Posted in Writing

Smear Campaign

(N.B. I don’t care if you don’t want to hear about my latest smear test.  Shut up.)

I think I may have had the second most embarrassing moment of my entire life this afternoon.*  Today was smear day. To give you an idea of my level of dislike for smear tests, when I get that letter through saying I am due for a smear, I find myself disappointed that it wasn’t a letter saying that I have been diagnosed with a terminal illness.

So, after waiting in reception for what seemed like hours, I entered the nurse’s room and removed my jeans in shameful silence.  Not that there’s anything shameful about smears, you understand, but I defy anyone to get their flange out in front of a complete stranger and not feel a little bit reluctant to just “let your knees flop naturally down to the side”.

And so I lay there with nothing but a tiny toilet-paper square covering my shmoo and watched her put the steel car-jack of death into a special microwave (which I bet she used for her micronoodles at lunch the dirty bitch).  After hearing the familiar ‘ping’ it was time for the obligatory pre-violation conversation to commence:

“Hope it’s not too cold for you!”
“Hehe, no it’ll be fine don’t worry” – Stop talking to me, stop talking to me.
“Okay, just relax, it won’t be as bad if you relax”
“Hehe, okay I’ll try” – Get your dirty great big fucking elephant hands away from my chonch.
“Can you relax a bit more?”
“Hehe, yeah sorry” – Wait a minute…is that a bit of fucking pot noodle on the end of that car-jack? Oh God, please be Chicken & Mushroom, Bombay Badboy really fucking stings.

Now normally, this next paragraph would contain a harrowing account of what can only be described as a depraved act of mental and physical torture.  On this occasion, however, it was relatively painless.  I mean, not like Disneyland or anything, but pretty okay!

As I was putting my jeans back on I felt the need to tell the nurse how pleased I was with her handiwork. I believe that people should be told when they do a good job as, especially in the NHS, I don’t think it happens nearly enough.  Unfortunately for both of us though, this is what I chose to say:

“Well, thanks!  That was…….you were….the best I’ve had.  I mean, that was really good um……….smearing.”

That is what I said to her.  What a dick.  She just kind of stopped de-lubing her equipment and looked at me, said thanks in the form of a question and did a little laugh, the kind of laugh I imagine a person would make if Ian Huntly told them a joke about dead children.

I ran out of the room and into the street as fast as I could.  Why the hell did I have to ruin a perfectly satisfactory experience?  She didn’t want my thanks, she just wanted me to get my minge out of her face so she could finish her lunch.  I now have three years until my next one and I hope it hurts like a bitch so I don’t feel the uncontrollable urge to buy the nurse a thank you card entitled “It’s a Dirty Job, but I’m Glad You’re the Someone Who Had to Do It”.

*The single most embarrassing experience of my life involved menstruation and my driving instructor’s car. I don’t want to talk about it.

Posted in Writing

Halo Reach – Bit Shit?

Back in 2002 I had my first encounter with Halo and I knew instantly that the extra-marital affair I had been having with my Xbox behind Nintendo’s back would not be short-lived.  I loved it a lot, right down to the grass – I sometimes still think about that grass, it was more realistic than real grass.  Anyway, the point is that this is not going to be a rant about disliking the entire franchise because of its masculine, science-fiction storyline or gratuitous violence.  I find games such as ‘Kinectimals’ or ‘High School Princess – An Introduction to Statutory Rape’ far more offensive.  This is more of a superfluous, knee-deep piece of writing discussing, amongst other things, the parts of Halo Reach that I found a little bit annoying.

“Chase me, chase me!”

As with all of the Halo games, I played this offline and in co-op campaign mode with Billy. I don’t like playing Halo online because everyone else seems to be freakishly better than me at everything.  I tend to get nailed within about 10 seconds of appearing on the screen, usually by herds of angst-ridden teenagers with dehydration headaches from the sheer volume of semen they have excreted into their bedsheets during their short lives.  I much prefer to play in co-op mode because, well, Billy is way better at Halo than I am and, crucially, he’s on my side.  I find it a more enjoyable experience if he is involved, even if he is always Player 1 and therefore chooses the standard green-coloured Master Chief outfit, leaving me with the slightly gayer pink one.  Not very intimidating unless The Covenant think I’m going to bum them to death or force them to listen to Kylie on a loop until they voluntarily throw themselves in front of a turret.

Of course it is a good game, Bungie would be hard pushed to make it shit with the success of the previous instalments having done most of the work for them. The graphics are ridiculously impressive as always, the story line is decent – if a tiny bit boring at times – and the cut scenes aren’t too long.  The weapons, vehicles and enemies haven’t really changed which means that you can just pick up the controller and get on with it from the beginning.  There is no start-of-game fannying around trying to figure out what the hell is going on or what buttons to press.  This is handy if, like me, you’re about as patient as Christian Bale in a Marks & Spencer supermarket on Christmas eve.

Enough of the good points though, I much prefer to focus on the insignificant negative details and I’m going to start with the female character, Kat.  Why is she a Polish one-armed lesbian?  I’ve had a good think about this and I’m not really sure it’s essential to the plot. I reckon some muff-diving, Eastern European and limb-challenged gamers wrote in complaining that the characters were not representative of their audience so they just kind of threw Kat in there to make it look like they give a shit about minorities. Well, I’m not buying it Bungie – you forgot about ginger, Asian burn-victims. What a bunch of irresponsible bastards you are.

*sigh* I just don’t think my dad will understand.

The dialogue is also a bit cringey.  I know that we have come to expect cheesy one-liners when playing these types of games but it doesn’t get any easier for me to listen to.  One particular line that ruined my day was this attempt at stopping two guys from arguing:

“Lock it down, both of ya!”.

Lock it down?  Who even says that?  Why not just say “Can you two stop arguing please?” or “Shut the fuck up”? They did slightly redeem themselves later on in the game by using the term “slag heap” but it is an American game so it was probably more of a mining term than a reference to heaving mounds of sexually promiscuous women.  Whatever though, I’ll take it.

The biggest problem I had with Halo Reach is not entirely the fault of the game but a total pain in the arse nonetheless.  Having avoided the internet like the plague for fear of stumbling upon any spoilers, Billy and I began The Pillar of Autumn completely unaware that it was the final level.  Instantly upon completing it, Billy went for a pee and I went to source a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch that I had forgotten about at the bottom of one of my handbags. We missed the credits and returned to the living room to see ‘Lone Wolf’ which, to us, was the next level but in reality was a bonus level that is specifically designed to be unbeatable. I think we tried to complete it for over four hours before we eventually caved and had to google it.  We still didn’t get it.  Wait, that was the final level?  The final level is unbeatable?  It’s a bonus level?  There were credits?  What the fuck?  This transformed what was supposed to be an epic, original and emotional conclusion into a seriously deflating, confusing and utter shit ending.

Although this was highly disappointing for me, I do see where they were coming from. This ending was clearly aimed at the social outcasts who wear Master Chief pyjamas, use Cortana as wank-fodder and know the storyline inside out, and that is how it should be. I wasn’t die-hard enough to deserve a satisfying conclusion – I sometimes even feel guilty for killing Grunts when they run around all cute with their arms flapping in the air.  On reflection, I probably shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near Halo. Ignore everything I have said about this game.

Posted in Writing

Sex & the City – The Cause of All Human Suffering

I remember when Sex & the City first arrived on our screens way back in 1998. I recall seeing a strange tutu-clad pink-wafer with disproportionately massive tits and a face like a stunt man’s knee getting deservedly splashed by a passing bus to the random sound of South-American piano music. It looked terrible before it even started but the hype was so huge that I completely and utterly fell for it. It wasn’t until about the fourth or fifth episode that I thought “Wait a fucking minute here, this banter is horrendous, what the hell am I doing? South Park is on and I’m watching this pile of mince?” Little did I know that this pretentious nonsense would go on to single-handedly destroy the entire female race within a couple of years.

Now, I’m from Aberdeen and if ever there was anywhere in the world that is the complete polar opposite of upper-class Manhattan, it is working-class Aberdeen. There is literally nothing in SATC that I can relate to and I am fine with this, delighted even. Unfortunately, a growing number of our female population have bought in to this delusion and literally nothing will get in the way of them appearing to be Kincorth’s answer to Carrie Bradshaw.  It is so painful to watch. They are skint and yet they spend what little money they have on designer crap to give the impression that they are some sort of high-flying, independent success story. I once spoke to a girl in a club who came out with this peach “Yeah, you know, I work for Dior so it’s really important that I look my best at all times, you could say that it’s part of the Public Relations aspect of my job, hnarf, hnarf”. Would you like to know in what capacity she worked for Dior? She worked on the fucking Boots counter. I’m not even kidding, that is a true story. I instantly disliked the girl, not because she worked at a Boots counter but because she spoke to me like she was some sort of fashion-industry heavyweight. I wasn’t inspired, I wasn’t impressed and I wasn’t envious – I was disappointed. Sadly it’s everywhere now, young women don’t seem to want to enjoy each other’s company anymore, all they are interested in is trying to out-do each other and it makes me sad.

Then there’s the fag-hag storylines. I am not easily offended and I’m not gay but sometimes I think the gay characters in SATC are portrayed a little too stereotypically. They are immensely camp, they always talk about sex and they generally come across as superficial fairies incapable of any intelligent thought. It’s so boring and has been done a hundred times in the 70’s (i.e. Are You Being Served) but again, girls in the real world pick up on this and run with it. A woman I know once asked me if I had any gay friends and at the time I didn’t so I replied ‘No’. She proceeded to look at me as if I had just pissed on her kids and screeched “Oh my god, you dont have any gay friends?? I have like three! You have got to get yourself a gay friend, they’re fab!!”. Since when are gay people an accessory? Surely you make a friend first and if they are gay then it’s a big gay bonus. You don’t make friends with a guy solely because he loves cock. Do you? It seems that this is indeed what a lot of these irritating females do and, again, I’m sad about it.

SATC has also ruined cocktails for me. I used to really like a cocktail, not because they are fancy and expensive and make you look like a sophisticated über bitch but because they get you completely fuckoed and taste all fruity and nice. These days I get nervous even saying the word ‘cocktail’ because when I hear other people say it they make it sound like some sort of achievement – “Me and the girlies are going for some cocktails! Honestly, soooo busy at work just now, I think we deserve to just chillax with a Cosmo or two, tee hee”. When all of this silliness first started I went along on one of these after-work-cocktail sessions and I left wondering just how upset my parents would be if I hung myself with their shower curtain. The conversation consisted of what I like to call ‘The 4 H’s’: Handbags, how busy & hard-done by everyone was, husbands & how annoying it is when they leave wet towels on the floor (although that is really fucking annoying) and how amazingly expensive & luxurious their last holiday was. It was terrible! I know these girls had more to give but they could not bring themselves to steer the conversation onto a subject that may have made them look a little less than perfect. All this because four fictional STD-encrusted whore-robots have decided that this is what women should talk about.

Most of it I can deal with but the day that SATC interfered with my food was the day it irreversibly crossed a line. Billy and I were round at an acquaintance’s house some time ago when one of the girls there asked if we would like any “nibbles and dips”, an offer we enthusiastically accepted. She returned with hummus & celery sticks. Now, I don’t know about you, but when someone says ‘nibbles and dips’ I think Doritos & super-chunky salsa not plants dipped in liquidised Middle-Eastern lentils. And why did she do this? To make us feel shit and to make her look all Charlotte York, healthy and ethnic. She was slightly fat, so I know for a fact she would have preferred pizza and probably phoned Pizza Hut after we left to gorge herself on an extra large meat feast and a 2 litre bottle of Pepsi Max. After exchanging a few horrified glances, Billy and I swiftly bolted, swearing never to return before nipping into KFC for a quick Boneless Banquet. See, if she had just worried less about what other people thought of her and more about having a good time then we all could have had pizza and a much more enjoyable evening.

You know when you look out of a car window and the repetitive scenery eventually becomes invisible? That’s what I see sometimes when I go into town on a Saturday night: A vast landscape of self-importance with very little in the way of good, uninhibited fun. I was working as a waitress in a restaurant across the road from a cinema when the SATC movie came out. The entire place was jam-packed full of clunge. One table that stood out (all be it barely) consisted of 4 women in their late 30’s discussing which one of the SATC characters they most resembled. The strain on their laughing faces as they shamefully slid their Primark shopping bags under their seats and sipped on their apple martinis was verging on nervous breakdown material. Unfortunately they held it together, but it left me wondering:

Would the world be a better place if all the Sex & the City girls died in a horrific house-fire or would the masses find someone even more basic to idolise?


A collection of my personal favourite SATC quotes for you to enjoy:

– “Maybe some women aren’t meant to be tamed. Maybe they just need to run free til they find someone just as wild to run with them.” –GAY.

– “It’s really hard to walk in a single woman’s shoes — that’s why you sometimes need really special shoes!” –Oh, hahaha!  Shoes!

– “Are we simply romantically challenged, or are we sluts?”  –You’re sluts.

– “I have a date with a dildo.”  –Gross.

– “Later that day I got to thinking about relationships. There are those that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you can find someone to love the you you love, well, that’s just fabulous.” –Fit?

– “Life is pain, life is only pain. We’re all taught to believe in happy fairytale endings, but there is only blackness; dark depressing loneliness that eats away at your soul.”  –That’s better, more of this please.

Posted in Picture, Writing

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:


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

-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 “Lisa’s Pieces – Evil Swans”

Posted in Writing

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 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 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, WordPress Dashboard,,, and

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.


Why I Heart the Dart November 2010
1 comment


Scotland – Stop Growing on Me Like a Fungus December 2010


Heat Magazine – Shut the Hell Up December 2010


About me November 2010


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

Posted in Writing

Scotland Haters – Stop Involving Me in Your Nonsense

In many ways it saddens me that I even have to have this discussion (and by discussion I mean I will be the only one talking), but I feel a responsibility to share this recent and unfortunate issue in an attempt to prevent it from escalating into violence.

Throughout my childhood and teenage years, living and working with people of different nationalities was never a problem for anyone. Aside from the usual friendly banter with some of the English kids – “We invaded and ruled over you for centuries” followed by the superb comeback “Yeah? Well we invented stamps…….and Tarmac” – the supposed rivalry was really nowhere to be seen.  Since becoming an adult 4 months ago, however, I have had nothing but ball-ache about the whole thing and really, I’m finding it about as enjoyable as a yeast infection.     

Here are some examples of conversations people have tried to involve me in:

At work:
– “Do you know what they’re giving us for lunch today, Jillian?”
– “Stovies”
– “Aw for fucks sake, what is the deal with Scottish people and stovies??  It’s just leftovers.  So disgusting.  Mushy, luke-warm, artery-clogging leftovers.”
– “Well I think it originates from back in the day when no one in Scotland had any food ‘cos you cunts ate it all. It’s considered quite traditional”.
– “Hmm, do you not think it’s about time you brought your traditions into the 21st century? You guys have plenty of food now, there’s no need to eat leftovers anymore”.

First of all, I didn’t invent stovies, stop talking to me like stovies are my doing.  Second of all, despite what people tell you, I’m not really influential enough to change the eating habits of an entire nation. Thirdly, you’re from Yorkshire, what the hell do you think Betty’s Hotpot is? Fucking leftovers. You guys eat the exact same things, changing the ratio of your ingredients does not make you better than me.

On a training course:
– “Up to anything exciting tonight, Jillian?”
– “Billy got a recipe for haggis soup from a guy at his work so I think we are going to give it a bash”.
– “Haggis soup?? Haggis…………soup?…………..Bloody savages.”

Well, sir, if you bothered to take a few minutes of your time to have a conversation with me, you would realise that I too think that haggis soup is quite a strange thing to eat. Also, if you knew anything about Scottish culture you would know that we love being referred to as savages, so thanks!  Now I wonder if you will look that smug when my dog is savaging your testicles?

This one is my favourite…..

At the pub:
“Why are Scottish people so genuinely happy when we lose at football?  We support you guys when you play.”

Firstly, stop whining and grow a set.  Secondly, of course you support us, you know we will lose. It’s like supporting that forest-dwelling rapist, Wagner.  You only voted for him because he was shit. If he had actually won the X-factor and released an album, you would not have bought it. We would support England if they were shit at football, but they’re not, they’re pretty good.  At the end of the day we are jealous and will openly admit this. When you lose it makes us feel better about our shocking lack of sporting talent.

You may be surprised to hear that it’s not just people of other nationalities who bore me with their jovial snobbery.  I have had numerous conversations with Scottish people who bizarrely think it’s acceptable to attack Aberdeen.  Yes, I get it, Aberdeen is a shit-hole – I whole-heartedly agree – but last I heard Glasgow city centre wasn’t the picture of utopian sunshine either. I don’t mind when people say Aberdeen is horrendous. What I do mind is when they say it in a tone that implies that everywhere else in Britain is on a par with fucking Monaco.  It clearly is not!  Britain as a whole is a terrible place and every town is fundamentally the same.  Same junkies dominating the queues at the local Spar, same generic high streets with the same shops, same ned-kids playing Cascada full blast on their shit phones at the back of the bus and the same greasy, fat, 40 year old women chasing their 25 kids around Iceland with a claw-hammer.  Don’t tell me I’m shit when you are clearly just as shit.

I appreciate that there are some hideously racist Scottish people out there (as there are in every nationality) and our food is questionable at times, but if you really feel so strongly about it I suggest that you either stop moaning at me and take it up with them or, like me, try not giving a fuck.  Do you have any idea how much energy it takes to repeatedly defend a country?  I cant be arsed hoovering never mind fending off constant digs at Scottish society. And before you start, no, I am not one of those weirdos who fantasises about wanking violently into William Wallace’s beard – I love taking the piss out of Scotland and by constantly attacking it you are denying me this right.  It’s petty and it’s rude and while I’m here, get some hills, your freakishly flat landscape makes me clammy with discomfort.