Fried Chicken & Disappointment

Sweetcorn

Stonebridge is the only place I have ever set foot where I can roughly scrape myself out of the over-pillowed pit that is my bed, tie my hair in a misshapen sumo-topknot, spurn my make-up bag (at the same time spitting in the face of that gap-toothed bitch from that advert who’s always trying to convince me to buy Rimmel so she can earn enough money to get a brace… That is why she’s on it, right?), replace the penis-print t-shirt I so often sleep in with a Queen Mary hoodie (no bra), and still stroll sleepily through my front door feeling like some bleary-eyed, dead goth Beyoncé.  I think this is down to the fact that, on my most recent aforementioned un-showered, un-sexy and urgent expedition to Stonebridge Tesco, I was party to more human horrors than a person should have to endure, at least until post-(hearty)breakfast.

I had set out on this hasty early morning undertaking as I had awoken to find myself gasping for a cup of tea, and was immediately chilled to my very bones at the realisation that I had run out of soya milk. Black tea simply would not satiate my lust for a decent hot beverage; thus I was left with no other option.

I walked into Stonebridge Tesco under the impression that I had strayed onto the set of The Undateables. Misshapen individuals stalked every aisle; I darted through them, my hoodie betraying my excellent education but at the same time cleverly obscuring my visage. One by one, I saw their dull eyes (no doubt deadened by years of reading The Sun in insufficient council-house lighting) rest on me for a moment, before flickering back, disinterested, to the various Tesco Value items that had first engaged their respective attentions. The hairs rose on the back of my neck as I advanced on the milk aisle and spied two builders, a people that have long been my dreaded foe. Luckily they were deeply engrossed in a conversation that consisted mostly of guttural grunts and something about Barnsley. I deftly grabbed a carton of Alpro’s finest, and went to nimbly sprint down the drinks aisle when I was met with an unexpected hurdle. In fact, hurdle is not the correct word; it would imply that there could possibly be some way of overcoming the monstrosity that fate had seen fit to place in front of me; instead I shall opt for obstruction. The obstruction that lay before me was in the form of a gigantic, plaid-shirted gargantuan, confusedly tottering back and forth between the Tango and the Tizer.

My immediate thought was to slip past him, but upon approaching his livid, pulsating and pinkish mass I was overcome with a stench so overpowering I can only assume this Jabba man had promptly shit himself with indecision. I propelled myself backwards, my lungs aching for a breath of air devoid of poo-particles, untainted by the gallons of methane readily issuing from the bountiful buttocks of this colossal creature. Through the cheese aisle I bounded erratically until I found myself in the queue. I thought myself safe, until I looked up into the unexpected snowy depths of a cranium so richly encrusted with matter that had once been attached to the owner’s scalp; this man, sculpted, it seemed, from pure dandruff, stood between me and my salvation.

I took a sober step backwards, and felt terror and disgust stick in my throat. A thousand years later, the snowman took his leave, and I was called forth by the kind cashier, the first real human I had been in contact with in a seemingly long time. My transaction concluded, I rushed at the door, until the security guard quickly barred my exit. I slowly lifted my head until my eyes met his; ‘Dahlin, choo fuhgot cho sweetcarn’. I looked at the cashier, who was smiling at me in an exasperated way, waving my tin of sweetcorn in the air, which I had apparently left in my haste. I ran back and claimed it.

It was only when I was halfway home that I realized;

I didn’t buy sweetcorn.

Musings

I was satisfactorily steeping in an bubble bath of my own elaborate creation when my steam-soaked thoughts turned to the book I am currently reading, (in actuality I’m reading about seven books, most of which I transport around daily in my oversized tribal-print rucksack and never actually get round to finishing). Fanny Hill (Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure) is an eighteenth-century novel, the existence of which was first made known to me by one of my lecturers in my second year of university. I fell hopelessly in love with his intelligence, his fabulously clever jokes and his success in a field that I very much revere. I cannot overlook the fact that he looked like Garth from Wayne’s World, if Garth was a rampant goth lesbian and embraced a dedication to shoulder pads that he had no doubt snatched from the jaws of the 80s and vowed never to relinquish. He was also as gay as Christmas, which my lecture companion Ms Baiden never failed to remind me. I never took much notice of her beratings; she was in turn in lust with my arch enemy; a man so foul that he regularly waxed his chest, consequently wearing deep-V neck tshirts to showcase his misguided and misinformed vanity. As usual, I digress.

I managed to get my hands on a copy a few weeks ago in a Kings Cross charity shop. Upon reading it, I quickly discovered it to be an unexpected jewel of fabulously written pornography. It is like a literate woman’s 50 Shades of Grey, and makes for rather awkward rush-hour tube reading, what with the Rococo-esque nude woman on the front, reclining coyly with the word ‘FANNY’ emblazoned across her. What affected me so in the bath was that my mind was suddenly gripped with the thought that 50 Shades of Grey could be considered a bastardized modern version of Fanny Hill, perhaps if Fanny Hill were to be rewritten by a vaguely literate and sexually inexperienced ape, often taking breaks from Googling sexual positions and plonking them artlessly into his storyline to have a little play with his balls, or to blithely consume a banana to inspire his penis-driven narrative. I will admit I did borrow a copy of 50 Shades in order to see what all the fuss was about; I was immediately gripped with the passionate desire to grab the nearest phallic-shaped object and savagely gouge my eyes out. It seems to me that this ape-author inspired orgasms with one erratically probing hand whilst blindly asphyxiating the English language with the other in the same effort; I would not condemn my greatest enemy to reading it, (although the enemy that pops to mind is about as literate as a cat’s arsehole and so would probably count it amongst the classics).

The majority of people I have spoken to about Fanny Hill have never heard of it, though all of whom knew of- or more distressingly had read- 50 Shades. I understand it to be a particular facet of popular modern culture to ignore genius and instead to celebrate the ignorant banalities of life (one example being TOWIE, an assortment of wild hogs clad in Jane Norman and fake eyelashes and set loose in various Essex clubs) or to jump on such poorly penned bandwagons as 50 Shades; an author who is so inexperienced in wielding the sturdy brawn of the well-established sentence should under no circumstances be trusted with the genitals of any character, even one as flaccid and two-dimensional as Christian Grey.  

I guess we can all be grateful that the guests of the Jeremy Kyle Show escaped the 50 Shades baby boom on account of their illiteracy.

I doubt Jeremy will agree; the inadequacies of British schooling has no doubt robbed him of vital future guests…

I’m going back to my book.

Fuck Yo Bitch and the Clique you Claim

I have come to the weighty conclusion that boyfriends are a terrible idea. For some outlandish reason, women occasionally decide to nurture an all-consuming obsession  with a male that leads to both the decline of her mental state and indeed of her waist-line (excessive going out for meals = a moment on the lips, a life time on the large, quivering thighs you’re blithely hiding under the tablecloth at the restaurant). Although it is not The Boyfriend himself I largely disagree with; it is the contorted and disturbingly hideous creature that is inevitably borne from the breakdown of such a union between a couple; the Ex-Boyfriend.

A bewildering transformation takes place when those momentous words (‘I don’t love you anymore’/’I’m sleeping with the fat girl I live with who looks like she dipped her face in a bulldog’s make up bag’/ ‘You’re thighs are too big’/ ‘I’m gay’/ ‘You’re literally mental,’ to paraphrase just a few) are uttered by the then handsome and attractive Boyfriend, putting an end to all romantic relations (except those drunken texts that you, after bathing in Jagermeister, inevitably send him informing him that you’re too good for him anyway, whilst you simultaneously throw up on your own legs in the back of a cab). It is, at that very moment, as though the devil himself has abandoned his fiery throne in order to mischievously lift the magical sexiness spell that has thus far occluded from the Girlfriend’s vision what her friends have been able to see all along.

Suddenly, standing before you, is not the hunk of a man you once found to be a God amongst men, with biceps and penis alike both sculpted by Zeus himself. Instead you might see the aged carcass of a man far too old for you (and possibly even for the Earth itself), a man who is controlled by his penis the way Doctor Octavius is controlled by his robotic arms in Spiderman 2 and cannot help but mount anything with the slightest hint of a bosom, an obviously gay fairy boy who has been stringing you along in order to borrow your hair products, or in some cases a guy so fat you cannot tell where his chins end and his breasts begin (Notorious JLV, I think you can relate?) who conversely was often mistaken for Jupiter when out walking at night.

The only creature more heinous than the Ex-Boyfriend would be his devilish counterpart, the Ex-Girlfriend. Often left overweight and lacking in social skills due to too much time spent at home perusing her boyfriend’s Facebook, torturing herself as to why he has ‘liked’ that bitch’s bikini photo (the aforementioned bitch that blates borrowed the bulldog’s make up, no less), the Ex-Girlfriend is a manipulative entity. Her main line of defence against the Ex-Boyfriend is the Display Picture, which she regularly changes to include photos of herself kissing her loyal gay BFF in order to show the ex ‘what he’s missing’.  No one is fooled.

Perhaps we should all stop being ridiculous and just get cats.

It’s better than having sex with old guys. Or fat guys for that matter, eh JLV?

Fatties Need Love Too… But They Gotta Pay.

So I have a new potential true love.

As usual I’m disinterested as he is one of those that I would suspect suffers from Buried Penis Syndrome. Hopped on the 18 bus to Harlesden; simply had to leave the house as I’d spent approximately seven hours googling things that no person should know [Why Do My Nipples Go Hard When I Sneeze?] as I pretended to my mother that I was writing essays to escape having to undertake real activities. Tubson was busy, fisting herself to Come Dine With Me or whatever it is that floats her boat these days (I think Jeremy Kyle starts a bit too early, and everyone knows fisting before breakfast is a no no). JLV was on one of her frequent trips to Nottingham to get drunk and lose her possessions, forget her own name and generally disgrace her life, and as far as I’m aware everyone else was studying. Like I should be. But where there’s youtube, there’s a procrastinating Samantha.

So my Harlesden Hottie got on the bus a stop after me. Hottie, in that he was sweating profusely from in between the flabby folds that escaped his tshirt to such an extent that I was surprised he wasn’t standing in a puddle of his own putrid bodily fluids. I was sitting by the door, and he slowly rolled towards me so that he was directly in front of me, interrupting my vacant gaze with his emulsified and well-fed mass.

As he breathed all over me as heavily as a paedo in Nursery, I tried to avoid his hungry eye contact. But it’s rather difficult to avoid someone that is so large they simultaneously occlude your entire range of peripheral vision as well as your normal range of sight. Thus I had no option but to look upon him with speechless horror and disgust as his large and flaccid tongue protruded from his fusty lips, grease from his mouth mixing with the sweat oozing from his pores, as he licked his ripe flabby lips at me.

Again.

And Again.

And Again.

Funnily enough I did not immediately reach the levels of ecstasy he was expecting. I’m not entirely sure what he believed would come of his actions, whether he thought I would be so moved with sexual animalistic passion at him licking his swollen jaws that I would immediately wrap my legs around his gigantic engorged head before he got off at Harlesden Jubilee Clock. But that didn’t happen. I simply got off at the next stop and walked straight into Sam’s Chicken to recover.

This is the most interest any man has shown me in a while, all the ones whose penises are not buried by the consequences 8 or 9 KFC family buckets seem disinterested.

Perhaps I should be pleased?

I Hate Builders.

It was a blustery morn as I made my way into QMUL for my 1pm Shakespeare lecture. As usual, I was running approximately three hours early, being a person of limited social means; in other words, my friends do not usually crawl out of the over-pillowed pits that are their beds until around 4pm, so I am inclined to use my free hours to delve into the 16^th century. It is my belief that their nocturnal habits stem from too much televisual stimulation and not enough literary absorption. Thus it is not out of the ordinary for me to post books to their houses without prior warning.

I rambled along, detestable soya latte in hand, until I came to a group of saggy-eyed builders sitting in a pitiable commune they had formed amongst the rubble of one of the QMUL buildings that was being renovated, flapping in the wind like a frazzled group of weary weeds. My mind brimming with important Shakespearian facts, as is the norm, I merely glanced at them as I walked past. To my immediate dismay, one of their number- a gangly twerp- peered at me through his crepey, dust-studded eyes. I determined him to be aged mid- to late- twenties, judging by the fact that he was still in possession of his unwashed hair, and that his paunchy stomach had not reached the magnificent, elephantine proportions of the guts of his older fellows.

I am not a person who does well under scrutiny. In fact, if someone merely looks at me on the tube, I find it difficult to stop the bile rising in my throat and usually try to stare them down with my eyes of malice. So you can imagine my dismay when Gangly-Builder burst out in a distinctly uneducated tone, ‘FAAAAAHVE AHT O’ TEN, I GIVE ERR’.

Not being a theatre production, a recently penned book, or a form of quiche on Come Dine With Me, I’m not used to being rated out of ten.

There are several ways I could process this information, and all flitted through my mind in that brief instant; I could fall into a pit of despair, running off to the nearest Budgens to buy a pizza and indulge in a bit of cheese-masochism. I could accept his rating, after considering the fact that I was wearing a leprechaun jumper and hadn’t brushed my hair in two days, and look for ways to better myself. Or I could turn back and rate the dusty fat bastard straight back. You can probably guess what route I chose.

“Wouldn’t expect any higher coming from you, seeing as I’m not a fuckin’ bacon sandwich’.” Adopting the rookie hard-man accent was an off the cuff decision, but I’d like to think it worked, as the older- and I’d like to consider wiser- builders burst out laughing at Gangly-Builder. Aside from the gaggle of first-year girls who obviously considered me to be some form of cracked-out builder-assailant with a worrying fixation on pork-based sandwiches, I was pleased with my retort, and the subsequent builder reaction.

Perhaps they’ll make me their Queen.

Chick with too many dicks

Jodie Marsh makes me want to be violently sick on the ground, scoop up the regurgitated stomach acid with my hands, and rub it into my eyes. I do not quite understand how she underwent the transformation from a woman with a vagina so vehemently exhausted from overuse that it dragged along the ground behind her into a red-haired, mahogany greased up stallion. 

Although it might be considered a disrespect to horsekind to liken her to one of their number. Perhaps more like an overcooked, muscly leg of lamb in a bikini, in the middle of a profuse menstrual flow.

Gross.

mad skillz

Had to leave my precious JLV in the pretentious, middle-class-wanker depths of Kensal Rise, where everyone insists on eating organic, possibly even using their own eventual organic shit as a means to grow their next meal. Because it’s more organic that way. And they like to be organic. Probably Vegan and everything, don’t you know how much methane cows produce?! …Piss off. I was already running late for an appointment regarding my troublesomely sprained hip-joint with my troublesomely useless doctor. Dashed on to the 18 as fast as I could manage on crutchback. Two stops later, our bus was held for about ten minutes; I turned around to see what the ruckus was, only to see three policemen marching the bus driver outside and arresting him. This more or less set the tone to the most ridiculous day of my life.

My doctor yet again decided to forgo our meeting; in his place was a man who looked like someone with only a vague idea of what a human face looked like had scratched an image of such into the bark of a willow tree, and then left it to toughen and dry out in the sun for a thousand years. I left the Surgery, only to be greeted by a wildling chav woman swigging from a bottle of White Ace, who, on spotting my crutch, became very concerned for my well-being. 

‘AHHHH NAHHHHHHH! Yew sprained yorrrrr ankle?’

I fought to withhold the bile rising violently in my throat at the stench of putrefying alcohol that was emanating from between her gums, the brown/pinky/sticky mass of which only occasionally interrupted by crumbling caramel teeth. I managed to shoot her the gleaming fake smile I have mastered as a result of years of working in retail jobs and dealing with imbeciles on a daily basis, and replied politely, ‘Nah babe. Hip.’ Carried on walking. Past Iceland, the mecca of the dole-scroungers that are plentiful in Cricklewood, only to see an old, dirty man pissing up against a wall in the middle of the street. I looked at him, trying to avoid the stream of his tepid golden urine, as he reached his hand out to touch me. Although I bludgeoned him in the darkest bowels of my mind, I decided not to attack the man due to his advanced age and obvious depleted mental status, and instead hobbled at top speed into the dingy but welcoming depths of the stinky 266. 

Fuck this shit, I’m going home.

Flounced off the tube in Stonebridge to a massive crowd of gangsta teenagers cheering, clapping and laughing like a pack of jarring hyenas. I turn to face across the road to find out what has drawn such a reaction, only to see a voluminous chav girl standing in the middle of the road doing the dutty wine and making strange spasms that I thought at first might be epilepsy, though I quickly realized that it was some sort of white girl attempt at twerking. To nothing but a symphony of car horns. Considered I may be hallucinating due to too much sun and rap music, but when I opened my eyes she was still there.

ATTITUDE GYAL. Fucking speechless.

J-Kizzle

Had some time off work recently due to a sprained hip. For anyone who has never had the misfortune of being stricken down by such an unfortunately placed injury, the feeling is not dissimilar to having one’s leg chewed off at the hip joint by Voldemort wearing diamante grills, as He Who Must Not Be Named’s dickhead snake douses the wound with tabasco sauce. Thus, bed-bound, I’ve been spending a great deal of time indulging in my true televisual love, Jeremy Kyle.

This show has singlehandedly led to my belief that people in the North of England regularly mate with Rhinoceros; I can see no other explanation as to how a human being can have teeth so contorted, that jut out so very far that they almost devour their own foreheads as they converse with Jeremy; delicately suggestive, almost, of a Rhino horn.

As Wikipedia explains:

‘Members of the rhinoceros family are characterized by their large size (they are some of the largest remaining megafauna, with all of the species able to reach one tonne or more in weight); as well as by […] a thick protective skin, 1.5–5 cm thick; relatively small brains for mammals this size (400–600g); and a large horn. They generally eat leafy material (cannabis), although their ability to ferment food in their hindgut allows them to subsist on more fibrous plant matter, if necessary. Unlike other perissodactyls, the African species of rhinoceros lack teeth at the front of their mouths, relying instead on their powerful premolar and molar teeth to grind up plant food’.

This clearly relates to the guests on Jeremy Kyle; often the stage is graced by very large specimens, clearly surviving on state handouts, similar to how a Rhinoceros living in the zoo would be kept and sustained, not expected to hunt for themselves. Their thick skin is evident through the many pustulating skin lesions, often from an abandonment of their natural leafy herbivore diet in favour of McDonald’s Milkshakes and Hamburgers, which their digestive systems are ill-equipped to deal with. Their small brains are apparent every time they venture to open their mouths, often confusing ‘specific’ with ‘pacific’, and having virtually no grasp of grammar, or indeed the English language as a whole. In fact in many instances, whilst amidst the heat of a fiery exchange upon Jeremy’s stage they choose to revert back to their guttural Rhinoceros mother tongue, abandoning all efforts of communication and seeking to solve their differences by butting horns. Rhinoceros generally do not have front teeth; this is where the human gene kicks in, creating a toothy-keratin growth protruding out of the mouth; a humanized Rhinoceros horn. This is often unstable, and thus on many guests can be seen to be broken, or entirely absent, having been lost in battles between warring herds over such issues as incest and the theft of inexpensive titbits from one another’s council flats.

As we see from this specimen, the dental plate far overreaches the chin; the jutting and sharp nose is a derivative of the distinctive Rhino horn, seen below:

 The similarity is undeniable.

Below, we see a case where the keratin horn-tooth hybrid has begun to deplete and break away.

Below we see an example of one of the larger members of a herd, who may weigh anything up to a tonne; possibly a mother who has borne a large amount of offspring to many different fathers.

One of her offspring, who did not accompany her on The Jeremy Kyle Show, can be seen below:

Thus the fact that people up North have begun to mate with Rhinoceros is in no way one to be debated; though it is clear that these Safari-human hybrids are capable of more emotion, more entertainment, and more wit than the fat-titted mutations that are paraded about on The Only Way Is Essex.

No matter how many limbs I sprain, how long I am in this cursed bed, I shall not sink to such a level of trashy television.

One love to my homeboy Jezza.

Thank you, and goodnight.

2:1

Graduation in two days. Found out I received a 2:1 in my English Literature degree. This comes as a pleasant surprise, as the three year period during which I undertook my BA was troublesomely punctuated by two relationship break ups (the majority of each I spent running through East London heavily intoxicated and wailing like Beyoncé-fied version of Kate Bush) and two burglaries (in which my second- and third-year coursework, as well as the beginnings of my dissertation were lost forever, along with a huge amount of compromising photographs of many people close to me)… (If you think it’s you, it’s you). 

However, this led the dawn of M-ho in my life, under whose direction I developed my true ambition in life; to become a world-famous black woman with amazing thighs. Currently I am still a skinny white girl (as is he), but I would like to think I’m growing closer to my goal as each day passes. We bonded over our love of Vybz-Kartel and our shared dream to marry a rapper. At least I got something worthwhile out of my degree.

The only downside of all this is that I now have a degree AND a full-time job. I am feeling far too sensible and can no longer rightly refer to myself as a wasteman. 

But I have next weekend off… Gonna make my mumma proud!

Hairdye Mishapz

I recently bleached the ends of my hair so I could dye them blue, having finally tired of being an accidental goth/ a man from a dramatic heavy metal music video. I say I, when in actual fact it I employed the fabulous hairdressing skills of MILF Maureen at her Notorious Home Salon. As my hair is as black as the blick of night, having previously been red, it only bleached to bright yellow; it seemed strange that this should slip the mind of a girl who spent years of her life painting that yellow + blue = green. So my hair looked, at first, as though the rot had finally set in- or as though someone had blown their nose on it, as my colleague J.D. gleefully told me. 

I decided to stick with the green, and bought some dye to top it up. I had neglected to purchase any plastic gloves, coming to this realization at 11pm at night after an arduous shift spent convincing mentalist women shoppers that shoes which double as a weapon are a sensible must-have. Which is absolutely true. I decided I would use my bare hands, thinking if I washed the dye off quickly, it would not stain. Of course I was entirely mistaken.

My hands were dyed a rich ‘Pine Green’, making me appear as though I had just spent a long evening fisting the Hulk. Thus I was confined to the bathroom for an hour and a half scrubbing until my hands were near bleeding. Nothing was working. Gripped in a soapy-green panic, I considered my options: call in sick to work the next day, or try and find someone who could help. I hastily text JLV, informing her in full in regards to my plight. I received a one word answer.

Domestos.

Disregarding this idea entirely, whilst simultaneously deciding I needed to stage some form of intervention in regards to Jade’s aggressive take on personal hygiene, I took to facebook, where I found out that nail varnish remover was my only feasible option. It worked. Sort of. Went into work the next day with light green hands, trendsettaaaa. 

Today I decided to go for Peacock Blue; Pine Green wasn’t quite pretentious enough, apparently. As I’ve sprained my hip, I’ve been walking around wincing like a sodomite for the past few days, which meant I had to sit down in the shower whilst rinsing out the dye. Resulting in a lovely Peacock Blue arse to match my hair.

Might even push the boat out with some matching the shoes and a handbag.

Yuck.

Someone needs to put a stop to Florence and The Machine. If I am struck by a desire to listen to a man in a dress making deep guttural throat sounds I’d rather watch Gandalf get merked by Sauron in The Lord of the Rings. Or some proper dodgy porn. Fact is, I’m not on it.

EsSSSSSSsssEEEXXXxxxxxxX

I refuse to watch The Only Way Is Essex. Mainly because the idea of people being celebrated for their absolute stupidity and ignorance does not sit well with me. Despite this, I somehow know who Chloe Sims (a woman spawned from the sexual union between a lawnmower and a horse), Lauren Goodger (some chick who apparently swallowed a buffalo whole, judging by her appearance) and Sam Faiers (Is she blind? Or is her face melting?) are. This is down to my two best friends. I know there’s a fat one too, because I’ve seen her bouncing around chatting about cake or some shit on adverts between South Park episodes. 

I should not know of these people.

The reason I have not mentioned the male freaks from the show is because I consider any straight man that waxes his eyebrows a subspecies. Which covers the entire male cast. Although I tend towards the idea that Essex boys are just penis-shy homosexuals that are too pussy to come out as gay, thus they must latch themselves on to the above ‘women’ (or dragons in fake eyelashes, as I prefer to think of them) to have the general public assume they are straight.

Notorious JLV and Tubson take note: if you dare expose me to any more of this mentally compromising material, I shall respond by stealing your cats.

I’m the single one. I need them.