Posted in Picture, Writing

Backpacking with Billian – Part II

East Italy to Sicily 12th Aug – 13th Aug 2004

We arrived in Termoli on the east coast of Italy and immediately upon getting off the ferry got pulled into the customs office by the police.  After seeing the high standard of men and women coming off the ferry, he was probably wondering how a pair of cave-trolls managed to stowaway on board.  Despite showing him our tickets, he still wanted to search our bags but within seconds of opening them, wisely decided he would rather risk the possibility that we were smuggling kilos of heroin into the country than come into contact with my dirty underwear.

We boarded the train to Sicily and, yet again, it was heaving.  Turns out the month of August is when every single Italian in the universe goes to Sicily on holiday, so not only did we have to compete with people for space but we also had to make room for all the Invicta backpacks so favoured by the travelling Italian.  When I got on the train I instantly recognised the distinct musk of poverty.  It was coming from a hairy old man with claw-toenails who was asleep on a folded-out cardboard box in the walkway.  At first I found this amusing but after three and a half hours of standing, it wasn’t long before I was spooning him – top to tail – with his feet in my face.  I highly recommend spooning a homeless person, it was the kind of confidence boost I needed after my time on the ferry.

I was woken up an hour later by the homeless guy’s morning-wood which, after changing positions mid-snooze, was now poking me in the back.  It wasn’t ideal and Billy was nowhere to be seen so I decided to relinquish my cardboard bed and go find him.  I discovered him a few carriages down where – oh God – he had made a new friend.  He had got speaking to a shouty man with milk-bottle glasses who was on his way back from a Jewish “Jangler’s Convention” – a festival which consists of people dancing around with bells on their hands and feet (I have since Googled this and it doesn’t exist which makes me think that he probably never left the train and had actually hallucinated this entire festival).  He offered Billy a roll-up cigarette which, since he had run out of cigarettes a while earlier, he accepted.  Except it wasn’t an innocent roll-up and within 5 minutes Billy was tripping out of his nut.  To this day we don’t know what the hell was in that cigarette but it definitely wasn’t weed.

Sicily 13th Aug – 16th Aug 2004

The Jew-crack that Billy had smoked thankfully wore off by the time we arrived in Taormina but it had left him pretty munchied, so we headed to the nearest restaurant where a fat lady with a see-through top and no bra forced me to eat a lump of mozzarella cheese that looked like one of those white dog turds from my childhood.  I had literally no energy left to fight her so, after eating half of it, we just paid the incredibly expensive bill and headed to our hostel.

We spent our few days in Sicily almost exclusively on the beach where we took the long-awaited opportunity to do fuck-all and had a pretty enjoyable time doing just that.  On the last day we got a little brave and decided to get a bus to the train station.  This was a serious challenge as, when I’m abroad, I find that catching a bus is literally the hardest thing to do; you don’t know where the buses go or if you’re even standing on the right side of the road, there never seems to be anyone else at the bus stops, the timetable is dated 1987 and it is barely legible due to the severe sun-fading.  I have been known in the past to stand in a foreign bus shelter for over an hour before realising that it was actually a hut for goats.  So we stood at what we thought was a bus stop and waited…and waited…and waited in the sweltering heat until, after what seemed like hours, a bus finally turned up.  I was so excited, I thought we had made it.  The doors opened and I enthusiastically asked the bus driver if he went to the station.  He didn’t understand me.  So I said “um…uh…el stazioni??”  Bizarrely, he didn’t understand this word that I had just made up either.  We were so close to success and I didn’t want to let this one go so in desperation I decided to do an impression of a train.  I did a kind of locomotion-type dance move with my arms before pulling a pretend horn whilst simultaneously shouting “choo-choo!”  The driver just stared at me, slowly closed the doors and drove away. 

 Billy was initially not impressed with these developments:

“Uh Jillian…what the fuck was that?  Choo-choo?  Seriously?  Fucking CHOO-CHOO??  Well, you can stand here and do impressions of as many forms of transportation as you want but I’m flagging a taxi……………fucking choo-choo.”

Once we were safely on the train, however, he spent the entire journey to Naples laughing pretty uncontrollably.  To this day he will still sometimes pull a pretend horn and go “choo-choo” just to remind me of how much of a dick I truly am.

Naples 16th Aug – 18th Aug 2004

We arrived in Naples without any accommodation because we thought we could handle it.  We thought “that’s what us backpackers do, we are free spirits who don’t need to plan ahead, we just take every day as it comes.”

We couldn’t handle it.

We got off the train and pulled out a guide-book to try to figure out where the hell we were going to stay when a woman appeared asking us if we were looking for accommodation.  She was pretty young and looked harmless enough so, after asking her a few questions, agreed to go with her to her ‘guest house’.  It was pitch dark at this point and she started leading us off the main road and down some un-lit alleyways full of bins and the red, glowing eyes of rapists.  I started to get nervous but we were well and truly lost at this point so we kept going.  I looked over at Billy – who was trying to construct a makeshift knuckle-duster out of one of our backpack hooks – and had this sudden horrible feeling that she was leading us to an abandoned house where some big, hairy Italians were waiting to club us to death with sticks of salami before taking all our stuff.  I started to panic but just as I was trying to figure out how to get ourselves out of this situation, we arrived at the front door of her building.  She opened the door into yet more darkness where we could just make out a creepy courtyard that looked like something straight out of a Jack the Ripper documentary.  Even in the face of potential death, our British manners completely overtook our survival instincts and (so as not to offend) we still went inside.  She took us into an apartment and switched the light on where, to my relief, there were no scary men with meat-weapons waiting for us.  Just a cat and some modest furniture.

After going to the bathroom to change our pants, we got speaking to her and she explained that she was actually the cleaner for the apartment, the owners were away on holiday (probably to Sicily) and she had decided to make a bit of extra cash by renting out one of the rooms.  This whole situation turned out okay but it could so easily have ended in disaster and I have never been so scared in all my life.  We deserved to be stabbed to death and sodomised after blindly following her like a pair of amateurs but, luckily for us, Billy’s ass virginity lived to fight another day.  Never do that.  You are not a free spirit, you do need to plan ahead and I would not recommend taking each day as it comes.

We spent our last day in Naples doing all the touristy stuff.  We started in Pompeii and Herculanium where we saw casts of dead people then went up Mount Vesuvius, had an ice-cream and came back down again.  We finished up nicely by going to Da Michele for dinner where we had the best pizza actually ever.

Rome 18th Aug – 21st Aug 2004

After two hours on the train we arrived in Rome.  We limbered up for the serious sightseeing action that was ahead of us – beginning with the Colosseum, ending with the Vatican and with a lot of fountains in between.  I was nervous about going to the Vatican.  As we know, I am uncomfortable when inside any religious establishment so being inside an entire principality dedicated to Jesus was some seriously fucked up shit.

My aversion to churches started when I was a very small child.  I was friends with an American girl and one Sunday I was invited round to her house to play.  Some sort of logistical issue meant that my parents were unable to drop me off at her house so the only way to get there was for her parents to pick me up on their way to church in the morning.  My mum was told that I would need to wear something presentable so she put me in a skirt and top and sent me on my way.  The only problem was, no one remembered to put my underwear on.  So there I was, sitting in church for the first time ever, no clue what the fuck was going on with a draught blowing right up my ass.  I thought it would be a good idea to tell my friend’s parents in the middle of the service that my “fluff” was cold because “mummy didn’t give me any pants to wear.”  Their reaction was one of horror mixed with slight amusement.  Just at that moment a nun came out of nowhere, grabbed my hand and started pulling me to the front of the church.  I could see the girl’s parents trying to protest, explaining that I was not a regular, but it was too late.  She dragged me down the aisle and stood me in front of everyone.  I was freaking out, I thought I was going to get in trouble from God for putting my bare minge on his pews.  I remember bawling my eyes out and everyone laughing at me but, as it turns out, all I had to do was eat one of those cracker things and then hold a candle.  All the kids had to do it every week, it just so happened that I was the first one to be taken up there that day.

I have never been the same since that traumatic experience and as soon as I step into a church I instantly start sweating.  I just feel like everyone in there knows how generally inappropriate I am as a human being.  Despite all this, I wanted to at least give the Vatican a try and I’m glad I did, it was mental. Everything is made of gold and every man in every painting has a beard – amazing!  The only slightly unnerving thing was that everyone in the place was crying.  You just walk around looking at stuff and there are old ladies, men, children, teenagers – all crying.  At first I thought maybe they had all forgotten to wear underwear but I quickly realised that it was Jesus’s presence that was making them all so emotional.  I couldn’t see him anywhere though, we must have just missed him.

So that concluded the final adventure of our backpacking holiday.  The next day we got our flight back to Aberdeen, surprisingly still in one piece but seriously exhausted.  Reading this over, it actually sounds like I had a shit time but it was one of the best holidays I’ve ever had.  Don’t get me wrong, there were definitely times when I thought “What the fuck am I doing here?  Why did I pay all this money to spend my time being sweaty, stinky and tired?” but looking back, it was a million times better than any crappy beach holiday I’ve been on.  When you successfully arrive at a destination after a slightly traumatic journey, you feel such a massive sense of achievement that a couple of days on the beach feels like it is deserved rather than a redundant use of your free time.  So much happened in such a short space of time and we met so many different people that it was like having three holidays for the price of one.  I would highly recommend it to anyone, but heed these words:  Go with someone who loves you for what’s on the inside because, within days, your outsides will reach a level of repulsiveness you never thought possible.

Posted in Picture, Writing

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.

Posted in Picture, Writing

The Mystery of the Forest-Dwelling Loaf(er)

Last week Billy and I went to the Tyrebagger Sculpture Forest to take the dog for a walk.  It was misty, rainy and the car park was empty so we knew we had the whole forest to ourselves.  About half way into the walk and, by now, pretty deep into the forest, we stumbled upon the single most random thing I have ever seen in my entire life:

A single loafer sitting next to a turd on a rock.

So what happened here exactly?  Let’s reason this out.

Okay, we can see that the turd is on top of a rock, quite a distance off the ground and surrounded by plenty of foliage.  This leads me to believe that it was not laid by a dog.  In fact, out of everywhere in the entire forest, this rock would be the most awkward place for a dog to lay a cable.  Using my awesome powers of deduction, I am therefore going to assume that this bum-cigar came from a human.

Did Scott Disick pinch one off in the Tyrebagger Sculpture Forest?

Now for the shoe.  Because both the loafer and the brown-trout are visibly fresh I am going to deduce that they belong to the same, clearly fucked-up person.  The type of shoe suggests that this person is either male, or a lesbian.  For the sake of argument, and because I’m hesitant to offend lesbians for fear of being raped by one, let’s presume it is a man.  We know for sure that this man is an arsehole because only arseholes wear leather loafers.  It is also possible that he owns a yacht, has a vast collection of pastel sweaters and uses mental abuse to ensure that his wife never develops a mind of her own.  So what about the purpose of the shoe?  What the hell happened that justified the abandonment of just one of his shoes?  Did he use it to wipe his arse?  What kind of maniac wipes his arse with a loafer? 

Finally, let’s examine the crime-scene itself.  If you were in a forest, bursting for a jobby, you would find the most secluded place possible, wouldn’t you?  Behind a bush maybe, or in a ditch perhaps.  Not this guy.  This sick bastard wants people to see his meaty gorilla-finger.  I would even go so far as to say that it is reminiscent of a sacrificial offering – placed at the altar of some sort of shitty-shoe God.  

The evidence proves almost conclusively that this can only be the work of a demented lunatic whose mother made him eat shoes whenever he shat himself as a child.  However, there is an alternative explanation that can’t be ruled out just yet.  Tyrebagger is a sculpture forest, right?  There are sculptures in it.  Is it possible that Tracey Emin scurried into the forest in the dead of night, in her little lesbian loafers and released a chocolate hostage in the name of art?  If this is the case then it’s about fucking time.  I went to the Tate Modern once and her ‘art’ was so terrible I actually vomited into my own eyes.

But this?  This could work.

Posted in Picture, Writing

The Royal Wedding – I Am All Up in Dis Bitch

In less than two weeks time I will be in London, hopefully drunk, possibly pissing behind some foliage and definitely watching Prince William and Kate Middleton getting married on a big screen – because, my friends, I am going to Camp Royale in Clapham Common. For three magnificent days, this park will be turned into a campsite with the sole purpose of Royal Wedding perving. You are provided with a free cup of Yorkshire Tea every morning, hot showers, “attractive fencing”, phone charging points and 24 hour security against those stabby London-types you hear about in the news. It’s like T in the Park for losers and I, for one, cannot wait for the utter restrained madness.

I love the Royal Family. As a Scottish person this may seem like a bit of a controversial statement but I shit all over that controversy. I am also one to sell out my patriotic ideals for free tea and a toilet that doesn’t have used sanitary towels stuck precariously to the ceiling causing my bowels to retreat into my throat and stay there trembling in fear for the whole bloody weekend (yes V Festival ’99, I am talking to you – not cool).  I also doubt that I will witness a drunk, generic teenage girl taking a dump up against a wall whilst clinging desperately to a glass of champagne, or a young gentleman falling on someone’s tent, breaking it, spewing on it, standing up, pissing on it, falling back onto it and instantly going to sleep in his own lumpy juices (to be fair, those last two examples were from T in the Park ’07 so all in all, pretty impressed with the high standard of behaviour).

Probably the main reason I love the Royal Family is because they are so mental they make my family look like the Waltons.  Prince Philip – my favourite by a mile – is a racist, sexist, homophobic liability who never fails to say the wrong thing at the right time. It’s nice to see that, no matter how much money you have, literally no one can escape that embarrassingly inappropriate grandparent. If anyone else said the things he said I would get seriously violent but when he says them I just want to give him a Werther’s Original and a pat on the head. Here are some examples of some real things that he really said:

Love you!
  • To two Aborigine tribes in Australia – “Djabugay, Yirrganydji, what’s it all about? Do you still throw spears at each other?”
  • When asked if he would like to visit The Soviet Union -“The bastards murdered half my family.”
  • To a driving instructor in Scotland – “How do you keep the natives off the booze long enough to get them through the test?”
  • To a Mr Patel at a reception for 400 British Indian businessmen at Buckingham Palace – “There’s a lot of your family in tonight.”
  • To a group of British students in China – “If you stay here much longer, you’ll all be slitty-eyed.”
  • After accepting a gift from a Kenyan woman – “You are a woman, aren’t you?”
  • To a group of deaf children standing next to a Jamaican steel drum band – “Deaf? If you are near there, no wonder you are deaf.”
  • To a 13-year-old aspiring astronaut – “Well, you’ll never fly in it, you’re too fat to be an astronaut.”
  • Talking about his daughter, Princess Anne – “If it doesn’t fart or eat hay, she isn’t interested.”

 

"I smell shit/Lady Gaga"

The Queen, on the other hand, is so devoid of personality it’s almost admirable. She spends her entire life walking around like someone just took a massive turd on her face. If it wasn’t for her amazingly coordinated old-lady outfits and exquisitely well-crafted false teeth I would probably forget she even existed. I did applaud her restraint, however, when she met Lady Gaga at the Royal Variety Show wearing that monstrosity of an outfit. She was wearing a fucking ruff!! Does she think Blackadder is a documentary and that ruffs are mandatory attire for royal engagements? Or was she trying to be clever? In which case, don’t take the piss out of the Queen, Lady Gaga – because you won’t win. If I was the Queen I would have cut her balls off and threw her in the Tower of London.

Awesome.

Prince Harry is also a favourite of mine, partly because I think he is going to be our generation’s Prince Philip and partly because I want to do him. Even so, what the hell was he thinking wearing a Nazi costume to a fancy dress party? No matter what angle you look at it, that was a bad decision. I feel a bit sorry for him though, I think he just wants to be a normal boy but he’s not allowed. I’ve seen interviews with him and he actually has banter, it’s a shame he’ll spend the rest of his life trying, and probably failing, to restrain that part of his personality.

Andrew and Edward? Or is it Edward and Andrew? I don't know, let's just call them "a pair of cunts".

Now for the other two, Edward and Andrew – I’m not going to lie, I have no idea which one is which. They both look the same, talk the same and dress the same, however one is fairly innocuous and the other one likes to hang around with paedos and has a ginger mess of an ex-wife who looks like an alcoholic shoe – Yet another example of bad judgment from this undoubtedly affected family. Everyone fucks up, I agree, but when you are a member of one of the most scrutinised families in the entire world, the sheer volume of fuck-ups they have been responsible for can only be attributed to clinical insanity. That is why I love the Royal Family – they prove to us civilians on a near daily basis that no matter if you’re well-bred and rolling in money or one of those dirty minks who puts their living-room furniture in the front garden when the sun comes out – people are all fundamentally selfish skanks incapable of controlling their urges. If the Royal Family were as ‘perfect’ as everyone wanted them to be, they would be nowhere near as fun and they wouldn’t make me feel so good about my relatively low-level dysfunction.

I want to taste her baking.

The only exception to this is Prince William. He seems to be the only one with any sense in that family. The poor guy must wake up every day, take a look at Charles, Philip, the Queen and the chemically-preserved horse’s ball-sack that took the place of his mother and wonder which disabled child he drop-kicked in a past life to deserve this. That’s why I’m so glad he’s marrying Kate Middleton. She seems pretty sane and is possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She looks like she’s good with kids and smells of daffodils.  She makes a refreshing change from all the tacky, materialistic, overdone cock-gobblers with the dead eyes and obvious self-esteem issues and proves to little girls that you don’t have to look like the month old corpse of a gypsy-prostitute-clown to be beautiful.

The other reason that I’m a fan is because, without a monarchy, I think British culture would be pretty weak. Yes Scotland has kilts and bagpipes, Ireland has Guinness and shamrocks, Wales has……..leek hats (?) and England has……..stuff, but when other countries think of Britain as a whole, I sometimes wonder what characteristics they associate with the UK. Morris dancing? Beefeaters? Tea & scones? I’m fucking zoning out here! When I think of Britain as a colour, I think of a dull medieval puddle brown. Our food is so bland that our national dish – Chicken Tikka Masala – is a rip off of Indian food and even our weather is meh. Over the centuries the Royal Family has added some much needed colour to British culture. It has provided the world with a bit of historical authority, humour, scandal, mental illness, excess, hereditary disease, war, wealth – a bit of fucking excitement! When all this Royal Wedding stuff first came about, Prince William and Kate Middleton said they didn’t want it to be a flash affair because they don’t want to rub in the fact they have loads of money in today’s ‘economic climate’. That’s really nice of them and everything but for fuck’s sake!! All I hear about nowadays is how no one has any money, the cost of living is going up, the property market is plummeting, Libya is falling apart, Japan is getting nailed by tsunamis every 5 minutes – it’s making me want to kill myself! I want something to cheer me up. I want an over the top, shiny, happy Royal Wedding. I want unicorn on a spit, baby panda slow-roasted in a swan sauce, naked virgins dancing on rugs made from polar bear. Self-indulgence is about the only thing this lot are good at, so come on, make it happen!

Admit it, our Royal Family kicks ass. It is one of the most celebrated institutions in the world – everyone knows about the British Royal Family but not a lot of people know that Morocco or even Spain has a monarchy. They’ve been through (and achieved) a lot since their establishment and without them all we’d have to show for ourselves would be old men with bad teeth dancing with sticks in a beige puddle eating stolen curry. We should be glad that the Windsor’s and their ancestors are here to take the focus off all the shit things we have to offer the world – and before anyone gets all up in my grill about the fabulous, ground-breaking inventions that Britain has given the world, you only need to watch an episode of Dragon’s Den to see that that ship has sailed. Reggae Reggae Sauce is the best thing we’ve come up with since penicillin and it tastes like baboon gouch.

Yeah I did. Ebay, £12.99, free delivery.
Posted in Picture, Writing

The Royal Wedding Recovery Position

I’m not entirely convinced that many people are interested in how my weekend at the Royal Wedding went but, because I don’t really give a shit, I will be providing an in-depth analysis of my short time in the big city anyway. It is a moderately-paced story filled with crime, bad language, sexual deviance, alcohol, drugs and adult baby-grows. It begins on a Thursday….

Thursday 28th April

I arrived at Lisa’s flat in Putney after the epic journey from Luton airport. The Royal Wedding wank-fest is tomorrow and we had no supplies therefore the first stop was ASDA for chairs and booze. After purchasing the essentials we decided we couldn’t be arsed to get the train home and so managed to find what was possibly the dodgiest taxi company in the entire kingdom.

We entered the taxi office and found ourselves in a tiny, nicotine-stained room lit by a bare light-bulb. Sitting in the corner at a table behind a cage was a man who clearly hated life. He eventually asked us what we wanted and seemed surprised when I said: ‘a taxi’. He pressed a buzzer and a short Nigerian man appeared through the door of a room which smelled a little bit like human sex trafficking. He looked like he had just woken up (next to a bruised, naked eastern-european teenager) but whatever, the train station was at least a five minute walk away and I had mega-sore tootsies, so into his car we got.

He didn’t have a meter – an excellent sign – but we learned our bartering skills from a Tunisian ninja so he wasn’t gonna come out of this taxi-ride a winner. When we finally pulled up outside the flat, we got ourselves in a bit of a state trying to get out of the car with all our bags. Normally, Billy and Dan would have a field day with this, likening us to a pair of disabled people or the fat slags from Viz magazine before high-fiving each other, but typically – when they weren’t fucking there to witness it – our snail pace paid off. Half way through her journey across the back seat, Lisa found a bag of weed lodged between the cushions – which she swiftly jammed into her pocket. We paid the guy and did a run for it before taking it out in the lift for a good look. It STANK, honestly, it was proper good quality shit bro! Then we remembered that I work offshore and Lisa doesn’t smoke pot so………..yeah…….the end. Maybe we will keep it for guests or use it as a trophy to demonstrate how gangsta we are.

Friday 29th April

Me with my Will & Kate nails. A sentence that is in no way uncool.

Ooh, the big day. We decided against camping in the end because the garden party turned out to be free so we reasoned that there was no point paying £150 to get covered in someone else’s shit and spew when we can just as easily do that at home (which we did). We set up shop in Clapham Common near the big screens and I casually headed to the beer-tent. Because I am technically on holiday and today was classed as a day of celebration, it completely slipped my mind that it was 10am, so I was pretty embarrassed when I asked the barman for a pint of cider and he told me that it was too early to legally sell alcohol. Why the fuck are you open then? Just to make me look like some sort of desperate alcoholic? I’m on holiday you know! It’s okay to have beer for breakfast on holiday. I hate you. “Can I have a cup of tea then?”

 

You could have had a piece of this for free Vogue Magazine, but you chose to throw it in my face. Your magazine's shit anyway.

 

On returning to my seat Lisa informed me that the group of girls which had now congregated near our area were in fact from Vogue Magazine and were interviewing/taking photos of people who they believed looked “cutting-edge” enough to feature in their magazine. Now, obviously all I had to do was get in their eyeshot and the rest would take care of itself. Not true. Apparently dressing like a human being is not good enough for Vogue and yet it seems that if I looked like a special needs retard who had dressed themselves in the dark, I would have got a two-page spread. The girl they chose was wearing denim dungaree shorts, goggles and socks with sandals. She also had very untidy hair and a face that only Matthew Broderick could love.

After the wedding started, however, all was forgotten. It was cheesy, over-dramatic, occasionally tacky but mostly eye-meltingly beautiful with an abundance of crazy traditions that I didn’t even know this country had. The park was totally silent for almost the whole ceremony (although there were intermittent periods of unanimous laughter whenever Prince Philip or Prince Harry’s faces appeared on the big screens). The hats did not let me down either, they were completely ridiculous. Victoria Beckham looked like she had woken up in a navy tent with a wine gum stuck to her face and Princess Beatrice should have been snipered by roof-top security instantly upon stepping out of the car for choosing to wear a uterus on her face. She looked like such a dick-head, her own father couldn’t even make eye-contact with her. But, out of all these hats trying to make all these ‘artistic’ statements- disguising themselves as flowers or birds etc- my favourite of them all had to be the Queen’s hat. If the Queen’s hat could talk it would say “I am a hat”. It was the most hattiest of hats that I’ve ever seen. If you asked a hat to draw a picture of a hat, it would draw the Queen’s hat. Beautiful. It was a wonderful day but after the tonguing on the balcony and the fly-over (and exhausting all attempts at getting Vogue to take my god-damn picture) we decided to head home.

© MTV

 

We were still a bit steamboats from the wedding and so decided to get changed and hit Putney with a couple of Lisa’s friends. I had about five jegermeisters and started a drunken conversation with a guy who, with hindsight, was probably a lot more sober than I was. I was trying to be friendly by asking him what he did for a living, to which he replied “Oil & Gas *sigh* rocks and stuff” in a pretentious ‘far-too-complicated-for-you-to-understand’ kind of way. I took great pleasure in telling him that coincidently that was exactly what I did too. He wasn’t as excited about this coincidence as I was and told me rather rudely that he didn’t want to speak about work. This pissed me off so I called him a cunt. Neither he, nor his friends, were very impressed with my choice of vocabulary and promptly excused themselves from our company. That is pretty much the last thing I remember………..that and trying to belly-dance in a Lebanese takeaway.

Saturday 30th April

Hungover. Sweaty. Mess.

Today I did not leave the couch, did not get dressed and did not eat anything that wasn’t delivered directly to my door by someone foreign. Lisa and I spent the day in the recovery position watching the whole wedding again from start to finish followed by four back-to-back royal family documentaries. It was a good day.

Well, it was a good day apart from the horrendous flashbacks of my very un-ladylike behaviour in the club the night before. See, I love the ‘C’ word and use it frequently in the company of my friends and family but only ever in a light-hearted, jovial context. I do not like the ‘C’ word if it is used in an aggressive manner (unless it’s in an Irish accent). Last night, I used it in an aggressive manner and although that guy was a patronising bell-end who thought he was some sort of corporate hero, he did not deserve to be called a cunt. I should have called him a fat cunt – far more amusing. So kids, if you’re going to say it, say it with a smile on your face and no one can accuse you of being offensive.

Sunday 1st May

Lisa’s boyfriend Dan arrived home from Australia at 5am today and surprisingly turned down the offer to come shopping with us for six hours in Camden Market. Last time I checked, jet-lagged shopping trips with the Dingwall sisters was a highly sought after commodity, but exhaustion must have been clouding his judgment.

When we got there we discovered, slightly predictably, that Razorlight were playing on the street so we had some nice (if a little cliché) live music as the soundtrack to our market experience. We bought many a garment, all clearly created by an array of nimble-fingered slave children, including a ‘onesie’ for Dan. He didn’t ask for an adult baby-grow but we decided that he very much needed one.

There were a few homeless people scattered around too, and it was nice to see that they were using talent to fund their drug habits. They were selling their own paintings, playing guitar or letting people pet their very well-behaved dogs. It made a refreshing change from Aberdonian homeless people who just hang around the Castlegate drunkenly shouting at unsuspecting shoppers whilst masturbating with discarded rubbish.

After I ran out of money we called it a day and organised to meet Dan for dinner in Putney before going to Blockbuster to buy a DVD to watch that night. Dan wanted to watch ‘Machete’ – a Tarantino spin-off about a Mexican revolutionary. We wanted to watch ‘William & Kate – The Movie’. We were always going to win. From what I can remember it was one of the worst films I’ve ever seen, but I couldn’t really hear most of it over the sound of Dan trying to saw through his wrists.

I think I fell asleep around 9.30pm. What a gay.

Monday 2nd May

Sightseeing day, yay! After getting my medieval boner on at the Museum of London, the three of us decided to see what all the fuss was about outside Westminster Abbey. Turns out it was the hour-long, blue-rinsed queue to pay £16 to get into the Royal Wedding venue…………sounded like a bargain to me!

Now, there are three things in life that I try my hardest to avoid at all times: Roman ruins (boring), religious establishments (creepy) and people with AIDS (risky). Westminster Abbey is a heavyweight in terms of religious establishments so it was unusual to find me in there, however it is amazing how a society wedding can block out all evidence of a haemorrhaging Jesus. I don’t think I even thought about him once the whole time I was in there. Now if all churches were like that, I think more people would go.

The stolen flower.

I was surprised to find that nothing had been moved since the wedding. The chairs were still in the exact same places, the trees were there, all the flower arrangements and even her bouquet was still sitting on a cushion on the grave where she left it. It was kind of weird. You were strictly not allowed to take any photos so I took about six and stole a flower from one of the arrangements near the front door. Yeah, pretty rebellious.

Once we were satisfied that we had destroyed any dignity left in that place, we headed to Soho for some dinner to celebrate my last night. With all this time whoring around London, I had expected to see some sort of celebrity creature and although Soho is usually crawling with them, the best I got as I walked out of the tube station was Jenni fucking Falconer. What a let down. I barely know who she is, but I made sure she was down-wind of my 48-hour hangover fart as punishment for not being famous enough. Think about that the next time you watch her present the Lottery. Think about that.

So there we have it. In the short time I was in London I managed to watch the wedding, get drunk, offend a fat guy, spend an entire day beneath a duvet, shop, go to a museum, go to an Abbey, steal foliage and fart on a celebrity. Pretty productive, I think you’ll agree. I spent my final day trying to get from Putney to Luton airport using every form of transport known to man before joining the freak-show that is an Easyjet check-in queue. There’s nothing I love more than an airport WH Smith’s so I ended my little holiday by spending the dregs of my money on the OK! Magazine Royal Wedding Souvenir Issue and a family sized packet of hula-hoops. A very satisfying end to an offensively self-indulgent weekend.

Bye! Have a beautiful time!

 

Posted in Picture, Writing

30 is the New Awesome

I have noticed that my posts have been a bit negative recently (I had a particularly bad period this month.  You’re welcome).  I have decided to balance this out by focussing on things that I actually find enjoyable and I’m going to start with my thoughts on being 30.  Despite my occasional moans, I love being 30 and hope that this article will instil a little less dread in those who are nearing my age and a new, more positive perspective for those who are already there.  For the 21 year olds who may be reading this, you can take your snug-fitting vaginas and pert tits and fuck off.  No one is interested in anything you have to say.
 
The decision to accept my age as a positive thing occurred the other month after buying my first ever anti-wrinkle cream.  I currently have three wrinkles and since it took me 30 years to gain three wrinkles I thought that by the time I am 60 I will have six wrinkles.  That is how it works right?  Well, I don’t want six wrinkles so I went to Boots and bought some wrinkle-prevention cream.  As I was smearing it onto my face, the Bryan Adams classic ‘Summer of ’69’ came on PlanetRock Radio (Sky channel 0110 – get involved) and it made me come over all reflective.
 
There are many down sides to being in your thirties and my teenage years were without a doubt the best days of my life – almost too much fun – but then I think, ‘would I go back there if I could?’ –  No fucking chance.  Being young involves far too much giving-a-shit for very little reward.  High School for me was the Care capital of the Universe.  Literally everything had to be a drama and it usually involved copious amounts of tears, alcohol, cigarettes or boys.
 
This is exactly what he looked like. He did have an axe.

Take my first attempt at losing my virginity, for instance.  I was living in Malta at the time and it happened at my then boyfriend’s house when his parents were out for the afternoon.  We were in the bedroom clumsily trying to figure out what the hell we were supposed to do to get rid of the terrible burden that is a teenager’s virginity when, about an hour in (and nowhere near actually having sex), his Grandad decided to come round for a visit.  ‘Sweet of him’, I hear you say – yes well his Grandad was in the circus; he could inflate hot water bottles with his lungs, rip the Yellow Pages in half with his bare hands and there were pictures hanging above the fireplace of him pulling an Air Malta plane using only his 3 foot high, hairy body and a chest-harness.  He also didn’t speak any English, which for some reason made him seem more scary to me.

 
Needless to say I was pretty naked and very unprepared for this impromptu visit.  We instantly panicked and, as I heard his Grandad coming towards the bedroom, my boyfriend tried to shove me into the 3cm-wide space under his bed.  This was clearly not working so he picked me up, threw my clothes at me (a pair of denim dungarees, a la TLC, no less – I miss dungarees, when are they gonna come back in fashion?) and, literally the second before his grandad came in the room, jammed me into his wardrobe.  The wardrobe door was slatted so I could see his muscly little circus feet wandering around the bedroom and for a few minutes it was touch and go as to whether or not I would successfully prevent myself from involuntarily shitting the pants I was not wearing.  Malta is a Roman Catholic country so you don’t often find naked teenagers in wardrobes and when you do, it is not considered the high-five moment it is in this country.
 
He eventually left the room and, after quickly getting dressed, I spent the next 15 minutes trying to get out of the house without him seeing me.  It was very James Bond and involved climbing extremely high walls in my socks, hiding behind plants and a lot of SAS hand signals.  I eventually emerged out into the street victorious, only for his grandad to drive past in his van beeping his novelty horn and waving at me.  He knew I was in there the whole time, the little bearded bastard. 
 
That is just one scenario out of a similar hundred that happened to me in my youth.  I spent these years permanently exhausted from either school work, numerous attempts at losing my virginity (I would like to stress that they were all with the same guy – I was generous with my time but I was by no means a slut), boarding school drama, acne/frizzy hair worries, clubbing or generally trying to fight the system.  Most of it seemed enjoyable at the time, but looking back now – absolute arsed!
 
Being in my thirties could not be further from all that hassle. These days it is very rare that I will care about anything and when I do, I don’t really care that much.  I suppose I’ve learned that no amount of stressing changes the fact that sometimes in life you just have to do things that you don’t want to do.  I used to be a bit of a free-loving, tree-hugging, animal-bumming hippy until I got a mortgage.  I now work on an oil rig raping mother earth to within an inch of her life every day so I don’t starve to death.  It’s not ideal but it’s also not as simple to save the world as you think it is when you’re young, so I just close my eyes and get on with it.  Anyway, when you hurry up and get the shit stuff out of the way, it means that there is more time for the fun stuff, see?
I can't seem to find this on their website. It must be limited edition.

 

I say ‘fun stuff’ but I’m not entirely sure that as you get older the things you consider fun are technically ‘fun’.  Take spending money for example.  Being young meant being skint and yet there were so many awesome things I could have bought if my pockets had contained more than the bus fare home and a broken cigarette.  Now that I do have the disposable income, what do I do with it?  I spend it all on scented fucking candles and bottles of Febreeze.  I have become obsessed.  A Yankee Candle shop opened in town recently and I instantly touched myself inappropriately.

Another change I have noticed is the conversations I have with taxi drivers.  I used to only ever talk to them about two things: Why I was hungover or how much he would charge if I was to hypothetically throw up all over the back seat.  Since turning 30, I still only ever talk to them about two things but now it is either about the bypass and how ridiculous it is that we still don’t have one, or it is to discuss my feelings about the plans for Donald Trump’s golf course and the effect it will have on the local community – I was against it until I found out Tiger Woods was a dirty slut, now I say “build the fucking golf course and get his hot little black ass as close to my house as possible”.  There are plenty of places for badgers to live, but how often will I get the chance to exploit the personality flaws of Tiger Woods in Aberdeen?  Exactly.

The concept of mail has also started to morph into an entirely new creature in our household.  I received a letter the other day asking if I wanted to be on the Aberdeen Citizens Panel, and I THOUGHT ABOUT IT.  I actually, seriously considered it.  They said I could voice my concerns.  I have concerns!!  I also contemplated joining the postcode lottery and almost filled up those plastic bags for donating your old clothes to charity.  This morning I received one of those letters from Cancer Research with a pen enclosed asking me for some money.  Normally I would throw the letter in the bin and think “Boost! Free pen!” but not today.  Today I thought “That reminds me, I must start thinking about donating to some sort of charity”.  I then threw the pen away because when I tried to use it I couldn’t get the image of bald children out of my head.  Get a grip!

It’s not just the receiving of mail that is becoming an issue, I have also started sending more.  In the past three months I have written four complaint letters, one to a magazine, one to iTunes, one to my neighbour and one to my postman asking him to stop being such a cunt and actually put my mail through my letter box as opposed to leaving it outside on the fucking pavement.

Hmm, maybe I do care about things after all.  I take it all back – I think when you reach 30 it’s not that you stop caring, it’s just that you stop caring about yourself.  I would go so far as to say that when it comes to me, this is pretty much it, so as time goes on I worry less about what I say, what I look like or what people might think of me.  Instead it is other people I worry about: my friends and family, Steve Jobs (he has pancreatic cancer and cannot, I repeat, cannot die before my upgrade is due in August.  I don’t like the iphone 4 so he needs to get designing), the postman, the Middle East, my neighbour and the shambles that is today’s society.  I’ve found that it is much easier (and way more fun) to judge other people rather than yourself so, as much as I loved them, you can poke your twenties.  Anyway, I’m only at the very beginning of my thirties so if you squint really hard whilst dangerously drunk you could argue that, on the scale of things, I am still just a baby.

I will leave you now with a few things I have said recently which have placed me firmly in the bony, arthritic grip of old age.

-“You know, I don’t know enough about birds.”
-“I’m not keen on those new-builds.  I’d rather have a house with a bit more character.”
-“Well Billy, I’m gonna need new hiking boots if we are going to start climbing Munros.”
-“Oh, but if we go to Sainsbury’s now it’ll mean that I’ll miss Escape to the Country! It’s my all-time favourite programme you fascist!”
-“Okay then, sign me up for the Baker Hughes 10k run.”
-“Granted those shoes are nice, but would you class them as comfortable? Because I’m not really sure I would.”
-“I really want to see The King’s Speech.”

Sshhh, it’s all gonna be okay……..

At least I can look forward to fisting Billy in our retirement.
Posted in Picture, Video, Writing

Lady Gaga Touched Me and Now I Have Aids

Things I hate and why:
Disease-ridden, sausage-smuggling fucktard – Lady Gaga.

Because:

-She looks (and I’m pretty sure smells) like she’s been dead for over a week. Someone needs to spray her with Febreeze. The advert says that it is for awkward objects that are difficult to wash, and I don’t think I’ve seen anything more awkward than Lady Gaga – she dances like a drunk, Downs Syndrome baby giraffe.

-She is so emaciated that her teeth are constantly exposed because she doesn’t have enough skin to stretch over them. There is literally nothing that annoys me more than people whose faces are so malformed that they are physically incapable of closing their mouths so they just walk around all day with a stupid tooth face.

-She uses the word ‘paw’ instead of ‘hand’ (e.g. “Put your paws in the air”, a real sentence that she really said). She clearly does not know the difference between paws and hands so I propose that we put her in that little meat dress she wore to highlight gay rights (still don’t see the connection) and kick her into the lion enclosure of the nearest zoo. I’m pretty sure she will die knowing exactly what a paw is and that can only be progress.

-Her boyfriend is the most smoking hot thing I’ve ever seen. If I ever got my hands on him he’d wish he was never born. I’d ruin him.

But there is no need for me to bore you with written explanations as to why she is such a mong-chote when she does such a wonderful job of demonstrating it herself in this ear-bleeding, eye-melting, fan-made tribute video:

 You know who was also ‘just being himself’?  Hitler.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

Things I love and why:
Hilarious children’s programme and recipient of the British Comedy Award for Best Sketch Show – Horrible Histories.

Because:

And:

 

Here’s the problem though. If Lady Gaga’s new video is anything to go by, turns out that she is actually the Grim Reaper from Stupid Deaths, one of my favourite sketches in Horrible Histories, and I am not happy about it.

Look!

Note the stupid tooth face.

Is nothing mine, Lady Gaga?  Could you not just let me have that?  It’s CBBC for fuck’s sake, if I can’t get away from your Hepatitis spores there then where can I go?  There really is only one place pure and fragrant enough to protect me from the Gaga’s omnipresent sticky residue – Kate Middleton’s bosom.  I wonder if she will let me nestle in there when I go to her wedding/get drunk in a London park next month…….Hold me Kate, hold me!

Posted in Picture, Writing

Lisa’s Pieces – Test(icle) Tube

Do you ever get the feeling that your journey to work just isn’t quite testicley enough?  Lisa doesn’t.

If this isn't an invitation to play Cock-or-Ball then I don't know what is. Shotgun ball!

Observations:

– This guy knows exactly what he is doing.  He has even moved his tie ever so slightly to the side to ensure that Lisa gets a clear, uninterrupted view of his glory globes*.  

– The rapist glasses are not helping him.  I wouldn’t say that they are particularly harming him either but I could take them or leave them to be honest. 

– He appears to be sitting in a seat in which pregnant and disabled people get priority.  No one who is capable of opening their legs that wide qualifies as disabled therefore he must be pregnant.  Maybe that isn’t his scrote-sack after all and it is actually the elbow of a baby he is in the middle of giving birth to.  Not sure I would be capable of doing a Sudoku while birthing though.  I think this one is going to have to remain a mystery.

N.B.  That is NOT Lisa’s shoe in the corner of the photo, anyone in my family that chose to wear that shoe would be instantly disowned.  That is the shoe of either an Italian tourist or a very shit British person with an even shitter hobby: Rambling, climbing (not the super-sexy, shirtless kind), orienteering, rowing, archery, drinking ale and laughing far too loudly whilst discussing the latest rugby scores and the heart-wrenching human deprivation they witnessed out of the window of their uncle’s chauffeur driven Mercedes on their “gap-year” to “one of our third world countries”.  I am not a fan of that shoe.

*I’m pretty sure I just invented the term ‘Glory Globes’ and, although not ground-breakingly amusing, I would appreciate credit when and if you choose to use it.  Thanks.

Also – I’ve made a facebook page for this blog, all you need to do is click the link under my picture and we will be friends for life. I would love that! We could maybe go fishing together sometime? I’ll make sandwiches? 🙂

Posted in Picture, Writing

Greeting Cards – Life’s Little ‘Fuck You’

The Eighties were generally good to the Dingwalls. Our days were filled with Eurythmics, Garbage Pail Kids sticker collections, meals made entirely in the deep-fat fryer, beanbags, ‘Going Live’ on a Saturday morning and chasing the neighbour’s kid around the park with some dog shit on the end of a stick (or ‘shitty-stick’ to give it its official title – a rewarding game that I still sometimes play with Billy in Seaton Park if I’m feeling particularly nostalgic). This constant flow of contentment was only ever broken by three things:

1. My mum revealing her latest home-made, pink, satin Roman curtain/blind abomination.
2. Tupperware parties.
3. The writing out of Christmas cards.

Today I will be focussing on the latter. My mum really hated writing out Christmas cards. I remember she had one of those plastic keyboard address books where you press the letter you need and it opens unnecessarily violently to the relevant page. She would just sit and angrily press the keys until she got the addresses she needed, a task made harder by the fact that she filed people like Mr & Mrs Baxter under ‘F’ because Mr Baxter was a farmer.  As my sister and I got older, she would try to enlist our help as ‘Envelope Writers’ – enticing us with such rewards as corned-beef hash or a glass of Raspberry Cremola Foam.  Despite the E-number heavy incentive, I didn’t like being the Envelope Writer and as I headed toward adulthood this developed into a full-blown aversion to greeting cards in general.

Nowadays, when the thought crosses my mind to maybe write out some Christmas cards, I am instantly put off by the sheer scale of the project:

– I don’t have anyone’s address, so the first task would be to email/text everyone I know and try to obtain their address.

– I don’t have an address book to put these addresses into, so before I start contacting people I should really go into town and buy an address book from WH Smith.

– I don’t want a boring black leather address book.  I want an address book that says “Look at me! I’m fun! But not irresponsible”.  I also wouldn’t mind one that has all the international time zones, a world map and some first aid pointers.  WH Smith simply does not have an address book that caters to all my needs.

– I need to go and buy some cards now.  I don’t really like any of the ones I’m seeing.  Do I go for the scenic snow-covered churchyard ones, the ones with a picture of Santa doing a shit down someone’s chimney or the ice-skating penguin ones?  This is hard.

– I need to buy some stamps.  How much are you for stamps nowadays?  Turns out I would have to re-mortgage my flat to buy enough stamps to cover the amount of Christmas cards I would like to send.  I’m going to have to cut people out.

– Who do I cut out?  The people I don’t really like?  But then they will know I don’t really like them.  People who aren’t related to me?  But I like people who aren’t related to me.  Well, I can’t send one to Person A and not Person B because they are neighbours and they might start talking about Christmas cards and realise that I deliberately cut out Person B.  Oh God…….what the hell am I going to do?

– I know what I’m going to do,  I’m not going to send any Christmas cards.

And that is what I do.  There have been a couple of times at family parties when Billy’s aunt has – in my favourite form of humour: Drunken sarcasm – said “Oh, thanks for my Christmas card Jillian, I sent you one but it’s okay, I’m not offended that you didn’t send me one back”.  She is BILLY’S aunt, not my aunt.  Why is it my responsibility to send her a Christmas card?  If she wants one then she needs to get all up in Billy’s face with her threatening greeting card hostility.  People are sometimes shocked that I don’t even send them to my immediate family but they know the script, they know.  If I sent a Christmas card to my sister she would instantly pick up the phone and say, “Um, why the fuck have you sent me a Christmas card?  Do you have terminal cancer?  Don’t tell me I’m going to have to buy an address book, put your address in it and buy a Christmas card and a stamp.  You better have terminal cancer”. 

Birthday cards are an entirely different matter, I am in favour of them – mostly because you just have to buy one at a time and you usually give it to them in person instead of posting it.  Depending on my mood I can sometimes make a very big effort, like this card that I sent to my sister last year:

Lisa and I have to write the word 'penis' at least once on our birthday cards to each other. A tradition that dates back to 2001 when she wrote 'penis' about fifty times on my flight tickets without telling me. I proceeded to present them at the check-in desk like some sort of sex-crazed, cock-monster.

Or completely forget about it until the last minute and improvise with whatever I can find in the man-drawer, like this one that I gave to my friend and all-round La Lombarda hero, Michael, the other week:

 

The problem I have with birthday cards is therefore not that I don’t like them, it’s that I am completely incapable of remembering anyone’s birthday.   I now rely entirely on facebook to inform me of my friend’s birthdays, by which time it is far too late to do anything about it.  So instead I write “Happy Birthday” on their wall, something I hate doing because, let’s be honest, it is a shit effort and I’m sure the last thing someone wants on their special day is to read a list consisting of three hundred variations of the words “Happy Birthday”.

As a direct result of my inability to get my act together and participate in the thoughtful tradition of greeting card sending, I now only ever receive cards consistently from two people: Billy’s parents and another all-round hero of mine, my friend Alison.  No matter how rarely I remember to return the gesture, they still never fail to send me a card every birthday and Christmas and for this I am truly grateful.  It does actually feel nice to get a card through your door and I salute them for having the motivation to keep doing it despite the fact that – in true Dingwall fashion – they might never get one back. 

Posted in Picture, Writing

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.

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:

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 “Lisa’s Pieces – Evil Swans”

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 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 Picture

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 😦
Posted in Picture, Writing

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.
Posted in Picture, Writing

iPad Apps – Get in About Them

At the time of writing there were 34,936 apps for the iPad.  I have used about 30 of these.  If you are looking for an informative, exhaustive review of the apps currently available for the iPad, this is going to be the biggest disappointment since Raoul Moat’s killing “spree”.  If however you are looking for an uninformative, limited review of my own personal favourite apps…………you’re a fucking weirdo, get off my lawn.

Let’s begin!

VLC – If you don’t have this app, this is what will happen to you:

Whilst trying to transfer a very, very legal download of South Park series 13 onto your iPad, iTunes will basically tell you to go and fist yourself.  You will try for days to bypass iTunes and its all encompassing power to destroy your life.  You will fail.  After admitting defeat you will spend three more days converting your files to a format deemed acceptable by iTunes by means of a ‘free’ software package.  Finally, and with a huge sigh of relief, you will click ‘transfer’.  You will receive the following message: “Thank you for choosing our software to convert your video files.  In order to transfer the files onto your device you will need to upgrade to our full version which will cost £1,000,000.  It’s okay though, we use Paypal so it will be convenient and hassle free!”.  Hours later you will be spotted skipping naked down the high street wearing a sock puppet on one hand and flinging shit at passing old ladies with the other, occasionally stopping to eat your own hair whilst poking yourself in the eye with your toe.

For the love of God, get this app.  No one likes sock puppets.

TV CATCHUP – This app basically turns the iPad into a TV by means of witchcraft.  Very handy if you like a moan at your boyfriend for watching Babestation when Snog, Marry, Avoid is on.  It shows most of the decent channels including Dave (most important) but the picture quality can be pretty poor at times and because it is shown live, you can’t rewind anything if you’ve missed the beginning.  All in all though the good out-weighs the bad and anything that can magically turn something into a TV gets 5 stars from me.  Now if they could only apply this TV magic to the back of my head, Billy would die a happy man.

DISCOVER – This is a Wikipedia app presented in the form of a magazine.  It has a photo of the day, an article of the day and all the encyclopaedia articles you could ever want.  It’s also in HD which makes me feel warm inside.  There isn’t much use for it on a daily basis but I think it would be good to have on a train or the Megabus.  Although, I wouldn’t recommend waving an iPad around on a Megabus, that would be like waving around a quarterpounder with cheese in a Malawian orphanage.

 iPERIOD – This is an app that keeps track of your periods.  I have found to my surprise that this app is more popular with men.  One of my guy friends whipped it out the other day when trying to organise a golfing trip with his brother saying “Well, the wife will be shedding the tears of a disappointed uterus next weekend so it would be nice to get out of the house for a couple of days”.

GAMES – As you can probably guess there are no real epics for the iPad so don’t expect to devote more than a couple of hours of your life in order to complete a game.  There are still a few that are worth a look though, my three favourites are:

SPARKLE HD:  One of those blow-up-a-chain-of-coloured-balls type games favoured the world over by lonely housewives with bingo addictions.  This one is actually very good, the music sounds like it’s from Beetlejuice and the HD graphics are immense.

HARBOUR MASTER HD:  Pretty simple but highly addictive.  You have to move boats about so they don’t crash into each other.  I wish I had more to add but that is literally it.

VIRTUAL VILLAGERS 3:  I am fully aware that this is a shitty sim game but there is something kind of 90’s about it that makes me happy.  You land on a deserted island and have to make sure your villagers survive by building stuff, finding food, making babies, etc.  Completely pointless, but there was a time when all computer games were pointless and, well, sometimes I just miss those days.

While I am on the subject of games, I’m not really a fan of Angry Birds.  Am I the only person in the universe who feels this way?…………….Besides you, Tumbleweed.

PHOTO SLIDESHOW – Not technically an app, just something the iPad can do.  You can use your iPad as a kind of picture frame that changes photo every few seconds via an unfolding origami-type display.  It’s pretty cool to watch and a nice idea I suppose but I can’t help wonder when we are expected to use it.  Can you imagine taking it into your office and setting it up next to your monitor, leaving it to show random photos of your family on their last skiing trip?  Seriously, imagine how much of a dick you would look.  I tried it out in the privacy of my own home and it didn’t really work out.  These are the first four photos that came up:  A photo of a naked doll that I found on the side of a mountain in Skye that looked like a dead baby, a picture of my dog trying to hump another dog’s face, a picture of Hitler with a speech bubble saying “I blame the parents” and a photo of a dead bird in a ziplock bag stuck to a wall by a magnet.  If I worked in an office I would be eating my lunch alone.

So there you go, a few of the apps that have earned a place on my homescreen.  I could honestly keep going, I have another ten apps that I use but for those of you who don’t have an iPad this blog entry is hardly a page-turner so I will spare you the torture of reading about amazing things that you will never have.  I feel like the parent of a high-achieving child; so much to say but no one really gives a fuck.  I think I’m going to start going to coffee mornings with other iPad owners.  Call me.