Posted in Video

The December People – A Xmas Present from Me

Merry Christmas! ¬†Hope you are all having a super smashing day ūüôā

Behold, The December People – a band I will be forcing my future offspring to listen to every Christmas for all eternity. They are shitmazing!

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Posted in Picture

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!

Posted in Video, Writing

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:

Posted in Picture, Writing

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!

Posted in Writing

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:

‚ÄĒ‚ÄĒ‚ÄĒ‚ÄĒ‚ÄĒ ¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†

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

‚ÄĒ‚ÄĒ‚ÄĒ‚ÄĒ‚ÄĒ

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

Posted in Writing

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.