Hey wiseguy...!

...Yeah well your momma is so fat, she died whilst having a gastric. Now can we please put an end to all this and just be cordial to each other?

Is your shit perfect?

I did a gig tonight. I did a gig I'm a fan of at XS Malarkey. I was introduced as experimental, which was quite the compliment even though immediately people will be edgy (see it?)  about seeing the special kid, but I don't mind at all starting on the back foot, it's my preferred start. There was laughter, and a lot of silence. I'm not scared of silence; I originally thought I was a while back, but that was just tinnitus pain dressed as silence - that's thankfully not been a problem of late. I'm also okay with dying, as in really dying; so dying on stage isn't an issue when you've been around the stench of death so frequently.

Thank you comedy displacement.

The energy between crying and laughing is so fine that does it make any odds to how you exit that tense knot welling inside? I guess that's why I love hysteria so much - such a borderline emotion, and quite the ride. 

I know I've flippantly discussed death before and my reasoning for not fearing it, but really, now really, do you seriously think you're going to be spending much time worrying about life in death? No because you won't be able to  - and you think I'm the morbid one?

Why did Nick Griffin banish his goth son? Cos he liked wearing all blacks. 

I've been on stage 3 times in a week, it's been the only time I haven't felt ACTUAL pain, emotional pain doesn't even figure. It's been an odd relief to get that high. Thank god for comedy in these difficult times.  

That's my analysis over. My last solo stand up gig of the year is next Tuesday. Then I'm going to have a break, get well, write more, and launch into the physical wonderment of 'Sheeebeast Vs The Masked McGee' for several slots before Christmas and into the New Year. I can only try and polish one turd at a time.

Heard the one about Gillian McKeith's split from her rapper boyfriend? He dumped her cos she wouldn't quit analysing his shit.

It's a good job when you don't take yourself seriously. 

Adios Beads x

Free spirits for all!

Hello, so things have moved forward haven't they? Apparently my mum said I have a fan, so I'd best give an update into how the bifkinpie is stewing. It smells of warm Autumn dumplings that are essentially damp and musty in texture. But, aren't we all this time of year?

I've been working hard on secret things that aren't that secret, but everyone loves an enigma. Like Tom Jones' wife. I'll just say I've made some wonderful new friends over the past year and for that I am very thankful. I've had some amazing experiences, and I've loved going to work. I've also stopped drinking for a 90 day stint, and day 51 is going great, thanks for your concern.

Things are moving forward the way I like within my work and study and personally. It's ace. I have noticed that my awkwardness and sporadic shyness has lessened since I took my headphones off; which as a muso and radio broadcaster - for the best part of half of my life - has been a good habit to break. Why didn't I see it earlier? Clown.

Anyway, to a reality. I've always felt a little bit in the lurch with regards to physics, naturally I'm going to shift the blame here to an appalling teacher and my "I don't understand that" (shut down) stance. Another example, the people who decide that they can't catch, will never catch (incidentally learning to catch takes around 20 minutes to get, 'can't' catchers).

I researched schooling in West Yorkshire today. I found a progressive school. They apply their studies in a practical, physical way, because that's relevant, right? It's actually more likely that ADHD is a permanent state, but one we refuse to acknowledge en masse as it doesn't align with big societies control.

My appalling GCSE physics teacher would slink off for very long skives leaving us to fill in worksheets, unable to apply a method to a reality many lose interest due to a lack of involvement and understanding - me for one! Naturally, being a dick, I cocked about with my good friend Bec and the nice big boys; seeing how many goggles we could get on our heads in the quickest time before he returned, cutting the word 'poo' out of a paper towel and laying it on the projector for illuminated hilarity was a failure, but seeing how many metre rulers you could retrieve from the front of the room in a stiff legged fashion scored a record of 8. Those were the days.

The physical world of which we were once so attached is now becoming so removed from our lives a LOL contains as much sincerity as a full-stop. People are burying their faces in computer games and computer life and computer dating and computer work and computer language and computer etiquette. We're fat, we're lazy, we don't 'work out'. We don't work out with each other. We're becoming introspective, 2D and focus on dealing with an unreal reality of online socialising, and in turn are becoming less outwardly social in reality. Tucked away, safe from instinct, unable to act with spontaniety, calculating every movement. We're not built to do this!

How will we be firmly rooted in an autonomous interactive era when a resistance is natural? The answer is, we won't. The resistance is coming. Pomp, pomp pompetty pomp. The regression to Utopia will always override Dystopian leanings, because we're instilled with faith and together we are nails.

And what will we learn from faciabook? Probably not an awful lot. Other than we can have an infinite persona, that we did look better when we were younger without realising, and the friends we need the most will always be there. Predictably.

Depending on your level of interaction, the facebook soap opera of bullshit may as well be the same as drinking stagnant pond water. Oh boy. That tastes bland. So switch off your 2D and come and play in the 5D.

Good luck Quantum Foragers and balls to social networking. Get me on an email letter sometime. Or just send me your beams.

The essence of bifkinpie

I haven't really delved into the ethos of the bifkinpie as yet, some have asked me "What the fuck...?" and I thought I could address it in this metaphoric manner. Currently I'm stuck in the paranoia of pretense, though I have never purchased a beret with intent, but by elaborating, I'm pretty much tipping the balance in sending me down an endless hole of selfimportance - I'll keep it brief.

My ethos is largely Utopian and was founded when I realised emotional eating isn't really the way to handle the bad guys. Have you ever sobbed uncontrollably whilst eating cake off your fingers and the floor? As a sensory Sorceress I get off on touching stuff, hearing stuff, smelling stuff (even stinky stuff), seeing, you know, I'm an all 5 senses WHORE. Some people wouldn't go "Mmmmm" when being allowed to touch a strangers velvet jacket. Yes, I have asked to touch random peoples velvet in the street. Yes, they usually let me. They love it.

This is one of my best pies. I found this book some time back on a Chazza Shop Stomp, and have used it on many occasions when someone might need cheering up, in performance, in private, it's a universal prop. However, I wanted to document this for myself as I am handing over the book to my niece Isobel for her 8th birthday. We share the same birthday, the same silliness, and a love of all things animal. She likes spiders - she rules. I know this will always be a good one for her to look at and realise that life isn't too bad, it's just a bit stupid sometimes.

Even lo-fi, these pics ought to make you feel something.

Happy birthday to all the May Kids. The book of 'Persian Cats' by Edward E. Esarde

Behold.

My Favourite. Is it a bat is it a monkey? Shapeshifter.

Beauty in the face of death. Noose symbolism.

I may have been molested by a taxidermist

Bowie Cat for the Dads

The Accidental Racist

I've recently got into the habit of addressing a lot casual male acquaintances as 'Chief'. It's a nice reassuring status shift for people, only analysed now, but I like it. It spells flippant respect. On the flipside, I probably appear to be some sort of roadie barra' boy.

I can mix with most people on a superficical level; mimicry is handy when dealing with 'fluff' interaction. I like different viewpoints and balance to the extent that I have many unlikely friends. I like varying approaches; intense personalities, grounded types, grafters, romantics, spiritualists, plodders, surrealists, all of it. I like people. Just not the subjective world of the dickhead. And flakes. Don't talk to me about flakes.

I only hate one person. That's a girl called Claire. She was nasty, vindictive, destructive and had massive coke whore tendencies. She spouted off about me for no reason other than jealousy. I quite envied her massive tits, but I wouldn't want to psychologically destroy someone for the craic; I'd never experienced a psychopath before. When directing my anger, I occasionally fixate on her, and bang, she gets my cranial beams of fury. Let's hope for her sake, the bad vibes I'm transmitting are all a load of bullshit, eh?

So let me tell you about 'My Racist Manchester Mum and Dad':

Powerful imagery sells pleated woollen skirts, Autumn 1991. 

My real Dad's dead. I'm in the dead Dad club (see prior reading)...5 years following much loss and despair, I met Steve. He was a listener when I was high on red bull and handbag house. Whilst I was broadcasting in my early twenties at Galaxy 102 , Steve was a - almost professional - prize winning caller largely due to the fact he has the gift of the gab. And his voice! There's nothing like it; it's rounded, camp and he's liberal with the laughter; and what a laugh! Hearty, genuine, full of fun and playfulness. He made great radio and was a genuinely wonderful man when I met him and his wife Denise a year later.

We mostly eat curry together, moan a bit, do presents, and laugh a lot. They look out for me, and I'll look out for them and allow their nuturing as the 'daughter they never had'. They're my Manchester Mum and Dad, they love each other, and I love them. We've known each other for 10 years.

BUT, is it right to remove someone from your life because you can't abide their ignorance? Why do I give them concession for sending me the odd racist joke on text? Because racist jokes are rubbish and are not worth the energy of a big massive kick off, they don't deserve my attention.  Lazy, lazy joke. To prove it, here is a sample I received yesterday:

I was walking down the street the other day, and I saw this n***er carrying a telly, and I looked at him and I thought, is that mine?

And then I realised, mine was at home sweeping the stairs.

Ok, so it works in the basest form simply because you get a lame twist, it's a slavery gag, and call me a maverick, but I'm not really into 18th Century jokes. I heard a Barrymore swimming pool joke at a comedy gig the other night. It brought the house down just as much as it did 10 years ago. I died inside.

So to sum up why I still love my racist Mum and Dad; I admire their family values, their loyalty, their openess, their wit, but I can't attempt to changed their skewed opinions that were probably far worse in prior generations. It's a shame fear and ignorance manifest themselves in such an arbitary way, but they know I won't engage in a conversation that uses 'rag head' rather liberally. Remind me to write something about a Racist Skeleton some day.

I once dated a nice lad who was very funny and clownish, and we had a brief, but intense affair. At the time he was playing with ironic racism. He would refer to me in private and sneakily as his 'n***er'. I couldn't really see the point of this beyond he knew it wound me up and he wanted to punish me further. We didn't last long, "do you take this n***er to be your lawful wedded n***er?".

So in my local shop, I made a regular fruit pricing query.

"Alright Chief, how much are your pineapples at the moment?"

"Are you trying to be funny?!"

(Process. Process. Process. Oh he thinks that because I've identified him as a Red Indian, he thinks I'm being racist. Am I being racist, am I? Am I a racist?).

"...The price is written on them"

Oh.

One day we're all going to be the same colour. So when the gingers have died, and our skin is suddenly able to cope with the scorching heat, shall we look back on this time fondly, thinking "what a bunch of dickheads".

Big Ted's, Little Ted's.

Dedicated to my wonderful friends D and J.

I like bears. I like bears in all forms; anything remotely fuzzy makes me feel tickly. 

The Spirit of the Bear - A lone, courageous, nails, wedge of blubber that likes to roll around a lot and climb up stuff, and looks ace when fully erect and waving their paws about. They get to sleep loads when the weather hits indoors lock down. 

Super Ted.

Now to bears in the gay community: You can further break them down to Daddy Bears and Cubs. I love chunky gay bears - that’s a Daddy Bear, I get drunk off the futile arousal. Cubs are their younger, most often slimmer twinks. Twinks are young gay lads who mostly like lycra. Lycra is a combination of space matter with 15% Ford Capri.

Controversially I would like to add an addition to Bear Camp - The straight bear as yet undefined to my knowledge. Man Bear. A tad Daddy Bear, but less likely to dig lycra.

     

He works in meat or creative guff or something involving calloused hands. He likes ale, practical fashion and old-fashioned ways. He also knows his beardy face looks like a reassuring and comfortable saddle. Temptresses! He has some control, but not enough to like cake and pie and real ale. You know? The good stuff. Probably overweight by about 2 stone. Might ride a bicycle and would definitely buy you an ice cream.

Gentle Ben.

In studying facial hair I have to say I am a great fan of the neat beard-tash set. It’s less try-hard than some more playful adornments. But just enough to not be one of those bushy unkempt beards able to hide salmon or suggest you should be CRB'ed.

But that brings me to polar form of the dreaded spiv thin moustache. I had a conversation with someone who had one last night. I could not take to him at all, solely because of my newly recognised phobia of bum fluff topiary.

You know what? Thin stuff is weak. From a practical perspective, thin stuff dies first and it can't lift a barrel of ale. Go to a farmers show and see the size of those marrows and tell me a streaky pissy one looks appetising? Models live on champagne and fags, and would survive a maximum of 2 months if the shit hits the fan (unless they shag for spam), so you can kiss my fat arse - I’ve got at least 5 months because of my massive buns. You can bet I’ll be hitchhiking to Disneyland on my resources.

It’s the floating form of the waif tasche I can’t abide, Sigmund. It’s just wrong, aesthetically, logically and fashionably. Thin lip framers do nothing for the wearer. They’re as self-conscious as their fashion conscious owners. It’s a half-arsed attempt at manhood and the boys need to be told. Big bears you need to tell them. Hold off a while and wait till you’re a Man Bear.

I collared two young 'uns the other night; one baggy, one wedge haircut. I knew wedge haircut was more susceptible to the possibilities and I butted into their conversation demanding a debate on the thin moustache.

They agreed they looked shit - I made Haircut promise he wouldn’t grow one, and they returned to talking about Stoke City. Well one of them did anyway. Haircut just dropped in filler.

Boy love.

I don’t have a problem with men who can’t grow decent beards at all, to be honest I don’t seek Beard Utopia (though actually....), and it’s all superficial nonsense but it’s quite a boon in my world. The bears in my life make things so much more stronger, fuzzier and ticklier.

And don't ever let them tell you you look like a paedophile.

The Sloth Bear - probably endangered due to immobility and honey. 

Some may have paedophilic tendencies that remain unrealised due to lack of motivation. Found in India. 

Dead Dad Club

I’m from a single parent family. I never knew who my dad was, I asked my mum once. Mum, who’s my Dad? Who’s my dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad?

The guy who played the green giant wasn’t quite what I was looking for, yet on appearances it could be plausible. I'd met him in Safeway's in the Spring. 

I wrote him a letter. Well I wrote a sweetcorn distributor a letter.

Dear Jolly Green Giant

I think you might be my Dad

RSVP Victoria McGlynn, 4 Manor Drive, Blackpool.

P.S. How tall are you?

Quite a formal letter for a 5 year old, but I met the balance by sending a Roland Orzabel and Curt Smith of Tears for Fears a drawing of us watching telly together. We were having so much fun!

If you’re going to write one letter to a giant and contain one question you’re not going to waste it on asking him why he’s green are you? Well that might be question number 2, but certainly height is the top answer.

1 How tall are you?

2 Why are you green?

3 Do you struggle to find shoes in your size?

4 How big are your feet?

5 Erm...Can you lift a fat man?

I was once chatted up by a man who was half Dutch, half stilts. His head was as big as a window, and he was so tall he was bent over me like a lamppost. I thought if he could invade my personal space any further he’d have absorbed me. 

I didn’t get a reply from the Jolly Green Giant, but as a surrogate he remains rather admirable; he hits his veg, laughs a lot, and has a general pleasant demeanour. Plus he could stamp on any adversary with his passive joviality, claiming it to be an accident, again. 

Oh Dad!

And this is the reason why I maintain my brand loyalty to Green Giant. Damn those marketeers and their fictitious male role models. 

Ho ho ho. 

Sorry Dad.

Dumped from a great height

I have just met an alpha male, at least that's what his faternity top said. No I don't like overly dominant men, I've been thinking about a gentle ex of mine - he was a lot smaller than me.

It worked. I wore the trousers, he wore little trousers. When we went shopping, I’d get the top shelf stuff, and he licked my boots.

If he stepped out of line, I threatened him with the papoose.

But the sex was amazing, like a chimp in an adventure playground.

It was like what Michael and Bubbles got up to.

The Goofy Dominatrix

I don't dream of my teeth falling out. If you do, it's related to death. Deal with that and let's move it along.

Have you ever encountered simultaneous tooth ache and ear ache whilst being tattooed? More on that pain to come.

I have a love hate relationship with my teeth, I have the same with sugar. I'm in a lot of pain right now, due to a mint selection binge, and though my fresh breath is faux fresh, the right side of my face is useless, I can't smile and my right eye is running.

Add to the mix several accidents involving my face and a skateboard, my face and a pavement, a pinch of bruxism, being a thumbsucker and good old hereditary variables, and I know where my mouth is headed. Don't be surprised if in the future I'll be glory holing for cash inbetween showcasing my collapsed face at gurning festivals throughout the land (there's one in Egremont, Cumbria - let's go!).

To start with accidents involving teeth. I was only 4, and I walked the short distance between my Aunty's and Nana's house, and did so with my hands in my pockets. Though my balance at this age was undeniably skillful, I fell over and pretty much bit the pavement, resulting in my tooth going through my lip and a pint of blood exiting my body via my nose.  The tooth didn't fall out, but it went brown and died. A poo tooth if you will. Fortunately it was a milk tooth, like all young nature, the best teeth.

I found out pretty early on the tooth fairy was my mum, I held my newly fallen poo tooth in my hand and claspsed it tight, refusing to sleep until the fairy arrived. She wouldn't elude me, my bravado knocking this whimsical collector of rubbish enamel. My Mum came in, searched underneath the pillow delicately as I pretended to be asleep, and she retired, but not after leaving a shiny twenty pence piece.

Free booty!

It worked for one more night, until she noticed my sweaty tense arm and loosened it from my deceitful  wrestling grasp; scored forty pee out of her though...that I spent on penny sweets. Having forty of them, was better than getting one model aeroplane. Damn marketeers and their quantities. My favourites were Mojo's because they were half a penny (remember those days, Peter Kay?).

I often have a Chuppa Chupp in my mouth a) to shut me up b) sharpen me up and c) distract me from the evil in this world. I sometimes have a spare for someone I like/love/see who's a bit sad, but my personal enjoyment of lollipops was only investigated further when my friend told me that she scored her husbands attention by placing her fist in her mouth at a party. I am not going to stop licking lollipops because it looks - to you - I'm lizard deep in fellatio. But I think it would be naive to not acknowledge my obvious oral fixation.

I have had three teeth removed in the last 12 months. I don't do private because I pay taxes. I have a great dentist now, but his predecessor was a dreadfully condescending intolerable being who spoke very slowly. I would gladly cough "knob head" at him in the street. Horrible man. He should be working in an abattoir as he clearly can't communicate with the living.

So I return to the most pain I've ever been in. It was a beautiful day in Sydney. Temperatures of 23. Perfect. And I cried all the way from Double Bay to Paddington (I couldn't bear the thought of using public transport and confining the pain, and this was serious pain) to firstly go to hopsital, and then keep my tattoo appointment I'd waited 3 months for. I was openly weeping and grumbling and couldn't help but say to distressed observers that I was on my way to hospital and I would be fine. But good god, was I wailing; red faced and wanting my mum for all the tooth fairy wedge in the world.

At the hospital, I was given the nearest thing to Morphine and sent on my way. That day, I was tattooed off my face. He had to finish it early. And I swore never again to spend my money on rebirthing tattoos when I had other priorities. Nah, my defiant rebirth was worth it.

I have joked that I expect I'll have no teeth by the time I hit my fifties, by which time I'll be some sort of tragically shit cabaret act where I impersonate my pet bulldog and we do a dance together to 'In the Mood'. But in this unstable world I have thought about turning to the oldest profession to bridge gaps. I mean, obviously everyone has their price. I work with Chris, he'd do bum for £80 in that classic game 'How much would you let someone bum you for?' - try it at your next dinner party. But I don't want to do that willy sticking-in business, no, I would use what I've got, and that is the stature to be a shit-kicking dominatrix who would delight in the absurd and being faux mean to men who quite like it. Win win. It's just theatre after all.

Queen of Hearts drops one

But then my flippancy with the dominatrix idea became solid when I discovered online that there was a legitimate dungeon in Sydney offering a Mistress apprenticeship. Reading in to this further and thinking how easy it would be to fufil one forum posters wish to sit in a room with him and smoke a cigarette - nothing else -  I started to think seriously about wanting to stay in Australia, and this might be my only way.

I wrote an email to the Extreme Mistress, making sure the tone was neutral and there wasn't too much pleading, and gave her my stats. However, it seems our antipodean buffsters aren't really in to bigger chicks, and I was informed that their largest dom, a size 12, found it difficult to score work with the punters, and she mostly wrestled men for wedge.

Great. So that was that impulsive dream pissed on before someone got a chance to be pissed on.

Having had a long interest in the exploits and rights (or lack of) of sex workers, I have returned to the idea of being a Dom, but the reality wouldn't work for me. I don't live the lifestyle, and many of them are very serious about what they do. They do it well. You have to commit to something to be believable if you're going to offer these chaps what they want. And to be honest, the lack of sunlight might be a deal breaker. But my god, the stories...I'd like to do it just to gain the insight more than anything.

Imagine some crazy kinky shit here, multiply it by 12,000 and add an egg. Anything goes.

I did wrestle a guy recently, but that is a story for another time.

Now you must excuse me, I need to listen to something angry to address the despair of my ailing face hole. At the end of the day, everything concludes with holes.

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...