(italics in a strong Cardiff accent)
I say tomato, you say tum-AH-toe
I say potato, you say spud
I shop at Sainsburys, you shops at Tesco
I can’t stand their value brand
But you can’t get enough
Between us there’s a difference
I’m middle class – you’re not
My family think that you’re a dunce
Yours think that I’m high maintenance
But viva la Cardifference!
We’re going to tie the knot
I play the clarinet, you plays Nintendo
I like the theatre, you prefers the box
I admire Fred Astaire, you acts like Rambo
Particularly in the bedroom with me
Though I wish you would take off your socks
Our love inspires incongruence
They say we shouldn’t wed
Your family hates intelligence
Mine hate your constant flatulence
But viva la Cardifference!
We get on well in bed
I read the Telegraph, you reads the Metro
I’d like a country house, you gorruh council flat
I’ve got a PhD, you’ve gorrun ASBO
When we go out if people shout
You swing your baseball bat
At times I feel ambivalence
You’ve got a nasty streak
I’ve seen your taste for violence
You’re put blokes in the ambulance
And even punched my face in once
For giving too much cheek
But love, is love, is love, is love…
So viva la Cardifference!
The wedding day’s next week
Friday, 12 December 2008
Wednesday, 10 December 2008
Lords Prayer
Lord,
I’d become a Christian if I thought I’d see a burning Bush
If I thought You would set young George alight
I’d go to church each Sunday, even weekdays at a push
And I’d pray to Jesus morning noon and night
If only You would push Bush into a fiery furnace
If only You’d engorge George in hot flame
Then I’d become a Christian and I’d make it my own mission
To see other politicians get the same….
I wouldn’t just burn them with Christian zeal
I’d burn them with flames that were red hot and real
Tho I’d like to ignite all the buggers on sight
Instead I would burn them all sleeping at night
If You burn Bush, Lord, there’ll be no deterrent
Each MP, AM and PM past and present
Will die, every hypocrite, thief, whore and liar
I’ll retire to their pyre and expire via fire.
Imagine: Portillo asleep on his pillow
I’d say a hail Mary then make those flames billow
Tony Blair lying there like a babe unaware
I’d pray for his sins then set fire to his hair
Jack Straw like a straw would easily cinder
And Thatcher like thatch would soon catch
Boris a forest of fine human tinder
Paddy Ashdown I’d burn down to ash
David Cameron I guess would prove highly flammable
And Major I wager would too
In Your Name to Pete Hain I’d whisper a parable
Then bid him a fiery adieu
Mo Mowlam has plenty mo’ fat I could burn
Ann Widdecombe some I’d ignite in its turn
And good Gordon Brown in Gordon’s I’d drown
I’d pour liberal spirits on him
His fat filthy body with fire I’d melt down
His illiberal spirit send off with a hymn
These pig politicians and empty MPs
I’m sure I could track down with relative ease
If the UK’s a body then they’re the disease
It’s foolish to fight ‘em, let’s just ignite ‘em
The country would thank me again and again
Dear God and Jesus, please won’t you please us
Forever and ever and ever
AMEN
I’d become a Christian if I thought I’d see a burning Bush
If I thought You would set young George alight
I’d go to church each Sunday, even weekdays at a push
And I’d pray to Jesus morning noon and night
If only You would push Bush into a fiery furnace
If only You’d engorge George in hot flame
Then I’d become a Christian and I’d make it my own mission
To see other politicians get the same….
I wouldn’t just burn them with Christian zeal
I’d burn them with flames that were red hot and real
Tho I’d like to ignite all the buggers on sight
Instead I would burn them all sleeping at night
If You burn Bush, Lord, there’ll be no deterrent
Each MP, AM and PM past and present
Will die, every hypocrite, thief, whore and liar
I’ll retire to their pyre and expire via fire.
Imagine: Portillo asleep on his pillow
I’d say a hail Mary then make those flames billow
Tony Blair lying there like a babe unaware
I’d pray for his sins then set fire to his hair
Jack Straw like a straw would easily cinder
And Thatcher like thatch would soon catch
Boris a forest of fine human tinder
Paddy Ashdown I’d burn down to ash
David Cameron I guess would prove highly flammable
And Major I wager would too
In Your Name to Pete Hain I’d whisper a parable
Then bid him a fiery adieu
Mo Mowlam has plenty mo’ fat I could burn
Ann Widdecombe some I’d ignite in its turn
And good Gordon Brown in Gordon’s I’d drown
I’d pour liberal spirits on him
His fat filthy body with fire I’d melt down
His illiberal spirit send off with a hymn
These pig politicians and empty MPs
I’m sure I could track down with relative ease
If the UK’s a body then they’re the disease
It’s foolish to fight ‘em, let’s just ignite ‘em
The country would thank me again and again
Dear God and Jesus, please won’t you please us
Forever and ever and ever
AMEN
Saturday, 6 December 2008
Cardiff Song
He was from Ely and ‘er from Pontcanna
She lived wiv ‘er mum, and him wiv his nanna
Nowhere tuh go so they went to the park
The grass was so green and he had a full bag
Skin up, block up, feel up, knock up
But she was firteen so he went to the lock up
I likes you like
I dunno why
Yuh face aint tha’ good
Bu’ the rest is urrigh’
She wore ‘er skirts right up tuh yur
Real leather boots and white fake fur
Clothes from Primark, gold from Argos
Orange foundation and too much lipgloss
Little white thong and black push-up bra
And she found love each night standing outside the Spar
I likes you like
You knows I do
Last week I loved ‘er
But now I loves you
She liked a Chinese, bur he liked a curry
She said less get married, he said woss the ‘urry
She patted ‘er guts, I’m expectin’ she said
He fought of ‘er dad, next week they was wed
Seven munfs later he gorruh surprise
The baby was fine, but ir ‘ad Chinese eyes
I likes you like
I don’ like yuh sister
You’re my true love
I swear I ain’t kissed ‘er
Their eyes met ‘cross a crowded chippy
He played wiv his phone, she pur on some lippy
She ordered a sausage, he asked fur two cones
They knew they was cousins, their last names was Jones
They started tuh date, they was mad fur each uvvuh
And found out too late that they ‘ad the same muvvuh
I likes you like
I don’ do lying
I didn’t go wiv ‘er
So bloody stop cryin’
She lived wiv ‘er mum, and him wiv his nanna
Nowhere tuh go so they went to the park
The grass was so green and he had a full bag
Skin up, block up, feel up, knock up
But she was firteen so he went to the lock up
I likes you like
I dunno why
Yuh face aint tha’ good
Bu’ the rest is urrigh’
She wore ‘er skirts right up tuh yur
Real leather boots and white fake fur
Clothes from Primark, gold from Argos
Orange foundation and too much lipgloss
Little white thong and black push-up bra
And she found love each night standing outside the Spar
I likes you like
You knows I do
Last week I loved ‘er
But now I loves you
She liked a Chinese, bur he liked a curry
She said less get married, he said woss the ‘urry
She patted ‘er guts, I’m expectin’ she said
He fought of ‘er dad, next week they was wed
Seven munfs later he gorruh surprise
The baby was fine, but ir ‘ad Chinese eyes
I likes you like
I don’ like yuh sister
You’re my true love
I swear I ain’t kissed ‘er
Their eyes met ‘cross a crowded chippy
He played wiv his phone, she pur on some lippy
She ordered a sausage, he asked fur two cones
They knew they was cousins, their last names was Jones
They started tuh date, they was mad fur each uvvuh
And found out too late that they ‘ad the same muvvuh
I likes you like
I don’ do lying
I didn’t go wiv ‘er
So bloody stop cryin’
Tuesday, 2 December 2008
Pat Answers! A Message at Christmas...
My great-great-great grandmother, Pat Price (52), is agony aunt for a local newspaper (www.thecheek.co.uk). She’s a well-known figure in our home city of Cardiff, and a well-known lack-of-figure too, due to the amount of chips and Stella she eats/drinks. Like me, she grew up on Europe’s largest council estate, the suburb known as ELY; unlike me, however, she didn’t escape over the bridge in time, and so found herself up-the-duff at age 13 (tho for 8 months of the pregnancy they believed it was just natural, savaloy-induced FAT). Seven kids, twelve “husbands” and several million pints later, she now has enough wisdom to advise on all human problems, whether of the head, the heart, or - other parts of the human anatomy.
This is her message to you all.
Now, I loves Christmas, I do, bu’ from my extensive fella-peutic trainin’ (whar I done in THE UNIVERSITY UH LIFE – see my column fuh details) I knows there’s some silly wazzos don’ like ir at all. In fact, they starts tuh feel all down an’ depressed an’ tha’, when they sees a birruh pound shop tinsel selluh-taped to an aertex ceilin’, or yurs an advert fuh 2-4-1 Christmas food offers in Lidls, or smells the smell uh fags an’ booze an’ wacky baccy an’ vomit outside the Legion when they ‘as their Christmas do - an’ so on. I don’ ger i’, bu’ there’s these fings called “statisitics” (?), an’ they says iss true. Iss gorruh be a mental illness, like!!
Anyway, the editor said whar I should do is make up some advice whar’ll stop any readers wiv this disorder from feelin’ i’ too much. I ‘ad a fink, an’ I done some research, an’ yurs whar I reckons you should do, like:
1. Try an’ keep fings to uh normal Christmas schedule. Wa’ this means is, go furruh drink tuh yuh local on the Christmas eve; gerrup abou’ 2 the next day, an’ try not tuh be sick on the kids’ presents (if you are, pretend thar it’s a “game”); ‘ave a snowball or uh can uh Stella soon as you can, an’ stay drinkin’ an’ eatin’ in front uh the telly all day, until the evenin’, when iss back tuh the local furruh knees-up. Repeat on boxin’ day, an’ the followin’ days if you don’ work, which loadsa people in Ely don’t. You might even keep i’ goin’ until next Christmas!!
2. Spend time wi’ family an’ friends. Iss a right laugh, seein’ ‘ow fat my sistuh’s go’ since I last saw ‘er (the cow); watchin’ my Jimmy ge’ drunk an’ violent towards ‘is missis again; yur-ing the kids fightin’ over who gets tuh watch wa’ on the telly an’ tha’… Christmas time is family time!!
3. Remember tuh eat an’ drink properly. Recommended drinks is: Stella; snowballs; vodka an’ coke; Lowes pop (fuh the kids). Recommended foods is: cookie dinner wi’ all the trimmin’s; turkey sarnies; Tesco value gateau; tin uh Quality Street; “choobs” (Smarties is the most popular). If you don’ mind abou’ “animal rights”, you can gerruh huge turkey fur under a fiver, an’ i’ ull last you bloody YONKS. Tho’ i’ depends on ‘ow many family an’ friends you go’, I spose. If you ain’ go’ none, you’ll ‘ave tuh guts i’ yerself, an’ at least tha’ ull keep yuh mind off bein’ miserable, won i’??
4. Don’ do anyfing ponsey, like readin’, singin’ carols, or gerrin’ the kids tuh “make stuff”. Stuff like this is to’ally artsy-fartsy, an iss wha’ kills the spirit uh Christmas stone dead. Iss depressin’!! If you can’ watch i’, eat i’, drink i’, or smoke i’, iss no’ f*ckin’ Christmassy. End of.
5. Tinsel!!! Iss cheap, an i’ makes everyfing look magical, like. Ge’ yur arse down tuh Poundstretcher, an’ don’ jump the queue, cos last year someone go’ stabbed fuh doin’ tha’. Tho, i’ wasn’ my Leeroy, like wha’ the pigs said i’ was. Tha’ blood come from ‘im skinnin’ a cat down the Drope earlier tha’ day. Everyon’s gorrun ‘obby, ‘aven’ they??
6. Don’ worry abou’ money. Life’s too short, like! If you ain’ gorruh lo’, don’ be afraid tuh cut corners – ger a birruh “poor man’s tinsel” (grass or summin) tuh decorate the ‘owse; some “poor man’s baubles” (empty crisp packets, blown up an’ pur on a bir uh string) tuh decorate the tree; an’ fuh the tree isself, an old chicken carcass can wurk wonders! If you can’ be arsed wi’ this (an’ most working class people can’t – we weren’t brung up on Blue friggin’ Peter, was we??), then do wha’ most families round yur does, an invest in a case uh “poor man’s rose-tinted spectacles” (STELLA). Drink a few uh these, an’ you’ll be seein’ magical Christmas lights all over the place, screamin’ babies ull be transformed into smilin’ cherubs, an’ you won’ feel like eatin’ tha’ much. Also, when yuh finished wi’ yuh can, pu’ the widget inside an’ i’ makes a great ra’ull – PERfec’ fuh baby’s first Christmas!!
7. Don’ spend time on yuh tod. If you go’ money, ge’ yur arse down the Legion or yuh local furruh few halves; if you go’ none, well – ‘ave a dooly-tap, an’ ge’ yerself intuh Whitchurch hospital fuh the new year. Iss like Butlins, ir is, ‘cept the entertainment’s a bi’ more nutso, an’ the drugs is to’ally free!!
8. Don’ watch the Queen’s speech. I never yurd anyone wi’ such a borin’, dronin’ voice, on my life. She don’ speak proper English, neivuh – I dunno wha’ she’s sayin’, sounds like she’s gorruh mouth full uh mixed nuts, or summin?!?!
9. Some people suffers from S.A.D., like – tha’s when, cos iss a bi’ darker in winter, they starts feelin’ all depressed an’ gloomy an’ tha’. Luckily, scientists ‘ave invented a cure. Iss called TELLY. A li’ull glowin’ box tha’ ull act like a second sun, wiv bright glowin’ rays and specially programmed images (“adverts”) tha’ ull make you feel all warm an’ cosy inside. Tha’s whar I reckons, anyways…
10. If the worst comes tuh the worst, an’ you starts feelin’ bad, don’ do nuffin stupid, ok? “Oblivion”’s a place we all likes tuh visit, bur iss berruh tuh ger uh return ticket than take uh one way trip there, like. Or even a Day-tuh-Go. So, CHOOSE LIFE – an’ ge’ drunk, stoned, stuffed an’ ‘ammered as much as you can this Christmas. You won’ regret i’!!
Anyway, if you takes these ten tips an’ puts ‘em into play, I guarantees you’ll ‘ave a brill Christmas this year. Any probs, jus’ le’ me know – I’ll be down the Legion most days, or you can write tuh the editor. Jus’ remembuh tha’ Christmas is twelve days, though, an as I’ll be followin’ all the good advice whar I jus’ give you, I won’ be in a fit state tuh repeat i’, like.
‘Appy ‘Olidays!!!!!!!!!
Pat x
This is her message to you all.
Now, I loves Christmas, I do, bu’ from my extensive fella-peutic trainin’ (whar I done in THE UNIVERSITY UH LIFE – see my column fuh details) I knows there’s some silly wazzos don’ like ir at all. In fact, they starts tuh feel all down an’ depressed an’ tha’, when they sees a birruh pound shop tinsel selluh-taped to an aertex ceilin’, or yurs an advert fuh 2-4-1 Christmas food offers in Lidls, or smells the smell uh fags an’ booze an’ wacky baccy an’ vomit outside the Legion when they ‘as their Christmas do - an’ so on. I don’ ger i’, bu’ there’s these fings called “statisitics” (?), an’ they says iss true. Iss gorruh be a mental illness, like!!
Anyway, the editor said whar I should do is make up some advice whar’ll stop any readers wiv this disorder from feelin’ i’ too much. I ‘ad a fink, an’ I done some research, an’ yurs whar I reckons you should do, like:
1. Try an’ keep fings to uh normal Christmas schedule. Wa’ this means is, go furruh drink tuh yuh local on the Christmas eve; gerrup abou’ 2 the next day, an’ try not tuh be sick on the kids’ presents (if you are, pretend thar it’s a “game”); ‘ave a snowball or uh can uh Stella soon as you can, an’ stay drinkin’ an’ eatin’ in front uh the telly all day, until the evenin’, when iss back tuh the local furruh knees-up. Repeat on boxin’ day, an’ the followin’ days if you don’ work, which loadsa people in Ely don’t. You might even keep i’ goin’ until next Christmas!!
2. Spend time wi’ family an’ friends. Iss a right laugh, seein’ ‘ow fat my sistuh’s go’ since I last saw ‘er (the cow); watchin’ my Jimmy ge’ drunk an’ violent towards ‘is missis again; yur-ing the kids fightin’ over who gets tuh watch wa’ on the telly an’ tha’… Christmas time is family time!!
3. Remember tuh eat an’ drink properly. Recommended drinks is: Stella; snowballs; vodka an’ coke; Lowes pop (fuh the kids). Recommended foods is: cookie dinner wi’ all the trimmin’s; turkey sarnies; Tesco value gateau; tin uh Quality Street; “choobs” (Smarties is the most popular). If you don’ mind abou’ “animal rights”, you can gerruh huge turkey fur under a fiver, an’ i’ ull last you bloody YONKS. Tho’ i’ depends on ‘ow many family an’ friends you go’, I spose. If you ain’ go’ none, you’ll ‘ave tuh guts i’ yerself, an’ at least tha’ ull keep yuh mind off bein’ miserable, won i’??
4. Don’ do anyfing ponsey, like readin’, singin’ carols, or gerrin’ the kids tuh “make stuff”. Stuff like this is to’ally artsy-fartsy, an iss wha’ kills the spirit uh Christmas stone dead. Iss depressin’!! If you can’ watch i’, eat i’, drink i’, or smoke i’, iss no’ f*ckin’ Christmassy. End of.
5. Tinsel!!! Iss cheap, an i’ makes everyfing look magical, like. Ge’ yur arse down tuh Poundstretcher, an’ don’ jump the queue, cos last year someone go’ stabbed fuh doin’ tha’. Tho, i’ wasn’ my Leeroy, like wha’ the pigs said i’ was. Tha’ blood come from ‘im skinnin’ a cat down the Drope earlier tha’ day. Everyon’s gorrun ‘obby, ‘aven’ they??
6. Don’ worry abou’ money. Life’s too short, like! If you ain’ gorruh lo’, don’ be afraid tuh cut corners – ger a birruh “poor man’s tinsel” (grass or summin) tuh decorate the ‘owse; some “poor man’s baubles” (empty crisp packets, blown up an’ pur on a bir uh string) tuh decorate the tree; an’ fuh the tree isself, an old chicken carcass can wurk wonders! If you can’ be arsed wi’ this (an’ most working class people can’t – we weren’t brung up on Blue friggin’ Peter, was we??), then do wha’ most families round yur does, an invest in a case uh “poor man’s rose-tinted spectacles” (STELLA). Drink a few uh these, an’ you’ll be seein’ magical Christmas lights all over the place, screamin’ babies ull be transformed into smilin’ cherubs, an’ you won’ feel like eatin’ tha’ much. Also, when yuh finished wi’ yuh can, pu’ the widget inside an’ i’ makes a great ra’ull – PERfec’ fuh baby’s first Christmas!!
7. Don’ spend time on yuh tod. If you go’ money, ge’ yur arse down the Legion or yuh local furruh few halves; if you go’ none, well – ‘ave a dooly-tap, an’ ge’ yerself intuh Whitchurch hospital fuh the new year. Iss like Butlins, ir is, ‘cept the entertainment’s a bi’ more nutso, an’ the drugs is to’ally free!!
8. Don’ watch the Queen’s speech. I never yurd anyone wi’ such a borin’, dronin’ voice, on my life. She don’ speak proper English, neivuh – I dunno wha’ she’s sayin’, sounds like she’s gorruh mouth full uh mixed nuts, or summin?!?!
9. Some people suffers from S.A.D., like – tha’s when, cos iss a bi’ darker in winter, they starts feelin’ all depressed an’ gloomy an’ tha’. Luckily, scientists ‘ave invented a cure. Iss called TELLY. A li’ull glowin’ box tha’ ull act like a second sun, wiv bright glowin’ rays and specially programmed images (“adverts”) tha’ ull make you feel all warm an’ cosy inside. Tha’s whar I reckons, anyways…
10. If the worst comes tuh the worst, an’ you starts feelin’ bad, don’ do nuffin stupid, ok? “Oblivion”’s a place we all likes tuh visit, bur iss berruh tuh ger uh return ticket than take uh one way trip there, like. Or even a Day-tuh-Go. So, CHOOSE LIFE – an’ ge’ drunk, stoned, stuffed an’ ‘ammered as much as you can this Christmas. You won’ regret i’!!
Anyway, if you takes these ten tips an’ puts ‘em into play, I guarantees you’ll ‘ave a brill Christmas this year. Any probs, jus’ le’ me know – I’ll be down the Legion most days, or you can write tuh the editor. Jus’ remembuh tha’ Christmas is twelve days, though, an as I’ll be followin’ all the good advice whar I jus’ give you, I won’ be in a fit state tuh repeat i’, like.
‘Appy ‘Olidays!!!!!!!!!
Pat x
Monday, 10 November 2008
Bonfire Night Poem
Remember remember the 5th of November
Gunpowder treason and plot
Remember remember each parliament member
And all of the money he's got
Remember the commons so plush that they sit in
More comfy than our common homes
Remember the shiny white toilets they shit in
Remember who cleans out the bowls
Remember their parties, remember their do’s
Remember who waits at their table
See their posh clothing and expensive shoes
Who pays for that designer label?
Remember the exotic trips that they take
And how you stay home cos youre poor
Remember remember the laws that they make
And who those twats make the laws for
Remember the taxes you pay like a fool
Remember the wages they get
Who put their children in posh public school?
And who made ours illiterate
Remember remember their butlers and maids
Remember their nannys and cooks
Remember remember how much you are paid
And how much we give to these crooks
Remember their limo remember their yacht
Remember how you take the bus
Remember that nice country home that they’ve got
Where are the villas for us?
Remember the homeless folk out on the streets
Remember their Westminster flats
See them in the commons sat fat in their seats
And us lot all out here like rats
Remember your bills, remember your debt
Youll be paying it off til you die
You slave away but they never sweat
Except when theyre telling a lie
Remember those fuckers who pay to get sucked
By working class women and men
Remember us suckers who keep getting fucked
Over and over by them
I swear on the bonfire we shouldn’t be burning
Guy Fawkes but these parliament pricks
It’s the government these days that needs overturning
Who’s tired of their sly little tricks?
In that case Im starting a brand new tradition
It’s Gordon on Wednesday we’ll burn!
“Penny for the Brown”’ll be our new rendition
And every penny I earn
Will go into planning the next revolution
Gunpowder treason and plot
These parliaiment fuckers are human pollution
I hope to blow up the whole lot
Gunpowder treason and plot
Remember remember each parliament member
And all of the money he's got
Remember the commons so plush that they sit in
More comfy than our common homes
Remember the shiny white toilets they shit in
Remember who cleans out the bowls
Remember their parties, remember their do’s
Remember who waits at their table
See their posh clothing and expensive shoes
Who pays for that designer label?
Remember the exotic trips that they take
And how you stay home cos youre poor
Remember remember the laws that they make
And who those twats make the laws for
Remember the taxes you pay like a fool
Remember the wages they get
Who put their children in posh public school?
And who made ours illiterate
Remember remember their butlers and maids
Remember their nannys and cooks
Remember remember how much you are paid
And how much we give to these crooks
Remember their limo remember their yacht
Remember how you take the bus
Remember that nice country home that they’ve got
Where are the villas for us?
Remember the homeless folk out on the streets
Remember their Westminster flats
See them in the commons sat fat in their seats
And us lot all out here like rats
Remember your bills, remember your debt
Youll be paying it off til you die
You slave away but they never sweat
Except when theyre telling a lie
Remember those fuckers who pay to get sucked
By working class women and men
Remember us suckers who keep getting fucked
Over and over by them
I swear on the bonfire we shouldn’t be burning
Guy Fawkes but these parliament pricks
It’s the government these days that needs overturning
Who’s tired of their sly little tricks?
In that case Im starting a brand new tradition
It’s Gordon on Wednesday we’ll burn!
“Penny for the Brown”’ll be our new rendition
And every penny I earn
Will go into planning the next revolution
Gunpowder treason and plot
These parliaiment fuckers are human pollution
I hope to blow up the whole lot
Saturday, 1 November 2008
phlegmployee of the month
part 1: honesty
unemployed i go sweating round the agencies to look for work. in the windows are ads for jobs available. i make note, then go home & change my own cv to fit description. if it’s sales, i've had 2 years’ experience. if it’s marketing, i've done a year & a half. i left my last job (reluctantly) because i was a temp (in a way, this is true. i never intended to stay). most agencies never check. in the interview for this job i lie beautifully & laugh at all jokes. i am successful.
part 2: know-how
peanuts per hour is better than no nuts per hour. i quite like peanuts. 1st day in this job the promise of peanuts gives me an air of enthusiasm & capability. but i lied in the interview about my typing skills & this slows me down. i’m put to work in half an hour on a job i’m not really sure how to do. i fumble, say um a lot. when boss walks by i make use of my fluency in Bull. i accidentally bollox the system but leave it for someone else to sort out. i usually scrape by, & as long as no-one notices the scratch-marks i might just see next month.
part 3: customer empathy
my cv speaks opposite of truth: i don’t really enjoy meeting new people. new people are same as old people in their tiny tyrannies and babyflares of rage. i hate to lose my rag but i can be quite forgetful. i should put it on my keyring. then the temptation to say fuckyou instead of thankyou, the overwhelming urge not to send that letter or that check. the customer is always shite, & to be treated as such. my fellow employees unknowingly drink my spit. i’m really starting to enjoy my new job.
part 4: team work
some people work, some people shirk. i prefer the middle way – do enough to get by, & no more. when boss looks over i’m busy as a bee, keypad buzz & headset hum; when boss look away, i’m slack as a used rubber. in front of colleagues i pretend a mask of knowing efficiency, & blame my bungles on someone else. that person then the team scapegoat. as long as heat’s deflected from me, i don’t really care who ends up being sacrificed.
part 5: motivation
i sit square at my square desk, pretending to work – but my head’s full of bubbles. i put some stationary in my bag; i drink tea out of someone else’s mug. boss comes over for a word. i suck up and ensure at least another week of employment. then i take a comfort break. then i go to the breakout area. then i go back to my desk & draw some cartoons in artpad. payday a week away but i will find stuff to do. colleagues look sideways as phone rings and i answer. accidental cut-off occurs when they look away. “yes sir, yes sir” i say to thin air. three bags full, sir. but full of what, only i can know, as boss walks by, & i SMILE.
unemployed i go sweating round the agencies to look for work. in the windows are ads for jobs available. i make note, then go home & change my own cv to fit description. if it’s sales, i've had 2 years’ experience. if it’s marketing, i've done a year & a half. i left my last job (reluctantly) because i was a temp (in a way, this is true. i never intended to stay). most agencies never check. in the interview for this job i lie beautifully & laugh at all jokes. i am successful.
part 2: know-how
peanuts per hour is better than no nuts per hour. i quite like peanuts. 1st day in this job the promise of peanuts gives me an air of enthusiasm & capability. but i lied in the interview about my typing skills & this slows me down. i’m put to work in half an hour on a job i’m not really sure how to do. i fumble, say um a lot. when boss walks by i make use of my fluency in Bull. i accidentally bollox the system but leave it for someone else to sort out. i usually scrape by, & as long as no-one notices the scratch-marks i might just see next month.
part 3: customer empathy
my cv speaks opposite of truth: i don’t really enjoy meeting new people. new people are same as old people in their tiny tyrannies and babyflares of rage. i hate to lose my rag but i can be quite forgetful. i should put it on my keyring. then the temptation to say fuckyou instead of thankyou, the overwhelming urge not to send that letter or that check. the customer is always shite, & to be treated as such. my fellow employees unknowingly drink my spit. i’m really starting to enjoy my new job.
part 4: team work
some people work, some people shirk. i prefer the middle way – do enough to get by, & no more. when boss looks over i’m busy as a bee, keypad buzz & headset hum; when boss look away, i’m slack as a used rubber. in front of colleagues i pretend a mask of knowing efficiency, & blame my bungles on someone else. that person then the team scapegoat. as long as heat’s deflected from me, i don’t really care who ends up being sacrificed.
part 5: motivation
i sit square at my square desk, pretending to work – but my head’s full of bubbles. i put some stationary in my bag; i drink tea out of someone else’s mug. boss comes over for a word. i suck up and ensure at least another week of employment. then i take a comfort break. then i go to the breakout area. then i go back to my desk & draw some cartoons in artpad. payday a week away but i will find stuff to do. colleagues look sideways as phone rings and i answer. accidental cut-off occurs when they look away. “yes sir, yes sir” i say to thin air. three bags full, sir. but full of what, only i can know, as boss walks by, & i SMILE.
Wednesday, 20 August 2008
The Thickopedia Guide to Cardiff and Surrounding Areas
#1 ADAMSDOWN
“And on the sixth day, God created Adamsdown. And it was Not Good. And thus, on the seventh day, He decided to Give Up…”
Adamsdown is a sticky inner suburb of Cardiff, about 5 minute’s walk from the throbbing city centre. According to some sources, it was named after Adam Kidyounot, who worked as a porter at Cardiff Castle around 1330AD. Due to the nature of his work (looking after poshos before the word had even been invented), he suffered from severe bouts of depression, and the then residents of the area were often heard to remark, in response to the query “how be Adam”: “he be down”. Being thickos (before the word had even been invented), the peasants at that time took “Adam’s down” less as a statement reflecting the psychological and emotional state of a particular individual, and more as a sort of fact, reflecting the anti-inspirational feeling that the area at that time (and to this day) invokes in many of its residents, and nearly all of its visitors.
Alternative sources, in particular the people who live in Adamsdown, think the name may be “summin religious, like”.
Adamsdown is home to such landmarks as Cardiff Royal Infirmary, Cardiff Magistrates’ Court, and Cardiff Prison. The atypical Adamsdown resident, liking a bit of a weekend drink, followed by an alcohol-induced scrap, will ideally pass through all three of these erstwhile institutions, usually in that order.
As if to offset the grim starkness of the suburb, many of its streets are named after metals, precious stones, and astronomical terms. The delicious irony of wandering along “Gold Street”, dodging dog crap as you walk (quickly), meandering around single mothers with their pushchairs full of little accidents, the garden-free terraced houses to either side reminding one of the discoloured teeth inside a tramp’s mouth, is something not to be missed. Unless you live in another area, of course.
There are several Sikh temples in the suburb, as well as a Reform Synagogue, but most residents are not seeking to reform, and spend all of their time in the far more numerous public houses therein.
Adamdown is part of the STAR area of Cardiff. STAR stands for Splott, Tremorfa, Adamsdown, and Roath, four inner city areas born out of the industrial revolution. Again, no-one is sure which bright spark thought up such a wonderfully sarcastic name, but, believe me, no-one actually living in this piss-hole is the least bit duped. Broadway, one of the main streets running through Adamsdown, is the precise polar opposite of its American namesake: there are no stars here, and the splotches of gullshit liberally splashed over the pavement are a very poor substitute indeed. There are no stars in the literal sense, either: as far as Thickopedia is aware, no famous persons have emerged from this particular Cardiff ’burb, and we can safely presume that none ever will.
In brief, Adamsdown is a less than superb suburb, and potential visitors are warned that the only stars they will be seeing here will be the ones in front of their eyes post-punch-in-the-face mugging experience. Lying dazed upon the shit-spattered sidewalk, you will be down both in terms of your feeling and your unfortunate physical position.
And if your name happens to be Adam, well, that will be the funniest thing about your visit.
This Cardiff location article is a stub. You can help Thickopedia by f*cking off and smoking it.
Next time: Butetown!!!
“And on the sixth day, God created Adamsdown. And it was Not Good. And thus, on the seventh day, He decided to Give Up…”
Adamsdown is a sticky inner suburb of Cardiff, about 5 minute’s walk from the throbbing city centre. According to some sources, it was named after Adam Kidyounot, who worked as a porter at Cardiff Castle around 1330AD. Due to the nature of his work (looking after poshos before the word had even been invented), he suffered from severe bouts of depression, and the then residents of the area were often heard to remark, in response to the query “how be Adam”: “he be down”. Being thickos (before the word had even been invented), the peasants at that time took “Adam’s down” less as a statement reflecting the psychological and emotional state of a particular individual, and more as a sort of fact, reflecting the anti-inspirational feeling that the area at that time (and to this day) invokes in many of its residents, and nearly all of its visitors.
Alternative sources, in particular the people who live in Adamsdown, think the name may be “summin religious, like”.
Adamsdown is home to such landmarks as Cardiff Royal Infirmary, Cardiff Magistrates’ Court, and Cardiff Prison. The atypical Adamsdown resident, liking a bit of a weekend drink, followed by an alcohol-induced scrap, will ideally pass through all three of these erstwhile institutions, usually in that order.
As if to offset the grim starkness of the suburb, many of its streets are named after metals, precious stones, and astronomical terms. The delicious irony of wandering along “Gold Street”, dodging dog crap as you walk (quickly), meandering around single mothers with their pushchairs full of little accidents, the garden-free terraced houses to either side reminding one of the discoloured teeth inside a tramp’s mouth, is something not to be missed. Unless you live in another area, of course.
There are several Sikh temples in the suburb, as well as a Reform Synagogue, but most residents are not seeking to reform, and spend all of their time in the far more numerous public houses therein.
Adamdown is part of the STAR area of Cardiff. STAR stands for Splott, Tremorfa, Adamsdown, and Roath, four inner city areas born out of the industrial revolution. Again, no-one is sure which bright spark thought up such a wonderfully sarcastic name, but, believe me, no-one actually living in this piss-hole is the least bit duped. Broadway, one of the main streets running through Adamsdown, is the precise polar opposite of its American namesake: there are no stars here, and the splotches of gullshit liberally splashed over the pavement are a very poor substitute indeed. There are no stars in the literal sense, either: as far as Thickopedia is aware, no famous persons have emerged from this particular Cardiff ’burb, and we can safely presume that none ever will.
In brief, Adamsdown is a less than superb suburb, and potential visitors are warned that the only stars they will be seeing here will be the ones in front of their eyes post-punch-in-the-face mugging experience. Lying dazed upon the shit-spattered sidewalk, you will be down both in terms of your feeling and your unfortunate physical position.
And if your name happens to be Adam, well, that will be the funniest thing about your visit.
This Cardiff location article is a stub. You can help Thickopedia by f*cking off and smoking it.
Next time: Butetown!!!
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
PC World
It isn’t her hormones that made her like that
It was Kipling, Kentucky, McVitie and Greggs
But we’re not sposed to say that the woman is fat
Tho there’s less on my body than one of her legs
We have to say curvy or fuller in figure
We can’t say humungous we have to say bigger
Cos this is – PC World
It isn’t her thyroid or one of her cells
It’s simply the fact that she eats like a pig
12 curries a day is the reason she smells
8 burgers at once explains why she’s so big
But the way things are now we can’t just tell her straight
That her 5 chins are thanks to the 5 cows she ate
Cos this is – PC World
Her arms are like jellied hams, legs are like porks
Her breasts are so huge that they rest on her knees
Her facial fat shakes like a quake when she talks
Her arse sucks your hand like frogspawn if you squeeze
She needs the damn truth but we tell polite lies
She’s too bloody fat but we say she’s outsize
And so she’ll keep eating like that, ‘til she dies
Thanks to – PC World
It was Kipling, Kentucky, McVitie and Greggs
But we’re not sposed to say that the woman is fat
Tho there’s less on my body than one of her legs
We have to say curvy or fuller in figure
We can’t say humungous we have to say bigger
Cos this is – PC World
It isn’t her thyroid or one of her cells
It’s simply the fact that she eats like a pig
12 curries a day is the reason she smells
8 burgers at once explains why she’s so big
But the way things are now we can’t just tell her straight
That her 5 chins are thanks to the 5 cows she ate
Cos this is – PC World
Her arms are like jellied hams, legs are like porks
Her breasts are so huge that they rest on her knees
Her facial fat shakes like a quake when she talks
Her arse sucks your hand like frogspawn if you squeeze
She needs the damn truth but we tell polite lies
She’s too bloody fat but we say she’s outsize
And so she’ll keep eating like that, ‘til she dies
Thanks to – PC World
Saturday, 12 July 2008
The Ballad of Angharad
Once upon a time there lived a young girl
A princess although she was raised as a pauper
Born into dirt but really a pearl
A diamond, a gem, a blue-blooded daughter
Descended from princes whose reign is now dead
But of course no-one knew that this girl was a treasure
As a baby the princess was dropped on her head
As she grew men who knew her IQ was low measure
Used the young girl for their own secret pleasure
She put the cum into Cymru all right
A few blokes each day and a few more each night
A Welsh Cinderella who’d let any fella
Try her for size if the payment was right
Carbuncled uncles and toad-featured teachers
Misused Angharad, this young girl so precious
Because she was simple these perverted creatures
Bribed her with Mars Bars and packs of Refreshers
And tho it was seedy, the young girl was greedy
She liked getting sweets in return for her use
Sweets turned to cash as the blokes got more needy
They felt if they paid then it wasn’t abuse
Not much, being tight, but it kept the girl loose
She put the cum into Cymru okay
A few blokes each night and a few more each day
A Cardiff born beauty who’d give all her booty
To any old beast who both asked and could pay
She should have grown up into a princess
Instead she was selling herself on the streets
She would undress for a tenner or less
Sixteen but she’d been on a million back seats
Her low IQ gave her a baby-like smile
Which most of her clients found very disarming
The most popular girl on the Riverside mile
She made every customer feel like Prince Charming
Except that she screwed at a rate quite alarming
She put the cum into Cymru its true
There wasn’t much else that the poor girl could do
A celtic snow white who wasn’t quite right
In the head though in bed she still knew what to do
In stories a princess will often get wed
And live happily ever after
But this one was dropped on her head as I said
Her tale ends in tears not laughter
Pure-bred Angharad, unread, underfed
Caught a disease in some sick fucker’s bed
It spread, now she’s dead
And she has gone to the hereafter
So, unhappily, you’ll never shaft ‘er.
A princess although she was raised as a pauper
Born into dirt but really a pearl
A diamond, a gem, a blue-blooded daughter
Descended from princes whose reign is now dead
But of course no-one knew that this girl was a treasure
As a baby the princess was dropped on her head
As she grew men who knew her IQ was low measure
Used the young girl for their own secret pleasure
She put the cum into Cymru all right
A few blokes each day and a few more each night
A Welsh Cinderella who’d let any fella
Try her for size if the payment was right
Carbuncled uncles and toad-featured teachers
Misused Angharad, this young girl so precious
Because she was simple these perverted creatures
Bribed her with Mars Bars and packs of Refreshers
And tho it was seedy, the young girl was greedy
She liked getting sweets in return for her use
Sweets turned to cash as the blokes got more needy
They felt if they paid then it wasn’t abuse
Not much, being tight, but it kept the girl loose
She put the cum into Cymru okay
A few blokes each night and a few more each day
A Cardiff born beauty who’d give all her booty
To any old beast who both asked and could pay
She should have grown up into a princess
Instead she was selling herself on the streets
She would undress for a tenner or less
Sixteen but she’d been on a million back seats
Her low IQ gave her a baby-like smile
Which most of her clients found very disarming
The most popular girl on the Riverside mile
She made every customer feel like Prince Charming
Except that she screwed at a rate quite alarming
She put the cum into Cymru its true
There wasn’t much else that the poor girl could do
A celtic snow white who wasn’t quite right
In the head though in bed she still knew what to do
In stories a princess will often get wed
And live happily ever after
But this one was dropped on her head as I said
Her tale ends in tears not laughter
Pure-bred Angharad, unread, underfed
Caught a disease in some sick fucker’s bed
It spread, now she’s dead
And she has gone to the hereafter
So, unhappily, you’ll never shaft ‘er.
Friday, 20 June 2008
Beautiful Girl
People supposes that under her clotheses
This beautiful girl has a body like Venus
What no-one knows is that under her clotheses
This beautiful girl has a very large penis
They look at her from top of head down to toeses
They see this great swell of two bosoms like roses
They note her fine boneses and feminine poses
And think: ‘what a beautiful girl’
But if she don’t shave for a month then her nose is
Choked up with hairs, she is bearded like Moses
And if she uncloses her legs then her hose is
Proof, she’s no beautiful girl
But people supposes on clotheses and poses
Their ideas are based on our outer regalia
What the girl knows but will never expose is
The fact that down there she has male genitalia
On external looks people make diagnosis
Their eyes see some things and their mind then imposes
An idea on which it then somehow closes
And which it will never unfurl
And if this is true, men, then what I propose is
Don’t feel obliged to wear doublets and hoses
If you want to oppose this, wear the right clotheses
You can be a beautiful girl
This beautiful girl has a body like Venus
What no-one knows is that under her clotheses
This beautiful girl has a very large penis
They look at her from top of head down to toeses
They see this great swell of two bosoms like roses
They note her fine boneses and feminine poses
And think: ‘what a beautiful girl’
But if she don’t shave for a month then her nose is
Choked up with hairs, she is bearded like Moses
And if she uncloses her legs then her hose is
Proof, she’s no beautiful girl
But people supposes on clotheses and poses
Their ideas are based on our outer regalia
What the girl knows but will never expose is
The fact that down there she has male genitalia
On external looks people make diagnosis
Their eyes see some things and their mind then imposes
An idea on which it then somehow closes
And which it will never unfurl
And if this is true, men, then what I propose is
Don’t feel obliged to wear doublets and hoses
If you want to oppose this, wear the right clotheses
You can be a beautiful girl
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
Oh, I Wish I'd Looked After Me Tits!
Maybe not by Pam Ayres…
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits,
Those two great front wobbly bits,
All the bad bras I chose,
And the ill-fitting clothes,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.
I wish I’d been that much more able,
When me front bits was firm, like, and stable,
To choose a twin cuppin’,
To hold me boobs up in,
That were wired up with big bits o’ cable.
When I think of the brassieres I wore,
That made both me bosoms feel sore,
They was either too tight,
Or too loose, like, and slight,
But I didn’t care – I could score!
Me mother she told me no end,
“Don’t you follow that lacy bra trend!”
I was young then and gormless,
Me bras was all formless,
I never had much time to spend.
Oh I slung cloth around em alright,
But I chose things that didn’t fit right,
The lace scraps I bought,
Didn’t give much support,
But I didn’t mind, in the night.
Me mother’s advice did I spurn;
Too late, oh, too late did I learn,
If I’d chosen a brassiere
That looked much less jazzier,
Me boobs now would be much more firm,
Now I lays in me bed and each breast
Do slope down each side of me chest;
They wobbles and jiggles,
Like fat worms they wiggles,
And sits on me knees when I rest.
How I laughed at me mother’s front bits!
Now it’s mine that flop down when I sits.
Me proud, pointed shooters
Now two flabby hooters -
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits!
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits,
Those two great front wobbly bits,
All the bad bras I chose,
And the ill-fitting clothes,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.
I wish I’d been that much more able,
When me front bits was firm, like, and stable,
To choose a twin cuppin’,
To hold me boobs up in,
That were wired up with big bits o’ cable.
When I think of the brassieres I wore,
That made both me bosoms feel sore,
They was either too tight,
Or too loose, like, and slight,
But I didn’t care – I could score!
Me mother she told me no end,
“Don’t you follow that lacy bra trend!”
I was young then and gormless,
Me bras was all formless,
I never had much time to spend.
Oh I slung cloth around em alright,
But I chose things that didn’t fit right,
The lace scraps I bought,
Didn’t give much support,
But I didn’t mind, in the night.
Me mother’s advice did I spurn;
Too late, oh, too late did I learn,
If I’d chosen a brassiere
That looked much less jazzier,
Me boobs now would be much more firm,
Now I lays in me bed and each breast
Do slope down each side of me chest;
They wobbles and jiggles,
Like fat worms they wiggles,
And sits on me knees when I rest.
How I laughed at me mother’s front bits!
Now it’s mine that flop down when I sits.
Me proud, pointed shooters
Now two flabby hooters -
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits!
Monday, 9 June 2008
Things Not To Do If You Have A Tendency Towards Depression
(1) DON'T stay at home, on your own, on xmas day, watching 'The Pianist' and reading 'The Big Book of Holocaust Poetry' *holds up 'Big Book of Holocaust Poetry'*
(2) DON'T eat so many Freddo bars that you start referring to him as if he is an actual person and people think you finally have a new boyfriend and haven't turned lesbo like they thought.
(3) DON'T visit your mother too often, especially if she is a fake-blonde, foul-mouthed, tough-titted, rollie-smokin', my-head-master-at-school-fucking, milkman-flashing, weetabix-and-kipper-smelling, can't-even-read, skanky gyppo Cardiffite slut.
(4) DO stop taking that box of Ritz crackers to bed with you. Some women wake up lying next to attractive men. Some women wake up lying next to crumbs. Try to be the former, rather than the latter.
(5) DON'T try and figure out which of your "uncles" is your real dad. Chances are it's also the one who felt you up when you were 12.
(6) DO eat enough leafy green vegetables, such as kale, broccoli, and spinach. Lack of essential B vitamins can make you feel ever so blue!
(7) DON'T go in front of a microphone and tell people about your life cos 5 hours later you will feel sick and embarassed and disgusted and end up punching your own arms in hopeless despair and give yourself a huge bruise *holds out arm to reveal huge bruise*. And if you show that bruise to the audience, you'll feel even fucking worse.
(8) DO go to comedy clubs. Laughter is good for the soul!
(9) DON'T go to comedy clubs if you are a fat, jew-looking woman with nothing to talk about except your bad eating habits, lack of success with men, and fact that your mum is a nasty chav cunt who won't tell you who your real dad is.
(10) Smile! Smile, when your heart is breaking... Smile, even though it's aching... Even if you're a secret alcoholic self-harmer currently taking anti-depressants, when you meet other people, just - smile.
(2) DON'T eat so many Freddo bars that you start referring to him as if he is an actual person and people think you finally have a new boyfriend and haven't turned lesbo like they thought.
(3) DON'T visit your mother too often, especially if she is a fake-blonde, foul-mouthed, tough-titted, rollie-smokin', my-head-master-at-school-fucking, milkman-flashing, weetabix-and-kipper-smelling, can't-even-read, skanky gyppo Cardiffite slut.
(4) DO stop taking that box of Ritz crackers to bed with you. Some women wake up lying next to attractive men. Some women wake up lying next to crumbs. Try to be the former, rather than the latter.
(5) DON'T try and figure out which of your "uncles" is your real dad. Chances are it's also the one who felt you up when you were 12.
(6) DO eat enough leafy green vegetables, such as kale, broccoli, and spinach. Lack of essential B vitamins can make you feel ever so blue!
(7) DON'T go in front of a microphone and tell people about your life cos 5 hours later you will feel sick and embarassed and disgusted and end up punching your own arms in hopeless despair and give yourself a huge bruise *holds out arm to reveal huge bruise*. And if you show that bruise to the audience, you'll feel even fucking worse.
(8) DO go to comedy clubs. Laughter is good for the soul!
(9) DON'T go to comedy clubs if you are a fat, jew-looking woman with nothing to talk about except your bad eating habits, lack of success with men, and fact that your mum is a nasty chav cunt who won't tell you who your real dad is.
(10) Smile! Smile, when your heart is breaking... Smile, even though it's aching... Even if you're a secret alcoholic self-harmer currently taking anti-depressants, when you meet other people, just - smile.
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
Who Am I?
This was the Q above the temple at Delphi, is wot they say.
I'm in "work" again. I "work" in admin (parentheses "rabbits" a go-go today!!). But, I hate it yur. The ions from the glaring screen are ruining my eyeballs at a fantastic rate. The re-routed excuse-for-air they pump through the air con gives me bi-weekly mini-flu. The work itself is morphing my brain from world's fastest computer into world's fattest com-poo-turd (dunno what that means exactly. Except, it sort of suggests the shift from brain as organ of quick-fire-thinking to brain as inanimate, dross-heavy lump of shit. Which is what seems to happen after I clock in here).
In the office, then, I am a grey-clad drone, mumbling and sighing to myself as I type, click, and robotically whirr.
Away from the offfice, of course, I am - Queen Mab! Performance poet extraordinaire!! "Pam Ayres on methadone"!!! Screeching harpie with a penchant for rude ryhmes and vivacious (sometimes vicious) verse!!!!
"Mab" was queen of the fairies, is wot they say. The name comes from the Irish "Medb", meaning "intoxicating", or "drunk". How very apt... Queen Mab, apparently, was v attractive to men, but few were able to stand up to her powerful, warrior-like nature... I'd like to think this is the reason behind my own lack of success with the opposite sex. And not the fact that I am a bit fat with a jew-seeming nose and too many chin-hairs... :(
So, I live as a split-personality. Sometimes I am M---: bland and boring office worker, wearing her Primark polyester trousers with whatever the opposite of verve is. And sometimes I am Mab: a titchy bit more glam, a tiny touch more exciting and excitable, especially when she has that substitute penis they call Mic (Mike) in her chunkly little fist...
Perhaps one day, the two parts of my character will combine and make me more normal-seeming. Until then, I am a Mr Bean/Stig-of-the-Dump female tragedy by day. By night, I am a wannabe Oscar Wilde who struts and spouts almost-literate bits of half-rhyming twaddle.
But - which of these creatures am I?
Both. Either. Neither. I dunno....
I am here, in existence. That's all. As you are as well.
Fantabulous....!!!!!!! :) :( :) :( ;)
M x
I'm in "work" again. I "work" in admin (parentheses "rabbits" a go-go today!!). But, I hate it yur. The ions from the glaring screen are ruining my eyeballs at a fantastic rate. The re-routed excuse-for-air they pump through the air con gives me bi-weekly mini-flu. The work itself is morphing my brain from world's fastest computer into world's fattest com-poo-turd (dunno what that means exactly. Except, it sort of suggests the shift from brain as organ of quick-fire-thinking to brain as inanimate, dross-heavy lump of shit. Which is what seems to happen after I clock in here).
In the office, then, I am a grey-clad drone, mumbling and sighing to myself as I type, click, and robotically whirr.
Away from the offfice, of course, I am - Queen Mab! Performance poet extraordinaire!! "Pam Ayres on methadone"!!! Screeching harpie with a penchant for rude ryhmes and vivacious (sometimes vicious) verse!!!!
"Mab" was queen of the fairies, is wot they say. The name comes from the Irish "Medb", meaning "intoxicating", or "drunk". How very apt... Queen Mab, apparently, was v attractive to men, but few were able to stand up to her powerful, warrior-like nature... I'd like to think this is the reason behind my own lack of success with the opposite sex. And not the fact that I am a bit fat with a jew-seeming nose and too many chin-hairs... :(
So, I live as a split-personality. Sometimes I am M---: bland and boring office worker, wearing her Primark polyester trousers with whatever the opposite of verve is. And sometimes I am Mab: a titchy bit more glam, a tiny touch more exciting and excitable, especially when she has that substitute penis they call Mic (Mike) in her chunkly little fist...
Perhaps one day, the two parts of my character will combine and make me more normal-seeming. Until then, I am a Mr Bean/Stig-of-the-Dump female tragedy by day. By night, I am a wannabe Oscar Wilde who struts and spouts almost-literate bits of half-rhyming twaddle.
But - which of these creatures am I?
Both. Either. Neither. I dunno....
I am here, in existence. That's all. As you are as well.
Fantabulous....!!!!!!! :) :( :) :( ;)
M x
Thursday, 13 March 2008
Blog The First
First blog demands: extraordinary! Momentous!! Fantabulous!!!
First blog is precursor of all blogs to come, it is the mother and the father, the Adam and the Eve, the Alpha, the Originator, in the beginning were these Words... All future blogs are progeny of this first and, therefore, the first has got to be something - amazing. Like - really super-dooper....
Unfortunately, I live in Wails, armpit of the earth: and today is a day as grey and glamour-less as an old man's scants... This in turn affects the affectation I call "personality", and makes me feel all drab, and droopy, and durrrrr...
I am a performance poet, living in the capital shitty of Cardiff, and "on stage" I seem to breathe fire, of a sort (or I try to)... Away from my friend Mic I am as colourless as a drool of spit. I sit in the office, now, writing this away from the terse glare of boss-woman's eyes, computer thankfully at "an angle"... At 11pm I will drink a coffee with "the girls" and we will ogle Sandwich Man's slightly flabby rear end... At 1pm, I will enter the Break-Out Room, therein to eat and sip at another machine-spewed caffeinated drink... At 5pm, Fred Flintstone-style, I will yabba-dabba do outta the office and away, home, to my little flat-packed-furniture-filled flat, flat-screen TV, flat little existence, in fact...
Yes, I hate working in an office!! I want to be a free bohemian spirit, writing in woods and wandering lonely as a raincloud...
The only plus, is, I get to use office time/facilities to write things, including this all-important Blog The First. Hopefully future blogs, like future generations, will be more upbeat and age-of-aquarius-ish....
Nice to (not) meet you, anyways.
Mab x x x
First blog is precursor of all blogs to come, it is the mother and the father, the Adam and the Eve, the Alpha, the Originator, in the beginning were these Words... All future blogs are progeny of this first and, therefore, the first has got to be something - amazing. Like - really super-dooper....
Unfortunately, I live in Wails, armpit of the earth: and today is a day as grey and glamour-less as an old man's scants... This in turn affects the affectation I call "personality", and makes me feel all drab, and droopy, and durrrrr...
I am a performance poet, living in the capital shitty of Cardiff, and "on stage" I seem to breathe fire, of a sort (or I try to)... Away from my friend Mic I am as colourless as a drool of spit. I sit in the office, now, writing this away from the terse glare of boss-woman's eyes, computer thankfully at "an angle"... At 11pm I will drink a coffee with "the girls" and we will ogle Sandwich Man's slightly flabby rear end... At 1pm, I will enter the Break-Out Room, therein to eat and sip at another machine-spewed caffeinated drink... At 5pm, Fred Flintstone-style, I will yabba-dabba do outta the office and away, home, to my little flat-packed-furniture-filled flat, flat-screen TV, flat little existence, in fact...
Yes, I hate working in an office!! I want to be a free bohemian spirit, writing in woods and wandering lonely as a raincloud...
The only plus, is, I get to use office time/facilities to write things, including this all-important Blog The First. Hopefully future blogs, like future generations, will be more upbeat and age-of-aquarius-ish....
Nice to (not) meet you, anyways.
Mab x x x
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