99 problems…

I’m sure you sometimes have problems, like what to do about the tattoo on your arse of tweetie pie or how much you can smell out a small room with the scent of chip pans, lice and fags. Occasionally, I have a problem. It’s usually the sort of problem sexy intelligent folk suffer from, like, should I take the contract to be the face of ‘Sennokot’ or ‘Herp-eze’. It’s tough decision. Curse my gorgeous visage. Here are some problems I have suffered in my past:

  • It vexed me on a packed London bus to observe a t-shirt the reads ‘coco bay’ on a woman with big coconuts
  • Simon Cowell’s blood jumping from a tube in his arm, like a leapfrog fountain
  • Confronting Simon Cowell’s ex girlfriend about dressing like she’s still in the 1990s. Block heels, belly tops, hakecheif hems. T shirts with chinese symbols on them.
  • Katy Perry
  • a maggot uprising
  • men and meat
  • a flood preventing the Vengabus’ safe passage to Ibeeza.
  • Setting fire to people’s houses with my mind.
  • Dissociating myself from a tricky record contract with the London Boys.
  • Disliking reggae to the point of setting fire to people’s houses with my mind
  • Rage at ‘smug’ adverts with ‘pom-pom-pom’ type music. Tesco, Sainsbury’s Lloyds TSB and, worst of all at the moment, Morrison’s ‘earthy’ drudgey ‘Let it Shine’ adverts. Appealing to our middle class values of ‘let’s plant things in the ground’, ‘let’s do ethical shit’ or ‘saving for your daughter to become a ballerina’. FUCK OFF.

They are all interesting problems, sure. The sort of problems you’d write on the back of a fag packet or commit to the Dairy Book of Home Management.The type of problems that might have you reaching for a tealight.

More recently, some of you may have picked up if you follow me on twitter http://twitter.com/WorldofSheds that I haev begun to co-habitate with my other half, ‘The Cow’.

Whilst the Cow is a lovely gentle beast, I have noticed some difficulties with this arrangement. Warning! Sweeping gender based generalisations coming up!

  • Men and beds

Men can’t make beds. Sure, they can pull a duvet cover across, but they can’t make a bed like your mum makes a bed, all fluffy and plump. Mum-style beds involve shaking up bedding to resemble a cloud. These style beds make you exhale all the air in your lungs going “aaaahhh”. This is the type of bed I make.

When I get home from, as Alf Steward would term it ‘A hard day’s yakka’ (work), The Cow looks like he’s wrestled a hippo in the bed, made mad passionate love to it, and then chewed the bed up and spat it out. Pillows are flat, duvet cover is pulled across but all wrinkled, cushions are lashed without any thought for artisitc positioning or interior design.  Additionally, there seems to be no thought for airing the bed. I was always led to believe there’s a good few organisms living in your bed, thriving in the warmth and feasting on the supper of dead skin cells and have always pulled my covers back to air the bed and cease the survival and breeding of these beasties. The Cow? No. He’s farming them and hoping to incite some kind of revolution with bed bugs as his footsoldiers. The covers are on, the window is shut. The room smells of sighs.

  • Men and teatowels

Men have a wonderfully intimate relationship with teatowels. Who do they turn to for any household tradegdy? Trusty Terry the Tea Towel? Too much water on your work top? Reach for Terry. Spillage on the laminate flooring? Come on Terry, help us out here.

Women have been socialised to understand differnt cloths have different functions. A spillage on the floor requires a floor cloth or a mop.

Too much water on a work surface? That’s a sponge or a dishcloth .

The microfibre cloth…surely that’s for cleaning grime off the car alloys? Isn’t it?

No, it’s for dusting inside. Well, it was. We have a drawer full of ‘ruined’ pieces of material, relegated from the premier league of cleaning, to the first division of shit jobs.

Hey. Just stop right there, cowboy. What if there’s a SPILLAGE on the worktop. And what if that’s spillage is RAW EGG? Surely a job for Terry the teatowel the Cow would assume.

Maybe. And maybe we’ll wake up the next morning with emissions projecting from both ends as we wrestle with Salmonella poisoning after wiping egg up with a teatowel and then DRYING THE FUCKING DISHES WITH IT. Writhing in the heat of our fever, bed saturated with our sweat, clinging onto our lives with our finger tips, while Terry laughs malevolently downstairs.

  • Men and Toilet rolls

There is distance. Like from here to work, or from Land’s End to John O’ Groats, or at least from here to the corner shop at the end of the road. Then there is the one foot of distance between the bog roll holder and the empty, gaping, hungry for cardboard bin. And, o, my bin is so hungry for empty cardboard. It withers away, starved, looking longingly at the bog roll holder.

Once I came home and the empty bog roll was ON TOP of the bin. An improvement, yes, but why didn’t it make it in? Maybe the Cow thought it was a paritucualrly attractive bog roll holder and wanted to gaze admiringly at it on one of his soujourns to ceramic land.

  • Men and Recycling

The recycling is a predictable business. It happens on the same day, on the same time. It is usually held in the same place outside the house, holding it’s plastic and glass goodness. However, unless I specifically say ‘Cow, Remember to put the recycling out” at which he pulls a pissed-off gurn at me, the recycling won’t be put out. Oh, all the joyous duties are mine! Since when was it decided I was put in charge of ‘recycling’ or ‘reminding about recycling’? I must have missed that meeting. Presumably at the same meeting it was decided that I’m in charge of toilet rolls finding their final resting place.

So ultimately, moving in with your bird means that she over takes all the mum-jobs and you snarl like a teenager, like you did with your mum, when asked to perform a simple duty.

The Cow really is a wonderful, kind person, but men, beware that you are making your girl a mum substitute, and that’s not sexy.

Don’t spoil it for yourself.

Bjakas

x

Import/Export

And so livespaces is finally giving up the ghost and turning itself in to the blog police for crimes against blogging. Must say I feel a bit bad for the old fella. I can’t help but raise as a smile when I view the lurid pink eye assualt of my old blog and the way you could arrange your ‘modules’ where I could concoct the most ridiculous lists that my strange mind could concieve.

I’m also vastly fond of it as this is the first place I found my ‘voice’ as a blogger. After a couple of years writing surreal posts on a discussion board, I felt that I wanted to write something that I could drive solely and the discussion boards had served me well in helping me carve out and create a persona with various idiosyncrasies and an extensive back story.

Blogging was a tremdous escape/avoidance as I mentioned in my previous post https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2010/09/14/new-resolutions-brave-new-sheds/

and I discovered some genuinely gut wrenching funny people through livespaces.

However, the frustration with livespaces was the inability to track your comments and to see whether anyone had replied to you. There’s also a huge amount of spam comments with links to korean porn or something which you’d have to delete (or forward to some open minded friends).

So, here I sit, anxiously waiting for my old blog to import into my new blog, like two worlds colliding. When I first started this wordpress blog I would copy and paste into livespaces and then I became enveloped in my long-time associate-apathy.

So, don’t be surprised if you see some duplicate posts, and don’t be surprised if you start coming across some totally off the wall, slightly blue stuff. It was very much 0f-the-era in a sense of humour style that evolved in that internet forum. As a much older, wiser and responsible (boring) Angel, I feel a bit more ‘responsible’ in terms of content! I know. Social conscience- a luxury of being in your thirties.

Anyway, be intersted to see what you think of  the old WoS. I’m vastly fond of it, and I hope you learn to love it too.

CSI ‘Under the Microscope’

CSI is constantly on channel 5. Not that I mind. I quite like it. However, I have noticed some themes that I’d like to catch you up on. Lo! Ecce!

1. All the ‘vics’ are sexy and die in sexy ways from sexy crimes. Model dies in big martini glass. Gothic burlesque punk lezzer dancer dies in vampire crime of passion. Soon everyone in New York, Vegas, and Miami will be dead in sexy graves covered in Lingerie and used condoms.

2. Why don’t they turn the lights on? Ever. It’s always so dark, dimly lit by someone playing with their phone three miles away. How do they look at ‘clues’. I’m sure if they just flicked the big light on, the finger prints would be easier to detect, rather than having to resort to heating a rag up in a washing machine so particles of diamonds and truffles attach themselves to the DNA of a naughty man.

3. CSI: NY. That greek looking woman was obviously told she had amazing knockers, because each episode she sports a variety of low cut tops. Additionally, I think they’d probably find the naughty men quicker and concentrate on the task in hand if she put a lab coat over those big boys.

4. Horatio is a horrendously selfish actor. You know the drill by now, don’t you.

The shades and the looking down when the other actor is speaking so they can’t act off him. Then when they’ve finished their bit, he looks up, looks into the distance and delivers his line

“and that was his first mistake”

or

“And then that’s where we’re going”

5. Horatio always makes a promise to a child that he has to keep. I don’t know exactly this is supposed to reveal about Horatio. That he was let down a lot as a child? He’s not a total selfish cunt? That’s he’s going to ask them to make a promise to him at some point in the future?  One in the bank, mon frere.

If I think of any more, I’ll update, or please feel free to add some more in the ‘comments’ section that you see before your very eye units.

New Resolutions…brave new Sheds.

As some of my twitter followers may be aware (I prefer to call them ‘devotees’), I’ve been thinking of turning over a new leaf. One of my devotees, Graham (oh, do visit his wonderful blog, Crow World. There’s a link to it in my blogroll) pointed out to me that maybe my TV and internet preponderance might be resulting in some frustrations. I thought about this long and hard and realised Graham was right!

On a saturday I rarely get dressed until 2pm. Why? Pure procrastination. I wake up, throw my dressing gown on, blunder down the stairs, and put the kettle on as my computer hums into it’s blue welcome glow. Then I sit, transfixed like a cat by a washing machine, by the box of delights. Searching for music, scouring blogs, watching 4OD. At some point someone will knock at the door and I will shamefacedly open the door to my mother.

Why the procrastination? What exactly am I avoiding?

Not sure. In 2001 it was very clear. In 2001 I started my internet career as ‘Angel’. At that time, I’d embarked on my doctorate and I’d just got the internet with unlimited access. No more modem bing-boing-bing-boing and shut it down after 10 seconds after you recieved all your e-mail for excrusicating fear of the spiralling costs. This was proper internet access in all it’s discussion-board-msn-messneger-yahoo-chat-room glory. What was I avoiding then? Simple. Course work.

Course work. My doctorate would have been amazing if it wasn’t for the coursework. It was relentless. Difficult. Overwhelming. BORING. So avoidance reasons were clearer.

But what now?What am I avoiding?

Shit boring jobs around the house. The eternal trudgery of the home owner. Phone a gas fitter. Put up a curtain pole. Change the sheets. Clear up after my boyfriend. Once you’ve done most of the jobs, you breathe in. You breathe out. It needs doing again. The internet is my retreat into a virtual fantasy life where cleaning doesn’t exist.

Getting dressed. Not in a pervy way, mind. Who are you? Stefan Dennis?

Oh it’s such a ridiculous faff being a woman. If I get off the computer, that means I have to get dressed. If I have to get dressed, I probably should shower, and shave. Oh, it’s the weekend, so I should fake tan, as i’m off out that night. If I fake tan, I’ve got to exfoliate…If I’m going out I need to wash my hair…and then where do I fit in going the gym to make sure I look alright in these stupid clothes I own.

You can see why I procrastinate. Maintaining your appearance as a woman is a full time job. When you’re not in work, you’re tirelessly involved in your unpaid, merciless occupation of ‘looking attractive’. It’s the hardest job in the world.  Even if you persue this thankless job, with the full vigour of the paranoid, you still can’t escape the unkind comments that someone will throw in your path.

Procrastination was Hamlet’s fatal flaw, was it not? But is it mine?

I’m limiting my internet access to half an hour a day to see how my life changes. What I can achieve. How my mood changes. How my relationships change.

I’ve some simple rules

1. half an hour internet a day. I can check twitter on my HTC on my lunch break also.

2. Go to bed 11.30 every night, rather than 12.30. Maybe tiredness is a maintenance factor of procrastination, avoidance and therefore computer use.

3. Excercise comes before computer use. Computer use comes from disatisfaction with the self. Avoidance of getting dressed, being disappointed etc. Maybe increased exercise will boost self esteem and self efficacy, thus less need for a retreat into a virtual life.

Will report back on progress tomorrow.

Your thoughts are, as always, valued and welcomed.

ps. It’s only day 2 and I’ve done 2 blog posts. With excessive internet use, I could never get inspired enough to blog.  I think there’s something in this!

3.

Leeds Fest 2010

I was lucky enough to get a free ‘production’ pass to Leeds fest, thanks to doing some shady practices with some shady characters that left me with a bad taste in my life and a fruit bowl full of bookies pens. Due to work commitments and a friend’s reception ceremony I spent Friday night and Saturday day and night at the festival. On saturday night I slept in my clothes to hasten a quick getaway on Sunday morning. That’s how much festival ‘fun’ I was ‘enjoying’.

 Now, camping and festivalling are not my natual habitats, truth be told. I’m like a Nigerian Scammer without capital letters in these environs, but with a free (and backstage) pass, only Victor Obogu or Walter Dorman would pass up the chance. Let me tell you some conclusions I have arrived at from coming home from the festival.

1. Festivals are for the young and tall.If I was some kind of perv who got erotically charged by the backs of sweaty heads, than I would have been in snoop dogg floating cloud sensual seduction heaven. Sadly, when I go to a festival or gig, I like to see the band I’m getting crushed to death to see. Sure, I can see the big screen, but I might as well be at home watching TV. At least I wouldn’t have to put vicks vaporub up my nose to visit the toilet at home. So I pretty much spent the whole weekend looking at the backs of people’s heads.
2. Festival goers use the word ‘literally’ about three times in one sentence.

Yeah, man, I was like, literally standing there, and this dude literally said to me “are you coming for a beer” and he’d literally just come back from getting one”.

Oh festival goer, I can see the word ‘literally’ is a friend of yours. But why so? Do people tend to take you metaphorically all the time? So, if you say you were standing there, everyone presumes you were standing in a metaphorical way,  like making a stand? Or if a guy said something to you, do people presume he ‘said’ it with his eyes? Perhaps you should find a different crowd to literally spend some time with.  
3. People in bands dress like Russell Brand.  I don’t know who they are, but thanks to the handy Russell Brand uniform, I know I ought to know them.
4. Festival accoutrements are COMPULSORY: flower head bands, face painting, writing on each others bodies, henna tattoos. If you are in your thirties, face paints and flower head bands just make you look sad and pathetic, so you have to stick to a hat and sunglasses. Some people wear sunglasses at night in the dance tent. It must be great being them, eh shedders?
5. Remortgage your house to eat.  Think of the cheapest food to make. Yeah? Egg noodles with some fresh chillies and onion in it? How much does it cost to make? Probably about 40p? Right. Let’s charge these face painted dickheads £7 for it. Literally.
6. The Comedy Tent.  Saying the word ‘legend’ after a well known celebrity’s name does not constitute a joke. e.g. “Rod Hull-legend”.

We saw some great comics on the alternative stage. Angelos Epithemiou and Dan Nightingale were notable talents. Only marred by dickheads constantly shouting shit heckles at them and attention seekers shouting over the jokes (“Angelos, can I give you a blowie?”). However there was one guy who was notable in his shitness. Inel someone or other. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sick of black-people-do-this-and-white-people-do-it-in-a-nerdy-shit-way-jokes. They are tiresome and it’s been done to death. Inel TRADED in these jokes. He tore the arse out of them like a pair of primark trousers. I’m guessing everyone else is tired of these gags too as no one laughed. Inel got a bit baity and blamed the audience for not laughing. He said they were obviously “going over out heads”. Firstly, who’s responsibility is it to make us laugh, Inel? We didn’t seem to have a probelm with Dan before you, or Angelos after you? If we don’t understand a joke (which we did) then you didn’t scaffold it well enough for us to understand. Secondly, the audience did not laugh cos your joke was shit, not because it “went over their heads” as you say. Getting palpably annoyed at them for this and saying “that went right over your heads didn’t it” will not engender warm feelings towards your ‘material’ if I can loosely call it that.
Race jokes are shit. I hate them. Richard Prior did it and some fuckers are still doing it. I hate it so much. “black people are like this, eh, yeah? White people are like this eh? What’s with that?”. It usually constitutes that white people are shit and geeky and uptight and black people are cool and street. That’s as maybe, but it’s a tired concept, overdone, past its time and BORING.
7. Let’s celebrate drugs!!  Cypress Hill sparking up a huge spliff on stage now seems a bit sad to my thirty something eyes. It’s a 45 year old man smoking a spliff, who’s now a bit portly. Cue lots of teens and twentysomethings raving about how he is a ‘legend’ (naturally) for sparking up a spliff. I roll my eyes and will them to think of something worthwhile to respect rather than a preponderance to eat doritos, never leave home, red rimmed eyes, and ripping the corner off magazine covers.

The end. Your responses are valued and welcomed.

edited to say: there were loads of great things about the festival, but I’m choosing to moan about it here.