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.

:)

How to Construct a Gaming Nest™

In light of the recent “Gamer Dies of Xbox/DVT” news story, I have had a lot of questions from people (one person) asking me for tips on how to construct a Gaming Nest™ that is both comfortable and architecturally sound. As the creator, inventor, creative inventive director and all round Gaming Nest™ building genius, I have decided to share my knowledge so that you too can create a comfortable environment matched only by the amniotic fluid of your mother’s uterus. By following this guide your nest is sure to make the Beijing National Stadium look like a piece of shit and you’ll never get DVT no matter how long you play for. Guaranteed.

You will need:

1 x Pair of loose fitting trousers/shorts (no jeans)
1 x Loose fitting t-shirt
1 x Blanket
1 x Slanket (buy it here: www.theslanket.com)
All the pillows from your bed
2 x Console controllers
1 x TV Remote Control
1 x Sky Remote Control
1 x iPad (a laptop will do if you’re a peasant and don’t yet own an iPad)
1 x Mobile phone
1 x Landline phone
1 x Pint of juice
A variety of munchies
1 x Dog (preferably one that is a bit tired)

Begin by equipping your nesting outfit. Elasticity is key here – sweatpants, leggings, even Lycra if that’s your thing – for the love of God, just make sure it is flexible. I wore jeans once and after a solid eight hours of gaming I took them off to discover that I looked like a burns victim – and I’m pretty sure denim imprints hurt more than third degree burns so be warned.

Once you are appropriately attired, grab your blanket and slanket and bring them through to the living room. Place the blanket directly on to the couch, this will form the foundation of your nest and provide you with a smooth surface to lie on. It also prevents chafage from the sofa cushions or, if you have a leather sofa, that moment when you have to peel your sweaty ass off the cushions post gaming session. Put the slanket to the side for now, we will return to this later. Next, go to your bedroom and remove all the pillows from your bed. These will function as a kind of scaffolding to keep you upright, so the more the merrier here. Return to the couch and place the cushions in whichever fashion you feel will be comfiest for you. Remember, every nest is as unique and individual as its owner so feel free to experiment with quantities, positioning and fabrics!

You can even keep up to date with the weather that you will never see. According to this guy, it's raining here right now.

Now that we have the soft furnishings in place, it is time for the equipment. I usually begin by placing both console controllers within easy reach of the nest. You will need both just in case one runs out of battery – it is way easier to pick up a pre-charged controller than it is to get out of your nest and rake through the man-drawer trying to find a pair of batteries. Once that is sorted it is time to move on to remote controls. First you will need the TV remote to switch inputs on those rare occasions you need a break (if you’re a pussy, for example) and then you will need your Sky remote to change channels/volume etc. I usually keep them at my side in case something crazy happens, like Amy Winehouse dying, and I want to watch the repetitive, mental-illness inducing coverage on BBC News 24 whilst saying things like “Yeah, I’m shocked………but I’m not really surprised, you know?”

Next on the list is communication. Place all your communication devices in a row, again within reaching distance of the nest. You will need your iPad/laptop within viewing distance and permanently open on the BBC News website or Facebook for maximum gossip exposure. You will also need your mobile in case someone phones you or you want to phone your sister and say “Oh my God, did you hear Amy Winehouse died? Totally fucked up! Yeah, I know…shocked….but not really surprised…..totally…..yeah, inevitable…..such a good voice though…..yeah I agree….wasted talent. No way, we got our periods at the same time AGAIN?? Freaky! Okay, bye!” Next you will need your house phone in case your mum – literally the only person to call your landline since the late nineties – phones and says “Amy Winehouse? Yeah, that bitch could never hold her drugs.” With all these links to friends, family and current events at your fingertips, no one can ever accuse you of ignorance as a result of prolonged gaming.

Probably one of the more important elements of the Gaming Nest™ is the inclusion of sustenance in its design. It is essential that you are kept hydrated and energised when completing the challenging tasks that video games tend to throw at you – defeating dragons, shooting Nazis in the face, blowing up spaceships and having gay sex with Anders from DragonAge II are all physically demanding activities that require both focus and stamina. I recommend you fill a pint glass with your favourite juice (no alcohol, it will only distract you from the task at hand) – I tend to go for some sort of orange cordial because it is high in water and flavour. I would avoid fizzy shit like Coke or Irn Bru because it’s fattening and we don’t want to get fat. We are athletes. We all know that gaming is hungry work though so make sure you have some munchies next to your juice. A good tip would be to choose things that only require one hand to eat – I usually go for popcorn or grapes but you can choose whatever you like, use your imagination!

N.B. At this stage it is essential that you go for a piss. I don’t care if you don’t need one, you must stand in that bathroom until you feel something stirring and don’t come out until you are completely empty.

Finally, it is time. Switch on your console, grab that slanket we put aside earlier and climb into your brand new Gaming Nest™. The slanket comes with sleeves (hence the name) so it is possible to cover yourself right up to your chin whilst still having your hands free to hold that all-important controller. Get hold of your sleepy dog and place him firmly in the space between your knees – not only will he provide you with a permanent heat source but he will also be someone to pet and talk to, a therapeutic friend during those times when that alien-boss just won’t fucking die. 

 So what are we waiting for friends? Let’s get gaming!

Ahhh.....Bisto.

Backpacking with Billian – Part I

 

This month, Billy and I began the fun process of selling our flat.  Whilst packing up some of our stuff, I came across a pile of old travel journals that I had written over the past ten years.  I decided (to Billy’s annoyance) that a constructive use of my time would be to read them all, starting with my memoirs of a three week backpacking holiday we took in 2004.  How we managed to come back from that trip alive still amazes me – we were like a pair of lumbering oafs with literally no concept of budgeting and the survival instinct of a suicidal suicide-bomber lemming kamikaze pilot.

We went to the Czech Republic, Croatia and Italy with nothing but a pair of open train tickets, the backpacks on our backs and a wide-eyed sense of adventure that was soon to be crushed by bouts of crippling diarrhoea, a constant stream of women that were a million times hotter than me and sweat……lots and lots of sweat.  I have decided that it is in the public interest to share some excerpts and experiences from my diary to demonstrate what not to do when travelling around Europe.

Czech Republic 4th Aug – 7th Aug 2004

We had big plans for this place.  We were thinking museums, boat trips, tours and local restaurants.  In reality we got speaking to a bunch of Irish people on our first night and so spent most of our time here either drunk or asleep.  On our last day we were so hungover that we slept in for our hotel check-out and after discovering we had 11 hours to wait until our train, slept in a park like a pair of alcoholic stinkers for most of the afternoon. 

When we woke up, we decided to at least try to do something cultural by heading to a museum but since we had almost exceeded our Prague ‘budget’, we couldn’t actually afford culture so we went for pizza instead.  It was here that my stomach started playing up, something I communicated to Billy with this beautiful sentence: “Whoever goes into that disabled toilet after me is going to come out more disabled than they went in.” I think I could safely cross off the word ‘romantic’ as an adjective to describe this trip and we were only on day three.

Czech Republic to Croatia 7th Aug – 8th Aug 2004

It took us 24 eventful hours on a train to get to Split from Prague.  Our first connection was in Budapest where we were squashed into a roasting-hot carriage like sardines.  After about an hour the conductor squeezed past and informed us that only the front five carriages went to Zagreb and the trains were separating in ten minutes.  Since we were in the very last carriage, there was no way we could have pushed through the entire length of the train in time so our only option was to get off the train at the next stop, run like maniacs towards the front and hope we could make it back onto the right carriage in time. 

Well, we got off at the next stop and I was fucking useless.  It was sooo hot and my bag was really bloody heavy, I was trying to run but there were people next to me who were actually walking faster (and staring).  I tried to drag my bag behind me instead of carrying it on my back, but that didn’t really work either so I was just pathetically stumbling along occasionally shouting “Billlyyyyyyyyyyy……..waiiiiiiittttt for meeeeee”.  Billy got so annoyed, it was pretty funny.  He had to come back and get my bag and run with both of them – and he was still faster than me!  Despite my terrible effort, we made it onto the carriage just in time and, after Billy calmed down, he did not stop laughing at me (for about a week):  “Apparently my face was bright red with half of my hair stuck to my face and the other half flapping in the breeze”.  I think I could safely cross off the word ‘sexy’ as an adjective to describe this trip and we were only on day four.

Our next connection was in Zagreb where we boarded our sleeper train to Split.  I was excited about this, the idea of sleeping in a bed on a moving train blows my tiny mind.  As soon as we got into our cabin I got straight into bed (I was seriously fucked from all the athletic prowess I had demonstrated earlier) but Billy needed a pee so off he went in search of a toilet. Because the train was still stopped at the station, all the toilets were locked so he returned to the cabin too worried to leave the train in case it left without him but also too bursting to hold in his pee.  There was a sink in the corner of our cabin so I suggested that he just pee down the plug hole and clean it like a bastard afterwards.  He didn’t want to do that but at this point it was either piss in the sink or piss all over himself so he had no option really. He got on his tippy-toes and started peeing – except he forgot to lock the door and the conductor walked in.  Billy couldn’t put his cock away because he was in mid-flow so he just kind of pretended to clean the sink (he even whistled for added effect), even though the crack of his arse was hanging out the top of his half-pulled-down boxers and you could hear the distinct sound of pee trickling down the plug hole.  Needless to say, the conductor knew exactly what Billy was doing and, although he never said anything at the time, he looked at us with utter disgust and was a dick to us for the whole journey. I think I could safely cross off the word ‘classy’ as an adjective to describe this trip and we were still only on day four.

Croatia 8th Aug – 12th Aug 2004

“We arrived in Split at 6.30am and walked to the ferry port in silence (we were not talking to each other because we had left our train tickets in our cabin and were blaming each other – even though we managed to get them back)” but we got on the ferry to Korcula and soon became friends again once we saw how amazing it was.

One of the first things we did was try to find somewhere where we could hire a scooter.  We eventually found a place and the guy told us that we would have to do a quick test to make sure we could drive the thing before we could take it away so Billy started the engine and drove on the wrong side of the road with the indicator on the whole time.  Upon his return, the scooter guy seemed delighted with Billy’s performance and gave us the keys.

We spent the next day generally swimming and scootering around and that night, after Billy made us dinner, we got engaged (awwwww!).  The next day I was hungover to fuck from celebrating but had to hand-wash some of our seriously stinky clothes:  “I washed our clothes while Billy watched naked girls feeling themselves up on TV – he assured me that this wasn’t a sign of things to come and I told him he was fucking right it wasn’t.”  And so, after a couple of days of literally doing nothing (it was amazing), we had to pack up again for our ferry ride over to Italy.

I say ferry ride, but it was more like a yacht trip for Europe’s Next Top Model. The girls in this part of the world are ridiculously stunning and I literally had to step over the hoards of smoking hot, bikini clad bints who had draped themselves over all the soft furnishings on the boat.  We managed to find a seat and I was just settling down to a magazine when one of the girls came and stood near us. She was bent over one of her bags rummaging around with her ass in Billy’s face, so he obviously had to have a little perve.  When he realised that I had caught him he rolled his eyes and said: “*tsk* well she’s wearing a g-string”. I responded by glaring at him through my pale, freckly, chubby, sweat-soaked eyes. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, the automatic doors of the lounge opened and in walked the hottest thing I had ever seen.  She was wearing a leopard-print bikini and the doors had created a kind of wind-machine effect. I’m pretty sure the slow-motion was just my imagination but it is possible that she lived her entire life in slow-motion, that’s how hot she was. After picking his jaw up from the floor, Billy whispered: “I think my cock just twitched”, to which I replied “so did mine Billy, so did mine”.  Eventually, after five long hours, we arrived in Italy and I swore never to get on a boat again, unless it was for a mingers-only/British cruise.

To be continued…….

Join me next time when I convince myself that I am about to be stabbed and possibly raped to death in Naples, Billy unintentionally smokes drugs with a Jew and I smell a homeless man’s feet on yet another train.

Toilet Attendants – I Will Not Pay to Take a Shit

A couple of months ago I made the rare and dangerous journey into town for a night on the piss to celebrate a friend’s birthday. Everything was going swimmingly – I was on my fourth jegermeister, there was a dance-off between two very white men in their forties on the dance floor and I had just witnessed a retard in a neon-pink lycra dress walk into a glass door. Inevitably, and despite my best attempts to dehydrate my body beyond all repair, I needed a pee.

I am very much a lone pee-er. I know girls tend to piss in packs but I prefer to just spend five solitary minutes urinating, thinking, facebooking and taking photos of myself to see if it is possible to look sexy whilst sitting on the toilet (it totally is) – so off I went in search of some water closetry. Giddy at the thought of the impending relief, I found the toilets, headed through the door and…..there she fucking was – a fucking toilet attendant. FUCK’S SAKE!!!

I have a history of problems with toilet attendants, most of which are a direct result of a mystery birth defect that has left me with the inability to burp.  Because I can’t burp and yet continue to drink shots and fizzy booze when I’m out, I will usually throw up at least once on a night out.  It’s not a gross food spew, it is more just me simply un-drinking what I just drank because there is no room in my stomach for any more air.  Having dealt with this ridiculous disability since the age of 15, I have become a seasoned pro and my drink spews are usually very simple exercises that pass with such speed, I have actually spewed up a complete ice-cube before.  Combine this with the fact that I tend to fart when I spew (N.B. Billy Connelly does this too, so it’s okay) and things begin to get a bit awkward.  One of my first dates with Billy, for example, ended with me throwing up in his parent’s back garden.  He tried to be nice by rubbing my back but as soon as I started ripping one out, he retired rapidly to the back door where he proceeded to point and laugh.  I was MORTIFIED.  I had absolutely no control over any of my bodily functions and my new boyfriend was just standing there witnessing all this.  So, as you can imagine, the last thing I want when I get to a toilet is some bint listening in to all that pandemonium.

On this occasion, however, it was purely a pee visit and I entered the toilets to find the attendant leaning against the sink, chewing gum and looking me up and down whilst humming that charming Khia classic “My neck, my back, lick my p***y and my crack”. There was no one else there, just me and her, so I stood there for a moment getting awkwardly hummed at before disappearing into the nearest cubicle. Turns out the nearest cubicle had no toilet roll and a bit of spew on the seat so I had to come back out and try the next one. Was she wondering why I changed cubicles? Does she think I’m a snob because I’m not prepared to sit on spew? Does she think I’m annoyed that there is no toilet paper? Is toilet paper replenishment even her responsibility? If not, why not? It probably should be, she does sit in there all night after all…..

And just like that, my relaxing piss-time was ruined.

The silence in the room was deafening so I perched myself on the edge of the seat and tried to keep the noise to a minimum. See, girls don’t like people listening when they make pee pee or poopy – as opposed to guys who don’t seem to mind at all (something I discovered to my horror when I was having ‘relations’ in the cubicle of the men’s toilets in a Torry pub. Nothing like an alcoholic taking a shit to put you off your stride). I then began searching for some money, only to realise that I had left my purse on the table. Fuck. I have to figure out a way to wash my hands, dry them, sort out my eyeliner (which at this point in the evening is inevitably half-way down my face) and fix my hair without accidentally making eye-contact with her or brushing against any of the myriad of products she had taking up the sink space.  Bear in mind that I am pretty drunk at this point so this is literally blowing my mind.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, in comes The Banterless Brigade – a generic group of about five girls who, I imagine, are in the same Media Studies class at the University of UggBoot, who get moist over pictures of floral scarves, are a bit too posh to give blow-jobs and spend 48 hours a week in the make-up section of Debenhams.  The story one of them is telling promises to be the funniest story ever told by a human.  It’s not.  It’s about an Ann Summers party and a bottle of Lambrini.  Or something.  At least their inane screeching is drowning out the sound of my colossal piss.

I decided to exit the safety of my cubicle to see if these girls could handle the awkward toilet-attendant-moment better than I could.  Two of them completely ignored her and made weird sex-face pouts at themselves in the mirror whilst the rest of them tried way too hard to look as if they cared by asking the attendant cringey questions like “So how did you get into this line of work?” and “Do you enjoy it?” etc.  She responded by saying that her five children are starving to death in the basement flat of a tenement building in Logie so she really had no choice but to start up her own ‘business’.  Since when did poaching all the free perfume samples from Boots and hanging around in the shitter of Revolution constitute running a business?  Her response did not generate much sympathy from these girls, with one of them saying something along the lines of “Yeah, that’s a sad story.  Here’s 50p, now straighten my fringe with your fake ghds.”

And that is why I don’t like toilet attendants.  First of all, they deny me the right to fart-spew in peace and then charge me for the privilege and secondly, they are put in a position where utter bastards can treat them like shit and get away with it.  It’s demeaning and I don’t think anyone should spend their Saturday night sitting in a toilet being spoken to like that, whether they are doing it willingly or not.  I don’t believe for a minute that Cheryl Cole punched a toilet attendant because she was black, she punched her because she wanted to take a massive shit for free and I don’t blame her.  In fact, I’m taking this to Parliament – fuck the Alternative Vote, I want a referendum to ban the poop-perving bastards.