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Monthly Archives: June 2012

Once upon a time, I was young and skinny and looked to all intents and purposes like a girl. My father was very proud. And by “proud”, I mean, terrified that I was more Martha than Arthur. Not that he said anything at the time of course. But years later, he confided in me his fears, and the subsequent conversation that lifted that heavy weight from his heart.  It went something like this…

*Dad is giving me a lift into town on a Saturday night.  I’m wearing his wife’s blouse and makeup*

Dad: “So…these clubs you go to…are there lots of girls there?”

Me: “Yeah” (remember, I’m a monosyllabic teenager)

Dad: “And do you ever ask any of them to dance?”  (He’s fishing!)

Me: “Nah”

Dad: “……..oh…..right then..(SHIIIIIIIIIIIT!)…”

Me: “I don’t have to….they usually ask me.”

And with that simple exchange, my father breathed a sigh of relief that he had been holding in for years.

Bless.

Anyway…moving on.  The year is 1991 and I’m a heterosexual 17-year-old glam rocker with a penchant for dressing up like a big girl (mainly so I could pull rock chicks you understand). So you can imagine my delight when I heard our local pub was having a TARTS & VICARS night!  With a prize for the best tart and vicar, no less!  It was almost too good to be true.  How could I possibly lose? I looked so much like a girl anyway that I’d stopped correcting bus drivers and barmen when they called me “luv”.  It only confused them further.

The big night arrived, and with the help of my mother (who wasn’t phased in the slightest anymore) and her wardrobe, the transformation began.  After much chin scratching, I decided upon a sequined black silk dress, fish net stockings, f*ck me heels, a faux fur jacket  and a red and black feather boa!  I topped the whole ensemble off with a rather natty pleated fabric headband. I was working it! *does waggy zorro girlfriend finger thing*

Eat my dust Gok Wan!

My long-suffering mother then finished off the look by doing my hair and putting on some proper girly make-up (I’ve always been a bit cack handed with an eyeliner).  The transformation was complete, and I was hot-to-trot.

I headed down to my mates house to hook up for a couple of liveners before we tottered our way up to the pub.  It was at this point that I couldn’t help but notice, that normal blokes looked…well…a lot funnier than me in a dress.  They looked like they’d been dressed by their nan…and I looked like I’d only charge you ten dollah.

I don't think I need to say much about this One of us has put somewhat more effort into this than the others

Once we got to the pub, I was extremely pleased to see that we weren’t the only tarts in the village.  Turns out you don’t have to ask a Scot twice if he’d like to put on a frock and drink copiously of an evening.  And of course, there were plenty of vicars too.  I must say, this did cause the sexual dynamic one normally encounters at a gathering of rampant teenage libido to wobble somewhat.

The night was a hoot…all the blokes (except for me) looked like the only gay in the village, and much hilarity was had by all.  And then he arrived.

By “he”, I mean………….The Local Nutter.

You could tell he was the local Nutter by the way everybody tried to melt into the background whenever he walked into a room.  That, and his interesting array of self-penned hand tattoo’s…most of which made some reference to just exactly what he’d like to do to the pope if they ever met in a dark alley.

Needless to say, Mr X (I shan’t name him here…that would be STUPID!) wasn’t wearing a frock as the invitation stipulated.  Mr X was also quite drunk, and his presence at our little soire was as unexpected as it was surprising.  Mr X was a “Football Casual”, you see…and most of us were his sworn enemy, “The Sweaties” (not a name of our choosing).  In fact, Mr X normally liked nothing more than to hunt down “Sweaties” for sport and bash their little heads off the pavement with his feet.  Mr X, loved a good pagger!

On the plus side, Mr X appeared to be in high spirits this evening, and it looked like we’d probably all go home with our teeth intact. So we carried on as if he wasn’t there.

And then he asked me to dance.

I don’t know if it was the alcohol, class A drugs or dim lighting….but that mad fucker clocked me from across the packed room, stood up, walked straight across the dance floor and asked me as nicely as I imagine he could, if I was “dancin?”

It was at this point, to my utter horror, that I began to suspect, he might have mistaken me for a bona-fide piece of ass.

My brain was scrambled.  If I tell him I’m a bloke I could end up in hospital.  If I don’t tell him I’m a bloke and he makes a pass at me…I could end up in hospital.  In fact, every possible scenario pretty much ended up with me in traction and leg braces.

So I did what any self-respecting man/boy would have done in my situation and very demurely accepted his kind invitation to waltz.

And so we did….twice….in a row.  One of them (and I am not fucking joking here)…was a slow dance.

I don’t remember much after that. Self preservation had kicked in and I was running on instinct alone.  And my instinct was screaming at me to stay quiet and keep dancing!

Years later, we met again in the same pub. For some inexplicable reason, he came and sat at our table. Again, I have to say, he was perfectly pleasant (in his own special way). But all the same, I thought it best not to remind him of the fleeting moment we’d spent together, swaying, arm in arm on that dancefloor as the rest of the party looked on, slack jawed.  It would only soil the memory.

And do you know what the worst part was?   I didn’t even win the prize for best tart!

But I did keep my teeth…

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Day 4 of “Operation Beach Body” – Bloody Nora!

*For those of you who aren’t already aware, I’ve joined a gym in a desperate bid to retain some dignity on the beach this year.  And shit’s just got real*

So I thought it would make sense to get a real fitness instructor to give me a real fitness regime.  You know…one where I break a sweat.  He asked me what I wanted to achieve and I looked him square in the eye and said “this”

Only joking….what I really said was….”THIS”

After he’d composed himself…he humoured me by saying “that should be achievable” and then set out a 45 minute workout that I must do at least 4 times a week.

“Let’s DO IT!”  I screamed in his face…except I didn’t…but I wanted to, really badly.

We started off well…5 minute walk up a virtual hill….piece of piss….a few reps of this…a few reps of that etc etc.  And I’ll admit, I was starting to get cocky.  He even said “strong you are”...(which is a first)….except without the Yoda’isms, which was a shame.

And then he suggested SKIPPING.

“Do you know how to skip?”  he enquired, with a genuine concern that a man of my manliness and immense strength may have poo poo’d the very notion of ever jumping rope (unless I was running away from the FEDS! Or breaking INTO prison!) from an early age.

“I assure you sir…I skip.” I replied.  “In fact…I might be the KING of skipping”…I managed not to say immediately after.  But I was thinking it.

“Splendid…now I want you to skip for 1 minute. Take a short breather and then do it again. We’ll do 3 minutes just now, but the idea is to get up to 5 minutes”  , he explained.

Well I will not lie to you people.  I almost guffawed.  1 minute.  Of skipping?  Working up to 5 minutes?  This man clearly underestimates who’s he’s dealing with here.

And so I started skipping.  15 seconds in and he’s all “Oh…that’s excellent!”…and I’m like, “uh huh”.  30 seconds in and I’m beginning to appreciate there’s slightly more to skipping that first meets the eye.  By 45 seconds I am almost in cardiac arrest and panting like fat man in a rubber suit trying to clip his toenails with a duster.

“That was great Mark…shall we go again?”

“Hang on just a *wheeze* tick there….you seriously want me to do that again?  RIght now? *splutter*  Jesus.” , I gasp.

And so began the longest minute of my life.  I could literally feel every single fag I’ve ever smoked clawing at my chest imploring me to explain why I’m such a twat.  But somehow, through sheer force of will, I managed to complete minute #2. (although I might have inadvertently accidentally on purpose lost my footing a few times in the process)

By now I’m sweating like Steve McFadden in a car park.  I’m starting to feel extremely light headed, decidedly wobbly on my feet and I can barely get a word out.  I shit you not, I thought I was going to faint right there in front of all the MILF’s. 2 minutes of skipping!

I figure he’ll see what a heroic effort I’ve made and move on to something that involves me sitting down.  But no.  We’re straight on to minute #3.

“Are you ok mark?”  He asks before we start.

“I’ll give it a go”, I reply, somewhat unconvincingly as I’m bent double and dribbling on the floor.

And so begins….the actual longest minute of my life.  I did the best I could. I really honestly did, but the old body just couldn’t take it captain!  I reckon I managed about 25 seconds of actual skipping and had to call it quits at the 45 second mark.  I was officially buggered.

It was at this point, he turned to me and said….”maybe we shouldn’t do the five minutes straight just now then?”

*death stare*

I managed to muddle through the rest of the work out (after a fairly lengthy sit down) and was overjoyed when he said I could go.  I hobbled to the car…drove the short journey home in a complete daze.  Fell on my bed…and slept for an hour and a half.  I’m fairly sure that’s not normal.

Fucking SKIPPING!  You try it wise arse!

I think I’ve got ADD.  Either that or I just can’t concentrate on anything for longer than. SEE!  I was half way through that sentence and suddenly I’m scratching my neck and staring at that black plastic donut thing with the hole in it that you put on your turntable so you can play the records that only have the big hole and not the small hole, and thinking, “that was a good find. But I really should move it before it falls down the side of the dresser (I don’t own a dresser…but you get the idea) again because it definitely will, and I will definitely forget I ever had it, and next time I want to play one of those records that only has the big hole in the middle I’m going to have to faff about with bottle tops and blu-tac again.”

This NEVER works properly. Your best bet is to blu-tac the record on top of another record with a small hole in the middle. But make sure you only blu-tac the labels together. Do not blu-tac the vinyl together.  Only an idiot would do that.  And I speak from experience.  Also…never, ever try to play a modern 33rpm record on a 100 year old….

…oh for the love of christ, I’ve forgotten what it’s called.

Anyway…as I was saying. I think I’ve got ADD.  Either that or I just can’t concentrate on anything for longer than it takes me to see something I wasn’t expecting and go “WHOA!”.  If I don’t have ADD, I definitely suffer from SASS.  SASS sounds cooler, and it is.  For those of you not “in-the-know”, SASS stands for:

Stare At Space Syndrome

I probably don’t need to delve into too much detail….suffice to say it’s a by-product of ADD.  Technically it’s referred to as SISS….Stare INTO Space Syndrome….but I’m not having that.  It would only be a matter of time before some wide-o stuck a cheeky Y on the end, and then I’d be in all sorts of trouble. (Stare Into Space Syndrome – Yuk yuk!)

I made that last bit up.  As far as I’m aware the medical world has yet to acknowledge SASS (or SISSY for that matter) as an official acronym based affliction.  But they should, because I definitely have it.

ADD on the other hand.  Very popular!

(Excuse me a minute, I’ve just realised that my slippers really make my feet stink, and it’s putting me right off my flow.  I want to wash them, but they’ve got rubber soles and I just can’t see how that’s going to work in a washing machine. It’s like that time I put my Evil Kinevil in for a wash after one too many wipeouts in the “Mud Pit Of Doom”.  Let’s just say, that was the last time Ol’ Drippy Features had much luck with the ladies.)

So, as I was saying. I’ve begun to suspect that I might have ADD. Here’s a typical example that happened yesterday:

The phone rings. It’s Kat. She’s hungry AGAIN and wants to know what’s for dinner.

“Nothing”

“I fancy a dirty chinese. Sort it out”

I assume that she’s still talking about food and hang up.

I begin mentally preparing myself for the journey upstairs where I will need to locate the correct menu and use a telephone at the same time.  Then I check you tube and see part 2 of 3 of a documentary about sending an imaginary spaceship to an imaginary planet sometime in the distant future to look for signs of life and how amazing it will be….apart from the 6 year time-lapse in communication, which seems to take all the fun out of it.  So I forget about the food ordering and watch it.  Once it’s over, I am still none the wiser, but have remembered about the food.  I head upstairs.  Except I don’t.  I only make it to the bathroom. I don’t actually need to go to the bathroom, I have just wound up there.  And it is at this point that I inexplicably decided to give the bathroom a quick “Man Clean”.  This is odd for many reasons that Kat can tell you about.  Suffice to say it doesn’t generally happen by chance.

Having finished my  “Man Clean”, I hot foot it upstairs to order the food, but by the time I’ve got to the kitchen, I’ve become thirsty, so I head back downstairs to get my glass….and check my email….and my blog….and twitter….and nme.com….and the news….and my email again.

By now I’m beginning to get a sweat on.  It’s been half an hour since Kat phoned and I’m no closer to delivering the dirty chinese she’s requested.  Trouble is, now I need a number 2.  And it’s an angry one.  I can almost feel it punching its way out. But all I can think about is….BOOK!  I NEED A GOOD BOOK!

Now, what was I talking about again? Oh yeah…it’s called a GRAMOPHONE!

This thing kills vinyl

If you have recorded your very own vinyl album and think it will sound all cool and sexy if you play it on your Gramaphone. Don’t.

I’ve decided to write a blog.

I have no idea what about.

So not the best start.

They say you should write about what you know.  But I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.

Still…I guess you’ve got to be in it to win it.  Trouble is, I never win anything.

Not entirely true. There was that Big Loader in 1983.  That was brilliant!  *for an afternoon*

And there was that time I won a pack of felt-tip pens for a colouring competition.  BIt gutted, since I needed a new set anyway after all the colouring in I’d been doing.  I wanted the bike.  Didn’t get the bloody bike though did I? Just got the pens. Pointless excercise. Much like most of the things I choose to do with my life.

Anyway, moving on…I hope this gives you a little sniffter of what’s to come.

So…until inspiration strikes again, here’s a photo of my cat Whiskey (not) being abducted by aliens. I urged him to follow the light, but he chose to wipe his arse across the doormat instead.

Until next time then….