New phone…moar blogging?


I acquired one of those new fangled smartphones so this post is a test run.

And now for some cats…



Disadvantages to being crazy #2


Attempting to act normally during an hour-long ordeal at Weight Watchers whilst doing, what your sister accuses you of doing “the risperidone shuffle“.


I’m not actually taking risperidone but Abilify is pretty similar. It’s nice when someone who cares for people with dementia recognises that you have similar behaviour.

D Day


“I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.”

― Sylvia PlathThe Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Wednesday was the big day. D day. D for diagnosis. After years of lying about how I feel I’ve spent some time opening up and jumping through the various NHS hoops, as well as hanging about on their waiting lists, and finally got confirmation (of some sort at least) and some new medication.

4 days in and my head seems clearer already, I’m not sure if this is really the meds or just some crazy placebo effect going on but I’m not going to complain. My attention span is still shot to shit but the fact I have managed for the first time in weeks to sit down and cobble some form of writing together is immense. Part of me wants to steal a car and drive 100 miles an hour into a brick wall. Part of me just wants to go to sleep. This is a new level of calm and normal that I’m not used to.

If most of the people who know me read this they’d probably be surprised and  frankly I feel like an attention whore for writing this drivel but I started this new blog to be honest with anyone reading it and mostly myself. I didn’t intend for it to become a blog about mental illness (shit that’s a bit scary) but I don’t think the odd post about it’s going to hurt… right?

I promise the next post will be about cats!

Advantages to being crazy #2


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


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.


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


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…