Yes, I've Tried Turning It Off and Back On Again...

My broadband providers have given me the finger. Apparently they are "migrating my service" and it won't be fully active again until Friday. Bar stewards. I pretended I had an online business and their shitty service was costing me but they officially could not give a fuck.

I would be angry but being internet-less is strangely liberating. I've started speaking to people in the flesh again and read some fiction out of an actual book. It's novel. I've also started to make my own Christmas cards. Maybe the cheese has slid off my cracker and I haven't noticed.

I've also got very into Channel 4 sitcom The IT Crowd, which I seemed to ignore when it first came round. It's hilarious, mainly because it's steeply based in reality.

Now I bet you're wondering how I'm making this post without internet access? I'll let you ponder that. It's called "building suspense" which is a writing technique I learnt in University....

Good Morning, How Can I Help?

I have worked for the council for a year now. It took me the first two weeks to completely lose my faith in all humanity. Nothing has happened since to raise the standing but occassionally you get a phone call that at least makes you break a rib with laughter.

Me: Good morning. How can I help?
Man: I've lost my dog.
Me: Sorry, I think you're through to the wrong number. This is the Education department.
Man: But you are the council?
Me: Yes, but we don't handle such....enquiries.
Man: Right. Can you send someone out to find my dog?
Me: Not really...because we're Education.
Man: Do you have a department that can help?
Me: Um...probably not...it's not something the council would usually deal with.
Man: Oh...but it's a spaniel.
Me: How long has the dog been missing?
Man: Half an hour.
Me: Riiiiiight.
Man: Should I ring the police instead?
Me: Yeah, why not.

Turns out I'm not alone in the world...

Recent Complaints Received By The Council

My bush is really overgrown round the front and my back passage has fungus growing in it.

He's got this huge tool that vibrates the whole house and I just can't take it anymore.

It's the dog's mess that I find hard to swallow.

I want some repairs done to my cooker as it has backfired and burnt my knob off.

I wish to complain that my father hurt his ankle very badly when he put his foot in the hole in his back passage.

And their 18 year old son is continually banging his balls against my fence.

I wish to report that tiles are missing from the outside toilet roof. I think it was bad wind the other night that blew them off.

My lavatory seat is cracked, where do I stand?

I am writing on behalf of my sink, which is coming away from the wall.

Will you please send someone to mend the garden path. My wife tripped and fell on it yesterday and now she is pregnant.

I request permission to remove my drawers in the kitchen.

50% of the walls are damp, 50% have crumbling plaster and 50% are plain filthy.

The toilet is blocked and we cannot bath the children until it is cleared.

Our lavatory seat is broken in half and is now in three pieces.

The man next door has a large erection in the back garden, which is unsightly and dangerous.

Our kitchen floor is damp. We have two children and would like a third so please send someone round to do something about it.

I am a single woman living in a downstairs flat and would you please do something about the noise made by the man on top of me every night.

Please send a man with the right tool to finish the job and satisfy my wife.

This is to let you know that our lavatory seat is broke and we can't get BBC2.

An Open Letter To Love

Dear God/Buddha/Allah/Zeus/Noel Edmonds/Jimmy Saville,

I've been a moderately good girl for the past year so I was thinking, as a reward, you might consider dropping some male-shaped interest into my withering love life. I'm looking for someone aged 24 to 35, 5ft 11+, employed, in the inoffensive to attractive looking range, with his own car who lives in or around the UK or associated islands (not Guernsey).

Yours sincerely,

Muffy

.............................................

Dear Muffy,

Thank you for your letter. I have now processed your request and can offer you the following:

• A patronising pervert who is old enough to be your dad but still lives with his mother, who as your work superior likes to offload all his assignments onto you and then complains, to you, that he has too much work, whilst complimenting you on your slimness.


• The 18-year-old photocopier repair boy who thinks his Sat Nav will impress you.


• The office supplies lesbian that thinks her multi-coloured post-its will impress you.


• An attractive man who shares your sense of humour, music and film taste and philosophical beliefs, aged 28, 6ft 2, who lives locally and drives an Alfa Romeo . You will start to get quite carried away with him and then you find out, from someone else, he has a wife.

Kind Regards,
God/Buddha/Allah/Zeus/Noel Edmonds/Jimmy Saville

.............................................

Dear God/Buddha/Allah/Zeus/Noel Edmonds/Jimmy Saville,

Oh. Can you at least make the rest of August a bit warm and sunny so I can wear my nice skirts in the hope of attracting some better prospects?

Regards,
Muffy

.............................................

Dear Muffy,

No.

Love,
Noel Edmonds.

I Broke It...Near Me Arse

After a brief passionate fumble with umpteen American studio films featuring one Mr Jacob Gyllenhaal, I've returned to my first love: British independent cinema. Is there any other kind of British cinema? Yes, but we won't mention it here.

Unfortunately this reignited flame has led to me pissing off almost everyone I know by forcing Shane Meadows films upon them and also reminding people to "watch the director's commentary! It's the funniest thing ever...if you've got two hours to spare", which is envitably greeted with a nervous smile and a quick change of subject.

But just to prove I am jusitifed and my crusade will eventually prosper watch this clip from A Room For Romeo Brass. If you don't laugh, just a little bit, then you are dead inside.

Why Not Jellylorum?

My kitten is at a very impressionable age. I'm trying to be a good yet strict mother, mainly because my two other pets turned out to be little motherfuckers and that was most definitely my fault. I always ensure she is fed at the same times and is in bed by 10pm, because as SuperNanny taught me, routine is essential.

We've had a few problems with sock stealing, moss collecting, plastic bag hoarding and eating Pedigree Chum when the dog's back was turned, but all in all it was going well. But now, I fear, she has fallen into bad company.

A new cat showed up on the street a few weeks back. This caused quite a stir amongst the neighbourhood as most of us have cats and they stick to their own patch, meeting up occassionally to share, I dunno, cat gossip? But this cat clearly flouted the unspoken lore and swaggered willynilly all over the damn shop. Upon seeing him taking a piss in our raspberry stalks, Dad quickly deemed him to be villainous and named him Macavity. I gave him a second chance and decided he was more pirate-like, christening him Captain Jack.

Well, Captain Jack looks like he's lived some lives. He has one ear, half a tail and a limp. He gives off the vibe of having been in 'Nam. Like he was captured and tortured by the Vietcong, made his escape using only wit, cunning and the corpse of a fallen comrade and has never spoken of his ordeal to a living soul since - only to the ghosts of the Song Thrushes he's killed that plague his every waking moment. That, or he got hit by a car. Either way, he's fucking hardcore. He also looks like he might drink...and smoke. Crack.

And this is whom my precious has decided to admire. She watches him in awe as he slinks along the back fence, marvels as he pelts up the plum tree. What can I do? I suppose at some point you just have to stand back and let your kids make their own mistakes. But that's exactly where it went wrong with the Shih Tzu.

Ratatouille

My mother is militant. My mother is organised. My mother does not do spontaneous. My mother does not like surprises. My father on the other hand is as whacked as a goose in a tumble dryer. I take after him. So when we are left to our own devices, free from the shackles of my overbearing mother, we go a little "freelance". Last Friday was one such example.

I decided to skive of work because I hate everyone at the moment and Dad was on annual leave. We sat at the kitchen table as I tried to work out how to most productively spend my day whilst Dad fed Sugar Puffs to the kitten. Then I remembered I had free tickets to the FREAKIN' ZOO. Brilliant.

Off we went. Imagine my excitement when upon arriving at the zoo there were notice boards informing us, "There will be a TV crew filming inside the zoo today. We apologise for any inconvenience." Were we going to try and get on TV? Yes. Yes we were. It would be the only reasonable thing to do. Once past the ticket office, where Dad got us into a debacle with a gentleman who seemed far too elderly and confused to be working still when he tried to get me in as a student even though we had free tickets, we stalked off in search of the camera crew.

Thankfully we took a moment to stop and look at some of my favourite animals including the below pictured Monkey Dog and the Goaty-Giraffe-Zebra-Cow (I'm not sure of the actual Latin):

After three tours of the zoo which involved bitching about the new 'Gorillas In The Mist' multi-million pound Monkey House where you couldn't actually see any of the monkeys, laughing at a fat girl that got stuck in Marmot Mania and shitting ourselves in The Twilight Zone when a bat flew between my legs, we eventually spotted the TV crew loitering by the practically disused Aquarium. We didn't recognise the presenter but hell, that wasn't going to stop us.

They seemed to be doing a factual piece on the zoo's popularity so Dad and I decided to play the background roles of 'Satisfied Customer 1' and 'Satisfied Customer 2' with perhaps enough range to move through to 'Mildly Disgruntled Customer Because I Didn't See No Monkey'. We subtlety positioned ourselves on a bench directly behind the main action and got out our pre-packed lunches, because even when your being spontaneous there's no need to get ripped off by Zoo restaurants. Then the following conversation happened in forced whispers:

Dad: Oh god...
Me: What?
Dad: Don't look but there's a giant rat under this bench.
Me: Shut up.
Dad: Seriously, it's the biggest rat I've ever seen.
Me: Shoo it away!
Dad: Shoo it? It's a city rat! They're rock hard.
Me: I see it! It's coming near me; it's coming near me!
Dad: Don't startle it...it might bite.
Me: Oh god, oh god, oh god, it's sniffing ME.
Dad: Don't make a scene!
Me: What do I do?! What do I do?!
Dad: Don't panic until it mounts your foot....

SQUEAL.

Me on bench flapping about like a Martini shaker with a seizure. TV Crew and unidentifible presenter, pissed.

Not That I Mean to Bitch but...

I like to let the major things in life wash over me, carrying me along on the surface and then turf me out at the next available shore; much like the migratory pattern of the disowned condom, found on Blackpool beach. But the small things, the insignificant annoyances of daily existance make me want to puncture my veins with a biro.

Having to ring the Post Office customer service helpline
I spent twenty minutes being passed from on automated lady to the next and being reminded I could track my mail online. I was so excited when I did finally connect to a human that I shrieked a little bit and they hung up on me.

The DVD of In America being impossible to buy on the high street
In America is one of those films that I SWEAR was always hanging around in places like Woolworths and Morrisons for about £2.99. When I finally decide I wanna watch it no fucker has it. Even the large Virgin store in town didn't have it and they have films like Death Munch 12. I braved scally ASDA as my determination mounted. The woman on the till was busy chatting to her colleague about Ryan on bread who was shagging Dawn from meat and was not pleased when I interupted to ask if they had the film. She immediately snapped "No". Bitch. You're surounded by thousands of DVDs - how do you know?

Having to ring the BT Helpline
As above. Kill me. Please come over from India and kill me. And this was work related. Vishnu help anyone who actually needs your help with their personal phone line.

The Dentist
I don't particularly like him and he always unnerves me when I enter the room and he asks me what I'm there for. But on Monday he broke his drill in my mouth...and then laughed about it.

One of my bosses, correction, line managers, returning from her holiday
This is a long one but just know she is the most aggravating person currently in my life and I didn't even invite her in. Today she spent an hour telling me how unsecure my job is and how I'm probably not viewed as a valuable employee by higher management...not that she thinks that of course but she feels obliged to relay these things to me because she really sees me as a friend.

It's Not Me, It's You

God, I didn't want to have to do this but you leave me little choice. I'm just not the sort of girl to sit around and be played*. You were such a good catch too - handsome, witty, great job, sharp suits, part Italian, delightful hair, best mates with Gary Sinise, only moderately emotionally damaged; I wanted it to work out so badly. You even used to show up on time for our dates. Week after week, you never let me down, loyal like a labrador...until now. Where the fuck are you? Don't be giving me all that "series ended" crap; if you loved me, you'd find a way to be back in my bedroom once a week. And no, don't think you can just show up again like last time and expect me to take you back. Actually, thinking about it; it hasn't always been a bed of roses, has it? I always turned a blind eye to those other women and you're unwillingness to process crime scenes in the nude. It's is over. Farewell, TV boyfriend, farewell.

P.S Tell Gary Sinise I send my love.

P.P.S I'm even going to stop calling myself Mrs Detective Danny Messer in the CSI Forums. Seriously. That's how much you've pissed me off.

P.P.P.S I may consider taking you back as long as you a) promise to stop fooling around with that Lindsay whore from Montana and b) take your shirt off every week. MAY.

A Fack Off

I used to be a TV whore. There was very little we wouldn't watch at Uni, in fact, our days were pretty much structured around TV scheduling. If we forgot to buy a TV guide on a Saturday I hyperventilated. As you can imagine we watched some serious crap (Try Before You Buy!) but every now again we'd stumble across a gem. A new series of one such gem has just started on Channel 4 this week: TV Heaven, Telly Hell. It's all pretty straight-foward but it's presented by a stand-up comedian and every guest is a comedian too so the riffing that goes back and forth is just killer - it's like being in their living room. Enjoy a clip from last series:

Text: A History

Some text messages sent from my phone on 12th July 2006:

1. Your text woke me up. Inconsiderate. Out tonight?
sent at 2.30 pm

2. We should meet up at Varsity Bar, neck Corky's and then hit The Pier Club.
sent at 9.30 pm

3. Where the fuck are you? Drinks for £1. Slaughtered!
sent at 11.30 pm

4. GOONER. Now on beach. Lost shoe. Lost money. Lost Anneka. Will prob lose phone..
sent at 3.04 am

Some text messages sent from my phone today:

1. Office is dead. Might have nap on desk.
sent at 11.30 am

2. Too tired for cinema. Need to be in bed at ten.
sent at 1.30 pm

3. Transformers? As long as it starts before 8.
sent at 3.30 pm

4. I think I'm dead, so if I don't show up tonight, it's because I'm dead.
sent at 4.15 pm

Great Aunt Gert & The Fab Four

One of my more traumatic childhood memories is visiting my Great Aunt Gert on a Sunday afternoon and spending the entire time ducking to avoid budgies. She had four in total; John, Paul, George and Ringo. As you can guess, we had a whole list of nicknames for this band of dive-bombing, ear-pecking bandits including - The Birdtles, Strawbudgie Fields Forever (mine!) and The Dambudgies. My Dad also often referred to them as The Four Birdmen of The Apocalypse due to their "ungainly appearance."

Well, believe it or believe it not, Budgie John was the first to flap off to little housebird heaven. He died (apparently) on the 8th November 1999, which as Great Aunt Gert likes to point out is exactly 19 years and 11 months to the day that Mr Lennon himself was murdered. Budgie John was not murdered however, he miscalculated the shutting of a window.

Next to die was Ringo, whom (according to Aunt Gert) managed to time his departure to coincide neatly with George Harrison's; 29th November 2001. Aunt Gert said Budgie Ringo had passed away quietly in his sleep but a rumour spread that he had been found crushed beneath his own cuttlefish.

Then Budgie George died some weeks later. Aunt Gert said it was depression from losing Ringo. Dad said it was mange and then added, "Who cared about Ringo anyway? He was the least talented of The Birdtles."

Well, we visited Aunt Gert yesterday and were greeted with the terrible news that Budgie Paul had suffered a fatal incident. It later transpired that this fatal incident was Aunt Gert sitting on him and suffocating his wee birdy form. Dad said the mange probably didn't help. He will be missed... but not by us.

Now, I'm not saying The Fabudgie Four are in some way cosmically linked with the real Beatles and that their fates are in someway entwined BUT, if Paul McCartney drops dead some time between now and the next fourty years just don't be surprised.

Superficial? Moi?

Today Puck called me superficial.

He arrived in the office 40 minutes late wearing an odd hat. I just watched him sit down, baffled, and tried to work out where I'd seen his hat before. I didn't say 'Good morning' or 'Why the fuck are you 40 minutes late?', because we have an understanding that we don't acknowledge each other until a cup of tea is needed at around 11.00am. I would have to wait before enquiring about the hat because if I asked now it would be too obvious that I found the hat peculiar.

As the hour ticked on, I repeatedly glanced over at Puck and my mind began to place the hat at various scenes from my very own past. By the time all the pieces had clicked together and I'd arrived at an absolutely stunning joke for it, Puck had noticed I was staring at him in 10 minute intervals.

"What?" he asked.
"Nothing." I replied. I needed to wait for an opportune moment for my big reveal.

It soon came when Mohammed from IT called for Puck on my phone by mistake.

"There's a phone call for you, Puck."
"Yeah, who is it?"
"It's 1992. It wants it's hat back."
"Oh, ha. ha. ha."
"Wait, there's more..."
"Just give me the phone, dickhead."
"They're opening the National Boy Band Museum..."
"...just give me the fucking call..."
"They need your hat for The New Kids on The Block wing..."
"...you're so childish..."
"They wanna know if you have Jordan Knight's dog tags too?"

Later Puck explained the hat had "significant personal value" and that I was a shallow bitch. He added "superifical" moments after, just to reiterate his point. I asked him why he thought it was appropiate to come to work dressed as Samuel.L.Jackson on one of the hottest days of the week.

We spent the rest of the day ignoring each other. Cock.

Best. Website. Ever.

Simpsonize yourself! HELL YEAH.

This is me as a Simpson. They've captured me just perfectly - my hair is that large.

wwww.simpsonizeme.com

Retentive? Moi?

Today Puck called me anal.

Puck is the offensive twat that sits opposite me at work. I call him Puck because he continually fucks things up and then maliciously manages to heap the blame onto someone else, which is a miracle in itself because he has the IQ of a post-it. There is a five-month history of animosity between us.

All I asked of him was that he try to whole punch documents in the right place so that when they go into the lever arch file they actually fit, instead of sticking out two inches at the bottom or top. That way, perhaps they won't resemble hamster bedding when we come to use them again. I mean, it's not asking much, is it? The whole punch even has a slide rule so you can measure up paperwork properly before fully committing to a punch.

He just smirked and said, "No need to get stressed. They're only holes." Noob.

About an hour later I was pulling some more of his handy work from a file when I noticed that he manages to drill about twenty staples into each document that passes by his desk. I coughed lightly;
"Puck, do you own a staple extracter?"
"Yeah."
"Then would you mind exercising it occassionally?"
"Woh?"
"Just so when we need to foward this paperwork to legal, it doesn't resemble an extra from Transformers."
"God, you're so anal."