Positively oozing, or *A Freudian Moment*

Last night’s dreams were chaotic and involved my cat again.
Now, after two decades and a bit of obsessive moggy-related dreams I have finally figured out that the cat in the dream is in fact *scoop* Me; and that’s considering that I don’t subscribe a 100% to the popular theory that every character in your dreams is actually you.

Under cat disguise, I have done the following things in dreams:
*struggled out of my own arms and tried to run away in crazy traffic, and risked getting flattened (a constant since I was about 7)
*puked up a gigantic heap of yellow, lumpy substance not unlike Covent Garden’s soup Company, the smoked haddock chowder variety.
*Filled up a room with explosive diarrhoea.

At this point I would like to say I’m so sorry about the references to unsavoury bodily functions. But science demands certain sacrifices, you know.

So; why such excretions in my dreams?
It would be easy to jump to conclusions and say that I’m simply full of shit; but not only would it be not very nice, wouldn’t it be pure blasphemy in the face of the well of wisdom that is dream analysis? Yes, it would.
Well I do have a theory, but I don’t feel like going into it for now. End of the Freudian moment. Thank you for listening.

Role models
People of blogdom, I’m as excited as a rabid flea! well, as jaded and unenthusiastic me can be: Margaret Cho is coming to London! As I was striding into my favourite café I spotted an A3 poster advertising her upcoming ‘state of emergency’ tour; it was tucked under the staircase between vegan lesbian flatsharing and crunchy home-made granola adverts, so I wonder what the turnout will be. Of course she is virtually unknown in this country, so just as well I’ll be there in my lamé dress throwing my chones underwear at her. (see footnote #1) In the little blurb I noticed she was cleverly reinvented as a lesbian activist by her PR people. How opportunistic. Still, I’ll be there; come to London, I’ll put you up, I have a futon.

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I saw Bridget Jones being on the edge of reason today.
I know.
The synopsis goes like this: Bridget repeatedly shoots herself in the foot when around object of affection, (figuratively, it’s not a western), conveniently doesn’t remember that it’s a bad idea to carry fertility statuettes for men met when travelling in Thailand, soon finds that Thai jails are pretty fun places to hang out that and all the girls just dance around singing Madonna songs and share boyfriend stories and satin wonderbras. Then heroin is saved by boring, poker-in-the-arse but big earner lawyer boyfriend, and the film culminates in, what else, a marriage proposal, because that’s all that we should aspire to. Yes, internet, since you ask, I managed to switch off the cynical filter long enough to laugh and actually enjoy the film. With the exception of the marriage proposal. Cinematic marriage proposals and their implications invariably make me cringe, slow poison that they are!
Margaret Cho will work fine as my antidote.

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Footnote #1 : to be added later. Good night.

Fish and chips
Fishboy suggested starting a support group for those who, despite their 'pinko lefty faux-Gothy underachieving alternative cool façade', fail to worship Radiohead, and actually like Dire Straits. If I manage to get past the old dilemma of whether I would like to be part of a group that would have me as its member, I will apply straight away. I have tried, people of Blogland, I really have; but Radiohead is just like avocado, not in the way that it tastes like wax crayons, but in the way that I would love to like it because it's supposed to improve your life, but just can't. And Brothers is arms makes my eyes well up every time, possibly because it brings back memories of that night at a Dublin funfair in April 1989 when I did all the rides then threw up my fish and chips and Fergal Murphy handed me a tissue and then we kissed. No, not strictly right after. So, Dire Straits. Yeah.

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Isn't it typical. Just when I am all psyched up and ready to go, high on cravitamins and ginseng and guarana, and my coolest boots have been polished to an eye-catching shine, and all the voices in my head concurr to scream in unison 'go out and be merry and get some drinking and flirting done and be careful with those heels', then of course my drinking and flirting partner is ill in bed with a temperature.
Just as well I have another day of merriment planned for tomorrow with an altogether healthier, and possibly cuter friend. Yay!

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From a work colleague on Friday : Oh, your earrings certainly are ..different. You're such a punk!
Well, this punk is going to make mulled wine now, and have fish and chips. To honour the memories, you know.

Get cultured with your mom


'I've dusted your library', my mom says on the phone.
'oh no', I think.
'You have some interesting things in there', she adds, tentative.
'I do?'
'Yes, all those erotic novels, and erotica anthologies you have!'
'shitoh yeah, those old things...'
'If they''d been put on the shelves properly and not with their spines facing in, I would have spotted them earlier!'
'precisely oh hum?'
'Quite engrossing really; oh and I also learned some new words!'
'please don't tell me which ones you have? I mean, you have. Has it been cold recently? Any snow yet?'
'The ones I didn't really enjoy were all a bit too violent though, with whipping and things like that.'
'ok. Look mom I've gotta go, dinner is getting cold.'
'Do you have anymore?'
'No. I don't think so. I just have.. the classics. Really. Nice talking to you, mom.'

It's not quite as bad as your mom finding your porn stash under your bed. Mainly because I'm older now.

I don't think she would enjoy Pat Califia.

Hey, I found a new hobby that's got nothing to do with this blog!

This is what I want for Christmas.
And all my friends will get their own cross stitching kit, too. Say 'yay!'

Post break-up revisionism, or it looks like I'm not done yet.

A. How to become a relationship revisionist in easy steps.

B. Definition:
· Among historians, revisionism has traditionally been used in a completely neutral sense to describe the work or ideas of a historian who has revised a previously accepted view of a particular topic.
· More generally, revisionism is used by non-historians as a pejorative term for biased historical work which denies that some past events took place.

C. Instructions and mode of action
1 Block out all good memories. Things that you thought were good then were only a figment of your imagination. Diagnose self-delusion, and a subsequent happy recovery.
You never were in love with a wonderful person, you never planned to buy furniture/steal kitchen utensils/adopt a Chinese orphan together, and the sex was never amazing, or if it was, it was only thanks to you.

2 Revel in bad memories. The time s/he snapped/ignored/hurt you. Forget you ever snapped/ignored/rejected/hurt her/him.

3 Establish that things that sucked then suck more now, with hindsight; bad things can be dragged out and highlighted, turned into anecdotes and fables.

4 At this point, consider finding a derogatory nickname for the ex friend or lover you're trying to get over. Suggestions: Arseface, The Cunt, Crazy Sarah (everyone knows a Sarah.)

5 Said nickname will help safely compartmentalise the terminated relationship and label the ex friend or lover.

D. Results

What's a little self righteousness/self deceit/denial in the face of oblivion/a brand new page? And amusing stories to tell your friends about your ex that was so, so bad.

E. Honesty no section E. Sorry.

F. The final quote : Toute histoire est histoire contemporaine.

Today I spent an hour with a famous actor, but I didn't know that until he'd left; I'm not good at recognizing celebrities. So that explains his charisma, then.
Today's discovery was that you can get a molebeauty spot tattooed on for 50 quid at a salon near you. Tattooed lip liner, on the other hand, will set you back £250. So that's 300 quid to look like a tart, then.
Today's closest thing to joy took the form of a chocolate soufflé.

Next time, Internet, blogpeople, I will explain what life lessons you may reap from television series. Or not.

Patch
People of blogdom, I haven't had a haircut in over three months.
I do have a regular hairdresser; Luisa's Spanish, she talks a lot and offers me red wine, and we chat about Barcelona and her attempts at pregnancy and how much cost the Gaultier watch her husband got her; she's perfectly delightful, and bubbly, and seriously overenthusiastic. When she's done with me my hair is perfectly cut and in place, but because she is so enthusiastic and wants to give me value for money I invariably look like my little brother, aged 12. Too enthusiastic, so too neat, too goddamn short. I console myself with the thought that it'll be fine in two weeks' time after all, this stuff grows so fast, and put a hat on.
So over the past 90 days or so I have been hacking at my growing mop; a little snip here, a little snip there, nothing drastic, with those clever scissors that cut through hair, y'know? Fantastic. I love my girly hair. It's tickling my ears quite becomingly, I think.
But I am only postponing the inevitable, people of blogland. For there will be a time when I must go back. When the random snipping has taken its toll and I look like those brooms you use for reaching cobwebs. And then, what will I tell Luisa to explain the interesting gradations I've created? 'My mom did it'. Oh, how very grown up. I used that one when I was 19 and getting a telling off from the scary woman who tried to set right a colour gone really, really bad. I'm ashamed to this day. 'A friend begged me to be his guinea pig'. 'It was a dare and I lost.' 'Well, it's all you can do in the jungle, you know' might work, but can I pull it with a straight face? The real question is this :how can I get over this need for approval and just tell Luisa the truth, that against all expert advice I took my hair's fate into my own hands and hacked at it with reckless abandon? 'Luisa, I'm weaning myself off the need for approval, yours or anybody else's. Approval, approval, shmaproval. Soon I won't need it anymore. I'm so quitting; I'm on a patch right now, and next thing you know, the patch goes, and yes, goddamnit, I have been cutting my hair myself, without even a mirror, that's right, and even your dog's hair is better cut, and I look like shit, so please fix it. Please?'

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My lovely friend Zabelie got her birthday present. I think she is pleased: her first comment was - 'have you heard of fountain women? Well, I now know that I am one.'
Yay! I hope I get extra karma points for that.

And this is why we're here now
One morning in the fourteenth century, young Francis P. went to church, as one did, and wham, he caught a glimpse of a complete stranger named Laura. For the rest of his life he harboured a deep, completely unrequited love - she never even knew the poor guy existed - and, in order to channel his troubled feelings, churned out over over 360 love poems dedicated to some bint he'd only seen for 30 seconds between two church pillars. For all he knew she could have been a complete idiot; talk about idealisation. Anyway; not only did she never get to read them, but she also died of the plague, a fairly fashionable death at the time. As a result, his personal literary catharsis became a symbol for the birth of romantic love and other humanistic notions. Before him and his ilk, there was no romantic love to speak of, was there. People happily pillaged and raped their way around. And then, 366 poems about pure and overwhelming love later, courtship and romanticised notions of coupledom became all the rage. I blame Francis P for this unshakable yearning for.. for.. all this mess I'm in.
Better get a start on the poems, then.

Taking the orange obsession to a new level.
Next time, Internet, friends, I will explain how I blame Petrarch for all my troubles.

It's a necessity.
'Among human societies the most advanced orgasmically are purported to be the women of Mangaia, a southern Cook Island in central Polynesia. Mangaian females reach orgasm two or three times during intercourse. Upon entering puberty, Mangaian boys go through a series of initiation rites into adulthood. Part of the initiation includes being instructed in methods of stimulating women to maximum sexual pleasure. Indeed, Mangaian women are expected to attain orgasm during intercourse each time; if not, the Mangaian man who fails to please her loses his status in the island's society. The Mangaians, with no semblance of a Puritan heritage, do not consider female sexual pleasure an indulgence. They consider it a necessity.'

Exactly.

I'm having squidginess withdrawal symptoms. They clearly prompt me to read about stuff like Polynesian societies; I suppose it's sublimation of a kind. On top of the lack of squidginess comes the fact that it's the time of year to prepare your hibernation chamber and snuggle up next to a hairy mate. If you're a bear, or an Alpine marmot, that is; if you're human, well you just carry on ignoring nature's cycles and haul your ass out of bed three hours before dawn and drink mixtures of fat sugar and caffeine to prop your eyelids open instead of snuggling. Not that I have anyone to snuggle with in the first place. So better forget about the Necessity of Orgasm and squidginess and snuggling and everything.

Crap I'm bored today. Or cranky. Or hungry. Or dehydrated. I can't always tell the difference. Perhaps it's the November syndrome. Time feels so flat; work for another four weeks, then go through Christmas like it's a meat grinder.
I do have moments of pure exhilaration, though.
Walking fast at night, messing up the neat heaps of dead leaves, enjoying having a body that can move fast through the crisp air. Faster, faster, through the deserted streets on the way home. I do wish I had some snuggling to look forward to, though.
Internet, friends, mom, I've gotta go. I'm having a craving for uncooked puff pastry. If cravings are supposed to be a way for your body to tell you what it's missing, I wonder what that one is supposed to mean. So, puff pastry ; then I might go out for a walk.There are heaps of leaves that need kicking out there.

Just because I am paranoid doesn't mean that they're not after me.
 

Who do you identify with, the cat or the dog(s)?

Black and white cinema
'Do you think François Truffaut is in heaven?', asks Melissa.
I patiently explain that since I don't believe in any kind of afterlife, I can't answer that question in a way that she would find satisfactory.
'Yes, but, was he not a good man?' she pursues.
I add, rather pompously, that since I don't hold such a manichean view of humanity, I cannot really answer that question either.
'What does manichean mean?' she asks.
I explain that it means I don't think that people are either bad or good, but both at the same time.
'But don't you think, like, you're a good person?' she asks.
'No, I don't think I'm a good person.' Melissa stares at me with something akin to horror. She probably thinks I have low self-esteem. Low self-esteem is a fashionable concept, she will have heard of that. She's 16.
 

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This person has a friend whose car licence plate reads:

"If you're going to ride my ass...

...you may as well spank me and pull my hair."

She's envious; so am I, and I don't even have a car. I immediately thought of someone perfect for that license plate. she doesn't have a car either, though.

Scrabble scars


Today, Internet, I would like to vent my loathing of Scrabble.
'Real intellectuals play board games', my grandmother said. 'Play Scrabble with your mother and me', she said. 'It's your chance for another mind-numbing afternoon sipping lukewarm tea and wracking your brain for three-letter words that never get used in any real context til you either want to throw up or bang your forehead against the wall, or both', she did not add. Years and years of Sunday afternoons around a game of Scrabble, out of guilt, or duty. Then she died, and my mother and I swore to never let the horror rule our life ever again.
We considered placing the game in her coffin before the burial but for some silly reason of inappropriateness or something it didn't happen.
Fast forward three or four years to The Scrabble Holidays.
It was meant to be ten enchanted days up in the mountains, just the girlfriend and me. No television, no radio, no phone, no computer; just the two of us in a little mountain chalet, an unbeatable view on the Pyrenees complete with sheep, and a large double bed. We would hike, be at one with the wonder that is Nature, and fall into bed at the end of a long day; and just be together. It rained the whole time, the temperature dropped to below 8° (in August) and the fog was so thick we couldn't even see the sheep. Hiking was reduced to driving down to the village to buy food and extra socks. We could have piled up the blankets on the bed and given ourselves over to languorous sexual activities, right? Wrong. For reasons I won't even go into, fooling around naked under blankets with her very willing and able partner wasn't on her agenda, then or ever; so she demanded that we play Scrabble.
I bought a game of Scrabble. We played Scrabble. For ten days. At first I tried to improve on the rules by making it a bit more creative: for every word we had to make up a saying; but after the first two games it gave her a headache to try and think too hard, so we reverted back to the normal way. Ten days, people of blogland. And no sex.
I still have the game. Internet, friends, readers, it's available entirely for free to a good home. I'll even throw in a bottle of Tippex to customize the points on the letters; my version is the French one, different letters earn different numbers of points. It's yours. Really. Please have it.
The only happy Scrabble memory I have is last summer's, when, at her request, I showed A how infinitely mind-numbing the game was; she'd never played it and wanted to be enlightened. She cheated, I let her cheat, I still won, thinking 'finally! we share the same values -she hates it too- how I love this woman'. Can't trust Scrabble.

Comatose Sunday
Soon, to indulge my penchant for writing about very random things, I will tell you, internet, people of blogland, friends, mom, I’ll tell you just why I hate Scrabble. I might also expand on some fascinating dreams I’ve had lately; but now I’m off to eat coq au vin with baby new potatoes followed by caramelised apples in cinammon; to try and cure my hangover.

Too much Chablis
"Where should I go from here?" asked Alice.
"That depends a great deal on where you want to go." said the cat.

"But what if I don't know where that is?!" she asked.
"Then you're properly screwed." said the cat.

A story of forbidden love

Art of hospitality
We’re entertaining tonight. The custard and mince surprise is in the oven- the secret is to not boil the lager, but the guest is running late; I hope it’ll still be ok. We have Chablis, but no mineral water – if I were her I wouldn’t stay for a minute, I say. Fingers crossed, J says. When was the last time he had a guest over for dinner? He cleaned his hovel of a room for the occasion. Time to open the wine, I think.

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Gonorrhea lectim, then?

The Center for Disease Control has issued a warning about a new virulent strain of sexually transmitted disease. This disease is contracted through dangerous and high risk behavior. The disease is called Gonorrhea Lectim (pronounced "gonna re-elect him").

Many victims have contracted it after having been screwed for the past 4 years, in spite of having taken measures to protect themselves from this especially troublesome disease.

Cognitive sequellae of individuals infected with Gonorrhea Lectim include, but are not limited to:

* Anti-social personality disorder traits:
* delusions of grandeur with a distinct messianic flavor;
* chronic mangling of the English language;
* extreme cognitive dissonance;
• inability to incorporate new information;
* pronounced xenophobia;
* inability to accept responsibility for actions;
* exceptional cowardice masked by acts of misplaced bravado;
* uncontrolled facial smirking;
* ignorance of geography and history;
* tendencies toward creating evangelical theocracies; and
* a strong propensity for categorical, all-or nothing behavior

Shamelessly nicked from this blog

Warty
This little guy was on the pavement this morning. I think it's a toad. Not quite cute enough and too large to be a frog. Well, maybe seven eighth of a toad, with his right arm missing and all. I crouched next to him and asked: 'toad, how are you feeling?'. Either it wasn't a toad after all, or he lacked the energy to croak. The pavement clearly wasn't the best surroundings for seven eighth of a toad, so I scooped him up and installed him in the garden. I hope that if the cats make a meal out of him they don't do it remaining limb by remaining limb. I suppose that if I find the dead remains of a toad later on, I can bury him in the hole left by the hungry foxes when they dug out the daffodil bulbs to eat them.

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Update on Toad.
I went to check and he was still there, huddled in a corner under a bush; I wasn't sure he was still alive, so I poked him gently in the eye and he jumped, proving thereby that he still was. So I named him Herman. I'm probably getting too attached. It's always the same problem with me.

Hiatus
I haven’t blogged today, and I feel something is missing.
Is that really sad? Should I worry that it’s turning into an addiction? A crutch? I’ll keep the laptop on the spare pillow tonight, in case I wake up and feel the sudden urge to discuss my new colour obsession or what items of tableware I have broken recently. People of blogland, friends, mom, good night.

It all happens so fast
This morning I overslept by 7 minutes, meaning that my carefully planned out system was severely out of synch, so I had to feed the cat while brushing my teeth while dry blowing my hair while putting my boots on, and that wasn’t zen at all. The whole day went accordingly; after the sadistic car driver and puddle incident, there was me trying to multi task, all Goddess Shiva-like in the face of adversity, all the while remaining approachable and responsible and helpful and patient and NICE, GODDAMNIT. (Breathe. Ok. Now take yourself out for coffee and just watch the people walk past, that’ll soothe you.) Right, I said to myself, if within the next 15 minutes you count more than 6 ponchos, you get a chocolate brownie. So I counted : 12 ponchos in varied colours, yay! as well as 8 pairs of stupidly high heels clearly very awkward to walk in, and only 3 of those velour trouser suits with ‘bling bling’ or ‘bitch’ written across the arse. (My advice: when looking to buy a velour trouser suit thing, just.. stop.) The winning combination of greasy bottle blond hooker hair, giant gold loop earrings and sportswear, a fine example of the tribal dress code of chavs, (the new ruling class of Britain) is not so common around my place of work; there are better places to score high on the chav stakes. Still, I was well entertained, and got a chocolate brownie.
Tomorrow, internet, friends, kind and possibly distant readers, mom, I might post pictures of what chavs look like, in case you feel the anthropologist stir within you and enquire. But for now I shall go and stand on my head as a way of relieving today’s tension; or maybe just re-read “The loved ones” by Evelyn Waugh. I finished watching series 2 of Six Feet under, and I miss the atmosphere of the funeral home. Thank you for stopping by.

Soudain un inconnu vous offre des fleurs.
In the commercial, it happened like this: moving shot: a young, beautiful, smiling woman (you) is walking down the street, her golden mane of hair making ripples in the sun. Heads turn. Close up: an equally young and beautiful man, but with short hair, obviously taken by the stranger’s scintillating beauty, charisma and man-killing hips. In a split second, because air time costs, he knows what to do: he rushes into the nearest flower shop, buys a bunch of red roses, and risks his life catching up with the blonde wonder. Who doesn’t freak when he forces a bunch of flowers on her. Cut. Slogan: Impulse: suddenly, a stranger gives you flowers. The end.
Well. Tonight as I was leisurely walking down the street, a smiling stranger offered me a brand-new roll of gift-wrapping paper. Either she liked me, had seen the ad and thought that all the flower shops would be closed at this time, or she really hated her wrapping paper.
It’s rather nice, actually.

Skegness :the most depressing place I have ever visited. 

Who knows why it all suddenly came back to me today; maybe it was the purely apocalyptic feel of the day, the leaden skies, the mud.. here goes the repressed memory:
Many years ago, when I was an unsuspecting Modern Foreign Language assistant in the Northern Regions of this beautiful country, I was sent to Skegness.
I hadn't done anything wrong that I can remember, or at least they couldn't prove anything, so the exile was unrelated to any shenanigans. I was simply rounded up, like a score or so of fellow MFLAs, packed onto a bus and sent to trailer-town as a huge favour to the Local Education people: provide the local kids with a virtual French town, happily recreated in the deserted resort of Skegness-on-sea. In November.
Skegness is bad enough in the summer: hundreds and hundreds of 'luxury' trailers all lined up along the beach, providing holiday accommodation for the economically challenged. Fish and chips and beer and arcade games. And the wind on the Northern sea.
We slept in unheated trailers and lived on fish and chips and milky PG tips tea. We painted signs, wrote out roleplays, prepared creative activities. When the time came for the brats to appear, I had to don a custom officer uniform and board the first coach, and intimidate hyperactive 12-year-olds into presenting their (fake)passports.
It was false, cheap, tacky, and utterly humiliating.
I can safely that none of us enjoyed the experience.
That's all.

Popular wisdom, my white arse.
I know that you weren’t born in 1933, Internet. Neither was I, I hasten to add, just to balance out the times when I do sound like a grumpy old fart.
But we both know this: when Adolph H was triumphantly elected in 1933, it was what the people wanted. Don’t we have footage documenting the delirium? His election was greeted positively in most European countries, and even in the US; and many conservative commentators argued that it just wasn’t democratic to question the people’s choice. We know where the people's choice led us.

Do y’all have bunkers in the US?

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homophobia, garden variety
About once a year I get political and write to some mayor. Remember? I forgot to add that Monsieur le Maire answered me. So that made me feel all fluffy inside, even though it was probably penned by some perky PA whose job description is ‘answer all the mail that doesn’t contain bits of bog roll or smeared dog shit.’ Because that’s what poor Noel Mamère got: a torrent of hatred, over 4000 epistles of stinking concentrate of homophobia.
Different registers are explored: nostalgic (if Hitler was still around he’s have you and that scum burned up), martial, and scatological, like those literally dipped in shit, just to, oh so subtly, illustrate the fact that’s what the gays really enjoy about being gay. You know.
But the scariest thing about it is that most of those letters are signed; in most people’s mind, being homophobic is still something to be proud of.
Because rugby players are less likely to be called faggots, one of them collected all those letters and made a book. It’s called, duh!, ‘Homophobie France 2004’, by Serge Simon, and it’s published by Editions Le bord de l’eau. I say yay!

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It’s Saturday, therefore I’m off to socialise and buy something orange.

1000 mg
I’m trying to figure out why, over the past month and a half, I’ve been having this strange, sudden compulsion for the colour orange. This is an ex-goth writing this, internet. My bedroom at home used to be a extravaganza of black drapes, black walls, and fake cobwebs, complete with plastic spiders. Even these days, my closet doors open on a sea of black garments. Fabric-coordinated.
And now, this craving for orange. Orange, for the sake of Pete!
Should I see some deep symbolism in this?
Or should I assume that I’m developing scurvy and that I need a strong dose of vitamin C?

404 and Rioja as the path to oblivion
Google ‘miserable failure’ and look at the top result.
Alternatively, Google ‘weapons of mass destruction’ and click on ‘I’m feeling lucky’.

I know, these have been around for a while; anything to feel a bit better, really.
Besides a whole Cassoulet (that’s posh sausage and beans.) and half a bottle of wine for dinner.

Oh, and read this, too.

The real ordeal
Tonight, internet, I had to stand up and make a speech in front of two hundred people. Strangers and colleagues.
Before I walked onto to the stage, I spared a thought for the brave, brave soul in my (past) life who once had a shot at stand up comedy. At least, I didn’t have to be funny. Except funny to look at, perhaps.
Surprisingly, all went well; I heard my voice lift up, clearer and stronger than I expected. Some faces even lit up as I was delivering my totally non-prepared spiel. I’m being proud, Internet!
Next time though, I have to remember to not eat figs before a speech. You see, internet, dried fruit makes me fart, so I had to clench my bum throughout the whole thing. That was the real ordeal.
I’m in such a poetic mood tonight.

In hell it’s Christmas every day.
Internet, you don’t need me to puke all over Christmas; it’s been done before. It makes teenagers feel cool, and grown ups look more clued up about this shitconsumeristsociety.
So let’s quote Loudon Wainwright III instead, why not:

Suddenly it's Christmas,
The longest holiday.
The season is upon us;
A pox, it won't go away.
It's a season, it's a marathon,
Retail eternity.
It's not over till it's over
And you throw away the tree.

I think I used to like Christmas; but my liking of all things Christmassy went away along with frozen food, the year Oxford Street’s decorations were sponsored by Bird’s eye : a mile-long shimmering tunnel of orange Bird’s eye logos. Christmas has to start early to keep the punters busy; over here, we don’t have Halloween and Thanksgiving to tide us over. Halloween in the uk is but a cheap mess, since Brits don’t like each other enough for it to turn into a big warm gushing feast of neighbourness. (And some psychos put gross stuff on doorbells to put the kids off anyway.) As to Thanksgiving, it does sound like a nice idea now that I’ve understood that no, it’s not just pigging out to celebrate the fact that a bunch of white blokes nicked the land from some brown ones after a merry slaughter. No, it’s not! I know better now, you see, Internet. One day I was on Ignorant Foreigner mode, I questioned the nature of Thanksgiving, that exotic notion. An explosion ensued: did I really want to shred (or was it tear? rip? surely not disembowel? my memory fails me) every possible joy in her life? Did I? DID I?
Hell, no; malevolent and wicked I may be- or I wouldn’t be able to do the job I do; but one should draw the line at asking questions about Thanksgiving. So I grabbed my keys, shut my big foreign trap and retreated.
Internet, I’m not sceptical anymore about it, now that I’ve had the (calm) rationale behind it; in fact I can think of worse things that the prospect of pigging out with the people I love. All three of them. On the other hand, I am seriously not looking forward to Christmas: it’s my family’s favoured time of year for funerals. Wait, we also do April.
So what as my point: oh yeah, I’m a grumpy cunt today. Thank you for listening.