar, Ferrero Rocher and other such divine delicacies.
And for that, dear reader, we have Bruce to blame.
Unfortunately for the lowly damsel, there is no such thing as a “baby on board badge” in the outback so no one felt bullied into sacrificing their seat and the bumpy bus bumped and jostled so much so that it induced an untimely labour.
And with a splosh splish splash, her waters broke, soaking the feet and slapping up the legs of other passengers. Including one young man called Bruce who was wearing his spanking new shiny pink Crocs for the first time.
Bruce was so disgruntled at the soiling of what he considered to be an impeccable choice of footwear that he lifted the fat mum-to-be with one arm and ejected her from the moving bus with the force and prowess of a professional shot-putter.
Plummeting through the air, the poor mother landed some 263 yards away, dying on impact. Two hours later a pack of vultures, out for an evening stroll, came upon her corpse. Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, and being quite peckish, the birds decided the free feast was too good to pass up, and so in they tucked.
But they were halted in their tracks when, upon eating through the stomach lining, they were confronted by a tiny baby boy.
Now for all their bad press, what with mutilating rodents and rummaging through rubbish, it may surprise you to discover that vultures do in fact have a bit of a soft spot for small children. And this babe had them up in arms, cooing and pulling silly faces to calm his sobs.
There is an unwritten law that, if you find a Boy of no ownership (or BONO for short) in the desert, and no-one claims him after 28 days, he is yours to keep.
And so after a month had passed, the young BONO was raised and nurtured by the birds of prey, who treated him much like a domesticated pet.
As he grew, the boy seemed to develop a number of vulture like characteristics. The hooked nose, evil eyes, balding forehead and wan demeanour. This excited his adopted family greatly as they truly believed BONO may be morphing into a vulture before their beady little eyes.
Unfortunately as time went on, despite these traits, try as they may, they could not teach their unfortunate tot to fly.
And it was when BONO reached not much more than 19 years old that they grew tired of him and one night, while he slept on his perch, the vultures swept him up, flew out to sea and traded him to a bearded fisherman for a bucket of whelks.
Next morning the splash of seawater awoke BONO with a start. He was disturbed and disorientated by the sound of birds cawing. It wasn’t the familiar sound of Mummy vulture singing as she fried worms and ostrich eggs for breakfast. It was more high-pitched.
“All right you young rapscallion” boomed the fisherman, lunging toward BONO with his bristly white beard, “no time for rest now, we got fish to catch.”
And so for the next six months BONO sailed the seas, collecting scallops, tuna and the occasional clown fish until at last – they reached land and dropped anchor on the shores of Ireland. You may be thinking, reader, that Ireland is a mighty long way from Australia and you’re right. But the seas were choppy and the fisherman’s compass was claimed by a giant wave. So they sailed aimlessly, surviving off raw fish and their own urine, until they stumbled upon land ahoy.
BONO was off faster than a punter up a hooker, leaving the fisherman to tend to his weather-beaten vessel. Exercising the skills he had learnt from the vultures, he survived for weeks, foraging in bins and rubbish dumps for sustenance until he came across a guitar which, all be it a bit rusty and out of tune, gave BONO a light-bulb pingingly brilliant idea.
Having seen people busking in the street he realised that by showcasing his newly discovered relic in Dublin city centre, he could make himself a pound or two.
So he sat outside Pound Stretcher strumming the songs he had learned from Mummy Vulture, about beautiful days and other such nonsense, while the crowds gathered round.
People were so in awe of BONO’s weird and wonderful life that he gained global notoriety. Panel show producers were desperate for him to make a guest appearance and grandmothers everywhere posted him hand-knitted cardigans and tea-cosies.
All too soon the fame shot to BONO’s head and he began preaching about the hardships of the world, even managing to squeeze in interviews amid a hectic life of private jets and overindulging to the point of sickness on caviar, Ferrero Rocher and other such divine delicacies.
And for that, dear reader, we have Bruce to blame.
Thursday, 14 October 2010
Saffron, jump from the rooftop baby and just let the past go
Last night we took a step back into the land of Hooch, 20/20 and shell suits to make up the only three relatively normal people amid a freak show of revellers who had turned out to cheer on 90’s legendary two-hit wonder three-piece Republica.
Staged at the Islington Academy the fan-base rocketed Newton Faulkner’s appeal to dizzying heights.
One bald midget, with the face of a serial killer, had kitted himself out in a special vampire cape identical to lead-singer Saffron’s trademark accessory. I considered asking if he’d pose for a photograph but, fearing this could well have resulted in a knife to the face, instead gave him a berth wide enough to accommodate James Corden.
Supporting was a low-budget, geriatric double act, who undoubtedly spend their leisure time masturbating furiously while listening to the Pet Shop Boys greatest hits on repeat. Worryingly most people seemed to know their songs verbatim and subsequently sang along with as much gusto as a teenaged girl armed with a hairbrush.
Nearby a longhaired 30-something man, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Nigel Planer circa The Young Ones’ Den Dennis, accompanied by his EBay special-delivery Thai bride, hopped from foot to foot in eager anticipation. Meanwhile a coffin dodger, dressed to kill in a baby pink shirt, tucked into chinos and finished off with a rather pleasant tan leather belt, danced along to some other song audible only to the elderly and infirm.
And two very enthusiastic gig-goers clung to the front barrier for dear life throughout the support and set changeover for fear of getting sucked into the crazed mob when the red-headed one and co finally took to the stage. Despite their determination, and armed with plastic pint cups brimming with flat, lukewarm lager, we still managed to snake our way through the 50-strong crowd to within a stone’s throw of the stage.
As Republica appeared Den and wife were unstoppable, ditching the hopping in favour of full on jumping from foot–to-foot and occasionally even throwing an arm in the air.
A fully warmed up crowd were ready to rock, thanks to the sexual deviant Pet Shop Boys-loving support act, and Saffron could not contain her excitement, making eye contact with the sole shoulder surfer during her rendition of Dance 94 track “Drop Dead Gorgeous.” Rising to the occasion, she had wrenched her 42-year-old body into a costume more suited to her long-gone 26-year-old self.
With a glint of manic desperation in her eye, it did actually bring about some degree of sympathy from deep within. The need to cling on to the short-lived hint of stardom 16 years later, resulting in a smaller crowd than that present at a college Battle of the Bands contest in Grimsby, was truly heartbreaking and on a par with the disparity etched on the faces of most X-Factor rejects.
After Ready to Go and with talk of a new single, we were indeed ready to go, and so we went. It was at this point only that my semi-retarded friend Tom finally confessed that he mass purchased tickets for the gig after confusing the band with Elastica. Thanks Tom, seriously.
I dearly wanted to wrap Saffron in a blanket to protect her modesty, give her a mug of Horlicks and pop her in front of the telly with the Midsomer Murders box-set. She could then begin to embrace the delights of growing old gracefully in the company of John Nettles and his whinging, out-of-work actress, brat of a daughter.
Staged at the Islington Academy the fan-base rocketed Newton Faulkner’s appeal to dizzying heights.
One bald midget, with the face of a serial killer, had kitted himself out in a special vampire cape identical to lead-singer Saffron’s trademark accessory. I considered asking if he’d pose for a photograph but, fearing this could well have resulted in a knife to the face, instead gave him a berth wide enough to accommodate James Corden.
Supporting was a low-budget, geriatric double act, who undoubtedly spend their leisure time masturbating furiously while listening to the Pet Shop Boys greatest hits on repeat. Worryingly most people seemed to know their songs verbatim and subsequently sang along with as much gusto as a teenaged girl armed with a hairbrush.
Nearby a longhaired 30-something man, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Nigel Planer circa The Young Ones’ Den Dennis, accompanied by his EBay special-delivery Thai bride, hopped from foot to foot in eager anticipation. Meanwhile a coffin dodger, dressed to kill in a baby pink shirt, tucked into chinos and finished off with a rather pleasant tan leather belt, danced along to some other song audible only to the elderly and infirm.
And two very enthusiastic gig-goers clung to the front barrier for dear life throughout the support and set changeover for fear of getting sucked into the crazed mob when the red-headed one and co finally took to the stage. Despite their determination, and armed with plastic pint cups brimming with flat, lukewarm lager, we still managed to snake our way through the 50-strong crowd to within a stone’s throw of the stage.
As Republica appeared Den and wife were unstoppable, ditching the hopping in favour of full on jumping from foot–to-foot and occasionally even throwing an arm in the air.
A fully warmed up crowd were ready to rock, thanks to the sexual deviant Pet Shop Boys-loving support act, and Saffron could not contain her excitement, making eye contact with the sole shoulder surfer during her rendition of Dance 94 track “Drop Dead Gorgeous.” Rising to the occasion, she had wrenched her 42-year-old body into a costume more suited to her long-gone 26-year-old self.
With a glint of manic desperation in her eye, it did actually bring about some degree of sympathy from deep within. The need to cling on to the short-lived hint of stardom 16 years later, resulting in a smaller crowd than that present at a college Battle of the Bands contest in Grimsby, was truly heartbreaking and on a par with the disparity etched on the faces of most X-Factor rejects.
After Ready to Go and with talk of a new single, we were indeed ready to go, and so we went. It was at this point only that my semi-retarded friend Tom finally confessed that he mass purchased tickets for the gig after confusing the band with Elastica. Thanks Tom, seriously.
I dearly wanted to wrap Saffron in a blanket to protect her modesty, give her a mug of Horlicks and pop her in front of the telly with the Midsomer Murders box-set. She could then begin to embrace the delights of growing old gracefully in the company of John Nettles and his whinging, out-of-work actress, brat of a daughter.
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Are the Miliband brothers the new Jedward?
Breaking news! Ed Miliband is the first major party leader to live with his family out of wedlock, signifying a change in attitudes of UK voters.
This is the latest revelation in a long stream of banal journalistic reports, which have seen a significant rise in the number of Brits putting pen to paper to seal their future with a cross.
The voter turnout in 1997, which saw Major bow out as the Tory reign came to an end, was 71.4 per cent. Four years later and this figure had plummeted to a shocking 59.4 per cent. However, with 65.1 per cent of voters making the trip to the polling station last May, things are looking up.
Is this the result of the media’s “change in attitudes” as to how it portrays the importance of politics to a nation of dumbed-down soap watchers?
Spinning May’s General Election into a whirlwind celebrity showdown encapsulated the attention of a voyeuristic nation, which seemed more interested in who’s shagging who rather than who could deliver what.
Clegg, Brown and Cameron’s private lives were showcased for the media in what fast became the political equivalent of X-Factor. Sam Cam’s convenient pregnancy, following the death of Ivan, was certainly a clever move by David’s spin-doctors and a sob story so sad that would have tugged on the heartstrings of Ian Brady.
And this week’s exhaustive reporting of the trials and tribulations of the Miliband brothers should earn them the nickname “Deadwood.”
Sarkozy faces the aftermath of riots as the French workforce take to the streets en-masse to protest over their disapproval of pretty much everything.
At the other end of the spectrum, Cameron could commit murder on live television and we’d probably complain a bit, forgive him because he’s got nice hair, put the kettle on and flick over to watch Corrie.
Are people voting because the party leader has the cutest kid, the fittest wife, or was sporting the best tie during a recent appearance on Newsnight?
Straight, gay or a casual lay, as long as they act with the professionalism, integrity and intelligence required to deliver for the British public, does it really matter?
This is the latest revelation in a long stream of banal journalistic reports, which have seen a significant rise in the number of Brits putting pen to paper to seal their future with a cross.
The voter turnout in 1997, which saw Major bow out as the Tory reign came to an end, was 71.4 per cent. Four years later and this figure had plummeted to a shocking 59.4 per cent. However, with 65.1 per cent of voters making the trip to the polling station last May, things are looking up.
Is this the result of the media’s “change in attitudes” as to how it portrays the importance of politics to a nation of dumbed-down soap watchers?
Spinning May’s General Election into a whirlwind celebrity showdown encapsulated the attention of a voyeuristic nation, which seemed more interested in who’s shagging who rather than who could deliver what.
Clegg, Brown and Cameron’s private lives were showcased for the media in what fast became the political equivalent of X-Factor. Sam Cam’s convenient pregnancy, following the death of Ivan, was certainly a clever move by David’s spin-doctors and a sob story so sad that would have tugged on the heartstrings of Ian Brady.
And this week’s exhaustive reporting of the trials and tribulations of the Miliband brothers should earn them the nickname “Deadwood.”
Sarkozy faces the aftermath of riots as the French workforce take to the streets en-masse to protest over their disapproval of pretty much everything.
At the other end of the spectrum, Cameron could commit murder on live television and we’d probably complain a bit, forgive him because he’s got nice hair, put the kettle on and flick over to watch Corrie.
Are people voting because the party leader has the cutest kid, the fittest wife, or was sporting the best tie during a recent appearance on Newsnight?
Straight, gay or a casual lay, as long as they act with the professionalism, integrity and intelligence required to deliver for the British public, does it really matter?
Being unfussy got me dumped by a boy in a tiger jumper
I have long been accused by family and friends alike of being too fussy when it comes to potential boyfriends.
Meeting men under the influence of vast quantities of alcohol, I regularly fall in unconditional, Stella-tinted-spectacles-aided love. On the first date I’m baffled at how lager can screw with one’s perception to such an extent - the man who laughed like a drain and had a voice so loud it could be heard by the deaf, springs to mind.
It is rare there is a second date.
Breaking the news to my gays, that the love has again died so soon, is always tough.
Through utter frustration one of my closest gays, Robert, recently subjected me to a verbal onslaught, of which the general gist was:
“It’s not them Ellie, it’s you. You will grow old, surround yourself with feral cats, children will fear you and the townsfolk will attempt to drown you as a witch.
“The stench of urine from your granny-flat will be so unbearable that a mile-round radius of the area will be cordoned off and not even the spotty carer from meals on wheels will dare to cross the threshold. Subsequently you will meet your end when the bin-bags, crammed full with the charity-shop clothes you have collected over the course of 60 years, tumble down and suffocate you to death.”
These harsh words scared me so much so that I agreed to a second date with the latest social degenerate I’d found myself acquainted with.
Despite the fact he was slightly shorter, slightly younger and was wearing high-top trainers suggestive of a secret boy crush on N-Dubz. But four pints later, we did sort of get on and so the second meeting was set.
To which he turned up wearing a bright green sweater with a picture of a tiger on the front, which was so small it would be better suited to a Build-a-Bear.
My first instinct was to make like Forest Gump, but I’d been spotted. So I stayed, and drank the pain away.
The next day, Robert’s onslaught still haunted me. So, attempting to overlook the fashion horrors that had passed, I considered the possibility of a third date.
Two days later, a text message: “Hello Ellie, hope you had a nice weekend. Just to let you know I don’t think we should see each other again, I’m not looking for anyone right now.”
Dropped
By a short boy
In a green tiger jumper
I had hit rock bottom. It was too late to reverse the years of relationship nonchalance and Robert’s wise words were already a self-fulfilled prophecy.
Destined to a life of smug married women looking at me with pity, issuing such patronising phrases as “aw, you’ll be next” and “you just haven’t found the right person yet.”
Pushing 30, the dust is fast settling and the biological clock is drowning out even the guy who laughed like a drain. I can empathise with geriatric cats in catteries everywhere, who look out with longing eyes at passers by, screaming “pick me, pick me.”
But no one ever will.
It took me a day to get over the sheer horror of the situation.
When I did I took solace from the fact that, with the UK divorce rate rocketing, before long the majority of the aforementioned smug wives will join me, slightly damaged, back on the shelf after discovering hotel receipts confirming their husband’s sordid affair with Debbie on reception.
A shell of their former selves through many wasted years of trying to “make things work” with the man they settled for, they will spend a decade regaining some sort of self-identity.
In the meantime, I will long be over the embarrassment of being ditched by tiger boy and, lesson learnt, have reverted back to fussiness, met my perfect match and the tables will turn.
My verdict?
It pays to be fussy.
Meeting men under the influence of vast quantities of alcohol, I regularly fall in unconditional, Stella-tinted-spectacles-aided love. On the first date I’m baffled at how lager can screw with one’s perception to such an extent - the man who laughed like a drain and had a voice so loud it could be heard by the deaf, springs to mind.
It is rare there is a second date.
Breaking the news to my gays, that the love has again died so soon, is always tough.
Through utter frustration one of my closest gays, Robert, recently subjected me to a verbal onslaught, of which the general gist was:
“It’s not them Ellie, it’s you. You will grow old, surround yourself with feral cats, children will fear you and the townsfolk will attempt to drown you as a witch.
“The stench of urine from your granny-flat will be so unbearable that a mile-round radius of the area will be cordoned off and not even the spotty carer from meals on wheels will dare to cross the threshold. Subsequently you will meet your end when the bin-bags, crammed full with the charity-shop clothes you have collected over the course of 60 years, tumble down and suffocate you to death.”
These harsh words scared me so much so that I agreed to a second date with the latest social degenerate I’d found myself acquainted with.
Despite the fact he was slightly shorter, slightly younger and was wearing high-top trainers suggestive of a secret boy crush on N-Dubz. But four pints later, we did sort of get on and so the second meeting was set.
To which he turned up wearing a bright green sweater with a picture of a tiger on the front, which was so small it would be better suited to a Build-a-Bear.
My first instinct was to make like Forest Gump, but I’d been spotted. So I stayed, and drank the pain away.
The next day, Robert’s onslaught still haunted me. So, attempting to overlook the fashion horrors that had passed, I considered the possibility of a third date.
Two days later, a text message: “Hello Ellie, hope you had a nice weekend. Just to let you know I don’t think we should see each other again, I’m not looking for anyone right now.”
Dropped
By a short boy
In a green tiger jumper
I had hit rock bottom. It was too late to reverse the years of relationship nonchalance and Robert’s wise words were already a self-fulfilled prophecy.
Destined to a life of smug married women looking at me with pity, issuing such patronising phrases as “aw, you’ll be next” and “you just haven’t found the right person yet.”
Pushing 30, the dust is fast settling and the biological clock is drowning out even the guy who laughed like a drain. I can empathise with geriatric cats in catteries everywhere, who look out with longing eyes at passers by, screaming “pick me, pick me.”
But no one ever will.
It took me a day to get over the sheer horror of the situation.
When I did I took solace from the fact that, with the UK divorce rate rocketing, before long the majority of the aforementioned smug wives will join me, slightly damaged, back on the shelf after discovering hotel receipts confirming their husband’s sordid affair with Debbie on reception.
A shell of their former selves through many wasted years of trying to “make things work” with the man they settled for, they will spend a decade regaining some sort of self-identity.
In the meantime, I will long be over the embarrassment of being ditched by tiger boy and, lesson learnt, have reverted back to fussiness, met my perfect match and the tables will turn.
My verdict?
It pays to be fussy.
Monday, 13 September 2010
Guys with guitars are infinitely hot, except for Newton
Last Friday’s Busking for Cancer boat party aboard HMS Belfast rekindled all the burning questions surrounding an unfathomable phenomenon, which has haunted my existence since my early teens.
Give an average man, kitted out with average clothes and an average personality, a guitar and immediately they are transformed from wallflower to Adonis so fine they plummet Casanova to the ranks of Quasimodo.
And as a hot-blooded female, I have an inbuilt and overbearing desire to straddle each and every one of them. Even the new wave of plaid-clad social degenerates, who have so far come into contact with only one vagina, and that was from the inside out.
However I have discovered the exception to this steadfast rule - the one and only glorified cover-singer, Newton Faulkner, whose head looks like a pre-school pupil has hollowed out a lump of wax, carved a face in it and lit it up with a tea-light.
Complete with an ego big enough to eclipse the sun, not even a vintage Fender Stratocaster once strummed by the late Jimi Hendrix can inject as much as a hint of mojo into this ginger lovechild of a mutant pumpkin and a Playskool Gloworm.
Delivering a painful rendition of Massive Attack’s Teardrop, he defied the unwritten law of the unconditional attractiveness of “man with guitar,” producing not even a faint tingle in the nether regions. And that’s coming from a girl who would have had a pop at Jarvis Cocker in his prime.
After three years on the scene Newton should be at his peak and aiming even higher. Instead he is still lost amid a line-up of part-time musicians who’re just out for a bit of extra-curricular Friday-night fun.
But he doesn’t let this deter him. Playing to a 100-strong audience he made failed attempts to emanate an air of arrogance reminiscent of Jagger and Morrison, but without the talent or charisma to match. The crowd, comprising has-been rockers, the friends and relatives of preceding acts and one prune-faced woman who claimed to be 33 years old, fuelled Newton’s unfounded egotism by demanding he play covers of other well-known classics. And so he did. Badly.
The time will come when the failings of Newton are realised, and he must sell his Argos-bought guitar down the local car boot sale, along with all his compact discs and make that long-overdue trip to the job centre.
Give an average man, kitted out with average clothes and an average personality, a guitar and immediately they are transformed from wallflower to Adonis so fine they plummet Casanova to the ranks of Quasimodo.
And as a hot-blooded female, I have an inbuilt and overbearing desire to straddle each and every one of them. Even the new wave of plaid-clad social degenerates, who have so far come into contact with only one vagina, and that was from the inside out.
However I have discovered the exception to this steadfast rule - the one and only glorified cover-singer, Newton Faulkner, whose head looks like a pre-school pupil has hollowed out a lump of wax, carved a face in it and lit it up with a tea-light.
Complete with an ego big enough to eclipse the sun, not even a vintage Fender Stratocaster once strummed by the late Jimi Hendrix can inject as much as a hint of mojo into this ginger lovechild of a mutant pumpkin and a Playskool Gloworm.
Delivering a painful rendition of Massive Attack’s Teardrop, he defied the unwritten law of the unconditional attractiveness of “man with guitar,” producing not even a faint tingle in the nether regions. And that’s coming from a girl who would have had a pop at Jarvis Cocker in his prime.
After three years on the scene Newton should be at his peak and aiming even higher. Instead he is still lost amid a line-up of part-time musicians who’re just out for a bit of extra-curricular Friday-night fun.
But he doesn’t let this deter him. Playing to a 100-strong audience he made failed attempts to emanate an air of arrogance reminiscent of Jagger and Morrison, but without the talent or charisma to match. The crowd, comprising has-been rockers, the friends and relatives of preceding acts and one prune-faced woman who claimed to be 33 years old, fuelled Newton’s unfounded egotism by demanding he play covers of other well-known classics. And so he did. Badly.
The time will come when the failings of Newton are realised, and he must sell his Argos-bought guitar down the local car boot sale, along with all his compact discs and make that long-overdue trip to the job centre.
Friday, 3 September 2010
The only way to look younger is to be born later
Flicking through any glossy magazine, you will find endless advice columns, tailored towards those women (and men) on a quest for their body beautiful.
Every day image conscious readers scour newsagents’ magazine racks nationwide in an attempt to satiate their addiction for feature after soulless feature containing new “secrets” to achieving that sexy skeletal physique.
Needless to say 10 minutes later they will pass McDonalds and the temptation of munching their way through a burger comprising of lips, bumholes and a soggy gherkin, served up by an acne-ridden youth, will see the wise words of the journalist become yet another faded resolution.
Sandwiched between these features you will discover magnified shots of celebrities’ unjustifiable flaws, which are undoubtedly in the public interest. A bra-strap on show, a chipped nail and, worst of all, a stray pubic hair poking through their bikini bottoms as they sunbathe on a private, isolated beach, far from civilisation.
This nip-tuck trend is seeing an increasing number undergoing breast enhancements, botox injections, starvation and countless facelifts, to transform the relatively normal into a race of melted, anorexic Barbie dolls.
Sadly the only person obsessed with that dimply bit of cellulite burrowed away at the top of their thighs is themselves. Men, for example, are far more interested in the hole in between.
So many people in their 40s and beyond are doing everything in their power to look 20. But sadly no matter how much plastic surgery they have, they cannot escape the fact that, scratch the surface and their age is undeniable. Rude bits dry up, rude bits slack up, limbs freeze up and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
Sadly these victims of jaded media pressure won’t be remembered for the botox-ridden fitness fanatics that they are, who sacrificed their lives in a futile attempt to deny the laws of Mother Nature. They are pointless, failed to make an impact on this rock and won’t be remembered at all.
We all die, and no one gives a shit what you look like in your coffin. So go out, drink, smoke, eat, do whatever you want to do so that on your deathbed you can look back with no regrets, safe in the knowledge that you had a fucking good time on the way.
Every day image conscious readers scour newsagents’ magazine racks nationwide in an attempt to satiate their addiction for feature after soulless feature containing new “secrets” to achieving that sexy skeletal physique.
Needless to say 10 minutes later they will pass McDonalds and the temptation of munching their way through a burger comprising of lips, bumholes and a soggy gherkin, served up by an acne-ridden youth, will see the wise words of the journalist become yet another faded resolution.
Sandwiched between these features you will discover magnified shots of celebrities’ unjustifiable flaws, which are undoubtedly in the public interest. A bra-strap on show, a chipped nail and, worst of all, a stray pubic hair poking through their bikini bottoms as they sunbathe on a private, isolated beach, far from civilisation.
This nip-tuck trend is seeing an increasing number undergoing breast enhancements, botox injections, starvation and countless facelifts, to transform the relatively normal into a race of melted, anorexic Barbie dolls.
Sadly the only person obsessed with that dimply bit of cellulite burrowed away at the top of their thighs is themselves. Men, for example, are far more interested in the hole in between.
So many people in their 40s and beyond are doing everything in their power to look 20. But sadly no matter how much plastic surgery they have, they cannot escape the fact that, scratch the surface and their age is undeniable. Rude bits dry up, rude bits slack up, limbs freeze up and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
Sadly these victims of jaded media pressure won’t be remembered for the botox-ridden fitness fanatics that they are, who sacrificed their lives in a futile attempt to deny the laws of Mother Nature. They are pointless, failed to make an impact on this rock and won’t be remembered at all.
We all die, and no one gives a shit what you look like in your coffin. So go out, drink, smoke, eat, do whatever you want to do so that on your deathbed you can look back with no regrets, safe in the knowledge that you had a fucking good time on the way.
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