Friday, 12 May 2017


The OH and I like watching 'First Dates'.

He likes the young couples. I like the old couples.

This week, the old couple are octogenarians Eric and Jenny, who have lost spouses to cancer. Eric is an ardent devotee of Argentinian tango.  Jenny likes rock festivals and 'Snow Patrol'.

"Not sure I can watch old people eating cheese fondue", says the OH, as Eric and Jenny tuck into starters.

"Why not?" I say.

"Reminds me of pus", he says.

To be fair, it is Jenny who says the fondue looks like "bandages", so maybe it is she who puts the thought in his head.  But I am still indignant.

"D'you think people would be revolted by the sight of us sharing a cheese fondue?" I say.

"We're not that old yet", he says.

I am not convinced.

"No, but say I dropped an after-dinner mint down my top and had to ferret around between my shrunken dugs to retrieve it, would people reach for the sick bucket?"

He sighs.

"Or, say they had to watch me lifting an oyster to my shrivelled oral cavity, then suck the oyster out like it was eighty-year-old cum, would they end up blowing chunks on their dinner?"

"Or, if I was moving my thinning lips along the length of a moist corn of the cob shaft, gripping it with veiny claws, dropping butter on my chin hair, would people be trampling each other to fucking death in a stampede for the door? Would they?!!!"

"I"m missing the programme", he says.

A twenty two year old lingerie model walks through the restaurant door. The young men stare.  One man does a 360 degree head spin that is ickier than the head spin in 'The Exorcist'. His eyeballs bulge the fuck out of their sockets, like he's the result of millennia of inbred pug breeding.

"Thing I like about the old people is they have lovely stories", I say. "They know who they are. The young couples flounder around a bit until they discover they both like chihuahuas and/or 'The Lion King'. Also, who in the name of christ 'blow dries' their vagina?!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" he says.

"Laura from Kent", I say. "Remember her? Blow dries her 'noo noo' before a date. The one who said she used to be "a lesbican".

"A lesbican?"

"A lesbican."

Meanwhile, Eric and Jenny are being asked whether they'd like to see each other again. Eric says yes. Jenny says yes. Eric is going to teach Jenny the tango. Jenny plans to cook Eric a fondue-free feast.

"All they talk about is their dead wives, husbands", says the OH. "It's great they haven't given up, that they've come out the other side, but it's still depressing".

"I think First Dates should do a bereavement special" I say, as the end credits roll.  "It would be ray of sunshine in a youth-obsessed schedule."

"Fucksake", says the OH.

Tuesday, 9 May 2017


People are starting to talk about my car.

"Your car is way old", says my daughter's classmate. "Is it from Tudor times?"

They're doing the Tudors in school. 

"It's only seventeen years old", I say.  

I admit that my car is not exactly a luxury brand. Frankly, it is a steaming turd of a car. If you stand close enough, you can hear rusting. On the other hand, it is still my car. So I am more than a little offended by the attitude of the mechanic who gives it an MOT last week.

"Sorry it took so long", he says, when I pick it up from the garage. "When you brought THAT in, me and Andrew, we were, like, you're having a fucking laugh aint' ya?!" 

The mechanic leans back in his chair and laughs malevolently, which makes his neck fat jiggle. I laugh too.  (Usually, the more offensive and/or the more sexist a comment is, the more I laugh.) This is because I am a pathetic people pleaser. 

"But it passed yeah?" I say.

He wipes a greasy discharge triggered by the exertion of laughter from his chin, then lowers and raises his head, briefly, in assent. 

"Thing with bangers is the engines sometimes last longer than the bodywork”, he says. “Andrew said it wasn’t quite as crap as it looks.”  

"Great. Brilliant" I say. "How much do I owe?" 

His fat stubby fingers hover over the MOT certificate. It is clear he doesn't want to give me the paperwork until he is satisfied that I have absorbed into my very being the horrible horror of my vehicle. He sets his pen on the table. 

"Thing is love, after you came in, this guy in a Land Rover drives up. Said he was a waiter", he says. 

I don't know what he's talking about. 

“Waiter?” I ask. 

The mechanic looks exasperated. It is as he suspected. Anybody who drives about town in a travesty of an automobile is bound to have the IQ of a bag of cocks.

“As in:  He. Was. Going. To. Wait. In. The. Office”, he says, slowly, for my benefit. “So we did the Land Rover first. That's why it took so long. Though it wasn't just cos the driver was waiting. Fucking beaut it was. Dog’s bollox. We had to toss a coin over who was gonna do yours!”

He laughs triumphantly. Ho ho ho ho. Ha ha ha ha. He is the Jabba the Hutt of mechanics. Sweat pours out from between the creases of his lardaceous neck fat like oil from the old Castrol GTX advert. 

"Ta", I say, in what is the climax of my Doormat of the Year routine. "Thanks anyway".

Later, driving my hunk of junk home, I start wondering if, maybe, I should get a new car.  OK, it would be totes bad for the environment, but at least it wouldn't smell like steamed monkey shit, and the window rubbers would be free of algae.

On the other hand, if I did get me a fancy car, there is a chance Jabba and his sidekick Andrew would take it in turns to jerk off into the glove box during the MOT, which is obviously unacceptable, so I'll stick with the Corsa after all. 

Thursday, 26 January 2017


The dog has bad breath. And by bad I mean gruesome. 

For example, if you were to rate smells on a scale of one to ten, where one represented good, bacterial vaginosis would be one, and Daisy’s breath would be ten.

“Any chance you can take Daisy to the vet?” I say to my husband. "Her breath is rank.“

The dog has heard us talking about her.  She is wagging her tail. This is because she has no self-esteem. Zero. You could literally say anything: 

Let’s put Daisy on a one-way flight to Korea. 
Daisy smells like she's been sampling Mike Pence's pump-action yoghurt rifle. 
Daisy is a bigger twat than Michael Flatley.

And she would STILL wag her tail. 

My husband takes her to the vet.

“Could you take a look at her teeth?” he says to the veterinary nurse. “My wife thinks her breath smells.”  

“I can’t see anything”, says the nurse, taking a look. “Is your wife, maybe, being a bit neurotic?”

I am a little peeved by this response. Last time I looked at the nurse’s name badge, it said Becky, not fucking Sigmund. My husband, on the contrary, thinks this is the most perceptive thing anybody has EVER said. I’m surprised he doesn’t shag her there and then. Maybe he does.

“Probably!” he says. “Thank you.”

He brings back a bottle of ‘Plaque Off’. As recommended by Becky. The title is worryingly lightweight. I turn the bottle around, hoping to read something along these lines: 

Does your dog smell like she's downed a sewage smoothie? 
Do your worry that your dog's oesophagus leads directly to the realm of the dead? 
Do you regularly consider running away from your home, family and children, just to be free of the gut-churning abomination of your pet's breath? 
If you answered yes to any of these question, sprinkle a fuckload of this on their food.

Instead, the Plaque Off label cautiously recommends one scoop a day for eight weeks.

“I can't take another eight weeks of this nightmare!” I say.  

Daisy wags her tail at my side. She seems euphoric.

Later, I see her trotting into the downstairs toilet. I hear slurping.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I shout.

I run in after her.

Daisy has her head in the toilet bowl. She is imbibing piss. Piss with skin on it. Piss brulee. She gives me a look as if to say, “This is delicious. Wanna try some?”

“Bed” I say. “Go to your bed!”

But it’s happy hour at the sewers. It’s drink-all-you-can at the Number One bar. Time has not been called on THIS pee-pee party. 

“Bed” I say, louder now. “Get to your bed!” 

Finally, she lifts her head up, a shudder of pleasure passing through her body into her tail.

I lift the lid of the toilet cistern, fiddle with the flush mechanism. For days now, the flush hasn’t worked properly. The kids aren’t supposed to use the toilet, but they do. I replenish the dog's water bowl. 

I text my husband: Caught Daisy drinking piss. Need to fix the toilet. Explains the breath problem xx 

He texts back immediately: Stop obsessing. You're being neurotic.