Monthly Archives: July 2012

Advantages to being crazy #2

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Advantages: to impulse buying ridiculous furniture from charity shops that you just NEED but have no use for and nowhere to store it.  

Someone make this into a lolcat. Right now.

Once you’ve taken it home you can make your cat sit on it and take hilarious pictures of them.

Well I think they’re hilarious anyway…

Birthday drinks

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Hunter S. Thompson
July 18th 1937 – February 20th 2005

The man. The legend. One of my heroes. And by the way, the ‘S’ stands for Stockton.

If ever I decide to breed again (unlikely) and I have a son I will be naming him after this man. I’m sorry Hunter Steele, Mommy really is just that far round the hat rack that seems like a good idea. 

I posted the same picture a few places and wished him a happy birthday (I’m sure the afterlife has some form of social media I mean cmon, everyone has Facebook) and pretty soon after a friend shared some stories with me about his very own Hunter:

Reminds me of my good mate, Goat, to whose Hunter, I played the attorney for a few of the best years. He chose Hunter’s way out too but by the gods he tore it up while he was around. As with the Scottish toast: Here’s tae Us; wha’s like us?…damn few…and they’re a’ deid!

At this I became determined to celebrate both HST’s life and the life of another legend in his own right both sorely missed (by those that knew them and those that only got to hear the stories) so I did the only thing I know how to do to celebrate anything. I got horrendously drunk. And cried. A lot. But who could blame me with stories like this?

A true story: when Goat died I missed his death and his funeral. I was overseas having a good time. I think he would have appreciated that. Then when I found out, it was pretty hard. I asked how the funeral had been and they said he went in a white coffin with flames painted down the side and they played “We care a lot” by FNM at top volume. I nodded. That evening I bought the best bottle of whisky I couldn’t afford (we were brassic) and I poured two glasses in an empty room (cleared for decorating), one for him, one for me. Then I sat there thinking about him over a few hours until the rest of the bottle was gone apart from the glass that sat there for him. I toasted him, one for him, one for me, and left his glass, sitting there, still full – I remember this, as I left the room for bed.

In the morning, with a small headache, I went back to the empty room as the sun came in through the window and saw that his glass was empty too. I chuckled and left the room. True story.

That’s pure tear-jerking gold people.

This was taken by my LLP* and posted to Facebook demanding to know “WHAT IS THIS I DONT EVEN. WHAT IS GOAT. WHO IS GOAT. AND WHY IS SHE CRYING?”
*That’s what I call my female best friend. It has something to do with lesbians and luftballons and my god I wish she’d stop taking pictures of me when I’m shit faced.

Reply:

He was my co-pilot for a few years and the only guy I ever knew who broke his leg playing *chess*. If you took the world and gave it a really good hard bollock-twist 45 degrees, he’d be the bloke who’d be there already and laughing at you for arriving so late. But he’d pour you a drink to celebrate.

That night I drank more vodka than I thought possible. Probably not by other peoples standards – people who can actually hold their drink – but by my own standards I drank myself under the table. Twice. I had to be carried to the  bed, stripped and provided with a sick bowl. It was ridiculous, embarrassing and excessive. I feel I did them both proud. I’m not a believer in a great deal. I don’t do churches, or ghosts, spirits or souls but that night was a celebration of life and it’s the closest can get to spirituality. I had to write about it, even though I’ve struggled to, and I’m still finding it hard not to be emotional about the whole affair. All of my heroes are dead. Sometimes that can get a bit lonely. I’m not sure if lonely is the right word but there it is. So it goes. 

I’d like to think in my own way I brought them both back for a while, Hunter and Goat, because as a wise man once told me  “no-one is ever really dead when people get hammered and remember them “.

I even saved a bit of vodka for them.

Top 3 things the Demonspawn did today to drive me over the edge

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1) Put an earwig in the bath. Whilst I was in the bath.

I don’t have an actual photo of the event, so here’s a little something I made  to help you picture it.

2) Brought me a mystery box…

I genuinely considered throwing this out of the window, fearing that it contained a dead animal.

…full of Shake’n’Vac.

I can’t help feeling this was some kind of comment on my (pretty poor) housekeeping skills. If this is the case I need to make it clear to her that I refuse to be judged by someone whose latest contribution the house was cleaning the patio doors with faeces.

3) Sent a text message to my driving instructor saying “Gla-j.l4-labist” to my driving instructor. And this picture…

Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?

I felt like I should send a follow up text explaining that we’re redecorating and that’s why there’s no wallpaper behind the bed and that I do have the wallpaper (it’s on top of the wardrobe) and Mr Steele says he’ll put it on the wall as soon as I finish stripping the wall (which I started over 6 months ago and he knows I’m a starter not a finisher and maybe he should just accept that about me and finish stripping the god damn wall himself?) but I’ve just been a tad busy lately and I’m not in the mood to drag all the furniture away from the wall because I kind of have a bad back at times and I don’t want to hurt myself.

But I’m not sure that would make me look any less crazy.

Well played Demonspawn, until next time…

Prudence Von Pancaek

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“The only good cat is a dead cat”

This is my dear fathers motto. I’ve no idea what a cat ever did to make him feel this way but he certainly is adamant about it. I must confess I went along with it too (to the extent that I did not care for cats, not that I wanted to see them dead or anything) until the arrival of Dorian Grey.

He was homeless, hopelessly matted and starving to death. I was in love.  6 months on he is unmatted (dematted? less matted?) and a fat healthy cat. Unfortunately I am now desperate for more cats. I imagine this is the way that other women feel about producing copious amounts of children. I long to hear the pitter patter of really tiny feet roaming my house and so, much to Mr Steeles disapproval, I am looking out for moar cats. Two to be precise. A ginger one for the Demonspawn (I’m so sorry in advance Ginger, just remember what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and I totally promise to get some hardcore pet insurance for your inevitable broken legs and dislocated whiskers) and another one; smoky in colour, peculiar in appearance, fat and I shall call her Prudence.

Well folks, today I found her. 

Prudence was once a very attractive young lady but her extremely high standards for suitors have caused her to reach a certain age bereft of companionship. The years have not been kind to her and she is no longer the belle she once was. She needs love, although she may not be prepared to admit that.

I’d like to think in her youth she was a debutante. She can live in my house residing on a velvet cushion, scowling at Mr Grey for being brutish and  uncouth (for the record he is neither but that’s just Prudence for you). I believe they will get along famously.

All that currently stands between me and Prudence, who is rightfully mine and absolutely gorgeous thank you very much, is 60 miles and £175. Inorite? Total bargain! Mr Steele has been, as usual, chronically unhelpful and anyone would think he didn’t want this gorgeous lady residing in our house. Maybe he thinks I’ll get jealous, feel threatened and start to urinate on everything. I can almost guarantee that won’t happen.

If anyone wants to donate to the ‘Help Aimes Get this Fugly Cat’ fund I’d be more than happy to take your money.  Honestly, more than happy. Prudence Von Pancake (European aristocracy of course) you will be mine. Oh yes, you will be mine. 

Hello world!

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I started a new blog! My original blog was ugly and if I’m completely honest  (which I rarely am, for the sake of other people’s feelings) it was sinfully boring.  So here is a new blog in which I aim to paint a more honest picture of my life and me and all the broken and dysfunctional bits that make it precious, and worthwhile, and mine.