Saturday, 31 January 2015

Falling Cats and One Night Stands

Brigitte Bardot having a blast on her C.S Motorbike
Image from babylonvintage.files.wordpress.com


Well well well.

I seemed pretty fucking miserable in my last few posts. This week I feel like I have peeled away from that self, leaving my sulky shadow behind. It's like snapping off two great hulking dark wings and looking back round at them, thinking 'What the fuck are these?'.

On a completely unrelated topic, I'm now back on the C.S Motorbike and it is full functioning. I am really enjoying zooming around London in it, careering down pleasant cul-de-sacs, revving to the end and back. What I need is a nice, long straight country road I think. I'm very much loving the C.S.Motorbike, but I think the constant maneuvering and wrong turns could get a bit exhausting.

(If you're trying to understand the metaphor, don't bother - I lost myself at 'cul-de-sacs'.)

I have a question for you all - what do you think about sleeping with people on the first date?

I am quite shocked that some girls *coughPoshClarecough* think it is a big fat no-no. Why is it a no-no? If you haven't had sex for a LONG TIME and you meet someone you quite fancy and you are having a nice time together and they suggest going back to their place 'to watch a film' and when you get there neither of you fancies watching a film, why would you not do whatever you want to do?

I think the assumption is that men won't want to see you again if you sleep with them, but who wants to end up a guy who thinks like that anyway?

Imagine if I went on loads and loads of dates with someone and pretending to be something I wasn't, and then what day, over a romantic meal, he made a casual comment about 'slags who shag about' or something equally distasteful and we would get into a heated debate and both end up cursing the day we ever met.

You see, it would never work. Why would you want to spend time with someone with such wrong and stupid opinions?

It takes two to have sex, so if a guy sleeps with a girl and then decides he doesn't want to see her again, he should also avoid looking into reflective surfaces because she didn't have sex with HERSELF.

It's so weird. If you really like someone, can sleeping with them make you then unlike them? Maybe if one of you does something weird or terrifying ('Is your daddy hair like me', anyone?) but if you have a nice time and it doesn't work out, I think that's because it's just not meant to be, not because you committed a heinous crime against your souls and pure bodies.

I feel so zen and calm at the moment. HMRC are even charging me £100 because they are FUCKING STUPID CUNTS and I am just accepting my fate in a very calm way. I am letting the fine wash over me like warm water. I don't care at all, these things happen. HMRC is obviously run by raving LUNATICS with no idea what they are doing, but can I help that?

No. So I have accepted it. Ommmm. Fuck you HMRC. Ommmm.

Over Christmas I wasn't doing yoga or playing netball and I think that really affected my mood. Also my C.S.Motorbike has helped.

We need touch to survive, it's why tiny babies die in orphanages without human contact and affection. It's not like guys and gals who have one night stands or 'friends with benefits' relationships are leaping into bed with each other thinking 'this person will marry me FOR SURE because I am having sex with them' and then waking up regretful and bitterly disappointed. It's just nice to spend time with someone one on one, skin on skin etc.

As I have started out discussing a subject that could be seen by some as being 'crude', I may as well go on to a topic that I know many people will think of as being crude. It makes me laugh, a lot.

My friend Claire (not Posh Clare, obviously) has a theory that she and some of her friends are very camp gay men in women's bodies, because - as she put it - 'we love the cock, we're very funny, we look fabulous in make-up and heels and we've all talked about finding a guy who would let us use a strap on'. Claire and Jen have even trawled the internet to find their 'alter ego willies'. 

I might look for mine now.

Was that too crude?

Don't worry, I have lots of other things to blog about and they are not crude at all.

Last Friday on my way to work, I saw a cat die. It was horrific. I'd just walked out of my street when I noticed a car lying next to the road, underneath a block of flats. I felt really sad and thought it must have been run over, and I wondered if I should check its collar and ring the owner. As I was debating this, I saw that the cat was still breathing.

My mind went blank and I couldn't think who to call for help - I kept thinking there must be an ambulance for cats and wondering how to find the number. I looked for the RSPCA on my Crackedberry but it was being so slow. Then a man came out of his house on the opposite side of the road, so I called to him and asked him if he knew who's cat this was. 

He didn't know, but he helped me look for numbers on his smart(er)phone. 

Then a woman came running out of the block of flats, she was shouting down the phone in Chinese and seemed very upset. 

"My cat! My cat!" she said when she noticed her cat, and me and the neighbour stood next to it.

I told her the cat was still breathing and she seemed amazing. The neighbour realised instantly that the cat must have fallen from a balcony, it hadn't been run over. The cat had blood coming out of its nose and ears, but it meowed a little bit and moved its legs slightly.

I explained to the woman that we were trying to call the RSPCA or a local vet and she gave me her phone to use. Every vets or RSPCA number the neighbour and I called told us to call somewhere else, and gave us more numbers to try. It was ridiculous. The cat was dying.

The woman's husband turned up - I think he'd been on his way to work and she must have called him to come back - and we told him what we were doing.

"Doctor? Doctor for pet?" he asked.

"Yes, pet doctor!"

"You come with us? I don't speak English." the woman said.

"Yes, yes of course, I'll come." I said.

The neighbour eventually found a vets who told him to bring the cat ASAP. They said it could cost up to £200, so I explained to the Chinese couple (I was worried they thought I was asking them for money!) and they said they had the money and that it was ok.

The woman ran upstairs to get the cat basket - they must have lived on the top floor because she took a long time. While she was upstairs, the cat jolted and its eyes opened wide. It was dead.

It was so horrible, telling the woman her cat had died. The vets told us to bring the cat anyway, as the could make sure nothing else could be done and cremate it.

I asked the couple if they were ok to go alone to the vets - the vets would expect them and know exactly what had happened as I'd told them over the phone, I didn't see how I would help really.

The neighbour and I said goodbye and the couple thanked us. It was so weird. We walked to the tube together and I realised he was French. (He didn't want to speak French with me, I tried.) We got the tube together and when he got off he asked for my number.

I was so surprised - seeing a cat die together does normally result in a number-exchange, or does it? I think he might be gay anyway, maybe he just wants to make friends in London. If we become friends at least we'll have an interesting 'how we became friends' story.

How sad though. Such a horrible start to a Friday.


Saturday, 17 January 2015

Mr. Bombastic Doom

***WARNING:: If you are feeling a bit miserable this post might tip you over the edge, so stop reading here.***

Somebody has put some photos up on Facebook from New Year's Eve and they are so bad that I have just been crying. I look so, so awful. We went to Devon for four days and by the fourth day I literally felt like a toxic cloud of soot, floating next to myself and following myself closely round the cottage.

There are a lot of photographs of me dancing with an inflatable sword, wearing a turban made from zebra-print leggings. I remember we all had one on our heads and we called them Lurbans. We called Katie, who did them all for us, Mother Lurban. We ran round the cottage looking for more leggings to wear on our heads.

I remember all this but I do not remember look so hideously disgusting.

I thought 'Maybe that's what I look like all the time' and then I started crying hysterically, so let's pretend that I don't look like that. Maybe that is only what I look like after four days of heavy Lurban-wearing, toxin-injesting and eating nothing but crisps and sausages.

We originally had a HUGE order of food and drink from Asda, that cost £500. But on the day we were supposed to go to the cottage, I woke up and OJ and TC's house and has just found out that the whole shop had been cancelled, because OJ's credit card company thought it might be a 'fraudulent transaction' and Asda hadn't said anything!

I used to LOVE Asda and now I LOATHE it.

Asda's fuck-up meant TC and I had to trail round the nearest Tesco when we got to Devon, filling THREE TROLLIES with booze, crisps and sausages. The lights in there were so weird that I got really dizzy and could barely read the shopping list on my cracked Crapberry.

Sigh.

I really want to blog but I have nothing to say, really. Living in London, you realise that nobody actually wants to listen to anything you have to say. I think I've started editing what I say so much that now there is nothing left.

When people at work ask me what I did over the weekend I tend to say 'oh just a few things really what about you?'. It might seem as though I am trying to be enigmatic, but I know that is only the response not to make me panic and stop halfway through, thinking 'Am I saying too much?'

Last night I went to an exhibition with Lauren at the V&A - Disobedient Objects. It's about objects that have been created and/or used for protesting.

Shields against the police made to look like giant books, so that riot police fighting back students protesting cuts to their university appeared to be attacking literature and learning - battering books with batons.

An amazing bank note from Burma, with a secret watermark of  Aung San Suu Kyi - woman who won the election but was placed under house arrest by the military. The designer was told to put Aung San Suu Kyi's father on the note instead - General Aung San. But the watermark portrait had softer features and even though the face was wearing the General's hat, it was clearly supposed to be Aung San Suu Kyi. It was two months before the government noticed. Amazing.

There was also a video of protesters in California in the seventies, with their arms locked into those tube things and the police were grabbing their faces and rubbing pepper spray into their eyes. It really scared me.

There were a lot of objects in the exhibition from recent political protest movements - against the Spanish mortgage crisis, the trouble in Syria, pans turned into drums from Buenos Aires.

Lauren said the whole thing depressed her and it was really depressing. All these protests, increasing over the years and things get worse and worse.

We had to go into the gift shop to calm down - only consumerism can cheer me up, now that is depressing.

Fucking hell, sorry. I bet tomorrow I will be in a TIP TOP mood, bouncing off the walls and smiling. But for now I am just sitting on my bed, on a Saturday night, in a foul mood. My housemate has got people round and I know I'm being rude and, in a way, cutting my nose off to spite my face because she asked me if I wanted to go out with them and I said no even though I would probably cheer up if I just got dressed up and went out, but I don't want to speak to anyone.

Good grief.

What will cheer me up??

Lauren told me there is a nice series on iPlayer about old ladies who bitch about each other, I think. I might try and look for that. 

Normally when I am feeling sad I listen to Mr Bombastic, but if I put it on now Mon and all her friends will hear it I think I am spending Saturday night in my bedroom, dancing to Shaggy in my bedroom.