The Saga of the Clap Clinic

There are lots of reports these days that old people are foregoing knitting in favour of a good hard unprotected rut with other similary saggy skinned biddies. (well, unless you are Ronnie Wood)

When I was at the Clap Clinic today (there ain't no shame, regardless of how you may feel when asked to describe your discharge and you turn into a twittering idiot who goes 'ohmywellisupposeitsabitlikeummmmohwelltheotherweekarentwehavinglovelyweatherthesedays?' much to the chagrin of the long suffering doctor) the only reading material in the waiting room was a copy of SAGA magazine. From December 2007.

And a fascinating read it was too!

But yeah, this would suggest that the oldies do grace Clap Clinics with their presence, although possibly they are so engrossed in readers' photos of snowmen from years gone by (my favourite: This is the snowman we built outside Hounslow Police Station in 1978. Back when we could see to the prisoners how we liked without letting the 'PC brigade' get involved. Pardon the pun!) that they don't hear the doctors call them in, and after a satisfying read, toddle on home again, still riddled with STD 's and without their free bag of condoms and lube.

Incidentally, I do now feel compelled to tell you all, dear readers, that I do not have any diseases, but I did accidentally pee on my hand while taking a urine sample, so I would still give me a wide berth.

Dearly Departed, Now with Omega 3

It it with a bit of melancholy I bring you the news that my hamster, Bobo, has died. To be fair, he never fully recovered from the ceiling falling in on him, despite the Flatmate heroically lunging into the dust filled void where my livingroom used to be at 4am to save him while I, dear reader, stood in the doorway flapping my arms about and shrieking about my laptop.


Well anyway, last Saturday I kept checking on him, by the Frasier where Niles agrees to pretend to be still married happily to Mel his breathing was shallow and by the time Frasier hires a butler to try and get on the Opera Society board, he was cold.

I was a bit sad, but what was weighing more heavily on my mind was how one goes about respectfully disposing of a beloved pet in a flat with no garden. After several lame attempts to dig up the mostly concrete front garden with a spoon, a plan B was needed, as Bobo was quite a hefty ham, and I didn't want a reputation as the mad lady who mysteriously dug lots of little holes in the front garden with a bit of cutlery.

Luckily, I had recently finished a tub of Flora, and even more luckily, I have been thoroughly conditioned by the Flatmate to wash out every sodding bit of packaging, right down to petit filous tubs for recycling. So in an act of (in my own head) massive bravery, I gingerly scooped up the dead Bo and plonked him in and put the lid on. Then sat there looking at it for a bit.

Anyway, several bizarre txts later (heya, how are you? Long time no see! Could I possibly bury something in your garden?) Rhi came to the rescue, and Bobo was interred, or more accurately squashed by a large lump of clay as I attempted to bury him with my eyes shut.

RIP Bobo, Feb 2006 - June 2008

Announcement: Greek Tragedy!

No doubt you have all been worried witless by the fact that I have not blogged in a couple of weeks. I am now able to reassure you, dear reader, that I am in fact not dead but merely back from a week in Greece, which was preceeded by the ceiling falling in at home and crushing my poor laptop to a pulp.

So here I sit, with a brand new laptop balanced on mosquito bitten knees (good ole insurance payout and beachside dwelling respectively) and once I have got my shiz together - ie caught up at work and finally cleaned the layer of plaster dirt off all my wordly possessions - I will be back on form. I swear.

In the meantime, go read a book or something.

Won't Somebody Think of the Children?

Possibly the creepiest Wikipedia entry I have found to date*




* I was looking up the Todd Solondz film 'Happiness' yeah?

'OMG look at her SHOES!!!11!1!!!!'

Who would have thought that Kristin Davis would be the best thing about any film, let alone the SATC? Her comic mugging was about the only redeeming feature in this predictable cheesefest of an extended advert.

I did like SATC on tv, I went to the cinema with my brain firmly switched to standby and my cynicism (oooh! I'm SUCH a Miranda) tucked away safely in my back pocket, but even then it would take a very simple woman indeed to be moved by this souless schtick.

SATC had genuinely moving episodes, you felt for the characters, they seemed real. On the big screen it is not just their fabulous wardrobes which are larger than life...they have all become such parodies of themselves, we feel nothing for them. At one point when Carrie is emotionally devistated (no, not saying why) and slowly takes off her sunglasses for the first time to see her sorrowful reflection in the mirror, a member of the audience with cynical volume muttered 'wow.' There was a pause and the whole cinema errupted into laughter.

Oh god and don't get me started on Jennifer Hudson, a woman apparently only cast for her ability to bring some good ole token sass to proceedings. I mean, she can act most of the others off the screen, but given that her dialogue mainly consists of 'uuuh huh girlfriend', and hideously twee one liners, they might as well have saved themselves the money and brought in some bit character from Keenan and Kel. I mean honestly, who says 'I came to New York to find love'? Emotional men. Lesbians. Not smart women in a town where they outnumber men 2:1.

But yeah, the clothes are fabulous, the shoes are fabulous, the locations are fabulous... but then they always were. But the series had more, it had (a rather ditzy, materialistic, bittersweet) soul.

In summary: The SATC Movie.. it's like meeting up with your old best friend from school and finding out you have absolutely nothing in common. But that they do have nice shoes.

Edit: The best review of the film I have read, on Jezebel.com, a site any woman with a semblance of a brain should waste some of her daily time on.

The Official SOB Guide to... Scones.

Scons, scowns, scooons, for some reason (probably because I'm consciously trying to get fit for a beach holiday so the bitch in me is subconsciously ruining all my efforts) has been consuming loads of them of late. Cream teas to be precise, and for those of you who aren't middle aged or massive losers like moi, a 'cream tea' consists of scones served with clotted cream and jam. Oh, and tea. But mainly cream.
In order to turn this losery negative into a hip ironic positive, here is the official SOB guide to Cream Teas

John Lewis - setting the standard for teas what are creamy, this was a perfectly nice scone, with a perfectly nice amount of cream and jam. The only downside were the cups, those little squat inflight meal ones you can barely fit a finger through the handle of, which made me feel like a big obese giant who should be eating air and carrots, not creamy buttery biscuitcakes.

Kew Gardens - massive scone the size of a child's head. A bit stale as it had been left out all day, but quite good value for money if you are after a full stomach and an excuse not to poo for two days. Normally okay amounts of cream and jam were just not adequate on this floury beast.

Liberty's - two warm scones with a delicious buttery texture eventually rolled up about half an hour after the tea. Marks subtracted for lateness, the frankly ludicrous £10.75 price tag and the fact that had I not nicked someone else's cream I would have gone wanting. *cough* greedy mare *cough*

The Frances Hotel, Bath - £7 odd quid for one average sized scone and an unrequested bit of lemon drizzle cake. The cream was plentiful, but not a clotted as in some places. One pot between five also lead to a secret battle of wills and nerves, of hearts and minds, of greed and stomachs. It would be fair to say R and I won that one. Marks added for the lemon cake and swiftly deducted again, as I felt compelled to eat the soggy citrussy bugger to get my money's worth.

Hopefully not to be continued...

The Narcasstic Praise Hounds of Love are Calling

This is a rather long INFURIATING report about 'Millenials' or work shy young shits like my good self (and you if you were born between 1980 and 1995). I defy you not to throw your iphone through the lcd screen of your laptop after watching about five minutes of this utter claptrap.
Yeah times have changed Grandpa, young people no longer want to wear suits and trilbys or 'punch a timecard'. If you keep slapping your secretary on the arse, chances are she will quit and sue you, not giggle and fetch you another martini.
The point about more young people living at home is also a bit rich, as had the 'Babyboomers' not fucked up the US banks and stock market, then more Millenials could afford to move out and not live with their darling parents who have apparently raised them too well, being that we weren't all shoved down coal mines at 14, constantly critisized and told to work all the hours God sends.

Then again, maybe it's not just a biased ill researched piece of utter trash masquerading as news. Perhaps it is reverse psychology to stir us - admittedly more apathetic - young folk into action. Don't know about you, but I sure as hell want to go out and beat some 'Boomers right now.