Robot Bland killed us all

'Rubbish' Artwork by Ian Stevenson.

Robots are bastards. I think we mostly agree. I used to enjoy Robot Wars, solely, so I could enjoy them all battering the bolts out of each other with a bad metal chainsaw arm. If you think robots are great, then I guess you should declare that when they are intent on mowing you down with a flame gun. Good luck, you two-faced shit.

Robots are taking our jobs, our women and coming over here, sitting on our sofa's and eating our chips.

I am a Robotisist. This is of course my own definiton of my predjudice towards robots, unlike my advanced robot dancing that deserves a Doctorate; I sometimes get it out for small kids who appreciate my rigid slick and sleek moves. I once interacted with a cash machine in robot fashion. We became one and yet we were nothing...

They reel you in with their 80085 antics, and before you know it BAM, the phoneline is automated. It’s an assault course of nonsense to keep you on the line while they deal with the other fifteen gazillion lost souls in the queue. Why couldn’t they put you in the queue to play a quiz instead? At least make my time you’re wasting enjoyable.

“Press 4 if you think the answer is Uganda”

When querying a cinema listing, the dialect recognition is so bad, I actually had to take off my neutral phone voice and become 'very Northern woman', 'who does very Northern things' in a bid to try and understand IT.

“Just transferring you to a proper human being who is fluent in many dialects...”.

We need people of course to keep the robots in check because we’re so bad at making them. Frankly any supermarket self-checkout experience I have ever encountered has always resulted in an assistant having to do something to the machine, and you’re often waiting for them. The time I save is minimal and the frustration gained is enough to want to knock over that stack of acme peaches that don’t ever seem to be there when you need them. I hereby declare I shall boycott them from this day forth.

If I had to be the robot master of the self-checkout, I would go mental within ten minutes. I’d probably get sacked for kicking one and swearing in front of small kids. I’d have to get a facial piercing to retain my dignity and  defiance at ‘The Man’. I could see me getting lots of tattoos. Maybe an ironic barcode on my face.

As humans, we are intrinsically designed to balls up, so when we balls up making an evil robot, which come on, someone is bound to do soon? I mean megalomaniacs and Tom Cruise exist. Is it time for us to hope there’s a Superman - because Megalomaniacs don't do things by halves.

I'm not seeking a Deity, although I left the religion question alone on the census. I'm not Judas, thanks, but spiritually I like to operate on the don't-be-a-dickhead-karmic scale. And so, I unveil my Robot...

The Robot of Ultimate Power, would be a figure that you could ride within, with big yet nimble legs. You would ride in the Helmet area, it’d be able to fly and would be powered by your family brand of poo. It could also vaporise litter. It’d weigh about 5kg and measure about 9ft that would pack down to a large bar bell, perfect for a bicep workout. It costs £57 (mates rates), and you can call it what you like.

But instead somebody invented a robot slave who could take a series of drinks from the kitchen to your guests in the living room, tardily manoeuvring a discarded Clementine. Probably at Christmas, in 1991.

Then the cyber dog that was just an advanced version of the yapping, somersaulting dogs you can get at most seaside resorts. It was soulless, never happy to see you. Ungrateful acrylic fake friend.

They’re inventing things that would blow my mind. Scary things, like an application that converses with you and asks you how you are feeling and intermittent generic small talk to detach you from reality. I imagine they might also suggest expensive things to buy. Like a hammock. Relax. Buy a hammock.

Of course, being a robotisist, I have no desire to learn more about the good of robots. Quite frankly the average robot experience is more disappointing than any human interaction I have ever encountered. 

And for that alone, they can fuck off. 

Hi-vis

Manchester experienced around 3 days of sunshine this week and it was the sunshine that makes you a bit moist under the arms and want to run around like a wazzack. Gingers everywhere try and get as much sun as they can in a desperate bid to build up their defenses, but just end up getting burnt anyway. It also reeks of frisk; as flesh is exposed by all, Vitamin D created, and Spring does what it’s supposed to: make animals horny, productive and glad to be alive. Upon seeing my first lamb of the year I felt like I had scooped an existential wombic ice cream. It was meat flavoured.

I love Spring so much I could burst my shoots. It’s my favourite season hands down, mostly due to nature getting busy. Autumn only has fingerless gloves and fungus that excite me. Summer? It’s usually massively underwhelming, and Winter, well it’s cold and most people with any sensitivity get miserable and fat and ill.

Following several months of getting miserable and fat and ill, I emerged in to the sun forgetting all about my avid bakery of the winter months, glad to be alive and out on my bike carving up the bitumen. I'm not really an aggressive sort - being naturally intimidating by default - but when I'm on my bicycle I transform in to this uncompromising two wheeled She-Devil who regularly swears at rubbish drivers. It's fairly comedic swearing such as 'knob end', 'big twat', 'cocking cock knocker' and such, and to be honest I'm rather impressed with my impulsive survival language, but there's another driver I experience on the road that totally baffles me. I never really experienced the wolf whistling of the construction site, mostly because I wasn't as strikingly beautiful as I am now.....................but in the last couple of years as my body makes a desperate attempt to get me knocked up, I've been experiencing the attention. The first time was so alien, it left me staring in a mirror, confused, touching the contours of my face like John Merrick might, but without the tears.

The man in a van. Usually a man with some other men in a van. Usually a man with some other men in a van, wearing high visibility jackets.

Last week, at a junction as I patiently waited for the lights to change (right, law abiding cyclists?), I heard whistles behind me and a van pulled up next to me containing the aforementioned stereotypes. What am I supposed to do with this whistle? Acknowledge and blush? Confront the whistler and demand that he take my phone number immediately? Or like I actually did, contort my face in to a grotesque mask that I flashed at them hoping the wind wouldn't change, but that the lights would, affording them a getaway.

They didn't. Instead a muddy faced gent leaned out of the window and said "You have such a beautiful mind", to which I cracked up, returning my face to normal and beamed. No doubt it was a line recounted on hundreds of occasions, but right then, it was just what I needed.

"...It's almost as beautiful as your arse..." With a toot toot of the horn they were away, and I was left, for once, speechless.

Spring time is for appreciating the beauty of nature, the flourishing possibilities of the forthcoming year. Positivity is in the air, and as much as the majority of the attention is unappreciated, as I transform into 'Wind Panther' atop two wheels, I can only be thankful that once my buds shrivel and die, I too was once a beautiful bloom.

Monkey Bacon

“Monkeys are like bacon. They improve just about anything.” - Andy Ihnatko.

I am a regular subscriber to 'Kids say the funniest things...!' columns in ladies magazines that are printed on bronco paper, and smell of smoked meats.

"My 3 year old grandaughter told me I had an incredibly fat arse the other day - I was sitting on her at the time. Don't kids say the funniest thing?! Madge, Wickham."

Nobody seems to laugh at kids gags except me and their punch drunk parents. I can appreciate their illogic nature, and the twist that often blows my mind results in a mutually satisfying giggle.

This months winning kid gag is brought to us by Brodie, 3, The Fylde Coast. This joke was performed at a children's party last month.

"Why did the giraffe cross the road?"

"Because it had no legs"

Those crazy illogic 'no legs' gags get me every time.

Appreciating children's jokes took me a while. To enjoy a child's joke, you need to expect the unexpected and accept that it may contain a reference to willies, or bogeys with a nonsensical twist.

Another example:

Knock Knock,

Who's there?

Willy

Willy who?

Willy no bacon

Saying the word and momentarily ignoring it's logic has a pleasing sound to the mouth. As kids learn to identify objects, they gain a sense of superiority by simply identifying the 'jokes' within. When they see the ridiculousness of their gag has been received well by confused parents, they start to learn that being funny is fun...

In adulthood, many of us don't find bacon funny. Unless it's strapped to a monkey...?

To make a joke:

Why was the bacon strapped to the monkey?

Because it was buy one, get one free.

Please excuse the 'flexibility' of that gag, I'm currently being influenced by spontaneity.

I'm studying Dada at the moment, and as much as I don't appreciate the self-indulgency, I do appreciate it's contribution to broadening the possibilities.

And so an automatic gag for all Dadaist out there. Peace brothers and sisters of the world.

When does Tuesday stop raining?

When you've gone to the bins.

Proof that my subconcious isn't funny. Damn you, grey matter.

Now I don't know about you, but occasionally I play the no legs/arms/eyes/ear/finger/toes game. The game of course is a devil's advocate of disability. Would you prefer to have no legs or no arms?

Being a stubborn proud sort, I'd opt for my leggy leggy legs; feeding myself on shrink wrapped beetroot, and tearing rotisserie chickens apart with my face - with hilarious outcomes, but still, I could, run...whenever the shit hits the fan. Run in the other direction. Even if it's in my mind. Long live illogocialytyness.

Kicking it with the kids

I have been CRB’ed in the last 12 months. In that time I have not been inappropriate with any children. Promise.

I was inappropriate with a child once though. I was 15, and he was 5. I babysat him and his older sister Claire.

They were good kids, and Jack was very funny, with a big massive cheeky grin and a blunt fringe accompanied by a crazy freeform mullet. He, like me, liked lizards. In short, he was quite the little clown and we were buddies. We watched the Young Ones most days together during my five year tenancy. One day when he was misbehaving, I told him do a circuit of the house with his pants around his ankles. In the end I think he was having so much fun with his wang out he started to play up just for a chance to do it all over again. That exercise lasted a day at best. 

I imagine I probably graduated to locking him in a cupboard and goading him with chocolate in between me lying on the couch and sleeping off puberty.

Ah pubes.

The day the pubes hit most junior pubers become joyless, confused, spotty, greasy, hairy, freaks who blame their parents for putting them through feeling like the most minging minger in the world who everyone is staring at, and then – bam - suddenly you’re not able to run around the house naked anymore.

After about the age of 9, you can no longer get in the paddling pool in just your knickers. I don’t have a paddling pool currently, but I’m keen to pursue knicker sitting in paddling pools at some point before I meet my predicted expiration via a harpoon.

"I don’t care what the neighbours think, Norman. We’ve been swinging with them for 7 years!!!"

(It was Norman, he harpoons me in the paddling pool)

I bet people with tall conifers in their gardens sit in their paddling pools in their pants all the time.

Whoever invented conformity can eat my dust. Whoever told old people they must only wear beige i hate you people, whoever told us not to dance in the street - a high kick of joy, whoever said wearing underwear was a must can go and pick their crackers out of their wedge. This is my brief manifesto.

At the moment, as a mature student I’m knocking about with 18/19/20 year olds. 20 year olds are ace. They’ve still got silliness, and lots of hope before having it totally kicked out of them by an office job where they have a budget for emotional eating as a way of ‘calming’ the workers. 

I once had a job where they endlessly supplied a buffet of fat and sugar. One day we had a party because it was a Tuesday. Happy Birthday every bloody day of the week.

Keeping the fun in the workplace, and life, is essential to productivity, inclusivity and providing people with hopes, dreams and expression, so next time the boss demands you drop you pants and run around the office naked - go for it, you'll get the laughs and a new sense of 'look at my balls'. Sod the promotion. 


Please hold the line, I have a perineal itch.

BIG MOON face, and the plural of diarrhoea

Definition of Ranting; Guff Gas. Venom cloud. Face hole exhaust.

Like most diarrhoeas and diarrhoei, it's nice to have a clear out now and then. Letting off steam is natural. A hearty pillow scream is a frequent occurrence for many, Or too much masturbation. Often a combo. I know you're with me.

But first to a fight.

I've beaten up two boys. One for a friend when I was seven, and the other when he chucked me, because he didn't want to give me the coconut sweets he'd brought into school especially for me. He told me this to my actual face with his actual face. What sort of dumping excuse is that? He was practically begging me for a hiding. I know you're only nine, but there's no need to be snide about this, mister boy thing. 

It was on. I remember clearly swinging him around to disorientate him, and raining down four punches and two kicks. Not Street Fighter style, more girl punch (as in fight like you don't actually want to kill someone). Before it started getting too slappy and I began toying with the idea of windmilling him, I made sure he submitted. 

I like to think I had my foot pressed against his now tarmac-kissing cheek, but I probably went off to have a big cry at the effect of the mass of adrenaline soaring through me. If he was clever, he would have given me the chocolate as a dumping gift. He was right though, I only wanted him for his coconut.

Ejecting your verbal muck into the atmosphere is a healthy way to unleash the thunder. I no longer swing people round to disorientate them. And so I present to you a favourite vent of mine that is dripping in controversy.

'The cover that is better than the original' debate. 

Argument for 'Say Hello, Wave Goodbye'. Soft Cell Vs David Gray. 

Discussion is welcome. Counter argument needed (loser).

I first became intimate with the Soft Cell Original on BBC 6 Music, where it was on the regular playlist as a solid favourite. Urgh.   

I love 80's music. My brother and sister pumped me full of good stuff when I was kicking about the house being an annoying baby sister; reading diaries, and discovering porn collections where I shouldn't have (there's only so much private time an 8 year old can have). But the song stayed away from my ears, and with good reason; the recording is so harsh and empty. But the song is so so beautiful, so beautiful it requires another so. 

Listen to 'Say Hello, Wave Goodbye' 'Soft Cell' and listen to Marc Almond's Voice. Flat, emotionless, and the video of when it was originally released is an appalling example of how cocaine is and will always be a shitty drug. Almond can't even project any form of soul he's so addled on bullshit dust.

What a let down to a beautifully bittersweet song. Empty aural slurry. I don't believe you Marc, record the song AGAIN (please). 

So to the covering opponent:

David Gray. Yes, the Grayster (as the hipsters call him). Now, he's harmless enough really isn't he? His music is harmless enough, and he's done a couple of songs that I think are genuinely great, and that's the thing about David. He's genuine. 

David, can you tell Marc we want him to do it again please? You're such a nice man.

To conclude with an American joke, dedicated to Marc Almond and David Gray.

Marc Almond and David Gray go into a new swanky bar. The barman says to Marc, "Fancy something almondy?"

"Yes please", replies Marc. The barman brings him an Amaretto.

"...And David, would you like something gray?"

David thinks about this, and can't imagine what gray drink they might bring him.

The bar man returns and hurls a large bulky sack at him.

"Oh we had a refit, they left the cement, ya bland get".

"For my next trick..."

In retrospect, being referred to as "Sticky Vicky" from the age of 8 by a friend's kindly father was a tad inappropriate when I became aware of who she actually was. For those who are unfamiliar with this niche performer, here is Benidorm's "Sticky Vicky" Leyton:

  

She reminds me of a firmer Nana Moon, bless her soft boa. Vicky is rumoured to be around the age of 70, still performing in Benidorm, and now joined in business by her daughter.  

The concept of a Sexy Magic Show is a little conflicting. Having explored whether it's possible to perform as a sexy clown (it isn't), I can't imagine this show being particularly titillating for many; think Paul Daniels in nipple clamps, joined by Miss Debbie McGee in white thigh high PVC booties and The Great Suprendo in cut out rubber pants. The bending over would make for an unappetising chicken-in-a-basket. 

Vicky also offers literal promotional material, namely showcasing her 'vagina magic'. I noticed the show is never delivered as 'hilarious vaginal magic', because well, Vicky isn't funny. She has a large cavernous canal from which she produces a variety of items including the infamous firing of the ping pong ball, several flags, and a light bulb which she is able to illuminate all with the aid of her undercarriage – and that’s it, but it certainly is magic. Child birth must have been relatively breezy for the woman with the vice-like grip. Let's hope she didn't flex too much throughout or I imagine she may have been slightly unnerved by the appearance of her accordion offspring. She takes what she does incredibly seriously, but then when you're getting four gigs a night at £200 a pop, you don't really need to worry about the funnies. Especially when there's no competition.

I have never seen Vicky; I want to, but during a mass travelling exodus, I was able to realise my dream of witnessing the ping pong skit by visiting a seedy club in Patpong, Bangkok. It all felt so 'Nam and dangerous.

A tout led us to a nasty club below ground level, with neon-blue lighting and seating in the round. I was holidaying with 3 big bears, so we were packing a hefty wall, yet intuitively I felt that this place was intrinsically evil and we were about to die. A lady boy joined us and requested we buy her a drink, the equivalent of which cost around $9. It was clear this request was mandatory. When her pipette of orange cordial arrived I was beginning to fume about the blatant stinging coming our way.

I witnessed a very tough, butch looking woman flanked by three men across the room. She was collecting money from punters, as a lacklustre, slightly chubby girl took to the podium where she proceeded to self-consciously display a variety of feats that were instantly forgettable (I've forgotten), but then the ping pong, the main attraction! This was it... 

As our tragic star bewitched us with her hypnotic ping pong hand choreography, our ringside view was promptly blocked by the butch bullish slab of fear who unsurprisingly introduced herself as 'Mama'. Also unsurprisingly, Mama was tapping a short baton into her palm. On paying the designated $10, she instructed that we tip her. Right, that was it. She was essentially extorting our wedge for being nails and mean. And that’s not happening, not on my watch.

Being a plucky sort with little tolerance for any injustice, I rose up, plumped up, and informed her we wouldn't be paying for anything as she had done nothing. She smacked the baton on the table "You pay Mama!", I sat down, and we cobbled together a small sum of shrapnel in order to retain our bumholes. She had the gall to threaten us for more, by which time I feigned a half-arsed “I don’t understand...” and she moved on her way to spread the fear amongst the unsuspecting cabaret perverts.

As she circled other unfortunates the ping pong was drawing to a close, but I just managed to witness the final ball placed neatly at the top of the performers thighs as she directed it - with the aid of her leg crease - into a glass placed at her feet. This exercise can of course be executed by most people with legs.

By this time I wanted to smash things up (read: cry) at how an ambition of mine had been scuppered by thieves, vagabonds and fraudsters. We fled into the night to have more money extracted from us through a series of initially friendly encounters. God Bless Bangkok.

Being from Blackpool, I never thought it necessary to visit Benidorm. The only difference would be a moderately warmer climate and a plethora of crispy tans that defied skin cancer. Chips and stags run amok; the odd patch of vomit marrying the cheap and cheerful aesthetics of premium Brits Abroad estate. But when my mother moved there to enjoy her winters, I was invited to stay.

I think this holiday was probably the worst I have ever encountered. I had recently returned from my travelling exodus, newly separated, and I was grateful for four days away with the old Queen, but when the reality of this cultural abyss of shits and giggles presented itself, unlike the holiday sun, I realised I was having so little fun come day three that a breakdown was inevitable. The combustion of my rather fragile emotional state climaxed one evening when Mother flatly refused to grant her permission for me to see THEE Sticky Vicky's Show - my eyes deserved better???! At the age of 30, I threw the tantrum that was deserving of such a restraint, and I returned home once again with my ping-pong-ball-landing-awkwardly-in-my-martini-dreams snatched from me.

You may translate this edition as a mocking of genuine vaginal magicians, not at all. After all, I’m not the one earning big money working for myself in the sun, for very little effort, with a private passage strong enough to keep most marriages healthy for life. And for that I bet she has the last laugh (via her cervix).

Sisters

I make a tit of myself around 4 times a week. Sometimes I get paid for said titting, however last night was not one of those occasions.

It's fair to say I'm not a heavyweight drinker. Periods of random sobriety render me a dreadful drunk if I go beyond 3 drinks, and seemingly 4 small glasses of fine Shiraz was enough to tip me over the edge in sending a text that has probably sabotaged any chance I might have with a chap who I am keen to get to know better. Of course, you want to know what the message entailed, but short of imploding with shame, I'll summarise with 'I want to get to know you better, I sense chems...' - what?! Chems, sensing them. Oh dear god I'm so uncool. He didn't reply. And probably never will.

Yet whilst I'm having trouble even getting to have a conversation of any length with a 'potential' chap, I am batting off the ladies with a shitty stick - proper stunners as well; totally out of my league. I'm flattered of course. I'm flattered by most attention, but it's attention that I can't do anything about. I imagine it's the same redundant feeling as when you pass your Latin GCSE.

There's a predatory lesbian at my workplace, everytime she stalks the water cooler, it's 'fronts to the wall'.

I have never tried to be a lesbian, well that's not strictly true, I did once share a dare snog with a friend, but found the entire experience to be akin to nuzzling a peach; it's all just too soft. I like the roughness of a man; the hair growing in places it shouldn't, the calloused plate hands, the unapologetic defiant bum stinks. I mean that's not to say I haven't thought about lady love (after all, boobs are great), I've also irrationally thought about wanting to kill Richard Vranch 'at-the-piano' on more than 53 occassions but I wouldn't actually slay the floppy haired smug fop.

Maybe I just haven't found the right girl for me.

London Part I

I was never mugged in London. I have lived there twice, and twice it beat me. The first time, I was a mere pup, cajoled into moving to the SE by my then boyfriend, who had recently left the dizzy heights of Blackpool to return home to his Motherland. Frankly, his 'Blakey' impression was too good to let slip from my grasp, and I followed him shortly after. We lasted 14 months. Further down the line, I became aware of his undying loyalty to 'The Sun', and his possessiveness became so severe he even - falsely - accused me of having an affair with my best male friend. Add to the mix he had 'feeder' tendencies, and I knew I had to get out when I became resigned to smocks and a large bag of Peanut M&M's for a social life.

It appears I had a lucky escape; I discovered the girlfriend prior had gone from a size 12 to a 26. Now that's a serious pair of 'before' trousers. Still, we had fun, huh big guy?!

"I 'ate you Butler".

I returned to London 6 years later full of optimism having been given an amazing opportunity by BBC 6 Music to host their lunchtime show. They were paying me handsomely, and I promptly bought an overpriced handbag and sank into the lifestyle of a deluded out-of-touch overpaid egocock.

Being thrust into the public arena of the BBC enthusiast was a terrifying experience. Never before had I encountered people who were so passionate about their radio station; they would seemingly want to kill their presenters should they speak ill of Bob Dylan. I did. I will always maintain he is massively overrated and the sound of his whine reminds me of the harping on I have had to endure from his diehard followers, but I certainly don't want him to meet his death at my hands.

At the age of 26 I encountered my first death threat. This alone justified the overpriced bag, which was stolen two weeks after purchase. Egocock.

Following the threat, I remember going up on the the roof of Broadcasting House, phoning my brother and sobbing my heart out. I could not handle it at all. I only got into this because I love new alternative music and the sound of my own voice.

At my leaving party I found out who had sent me the unnerving message. Dave, had substance abuse issues that in turn sparked dark episodes that he directed at me. He told me to my face, and it was fine. Dave apologised and I left my party.

(Enter Elton John with his multi-award winning composition 'The Circle of Life')

I have many thoughts and experiences of London that may be shared throughout the bikfinpie, so consider this an aperitif, as the Capital is once again stirring.

"London"

It's

a

nice

place

to

visit,

but

I

wouldn't

want

to

live

there.

It's
a
nice
place
to
visit,
but
I
wouldn't
want
to
live
there.

Too picky

In a desperate bid to find a solution, I, as many do, consulted the internet with regards to my inability to find a boyfriend. For the record, that day I also researched how to clean an acetate dress. In taking a love quiz, that I suspect had been created by a 14 year old, I was awarded the conclusion of being 'too picky'. I mocked the monitor by spittling a guffaw, and then I thought about it.

So I have to lower my standards further?

Have you heard of the shit test? I'm a shit test supreme. Passively shit testing most people in order to penetrate their mental balls. I seek a joust, a mental workout, a sharpening. I like playing Devil's Advocate (Doom Queen), and I love strategy. I'm excellent at Risk. When I get that battle, that meeting of minds, I'm intrigued, and when they tell me I'm being a gobshite, it's confirmed. We're friends. I need to know I can trust you, and in knocking me down, I know you'll be honest.

I love a good shit test counter attack. 

It doesn't happen often. Evidently my wave length is a bit spazzy. Just this past week, my unappreciative drunk of an employer referred to me as a druggy weirdo, and in an academic context I was labelled as 'terrifying' - don't worry, I'm not studying Medicine. 

I'm a 32 year old divorcee. You know, I'm not even a divorcee yet, but I have been single and separated from my husband for 3 years now. I decided I would marry him as soon as he informed me we were born in the same Plymouth Hospital - now that's just too much of a coincidence, right?!!! It was fate. I mean, I'm in no hurry to get a divorce - I don't dislike him that much; things didn't end on a sour note, and we sickeningly remain friends, just friends who don't talk often and certainly don't get loose! I for one am not prepared to spend £400 on a piece of fluff called a divorce. Plus, his new romance is looking positive, and we always agreed that whoever was in the position to make it happen, would. So, thumbs aloft for the ex and his possibly more attractive, less complex, egoless lady. It was fun, huh big guy?!

I am ready to share something with someone. I miss the laughs, tickles, stinks and strokes, but the depressing factor is, there's nobody I fancy. To translate this in terms of what havoc it's playing with my sads, as a realist I can't get off on anything fake or untrue. If I do not have an existing spark with someone that I am keen to pursue, there is nothing out there but a sexless void and Anne Widdecombe's libido (sorry Anne, that was cheap). I cannot fantasise about celebrities; Jean Claude Van Damme rutting me whilst his forehead sweat drips into my eyes makes me gag, even on a reread. . . So not having a 'real' experience, or someone to put in the flip book of desire, my head becomes a little impotent, and I just appear to be a bitch in a bad mood thinking I'll end my life being the neighbour that passed away and wasn't discovered for 4 months, and who had all her eyeball moisture extracted by her harem of feral cats. Doom Queen.

I know when I'm pining for love as I daydream about dog ownership. I tell myself that everything would be okay if I could only have a dog. I became so desperate recently the daydreaming downsized to ferret ownership. But I'd just be known as ferret woman. I don't want to be that woman.  

Am I too picky? Perhaps. I have a list somewhere of 'desirable qualities', and 'dealbreakers': disrespectful, drinks excessively, mustn't punch kids, fundamentals really... but in 5 years time, I may compromise to such a level, my only specification will be healthy bowels. Into the mud, Scum Queen.

My exhausted and attached friend Sheila is a regular dial-a-cliche. She told me that love comes to those who wait - she married a bloke off Chat Roulette. It was fate...