Sea sickness

At the time of writing this I am on the ferry back to blighty. Usually the journey is pretty uneventful, we get on, I park the car, get a ham and cheese toastie and sit in my seat reading for the next four hours. Pretty nice. However, this time I feel like I am trapped in the seventh circle of hell. The sea feels like it seven feet tall, we are being buffeted by waves that make the inside of the cabin feel like a car wash. Now usually this wouldn't bother me at all. I'd just hunker down in my seat, grit my teeth and pray that the contents of my stomach stay where they're supposed to. However, this time I have the incredible misfortune to be sitting very near to someone who is hueying quite spectacularly. They're not sat next to me thank god or else that really would be it, I hate vomit with a passion and usually the sight and smell of it is enough to set me off on my own bout of chunk blowing
But they are close enough that I can hear them and I am having to concentrate very hard not to join them in ralph tastic unison. It's not that they're being sick, or should I say they're not just being sick, they are making an epic full blown four course meal out of it. The girl in front of me used her sick bag like a good little passenger, wiped her mouth daintily and carried on looking like a tragic 1940s war widow without any if the fanfare that the bloke behind me is partaking in. He is making sure everyone from here to France knows he is being sick.
"I'M VOMITING!!!! SOMEONE ALERT THE PRESIDENT!!!" I really wish I could record it because I am so not doing him justice. He's actually making me look like a crazy person because in order to not think about and and therefore not vomit myself, I have to stick my fingers in my ears, screw my eyes up tight and either sing counting crows songs to myself or recite all the bones in the body from toe to head. I hope he gets off in guernsey.

Madmess: Pirate party brigade

Madmess: Pirate party brigade: Just interviewed these guys for Aprils edition of Gallery magazine and they have a song out for Christmas number one. So, how about giving i...

Pirate party brigade

Just interviewed these guys for Aprils edition of Gallery magazine and they have a song out for Christmas number one. So, how about giving it a listen, downloading it from i tunes or Amazon and getting someone worthwhile at the top for Christmas number one instead of X-factor (ew), some generic picked at random re-hashed Nirvana song (OK Nirvana are great but give someone else a turn now eh?) or the military wives (Don't they have some baking or sewing to do?)
Oh and the money raised from this goes to charity. Pretty cool huh?

Buy it!! Buy it now!

Hooray for Alan pollock

If you haven't seen the news he's the guy who threw a fare dodger off the train. And fair play to him. The train was stuck in the station making everyone cranky while the conductor tried to get the guy to pay or piss off and the twatty freeloader starts giving him abuse. People are sat there with their kids while this guy paints the air blue with his offensive language, one guy was even going to pay for his ticket until he started gobbing off at which point he started filming him instead. Now I'm not saying that I've never bunked a train cos we've all done it. It's just if you're doing something that you know to be wrong and you get caught, the decent thing to do is say "alright, fair cop I'm busted" not start spouting off at some poor guy a couple of years off retirement age who is just doing the job that he's paid to do. The decent thing to do would have been to just get off the train and bunk the next one if you didn't have any money. Or just pay the fare? I'm assuming that as a student he's had quite a few taxpayer dollars to play with which I'm also assuming should be used to get a student railcard. Twat face fare dodger claims that although he had been drinking, he wasn't drunk and that he is diabetic and hadn't eaten or taken his insulin which had affected his mood. This just makes him an even bigger cunt as far as I'm concerned. He has an illness which is controlled by food and insulin, which he knows is controlled by food and insulin and yet he decided not to take any notice of his doctors advice because obviously the twatty little scrote bag knows best and would love to waste yet more of the tax payers hard earned cash and further over stretching the nhs by giving himself hypoglycaemia. Either that or he's lying in order to garner more sympathy and disguise the fact that he's a twatty little scrote bag. Let's hope the British public has some common sense on this one and doesn't succumb to the bleeding heart liberals who are trying to prosecute Alan pollock for doing what we should all have the courage to do, stand up for what is right. Unfortunately as the video shows when one passenger can be heard saying "there's no need for that" in this litigious age where murderers get given safari holidays the likely outcome is that Alan will charged with some violation of twatty little scrote bags human rights. Well I for one support Alan, how many others do I wonder?

Technology

This blog post is bought to you via my iPhone! That's right, I have succumbed to peer pressure and purchased the phone that can do everything except make me a cup of tea or cure age induced hangovers. Although I'm sure the clever bods in technology towers are already busily beavering away to make those particular changes to subsequent models. Imagine, one day we may be able to pick up the iPhone and say "I'd like a cup of tea" and it'll speak to the kettle who will brew you your tea and pour it into a flying cup that will materialise by your bedside without you having to move a muscle. Some people have this already. They're called partners or boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives or just oi you. These are the unlucky ones. Yes that's right I think I'm lucky even though I bitch about being single sometimes but if I give it some clear and rational thought, not something I do often as it forces me into the realms of reality, I can see the following plus points of my situation.
1. I can fart really loudly in bed and the only person to give me dirty looks is the dog and lets face it, his farts are sometimes way worse.
2. I can eat cookies in bed. And cake and pizza and cheese and crackers if I want and there's no one to complain about crumbs in the bed sheets.
3. I can go out, get absolutely trolleyed and chat to anyone I like without anyone getting all possessive and jealous and threatening to punch someone's lights out or crying because "I don't love them any more".
4. I can go out and get absolutely trolleyed without telling anyone what time I'm going to come home or where I've been.
5. I don't have to wash anyone else's stinky underpants or explain to them why I don't iron anything. Ever.
6. I can talk to the dog and the cat and occasionally the snakes and spider without anyone thinking I'm a weirdo. They make better secret keepers too.
7. I don't have to do the washing up if I don't want to. Or any cleaning come to that. If I want to live in a pigsty, that's my choice. Although once you run out of plates it would be handy to have a washing up fairy to come and do the dishes for me.
8. No one nicks the duvet covers from me or thinks its funny to Dutch oven me.
9. I don't have to worry about what anyone else wants for dinner. If I want weetabix for supper that's up to me. Or pasta. (one boyf didn't like pasta. What's up with that?!)
10. I don't have to put up with anyone snoring or being all space invader in my bed. I can starfish all over that bad boy if I want.
11. I can watch what I want on telly when I want. None of this compromise shit. "ok darling, you can watch robot wars if I can watch come dine with me" No fricking way! I'll watch clueless on a loop all day if I want, don't like it? Go home.
12. I can play my guitar without anyone interrupting me asking what song it is or could you turn it down please.
13. When I go to bed, the house is silent. There's no sounds of the late night movie or rustling of crisp packets to keep me awake.
14. I don't have to shave anything if I don't want to.
15. My toilet seat is always down.
16. There is NEVER any pee around my toilet. As a girl, I sit and my aim is perfect.
17. I can spend what I like on shoes/hats/hairstyles without having to justify it to anyone.
18. My parents never ask me when they can expect grand kids.
19. I don't have to put up with people I don't particularly like in my house. If they are there, it's because I like them and I have invited them not because the boyfriend thinks they are cool because they know all the cheats to call of duty.
20. There is no call of duty in my house. Or skyrim or any other crappy computer game that isn't guitar hero or singstar.
21. There is no bargaining of household chores. "I'll take out the rubbish if you give me a blow job". I'll do it myself and I don't have to put your cock in my mouth.
I think that covers most things. Let me know if I've missed anything. Or if you have any counter arguments for cohabitation. I'd be interested to hear them.
Laters.
Did I mention this is from my iPhone?, Sweet!!

Published writer

Well, today has been a great day despite the fact that I am still sat on the sofa in my pajamas. Today was the day that Gallery magazine came out with my article printed in it! Exciting news huh?
Not anything that I print on this blog because lets face it, this is just rambling and occasionally fairly rude, not for the likes of Gallery magazine but my other blog, which I hope you are all following as religiously as this one! Yeah right.
My Ringo meets blog started out with Rick Jones, gotta love him hey. He has done everything in his hairy tattooed power to help me out on this island which makes him awesome in my book so go and download his album. It's on i-tunes and it's really very good. The last post was Brave Yesterday who are also very good. They bring some decent rock music to Jersey thank god (That's not a typo,I didn't put that in capitals because god doesn't exist. Now you can all laugh at me if I get shot down in a great big ball of fiery flames but that's not going to happen cos he doesn't exist). AND, they want me to write another piece which is just flat out kissing Johnny Depp with tongues awesome. And I put his name in capitals because he does exist. Makes sense now doesn't it? I knew you'd catch on because you're all clever people.
Lot's has happened since I last wrote anything. For one thing, I have decided to leave the rock (again not Dwayne Johnson, the island of Jersey) and head back to the land of students, my friends and some kick ass music. No not London, Southampton. I have decided to give up veterinary nursing and go back to being a penniless student. My parents are so proud. NOT!
They can't understand why I would give up a perfectly respectable job to be a smelly student but here's why;

1. As a student I don't run the risk of being bitten by a dog, cat or angry seal.
2. Therefore, will not have to take antibiotics which will
3. kill me. True story. The last time I took antibiotics my skin fell off. I went to the doctor and asked him what I could do about it and he told me that all I could do was stop it itching by bathing in baby oil so not only was I red, flaky and scabby, I was also oily and greasy. Not my finest hour I can tell you.
4. I will be broke but only through my own volition and not having to work ridiculous hours in order to be broke. There is a silver lining there, you just really have to want to see it.
5. I won't be spoken to like a village idiot or naughty school girl.
6. If I am spoken to like a village idiot or naughty schoolgirl, I can punch them in the face without getting fired.
7. I can have my dreds put back in! That's the best reason ever.
8. I won't have to work Christmas or New Years Eve.
9. I will be surrounded by people I love (Yeah I know, bleugh but true)
10. I will not have to kill anything and put it in a bag. That's the most depressing reason.
11. I will not have to see people's stupidity about their animals on a daily basis. Example: Me; "Aw cute puppy, can I take him round for the others to see?" Client; "No, he's nervous around other people" WTF??!! Of course he's nervous around other people you ignorant inbred. He's never going to socialise unless you let him! So now you've got a big dog who's scared of people and is going to display nervous aggression every time he encounters anyone new. Well done, you retarded piece of scrotal sack.

Of course holding this sort of anger and scorn for your fellow man in on a daily basis leeches any kind of goodness and empathy I have left in my soul which is pretty much the main reason I have to not nurse full time. I have reached my capacity of tolerance for idiots and fear that the next one I encounter will not live to stumble through another day which in turn will lead to me being fired and never being able to get another job because I will be in prison. I think the parents will just have to accept those reasons unless they want to visit me in a mental asylum.

To find out about Rick Jones click here!

To see my Ringo Meets article in Gallery click here

To see a picture of an angry seal click here

The day my Dad wrecked my car.

I never used to have much luck with cars. I think it's because I am a girl. A girl who has no interest in the underneath of a car bonnet or what the car looks like. As long as it gets me from A to B and has equipment so that I can play music as it's meant to be played (ie- loudly) I'm happy. I think it's also because I used to listen to my Dads advice about buying cars. He told me that you don't want to spend a lot of money on your first car because you're just going to wreck it anyway (thanks for the vote of confidence) and the insurance would be sky high.

Turns out it's just as high if you're in an old rust bucket because they know either it or you are going to die sooner or later.

Consequently that meant that my first car was a complete skank whore bought for fifty quid from a girl at college who failed the ANA. Should have given me some indication right there. Oh, the ANA for those of you who don't know is the Animal Nursing Assistant qualification. It basically makes sure you can distinguish between a cat, dog and a rabbit and that you are proficient in shovelling shit.

Anyway, I get this car home, it has a manual choke which I have no idea how to use. It's pretty much pot luck if I can get it to start at all and it rattles down the motorway like a pea in a tin can. The windscreen wash doesn't work, you fill it up with a litre of water and it spills it down the road like an uninitiated waitress before you even have a chance to squirt it over the windscreen so that every few miles on the way to college I have to pull over on to the hard shoulder and throw water over the windscreen. It's OK on the minor roads cos I can lean out of the window while driving to chuck the water on the windscreen although I do arrive at college wet down one side, with a puddle in my lap and an interesting hairstyle.

This car lasts a week. That's right. A week. I was making a short trip into town and the engine makes a big clunk and the accelerator just gives up. I do what any self respecting woman would do. I start crying and call my Dad.

He tells me to stop crying and coast the car into a safe place so I coast it into the doctors surgery car park. Can't get much safer than that right?

He then hops into his car and calls the RAC or whichever manly car person he was using at the time and they all come to my rescue in a hail of shiny working vehicles while I stand snivelling at the side of my car begging him to get better and work. Of course it's become a 'him' now that it doesn't work cos we all know how reliable men are.

Sweeping sexism aside, the men come to my aide and the knight of the road opens the car bonnet and prods around a bit making the sort of noises doctors make when they tell you you have days to live. I imagine.

"It's your flibberty gibbet" He says shaking his head sorrowfully. He didn't actually use the words flibberty gibbet but I can't remember what the actual name of the thing was so we'll stick with that for the minute. "Yeah, your flibberty gibbet has gone mad and killed all the other little flibberty gibbets and the car has died"

This is when I start crying again, I mean, my first car didn't even last a week! The knight slunk off to the safety of his truck to do 'the paperwork' as my Dad and I had a little memorial in the doctors car park for my deceased car before arranging for him to go to the big scrap yard in the sky with the knight.

My next car wasn't much better. As I needed a car to get to work and my Dad was running out of clean t- shirts where I was boo hooing on hiim so much he arranged for me to have a car off of his brother. Now if you've ever seen the show "Only Fools and Horses" and thought that Del Boy was an ideal person to buy a car off you would have thought this was a good idea as well. If you haven't seen the show then what the hell have you been doing? It's an iconic piece of British TV history you cabbage! Oh well, you'll just have to follow along the best you can won't you. Let me know if we're going too fast....

Anyway, we buy this car for about £150 so I'm thinking, 'ok, this one has to be better. Three digits to the price, must be good'. Regardless of the fact that you have to hold the gearstick in reverse, the back windows don't open, the boot can be opened by any key in the world and the rear view mirror is held on by what I hope is pink coloured blue tack.

This car does slightly better, it lasts for about six months until one day there is an ominous clanking and the car loses power. Luckily I am not travelling down a motorway at 70 miles an hour but I am on quite a busy bus route and some of the drivers language is illuminating to say the least. I discover that I can't use any of the forward gears but reverse is working fine which is useless unless I want to drive backwards all the way home. I have a sneaky feeling I'd get arrested for that so what do I do?

That's right, I cry and call my Dad and say "shall we just take it to a garage?"

He says "Nay! I shall fix it for I am Dad and can fix cars, broken dreams and electrical items. I can also remove the lids from stubborn jam jars for I AM DAD"

I sigh and attach the tow rope to the front of my ailing blue beast (the car, my Dad's not an ailing blue beast) and he attaches his end of the tow rope to his shiny red stallion (again, his car) and we set off in a two car procession while I scare passing motorists with the 'look no hands and no feet' routine.

We get to the parents home and this is where it all goes a bit wrong. The shiny red car glides happily into the driveway whereas the backwards blue car gets stuck on the camber of the pavement and refuses to go any further.

SuperDad gets out of his car and motions for me to get out and push the car over the camber of the pavement and safely into the driveway. Which I do. However, we had overlooked one tiny point.

If I get out of the car and push it into the driveway, who is going to stop the car once it is in position as I will be behind the car and nowhere near the brakes?

Hmm. Tricky. As this realisation is dawning on me and I see blue car trundling fairly quickly towards red car I make a run for it and dive towards the open door of blue car to try and pull the hand brake up. Unfortunately SuperDad had the same idea and we collided like conkers.


Needless to say SuperDad is pretty pissed off now. Not only has he got an Ally shaped bruise on his head, his shiny red car has been rear ended by an eminently inferior model that has scratched shiny red cars shiny-ness off. With a growl and a 'stay there' look at me, he throws open the door, launches himself into blue cars uncomfortable seat, wrestles the gear stick into reverse and slams his foot on to the accelerator.

Unfortunately, blue car is still attached to red car and SuperDad has no idea of the strength of his actions. Blue car, happy to be working again, zooms backwards with an excited 'weeeeeeeeeee'. The driver door is still open so as blue car careens out of the drive way the door catches on the wall and flies into the front garden missing my head by inches as I throw myself to the floor dramatically.

Red cars bumper sits solidly behind red car and takes the force like a man while blue cars front bumper is ripped off and lays helplessly on the concrete while blue car shoots across the road, missing a bus load of old age pensioners on their way to Bingo by a blue rinsed hairs breadth. Blue car, still happy to be moving is only stopped by the sturdy wall of the opposite neighbours side garden as his back bumper crumples like paper and his excited whoops are silenced when SuperDad takes his foot off the accelerator and exits stage right scratching his head in an 'I don't know what just happened' kind of way.

I gingerly walk over to him wondering how I will feel if there is any blood and reminding myself that I am a Veterinary Nurse. I can cope with anything.

Luckily there is no blood just the battered remains of blue car still humming away like an insane mosquito. I drag the blue bumper still attached to the rope (which some kids have now stolen and used as a rope swing) out of the driveway and onto the garden out of the way while we wordlessly push blue car back into the driveway making sure that I get into the car before the camber of the pavement so that I can put the brakes on before red car sustains another injury.

I used SuperDads house key to open blue cars boot, removed my gubbins and put the drivers side door in before phoning the knight to come and take yet another car to the big scrap yard in the sky. Well, in Botley but you know.

Answer me damnit!

OK, so most of this stuff never happened. Some of the people are based on real people but I never did any of this stuff to them. Cos I'm not a psycho.

The girl in the bar
was chatty and fun
and gave me her number that night.
She said "This was fun,
we must do it again, 
be sure to text me alright?"

So I text her next week
to say "fancy a meet?"
And she text back to say "Sure"
So I text back to say
"What time and what day?"
And then she text back no more

The next time I saw her
I grated her face
and chopped her tongue out with a knife
and told her "If someone sends you a text,
be sure to reply cos you're lucky to escape with your life!"

Then there was the man
who I thought was quite cute
so I wrote him a sweet little note.
I waited some time
for a reply to my rhyme
with my tummy all squiggly with hope.

As the weeks went by 
with no whisper or sign
I thought "Maybe he just hasn't read it"
So I pulled on my coat,
set off down the road
and went along to pay him a visit.

To say he wasn't surprised
would be a big lie
cos he actually looked fairly stunned
I said "Have you read it,
my sweet little message?"
He said "Yes" so I got out my gun.




I shot him in the face
at point blank range
getting brains all over my dress.
I told him politely
if he'd replied to my message
he wouldn't be in this fine mess.

Cos if I take the time
to compose you a rhyme
the least you can do is reply.
It takes two seconds to say
"Thanks but no thanks,
it was lovely to meet you.
Goodbye" 

No point to this one, just rambling

Well, we've come to the end of another weekend, not as great as the last one but did meet some fantastic people as well as some knob heads but that's just par for the course in this day and age I guess.
I met a girl who was over here from Guernsey (I know, poor her right?!) She's so tiny you could fit her right in your pocket. It makes me feel like gigantor but never mind, at least I don't have to worry about wearing heels around her hey!
I also gave a guy another chance to make a good impression at which he failed at miserably. I'm not saying that I need to be courted, impressed and wooed by new friends or potential bed mates (of which he is neither) but a bit of courtesy in this mad world does make a huge difference.
The first time I ever met this guy he came to meet me straight from having dialysis. He asked me if I knew what dialysis was and I was like "duh, I'm a vet nurse of course I know what dialysis is" although I said it in a more polite and socially acceptable way at which point he looked all disappointed like a dog who has had a sausage waved in front of his face (of the meat kind, you dirty minded miscreants!) and then seen said sausage disappear into the meaty mouth of his owner. Come on you all do it. At which point the conversation seemed to stumble slightly as you could see his brain searching lists of conversational topics which didn't involve dialysis.
Turns out there was none.
After the preliminaries, you know, what do you do? Nothing at the minute, I'm having dialysis, the conversation reached it's final death throes and we sat there staring at each other for what seemed like decades. I was on the point of faking an epileptic fit just to get out of there when the alarm on my phone went and I gleefully passed it off as "the emergency phone call" thankful  that my alarm sounds just like a ring tone. Don't judge me.
I know you've all done that too. Got a friend to call you half an hour after you go on a date with someone so if they do turn out to be crazier than Russell Brand on acid with the looks of a Gordon setter you can just high tail it out of there with a sunny "sorry my friends hamster just attacked her! Went straight for the jugular, gonna have to get her to A and E pretty sharpish so she can have her tetanus jabs so her head doesn't fall off" and then canter off into the sunset without a backward glance shaking the guilt off like misplaced rain drops.

Now, luckily this wasn't a date. It was a meeting of two people who on paper seemed to have similar interests to bring happiness in small increments into a world that is about as friendly as cancer.
I met him to have someone to go kayaking with which seemed like a sensible idea seeing as I have never been kayaking before and wanted to have someone there who a) knew what they were doing and b) would be able to record my last will and testament if I was pitched over the side and sunk like a stone to the bottom of ole Davey Jones locker. Why they call it that I don't know but still, that person could tell my mum to look after Ringo, divvy up my meagre possessions amongst my closest friends and referee the fight over who gets to keep Slash.
So, that's why I wasn't too bothered that he seemed to be a big dull dud. Plenty of fish in the sea so to speak. Actually he wasn't a big dull dud, he was a small dull dud. About the size of a hobbit but still a dull dud nonetheless. It was as though his illness defined him which is what I have found about people who are ill. I noticed it with my Dad as well when he came out of hospital and would announce cheerfully to anyone within hearing range "I've just had an operation" and many a time we've had to shuffle him away, crimson with embarrassment, muttering "they don't want to see your scar Dad".
And if it's someone you care about, you tend not to mind because yes, it has been a big thing in your life as well. You've lived through it too but when it's someone you've only just met, hoping to find some common ground, well...you just couldn't give a fuck really could you?
Be honest.
The only reason you engage that person is to be polite and what you're really thinking is "Oh God, how do I get out of this conversation without seeming like a callous, uncaring bastard? I wonder what to do for tea tonight? Ooo the new series of Dexter is on" and so on until you notice that they've finished and are waiting for your input at which point you just mumble an insincere "ooo I know" said in a northern accent of course and start winding the conversation to a hurried close.

Anyway, he contacted me again a few weeks ago saying that he was arranging a couch surfers meeting on the island (look up couch surfers, it's totally awesome) and would I like to be involved?
I thought, meh. It can't be that bad there will be other people there so it won't be like I have to keep the conversation going all by myself, there may even be some interesting people there so I said yes and arranged to meet at the weekend. Also all part of my new "lets say yes to things to have a more interesting and varied life" thing. Working wonderfully at the moment I don't think.

It didn't start off too well. He messaged everyone in the group saying that we were going to the battle of flowers and if anyone couldn't get into town to get a ticket to message him and he would pick one up. Seeing as I work weird hours and don't get into town very often I thought well, seeing as he's going in anyway I will see if he can pick one up for me too so I sent him a message to that effect and got the reply "sorry, I don't live or work anywhere near town so you'll have to get your own".

Strange, I thought. Why would you offer to do something that you clearly couldn't do? But, no matter. I shrugged it off and said it's OK, I'll buy my ticket on the door. Mildly irritating like thrush but you just shrug it off.
On the day of the battle, I turned up at the meeting place and there was no one there so I called dialysis guy (lets give him what he wants; a definition of himself by his illness) who said they were running late and would be there soon. I was with some other people as well, I thought the more the merrier so I said well we'll go in and meet you in there and I gave them directions to where we were standing.

A bit later I get a phone call asking where we were (I just told you that but never mind) so I told him and he says "Oh we're on the other side and it's easier for you to move than for me to try and move ten people" as if they were cows or window lickers not in full control of their own capabilities but again, only a mild irritation, so off I go, dog in hand again to find the missing couch surfers. A bit like wheres wally without the stripey jumpers. We meet and he hugs me on my arrival which I thought was a bit strange but went with it thinking maybe the first day we met he was having an off day. He had just come from dialysis after all.

I didn't really talk that much to him that night which was a bit of a relief but I did meet the girl from Guernsey so it was a nice night prettily rounded off by some lovely fireworks.

The next day we had arranged to go for a BBQ but the weather wasn't amazing so I didn't think it would be happening so I text DG (Dialysis Guy for those of you who haven't been paying attention) and asked if they were still at the tower and all I got back was "well, we are at Big Vern's"
Seriously, that was all. I started to get a bit brassed off with it all then so I didn't bother to reply thinking I'm not going to chase this ignorant ass round the island plus I didn't have a lot of credit and didn't want to waste it on him so I left it.
That night we had all arranged to go to the Splash and watch some bands, Rick being one of them and I had already got my ticket so off I toddled on my lonesome which is OK, I don't actually mind being by myself. I'd rather be by myself than in the company of idiots.
It was all going rather well and then the couch surfers turned up and it continued to go rather well seeing as I couldn't really hear what DG was saying given the difference in time zones between our heights. Sorry, that was mean. What I meant to say was that it was loud and I couldn't bend down enough to hear what he was saying. STOP IT!!!

Anyway, I had a lovely time with Guernsey Girl, we exchanged phone numbers and nurtured our fledgling friendship like a little baby bird and when Lloyd Yates came on I decided it was time to go as they are a bit of a yawn fest. Plus I was hungry not having had a BBQ that day.

The next day was sunnier and GG (Guernsey Girl- keep up will you) had said that they might try the BBQ that day as it looked nicer so I called her once I had finished interviewing Israel Cannan (you can check that out on Ringo meets next week) and asked what the plan was. She said they were going to ouaisne beach (however the fuck you spell that!) and I said OK cool, where abouts is that?
She said "you're asking me??!!" and promptly handed the phone over to DG whereupon my day got a lot worse.
He said (and I'm pretty much quoting verbatim here) "You'll have to look at a map because I'm a local and would have different land marks than you so it'll be easier for you to just look at a map and find it for yourself OK?" and then he passed the phone back to GG without even waiting for me to utter a response.

"Easier for who?" I thought. Anyone who knows me at all knows of my complete inability to read a map and my absolute lack of any sense of direction. I've even got lost in a car park for Pete's sake so this information was entirely useless to me. Not to mention the fact that I was parked in a lay-by with no map and no Internet access which made his "look on google maps" even more frustrating. The thing is, I know how to get to ouaisne, I just didn't know where they were going to be so what I really wanted was a landmark to meet them by. Maybe I should have made that clearer but I thought it would be universally understood that if you're meeting someone you say "I'll meet you by the such and such" so that there wouldn't be any confusion or abundance of lost souls wandering aimlessly, clutching their hair screeching "but he said meet at the beach, but where on the beach? Where?"

Needless to say this pissed me off and I was in no mood to go and find the sodding beach so I just said to GG "You know what, lets keep in touch, I'll come to Guernsey, you come to Jersey, we'll meet up and have a good time without that little Gollum man"

She was pretty understanding so I went off to play some guitar in an angry manner and when I got home I got a text from DG hobbit man saying " Ouaisne beach, google maps" That was all it said, the arrogant little fucker.

So I sent him a message back saying "Condescending twat, wikkipedia"

I think he got the message.

The most amazing weekend

Well, I've got to say that I've just had one of the best weekends ever. It started on Friday I went up to Durrell to watch a performance of the most Scotish of Scottish plays; Macbeth. It was hilarious! Which is no mean feat with one of Shakesperes darkest plays but Oddsocks pulls it off wonderfully with some fantastic Scottish accents and lots of audience participation which I love!

Then on Saturday I went to Jersey Fish Festival where I played on the small stage for about half an hour although I don't think many people were actually listening but Jersey Bob gave me a free gate pass and a pass to the hospitality tent which was a little bit awesome to be honest. I did feel like a bit of a fraud sat up there with all the proper musicians cos I still don't actually believe I'm that good. It still feels as though people are just being polite. A little bit like "Aw go on, let the lil window licker sing. She bought a guitar along, give her a go!" Still think people clap at the end as a relief that I've finished but anyhow it was still cool. They fed me crab and lobster and cheese and grapes and even gave me free wine so I just kept quiet about being an imposter and accepted it all very gratefully.

Living it up with the pirate dog in the hospitality suite!

It was in the VIP (ha ha) area that I met Dave. A musican with the greatest beard I've seen in a long time (I kept wanting to touch it but people think you're strange if you do that). Dave is from New Zealand so don't ask him what part of Australia he's from, he gets a little upset by that. He took some great shots of Ringo the pirate dog and we chatted for a while about inconsequential crap. I don't remember the details but he seemed like a nice guy.

Ringo had a great day too.....

He sat on the stage behind me while I played waiting patiently for me to throw his sock. I did explain that I was a little busy but he was having none of it. I actually think he got more attention than I did. Everyone walking past was like "mmm, singer? Oh look at the dog, isn't he cute, how adorable, what singer?"
Then splats of rain came so I finished up and went off to find the hospitality tent, dog in one hand, guitar in the other and I bump into Murray Norton; radio presenter and owner of one of the nicest resteraunts in Jersey.
He asks me if I'm going to perform and I tell him I've already done it and he says "oh that's a shame but we can talk to you anyway" so I say "sure" then stand around for a bit while he talks to someone chattering away in his ear (live on radio I presume) then we have a little chat and once again I do believe I came across like the village idiot because the pressure builds, the excitement rises, I become a rabbit in the headlights and can say.............



fuck all.

Well, I don't mean I said nothing and just stood there staring at him like a deaf mute, I mean that all that came out of my mouth may well have been jibbering nonsense but I don't know because when I came to out of my waking coma he was off down the pier to talk to the nutters launching themselves into the harbour with their homemade flying devices.
I shrugged it off womanfully and head off to find the hospitality tent and the free wine.
Oh and Ringo had a great day too playing with the kids and adults and a plastic cup. Who says you need expensive dog toys?!

SUNDAY!!!
On Sunday I woke up and did the obligatory facebook check and saw that mejulie said there was surf so I checked to see that they were Ally sized waves (ie not going to kill me sized waves) and went off to play in the water in my new wetsuit that I only just discovered fitted that morning as the last time I tried it on I was totally hungover and too feeble to do anything other than pull it just past my knees before collapsing in a dehydrated crumple on the living room floor.

So, bodyboard in hand (not graduated to proper surfboard yet) I went down to St Ouens hoping that the real surfers wouldn't laugh at me or kill me in a point break kind of way.
After surfing (well, I say surfing, I really just stand in the sea with a wetsuit and a board while the waves hit me) I go and collect my guitar from Ricks house as he very kindly took it home for me as I was getting too inebriated on free wine to walk home with it plus dog. It would have made life slightly more difficult.

I then realise that I hadn't thought things through very well. I mean, there it was, 1pm and I'm due to sing at 2.30pm at Regstock 4 and I have swallowed half the ocean and snorted the other half up my nose. Not in a "lets get high in a natural way" but in an "I've been battered by waves too big to be funny" kind of way. But I soldier on and get to Regs garden and do my thing while some nice hippy couple look after Ringo. Everyone was really nice and said it sounded goo (really???) but I'm still terrified and wondering if the audience would notice if I vomit up the fear and carry on regardless?

Anyway, Ringo and I stay the day and he makes loads of new friends by basically just barging up to people and demanding that they throw the ball for him and I sit there, lil billy no mates like some ugly sister who no one wants to dance with at the school disco. I reckon if he had a facebook page, he'd have way more friends than me in no time at all.

Oh, and it seems we have gone full circle too. Biker guy turned up in a silly hat (but we like silly hats) and once again I sat across the ampitheatre from him not saying anything and surreptitiously glancing  over at him when he wasn't looking and still too chicken to go and say hi. Although, if you've blown someone out, it's your job to go and say hi if you see them otherwise how do they know if they're still allowed to talk to you? If I went and said hi would he think that I was stalking him? I still like him cos I'm a twat and he seems to have been relegated to pushbike guy but that doesn't sound as good so the name stays. And he does look fit in his biking outfit.

Sigh.

The death of childhood

We all have that defining moment when our childhood comes shuddering to a halt and we have to face the fact that it's not all banana milkshakes, soggy chocolate cake and dressing up as rainbow bright but I had managed to push mine into the dark recesses of my brain where I store useless information such as the Pythagoras theory, who Henry the eighths wives were and the fact that the egg Mcmuffin was invented by a man called Ed Peterson.

It only came screaming back to me when one of our receptionists at work (Sarah) was telling the story of the couple who lived above her.

One evening her and her boyfriend were sat at home enjoying a bottle of wine together when Sarah heard a noise. She and her boyfriend looked at each other and carried on, not thinking much about it. Then they heard it again and Sarah did what most of us would do in that situation; she turned the TV down for a proper listen.

At that point the words "Get on your hands and knees" swiftly followed by rhythmic banging that can only be attributed to one thing came floating down from the upstairs flat.

Mortified, Sarah and her boyfriend turned the TV back up and pretended that their ears had not just been violently assaulted whereas if that had been me, I would have started jumping up and down on my own bed making energetic sex noises so that they would realise they could be heard and stop or they wouldn't have cared whereupon we would have been locked in a noisy sex versus fake sex competition. Oh, and I probably should have mentioned that the upstairs neighbours are well into their sixties which makes the whole situation even more cringe worthy.

This story in the staff room gave way to all sorts of embarrassing sex stories (love the stuff we talk about at work), then it was my turn and I recounted the following story which left my childhood as broken and battered as an unloved train set.

When I was a kid, probably about nine or ten, I used to go out and see my friends and my parents would tell me to be back at a certain time or when the streetlamps came on depending on the time of year but sometimes I would come back early and find that the front door was locked. Very strange thought my juvenile brain seeing as most of the time, if my parents were in the front door always remained unlocked but being very naive at that age (and who wouldn't be!?) I didn't really think too much of it.

Until one day.

One day, I was cold or I wanted to build a den or something so I  decided to go and get a blanket from the drawer under my parents bed. I innocently opened the drawer and took out the top blanket when something fell from the folds of the cloth.

It was a Polaroid.

Now, had I just picked the Polaroid up from where it lay face down on the floor and put it straight back into the drawer my childhood would probably have remained intact for a good few years until my friend and her boyfriend started having special time underneath the duvet that we were all sharing while watching My Girl one rainy Sunday afternoon or until the time when I bumped into creepy David on the way home one afternoon and he tried to shove his hands down my pants whereupon I punched him in the face so hard that one of his front teeth came out and embedded itself in my knuckle.

But I've always been an inquisitive sort of person so my hand reached out and plucked the Polaroid from the beige coloured carpet, turned the picture over and burned my retinas with a picture that my brain has erased from my memory seeing as it was something that a ten year old should not see especially in her parents bedroom.

I think I must have sat there in slack jawed silence for a few seconds although it felt like decades had come and gone before deciding that I had had enough of holding a picture of my dads willy and chucked it back in the drawer fighting back tears and the urge to vomit.

But wait, there's more....

Surely not! I hear you cry. Surely that's enough to send even the happiest child down the dark spirals of despair but no dear reader, there's more.

As I flung the Polaroid back into the drawer my eyes were drawn to the corner of the drawer where lying innocently was a rubber contraption, white with little nobbles on it, a string of beads which looked like a pearl necklace but wasn't bendy, it was all straight and rigid and what looked suspiciously like one of those egg shaped fridge fresheners but with a string dangling from one end.

At this point I was debating whether a den was worth all this trauma or whether I needed the den to go and hide myself in for twenty to thirty years to recover from the shock.

I decided to go with plan A and stuffed the blanket back in the drawer and went and made a den in the woods with far less dangerous objects such as sticks, stones and left over pieces of barbed wire.

Ode to what??

This song is never played at open mic nights because it's just too embarrassing! It was written in response to listening to everyone singing about how great their boy/girl friends are and I thought "well, I can't do that cos I don't have one" and I remembered a writing workshop I went on once where we had to write an ode to something  normal so I just took that one step further and wrote this. I'm not going to tell you what it's an ode to, I'm pretty sure you're all clever people and can figure it out yourselves.

Dating hell- a Katy Perry parody.

This song came about after a series of very bad dating experiences. My friend was raving about a well known dating website and said "ooo why don't you have a go, what have you got to lose?"

 My self respect and faith in human kind apparently but hindsight is a wonderful thing and like a lamb to the slaughter I created a profile that was both honest and engaging for that is me! Ha! No, really. Anyways, I got a few responses and being the polite well mannered person that I am, I answered them all even if it was to say "No thanks, I really don't feel like tying you up in bondage gear or meeting in a secluded car park in the New Forest and no, I don't have my own ball gag" but it's the ones who made it past the initial screening process that freaked me out. The fact that they can appear so normal (well, normal-ish) and then turn out to be crazier than Norman Bates on acid!
I mean, I'm a tolerant person but seriously, what person in their right mind thinks it's OK to ask a veterinary nurse if she's ever had sex with her own dog? Or say that she really should try it and they would love to join in? Who does that??!!

I mean weird sex is OK, who doesn't like the odd bit of spanking and a bit of damsel in distress tied to the bed post action but doggy sex? No freaking way. He tried to back out of it, say he was joking but even so, you don't joke about that with someone you have only just met.

There was another guy who was really sweet but he was in his late forties and was obsessed with his motor bike. He messaged me every day asking how my day was, what I had done and if I had any plans for the evening and I thought "Aw bless, he's just lonely and wants to talk" but jeez did he go on and on about his motorbike! I know nothing about motorbikes so my questions and interest in it ran out after "what colour is it and is it a Harley?" That's it. That's the extent of my knowledge on the subject. At one point I thought he was going to tell me he was one of those guys who put padding around the exhaust pipe and called the bike Miranda.

Then came the guy who seemed OK at first, we'd exchanged a couple of messages and then he came out with "Do you fuck on the first date?"
Bit shocked but I thought "OK at least he knows what he wants from the experience" so I politely told him that no, I don't remove any bits of clothing on the first date apart from my cardigan if I get too hot or my shoes if you take me bowling so he then asked "what about make a video of giving a blow job?"

Seriously??!!

I won't take my clothes off on a first date but yeah, stick the camcorder on, whip your cock out and let the good times roll!! WTF!? I like to think he was just kidding but the dark place in my heart tells me that no, these people are actually out there and he really didn't think that filming me giving him a blow job was that big a deal.

Then there was the guy who actually bought his sister on our first meeting. I'm all for being safe when meeting strangers but she was fifteen. He bought her a glass of coke and we sat in the pub garden under her watchful gaze for about 20 minutes (the time it takes to finish a pint) and then oh no, what do you know? I had a family emergency that I had to leave for right away. I figured he'd understand seeing as he was obviously close to his family.

There was the guy who was married but it was OK, his wife dated other people and if I was up for it, all three of us could go on a date (???), then there was the guy who was still living with his ex and sharing a single bed because she had no where else to go.

Looking back on it, I'm amazed that I left my profile on there for as long as I did but I guess I really wanted to believe that yes there are weirdos out there but I can't be a beacon for all of them? Surely one of them must be a decent person with no extreme love for animals (a love of animals is OK but let them lick themselves!) someone who wants to get to know a person, who's not out to just get laid or recruit cheap labour for an adult film. Turns out, I really am a magnet for the disturbed so it looks like I really will have to buy a dozen more cats and snakes, stop washing and piss myself every now and then and become the crazy cat lady.

A note about this song; I recorded this when I was very hungover and using my phone so the quality is not amazing but it's the words that are important. Enjoy. xoxox

Look at the shiny new buttons!

If you like this please share it using the shiny new buttons I found. Can't you just tell technology baffles me! I can't believe 233 people have read my blog. Mind you it's probably just my mum reading to find out what I've been up to so she can berate me for not contacting her more and for being a very bad girl. Sorry mum.

Chapter one. The shallow man with the big cock.

I'm such a bad blogger, over two months since I last posted but I have just been having too much fun. I do have a story to tell though.

I don't think I told you about Biker Guy. Some of you know but anyway, there was this guy who I saw when I first got to the island. I was at Regs Garden watching some music in the sunshine and I noticed this guy sitting there who piqued my interest a little. Being a massive scaredy cat I did nothing and fantasied about him for about 6 months romanticising what could have been if I hadn't been such a yellow belly.

6 months later I am at a bar watching Rick Jones do his thing (he's a singer and guitar player by the way not a Chippendale although maybe he could work that into his act and give the bored housewives of the rock some extra entertainment. I might mention that next time I see him. Or maybe not) anyway, watching Rick and go to get a beer at the bar and who is stood in front of me? If you didn't guess Biker Guy (who we will now refer to as BG) then you are stupid and need to go and do some brain training and come back when you have more brain cells. If you thought "BG" then well done you, you can keep reading cos it gets better.

I do a bit of a double take because you know it's been 6 months and I want to be really sure that it's him but yup it really is and then I panic. "What to do now?" I ask myself. No, not out loud as that's a good way to get sectioned but in my weird head. I do the only thing I can do which is text Josephina something along the lines of; "OMG BG is here. What do I do?"

She text back something unhelpful like "Er, say hello"

I mean if I could do that I wouldn't have needed to ask for help in the first place would I because that would mean I was one of those confident girls who can just go up and say hi to guys in bars. That's quite a lot to put in a text so I just put "I can't do that" and she started texting back equally unhelpful suggestions such as "say that's a nice jumper, it would look better on my floor" and such like.

By the time I had realised that Josephina was going to be of no help whatsoever, Hamster had started a drunken conversation with him. Not as helpful as you might think seeing as Hamster is one of those girls that men just fall over themselves to get to. She has men falling at her feet when ever we go out. We can't venture anywhere without mens jaws hitting the floor, coming up to chat and going all gooey eyed at her. It's not just that she's pretty with big boobies (which are about the same as mine I reckon) it's just that she has this quality. I can't put my finger on it but if we could bottle it, we would make a fucking fortune

Anyway, I manage to get into a conversation with BG and somehow the conversation turns to kung fu and karate and debating which one is better. I maintain that I prefer karate but he's of the "I like kung fu" school of thought. I think I probably said something like kung fu's rubbish, karate's better (yes I know, scintillating conversation but I was about 4 pints in by this point) and that I missed karate because I didn't know anyone on the rock who did the style that I like. To which he replied that he knew someone who taught karate and he would check which style it was.

We're getting a bit bogged down in detail at the moment so I'll just say that it was the style I liked and he gave the number of the instructor. So we chat for a bit longer, all the while Mr. Jones is still doing his thing, oblivious of the drama in the corner and I ask if he's going to the rock night after and he says "Fuck yeah!" A bit too enthusiastically for my liking so I ask if he's being sarcastic and he's all like "No way, I love rock night" so I say"great, that's where we're going you want to walk with us?" or something like that. So at the end of Ricks set (which was awesome, as ever) we set off, a little drunken quintet, me trying not to appear too drunk and attempting some normal conversation so I can come across as alluring and potential girlfriend material to BG.

Needless to say, this doesn't work as we split off into our original groups once we get to the rock night but in spite of this I have a great night dancing to some decent music for the first time since I came to the rock. Before I know it, it's the end of the night and I am pretty much twatted and it seems like a good idea to stay behind after my friends leave because I haven't got BG yet and being an only child not getting what I want doesn't sit well with me. So I drunkenly jabber away to him, God only knows what I was wittering about but it worked as we left together arm in arm, got into a taxi and went back to my house.



Anyway, in the morning he went all weird saying he was to old for me which was strange as he didn't even know how old I was and that he'd just got out of a big relationship and blah blah blah. So I just said "relax please, lets keep this in perspective. Lets have a bit of fun and see what happens" and by that I meant lets keep having fun and see where it leads not that was great see you around sometime but being hungover and tired I couldn't articulate that.

So he left and I spent the next few days boring my friends to death with "Why didn't I give him my number?" conversations. In the end Hamster said "why don't you try and find him on facebook?" This is where it might get a little stalkerish.

I already knew his name (which I am not going to divulge here just in case he reads this which is highly unlikely but not outside the realms of possibility) which I got from the karate instructor guy so I did what any self respecting stalker does and typed his name into facebook and sent him the following message:

• Please read, if anything it'll give you a giggle...
  Hi, I realise this could come across as quite stalkerish but I have a reasonable explanation: I was messaging .... about the Karate and mentioned that some guy called BG had given me his number and I hoped that he didn't mind and he asked "BG who?" So I said "I dunno, tall guy, long hair, glasses..." and he said "Oh it must be ..... cos that's the only BG I know"
  
  So I mulled this over for a while and thought that actually I hadn't made that good a first impression and seeing as I don't go out all that often it wasn't likely that I would get a second chance so I thought I'd look you up on Facebook, yes I know that's where it gets a little stalkeresque but I firmly believe that we regret the actions that we didn't take rather than the actions that we did so even though your Facebook profile is locked up tighter than a nuns knickers I thought I'd send the message anyway.
  
  (By the way, if you're not the guy I met on Saturday night, could you stop reading now? I'd like my humiliation to be contained to the right person!)
  
  Anyway, I know that I said it's just a bit of fun when you were getting all self deprecating and I meant that but it came out a bit wrong. What I meant was; can we forget(ish) what happened Saturday night and start over, sober. I'd really like to get to know you better and see how it goes. I'm not saying I want a serious relationship or anything like that cos if it transpires that once we get to know one another it's the wrong thing, then I know I won't have any regrets.
  
  So...if you fancy meeting for a coffee (actually tea) sometime then give me a text on (put my number but you're not getting it)
  
  
  And if this has weirded you out, don't worry, I'm much better with the written word than I am at actually saying the words out loud so chances are, if you don't reply then I would never say anything to you if I see you again anyway.
  
  Sorry, realise that was a bit of an epic but I do tend to ramble if left to my own devices. It could have been much worse!
  See, not too bad, fairly light hearted and breezy!
  I waited a few days and no reply and although I am a self confessed pessimist most of the time I get quite optimistic about my love life. It's quite pitiful really. A bit like a puppy that gets kicked all the time and then one day gets given a piece of cheese and spends the rest of the time getting kicked and wondering when the next piece of cheese is coming. So I think to myself "OK maybe he didnt' get the message, maybe he doesn't go on facebook that often. Some people actually have a life and others don't have a computer so maybe he hasn't read it yet.
  To me, not replying to a message is complete anathema to my soul (is that the right word?) Anyway, I just don't get it, if someone has taken the time to compose a message to you be it a letter, an e mail or a text, it just seems like the height of rudeness not to acknowledge it even if it's to say "sorry you remind me of the beast of Brighton and I would never go for coffee with you even if you were the last hairy back on earth" I mean that would hurt but at least you'd know right?. It would be like ripping of a plaster, quick and stings like fuck but once the stinging fades you get right back on that bike until the next owie. Probably not the best metaphor but I digress again.
  
  OK, now this is actually where it gets slightly stalkerish but again, if he had just answered my message it wouldn't have driven me insane. An unanswered message is one of the most irritating things ever. Even a message with bad spelling and grammar would be better than no message:
  
  "i h8 u fk of n dy"
  
  Again, at least you'd know. Anyway, I decide to go and find him because I know where he teaches some of his crappy kung fu so I go and wait outside his class and to say that he looked shocked to see me there is another understatement but all I wanted to was to get to know him a bit better, go for a drink and find out a bit more about him. It may have turned out that after a few meetings he was the most boring man on the planet but at least you'd know! That's what I hate, the not knowing. I also wanted to make a better first impression. I hate meeting people when I'm drunk because it gives entirely the wrong impression. I come across as a real fun loving happy go lucky party girl which is so not me. I'm one of the most cynical pessimists you'll ever meet. Hamster has been trying to teach me to be more optimistic but it's not working so far and I doubt it ever will.
  
  I mean, yes I like to go out and have drink but I would much rather sit in with someone who I love most of the time (tolerate the rest), cook a nice dinner, have some wine and watch supernatural while they make as many cups of tea as I like providing witty banter and "in" jokes but when you've only just moved somewhere how else are you supposed to meet people if you don't go out once in a while?
  
  I'm not a party girl. I write in a diary for gods sake! I write poetry, I have scars on my body that can't be explained in a rational way, I'm much deeper than I come across if you meet me when I'm drunk but do you think I could find the words to convey this to BG? Nope. Written word I can do, spoken word, forget it. Tongue tied, gibbering fool.
  
  Anyway, to draw this epic to a close, I asked him out, he said no giving some lame ass excuse like; I'm too old, I have no money, I'm an angry man blah blah blah. In essence he'd made a snap judgement on me and wasn't prepared to find out if his preconceptions were right which I somehow don't think they are which means he's just a shallow man with a big cock.
  
  Shame.
  
  
  

It sucks to be a woman

It sucks to be a woman

I think you will agree

that a lot of what we go through 

seems un-necessary.

It starts quite early on

with the development of tits

and the school shirt you started with

no longer really fits.

Your Dad gets quite embarrassed

When you ask "what's going on?"

He gets all red faced and mumbles

stuff like "Go and ask your Mum"

 Your Mums not any better

She just shoves you in the car

after hugging you triumphantly

Shrieking "Lets go and buy a bra!"

We march with purpose through Tyrell and Green

through an unknown world of silk and lace

where woman in suits carry tape measures

and have too much make up on their face.

Then we get to periods

almost as awkward to say as go through

As like countless times before

you go and sit innocently on the loo

and the bog roll comes away bloody 

and you think you're going to die

and wonder do I call for help

or just sit here and cry?

You opt for the middle ground

stuffing paper down your keks

as you roll into a little ball

sobbing, trying to catch your breath.

Your Dad comes banging on the door

wondering what the hell you've done.

You tell him you're bleeding profusely

He says "I'll go and get your Mum"

Your Mum mops away your tears

And tells you you'll be fine

and that you're going to bleed like this

every month til the end of time

or at least until the menopause

when everything dries up

which is information overload

and you run to the sink to upchuck.

She then brings out a box

of the most enormous pads,

tells you to put it in your knickers

and then pull up your pants.

 It's like having a giant mattress

stuffed between your legs.

You're walking like John Wayne

wondering when it's going to end.

Then we get to dating

when we finally notice boys

but have to compete for their affections

with their silly little toys.

And then we finally pick one

that we actually like,

we spend our time obsessing,

asking questions through the night.

"Will he call or won't he?"

"Why did he say he would?"

"Why didn't he take my number,

when it's obvious he should?"

 

And when he finally calls

You're as happy as can be

You stay together through the years

'til he gets on bended knee

and asks for your hand in marriage,

for you to be his wife

and then you have to plan

the biggest day of your life!

You have to sort the venue,

the catering and the dress.

You have to sort the quarrels

and social rifts between the guests.

You have to stop the mothers'

muscling in on your big day

and keep the peace with everyone

who wants to have their say.

And then the day arrives

you're so nervous you could be sick

and pray that after all those fittings

the bloody dress still fits,

After the wedding comes babies

and you fight over one or two

and the first one is on it's way 

so there's nothing you can do.

Your water breaks on your new rug

The labour pains have started.

And you wonder if you shit yourself

when you accidentally farted.

Everyone tells you to breathe

and that you'll be just fine

but you growl and hiss and spit and swear

that this will be the last time

"You ever get your hands on me,

you total fucking cunt!"

As the watermelon sized baby

comes out a pea sized hole with a grunt.

Your pelvis splits, your fanny rips

with legs in stirrups, spread wide.

As you look down on that tiny face

and your insides burst with pride.

And then you have to watch 

while that bundle of joy grows up

and you'll teach her that being a woman

doesn't actually suck that much.