Posted in Writing

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?

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Posted in Picture, Writing

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.

Posted in Writing

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.

🙂