Last week husband took me to see Bring Me The Horizon. He tricked me into going by showing me a video filmed at The Royal Albert Hall accompanied by the Parallax Orchestra. Hard rock with a classical nuance, yeah I get that.
However, when you take away the orchestra what you’re left with is Metalcore alternative; angry, angry music. And not just angry but effing furious! In their defence lighting and stage rig was fab.
For 2.5 hours I sat through 2 metalcore bands, a lot of profanity and from my elevated seat I got a good view of the mayhem playing out in the mosh pit, which I visited for approximately 45 seconds! Have you seen the size of those metal fans? Surrounded by crazed Amazonians I was scared of getting hooked onto a random piercing. Whimpering, I scampered back to the safety of my seat and avoided being spat on by the lead singer. His Mother needs to have a word.
But look at me, down with the kids, a new experience for January.
Talking of January, I’m DRY! Apologies if you dropped your phone in shock, I understand, it’s been quite a revelation for my liver as well. I’ve succumbed to peer pressure and joined this popular event for the first time. All I can say is, who knew January had 4,368 days? Sober Sunday afternoons are really quite a bore, but the house has never been cleaner as I have to find something to pass the time. The other thing that helps pass the time is chocolate, whilst medical fact sheets tell you that you could lose anywhere between 6-15 pounds by abstaining for a month, I’ve had the cocoa injection and gained 8!
Just about the right size for a Sunday
Dry January to Fatty February, what’s March going to bring, I really don’t mind provided it’s accompanied by a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc.
As a side note, alcohol free wine is like faking an orgasm – it looks like the real thing, but is deeply unsatisfying.
When you reach a certain milestone age the NHS becomes very interested in your health, in particular a certain bodily function’s health. Your bowels!
Forget trying to book an appointment to see a real-life Dr, don’t worry about physio over the phone, your bowels are where it’s at. And if you think that this concern will be communicated discreetly, you can forget that too as the envelope is VERY clearly labelled BOWEL CANCER SCREENING, just in case anybody at the Post Office was interested.
On opening the envelope you will find a small pipe cleaner looking thingy, a test tube, a flat packed box, plus the all important instructions. I was somewhat distracted when trying to read these as husband had regressed to a four-year-old boy, squealing with delight at the mere mention of poo offering not very helpful comments. For instance;
‘ooohhh how much they need’
‘I could fill a Tupperware, you need a Tupperware’
‘When do you have to do it, is morning or evening better? I could give them both’ and so it went on until I huffed off to the loo to read in peace and quiet. Nothing more I hasten to add.
I’m quite squeamish so I won’t go into the graphic details, for those who have not reached the prescribed number of summers I’ll let it be a nice surprise, to my friends who have already gone through this process I think we can agree it’s a pretty simple procedure.
Soon as you’ve pooped in the packet off it must fly to undergo tests and whatnot. Once more the envelope you’re supplied with leaves the Royal Mail no doubt as to the contents. In fact, it couldn’t be clearer if it had a picture of a bloke squatting on a see-through toilet.
Again, with the questions from husband.
‘Is it in your handbag, eerrghhh your handbag, you won’t forget to post it will you?’ Highly unlikely.
‘Do you think Post Office get paid extra for handling that.’
‘Poor postie, that’s a kak job’. Very droll husband.
You poop, you post, you wait, you get letter in less than 2 weeks. Easy peasey.
Based on my bowel experience I thought I would try and book an appointment with my local GP – they have a waiting list of 8 weeks, you can’t book more than 8 weeks in advance, go figure.
Why I think we’re safe from AI generated journalism for a while longer ….
Last night on our regional news round-up the anchorwoman reported police have advised there was ‘unsafe’ heroin being sold in Sussex area.
I’m sorry, unsafe heroin? Is there another kind? A life affirming, health giving heroin that I have not yet been made aware of?
She then went on to say the police recommend users act with caution when purchasing! Now, I’m no expert in neuroscience or have any qualifications in dealing with addiction issues, but I’m guessing that if you’re gripped by this heinous drug, caution may not be at the top of your life choices.
And that got me thinking that the article must have been generated by AI, which may be clever but hasn’t yet grasped the concept of irony.
The word on every middle-aged woman’s lips this week is not ‘who IS that BBC presenter’ but ‘Have you seen the Wham documentary?’
What were you doing when this was in the charts?
If you haven’t seen it yet, then I recommend you jump onto Netflix or beg, borrow, steal a log-in and treat yourself to some unashamed nostalgia.
Is it wrong to feel erotically charged by a dead gay man? in my defence we didn’t know he was gay at the time, although how this slipped our attention I’m not quite sure. The VERY short shorts, tight clothing and a better 80’s hairdo than I could ever have perfected was a bit of tell tell but times were different and musical heroes were firmly closeted.
The docco is a 90 minute recollection of Wham, their meteoric rise to fame and the split after 4 short, teenage fantasy laden years.
It’s about friendship, fun and the pair enjoying the success of being pop stars. A combination of uplifting music, and bittersweet memories.
Critics have cited it as lightweight fluff without substance or heft but wasn’t that Wham in a nutshell? Flirtatious, sexy Bad Boys with a funky pop rhythmn looking for good times. If you’re after a searing insight into pop star manipulation of the 80’s and the demons that plagued George Michael get the hell outta here. This docco, is all about fun and sunshine – there’s enough for everyone by the way.
Who didn’t want to be an extra for this video
I dare you to watch it without dancing round the lounge and thinking back to when shoulder pads and hair were BIG, our waists were skinny and a mortgage meant your live was over (no change there then).
When the biggest stress was a pimple outbreak just before the youth club disco and a tough day involved winding the tape back into your cassette.
Quickly, bring me a pencil
90 minutes guaranteed to take you the Edge of Heaven.
Every other Wednesday husband makes me do the walk of shame, a little different to the usual meaning.
dictionary.com
noun Slang.
the return trip home the morning after an unplanned sexual encounter, usually a one-night stand, wearing clothing from the previous evening.
ourhouse.com
noun Instruction.
Taking the bottle recycling crate down to the roadside for refuse collectors
At our previous house it was a simple affair, I’d take the bottles out at night and sneak half into our teetotal next-door neighbour’s crate, thereby avoiding any judgement from passersby or bin collectors. This worked marvellously until Age UK visited Mrs Parnell and questioned her excessive alcohol intake which resulted in her son putting up CCTV along with some unpleasant and quite frankly uneccessary accusations, scuppering my plan and our reputation as a household that drank a sensible amount of wine.
The house we live in now has a shared driveway and on alternate Wednesdays three crates stand side by side on the road, two looking guilt free and smug and one looking like it belongs to the Guns n Roses fan club.
However, when I took the crate down this week it wasn’t the damning clank of empty wine flagons mashing together that woke the neighbours, it was the tinkly clink of cough syrup bottles. I’ve got a throat infection and have been guzzling cough medicine like it’s wine cool drink for the past fortnight.
In between honking like a goose or coughing like I’m on 30 fags a day you’ll find me in the kitchen hurling back a ladle full of foul tasting, syrupy linctus. And it’s horrible – whatever the brand, supposed flavour or viscosity they are all revolting and don’t seem to work.
So as I hauled the crate down the driveway this morning it was not in my usual furtive style, I paraded to the curb with confidence, proud that I can no longer be considered a wino but a sicko!
Side note : I once worked with a girl whose Mother was a recovering alcoholic but had developed a dependency on cough mixture – drinking between 3 to 6 bottles a day! I’m not sure just how ‘recovered’ she actually was.
Second side note : why is it called the Walk of Shame? I think we should rename it ‘the Sashay of Sexiness’, you went out, you partied, you got some and that’s pretty bloody awesome – no shame at all. Just saying …
Husband & I have spent a few days in Cyprus, escaping the gray gloom of the UK winter and replacing it with sunshine and blue skies, the power of which cannot be underestimated.
Paphos is not the prettiest of towns, however we donned our trainers and strolled around it every morning ostensibly looking like interested tourists, in reality it was a box ticking exercise to get the step count in so we could scamper back to the hotel for a 5-course lunch commencing with a cheeky cocktail or two.
Then after lunch, a little lie down in the sunshine in order to psyche ourselves up for the smorgasbord that was dinner.
‘Please can I have a glass of wine?’ I asked the waiter.
‘Let me leave the bottle with Madam and she can help herself whenever she wishes.’ At this point I had to have husband confirm that I wasn’t dead and in heaven, because it sure felt that way.
Why have one pudding when you can indulge in several, cheese board to follow? Of course yes.
And this is how it went for 6 glorious days – until, on getting ready to return I discovered my jeans couldn’t be done up. Troubling, maybe this Mediterranean air is not agreeing with me, hhmmmmm.
When we got home my worst fears were confirmed.
Me: Husband, can you bring some new batteries for the scales, they not working
Him: What you mean not working
Me: They showing all crazy numbers, they can’t be right
Him: I changed them two weeks ago, they’re working perfectly
Sound Effect : CRASH! Followed by hysterical crying.
Him: What’s that noise
Me: I’ve had a nasty shock and lost my footing, I feel faint and queasy
Him: Yeah, 4 puddings twice a day can do that
If that wasn’t enough of a shock, the weight keeps coming despite extensive use of the gym, treadmill and multiple dog walks! Every time I get on the bastard scales the numbers are rising faster than Donald Trump indictments. Husband tells me that it takes time for the additional sugars to be turned into fat and be prepared for continued growth.
Now very scared …. if this carries on I’ll look like Violet Beuaregarde by the end of the week!
Husband has recently returned from Sin City where he was eating expensive grub and guzzling wine, working very hard.
Prior to his departure he repeatedly stressed that the week would be full of workshops, symposiums, and lectures. An opportunity for his client to ‘leverage the maximum strategic benefits’ from the recently purchased software. Their little noses would be pressed against the grindstone for the duration with only a narrow slither of the day available for a meagre lunch or dinner buffet provided by the event organisers, little or no time to enjoy the cornucopia of indulgences that Vegas has to offer.
HOW I LAUGHED!
To say I was a little skeptical of these protestations would be an understatement and my suspicious were more than confirmed when, on collecting him from the airport his features were considerably more cherubic than before he left,
cheeks rosy and round, plumpness around the midriff and a slight sheen to his skin that only comes from over indulging for 7 days straight. He spent the entire drive home complaining his clothes had shrunk on the flight.
Coupled with this was the photographic evidence of the Cirque show, standing outside several fine dining establishments, laden plates of food and him networking extensively with those fine fellows Johnny Walker and Pinot Noir. What can I say? Poor darling, the heavy workload must have just killed him.
Adding insult to injury he requested ‘plain food only, nothing too rich’ there is a concern his cholesterol levels are higher than the bar of the Stratosphere which was frequented, but only because the client wanted to go.
It’s a gruelling job, but someone has to drink in that hi-rise bar
Happy Valentines y’all. Marriage… expect little – forgive plenty.
For over 25 years I’ve wanted an MX5, how I’ve daydreamed of cruising the highways of life with the roof off and a 50’s style headscarf on. YES, it’s finally happening, I’m going to release my deeply suppressed glamourous alter ego and own the car I was always destined to drive.
How I was supposed to look
Husband found the perfect one at a garage down the road and with great excitement booked a test drive. A journey to the future, sporty me.
Salesman gave the usual spiel and into my hands placed the keys, this was it … I was off in a sleek, speedy, scarlet piece of gorgeousness.
Unfortunately, as is often the case, real life never seems to play out how it did in your head.
As I got in I realized that the seat was a lot further down than I had anticipated, like subterranean low. I seemed to pick up speed as l dropped down and when my bum connected I did the unforgiveable and let out a ooommmpppphhhff noise. Not a purp thank the Lord but the noise you start to make once you overtake 50 whenever you’re required to bend, stretch or in sit in a sports car.
Not an auspicious start and the salesman looked rather wary as I tried to style it out with a cheery wave driving off the forecourt, only to brake abruptly, in my embarrassed haste I’d forgotten husband. Once finally on the road it became very clear that a short person in a glorified go-kart does not see much in this roadster, not even the end of the bonnet. Things that would have been clear as day in my car had become invisible, curbs, parking bollards and traffic cones were sneaking up on me and it was only husband’s high pitched screaming helpful commentary that alerted me to these potential hazards.
Gear changes were damn near impossible, the clutch ferocious as Harry’s biog, the seat so far forward to accommodate my diminutive legs, knees were smashing against the steering column every time I employed the gear stick, leaving them bruised and numb.
After 10 thoroughly miserable minutes I meandered back to the garage narrowly avoiding the entrance sign.
Waiting eagerly for us on the lot the salesman had an expression that a) radiated relief the car was back in one piece and b) was foolishly optimistic some commission was coming his way.
Dreams destroyed I abandoned the traitorous motor in a space large enough to avoid any regrettable incidents requiring me to pay the £500 excess. Aha hahahaha, if it was low getting in, it was a very long way up getting out and I had to muster every ounce of self restraint not to use the salesman’s trousers as a climbing wall. Instead I grasped the top of the door frame and swung myself out clinging like a needy monkey, then after what felt like an eternity I hoisted myself to an upright position with an accompanying errrrggghhhhffff. Effortless and gazelle like – provided the gazelle had three legs and was being set upon by a ravenous hyena.
How to exit a sportscar with style and grace
I then engaged in a long and protracted conversation with the startled salesperson as unconvinced my legs would be able to propel me forward and after sufficient time when feeling had returned I shuffled to my car with as much dignity as I could muster.
I’ll cruise through this midlife crisis, but sadly at a sedate pace in a chocolate brown, fridge shaped Kia – which pretty much sums me up!
Christmas was a very quiet affair, just husband, myself and the parents celebrating, nothing out the ordinary except a little bit of shoplifting with my Dad on Christmas Eve.
In our defense, we didn’t realise that we had committed a crime until we got home. In short my Dad put three croissants into the bakery packet and at checkout I only pressed to pay for two – more miscommunication than premeditated felony.
I should have kept this crumb of information to myself; however I deployed my flip top head and told him. As you can imagine informing your parent who was a police officer for over 50 years they have joined the criminal classes was not well received, in fact he went into a total tailspin. Not helped by husband calling us ‘thieving bastards’! Plans were hatched on how to atone for the ill gotten (but delicious) gains, could he just leave the money on the counter and run for it or make amends by reverse engineering the self-service machine? Well to start with he couldn’t take the stolen pastry back (yum yum in my tum) and he has issues with the self-service machine at the best of times, this looked to be a recipe for disaster.
Dad & I looking natty in our new outfits
I thought, we should make haste to a country that has no extradition treaty with the UK and board flights to Cuba forthwith to sit out our time on the sandy beaches, drinking Caribbean rum – enjoying our life of crime, he however has decided to wait until the Co-Op reopens and rely on the leniency of the manager and/or our UK justice system.
Another low-key Christmas with a pensioner reduced to hiding behind a sofa cushion and muttering about Shaw Taylor and Police 5.
Strawberry Splash Down 