Dreadful Nonsense

This link was sent to me by my good friend Carol with the fantastic comment that apparently it makes her think of me. And that's exactly how I'd like to be thought of, to be honest. It's really brilliant - I would highly recommend reading the top ten out loud, and very quickly.

NB - although it opens into a word document, and is from the BBC, it may not still, strictly speaking, be Safe For Work. Although neither is this website, motherfuckers, so stop slacking off in the office.

Jeeeeezus.

Oh, the Nest'O'Love still goes strong. We've got new next door neighbours, who apparently scream and screech at each other all hours of the night time (but mysteriously don't leave bruises, contrary to our aural evidence - we met the lady one of the two this evening, and there was ne'er a bruise to be seen. Very disappointing). We fantastically got a new bookshelf from our landlords, which means that He Who Only...'s books on war and my books on eating disorders can now sit proudly side by side on a shelf rather than being piled up and undignified on the floor.

But. Disaster, ladies and gents.

I can only say this in capital letters and an incredibly high pitched voice, so those of you with sensitive hearing should turn the volume right down, right now.

WE'VE GOT MOTHER FUCKING MICE.



And not just the cute, black and white hand drawn types. The real freaking deal. The very ones that make you want to stand on a chair and scream until your neck melts and your boyfriend's ears fall off.

Although, I must clarify: I've not actually seen any mouse with mine own eyes. I think if that happened, mine own eyes would burst out of my skull with the pure horror of it all, and He Who Only... would have to do one of those marvellous Flintoff diving catches where his lovely cricket whites get all mucky.

Yes. But. Back to the mice.


Mother fucking mice.

The first one was spotted perched a-top the bread bin, winking cheekily at He Who Only..., who decided to name him "Jingo", thinking that this would win me around to not having flying hysterics and dying right then and there. And, actually, it did work, but only for one night. I've not been able to step foot into the kitchen since then, and when He Who Only... goes to work in the morning and leaves me here on my own, I am forced to stomp about the house making as much noise and vibration as possible so the little plague carrying FUCKERS don't spring out at me and eat my nose as I stand screaming.

I've called the landlords. I'm sure it'll be fine.

Laptops SUCK and should be DROWNED and SHOT and BURNED and STONED (not in the good way, in the old fashioned, biblical sense) and then SMASHED UP and BURIED ALIVE and then DEAD and then ALIVE AGAIN WITH SPLINTERS IN THEIR EYES because they're too awkward and difficult to use.

Also - BT, because our internet broadband connection keeps fucking up and leaving me in a corner using my laptop which WON'T DO WHAT I TELL IT TO DO and makes me want to cry and makes He Who Only... wonder what he ever saw in me every time I thrown a tantrum the size of Ben Nevis.

He... just passed me a glass of wine and told me to "chill the fuck out". He's absolutely right, you know.

ANYWAY.

That's not even what I was going to talk about today.

Today, I want to talk about the fact that I look like this:

The words "Sun" and "Burnt", used side by side, and preceded by the words "OH MY GOD, YOU'RE SO" have been used many times today in connection with my appearance. It does not make me feel happy or confident or in any way cold. I am currently radiating more heat than a faulty nuclear reactor and MY GOD LABELS ON THE BACK OF CLOTHING FUCKING HURT.

The best thing about my sun burn is the fact that, on the two and a half hour trek we so wisely decided to take in THIRTY DEGRESS CELSIUS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY, I wore: (1) a vest top which used to belong to my friend Lorraine and used to be the top half of a pygama set; (2) a bra that criss-crosses at the back and (3) a small bag slung across my chest. Therefore, today my back looks LIKE A FUCKING RED AND WHITE UNION JACK. I HAVE BURNT THE UNION JACK INTO MY BACK.

This is not funny, y’all. Particularly during this World Cup time. Oh, the shame.

What to do while you have some free time in North London, when one of you should be (a) filling pension forms, (b) studying for an Open University degree that may never end, (c) tidying up, (d) finding old bank statements and also that receipt the landlord's been looking for for the last three months, (e) putting all the CDs known to man back into their CD cases; and the other one of you should be writing his future award winning radio sitcom:

PART ONE OF SEVENTEEN:

Go down the marshes and annoy the swans.



It's brilliant. The one in the middle there is hissing at us as I edge in with my mobile to take the photo. I freaking love it, because what you don't see is the Shazzle size fence that separates us from the swans, and gives me just enough time to duck behind He Who Only... as the swan strikes out in anger. Imagine my laughter as the swan cripples my boyfriend with a well-timed peck to the tender bits? Oh, the endless joy of my life.

Shitting fuck, people. It's happened. It's freaking happened. A-fucking-gain.

I've started smoking again. How the fuck did this happen?

Mrs Bishop was over a couple of months ago, and stirred on by her constant waving about of cigarettes and telling me how great they are, coupled with the fact that she STRAPPED ME DOWN and FORCED ME TO SMOKE, I happened to come across a packet of cigarettes on my way home one evening, when I walked into a shop and asked a man for them, and he gave them to me in exchange for some money.

And then I started carrying them around in my bag with me, obviously, because if I left them at home He Who Only... would find them and lose respect for me, and probably not love me anymore, and then he would leave me and FOR PITY'S SAKE SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHILDREN so obviously I carried them around with me, and then once during lunchtime I was feeling really pissed off at work and we were in a pub and so I had one of the cigarettes, and it was quite nice even though it made me cough and feel a bit sick but it feels like being a grown up and all the cool girls started talking to me, so I kept at it until the dizziness passed.

And then those 10 cigarettes I'd bought had gone away, all up in smoke in fact, and then I had to go to the pub one lunchtime and it had been a horrible weekend before and I was feeling sorry for myself because I'd imagined that my boss was mean to me, even though he wasn't at all, and anyway I'M AN ADULT AND YOU CAN'T STOP ME so I bought some more cigarettes and then when I was talking to the lady from the Council and I was imagining she was being mean to me, even though she wasn't at all, so I smoked some more cigarettes and then all of a sudden it's today, and I'm by myself in the flat and I'VE HAD A CIGARETTE WHILE WATCHING BIG BROTHER and now I think I smoke again.

For Fuck's Sake.

I'm going to get my ass WHOOPED* for this, but please bear in mind how much football I'm being forced to sit through, and look upon the following image in wonder:



Look! Matching nail polish! Brilliant!

*If you are a personal friend of He Who Only...'s, please do leave a comment to let him know that you've seen this image. A great many thanks.

I've been living in North London for over a year now, and coming to visit in this area for near two. Every time I visited here, I walked past a fantastic place called the London Irish Women's Centre. It made me feel like I was being specifically catered for, although I didn't know why. I was in London! I was an Irish Woman! Quite rightly, I may one day be in need of a Centre! And there it was.

A rapid google of the centre didn't really shed any more light on what the centre was, why it was, why it was specifically here, why the windows are blacked out and why it never seems to be open. As I say, I've been living her over a year now, and I've never once popped my head around the door to say hi and to find out what's happening. Something has always held me back.

And thank the Lordi for that. Yesterday, walking home from the picnic, He Who Only... noticed a new addition to the window non-display. Something was being advertised. I took a photo.


Daniel O'Donnell in Concert.

That kind of Irish woman, then. Problem solved.

Jesus Shitting Christ. Be careful what you wish for.

Since the last time I blogged (which is, I'm very ashamed to say, nearly a week and a half ago), the summer has arrived, and my god, it's arrived with a capital FUCK ME IT'S HOT. As I type, at 10.40pm at NIGHT for Jesus's shining sake, I'm still sweating with the sheer HEAT of the whole thing.

I cannot bear it.

I take it all back.

Please, could someone switch back on the winter?

I'm never happy.

Today, in the same vein as "if you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen", we decided that since we couldn't stand the heat, we'd get out of the heat. We did this by following He Who Only...'s absolutely genius idea of having a picnic down the local park.

Unfortunately, most of North London had the same idea:


That is a photograph of some of the 20,000 other people who were struck with exactly the same brilliant idea. Triumphantly, though, we had our pick of the peachy places to sit in the park, since both of us have such lilly-white, transparent celtic skin that if we sat in the direct sun for more than a mere moment, we'd end up with third degree burns. So we plonked our lovely arctic coloured asses under a tree near to the turtle lake and got down to the serious business of picnic-ing.

The essential ingredients for the making of the picnic, according to the Gospel of He Who Only...



1. Bare feet: Feet must always be bare from the moment the picnic commences. This indicates that you are not merely outside, you are also relaxing outside, and intend to be relaxing outside more than just momentarily. No socks allowed.

2. Wine (or the alcoholic alternative of your choice): Here, we went for a lovely pinky coloured wine, purely because when we reached into the fridge in the off licence on the way to the park, we assumed that everything in there was white. We were wrong, but the wine itself was a delight.

3. A small radio burbling commentary to some kind of international sporting event: Today we listened to Holland v Serbia-Montenegro and then Iran v Mexico. A more suitable picnic sporting burble would of course be a cricket match of some sort, it being a sport more suitable to the radio medium, but beggars and choosers can never be one and the same.

4. Newspapers by the hundred: So that you can spend the duration of the time soaking up current events by flicking through the paper for up to two minutes once every hour, and by the end of the day feel like you've done something useful along with just lying about.

5. Also important: A blanket to cover in dead ants and grass cuttings; chocolate; crisps; some kind of frisby or football or tennis-ball based throwing and catching game; some books to intend to read and ignore; some sunglasses; and a MASSIVE interest in people watching.

My advice to the entire world, or at least that part of the world currently suffering through Summer, is to find yourself a good tree, sit underneath it, drink wine and watch the world pass by. It's the only way to cope.

As yesterday was officially the first day of June, and therefore legally it had to be a warm, sunny, pleasant day to be outdoors, we decided that we would go to a beer garden. We chose the beer garden in the back of the Irish pub that we always go to to watch the Irish international football and ruby matches, as they pipe in illegal Irish television, complete with Irish adverts and everything. It's also the best place for miles around where we live to watch Liverpool matches. Once, to prove what a fantastic wife I am, I met He Who Only... there half way through a Liverpool game, after going to a tutorial in town. I came in armed with two bags of chips fresh from the best chip shop in Stoke Newington, and I was immediately elected the official Best Girlfriend in the pub. I rock.

And I digress. Point is, it's a brilliant pub, where the Guinness is poured with ludicrous expertise, and the only crisps avaible to buy are Taytos. It's like being at home, except that the entire place is so covered in cigarette smoke that, late in to the evening, you can't see from one end to the other. I blinking love it. This photo is taken from the half way point in the pub. I love the fact that it's so long and narrow, it seems to stretch on forever.

Anyhoo, this was the pub in which we decided to celebrate the legally official start to the summer, by sitting outside and sipping on some of their fabulous Guinness. Turned out we were the only idiots who decided on this course of action:

This is because (a) it was absolutely freezing outside and (b) the pub garden was full of scary, flying, biting things. But you know what? We had to keep the dream alive. Roll on the actual summer.

Dear The City of London,

Today is the first day of June. Today is, therefore, the official beginning of the Summer, in terms of the ladies wearing the shorter skirts with no tights, the cute little pump shoes that sparkle, and the gentlemen traditionally moving to the short sleeved shirts and, occasionally (if they're not British), the sandal shoes. Summertime is a fun time for all of The City of London, as we can now bustle along, but bustle along eating icecream. We can all aggressively shove each other aside, but aggressively shove each other aside while noting what good tans we all have. We can mutter rude words at each other, but mutter rude words at each other while thinking about the fact that beer gardens are once again a groovy place to be.

You see, dear The City of London, summertime is a wonderful time to be. Therefore, I beg of you, can you please, please, please place close attention to your morning and afternoon ablutions, particularly those of you who, like me, have to commute on public stuffy transport every day. I have one word for you, dear The City of London, and that one word is: DEODORANT.

Please look into it.

Your friend,

Shazzle
xxxxxx