A trip down to the shops.
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Most of us love going to the garden centre every single weekend, in fact Dobbies and the local B&Q are the only places we frequent, statistics have shown this. Most of us have a wonderful time amongst the gazeboes, pretending to be Alan Titchmarsh and fondling flora, but not everybody has the time they expect.
Mr. and Mrs. Ficken of Aberdeen could think of nothing more enjoyable than to take a trip to Seven-Oaks on the last weekend in July, leaving their dog and eight month old daughter at home. Their trip took them through Stratford-Upon-Avon, home of the Bard and birthplace of his contemporary counterpart, Dr. Werner Von Braun. Like the good doctor, the Fickens also enjoyed planning new ways of rearranging the ladscape of Britain, and so they sought the refuge of a garden centre.
Initially they thought their luck was in as only a few steps from where they parked was a sign informing them of the whereabouts of the garden centre owned by Charlie Dimmock. Mr. Ficken jotted the directions down on a small, used kleenex, slightly yellow in patches that he had in his pocket and he and his wife set off on what was promised to be just a short walk by the sign.
The Fickens were sadly unaware that Stratford-Upon-Avon in Warwickshire is quite a long walk from Mill Water Gardens, Dimmock's water garden centre in Romsey, Hampshire. This was the start of a calamitous journey that was to end in disappointment.
When Mrs. Ficken's second leg had been worn down to the knee Mr. Ficken realised that the sign may have been in error. He had made a note of the telephone number on the sign, so, he withdrew his stained hanky and mobile phone and called the number (0906 406 3000). To his horror he listened to the recorded message by Charlie Dimmock herself:
"Hello caller. The garden centre is closed today, but if you would like to leave a message about my breasts then please speak after the tone."
It was then that the Fickens contacted us in the hope that our indignation would be enough to destroy Ms. Dimmock. Well Mr. and Mrs. Ficken, we've done better than that, just listen to this:
Dimmock - Hello?
Esther - Miss Dimmock?
Dimmock - Oh god, it's you again. Please leave me alone.
Esther - Once you have answered the questions we have for you. Are you prepared to accept full responsibility for Mrs. Ficken's lower legs?
Dimmock - I still don't know what you're talking about. Please . . .
Esther - Quite frankly, it isn't good enough Miss Dimmock, do you understand?
Dimmock - No, I . . . I don't.
Esther - How convenient. Be aware that we are watching you Miss Dimmock, and we will bring you down.
Dimmock - Oh god . . . *sobs*
So there you go Mr. and Mrs. Ficken, rest assured that we are doing everything possible, and we will never rest until Dimmock is lying dead in a pool of her own breasts.
Saturday, September 27, 2003
The momentum carried by a ten pound baby fired from a fully loaded cannon could blow holes three feet wide in the sides of Spanish ships. It was in fact a barrage of over three hundred new-borns that brought the Armada to her watery knees. King Charles the Second, not a man to expect things from his Navy that he wasn't prepared to do himself donated his own son, Bramley to the artillery bombardment.
In those days a common practice was to skip the projectile across the water, much like skipping a spinning stone over the crystal surface of a still lake. The finest practitioner of this art in the whole fleet was Lieutenant Commander Phlegman, and it was he who was entrusted to make sure that Bramley skipped good and true into the hull of the Spanish invaders' behemoths of the sea. As the burning beacons overtook the advancing wall of Spanish ships Phlegman prepared his shot, wadding the gunpowder, priming the fuse, changing the nappy. Little did he know that he was to be firing the decisive infant in the bombardment.
Phlegman was positioned in a sea fort at Whitby, and the Armada, already heavily pummelled from the Norfolk donkey-artillery started to pass by at ten past one in the morning. The full moon aided the aim of the cannons, now all fully loaded with Navy-issue babies, Bramley being one of them. At quarter past the hour Phlegman gave the order to begin the first barrage. Bramley was not to be fired then, but he was held back to be part of the second barrage.
A combination of low and high shots rained down screaming children close to mach one, impacting like ballistic missiles all over the ships, sinking at least five of the majestic vessels by holing them below the waterline. The Spanish galleon Columbine was struck directly in the gunpowder storage house ripping the vessel open like a dog with a hand grenade. The escort vessel Princess Cantaloupe suffered a crippling fire, but thankfully the flames were quenched when, twenty minutes later she sank.
The second barrage was ready to fire now, about to create one of the worst ecological disasters of all time, and to drive the Spanish home with ther prehensile tails between their hairy legs like the apes they were in such pre-evolutionary days. The order was given, the fuses lit and the aim held steady. In a cacophonous avalanche of sound all cannons fired at once, sending their infants out at such a low angle that they would bounce off the surface of the water and up into the sides of the Spanish fleet. Most of the babies erupted in a ball of flame as they buried themselves into the lower decks of the first ships in their path sending fragments of sailors and ship fountaining into the air, splinters and gore.
Bramley, being a rather stout child, after his first bounce tore all the way through an armoury frigate, sending shrapnel into the faces of five Spanish sailors, blinding one and killing the rest. He emerged from the other side and bounced off the briny surface again, this time bringing both masts down from a Spanish clipper causing a mad panic; ultimately leading to the soiling of fourteen pairs of pantaloons. His final resting place and point of detonation was to be in the galleon of the King of Spain himself, King Flamenco Marakas. Bramley embedded himself into the side of the King, gurgled and then exploded.
The resulting explosion could be seen in Cornwall and Edinburgh, fragments of Spanish royalty littering England and Scotland in a blizzard of flesh-rain. This was to turn the tide of the war and seal a victory for England. Charles, upon hearing of the victory, and the decisive strike made by his son vowed that in honour of his memory he would plant an apple-tree of the same variety as his name.
The tree was killed by the urination of tramps in the late eighteenth century and fell down killing a group of nuns, but in the mood of the day little notice was paid by anybody.
Next week learn how the American Civil War was triggered due to a bout of malodorous flatulence, and who the offender was.
Friday, September 26, 2003
Monday, September 22, 2003
Google Search: sex wee
Google Search: sex wee
Sunday, September 21, 2003
Thursday, September 18, 2003
Interesting Garage Visit
After rushing out of the office to pick a young man up from school as his transport had not turned up, and they wanted to send a taxi for him (which I did not allow). I went to the garage.
Normally you would expect a trip to the garage to involve sitting around waiting for the mechanics to do their job. In this case changing all four tyres on my car. Well thats what I thought to until today...
I arrived at the garage, booked my car in for an inveitable tyre change. In the waiting area there was a woman with her three or four year old child (who was racing around like a lunatic being very loud) and a bloke sitting on a chair. After 10 minutes or so the mechanic went to my car, now normal manly mechanics if they are going to wave do that whole hand in the air wave thing not moving it, this one... wiggled his fingers and whole hand at me in a very friendly way. This freaked me out.
The child continued to run around like he was on speed, with his mother in tow yelling 'Sammy, sit down', 'Sammy, come here'. Yer bloke who was sitting down, his phone rang, he went outside. I sat thinking ok woman grab the kid force it to sit on a chair and tell him off. She didn't, he continued to run. He went to run out of the door, she grabbed him, he smacked his head on the door. He then cried lots. She picked him up and placed him on the counter so she could hug him without having to bend down.
The child did a small cough and put his hands in his mouth. She told him to stop that. He then out of the blue, completely covered her in a most impressive projectile vomiting incident. She jumped back whilst making an 'euurggghhh' noise. She then asked the manager of the garage to hold him on the counter whilst she went to the car and got some wipes. Before she left him, he vomited again. The manager held the child by the sleeve keeping himself about a metre away from the child and his mouth.
The woman returned from the car with wipes in hand, as she walked through the door, the child vomited again in a massively stomach wretching vom all over the reception floor, covering roughly a three metre square area. Mr Manager, legged it at this point, whilst yelling at the child 'You like your chocolate don't you son!' Another mechanic in the reception area (who incidentally was hugely attractive), said 'Don't tell him things like that'.
I spent 10 minutes in the room that the child had vomitted in, but the stench was over powering, and my stomach was starting to heave. As I walked out the woman appologised and asked me if it had made me feel sick, to which I replied no, but the smell is too bad. The man who walked outside decided to speak to me. He said that he was pleased that he had got out when he did. He turned round and saw the child looking like something out of the Exorcist.
I was then surrounded by loads of mechanics discussing the merits of said child vomiting, and the fact that it was a wonderful contraception.
This continued for about an hour until my car was eventually ready for me to drive off. Its unfortunate that only one of the mechanics was attractive.
The wee man fixing my car when he drove it out, pulled up right next to me whist I was walked to the car by another mechanic. As I was getting in the car just after he got out, he freaked me out again by saying 'You take care now'.
What sort of world do I live in where mechanics are nice and they don't just do their job?
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Is there a place for homicide?
I can understand now why guns are illegal in this country. The temperament of the peoples of the UK is generally good-natured in certain places, but there are those establishments, attitudes and occasions which inspire nothing short of a homicidal mania; in me at least. It could be on a bus, any stationary GreatNorthEasternRailway train that I may happen to have the misfortune of being stranded on, a road with a double yellow line that was free to park on the day before but now with nearby clampers waiting to pounce, any number of a multitude of displeasurable situations. I can only speak for myself but often don't, though one thing that really cultivates my desire to kill is people who are shit at their job. I have numerous examples.
There was the assistant in the bookshop where I purchased my first Harry Potter book, much to my shame. I walked up to the cash-desk with book in hand, the place where the foul besom should have been. Unfortunately she was slacking off like a work-shy imbecile, probably pretending to be lining up the already adequately lined up tomes on their laden shelves. Another customer, an old woman with hair in a bun started to approach the till just as the lazy book-monger began her return to the desk, having to pass me as she moved to accept money for our purchases. Much to my disgust the revolting beast looked the bun-doo lady right in the eye, took her book and proceeded to serve her before me. What was that about, female solidarity, stupidity, just plain rude? If my copy of Harry Potter had been a gun the woman would have an extreme vacancy where her face should be right now.
The employees of the University Health Centre at York are another prime example. Why just today I arrived for my appointment no later than two minutes before the scheduled time, but did I see the doctor two minutes later? Did I buggery. But what happens when I have the audacity to arrive just ten minutes late for an appointment? The miserable bastards force me to make another one because I'm "too late". Too late? The person seeing the doctor at the moment I arrived probably had been told to arrive twenty minutes before I had. A hip-mounted mini-gun would have shredded the waiting room rather satisfactorily, but sadly I held nothing more than a repeat prescription.
All of HSBC, formerly Midland Bank are extreme offenders in so many ways. This probably applies to all banks, but HSBC is the one that I have had personal experience with. The amount they have taken from me in unjust charges could keep their York branch running for a year, but what do I get for my troubles? More bitchy letters. Semi-auto fire is the only viable response.
Let us not forget the severe incompetence of the British Government for the past sixty years, be it Conservative or Conservative, formerly Labour. A bunch of liars that would have been assassinated many times over if guns were in the grasp of the general populace. Interestingly none of the above examples are why I am writing here and having to vent spleen.
The final nail in this coffin of misery which seals us all in our respective caskets was driven in by a tall Arab gentleman in his natural state of piss-poor servitude. Yes, I am talking of the tall greasy haired fuck that works in the bar of the Marriott Hotel in Leeds. He refused to serve a very drunk friend of mine, not because of her extreme drunkenness, no, because whilst she had a key card she didn't have a piece of paper to show she was a guest. I could continue, but you must get the idea by now the kind of imbeciles that we all encounter and desire to kill. You may know him, you may not, but needless to say he is shit at his job. I will say here what I said to him once I returned my ashtray.
"Places that treat their customers like shit don't get return custom!"
*Jab an accusing finger and leave hurriedly*
Had a pistol been handy I would have jabbed that, then pulled the trigger.
So what am I saying? I'm pissed off, blood-hungry and endorsing the murder of twats, I think that sums it up nicely.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
I have a title, I wasn't aware of this title until Yidaho appointed me with this title. But now I am living up to it.
Situation: General work based chatter in the office.
Everyone in the office chatting away about nothing in particular. I was sort of listening to them but being slightly distracted by a noise outside that I recoginsed. I told everyone to shut up. Which amazingly they did. At that point the noise started again. I merely pointed out that that noise was in fact a cockatiel. My very pregnant colleague rushed to the window and said, she's right you know. There was a very lovely scared looking cockatiel on the roof of the offices opposite. I dragged my pregnant colleague outside so I didn't look such a twat shouting 'come here little birdy' to the roof of the building opposite. Yay for the pregnant lady she was willing to come out, hormones obviously affecting her mind. She stood with me whilst being tormented by another colleague from the window above, she then disapeared inside and amazingly ran up to the top floor stuck her head out of the window and said that you could see it better from there. I think they all wanted me to get in the office and off the street whilst I was shrieking 'come on' and raising my finger to the roof.
I was beginning to loose hope about trying to get the bird to come near me, when it flew towards me and back to the building opposites roof. My colleagues whilst laughing said that I should go over to the loss adjustment offices and get closer to the bird. Well, I pondered this thought, went outside for a cigarette, smoked it whilst looking and talking to the bird. Decided that I wanted to get closer, and wanted to have a nose in the loss adjustment offices.
Rang their bell, was taken up to the directors office, very swanky, all leather, walked into the office to find both directors leaning out of the window attempting to encourage the bird to them. They left me to it. My colleagues could hear me so they looked out of the window to see me a floor above them in the opposite offices leaning out of the window talking to the bird. They pissed themselves. Evil people Social Workers!!!
I disappeared as I felt I couldn't stand on their leather chair and I was almost in severe pain staning on my tiptoes. I asked the directors for a stick so I could poke the bird. When I returned the fucking bastard bird had flown off, with my colleagues rolling around on the floor. Shrieking at me that it had flown away before it could get poked with my long stick.
I returned to my office and no more was seen of the bird, but I felt shit for the rest of the day. Although numerous comments of 'oh, what was that noise, was it a cockatiel?'
So for your information MBL remains in place :(
Sunday, September 07, 2003
Its all about me
I have managed to make the title of this page clickable. If you click on it you can magically be transported to the wonderful world of bravenet. How I did this I have no idea. Something else for Vic to sort out on his return. Dontcha just love the fact that I can plead pathetic female and he, the computer literate person can sort out my fuck ups!
I ventured out of my house this weekend! Rah!!!!! Prior to leaving the house I managed to give myself a bit of confidence by trying on a pair of jeans that for a while have sat in my wardrobe unable to be worn due to fatness. I can fit into 'em!!! WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! Its working. Not as fast as I would like, but its working.
Friday night spent in me best mates house, who I haven't seen for about 3 months (coz I is a bad friend), found out all about her and her adulterous partner, which made for interesting talk, until he turned up. Skulked out of the house and ran to the car incase any children were walking up the road. Really didn't want to talk to them. Even though I had been a good girl and not taken any illegal substances.
Saturday night another friends house, not quite brave enough to venture out into the world yet, maybe a few more weeks ont'diet. Made a fantastic discovery, vodka has no carb's. Which means if I take myself and a big bottle of caffine free diet coke into a pub, I can get rat-arsed and not carb count. Even more fantastic, Vodka and Tequila have no carbohydrates. Wonderful news. Christmas party means I can get pissed as a twat.
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
Thats how I am feeling in my little blogging world. So Jim goes off to see Lizard. Which is lovely, and I am pleased they are so happy together. I am left alone to try and unsucessfully fill his role as BlogDaddy. Now Vic (aka Jim as we now know, alias Roy) can write hillarious facts or fiction about anything. I on the other hand struggle to string two words together that aren't even fanitly anecdotal nor slightly amusing. Vic is obviously the DON of trippy happy writing. Me? Oh I am happy basking in his glory, waving me little hand popping my head out of my box every now and then to impart what I feel is a gem of wisdom to the world. Damn Vic for being so good at writing.
Tonight I sit here stuffing my face with a no carb, no sugar chocolate bar (that I hasten to add I spent £20 on 14 items of chocolate of the same vein so I could enjoy the new regime), I am naked barr a tampon, but thats inside and doesn't really count. I have no additives to my rolled cigarettes, nor can I get any, I can't drink. I am apparently loosing weight according to everyone around me, but just not me. AND Vic has left me here with no instruction as to how to entertain the few.
Thoughts again turn to clots and redness, but I made a mental promise to myself and to Vanessa that I would avoid all mank comments. OOOooohhh searching for Vanessa's link I found a new page on her site with a lovely picture of her in the snow, not sure how I managed it but I did!
I have forced my mind to now think about other things. Now thinking about the evil headmaster that I can hopefully avoid tomorrow. Schools go back here tomorrow. I have to take a child to school for an education Meeting (d'uh, really? Wot else you taking it to school for?) Child doesn't want to go. I doesn't want to go. The drive up to the school fills me with dread. Walking into the school I feel like I am 14 again and being summoned to speak to the teachers. Does that thought ever go away? I know I have to be professional, and can not hide quivering behind the child. last time I was in this particular school I was in an inclusion meeting. The scary headmaster decided to attempt in a fit of anger to leap across two desks, hoisting quite dantily his massive nigh on 20 stone frame up with such velocity and slamming his immense fists on the table with such force when he realised attacking the child was not a good idea for one in such a position (what with him being a Crown Court Judge too). Scared the shit outta me. Child said to me today, do you think I pissed him off last time we were in school. Bright lad innhe????
OK, so its a shite post again. Blame Vic.
I need sleep, I am off to bed to dream of fluffy bunnies and gavells.... wait no... fluffy bunnies and grass thats the one!!!!
Monday, September 01, 2003
just a quick one...
Ok, there are a couple of things
1. Lillets tampons, although they prevent leakages much more than Tampax do, the whole concept of sticking an unshielded finger up a bloody canal is gross. But doing it is an essential if you are prone to major bouts of bleeding and you don't want to leak.
2. Lillets tampons again, the lubricated one... yuck!!!! If its not bad enough to stick your finger up a dripping gorge, sticking your finger up a dripping gorge with a slimey object being shoved in first is repulsive.
3. Nasal secretions, why does blood go crusty up your nose and feel so mank? Its a morning thing I am sure. Just after you get out of the shower its essential to check ones nasal passages to make sure there are no bats in the cave hanging. You get a bit of bog roll and plunge into that cavern, what comes out???? A hard slightly squidgey (contradiction I know, but you know what I mean) thing. Its tricoloured, which is always nice to know that your body is capable of producing such niceties. You then after retrieiving said bat panic for the rest of the day incase the body produces more of the same and you are unaware of the swinging pendulum in your nostrils.
THE BODY IS FANTASTIC