The Evening After The Day Before

Ah, what a week. Mostly plodding through stuff, not totally tedious but not inflaming the passions of my heart, I did get the opportunity to take these pictures, of an alien bin invasion on some allotments on the arse-end of Slough. The sinister powerstation building in the background is the Mars bar factory. Somehow, looking at it, I doubt that it is full of semi-naked brown-skinned beauties wrapping their luscious lips around a Bounty in lieu of my being around to offer something more substantial...












It's very hard to sit in a meeting and take the individual doing a presentation seriously when she's got a camel's toe. (Tabatha is sitting here insisting that it is camel's foot.) (To settle this we googled the two phrases. She's right, it can be camel's foot. I'm right, far more hits for toe.) I mean, really difficult. How am I supposed to concentrate? And to make matters worse, she realises that there is something going on, and starts making surreptitious attempts to unshackle herself. "Have you got a problem, love?" I helpfully offered.

This week was Budget week, and everybody's favourite party animal Gordy got up and did his thang, which was that there are no massive changes for anybody, unless you are super-rich or super-poor. And this week is also the 60th Anniversary of the foundation of the EU, with the signing of the original Treaty of Rome. I'm a big fan of the European project. For many reasons. Amongst these is the fact that 60 years is about the longest we have ever gone in this continent without killing one another on a massive scale, that I like getting cars and booze on the cheap, that I like being able to travel with relative freedom, that I am protected by some pretty tasty human rights and employment laws, and, most of all, my grandfather really didn't like the idea of being chums with Johnny Foreigner. I can't think of a better recommendation.

Today I have a problem with giggling, which was a little embarrassing in Waitrose this morning. This is due to the fact that I woke up yesterday with severe cramp in my lower legs, drool all over the pillow, a tongue swollen to Oliveresque proportion and a fucker of a headache, yes, the LPS had paid a call overnight. Which meant that yesterday was a write-off. But today has meant a lot of playing silly buggers, giggling inanely at aforementioned supermarket, and generally pratting about. So I'm off to giggle a bit more, then I might come back here and write something worth writing.

Ton Up, Yeah

This is apparently the 100th post here on Hot Spicy Bun, difficult to believe that a hundred, yes, hundred, times I have managed to vent spleen and ejaculate my rantings and ravings into the blogosphere for the benefit or otherwise of any passing e-punters who happen to catch a smidge.

Anyway, down to business, tonight, for the benefit of every loyal Briton who pays his/her TV Licence Fee, and indeed those who don't too, the BBC does one of its annual charity telethons. It is, of course, Comic Relief. So the likes of Matt Lucas, Russell Brand and, inevitably the dreadful John Culshaw, all terribly funny, will be such good eggs and make us all laugh for cherry-dee. For the children. (I think 'for the children' was one of Hitler's rallying cries, and is always a good pointer to someone who's a charlatan - Blair is very keen on 'for our children'.) Every nob end in the country who thinks he's a bit funny or wants everybody to know just how great a chap he is, is making a fool of himself, acting with nil dignity or conspicuously 'giving'.

I'm not sure if you have this particular gurning twat in the US, if you don't yet then 'by any means necessary' prevent it. For the mockney fat-tongued fuckwit is, of course, the very embodiment of all that is unappealing about the English. Sanctimonious, hypocritical, self-publicising, nepotistic, hypocritical, ingratiating, star-struck, rapaciously ambitious. And did I mention hypocritical?

As for the fish, he's a quiet chap, keeps himself to himself. He was just swimming along looking for a shag.

Yeah, pukka, wot yer weally wan' is to thay wot a gweat bloke I am, yeah, coz I'm tellin' everywon to eat helffy food, yeah, an' floggin' a tv series abou' how, like, yeah, unhelffy schoowl dinnuz are, yeah, an' like we weally wanna be givin' kidz helffy food, yeah, an' buyin' i' a' Thainthzberwiz, yeah, coz I do advertz for vem, yeah, an', like, vair the fird biggis' theller of crithpth an' burgerth an' cola an' thtuff in ver cuntwy yeah, coz wot would be weally gweat thith Cwithmath would be a twifle, yeah, wiv loadz of cweam and cuthtard and shewwy, yeah, and now wot yer weally wan' ith to feed yer kidz flapjackth, wiv pukka butta and golden thyrup, yeah, lovely yeah, but it'th awlwigh' yeah coz it'th fer chawity, yeah, pukka, tho i' don't ma''er if it'th thit food fer kidz, yeah, pukka, yeah, can I get me chumth a tv theewiz too, yeah, an' me wife too, yeah, pukka?

I'm told he speaks highly of me.

Anyways, must dash, xx K

Winning the Wimmin's Vote

I left this feeling a bit guilty last night, on the grounds that I'd ranted away about the obstetricentric conversation at the office, and probably came across as a bit misogynistic.

And then I decided to feel a bit better about it. Tabatha agrees with me. Wendy agrees with me. Betty didn't slag me. When I was bothering to do this with any degree of consistency, those of you who equally bothered to piss on the post were (and I'm guessing still are) mostly female. So I can't be misjudging it too badly.

Look, we've probably all figured out by now, I like women. Most things about women. I like talking to them, listening and reading what they have to say, their company, looking at them, the whole deal. I just don't like the full detail of what really ought to be for someone else to share. For which sharing of detail I blame Jenni Murray and the Andrea Dworkin Memorial Hairy Chin Urban Collective.

So I'm off to go out with my bird, and see how it goes. Then off for the weekend to visit my mother. And sister(s).

Your Womb, My Arse; a product comparison

taken from the musings of the Baker;

Again, the discussion moves to the topic of children. What a struggle it all is, to get them from A to B, to all their different clubs and teams, the fretting over education, the sympathetic nodding and groaning as the conversation moves inevitably on to pregnancy and delivery, the morning sickness, the pain of labour, the pros and cons of caesarian section, the frequency of contractions...

It is relentless. Every day, often over lunch, as it is so appropriate, they cluck and brood. Beneath it all, so secret they wouldn't admit it to themselves, the race. The competitiveness that so inspires their very presence here, it bubbles in their voices. I suffered more than you, bled more, it took longer, I didn't cop out on gas, my child is more precious than yours, has had to endure more threatening illnesses, has had stranger vomit, more frightening disease, (is there something 'wrong' with hers, you know, he doesn't seem 'quite normal', does he?), our child is at a better school than yours, a more sophisticated nursery. I love my daughter so much I couldn't wait for my six months maternity leave to finish but muscled my way back here to pick up the reins of imposing my remorseless blind ambition on the fortunes of others and carve my career out of the trail of failure I leave behind me.

It has been said that Krusty has 'behaviour issues in the workplace', that he is problematic for other people to work with. He exhibits 'attitudes' that do not match the doctrine. Well, yes, he does have a willingness to comment in a concise, honest, candid manner, and is unwilling to declare how wonderful is the Emperor's new suit.

But he does refrain from sharing the details of how the proctologist slid his begloved and jellied finger deep into my butt, stirred it around, then inserted an array of scopes and probes to illuminate and picture the very depths of my bowel, when investigating my complaints about arse-ache.

Because that would garner complaint, and accusations of unreasonable behaviour. Because it is apparently perfectly acceptable in an open plan office to proclaim the placenta, but turds are taboo.

--

I have noticed a new fashion around the office, for the sophisticated women to wear dark, shin length trousers, which I am led to understand are known as Capri pants after the Ford motor car of the seventies and eighties and are in no way connected with the small island off Italy where Tiberius kept a palace and may well have personally 'attended' to Caligula, and where Gracie Fields fucked off to, and they wear these so-called Capri pants with pointed boots. The overall effect has a certain logic to it...


"It's bread, Jim, but not as we know it!"
- oooh
- "Set phasers to stun!" "Destination, Alfie Moon."
- "Move to Warp drive!"
- "Warp engaged."
"Ah canna hawld her taegether, Cap'n, she'll shake heersel' apart."
"Mind integrity compromised - Captain, we may have a brain breach."
"Arm sonic torpedoes, deploy on my command!"
- "Torpedoes armed and on stand-by, Captain."
- "Engage!"
- "They are under sonic attack - we appear to have audio supremacy."

"Impose Krusty-law! There can be no exceptions. Commence Operation Palace!"
- "Neutron bomb deployed, Marshall. Slough has been destroyed, relandscaping is in progress, Operation Palace is ahead of schedule."
- "Resistance is eliminated - subjugation is complete. Facilities have been established. Nominated individuals are being converted. Krustyanity is acknowledged."

"C'mon, you fuckers, we know there is a better way. Every day as I crawl along the M4 past that concrete hole in Berks (I'm sure he'd be delighted), all I want is to impose my iron fist on it, and redefine it as my capital, where there will only be my immense palace, as a statement of my immenseness it will overshadow the mere pebbles of Windsor Castle, a thousand years of history wiped out in the New Beginning of the Krusty Age."
--

Tabatha has just told me that I'm not going to be taking her to the local balti house (actually, they don't really have balti houses down here, not like this) wearing my purple velvet uniform and eighteen yards of thick, thick gold braid. So I guess I'm going to be going in jeans and hooped (hooped, they go all the way round, stripes have an end to them, ok?) t-shirt. Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to curry we go.

Still, she isn't offering me her wares with additional seaweed and prawn cracker crumbs this evening...who knows what may become of such things. One bhaji and I'm a veritable goat.

See you.

PS: thanks for the 'badger' offer, Richard. Just to re-iterate, the turd was still glistening, so pretty fresh, at about eleven in the morning, an inky blue-green-black colour. Three to four inches long, single stool, one straight torpedo-shaped link.

(Tabatha is commenting that she isn't terribly keen on my obsession with my own discharges, and this apparent trend towards those of not only other people but other species, for fuck's sake, is not a winner. Better stay off the saag tonight, then.) (Wot more parenthesis?) (Apparently dietitians - this is how we spell it in the UK, I'm assured by the health 'professional' at my left - have poo-posters or 'stool charts', more formally, for the comparison of colour &c. to deficiency/excess blah blah blah. No.2, dare I say, looks interesting, no? Nice. I prefer posters of nekkid leddies.)

Curry calls, must go, as 'twere.

The Art of Seduction

Tabatha has just rocked up, in a state she describes herself as 'shit-faced and interesting', grinning inanely. As I'm watching a film about the late Arther 'Killer' Kane, she is helping herself to my 'special' fried rice and seaweed. I've had to persuade her that cutlery is actually a good idea, but it hasn't made any difference to the amount that is being deposited in her lap, my lap and on the setee. She keeps grinning at me, telling me that she doesn't really need cutlery and that there is only one tool she's interested in. God she looks sexy, with green bits all over her teeth and cold rice and bits of prawn cracker all over her 'balcon'.

She's now lecturing me for not eating my greens, and getting through a stack of Coke. And she's demanding a cup of tea. Right now. For fuck's sake Krusty, go and put the kettle on, now, if you know what's good for you. No, she says, I can't do it, I'm busy eating your dinner and shitting up the living room having just teetered in from a party and having been drinking for the last four and half hours. In heels that make me six foot. Which isn't bad as I'm actually four foot three and the same weight as Gareth Chilcott (wasn't he a hooker?).

I don't really want to leave the computer unguarded lest she fuck around with the music. Socrates asked me if there was anything about her that I really don't like and we would have to 'resolve'. Yes, she likes Steps. Can you fucking believe it? Not in this house, chum.

Guess what, I'm off to not get laid.

It's about fucking time

Because I've been busy doing interesting things like having a relationship for the first time in two years, and going on holiday with her (yes, I know this is all very smug, but I'm not boring you witless with the endless photographs of snowdrops I took, am I, so stop mithering), and using interweb/broadband for its true purpose of downloading recordings of certain artistes and pursuing the quest for what is currently being discussed here as black fuzz, I've not offered anything here, or bothered to look at what some people have to offer themselves; which means I may have been missing out. But hey, life is a rich tapestry...

Anyway, I've been communicating with my long-time associate, Mr. N, and I couldn't be arsed to say it all again, so here is an edit of anything not desperately personal that might be of entertainment. Tabatha is still permitting me to court her, so things are ok.

--

Hmm, I can hear where the comparisons to Stone Roses are coming from. You estimate my tastes well, young Nutgroist.

I nearly fucked it up last weekend, with a spectacular tantrum at the neighbours, regarding their inherent 'travellers' tendency to leave the backyard like Steptoe's yard - they have now cleared it up, but I did have to go fucking mental, complete with foaming at the mouth, which I haven't done for a good 12 months... However, she didn't do a runner. Big result. She realised that she was perfectly safe when, even as I bellowed about the "stupid cunting bastards" I gently put her overnight bag to one side, and then carried on charging out of the front door to go and hammer on aforementioned scb's front door.

And Socrates doesn't think I need bother him for a while, which is also good. Although I no longer have an excuse to be 'just passing' the South African deli in Roehampton.

I gotta say, M. Polnareff's shades are ace, seriously androgynous. And with all that hair, too, and the mincing about and posturing a la Celine Dion, great value.

Having bothered to write something vaguely substantial that isn't about mass produced foodstuffs for the first time in over a month, I'm going to be a lazy turd and copy some of this straight onto Krusty. To write it all over again would be, to quote my erstwhile colleague Violet Elizabeth, 'duplicitous'. She had no sense of irony, poor cow. Or malapropisms. Or how to behave around someone quite as wonderful as me.

--

I'm awaiting delivery of this evenings contribution from 'Four Seasons', relishing the prospect of hot & sour soup, crackers, seaweed (I know it's fucking cabbage, I work in the food industry for Christ's sakes, I just like to eat the shit), beef in yellow bean sauce and 'special' fried rice.

OK, I can't help myself, some holiday snaps.

Snowdrops in Oxfordshire, a great place where the mobile 'phone doesn't work, yeah...


A Toyshop in the Shambles, in York,
Some useful information from a passageway under York station,
And a turd of indeterminate origin, fresh (ish) in a field between Wakefield and Barnsley. I don't think it's of canine origin, so any offers as to what kind of creature left it behind?
Ah, my dinner is here, after an hour plus of waiting. It's about fucking time.