Jason Derulo – Lyrical Genius

jd02

It’s no secret that I love Jason Derulo and I refuse to be embarrassed by this. Anyone who can sing about trumpets – possibly the stupidest, most un-sexy instrument in the world – and get away with it will always have my respect. The man is hilarious and I’m tired of people writing him off as just another shitty, pop cunt who feels the need to tell people his name at the beginning of every song. He is so much more than that and using a selection of some of my favourite lyrics of his I will attempt to prove why.

“Our conversations ain’t long, but you know what is”

- Ha!  He’s talking about his penis!

“No matter what you say, you always sound sexy to me”

-Hey Jason, my piles are giving me some serious jip today. Do me.

“So open the curtains, and let me inside for more”

-Lol. Beef curtain joke.

“Oh I want the world to see, so I regulate some jewellery”

-As if the man ain’t busy enough, he’s a regulator in the accessories industry making sure African children aren’t dying for diamonds or some shit.

“I’ve been looking under rocks and breaking locks”

-He fucks crabs and robs old ladies.  Badass.

“I met her at a bar, the look she gave me said I wouldn’t get far, but that ain’t never stop me”

-He’s a little bit rapey.

“Bitch, I’m a star”

-And possibly a little gay-fabulous.

“Sold out arenas, you can suck my penis”

-He doesn’t fuck about with stupid things like subtlety, and he doesn’t need to ask me twice.

“This girl on my lap’s passing out, she’s a blonde”

-He’s all about the detail.  The random detail.

“Just when you thought the water park couldn’t get no wetter, I’m dripping down her back like I’m doing it in my sweater”

-He’ll cum all over you on Splash Mountain. Mad skillz.

“I got lipstick stamps on my passport, I think I need a new one”

-He understands the importance of personal document maintenance.

“And I know papa got diabetes so I must watch what I eat”

-He’s health conscious.

“Her pussy’s so good I bought her a pet”

-He bought me sea monkeys. Make of that what you will.

“Is it weird that your eyes remind me of a Coldplay song?”

-What, Yellow?  My liver has been a bit tender lately, I’ll go get that checked out.  Boom, Jason Derulo just saved my life.

“Is it weird that I hear trumpets when you’re turning me on?”

-Sorry love, that was my arse. God damn refried beans.

“Walking the dog in my neighbourhood, said I never would”

-You shouldn’t have bought a dog if you couldn’t handle the responsibility Jason.

“Every picture I take, I pose a threat”

-Dat wordplay.

“Jeans are on the floor, tipsy on the floor”

-He is well aware that the same word rhymes with itself, whether the sentence makes sense is not important.

“I wanna cum anywhere you want me to”

-In my dog’s asshole. Hey! You said anywhere. No take-backs.

“Shake what your mama gave you”

-A predisposition for bladder weakness?  Well okayyy, if you’re sure…

“Let me take you home and I kill that girl with two stones”

-What?  Is he talking about his balls?  *slow nod*…..Nice work JD.

“Yum, pussy bum”

-Uhhmm….

“A future with a dog named Ben”

-He doesn’t waste your time with vague detail.

“I deeply penetrate it, then I take it out and wipe it off”

-But he’ll never use your good towels, only the ones you use when you’re on your period or dying your hair.

So, yeah, there you have it. I think you’ll find the evidence indisputable – Jason Derulo is the most under-rated, lyrical comedy genius of our time. And just think, if Chris Brown hadn’t gone all Street Fighter on Rihanna’s face, JD may never have had his time to shine. It almost doesn’t bare thinking about.

  jd01

Tinder Surprise

So after nearly 6 months of living the single life, and under the severe duress of my sister, I have recently joined Tinder.  For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, Tinder is possibly the shallowest, most addictive way to attempt to get laid I have ever experienced.  It’s a dating app that works by linking info from your Facebook page therefore eliminating the need to write a profile or barely even type.  Once logged in you are immediately presented with pictures of people who live within your specified radius and it’s up to you to decide if their face is something you wouldn’t mind sitting on.  If you’d rather sit on a rusty chainsaw, you swipe left, but if they give you yoghurt pants, you swipe right.  It’s basically ‘Hot or Not’ but with a lot more interactivity and a lot less nineties tank-tops and mahogany lip-liner.

The beauty of this app is that it is completely risk-free.  If you like the look of someone and right-swipe them they will never know unless they right-swipe you back, meaning that rejection (at least on a physical level) is near impossible. Only when matched are you able to message each other, a process which is horrendously awkward until you get the hang of it.

It sounds pretty straight forward right?  To the point where you might think that I’m knee-deep in cock and candlelight dinners every night of the week.  Not so, my friends.  You see Tinder is so jam-packed full of douchebag-yolo-swaggers that I have repetitive strain injury in my thumb from swiping left so much.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure these hairless lumps of muscly skin are lovely guys who appeal to millions of women but they’re just not my type.  Unfortunately, it seems that most of my type are too busy growing beards and playing video games to be on Tinder……which, ironically, is exactly why they’re my type.

Other than the blatant focus on aesthetics that this app encourages, the other thing that surprised me was just how many profiles are near identical.  Obviously guys don’t swipe other guys so they never get to see each other’s pictures but seriously, if you’re a man thinking about joining Tinder and you don’t want to look like a generic, vacuous advertisement for what’s wrong with modern society I’m going to give you a few pointers so you know what to avoid.  A public service, if you will.

1. Tigers. First and for the love of fuck, don’t be stroking a tiger.  I thought they were supposed to be endangered?  Since I started this caper I’ve come to the conclusion that there are more tigers in the world than Chinese people.  I won’t be sponsoring one any time soon I’ll tell you that for free.  Also, tigers don’t like to be stroked, they like to kill shit, it’s science.  They don’t look happy in your picture, which in turn makes me unhappy, which in turn makes me not want to right-swipe you.

2. Muscles. If your pecs are bigger than my tits, I assume one of the following things:

You either suffer from permanent roid-rage and will probably beat me to within an inch of my life on our second date if I step out of line – Or – that you spend so much time in the gym obsessing over your appearance that you have very little time left for developing any sort of personality.

Put it away

Put it away

I am aware that this is a sweeping generalisation (this whole article is tbh) and not everyone who looks after themselves should be negatively judged so if you’re a mentally stable guy with a substantially fitter than average body then you should probably include a pic that makes you look like you have some sort of banter.  Stealth bum something or motor-boat a doner kebab and you won’t come across as so terrifying.

3. Neon Ray-Bans and/or a low V T-shirt.  It’s not that I don’t believe men have a place in fashion, and just because I think you look ridiculous doesn’t mean that all women do, it’s just that there are too many of you.  After seeing different guys in same attire for the 30th picture in a row, you all just become one giant, faceless mass of man-cleavage and it’s kind of gross.  Change it up.  Wear some double-denim and a cowboy hat, at least then I’ll know that you are capable of laughing at yourself.

4. Snowboarding.  This one is probably the most popular pic, more popular than the tiger-stroking even.  Again, I have no problem with snowboarding, it’s pretty cool but I cannot see your face or body in that get-up.  You might be able to “get good air with the pow” or whatever shit the kids say nowadays, but if your face looks like a melted welly I’m not going to want it anywhere near my genitals.

Another thing I noticed about these pics is that they actually make me feel slightly intimidated.  I mean, I can’t snowboard for shit and although I have the potential to be physically capable of climbing a mountain or running a marathon, it’s not something I would do on a regular basis.  Filling your profile full of high-energy pics makes you look like you’re in a tampon advert and I automatically feel that I will look like a fat, lazy, Bargain-Bucket-munching slag-heap in comparison.  One pic of your outdoor activities will suffice.  Just one.

Hey asshole!  I can't fucking see you, I'm over here.

Hey asshole! I can’t fucking see you, I’m over here.

5. Don’t hold a fish.  This one should really be self-explanatory.

6. Music Festivals.  “Look at me in my designer wellies, neon Ray-Bans and low V, standing in a field covered in strategically placed mud.  Look how alternative I am.  I love music.  Music is my life!”

Then I look in the background and who’s on stage?  Rihanna.  Fuck off.  You are not at a festival, you’re at an outdoor pop concert, that place will be absolutely crawling with kids waiting to get into the soft-play area that is conveniently just out of shot. Do you think I came up the Clyde on a banana boat? If you can show me a backstage picture of you sucking off Lemmy from Motorhead then we’ll talk.

This guy reeks of Nickelback

This guy reeks of Nickelback

7. Tribal tattoos.  I am aware that these were fashionable back in the day and a lot of people fell into the trap.  I’m a huge fan of tattoos so I appreciate the pain you went through to get that sleeve but it’s the guys who have a tribal tattoo and don’t look like they regret it that concern me.  It’s probably better if you don’t wear a vest.  Ever again.

This guy makes me feel clammy, but in a bad way.

I feel clammy, but in a bad way.

8. Holding the Olympic torch.  This is kind of similar to the tiger thing in that I thought people rarely got to touch it.  Nope.  If Tinder is anything to go by everyone in the entire country apart from me got to hold the thing.  Where the fuck was I, in a coma?  It’s been touched more times than a BBC intern, so putting that pic up will not make you stand out, it will just make you look routinely basic.

9. Gym selfies.  Selfies in general are dodgy ground for me, sometimes they are necessary and I’ve been guilty of a few myself, but pouty phone-selfies in a mirror?  You look ridiculous.  Selfies in a gym mirror with all weights behind you and your trousers hanging so low that I can see the base of your penis-shaft?  No thanks, I already ate.

Nah mate.

Mubz.  Nah mate.

10. Drinking Grey Goose or champagne/Leaning against a fancy car.  You are trying to tell people how rich and gangster you are.  You are going to attract retards.  This may be what you want and good luck to you, there are a lot of retards out there so you are guaranteed to at least get your hole out of this approach, but personally I feel there is too much financial peacockage on Tinder and it makes my thumb hurt.

It’s possible that I’m getting too old for this or that I’m a lesbian and I just don’t know it yet but whatever my reasons I can only be honest about my experience with this app and there is little variety here. I feel like I will get tired of it sooner rather than later.  The only problem is that sometimes I forget this app is not a game like Angry Birds but that these are real people I’m swiping, that’s how addictive it is.  There’s no denying it gives you a nice ego boost but it has the potential to turn even the most self-loathing of people into narcissistic monsters.

So let’s be (semi) serious here for a minute.  I’m sitting here slagging off the guys on Tinder but if I’m really honest with myself, I feel that I’m the problem here.  I think it would be stupidly self-sabotaging to deny myself the chance to meet someone I really like, maybe even enjoy myself a little bit, but the thing is I’m not sure I particularly want to be in a full-on serious relationship just yet. I’m going to Thailand in 8 weeks to tear shit up, I’ve got a school reunion in Malta to attend this summer so I can disappoint everyone with my lack of husband/family/social-development-since-1998. I’ve got shit to do this year that I worry would be hindered by having to be answerable to anyone other than myself.

Then again at the other end of the scale, and this may shock you, I’m not a natural slut either.  I can’t do one night stands without hating myself no matter how much I tell myself it’s the 21st century and liberating and empowering and blah, blah, blah. So if I’m not actively hunting for a boyfriend but I also don’t want an anonymous penis for one night, what the fuck am I doing on Tinder?  Maybe I should stop judging other people for not being what I don’t even want.  Maybe I’m fucked anyway because there’s a link to this blog on my Tinder profile (*ahem* hi guys) and I’ll never get right-swiped again.  Or maybe I should put my phone down, buy a weapons rack full of vibrators and just crack on.

Tomorrow.

Once I’ve checked out my newest Tinder match and swiped a couple more times.

In the meantime, have a look at these beauts…

yoloing

gofuckyourself

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Screenshot_2014-01-17-08-24-20

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For the ladies out there, don’t worry I haven’t left you out.  While writing this article I became curious as to what the Tinder experience was like from a man’s point of view; Are we as equally annoying as them or do they just right-swipe the shit out of anything with a full set of limbs?  To answer these questions I have enlisted the help of a friend of mine who is also on Tinder.  He has written an article about his experiences with the app and I have supplied a few excerpts below for your reading pleasure.

Tinder the Relationship Finder

William Morris

“My Tinder experience started in Autumn last year. Actually I can be more specific: my first match occurred with a girl named Charlene on 10th September and 12.45pm was when we started chatting, 12.55 would have been when the conversation ran dry. Alas Charlene and I were never to be. Fuck it, onto the next. This is the main thing about Tinder is that it’s not that real. It’s not real at all until you finally meet each other. But some sort of etiquette should still be followed and on both sides too because saying that the dialogue occurring prior to a personal meeting isn’t real is all fine but abusing it by acting rude, obnoxious and uncouth is not likely to be tolerated. I found that out after asking a few girls if they wanted to see a picture of my cock. That wasn’t true I’m afraid. I didn’t dare because I started out with good intentions on Tinder, or so I thought.

My reason for going on there was to help get rid of any unwanted thoughts about the ex-girlfriend. Nothing suppresses the feeling of wanting to bury the axe into one’s skull better than the beginnings of a new relationship right? Err, yeah right. It turned out I wasn’t the only one though. Through my encounters there are a lot of girls who have recently been put back onto the market looking to either forget their significant other, or to play jealousy games. There are other reasons for going on Tinder.

  • One girl that I began chatting to had recently moved to England and was a bit nervous about meeting new people. She was hoping to find a city guide. That’s fine, I suppose. Why she chose to use the bikini shots down the beach or shots in a mini skirt looking provocative was a little beyond me. She would have found the right sort of person I’m sure.
  • Another girl was canvassing for language students she could teach Cantonese. £50 a lesson. The conversation was cut short.
  • Instagram likes. A few girls want more followers on Instagram so they pasted their username into the tagline. Now we can all go and like the willow shading they used for the pic of their roast dinner. They must have a creative side.
  • One girl was open about being in a relationship already. I didn’t feel as though this could go any further for me. I’ve been through that experience before and three is definitely a crowd.
  • A few profiles I matched up with were very receptive and wanted me to go to the copied URL they messaged me. Oh, sex chat. Classy girl, Daddy would be proud. What’s that, you want to show me what you can do with a wine bottle? Put my credit card number in. No thank you, I’m a nice boy.

I’ve noticed a sensitivity in some girls on Tinder and I was curious. Consequently my tagline changed from a song lyric, very cliché I must admit, to a bolder and more brutal statement about myself.

“FYI I’m taller than average, I’m not looking for an easy lay and don’t need to be reminded. I haven’t been skiing or snowboarding and haven’t stroked any lions or tigers. But, swipe right if you don’t give a fuck too :)”

It finishes with a smiley face, I know.

intercourseI got fed up of the same questions that some of the girls would start with, or even what is written on their tagline. If I see something like “Not on here for a hook up” that slightly annoys me. If I read a variation of that line with “I’m not looking for an easy lay. You’re going to have to try hard to impress me. I don’t make the first move” that irritates me to fucking distraction. Egotistical fucktards like that make me grind my teeth in my sleep. You would only get a worse reaction out of me by playing Rihanna music. It gets worse if they completely undermine their tagline with the obligatory down-the-top cleavage selfies and massive D&G sunglasses donned duck face.  anus

My tagline was to prevent another girl from asking me how tall I was because she’s 5,9” and likes to wear stilt-walking style stilettos. I’m still taller. The tagline also was to highlight my lack of off-piste prowess and that it mattered less to me than planking or Movember. And that I have categorically never stroked a member of the big cat family. It’s not on the bucket list. Did I miss that lesson at School on how to lead a good life? Pet a tiger because they fucking love that. In writing that tagline I thought it would help me actually isolate a better group of possible matches. It didn’t, it opened the floodgate to girls all starting with “Funny tagline lol. You’re so funny” I imagine them saying it like Janice from Friends. Ooh stop it with the fingernails down the blackboard, my poor brain.

After all is said and done I’m still on Tinder but, now that I’m a seasoned pro, I use it to amuse myself. It’s a Hot or Not game. Can I be bothered by the resulting inevitable text exchange? Very rarely. Playing the Tinder game is addictive though. It helps the mojo and strengthens the confidence somewhat making you feel just that little bit more prepared for a real chat with someone after a flirtatious smile. There’ll still be the odd times when my interests are piqued such as when the girl is holding a saxophone or sporting a blog link for a tagline but for the rest  “IT’S A MATCH! Would you like to continue playing?” Yeah sure, just don’t take it too seriously.”

Dearest London

Since I last posted there have been some pretty major developments in the mess that I call my life.  For a start I am single now, something that I know every 33-year-old female aspires to.  Saying that, in between the deep whistling noise coming from my cavernous wind-tunnel of a fruitless womb and the deafening tick of a suspiciously absent clock I can just about make out the unmistakable sound of adventure.  It sounds like pint glasses clinking, traffic in still air, the quiet roar of a distant aeroplane and fear, shit loads of sweaty, choking, all-encompassing fear.  Aberdeen has been good to me, I will miss it and everyone that I loved during my fourteen years there, but it is time to move on and where better to start a new chapter than in the coolest knife-crime hotspot in Europe…..Landaann baby!!

Although I have not long arrived here, my sister has been living here for quite a few years now so, visiting her regularly, I have come to get to know the city a little bit.  Now, you all know that I am possibly the least judgemental human ever to have walked the Earth, less judgemental than Jesus even because I don’t have an issue with the gay or the Jew*, but even I have made some observations that I think need to be addressed.  I have put my thoughts into an open letter to the city because I like to pretend that things are people.

Dear London,

  • What if I don’t want spinach or halloumi cheese in my food?  What then?  Do I just starve to death?  I don’t even know what halloumi cheese is but I know I don’t fucking want it.
  • Untie that pastel v-neck sweater from around your shoulders and stop judging me.  If I can’t stand upright long enough to successfully light a cigarette that I don’t even want to smoke outside one of your generic nightclubs then that is my problem, not yours.  You will only ever dream of putting your dick in my mouth.  Also, your shoes are really terrible.
  • Keep telling me how much you love my accent and exotic eye-shape.  A bitch never gets tired of hearing that shit.
  • Stop giving me things to put in my handbag.  I’m getting pretty fucking tired of having to clean it out every single day.  Tube tickets, train tickets, bus tickets, enough receipts to start a Belfast bonfire, plastic bags, chewing gum wrappers, empty bottles of water, flyers that I said I didn’t want but you still gave me, another bit of paper asking me to come to church and be saved or burn in hell for all eternity, wooden Starbucks coffee stirrers (I don’t even like Starbucks…..or coffee for that matter),  bobby pins, loose change, £5 notes, business cards for taxi companies, free pens, pictures of starving African children.  Please get a hold of yourself, I can’t take any more.

    The contents of my bag today after I left the house for two.  TWO. HOURS.

    The contents of my bag today after I left the house for two hours. TWO. HOURS.

  • Stop selling everything I’ve ever wanted within a mile of my house.  I spent £700 in my first two days here.  Okay, you don’t have to stop doing that if you don’t want to.  I love things.
  • Consider slowly introducing uglier women into your gene pool.  I feel it’s only fair that the population of London is a true representation of the population of the rest of the country.  We can’t all wear 6 inch Louboutins and crop tops on a bare Tuesday afternoon you know, if I want to go to the bank looking like a hobo then that is my prerogative.
  • Please continue to serve Timothy Taylor Landlord in the pub next door.  It’s the only thing keeping me alive here, I’m sure of it.  Well, it’s definitely not the spinach anyway.

    Timothy Taylor: The best thing to come out of Yorkshire since Sean Bean.

    Timothy Taylor: The best thing to come out of Yorkshire since Sean Bean.

  • Stop presenting me with an array of your most handsome men and then making them all Italian.  It’s disappointing.
  • Enough with the sirens.  If all these people you are saving have to die so I can read a book about Medieval England in peace then so be it.
  • Stop jogging on a Sunday morning, you make me sick.  Also, there is such a thing as too many yoga studios.
  • I am more than happy for you to continue to host what seems like a conveyor-belt of gigs by my heroes.
  • Oh, and keep looking like this.  You looked nice today.

    I Love Putney :)

    Putney from our window this afternoon.  I Love Putney :)

Kindest Regards,

Your newest parasite, Jillian xxx

*Disclaimer: Before people get all up in my grill saying things like “Jesus loved the gays and he was Jewish!” – I don’t care.  I know nothing about religion, I just make stuff up.  If it’s not based on fact then I’m doing it right.  My blog.

Eurovision Extremism – A Radical Party Guide

eurovision logo

As those of you who are friends with me on Facebook will know from the onslaught of photos I have subjected you to recently, I had a Eurovision party last weekend.  Eurovision really is one of the highlights of my year. I have loved it’s overly made-up, shiny, happy, disturbing little face ever since I moved to Malta in the early 1990’s.  Over there it is kind of a big deal.  I remember being in a nightclub around 1996 when they turned the music off so everyone could hear the results – that’s right Usher, pipe the fuck down, it’s is Gina G’s time to shine.  On top of all this a good family friend of ours, Mike Spiteri, was Malta’s Eurovision entry for 1995.  Yeah you heard me, I actually know someone who has actually sang in the actual Eurovision Song Contest. You might say I am weaved into the very fabric of the establishment, buried so deep I think my balls may have just slipped in.

Mike Spiteri’s Eurovision Performance, 1995 (I have no idea who the man at the very beginning of this clip is, but I want him on me).

Unfortunately, when I am even the slightest bit vocal about my favourite event, I am usually met with one of the following reactions:

  • “But it’s shit.”
  • “But, no one can sing and the songs are shit.”
  • “But it’s so tacky and shit.”
  • “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so shit.”
  • “It shitter than the actual shit I just took, and that was really shit.”

Or the classic:

  • “I stopped watching it when we stopped winning.  It’s so political now, it’s not about the music anymore……and it’s also pretty shit.”

“It’s not about the music anymore”??  What has music got to do with any of this?  See, the problem here is that people are thinking about the Eurovision like it is some sort of song contest or something.  It’s not a song contest.  With the obvious exception of Mike Spiteri of course, the songs are generally terrible, often tacky, commonly cheesy and almost always ten years behind regular music.  The key to enjoying the experience is letting go of the musical concept.  Let it go.  Just accept the fact that you will be hearing nothing but shite for three hours straight and I promise you you’ll start to enjoy it for what it is: Essentially The European Championship for girls.

It is about the excitement of watching all of our continental neighbours coming together to compete in a light-hearted and slightly bewildering atmosphere.  It is having the opportunity to wave fuck-loads of flags around and pretend to be patriotic.  It is the provision of an entertaining environment in which to rip the shit out of any country whose border isn’t in direct contact with ours (i.e. all of them).  Do you know how many Nazi jokes were thrown around my living-room the other weekend when Germany came on?  Fucking hundreds.

Look at his massive face.  The man does not want to be here.

Look at his massive face. The man does not want to be here. I think he even said in a backstage interview that he was having a shit time.

If that’s not entertaining enough for you, then the occasional inappropriate performance should keep you interested. This year, for example, the Ukranian entry consisted of a visibly uncomfortable man suffering from severe gigantism standing awkwardly on stage dressed as the giant from Jack & the Beanstalk. Little bit racist. There was also a lesbian kiss at the end of Finland’s performance, but they weren’t even real lesbians! What’s wrong with hiring lesbians? If you’ve got a lesbiany job to do then it’s only fair to hire some lesbians. They’ve got bills to pay too, you know. In fact, half of the shit that goes on on that stage should not even be allowed. This year alone they violated about fifteen separate human rights laws, how anyone cannot enjoy watching that is beyond me.

And in answer to those who say it is all “political”, I say this:

Denmark won this year.  Famously a real heavyweight in the political arena.  The problem you have is not with the political nature of the voting, you’re just annoyed that Britain isn’t winning anymore.  There’s nothing we can do about that.  Like powdered mashed potato and soda-streams, the UK was incredibly popular in the 70’s and 80’s but after a couple of illegal wars we are no longer the top dog.  What was once the most powerful and desirable cheerleader in the High School of Europe is now a fat, abusive, self-harming single mum with a drinking problem. It’s time for other countries to have their turn in the spotlight – and if they all want to vote for each other instead of us, that is totally fine by me. I don’t really blame them – and anyway, although the scoreboard may look slightly suspicious in places, the best song does generally always win in the end.

So, as a radical Eurovision extremist, I feel it is my duty to convert the Wogan-denying infidels of the UK.  In order to do this, I have been hosting Eurovision Parties most years since 2004.  I want to rid the world of its Euro-cynicism one social gathering at a time and it’s working.  It’s slow, I mean I think in the last nine years I’ve converted about three people, two of them children, but any progress is good progress.  If you’re sitting there thinking that you would like to help the cause by hosting your own Eurovision Party then you, my friend, are in luck because I’m about to get all Pippa Middleton on your ass…

I think you will find the similarities in our party etiquette uncanny, yah?

I think you will find the similarities in our party etiquette uncanny, yah?

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A Handy Eurovision Party Guide

By Jillian Dingwall

You will need:

  • Friends
  • Eurovision Scorecards, Sweepstake and Poster (pictured below, download them here)
  • Pictures of Terry Wogan
  • A Word document containing the flags of all the participating countries
  • Party Bags
  • Half the contents of your nearest Pound Shop
  • A Crown from Burger King
  • A packet of Wagon Wheels
  • Sausage Rolls
  • A shit-ton of alcohol

(Preparation time = 3 days)

DAY 1

T minus 2 days until the party

Today you will have two jobs to do: Sort out the prizes and buy all the drink.

Head to your nearest pound shop where you will find not only your prize bags, but everything you will ever need to put in them.  You can award any amount of prizes you want but I usually award them for 1st, 2nd and 3rd place.  Buy literally the most shit things you can find, making sure to include a few items with Union Jacks on them – it looks more professional if you stick to a vague Eurovision theme.  This year my prize bags included a Fray Bentos Steak & Kidney Pie for one, a Buck’s Fizz CD, a Justin Bieber watch, a British flag tea-towel and a Union Jack themed cake-decorating kit.  Once you have sorted out the main prizes, buy some small party bags, a packet of Wagon Wheels and a couple of large bags of sweets.  These will be divided up equally and handed out to each guest to take home at the end of the night.  If you’re waiting for an explanation for the necessity of Wagon Wheels then, please.  Kill yourself.

Next, head to the supermarket to get booze, stopping at Burger King on the way to steal one of their cardboard crowns.  Buy as much beer as you can fit in your car, remembering to make use of the glove-compartment space and gaps underneath the seats.  In terms of things that aren’t beer, it’s nice to have a focal point at a party and ours is usually some sort of sangria-punch concoction created by Billy, however this year my friend Alison made Eurovision cocktails which were way better.  Finally, do not forget the Jegermeister.  When you get home, sit at the dining-room table and prepare all of your party bags whilst listening to your other half tell you how much of a fucking weirdo you are.  Make sure to hide the bags in a cupboard so the guests do not find them before the official “reveal”.

If you've got time, why not go and get your nails did?  I got mine done here: GelUs

If you’ve got time, why not go and get your nails did? I got mine did here: GelUs Nails

Day 2

T minus one day until the party

I’m not going to sugar-coat this, today will be the most stressful day of your life.  Today, not only must you buy all the food, you will also have to do all the printing and decorating.

When you are buying food it is best to adhere to the following guidelines:

  • Make sure there are sausage rolls.   If I turn up at a party and there are no sausage rolls, that party is dead to me.   Don’t be a dick, give the people what they want.
  • Any food you buy has to be penetratable and strong enough to hold a toothpick. i.e. no weird pasta or salads.
  • Buy toothpicks

It is now time to get down to the business of printing all of our Eurovision paraphernalia.  The reason we must leave this job until the last minute is because of the stupid semi-finals (which I would not recommend you watch by the way, it can ruin the surprise).  You won’t know which country is participating in the finals until today and the BBC do not update their scorecards until the late afternoon because, you know it’s not like we want a professional, instantaneous service for our fucking license fees or anything.

Word document layout

Word document layout

When the BBC have finally got their act together, print off the following documents IN COLOUR:

  • A scorecard for each guest.
  • One sweepstake.
  • A few posters.
  • 3 – 4 copies of your Word document with all of the finalists flags on them (the flags must all be the same size in a 2 x 5 format like in the picture on the left).
  • Some nice pictures of Terry Wogan – I prefer to use pictures of him smiling and generally enjoying life, however the one of him on Points of View with the tight trousers and detailed penis outline is equally acceptable.

Take one set of flags and cut them all out, google the shit out of each one to make sure that you know 100% which flag corresponds to which country and then write the country’s name neatly on the back.  Set these to one side for now.  Cut out another set of flags and, along with your British Entry posters, use them to decorate your living room.  Cut out the remaining flags and cellotape them to toothpicks, these will be used to stick into your sausage rolls and mini Cornish pasties, etc.  Finally, take all of the photo-frames you have in your living room, remove the boring pictures of your children and replace them with pictures of Terry Wogan.  He may not be our commentator anymore but in British Eurovision culture it is seen as a mark of respect to acknowledge him in some small way.

Day 3

Party Day

Get up and clean the absolute asshole out of your house.  Leave a few things casually lying around, a towel over a radiator or an off-centre cushion on the sofa to present the illusion that you have given your house a quick, casual tidy-up as opposed to spending five hours cleaning the bastard thing.  Now get yourself in a shower because you stink and your guests will be arriving at any minute.

Once everyone has turned up and they have been given a drink (or in my case, have poured themselves their own drink because I am a pretty basic hostess), place all of the flags with the country’s names written on them into a hat and pass it around.  Depending on how many guests you have, get them to pull out two or three flags each.  Write the names of each person and the countries they have drawn into the sweepstake.  Put this somewhere where you can’t spill drink on it.

As well as cocktails, a Eurovision Encyclopedia was provided for research purposes.

As well as cocktails, a Eurovision Encyclopedia is provided for research purposes.

By this time the contest should be just about to start.  Make up your Eurovision cocktails and hand them out before explaining how the scoring system works.  It’s pretty straight forward really, they must score each country out of 12 depending on how good they think they are.  They can go back and change their scores right up until the first results are read out.  There is literally no purpose to this, it’s just a way of encouraging debate and people seem to enjoy it.

A promotional B&W shot of me giving out the party bags. I'm going to put it on our propaganda leaflets.

A promotional B&W shot of me giving out the party bags. I’m going to put it on our propaganda leaflets.

Top tip: It is helpful to write little notes next to your scores to serve as a reminder, because by about half way through the competition you will be so drunk you will have forgotten what the first acts were like.  For example, this year I thought the girl who sang for Russia looked a little bit like those lucky trolls from the 90’s, so I wrote “90’s Troll” next to her score.  This really helped me later on when, after my seventh Jegermeister, I was lying face-down in the back garden covered in someone else’s vomit.

After the last performance is over, put the food out while you are waiting for the final scores to be revealed (for the love of God, don’t forget to put the toothpick flags in).  The results part of the show is a bit on the lengthy side so if you want to mute the TV and stick some tunes on, go ahead.  I prefer to leave it on because the utter nonsense that comes out of each country’s presenter is almost as funny as the performances themselves.  Finally, when the winning order is announced, hand out the prizes to the guests who pulled out the corresponding flags (bestowing the Burger King Crown of Victory upon the head of the person in 1st place).  When the evening is coming to a close, give a Wagon Wheel Party Bag to everyone else as a thank you for not moaning about how shit the Eurovision is.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

So there you have it, a handy guide which if followed correctly, should result in you hosting the greatest Eurovision party ever known to man.  It’s a ‘go hard or go home’ kind of affair and there will be times when you may doubt your abilities as a host or even lose faith in the contest altogether, but if you believe in yourself like you believed in Bonnie then you will reap the rewards. Just remember this simple motto: “If you think you have gone too far, go further” and I guarantee you they will be absolutely fizzing at the slit to do it all again next year.

The best Eurovision Party guests EVER!!

The best Eurovision Party guests EVER!!

Cards Against Humanity

Some of you may have heard of this card game already, some of you may not. For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, let me introduce you to the finest example of family entertainment currently available on the market.

Cards Against Humanity – “A Party Game for Horrible People” was created in 2010 by a bunch of Highland Park High School alumni who submitted the idea to Kickstarter. It was so ridiculously amazing that they exceeded their funding goal by almost 300% and the game is now available either to buy from Amazon here, or download for free here.

The rules are as follows:
One person in the group is randomly selected as the Card Czar who deals out 10 white answer cards to each person in the group. The Czar then picks one black question card and reads it out loud. The other players must choose the most fitting/politically incorrect answer available to them and submit it face down on the table. The Card Czar shuffles all of the answers and reads each card combination out loud before picking a winner and awarding them one ‘Awesome Point’.

I first stumbled across this game a few months ago when people were uploading photos of their cards on Twitter. I immediately had to get involved and so bought one for myself and one for Lisa’s boyfriend Dan for Christmas. Having just played the game for the first time, and almost giving myself a hernia from laughing so hard, I feel it would be a crime against humanity not to share the results with you (see what I did there?).

WP_20130210_026

Here is an example of one of our question cards and the three answers that we submitted. I think the one about the Asians won.

So to conclude, this is the best game in the entire world and an essential purchase for the whole family.  You will learn things about your parents that you probably didn’t need, or ever want, to know and the children will learn a plethora of new vocabulary words.  GET IT BOUGHT BALL-BAGS!!!

P.S. Happy Valentine’s Day!!  Not really though!!  I hope all the shallow, materialistic, corporate ass-raping doesn’t cause irreversible bowel damage. xxx

Marriage is for Quitters

Being a 32-year-old, unmarried, childless waste of a human life, I am often asked when I’m going to sort my shit out.  I would like to take this opportunity to tell these people that I do have my shit sorted out, and said shit is divided up as follows:

Billy and I have been together for over 12 years with no intention of getting married.  Like none at all.  I have no interest in wedding dresses, flowers and colour coordinated fabric swatches all crammed into a room full of relatives who don’t particularly like each other.  We already have the mortgage, the dog and the joint bank account, why would I want the piece of paper that gives Billy permission to take a shit with the door open?   Now, this is not to say that we won’t ever get married.  I’m sure once I’ve popped out a few kids and my vagina looks like the blown out remains of a Baghdad government building I will give in and accept my fate, but until then, I would rather spend wedding-money on things like this:

Plus, I quite like being someone’s girlfriend.  It gives the somewhat exciting illusion that it could all come to an end at any minute* (*update: it did) and it also makes me feel like I have loads of time until I have to start breeding* (*update: I still don’t).  We did get engaged about 7 years ago, but that was essentially just so people would stop asking us when we were going to get engaged and also in the hope that they would back the fuck off my uterus and stop making unrealistic demands of it.  I wasn’t ready for kids then and, even though it won’t be long before my ovaries shrivel up and disappear in a little *puff* of dust, I still don’t know if I am.  Not long ago, I was accused by a complete stranger in a bar of being “selfish” for having this attitude towards having kids.  He said, and I quote:

“So you’re 32 and you don’t have any kids yet?  So you’re selfish then?  You’re a woman, it is your responsibility to have children.  Every man does not necessarily have to have a child but, as a woman, you do.  Right now, while you’re sitting here with your pint and your little job, you are depriving a child the right to human life.  How does that make you feel?”

I proceeded to explain that I felt it was more selfish to sit in a 2 bedroom council flat with no job, pumping out 5 kids who will then be brought up in cramped and poverty-striken conditions, but he was too busy staring at his sister’s tits to pay attention to anything I was saying.

When it comes down to it, money is the issue here and I hate myself for even saying that.  For the majority of our relationship, Billy and I have had no money.  At one point we were living off £30 a week between us.  In order to try to make the situation a bit better, we decided that I would go to University and Billy would take on a second job to pay the bills.  I graduated in 2009 and Billy is now free to start his own business, something he has always wanted to do.  It is only in the past year that we have bought a grown-up house and have money left in our bank account at the end of the month.  Do you have any idea how fun that is?  I’m still not over the novelty of being able to buy something I want for the simple reason that I can.  I just bought this teapot.  Don’t even need it:

All I want is a couple of years to enjoy this feeling before I spend all my free time being skint again and going to coffee mornings slightly drunk on wine and completely covered in shit-spew. I want a god-damn video game room before it gets turned into a nursery.  I want to go on a grunge pilgrimage to Seattle.  I like my boobs, my vagina is top-notch and I wouldn’t mind keeping it that way for a little while longer.  On top of this, I love my job and, right now, cannot bear the thought of leaving it.  I appreciate that there are people out there who can’t have kids, and I may live to regret putting it off for so long, but is having kids because other people can’t have them healthy motivation?  Probably not.

Maybe that sheep-raping Yorkshire dickhead in the bar was right.  Maybe I am selfish.  So what do you do when your head is that of a 14-year-old boy but your body is that of a middle-aged female?  I honestly don’t know.  What I do know is, I would never forgive myself if I didn’t start a family and, let’s be honest, what the world needs in these hard times is a Jillian/Billy combo-human (or ‘Billian’, as they will be known).  I am genuinely excited about one day having a baby, just let me buy a few more pieces of Lionel Ritchie crockery first.

Diary of a Rig Bint

Thankfully I have never had to compromise my femininity.

As a rig worker and proud owner of a vagina, I am always asked what it’s like for a female working in a predominantly male environment.  Has spending so much time in this testosterone-fuelled domain ever resulted in the compromise of my femininity?  Have I experienced any damaging discrimination as a result of my gender?  And what does the increasing presence of women on rigs mean for the future of the industry?  The answers to these questions are not important because they are boring as fuck.  However, as a result of all the interest shown in my job, I decided to keep a note of a few of the shenanigans I have experienced over the past few years so that you have some idea of what I have to put up with on a daily basis.

There are three main types of reactions when a girl arrives on a rig:

  • There are those who will just come right out and ask if you are single and willing to get your gash smashed by any old member of the drill crew.  When you say no, they will probably never talk to you again.
  • There are those who will ask you what your name is and if you are single and willing to get your gash smashed by any old member of the drill crew.  When you say no, they will still drink tea with you and have a banter.
  • Finally, there are those who will do literally anything to avoid having to talk to you/walk past you/make eye-contact with you.  They are TERRIFIED of anything with a uterus.  I like to talk to them about my excruciatingly heavy periods.

Luckily, around 80% of the guys fall into the second category and I have made some genuine friends during my time in this job.  Saying that, it is still quite awkward when you first arrive on a new rig, to the point where the only thing I want to do is hide away in the safety of my unit and drink tea. I have learned, however, that all this does is prolong the awkwardness so, instead, I go against every fibre of my being and force myself to talk to everyone at the first opportunity.  I remember doing just that on my very first day in this job and recall a conversation I had with the derrickman that went exactly like this:

ME: “Hi, I’m the new logger.  How’s it going?”

DERRICKMAN: “Oh hey, I’m the derrickman.  Just to warn you, we’re all a bit crazy on here.  Last week one of the roughnecks was doing my head in so I did a big shit on the floor of the pit-room and threw it at him.  Do you want to go to the cinema some time?”

ME: “No.”

Things were not much different three years ago.  On my first ever day offshore, I stepped off the helicopter and into the heli-lounge where I immediately noticed a few posters stuck to the walls.  Upon closer inspection I realised that the posters included a photograph of a turd curled up in the corner of a shower with the following message:

“Whoever is shitting in the communal shower needs to stop.  This is the third time it has happened this year and this behaviour will not be tolerated.  We are currently in the process of eliminating crew members who were on leave at the time of all three shits being discovered.  We will find you and you will face disciplinary action.”

Nice.

Montage!

On that same rig there was a decidedly creepy electrician.  I was a week into my first hitch and still pretty terrified of everything, including him, but unfortunately for me the plug socket in my room broke and I couldn’t use my hairdryer (OMG).  This was a genuine emergency, so I had to go and find him and ask him to fix it for me when I was out on shift.  Later that evening, I entered the galley to have some dinner.  As I sat down at the table, the electrician walked past, winked at me then patted his ass whilst saying “ASDA price”.  At first I had no idea what he was talking about but I soon remembered that I had bought all my offshore underwear from ASDA in one of those cheap packs of 5 things.  The motherfucker had raked through all my underwear!!! And to make matters worse, one pair was distinctly looser fitting when I next put them on.  I refused to put in a complaint against him because I felt this was my first test and crying to the Company Man would equate to failure.  Instead I found the gobbiest, loudest, most annoying member of the crew (the crane operator) and told him everything.  He promised to make the electrician’s life hell and he did. It was wonderful to watch.

Returning to my current land-based job and the ever popular topic of turds, a little while ago I was talking to a Company Man who has been in the industry since the 70’s and so has seen and heard pretty much everything.  He has some seriously impressive stories, but my personal favourite is this peach:

Fig. 1

In 1984, when he was a driller, himself and the drill crew went out one night for a curry and, as men do, decided to indulge in crazy things like Vindaloos and Fals.  The next day on the rig, the derrickman was up the mast hard at work when he suddenly felt a cramp.  You know the cramp, the one that says “I need a shit, and I need it yesterday”.  There was no way he would be able to get down the mast with all his harness gear on and make it to the toilet in time so he decided to lay some sheets of newspaper over the pipe racks and curl one out up there instead.  Bear in mind that the pipe racks are made up of metal bars with big gaps in between which look straight down onto the drill floor (see Fig. 1).

Unfortunately, when he turned around to do a squat, a light breeze caught the paper and, without him noticing, blew it away.  He shit hard and it flew through the gaps, straight down onto the assistant driller’s head.  The assistant driller instantly bent over to protect himself, resulting in his hard-hat falling off revealing a massive curly afro which was now exposed to the still-continuing onslaught of bum-gravy.   The man had shit in his hair, his ears and his eyes, unsurprisingly causing him to throw up – an action immediately repeated by the nearest hungover roughneck (see fig. 2).  The rest of them were hiding behind the pipes crying with laughter.  The driller walked into the doghouse to utter carnage, there was shit and spew all over the levers and equipment and everything.  He said it had the texture of vegetable soup and the smell was out of this world.

Fig. 2

Although things have calmed down considerably since the good old days of literally shitting on each other from a great height, there are still some pretty amusing goings on.  As you can imagine, pranks are pretty common on rigs and I got completely nailed by one not that long ago.  The driller phoned down and asked me to come outside so, thinking it was work related, I hurried over to find him and a few other guys huddled together, whispering to each other.  When they saw me coming they asked if I could hold this giant roll of industrial cling-film for a second.  Being the helpful person I am, I took the cling-film from him and suddenly everyone started taking photos of me with their phones.  I asked what the hell they were doing and they pointed to the mechanic’s motorbike which was completely wrapped in cling-film.  They texted him the photo of me holding the cling-film about half an hour after he discovered his bike.  Cunts!

However, despite being at my expense, I did find this highly amusing and so got a proper picture taken with the bike:

Now, obviously, with all these men being away from home, penetration of some of the local ladies is inevitable, especially when the majority of these women have seen more helmets than Hitler.  I absolutely love when this happens because it almost always results in some form of horrific/embarrassing/hilarious situation.  Take this, for example:

Rig worker A receives a phone call from rig worker B.

RIG WORKER B: “Alright mate?  Just thought I would phone to let you know that I am currently in a bath with two birds.  Here, I think one of them is called Tracy.  Speak to Tracy.”

TRACY: “Hello! You alright?  I’m in the bath with your mate and I just took a massive shit so I am ready for some anal.”

‘Click’

10 minutes later, rig worker A receives another phone call from rig worker B:

RIG WORKER B: “Mate, listen to this…..” followed by muffled noises and the keypad of the phone being randomly pressed. “I just shoved my iPhone up her, she loves it!”

TRACY: “Yeeeeeeehhhaaaaaa!!!!”

‘Click’

An iPhone??  Jesus Christ, that girl must have a fanny like a clown car!!

Wee Carl sewing my jeans :’)

So, to sum it up, how well you deal with being a girl on a rig correlates directly with your tolerance for stories about shitting and disturbing sexual encounters.  Believe it or not, some argue that as a female, you are at an advantage on a rig because you will get help whenever you need it (take Carl here, for example, a monosyllabic roughneck who kindly sewed a rag into my jeans when they got a hole in them), but to them I say: “Fucking right! I have to put up with people getting their arses out and crapping everywhere so the least they can do is help me carry heavy stuff across the yard”. When I’m at work, sometimes it’s cold, sometimes it’s boring, sometimes it’s hard and sometimes you have to ward off advances from creepy old mud engineers, but it beats working in an office any day.  I spend a lot of my time here either laughing hysterically or indulging in my favourite pastime of drawing penises on things, but more importantly, I get to go to work in a giant, quilted baby-grow – and all without judgment.  What’s not to love?

I will leave you with this. This is what we did to the driller’s van the other day. He deserves it, he is from Iceland and he told us he eats shark meat soaked in cow piss. (N.B. Upon entering the van, Mr. Driller did not see the giant penis and so proceeded to drive the 15 miles home with our artwork ‘splashed’ across the side)

Rage Comic – Troll Sun

I appear to have forgotten how to write and so am spending most of my time fucking about on 9gag.com instead.  It is ruining my life.

Today I created this beautiful image, inspired by an incident last week in which Billy asked me to shut the blinds because the sun was getting in his eyes whilst he was trying to play the Witcher 2.  This is what happened after I shut the blinds.  Troll Sun will be blocked by no one.

 

Skye-Rimming*

*N.B. This article has nothing to do with Skyrim. Sorry.

In the summer of 2008 I spent seven long weeks on the Isle of Skye as part of my field mapping dissertation for university. There were eight of us in total; me and seven of my favourite guys from the course, all battling through endless days of pissing, shitting and masturbating in forests, on hillsides and in lay-bys (N.B. I only peed. I keep the shitting and masturbating for Chat-Roulette).  If I’m honest, I learned very little about geology during those long hours of standing in torrential rain getting mentally undressed by sheep whilst trying to write in a wet notebook with a blunt pencil.  As time went on, however, I stopped hating and began to realise that this summer, although geologically unsuccessful, was quickly shaping up to be one of the best in history, and it’s all thanks to a tiny village with the most ridiculously beautiful view you will ever see.

In your face!

Elgol is where my mapping area was located and where three of my uni friends, Beau, Luke and Mike were renting a flat from a local family. At this point we were on week three and I was beginning to get a little bit tired of actually doing work.  The fact the sun had made appearance for the first time since we arrived did not help my mood, as all I wanted was a god-damn barbecue. I arrived at their flat ready to map, only to find that they weren’t even home so, after trying on all of their underwear and cleaning the toilet with their toothbrushes, I decided to go look for them. I eventually found them stepping off a fishing boat which had just participated in a random boat race in the middle of the loch. The boat belonged to Alistair, an almost mythical creature, who along with his wonderful wife Joanie, also owned the flat that the guys were staying in. Alistair had been feeding the boys whisky and prawns all morning and I could tell straight away that there would be no mapping for us that day. They got off the boat, handed me a can of Tennants and explained that today was the Elgol Gala and we were getting involved. All I could smell was beer, fishermen and barbecued meat – I was welling up. In fact I was moist pretty much everywhere.

The Boat Race

What we didn’t know at the time was that participating in the Gala involved taking part in the Crofter’s Olympics, a Highland Games type competition in which we use our pathetically inadequate city ‘strength’ to compete against teams of Highland locals who actually work for a living. Upon hearing about this, we instantly ran back to the flat to put on our matching ‘Skye 2008′ t-shirts – if we were going to be beaten to a bloody pulp, we were going to do it whilst looking like a stylish team of professionals. We looked totally gay, it was awesome.

Luke, Mike and me – tossing hard.

The first event was the caber toss. For those of you sillies who don’t know what tossing a caber involves, you basically pick up a tree trunk and try to flip it 180 degrees in the air whilst at the same time ensuring that it lands as straight and as far away from you as possible. So, essentially the opposite of what any of us are capable of. What the guys on my team needed was something like a ‘Shoes & Belt Accessorising’ event or maybe a ‘Who Can Get the Most Girls to Suck them Off Behind the Village Hall’ competition, we would have totally won those. Needless to say, Beau, Luke and Mike all failed miserably, leaving it down to me. Alistair handed me a slightly smaller, but still substantial, lady-caber and I just closed my eyes and threw it. By some miracle, it flipped 180 degrees and landed beautifully on the grass in front of me. A few people congratulated me saying things like “Well done, that’s amazing!” – but we all know that it is not amazing. Being a female who is able to throw a tree across a field is less ‘amazing’ and more ‘I’m gonna rip your wife’s face off with my vagina and there’s fuck all you can do about it’. I’m not proud of what I did and to this day Billy still asks me if I’m absolutely sure I like penises.

Next was the five-legged race. At the start of this race, Alistair bent down and tied all four of our legs together, stood up in front of everyone and said (AS A JOKE) “Fuck’s sake Jillian, you could have washed your fanny, peeyoo”. Nice. I spent the rest of the day telling anyone who would listen how he was just kidding and that, in reality, going ‘down there’ was like getting a refreshing blast of alpine forest to the face. Anyway, after coming a close second, we moved onto the welly-boot throwing competition where Beau inexplicably threw the welly behind him and almost took out a small child.

Finally, it was the dreaded tug-of-war. We were sitting in overall second place when we began this event. We thought that we could take them, that we were going to come away from this whole experience victorious after our first attempt – then we realised that there were four bastarding rounds of it and (in my slightly tipsy head) the members of the first team were staring straight into our souls, salivating all over their giant steel-toe capped boots. I was pretty tired/scared at this point and considering that the opposite team’s captain was called ‘The Butcher’ and their anchor weighed more than Beau, Luke and Mike combined, we didn’t stand much of a chance. Our only hope was to at least beat the team that consisted almost entirely of old ladies – except these old ladies appeared to have been sent to destroy us from the depths of hell. One of them was rolling around on the ground and pulling so hard that she began bleeding profusely from numerous lacerations in her arms. They humiliated us with a crushing defeat and when it was all over we left her bloodied and sweating in a heap on the floor. It’s possible that she was dead. I hope she was dead.

The A-Team 2009 (Cameron, Beau, me and Billy) – raping the face-paint stand to achieve maximum intimidation. It didn’t work.

Overall, we finished in third place, which considering the trauma, I was delighted with. We spent the rest of the afternoon up in the village hall drinking beer, eating vulgar amounts of meat and walking around the numerous stalls which sell the inevitable pile of shit you find at every village gala. To give you an idea of what we are dealing with here, I entered a raffle and won a jar of olives, a bottle of men’s shower gel and some orange cordial. Rock and roll.

Alistair & the Butcher, trash talking.

In the late afternoon we were kicked out of the village hall so that it could be transformed into Elgol’s premier ceilidh venue. Now, I love a ceilidh more than anything in the world (except iced tea) so I was beside myself with excitement and headed home with the rest of the guys to shower and get whored up for a night of drinking, dancing and debauchery. When I realised that this night had the potential to be one of the highlights of the summer/my life, I called Cameron, Iain, Sam and Eoin (who had missed the day’s events because they had actually been mapping – lol) and told them to get a fucking grip and get down here.

Faces of pure glee!

Cameron’s trench-foot.
(You thought I was kidding. I would never kid about trench-foot)

I think it’s safe to say word had got around that there was fresh cock in the village because when we arrived back at the hall it was like a scene from 28 Days Later. There were salivating girls in abundance, ready to tear chunks out of anyone who got in the way of them and the scrotums of my poor friends. Luckily for the guys, the wristbands that everyone is given on the door were colour-coded according to age, providing them with a handy visual aid when deciding how best to proceed (the catchphrase of the evening became “GREEN FOR GO, YELLOW MEANS NO, BUT YELLOW CAN MEAN MAYBE IF YOU HAVEN’T GOT ANY ACTION BY 1AM”). At one point I went up for a dance with Cameron, which resulted in a blatant head-case coming charging towards me saying “You trying to steal my man??”, to which I replied “I’ve been living with him and his trench-foot, man-fart, sweaty-balls for the past month. Seriously, you can have him. In fact, if you promise to keep him occupied for the whole night I’ll even throw in a jar of olives, some shower gel and a bottle of orange cordial”. She took the bait, and from the looks of her, probably most of Cameron’s foreskin that night.

Alistair: Ten times the man you’ll ever be.

At around 3am we managed to make it home, exceptionally fucked but genuinely delighted with the day we just had. It was totally stealth, none of us were prepared for it, and although I woke up the next day feeling like death, it was the most worth-it hangover I’ve ever had. What had begun as a boring old day of mapping had ended in utter chaos and I loved every minute of it. It changed the rest of that trip for me and over the next few weeks we got to know a lot of people in the village: Alistair and Joanie, their kids Craig and Grant, even my once nemesis “The Butcher”, who is now my total fave and not scary at all.

As soon as I got home, I told Billy that he needed to come see it for himself and we have been back every year since along with various combinations of the original seven. I look forward to it more than any other holiday, which considering it is only a four-hour drive from Aberdeen, is borderline unbelievable for me. Over the past four years I have been fishing with Alistair on his boat (where I had to kill things with my tiny, bare hands), I’ve swam in the fairy pools, bottle-fed Joanie’s lambs, walked for miles, drank shed-loads of beer and ate truck-loads of BBQ – but I still have not won the motherfucking Crofter’s Olympics. Sadly, I will be missing it this year due to having to work for a living but I have a feeling  that 2013 will be my year so, Butcher, you better be trembling in your yellow wellies because I am coming for you and, this time, I’m bringing my sister. Yeah that’s right, Double Dingwall for the win. ;)

Wish I was here…

eBay Porn

This evening, while perusing the internet for pictures of jackets for my bi-annual jacket collage, I found this.

A sheep died for this:

So that's where all the curtains from the 80's photo booths went.

At first, I found it all quite offensive to my eye-holes. Why would ANYONE buy something that has been in direct contact with an old ladies ass-shaped titties? She’s not wearing much on her bottom half either, so the inside of that jacket will be absolutely covered in minge-juice.  But then, in the name of research, I decided to give her eBay shop a little visit…..

….and I’ve changed my mind.  This woman is a fucking LEGEND!!

Have a look at her display of wares:

And on the discount rack with a massive 50% off:

Her clothes may look like they were recovered from a Nazi brothel circa 1992 but she also sells stand-alone gas heaters, bread bins, Tureen china vegetable dishes (I don’t know what that is) and shock-absorbing in-soles, so there really is something for everyone.

For sheer balls alone, this woman deserves to make money from her wonderful eBay porn.

Me? I’m gonna buy this, I think it will go great with my orcish helm:

What the Hell is Wrong With You? #1

Since starting this blog caper, I have taken a keen interest in the search terms people use to find my site, and the longer this goes on, the more depraved these terms are getting. I have decided that it would be wrong not to share them so I will be starting up a new regular* (*when I can be hooped) feature detailing just what sick fuckers you lot actually are.

What better way to start than with some drunk mum fucking and bad cock injuries…

Brush Strokes & Ball Hair: An Octet of Aesthetic Atrocities

If you’re anything like me, you will dislike visiting a site only to be told to click on a link which will open up yet another page in your browser.  It is just unnecessary hassle.  In saying this, however, please make an exception in this case, as myself and the phenomenal Christian Porter have joined forces to create an article for the magnificent www.gamecola.net.  It discusses the rise of the latest app craze, DrawSomething….that’s a total lie, there is no discussion, it is just a collection of child-like and offensive drawings of genitals, murder-rape and swear words.  There is also a photograph of me with a moustache and a baguette if you’re into that sort of thing. Which I know you are.

http://gamecola.net/2012/04/nsfw-brush-strokes-ball-hair-an-octet-of-aesthetic-atrocities/

This one didn’t make it into the article but it is by far my favourite DrawSomething creation to date so I stole it.

“Election” by Christian Porter

Thank you, love you, bye.

Nuts vs. Ovaries

Sadly, this article is not about the pros and cons of our reproductive organs, instead it is about magazines aimed at men and women and the vast chasm of banterless content that lies between them. Working on a rig, I very rarely do any work and as a result spend a lot of time reading the various lads mags that are strewn around the tea-shack with their pages suspiciously stuck together. The more I read, the more I realise that as a woman, I am getting a bit of a raw deal when it comes to my reading material in comparison to that of the men-folk. It’s gotten to the point now where on the odd occasion I will even risk looking like a rabid lesbian in Tesco Metro just to get my hands on a copy of Nuts Magazine because I find it a substantially better read than Cosmopolitan. In an attempt to investigate why there is such a huge difference between the two, I bought 2 men’s and 3 women’s magazines, read them all from cover to cover and have presented my findings below.

TITLES

Straight away I can see a problem here.

Men get: Zoo and Nuts. Zoo is a fun word. It has a ‘Z’ in it and two ‘O’s which makes it a funny word to say over and over. Zoos are also fun places with lots of wild animals and ice-cream. Nuts is an equally appealing name, not only because it is a common term for testicles (which are always funny) but also because it can refer to mental illness which, depending on the nature of the mental illness (i.e. Tourette’s), can also be pretty funny.

Women get: Reveal, Best and More which are terrible names for a magazine. They invoke nothing. They sound like the names of cut-price ghetto whores. Those titles do not make me want to grab the magazines off the shelf and see what excitement they have in store for me, they make me want to shower and get tested for syphilis.

INTRODUCTORY ARTICLES

These first few pages are supposed to draw you in and prepare you for what’s to come. They are supposed to make you want to give the magazine an hour of your time.

Men get: “How Harry Redknapp’s bulldog could spend £189k” – Referring to the recent claim that Mr. Redknapp paid 189k into a secret account in the name of Rosie, one of his bulldogs. This short and topical article was accompanied by a series of photos depicting a v cute bulldog in a variety of situations which included getting a private dance in a strip-club and buying a pair of designer sunglasses. Which I loved.

Women get: “Yellow Fever Hits Town” – Fortunately not an article about the acute viral hemorrhagic disease responsible for wiping out entire communities in South America, but a reference to the complicated subject of the colour yellow in fashion. Apparently there are five main shades of yellow (canary, sherbet, mustard, neon and lemon) and it is imperative that I know the difference between them. I now wish they had written about the disease.

FACTS

I love facts (for example, did you know that wombats shit cubes?) so I was delighted to discover that a few of these magazines provide a page of interesting facts to impress your friends with. It seems, however, that the media believe women speak a strange, alternate language in which “interesting” actually means “so boring I want to stab myself in the eye with a rusty fork”.

Men get:
“Pub Facts!
-The smallest human penis ever recorded was roughly 1cm long.
-Bees can recognise human faces.”
Women editors take note: THESE are the kind of facts that I want to share with my friends.

Women get:
“Man Facts!
-10% of blokes wants to complete a 10k run in 2102.
-36% of blokes prefer brown bread to white.”
First of all, I don’t give a fuck. Secondly, “bloke” is a shit word.

I performed an experiment in the pub to see just which set of facts would generate the most interest from females. I started off with the brown bread fact and got hit in the face with a tumbleweed. The penis fact, however, had a much better reception and incited an animated conversation about whether by “roughly” they meant ‘approximately’ or if the guy had a 1cm penis with some sort dermatological affliction that gave it the texture of sandpaper. This then moved on to whether we would let a guy come near us with a tiny, abrasive 1cm penis. Incidentally, I was the only one that would……I was thinking of the exfoliation benefits.

HEALTH QUESTIONS

Due to the anatomical and chemical differences between men and women, it was no surprise to me that the ‘Health Questions’ section of these magazines differed considerably. What did surprise me, however, was that the differences were often neither anatomical or chemical, but more forehead-slappingly stupid or hilariously embarrassing.

Men get: “I always, without fail, need to do a massive fart straight after I’ve had sex. It has caused me so many problems in the past that it has nearly put me off sex completely and I’m too embarrassed to go to the doctor. What should I do?”
Pahahahahahahahahaaaaaaa!!

Women get: “I’m bleeding in the middle of my cycle on my contraceptive pill. What should I do?”
Oh my God. Stop writing into magazines and go to the fucking doctor you reprobate. That’s like writing “I just got my arm ripped off by some farming machinery, it’s bleeding profusely. What should I do?” and then emailing it in to the magazine, sitting around waiting for it to be issued, dragging your weak body to the shop to buy it, trying to get the money out of your wallet with one hand and then dying on the pavement outside as you desperately flip through the pages trying to find where they printed the answer to your ridiculous question, which will inevitably be “Stop writing into magazines and go to the fucking hospital you weirdo”.

FEATURED ARTICLES

By featured articles I mean either the ones you see splashed all over the cover because they are the most informative, exclusive and interesting things that magazine has to offer you, or the ones that feature regularly in said magazine. Instead of sitting here for weeks describing each one, I will just provide a list of some of the titles of these featured articles. You can then decide for yourself which magazine you would prefer to read and which one you will take camping with you so you can wipe your arse with Kerry Katona’s face.

Men get:
-Would you? (a picture of a hideously ugly girl with an amazing body)
-Don’t Look (pictures of gory injuries sent in by readers)
-Camera Phone Comedy (mostly pictures of sleeping, drunk people getting cocks drawn on their faces)
-Naff Tatts Corner (a weekly collection of shit tattoos)
-Facebook Fails
-Jokes
-Must-Have Apps
-There are also entire pages dedicated to stealth-bumming and sex advice from a ‘fit lesbian’.

 

 

Women get:
-Look Younger for Longer
-Eat Yourself Younger
-Which is the Healthiest Diet?
-Men Overheard
-We ask him: What Would Stop you Cheating on your Girlfriend?
-What his ‘I Love You’ Really Means
-How to Make him Want you Back
-There are also entire pages dedicated to eyebrow upkeep and lettuce. Now, I’m not for a second suggesting that eyebrows and lettuces are not engaging subjects worthy of intricate discussion, but would “pluck them” and “put it in a sandwich” not save you quite bit of paper? It is a recession.

 

JOKES

When was the last time you said to someone “Do you want to hear a joke?” and they said “No thanks, I don’t like jokes”. Never – because everyone likes jokes. Bearing this in mind…

Men get: A penguin takes his car to the garage where the mechanic says it will take an hour or so to fix. As it is quite a hot day, the penguin decides to get an ice-cream but makes quite a mess eating it. An hour later he returns to the garage.
“What’s the problem?” the penguin asks.
“It looks like you’ve blown a seal mate” says the mechanic.
“Oh no” he replies “that’s just ice-cream.”

Women get: Fuck all. Not even a knock-knock joke.

HOT PIECES OF ASS

Men get: So much tits. Too much tits. The abundance of tits and football articles is literally the only down-side to men’s magazines. I generally flip past the naked women (especially when I’m pre-menstrual) but will admit that on the odd occasion when I am feeling up to it, I will skim over them just to get an idea of how mine are (literally) holding-up in comparison. This always proves to be a pointless exercise as boobs tend to get progressively worse over time, but although they may never suddenly become perkier than those of Kimberley, 18, from Liverpool, it can sometimes bring back good memories of the days when they were.

Women get: David Beckham. Every fucking week.

SEX POSITIONS

Why magazines still bother with this when we have the Internet is beyond me, but they do, and again they do it so very differently.

Men get: ‘The Simon Cowell’*
A dodgy drawing of Simon Cowell banging a girl from behind with “It’s a yes from me” captioned underneath. I think it is essentially doggy-style but with your thumbs up in the air.
*Billy: I’ll be home on Tuesday, get down to Primark and buy as many black v-neck sweaters as you can, pull your jeans up so high that I can see each individual testicle and then pick me up from the airport around 7.30pm. This is happening.

Women get: ‘A Sexy Bubble-Bath’
Not technically a position though, is it? It’s more like an activity. They have basically just told me to have sex in the bath. I figured that one out when I was 17.
On a side note, they have a little caption at the bottom which says “Want £50 to have sex with your man? Email us and you could be in the mag!”
Weird.

FASHION

Men get: Two pages. A couple of pairs of jeans, some t-shirts with retro video game logos on them, a few pairs of trainers and a jacket or two. Job done-o.

Women get: Well, obviously women’s magazines are going to pay more attention to fashion and that’s completely fine. I do have an interest in it and I enjoy looking at nice clothes and making fantasy lists in my head of the ones that I want, yet will never buy – but for the love of Christ, it does not have to take up two thirds of the entire fucking magazine. If I wanted to look at that many clothes I would have gone to TK Maxx with the rest of Poland and had a walk around. After four pages I’ve had enough. Add to this the fact that the price-tags on some of them are ridiculous to the point that literally no one I know would be able to afford them. Yes, alright I will give them their due, more and more magazines are featuring high street stores nowadays, but they will always throw in a Mulberry bag or pair of Louboutins just to remind you that you live in relative poverty and will forever smell of turnips and Baldrick’s ball-bag.

REVIEWS

Men get:

Video games, gadgets and smartphone apps.

Women get:

Mother-fucking dishwasher tablets.

So with my research complete, let’s sum this up:

-Women are only interested in being thin, looking young and obsessing over their men. They have no concept of humour and will not stop until their dishes are “smear-free” and sparkling.
-Men are light-hearted and fun creatures with a love of tits, football and entertainment. They spend their time drinking beer, laughing and drawing genitals on each others faces.

I refuse to accept this.

We like apps! We like laughing! We like photos of people stealth-bumming each other! Why are we not allowed to have these things in our magazines? Now, I know that for a girl I am into slightly abnormal things like video games, gadgets and explicit photos of horrendous injuries, so I am aware that in its entirety, Zoo is probably not going to appeal to most women, but just having the choice would be nice. Men get to choose between Viz and GQ, two magazines with highly contrasting content, whereas women get to choose between Hello and OK, one of which has an extra picture of Kate Middleton. I once spoke to a male colleague about this dilemma and he explained rather simply that “There just isn’t a market for humour and immaturity when it comes to women’s light reading.” Is this true? I know I’m not the only one who would rather see a photo of a dog in a sleeping-bag playing an Xbox than see Rihanna dry-humping a surfboard in Hawaii for the one millionth time.

Sadly, it appears that until someone realises that having a vagina does not constitute page upon page of mundane and superficial bullshit, I will just to have to continue to steal Billy’s copy of Viz, peel apart the pages of Loaded magazine in the tea shack and hope that one day, my children’s children will not have to suffer this immense hardship.

Walking in a Onesie Wonderland

It’s the 15th of January and my hangover shakes have only just subsided enough for me to type. I am usually pretty happy at this time of year because Christmas is over and I can get back to being an unsociable Skyrim-raping bastard, however this year I am actually on a bit of a downer. The reason for this uncharacteristic post-festive depression is because I actually had a lot of fun this year. It’s true! I have discovered that it is entirely possible to have a relaxing and enjoyable Christmas – and all you have to do is follow this one simple step:
 
-Wake up on Christmas morning and say to yourself: “Today I am going to do whatever the fuck I want”.
 
It really works, I tried it this year and this is what happened:

I woke up on Christmas morning in my mum’s house in Cyprus. I handed Billy, Lisa, Dan and my mum a onesie each, which I had previously purchased from Primark (for those of you who don’t know what a onesie is – it is basically a baby-grow for adults, complete with attached feet). Lisa was a penguin, my mum was a zebra, I was a cow, Dan was a gangster-baby and Billy was a kind of paedophile-snowflake.

Once onesied-up, we headed downstairs and sat by the Christmas tree in front of the log fire (turns out it can be a bit chilly in Cyprus in December) where we proceeded to open all of our presents. As you can see from the photos, our gifts and cards reflected the deep and profound emotions we feel towards each other:

When all the presents were opened we headed into the kitchen where we cooked dinner together (still in our onesies). Our dinner was accompanied with Grey Goose vodka and freshly-squeezed orange juice which had come from the oranges we stole from a farm the day before (we literally parked the car at the side of the road and ran into a random orange-grove armed with an empty shopping bag each. Most of us at least tried to steal oranges that had fallen on the ground as they would have gone to waste anyway. Not Lisa. She managed to find a basket of oranges that someone had actually worked hard to harvest and emptied it into her bag. I think the orange-picker guy had only gone for a cigarette).

Anyway, back to dinner. We put our Christmas hats on and ate FAR too much, laughed a lot, farted even more and put away enough Buck’s Fizz to ensure that none of our organs are considered donatable. After we couldn’t take anymore, the inevitable sleepiness started to creep in. Usually this is the point where I am so bloated that the dress I reluctantly squeezed myself into earlier that day now makes me look like a plastic-bag overly stuffed with awkward-shaped meat. I then have to talk to people that I haven’t seen since the previous Christmas without spewing into their eyes every time I take a sip of the circa-1965 booze that someone kindly donated from the back of their dead grandma’s cupboard.

Not this year. This year I was doing whatever the fuck I wanted – and I wanted to curl up in a ball and let literally everything hang out until this wave of over-indulgence had subsided. As if reading my mind, my mum then told us to go and look behind the sofa. We did as she asked and there, pressed up against the wall, were two airbeds. Two fucking airbeds! There were angel noises playing in my head. We immediately pumped them up, brought our duvets down from upstairs and arranged ourselves around the TV in a kind of disgusting human-amphitheatre, sheltering from the meat-sweats in our beautiful new Christmassy refugee camp. We passed the rest of the evening watching Team America and the odd episode of Eastbound & Down. It really was a ridiculously spectacular day.

Now, some people may think that this is inappropriate (and slightly repulsive) behaviour for Christmas, but 100% of the people I have talked to about my day have said the exact same thing:

“That sounds amazing, I wish my Christmas was like that.”

What I don’t understand is, if everyone wishes their Christmas was like that, then why isn’t it? Clearly we would all rather eat shit-loads of carbs and spend an entire day on an airbed in our pyjamas than do the formal family gathering so favoured by the average human, so why do we put ourselves through it? When I have kids and everyone starts coming round to mine, immediately upon stepping through the door they will be handed a onesie, an airbed pump and a glass of Buck’s Fizz – and this will set the tone for the rest of the day.

Since making the decision to do whatever the fuck I want on Christmas day, not only does it suddenly seem tolerable, I am actually actively looking forward to it. In fact, if all goes to plan, this Christmas might even overtake the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee as my favourite holiday of the year.  If this sounds like your kind of day too, then I suggest you sit your family down and tell them that this Christmas you are doing whatever the fuck you want, and you will be doing it all day long.  If they don’t like it, then I’ll see you round ours!

 Bring cake.

Too Cool for Driving School

After a lot of consideration, and at the grand old age of 31, I have decided that it is about time I learned how to drive. This will be a guaranteed shambles. The reason I am confident that this will be a disaster is because I have tried to learn how to drive before (when I was 19) and the following things happened to me:

1. At the end of an hour’s lesson with my elderly driving instructor, ‘Old Bill’, I stepped out of his car and noticed quite a lot of dark stains all over the driver’s seat. This confused me as I did not remember seeing them when I got in the car.  The mystery was soon solved when I got home and realised that, as a result of my period arriving a week early, I had in fact menstruated all over his car. Great. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, I knew the person who was getting the driving lesson directly after me – so if you’re reading this, Mark Lumsden, I am truly sorry for any permanent damage done to your jeans.

2. Whilst driving along a quiet country road one day, Old Bill pointed out a farm which was obscured by some trees. He explained in a secretive and disapproving tone that one of his other students had told him how this farm was sometimes used by homosexual men to meet up and have “relations”. I pretended to be equally shocked and humoured him with a Carry-On-Cottaging-style giggle before driving on.  

A good couple of months later we returned to this area and as I drove along the single track road, Old Bill asked:
“So Jillian, can you remember what I told you about this place last time we were here?” 
I hesitated slightly before saying “Uhhmm…..this is where gay guys come to shag?”
After what seemed like quite a long pause he replied “Uh, no. There’s a blind summit up ahead.”
“Oh.”

We pretty much drove in silence for the rest of the lesson which, considering he was the one who told me the story in the first place, seemed a little bit out of order to me. Maybe it was my choice of vocabulary that offended him or maybe it was because I prioritised farm-bumming over road safety. Whatever it was, I was highly mortified.

Eventually I felt confident enough to book my theory test. Being the young, carefree, fun-loving alcoholics we were, Billy and I thought it would be a great idea to attend a birthday party the night before said test (which I had stupidly booked for a Saturday morning). As was the case with all celebrations in late-nineties Aberdeen, the party soon moved to Amadeus; an unnecessarily large meat-market/nightclub famed for its foam-parties and chlamydia-coated bar stools.  

Back then, I used to get a bit annoyed when I saw Billy flirting with other women (nowadays I hold them down so they can’t run away from him) so when I saw him dancing with another girl, I gave him a bit of hassle.  This hassle soon turned into a full-blown screaming argument outside the club which did not resolve itself until 6am.  At 10am I was still half-drunk and, with no sleep, headed to the test centre. Needless to say I failed and decided there and then that driving was not something that I wished to pursue in the near future.

Almost twelve years later and I have pretty much had enough of being a bus wanker.  Here are just some of the experiences I have had on this increasingly disturbing form of public transport.

I have:
-Sat next to an old man who proceeded to shit himself.
-Had a little bit of my hair cut off by a pair of Bucksburn slags who were sitting behind me.
-Been slapped by a mentally unstable man in drag.
-Been dive-bombed by numerous wasps.
-Been asked by a Nigerian man if I would like to “go for coffee…..and then maybe sex?”
-Witnessed a drunk guy pissing into the heating fan.
-Overheard this conversation:

Girl: “Hey, excuse me, do you remember me?”
Guy: “No, sorry. Should I?”
Girl: “Kind of. About 6 months ago? Met you in town?”
Guy: “Sorry, still nothing.”
Girl: “Fuck you! We fucked in Union Terrace Gardens after the clubs closed you fucking arsehole! I had to take the morning after pill and everything! What the fuck kind of dick-head doesn’t even phone? I hope you get a fucking STD and die you piece of shit man-whore.”
Guy: *Presses bell* “Well…*awkward stretch*…this is my stop”.

And I haven’t even started on the bloody night buses.

So anyway, last month, whilst fantasising about never having to get on a bus again, I re-took my theory test (sober) and passed (hero) and with next month’s pay will book a one-week crash course to get it all over and done with. The reason I have to wait until I get paid is because it is going to cost me 1000 fucking pounds. To drive around for a week! Looks like I will have to retract my bid for that clump of Justin Bieber’s pubes I saw on eBay and think of something a bit more affordable to get my mum for Christmas. I do feel it will be worth it in the end though, surely there is only so much I can embarrass myself in one week?

Lisa’s Pieces – Lord of the (Paedophile) Rings

 

If anyone's ring deserves to be smashed, it's a paedophile's.

Obviously this is a not-in-any-way-funny news story about those God damn paedos who, like the contents of Frankie Cocozza’s scrotum, seem to get everywhere nowadays.  But can I just say how much I love that the back-drop to this breaking news story looks like an old James Bond super-villain map, usually found on the wall of an underground hideout with satellite links to news stations around the world and a countdown to our imminent death.  If the BBC’s coverage is anything to go by, it appears that this paedophile ring had a real-life evil lair in a New Mexican desert-cave…and this is exactly what it looked like:

Celebrity Paedophile Headquarters (C.P.H.Q.) - Guest Speaker: Josef Fritzl

N.B. As a result of making the above picture myself (with a couple of cheeky Google Image thefts), my browsing history now looks dodgy as fuck.  Let’s just hope that my hard drive is never seized, I’m not sure I could explain having ‘catholic rapist priests’ in my search bar without using the term “research” – and we all know no one falls for that old chestnut.

Abbreviate This: *middle finger*

I’m not even going to pretend that this isn’t going to be a rant.  Abbreviations need to fuck off.  It’s not that I hate all abbreviations, some definitely serve a purpose.  Take ‘RSVP’ for example – only a total dick would write “Répondez s’il vous plaît” in full on their invitations, so I am grateful that there is an abbreviation for this ridiculous and unnecessarily foreign sentence.  However, this linguistical craze has gotten way out of control recently.  I especially cannot cope with the popular phenomenon that I have entitled:  Abbreviation Lies or ‘using an abbreviation to tell people you are doing something when, in fact, you are a lying bastard.’

This facebook conversation that I read a few weeks ago is a prime example of the Abbreviation Lie:

What the hell was that??  Imagine if you will, that all those abbreviations were factually accurate.  You would walk into that room to find two girls basically having a seizure; they are rolling around on the floor covered in piss, their arses have fallen off and they are laughing like maniacs whilst drinking Lambrini.  I would be phoning the authorities to have them restrained and sectioned but instead, because they have used abbreviations, people already assume they are lying and that’s apparently okay.

It wouldn’t be so bad if the abbreviations were actually decent.  I still don’t know how to pronounce ‘LOL’ (is it ‘lole’ or ‘lawl’?), and as for ROFL, it clearly needs at least one more vowel to make even realistically usable in a sentence.  Until then, it will just continue to sound like someone from The Scheme talking about raising money for their local community centre.

-“Haw Tracy, did ye manage tae sell ony rofl tickets doon the presinct yisterday?”

-“Naw Boab, I couldna fun onythin tae use as a rofl prize except fur a rangers toap covered in pish and a £10 bug a’ smack that I fun unner my wean’s bed.  It’s no real Boaby.”

I suppose the problem I have is that laughing out loud as a result of something you have read is a rare and beautiful occurrence – an occurrence which people are becoming increasingly desensitised to because of this anti-semantic lolocaust.  In my whole life I have only genuinely pissed myself laughing twice (one of them was a little bit because I had a bladder infection) and I don’t think I have ever got down on the floor and actually rolled around laughing – but if it ever does happen, the moment will be ruined because no one will bloody believe me. They will simply add it to the steaming pile of lies that sits festering in the corner of our social networks. 

So the next time you are texting/facebooking/tweeting, spare a thought for the people who are genuinely covered in piss. Take a step back and ask yourself: “Am I really laughing out loud? Am I actually rolling on the floor laughing my ass off?” If the answer to either of these questions is ‘no’, then, for the love of God, just put a smiley face.

:)