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.

Lisa’s Pieces – Gingwa & Friends

Lisa phoned a bar/restaurant to book a table for dinner.  When she got there, this is what she found on her table:

Lisa Gingwa? I thought I was supposed to be the Chinese one.

Does Gingwa sound anything like Dingwall?  I really dont think it does. It sounds more like the name of a spray to keep gingers away:

“Too many gingers in your vicinity?  Try ‘Gingwa’ – the new environmentally friendly ginger repellant from Johnson & Johnson.”

I’ve been called Mr. Bingwall by Sky Customer Services before but I have never had anyone mishear it this badly. 

Also, I’m not sure how happy I am about the management inviting complete strangers to use their arses to keep my seat warm.  I would prefer a cold, stranger-arse free seat I think.

Lisa’s Pieces – Evil Swans

I hate swans.  Really, really hate swans.  I got attacked by a swan on a golf course in Florida in 1993. Had to kick it in the face.  

Another incident occured at a beach party one night in the Bridge of Don a couple of years ago.  A swan decided to start flying around in the pitch dark right next to me but I couldn’t see anything so when I heard the sound of its freakishly large wings hitting the water I thought we were being attacked by terrorists with sawn-off shotguns. I tried to throw bits of bonfire at it but it didn’t care, they aren’t scared of anything.

It is with some disgust, therefore, that I am posting the latest of Lisa’s pictures sent to me on purpose from a park of some description:

Disgusting

I can see Lisa’s boyfriend Dan’s foot in the corner!  He’s far too close. They don’t want your bread Dan, they want your soul.  Kick them in the face!!

If you still think that you like swans, here are some swany facts that may make you change your mind:

photo courtesy of richardhellergallery.com

-They can fly as fast as 50 to 60 miles per hour.
-Some have a wing span of 10 feet.
-Adult males have been known to use a blow from the “knucklebone” of their wing to defend their family.
-This blow is said to be strong enough to break a man’s arm.
-The adult male is the only known bird to have a penis.

So, not only are they fast, large and violent beasts capable of breaking bones with their feathery knucklebone-uppercuts, they are also potential rapists. I fucking knew it!

God, imagine getting raped by a swan…

There would be a lot of blinking.

Continue reading

2010 – The Gaming Tramp in Review

I have just received the annual review (well from November anyway) of my blog from WordPress and according to their ‘helper monkeys’ I am “fresher than ever”. After a week of solid drinking, I can assure you that I have definitely been fresher.  They also state that I have uploaded 73 photos when it was more like 7 and are there not 52 weeks in a year as opposed to 73?  Monkeys, you are here to supply us with something to test our cosmetics on and I suggest you stick to that.  How can you expect to be good at statistics?  You can’t do maths with perfume in your eyeballs silly!

Anyway, one of the statistics below states that the equivalent of three full 747s have read my blog. Now that is all well and good until you realise that the last plane I was on was an Easyjet flight from Ibiza so half the passengers couldn’t read and the other half had a mutated form of genital herpes mixed with leprosy.

I think what the helper monkeys are really trying to say is:
“2010 was a great year for you and your blog – if you like highly contagious, occasionally terminal venereal diseases which have been incubated within Easyjet-flying, bareback-riding, hair-extension chewing, pill-popping, skanky crack whores on a foam-party themed hen weekend…………..with their newborn children.”

Thank God I love all those things!

On a side note, one of my top 5 referring sites is google.de. Is that not German Google? Why are Germans reading my blog? Germans! Why are you reading my blog? Were you on that Easyjet flight? I don’t know what you want from me but if it’s what I’m thinking then forget it. We all know what happened the last time you tried that.

—————————————————————————–

“The stats helper monkeys at WordPress.com mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a summary of its overall blog health:

Healthy blog!

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Fresher than ever.

Crunchy numbers

Featured image

A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 1,400 times in 2010. That’s about 3 full 747s.

In 2010, there were 29 new posts, not bad for the first year! There were 73 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 22mb. That’s about a picture per week.

The busiest day of the year was November 21st with 103 views. The most popular post that day was Why I Heart the Dart.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were facebook.com, WordPress Dashboard, mail.live.com, twitter.com, and google.de.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for the gaming tramp, gaming tramp, christmas cameltoe, decision points itunes, and christmas camel toe.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

1

Why I Heart the Dart November 2010
1 comment

2

Scotland – Stop Growing on Me Like a Fungus December 2010
2 comments

3

Heat Magazine – Shut the Hell Up December 2010

4

About me November 2010
2 comments

5

Lisa’s Pieces – Mr Bison & the Bareback Sandwich December 2010
3 comments”

The Ugliest Dog in the World? Yes.

 I was casually reading the newspaper the other day when, without warning, this violated my eyes:

What the hell is that?  After I calmed down I read on and discovered that his name is Doug and he is completely, swear-to-God, medically retarded.  According to his new owner “he keeps walking into things”.  I want a retarded dog that walks into things!  I want Doug!

Epic Win – It’s Epic and it Pretty Much Wins

For those of you with an iPhone you MUST get this app.  It is called ‘Epic Win’ and it is basically a To-Do list in the form of an RPG.  You pick a character (I am the warrior princess, Jildo) and start writing down all those shit things you don’t want to do. 

My list currently consists of: Do washing, go jogging, worm Logan, get new passport, go on Turd Patrol (Billy keeps calling me the Turd Dodger so I have set aside an hour next week to patrol the back garden in search of stray cables the dog has laid when I haven’t been looking………….I know you want my life but you can’t have it).  You then assign each task to a trait, e.g. Strength, stamina, social, intellect or spirit. 

As you complete the tasks you gain experience points, your character levels up – I am now the Wench of Undesirable Tasks – and you pick up loot as you travel further throughout the land.  It’s fucking amazing!!  It makes me want to do stuff!!  It’s worth noting that I don’t think anything actually happens in the game; there’s no boss, no end, pretty much no storyline but it does enough to trick me into getting excited when the washing basket fills up.  As a result, this is getting a massive 4 fists from me.

(As you can see, I have developed a new, highly complex scoring system – The Fist List – the better the product, the more it will get fisted by me).

Here’s the Epic Win launch trailer:

Lisa’s Pieces – Mr Bison & the Bareback Sandwich

Following the success of ‘Shakespeare – This Time it’s Personal’ I have decided to make my sister Lisa’s collection of ridiculously random pictures a permanent feature of my blog. It will be entitled ‘Lisa’s Pieces’ and will document her life in London through a series of thought-provoking (not really) iPhone photos.  This week it is the wonderful Mr Bison Sandwich Man.

This is what sat across from Lisa on the tube one severely hungover morning:

Just before this was taken he approached Lisa with a walking stick and said in a posh, quietly high-pitched voice "Don't be frightened". Haha! Yeah okay!!!

 

I have a few observations to make here.

-His face. Not very nice. Pale, suspiciously smooth and waxy. 
-His jacket. I don’t care where you are in the world, it is never cold enough to wear an entire bison. The sheer size of the coat suggests that he may be using it as a wank-jacket. You could do anything under there – give birth, get a blowy from a dwarf – no one would notice.  As we speak, he is taking a dump into that bag-4-life between his legs.
-His sandwich. It is quite large, some would say too large to have been bought at a shop. Also, why is it not in a packet? Why is he just walking around dressed as a bison with two huge sandwiches in one hand? Did he make them at home then carry them bareback all the way onto the tube?  Does that not make him more strange? It is completely inexplicable!

Based on my above observations I have come to a fair conclusion about this man.  He is a serial killer. Of bison. He goes to the zoo, kills loads of bison, skins them, dances around in front of a mirror with the skin draped over his naked body à la Silence of the Lambs then cuts up the meat to put in his freakishly large sandwiches. He then walks around London wrapped in bison fur with the sandwich in his hand because the thought of people not knowing what he just did gives him a boner.

Oh those big city folks!

Heat Magazine – Shut the Hell Up

Last week I was reading Heat magazine – I don’t care if it’s shallow, the Hoop of Horror has been making me feel better about my armpit stubble every Tuesday for the past 10 years.  On the cover was the rather attention-grabbing headline: “Rebecca’s Secret Tragedy” referring to Rebecca Ferguson, one of the contestants on this year’s X-Factor.  Now, I don’t watch the X-Factor but thought “Ooh, I love a tragedy, especially a secret one, so I will read on”.  Using exact excerpts from the story I will now summarise what her secret struggle involved, starting with the title:

“REBECCA’S SECRET STRUGGLE REVEALED – The X-Factor fave’s close friend exclusively tells heat the tragic truth that the humble singer has been hiding from the nation.”

“Just last year the struggling single mum had to put her dreams on hold to help look after her ten-year-old sister – as well as her own two children – when their mum fell ill.”

“Rebecca faced three separate bus journeys every morning, then another three in the afternoon – with her own kids in a pram – to take her younger sister to and from a school some distance from their Liverpool home.  It was a long journey that took many hours out of her day.”

“It was really difficult for Rebecca, but she knew she had to do it for her mum, even though she had kids herself.  Rebecca’s so sweet and would make all this effort because her family is so important to her.  She’s completely selfless and would sometimes just eat crisps outside of the school gates as she wouldn’t have time for a proper meal.”

Get.  To.  Fuck.  Seriously.  Is this serious? A tragedy?  She had to catch a few buses and then stand outside a school eating crisps? Paedophiles have to do that every day and I don’t see them getting any sympathy, what makes her so fucking special? I was so incensed at this careless misuse of the term ‘tragedy’ that I felt compelled to write a letter to Heat magazine telling them so (I am definitely getting old.  Up until last month I had never written a complaint letter in my life, I have now sent two).  Anyway, here it is:

—————          

Dear Heat,

I quite like your magazine.  You are the only reading material aimed at the female population that contains any form of banter.  Apparently girls don’t have a sense of humour so all the other magazines thinks it’s best to just distract us with articles about shiny things, make-up and how shit and fat we look in comparison to the androids of the celebrity world. Now, although your interview with Nicole Scherzinger last week did make me feel a bit shit and fat, I was instantly cheered-up by Rumor Willis’ camel-toe and the immense photo of that Essex pseudo-retard, Amy Childs, falling out of a bar.  

Speaking of last week’s issue, I had better get on with the actual point of my letter:  I can tell you right now that Rebecca from the X-factor categorically did not endure a ‘secret tragedy’.  She had to get a few buses and eat some crisps outside a school.  How on God’s earth can you claim to ‘reveal’ her secret struggle and then give me this?  What did she struggle with exactly? Did the bus driver ask for the exact fare which, tragically, she did not have?  Were her crisps Golden Wonder and not Walkers therefore by buying the blue packet she had tragically bought salt & vinegar instead of cheese & onion?

So that you never make this mistake again, I have supplied a list of actual tragedies for you to refer to every time you are unsure as to what constitutes an actual ‘tragedy’:

-Hitler and/or The Holocaust
-Stalin
-The Fritzl family
-Mining accidents
-Deepwater Horizon
-Tsunamis
-Hurricane Katrina
-Tim Westwood

You’re welcome!

Jillian x

—————

Unlike iTunes, I didn’t get a reply and unlike Classic Rock Magazine, I didn’t get published.  Heat magazine - Shut the hell up.

Scotland – Stop Growing on Me Like a Fungus

Ten years ago, if you had asked me to describe Scotland in three words I probably would have said something along the lines of “worst place ever” or “fucking shit fuck” or, if I was particularly pre-menstrual, “worse than rape”.  This is because for most of my adult life I have not been Scotland’s biggest fan.  I was removed from here at an early age and as a result don’t really have that strong sense of patriotism you get when you have lived in the same country all of your life.  Recently, however, there have been some interesting developments which I suspect could signify a thaw in our frosty relationship.

When I lived overseas, I was the most die-hard Scottish person you could find, probably because I was the only Scottish person you could find.  I’m not going to lie, the release of Braveheart in Malta when I was 15 did nothing to hurt me and I milked that fictional motherfucker for all it was worth.  For weeks I had American kids coming up to me at school saying “Wow, I did not realise you guys went through so much”, to which I replied “Yeah (*sigh*), if I’m honest you know, yes, it has been a long and arduous journey fraught with repression and violence but I like to think we’ve come out of it a better, stronger nation” whilst shakily pointing to a scar on my forehead I got from a rollerblading accident – or as I liked to call it “the English”.

In Tunis, at around the same time, I distinctly remember welling up during a St Andrews day party when a bagpiper came into the room (I was totally shit-wrecked on wine and could hardly see, but let’s just say for the sake of discussion that they were the tears of national pride) proving that I did have it in me back then, Scottish was something I wanted to be.  Little did I realise that this was because I had unwittingly adopted some sort of foreign, romantic image of our country:  “We have hills n’ shit, people carry fish around in baskets, awesome!”, etc.

It was with these fantastical notions that I returned permanently to Scotland at the age of 19.  I was excited about it, I could go into town and buy decent clothes, things would generally work as opposed to be broken, life was going to be good.  I think it took about 3 days before I realised that I had just made the biggest mistake of my life.  I got a job at a local pub and in the space of a couple of days someone had called me a “yankee cunt”, a junkie had stolen my wallet and I had seen my first ever ecstasy pill.  Bearing in mind that at the time I had the street-wisdom of a Fritzl sister, this was a highly confusing environment for me.  Up until that point, I thought heroin was a fictional substance made up by Irvine Welsh to make Trainspotting an interesting read.

Looking back now, I can see that I must have been pretty annoying.  I sounded like a Californian cheerleader (really did not look like one) but was telling people I was born in Torry.  Bar a few of the locals at the pub, people were generally not very convinced by me and I don’t blame them, I was a fucking weirdo.  To make matters worse I was struggling to adjust to a life where suddenly I didn’t have any of my friends around me.  I tried to do things like go to college and speak to people in the bar I worked in but at the end of the day I had nothing in common with anyone, turns out no one is interested in talking about Maltese bus drivers or this one time at the British Club.  I think people may have mistakenly thought I was posh too, which is hilarious/offensive – I would be lying if I said that I haven’t pissed in a bottle at T in the Park and put it inside my jacket as a kind of make-shift heating device.  I don’t think Kate Middleton has ever done that.  Anyway, the fact of the matter was I had to get some friends, and if they all happened to be cats then that was just the way it was going to have to be.

It was right around this time that I met Billy (thank God, I fucking hate cats) and Christ knows what made him able to withstand what must have been the excruciating embarrassment of introducing me to his friends and family (I want to say it was my shimmering personality but I did have sex with him, so it was probably that).  For the first year or so, I don’t think much of his friends were clambering over each other to start a fan club; I didn’t take any drugs, I talked a lot, nothing I said was very useful, I dressed weird, I loved the Eurovision Song Contest, I swore constantly and was generally not very feminine but unfortunately for them I wasn’t going away.  Through perseverance I discovered that people can change their minds if you literally give them no other option and now I look upon a lot of them as my good friends.

Over time, my accent slowly began to return to a semblance of Scottish which made everything a bit easier and after about five years I had the foundations of a social life.  Despite this, I still absolutely hated the place and used to dream about leaving every day.  The weather was terrible, there was nothing to do, there were drugs everywhere, they were expensive, people moaned constantly (a bit like what I’m doing now) and no one really spoke to each other.  All of these things made me want to get the hell out of here and to top it all off, I absolutely hated my job at the time.

When I turned 25 I decided to do something about the situation.  I applied to study Geology at Aberdeen University in the hope of getting a job in the oil industry so I could get the fuck out of this hell-hole and back into the comforting arms of an obscure foreign country.  I got accepted and began what was to be four years of good times.  In our class there were people from all over the UK and abroad, none of whom knew each other so we were all in the same awkward boat.  For the first time since returning to Aberdeen, I was considered a local.  It was a very weird feeling because I still felt like a dirty immigrant but it was a good weird feeling.

During the course of my degree I made quite a few friends and was relieved to discover that I didn’t have to force myself upon them like I did with Billy’s poor friends.  We went on numerous field trips together and these were tremendous.  Not only was the banter so good that it was, at times, physically painful but I was starting to see all the hills and people carrying fish around in baskets that I had imagined all those years ago.  I had been so preoccupied with not killing myself I had forgotten that there were parts of Scotland better than literally anywhere else in the world.  I spent eight weeks on the Isle of Skye for one of my uni projects, for example, and it is now possibly my favourite place in the universe.  If you had told me a decade ago that out of everywhere I had been I would like a cold, remote Scottish island the best, I would have taken an angry shit in your front garden.

I now work offshore and get to spend two weeks of every month at home in Aberdeen with Billy and my dog, an arrangement I am pretty happy with.  Over the past few years I have found myself fantasising about leaving this country less and less and looking forward to the Wizard Festival and my annual trips to Skye more and more.  Billy and I want to buy a house this summer and because we are old, crusty and beginning to smell of death, we have been thinking about getting somewhere in the countryside.  The other day he said to me “The way you’re talking you would think that you were happy to hang around here for the next ten years” and, after swallowing some sick, I told him that I think I am.

A Reply from iTunes!

Well, after posting my complaint letter on this page last week I decided it would be a waste not to email it to iTunes……4 times.  I sent it to their UK, US and Guatemalan customer service departments as well as their general customer feedback department.  Admittedly the Guatemalan one was an accidental, over-excited click on my part but I’m sure reading my letter would have made a refreshing change from bumming Llamas or whatever it is that Guatemalans do.

To my surprise I actually received a reply from the UK iTunes customer service department and this is what they said.*

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

————————————————————————————————————————————————

Dear Jillian,

Baroness Gladys McGinty III from the iTunes store here.  I’m sorry for any inconvenience you have experienced.  I would like to provide further assistance but I was unable to determine the nature of your inquiry based on the information you have provided, please reply to this email with more information about the issue you are experiencing as well as the text of any error messages you may be receiving.

I also encourage you to use the iTunes Feedback page to submit your comments.  Your efforts to share your feedback are very much appreciated.

If there is anything I can help you with Jillian, please do not hesitate to reply.  Have a great day!

Sincerely,

Baroness Gladys McGinty III

iTunes Store Customer Support

————————————————————————————————————————————————

She said have a great day.  She said it sarcastically.  I like her.

Dear iTunes……

Dear iTunes,

What the fuck is your problem?  Were you abused as a child?  Was your uncle some sort of salivating paedo?  I only ask because I want an explanation for why you feel the need to behave like a total cock every minute of every day.  I am writing to let you know that it is no longer acceptable and it ends here.

I will start by addressing the endless ‘ping-pong’-ing noise you make every 10 seconds when my iPhone is connected to you.  It’s like the electronic equivalent of open-mouth breathing right next to my ear when I am trying to watch TV.  From now on you will ‘ping pong’ once and once only and this will function as a signal to me that I have successfully connected my device to you.  I appreciate how amusing it must be to watch me spend all afternoon going  “Oh good it’s connected………oh wait, no it’s not……..it is now……….okay now it’s not”  but when I am half way through transferring a movie you are in danger of causing me to self harm – and not in an atmospheric, Twilighty way, I mean like I want to ram blunt cutlery into my eyeballs.

Next thing we are going to deal with is your worrying inability to stop yourself from syncing.  It’s as if you can’t even control yourself, like you’re some sort of syncing junkie.  Just calm the fuck down!  I will sync when I am ready, it is not up to you and it’s not a fucking race.  It wouldn’t be so bad if good things happened when you sync but good things never happen.  The other week I spent two entire days transferring various entertainments onto you, only for you to sync like an absolute gypsy and decide that, in fact, two-thirds of these files needed to be taken off.  I am also pretty sure that you regularly wait until I’m asleep before syncing like a horny teenager.  You disgust me.

Also, for something whose main purpose in life is to transfer music, you make it Krypton-Factor impossible.  I am not a software designer but if someone asked me to design a package that transferred music from one device to another, call me retarded but I would probably put a ‘transfer’ button somewhere pretty obvious.  I had to google how to transfer music and even then it became clear that no one in this universe has a fucking clue how to do it.  In reverse order, here are the top 5 suggestions that your users are offering me:

5. Click ‘manually manage music’ then drag and drop – Rarely works

4. Tick the boxes next to the songs then go to the drop down menu and click ‘export’ – Never works

3. Go on a journey of self-discovery, learn a martial art, consult the Dalai Lama – Can’t be arsed

2. Genocide – Go on, I’m listening……

1. You cannot transfer music using iTunes – High five

Okay, I will admit that I am slightly exaggerating and that there have been occasions when the exact songs I wanted have transferred over without removing things I didn’t want removed.  I have to stress though that in 18 months this has happened twice and both times I don’t know what I did.  What normally happens is I will click ‘manually manage music’, drag and drop one song (because, believe it or not, sometimes I only want to add one song) and you say “Yeah, that’s totally fine, just give me a minute while I delete the entire music library from your phone first and then I will put it on for you”.  You’re an arsehole!!

Oh yeah, I am on to you iTunes.  I’ve seen your type a hundred times.  Bullied as a child for having a misshapen head and badly fitting jeans.  You’re bitter and vindictive and you need help.  I suggest investing in some counselling and we will take it from there.  We can start slowly, nothing major, maybe try something simple like taking less than 6 FUCKING MONTHS to back up my iPad.  In the meantime, I hate you.  Goodbye.

 

Love and warmest wishes,

Jillian xxx

I’m in Classic Rock Magazine!!!

Remember that romantic fridge message that Billy left me using the freebie fridge magnets from Classic Rock Magazine?  Well *ahem*, I may have sent it in to their letters page and they may have published it in this month’s magazine.

No she dih-ih, yeah she dih!!!!

They took out the bit about Austrian basements :(

Why I Heart the Dart

When people ask me what kind of things I’m into, I generally say “What do you mean? Like taking a dump on my boyfriend’s genitals or watching midget porn?” Usually, and disappointingly, they reply “No, I mean like photography or amateur dramatics”.  After the awkward silence I will reel off a list of the things I like.  Near the top of this list is darts, the mention of which usually results in a reaction of greater disgust than when I mentioned excrement-sex.  Why do people have such a problem with darts?  It is the most beautiful sport in the world!  Yes, I called it a sport, put that in your pipe and shove it up your ass.

The main reason for my love of darts is that, in my opinion, I feel it is the last of the working man’s sports.  Even I remember the days back in the 80′s when footballers drank in my dad’s local and were just regular guys, the majority of which had day-jobs.  They were young, normal boys who were a bit better at football than everyone else and as a result got to play it a bit more than everyone else.  Above all, and much more importantly, a lot of them had handle-bar moustaches and a minor drinking problem.  They were all the things that men are supposed to be; untidy, hairy and a bit stinky.  Look at them now, they make me physically sick.  They use fake tan, they wax their chests, they advertise things, their wives are clinically retarded and their wardrobe is more important to them than consensual sex. They earn far too much money for what they do and, sadly, kids can’t get enough of them.

Darts on the other hand is not ashamed to admit that it is not perfect.  Darts doesn’t give a fuck.  It eats pies, drinks beer, swears and scratches its balls whilst simultaneously farting.  Now I agree that this is an equally unhealthy role model for young children but it is by far the more fun of the two.  At least you will develop some sort of banter that will ensure you are an enjoyable person to be around. Dying of a heart attack at 35 is surely a small price to pay for this?  Anyway, have you seen the young Dutch guys in the PDC nowadays? They are extremely fit and they rarely drink.  In fact most darts players are professional sportsmen and it’s about time they were treated that way.  It’s a high pressure sport that few can master and yet they are still viewed as the outcasts of sporting society.

I have been to many a televised darts event and can safely say that they have been the most enjoyable nights I’ve ever had.  I usually begin the evening with a pint and a pie (something I would rarely do in my everyday life so it is a pretty special moment for me).  I will then sit down at my table, half of which will be full of people I don’t know but am soon to become best friends with, and begin my quest to think of a catchy line to put on my card that might get me on TV.  The rest of the night will be spent drinking, laughing, screaming, getting autographs and trying to sneak into the Player’s Lounge.  The vast majority of the players are approachable, normal guys and no one in the room gives a shit what you look like or where you’re from.  There are often arguments but rarely fights and there is always drama between the players.  What more could you possibly want from an evening?

I think when it comes down to it, all the things that dart haters dislike about the sport are the same things that make me love it:  It’s fun and unpretentious.  ‘Fun’, for those of you who have forgotten, was something that people had before the Food Standards Agency and Health & Safety Executive took it away from us and replaced it with that guilty feeling you get after a day-time wank.  Fuck them I say! Find your nearest darts team and go and bloody enjoy yourself. In the words of a poncey, public-school scrote-sack that I was once forced to speak to: “Darts is nothing but 2D, trash TV”……….and long may it continue my friends, long may it continue.

 

A 1988 darts montage just for you.  Back when men were men and moustaches were a way of life……..

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GgW6jxU1EGU&feature=related

Decision Points – A Memoir by George W Bush

Bought George Bush’s book last week.  Did a shit on it.

My thoughts……

The recently released memoirs of our favourite loveable rogue are sharp and cutting at best but often just grating and irritable.  Whiter than white and with not much in the way of cushiony softness, I would recommend steering clear of this product.

Verdict:  A controversial choice.  Better than the recycled toilet paper favoured by primary schools but nowhere near as good as that Andrex luxury double-quilted one.

My decision point: 1 Fist 

Top Tip:  Moisten with the tears of Iraqi orphans prior to use to get that super-fresh, wipe-clean feel.

He wants it so bad he can hardly sleep at night.