My Fat Neighbour

As the weather becomes more clement and the bees buzz busily around the flowers in  my garden, my fat neighbour and her alcoholic husband take to the garden nightly and allow their children to stay up far too late so they can shout obscenities at them.

As you can imagine, this means if I want to enjoy a balmy evening sipping special brew and contemplating the formation of attachment patterns between parent and infant, I have to be subjected to her sloppy voice, her obtrusive presence through my fence (which I had built higher so I couldn’t see the top of her useless fat head) and her disregard of politeness and modern decency. I can’t help but tune in to her abrasive voice which shunts me out of self reflection and idle day dreaming. So I stay in and turn the TV up.

If I want to sit in my front room, I am subjected to her banging on her window at her children and shouting “fucking shut up I can’t hear the TV”. I also have to be subjected to her fucking fat arse glowering at me through my window as she walks her cat on a lead (yes, on a fucking lead!) and lets it shit in my garden even though she knows I am watching.

She calls her cat “pussy cat”. Pussy cat is her prisoner. Much like Jabba the Hutt in The Empire Strikes back has Princess Lea as his pet. When I leave for work, pussy cat looks mournfully on as I pull out from the crescent. His eyes plead with me for sweet release, whether that be through escape or death. I scowl back my reply “no, because you shit in my garden and I have to watch”. Pussy cat feels emasculated being on a lead. Pussy cat has made several bids for freedom and I hear Jabba screech at her children for allowing it to get out. I root for Pussy cat and hope this time he has made it. Maybe he is enjoying prowling around the neighbourhood feeling fresh air on his whiskers and socialising  and frolicking with other cats.

The next day, pussy cat mournfully greets me through the window. He has been extradited back to his fat prison and is Jabba’s pet once more. He sits, stock still, like an ornament and regards me. Maybe he feels that I’m his Han Solo. Stop shitting in my garden, I say to him.

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 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.




I’ve found a few things out recently. I’d like to share them with you. You may have already seen me writing about this on Twitter. Well done. You’re so flash. Bet you’ve a leather bomber jacket and  a basket ball net on your garage.

  • Facebook is an extended forum for showing off.  Why stop at showing off about you? Why not extended your showing off potential and show off about your kids (essentially showing off about yourself, as it’s your genes), your wife, how good-looking you are, how much fun you’re having etc! Oh how I wish I was YOU with your kid winning all those races at sports day! CRUEL WORLD! PS. what’s with the friend requests from people you’ve NEVER MET? Even same-sex people? I can understand fellas taking a punt seeing if they can chat you up, but WOMEN asking to be my friend and they don’t know me? I really am speechless.
  • Charity muggers can’t see you if you stay still. I tried this today. I sat right next to two of them and they never bothered me. The town which I work is usually teeming with chuggers, all using dirty tricks to get you to stop. Most loathsome, I saw a girl flirting with some fellas to get them to stop and talk to her. Not a day goes past where some crusty doesn’t try to grapple me to the floor and try to prise £2 out of my wallet and leave my bloodied carcass battered and for the homeless children to sell my organs. Anyway, I have concluded that chuggers are all fitted with motion sensors and it only activates their chugger chip when movement is detected. Think about the scene when Jean-Claude Van Damme gets covered in mud and the predator can’t see him.  Next time you see one, stand still and they’ll look right through you.  

  • If you are a woman and you’re going to a fancy dress party, you must get a ‘sexy’ outfit. in our local fancy dress store there’s a whole wall of ‘sexy trades’. Think of all the jobs you can do in the world, and Aladdin’s cave has a sexy version of it. Sexy policewoman, sexy builder, sexy sailor. You name it, there’s not one job you can’t make sexy. I’m thinking of marketing ‘sexy gas fitter’ and ‘sexy insurance broker’ as next in this long line of slutty apparel.

thhhhhhh…it’s gonna cost you mate. You’re not lookin’ at a one day job here. Gotta rip the whole bloody thing out.

Bad Romance Part 2: Clippit


You look like you’re getting undressed. Can I help you with that?

Here we see Clippit. Sexy and fascistic.   Oh he’s so proud! He’s an absolute nightmare to date though. You may have seen me talk about  (drunkenly) on Sherby57’s blog  Oh he’s an absolute beast! When we went to the pub as soon as you even go to stand up he’s all “you look like you’re going to the bar, can I help you with that?” and I’d be like “Jesus clippit, I’m going the bog”. 

If I spend too much, he gets all bent out of shape, turns into an exclamation mark and tells me to ‘save’ what I’m doing. When he’d come around to mine, we’d be watching TV, I’d have a hard day at work and just want to lie, comatose, on the settee.  Oh he wouldn’t like that. He’d be tapping me all the time. Then I’d lose it with him and start shouting at him for tapping me with his little wiry finger thing.  He’d reply “you look like you’re getting angry. Can I help you with that?” The sarcastic bastard. Then he’d say “Do you want me to rub your feet?  Do you want to turn into your mother?  Do you want to take out your issues with your ex-boyfriend on me?  Would you like to bring up the incident from the past when I wet the bed that you always bring up when we have an argument?”

He knows me so well. Darn Clippit. Anyway, see a lovely portrait of him that I did. I know it’s a bit risqué, with me doing a nude portrait of him, but he really is quite proud of his body.  He is an overbearing piece of stationary, but swit-swoo!

Breaking News

Recently I blogged about my rage at the playboy bunny epidemic here.

Since I wrote that blog, when I was driving home from work tonight I was behing a crappy old white Peugeot, carrying what can only be described as ‘a load of old crap’ in the back. Upon it’s very boot was the playboy bunny. Yeah. Heff insists on crappy old peugeots as standard issue for the bunnies.

It gets worse.

There’s a sweet kid who lives next door to me. She’s about 9 years old. As I was driving up the road I saw that she has a massive playboy bunny sticker adorning her bedroom window. She told me once, when she’s old enough, that she’d like a tattoo. I asked her what she’d like a tattoo of. She beamed widely at me and said a leopardskin playboy bunny.

Playboy bunnies, the Rage continues.

When he goes for a piss, he'll know just what sort of lady you are.

Hey you guys! (I’m talking like Sloth from the Goonies here, can you tell? Hmm, I’m slightly worried that this might marr the gravitas of what I have to say in this blog. On the other hand the juxtaposition of light hearted, childhood-remininscent humour may be the perfect backdrop by which to juxtapose my next piece, thereby making it seem more weighty by it’s counter-position. Yes)

You may remember my, some might say, ‘unreasonable’ bile at the playboy bunny motif. Read more about this here:

You’re probably thinking that I’m some sort of birkenstock wearing, sturdy bottomed, linen pant wearing feminist. If that turns you on, continue thinking it. I’m not one to question what you’re attracted to. Anyway, what is “attractive”? Let’s deconstruct that…let’s sit in a circle and ‘rap’ about it. Maybe some light role play questioning society’s views on what is ‘beauty’. Maybe we can spilt up some perfectly good words by putting a hyphen in them in a sexy post-modern way like ‘dis-ease’ or just put every single word in inverted commas in a sligtly questioning (some might say, ‘mocking’) way. Maybe we could use and empty chair to symbolise ‘the man’. I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about the implications of you being attracted to your ‘phantasy’ (spelt this way in the Freudian sense, Freud fans) of me. Anyway, I digress, albeit, erotically.

I suppose I am a feminist, yes.

Anyway, you might remember that what I was specifically enraged was a worrying new trend to have a playboy bunny on simply anything you could lay your square acrylic-ed nails avec ‘nail-art’ed hands on.  I jauntily hypothesised that this bunny might be the worrying aspirational icon for the next generation of women. That worth was denoted by knockers. I suppose much like the ‘porn star in training’ t-shirts that were popular in the late nineties, that being seen as a ‘porn star in training’ was a bit like saying ‘please see me as sexy and therefore more worthy of your time/affections’.  I know someone who is a careers advisor. She says that girls at school really do come and see her and say they want to be a glamour model.  It seems that women themselves are contributing to the myth that the only dimension of worth as a women is being ‘sexy’.  Sexy doesn’t cure illnesses. Unless you are Doctor Sexy.

Anyway, I’ve been patrolling the sector of this part of the country that I’m responsible for and have found some more playboy delights to entrance your eye. Ecce!

If you make your eyes go gozzy, a picture of a slag emerges.

Gasp! Just think! If you had this on your wall! What would the boys think? Oh they’d just think you were fabulous! Oh no, wait.  Just hold on. What would the boys think if your 11 year old daughter had this on her wall?  It’s 3d and everything! Amazing.

And look! Just LOOK! at the bee-yoo-t-i-ful bathroom set you can get from TK Maxx. Nothing says ‘class’ more than a playboy soap dish. Reasonably priced too.  You’ll have some spare change from a fiver to spend on a t-shirt that says ‘This bitch bites’.  Girlfriend (I’m talking like Gok Wan here) your hands might be clean, but he’ll be thinkin’ you is dirrrty.

Please, if you spot any noteworthy playboy merchandise, do let me know so I can mercilessly ridicule it.

Until we meet again, my sweet, sweet rogues.

Happy Birthday Angel?

Some of you who are embarrassed and unfortunate enough to know me, know today is my birthday.   Yes. I hate my birthday with a great passion.  This dates back to very early on staring out of the window in my bedroom, bored, with nothing to do, wearing an aaran jumper. I really hated wearing aaran jumpers as a child and I couldn’t believe my mum had made me wear one, on today of all days (not today, literally, My mum no longer chooses my clothes)

I always felt because of the time of year, other people had much more fun birthdays than I, and in that sense, I always had a feeling of ‘missing out’. In the summer I’d jealously regard my brother’s barbeque in the back garden, when he and his long-haired friends (women) would frolic on mum and dad’s garden furniture drinking cans of Skol. Everyone looked like they were having so much fun. Contrast this with the pitying apologetic looks I would get when I asked people to come out for my birthday (when I was older, not as a child):

me: you coming out for my birthday we’re (insert amazing suggestion here to tempt people to come)?

them: “but it’s so close to Xmas and New Year”

me: “Admittedly yes. I can’t dispute that. It is still, however, my birthday and that I can’t change. I wish I could”

Them: “Oh I’m sorry I can’t come. I’m skint”

me (crestfallen): “Totally understandable”

…which it is. It is totally understandable. This, however, has led me to associate feelings of disappointment with my birthday. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I’ve been classically conditioned to feel a sense of doom and disappointment at the whole despicable day. I hate my birthday as it’s the one day of the year where I think I should feel special and the day should be full of aceness where people want to demonstrate how important I am to them, and every year I realise how untrue that is. Every year I get disappointed that only a select few reply to the ‘who’s coming out for my birthday?’ message, or say “I’m sorry I can’t” and don’t even say why (In my head I fantasise that they can’t bring themselves to say why as the only reason is they can’t be arsed) and when no cards reassuringly plop onto my poundstretcher mat. 
I wonder whether other people feel this phenomenon?  Or people don’t expect anything so they are never disappointed?  Or only a handful of people go out for their birthday? I have to say, that if I know it’s someone’s birthday night out, I won’t miss it at all, as I know how much birthdays mean to people. I’ve had an e-mail just this moment saying that other people at one point have felt this, and then they gave up having expectations and just saw it as ‘another day’ and then the ‘birthday depression phenomenon’ was much less/ameliorated.  This is a GOOD IDEA. Drop expectations on your birthday. It only really matters to YOU. Make it so it no longer matters to even you.

No I’m sorry Angel, I can’t come out for your birthday tonight. I’ve got some bells to drool at. Look, things are just so hectic around here, I’m just chocca with work stuff and I’m really skint after Xmas and new year.  You know how it is. I told Pavlov we’d save up to go away at Easter. Yeah, we’re going to the Isle of Dogs or Labrador.

Let me share a text with you that I received from my ex boyfriend today

“Now then Dr (yes, he really does call me Dr!)I felt really depressed going back to work today after 2 weeks off and I remembered it was your birthday(I like the way ‘feeling depressed’ remind him of me). You must have your birthday on the most depressing day of the year (pretty much) and I won’t even mention the age! Anyway, have a great day (yes, I will, sitting and rocking with a bottle of vodka, and chaining marlboro reds, my body racking with sobs of anguish. Ta.Thanks for cheering me up)

Angel’s Birthday Status

Cards hand delivered: 3, one from The Cow, one from el parents and one from my secretary.

cards through post: 0

presents: 1  from my secretary. A key ring.  I’m weeping as I write this, it’s so depressing. Sweet viscose tears. (I’m not really, so don’t get concerned. I was merely using hyperbole for comic effect. I’m such a naughty birthday scamp!)

Facebook messages: 11…hmm, not too bad.  Ooh, now it’s 13. It’s like ‘Going Live!’ here.

Texts: 7, again, not too shabby (and I bet you’re thinking, “7? I get 800 on my birthday because I’m so attractive and populaire” well, stop showing off and pretending to be French. Jesus)

Trips to Imax cinema to see Avatar: 1.  More than once in one day would be a bit much. Financially and time wise. I might start thinking I can talk to the trees and can hear my ancestors through the electrical wiring in the meter cupboard.

Minutes missed of film due to trains being cancelled: 10. This is why we take our cars everywhere, because we have a rubbish infrastructure that were daren’t rely on. (Is that a real word? It sounds old school. Like Jane Austen may have said it. “He was so handsome, I daren’t tear my eyes from his crotch”. Yeah, she would have said that)

Parking fees due to shit train system: £5.80. For fuck’s sake.  This is why we try to take the shitty unreliable trains.

Anyway, it’s not all doom and gloom, before you go and run that bath and get the electric heater ready to throw in it. No, for yesterday I had a special birthday podcast made in my honour by Hans Klaussner, a friend of Sherby57, who also does the Gravyboat Podcast (please take a listen to it and follow them on twitter and Facebook, it’s very very good). To be honest, the podcast is a bit pervy, as is Hans’ way. However, how many people can boast special birthday podcasts? Not many! So here for your delight, is a special birthday podcast devoted to yours truly, which is very, very funny. In this podcast, Hans speculates about where I come from and what I am made of, as well as my parentage and he performs his impromptu rendition of ‘Das Naughty Kitty’ that you might have seen me mention on here or on twitter. Anyway, relax, fart into a glass, put your magnet on your laptop and enjoy.

Before I sign off, spare a thought for the poor bastards who have their birthday early January. They didn’t choose to be born then, and you have the power to make their day.

The Gym

Just got back from the gym.  Managed not to look in those big mirrors next to the machines.  For some people, sadly, this is an all-too unmanagable feat.  Their eyes, magentised by the mirror’s attraction.  Drawn like the moon to the earth’s gravitational pull, they watch themselves work out. 

For mere mortals, the thought of watching your lycra clad frame jostle amongst the steel and pvc pads is visual anathema, however, I am transfixed by watching people watch themselves.

Are you are watcher?  or, like me, are you an eye-averter?

The Institute for Grinding and Bogling



“You crazy babe, Bathsheba, I want ya.  You’re suffocating, you need, a good shed” sang Black Francis.  And don’t we all agree with that sentiment? Of course.  Anyone would. That’s why WoS is the 5th most popular shed based blog after

1. Right Says Shed

2. Beds in Sheds

3.  Sheds in Beds

4.  Lord Rhomboid and his Shed Division

5.  World of sheds
In other matters, I have a proposal.  What we need in this country is an Institute of Grinding and Bogling.  This Instiute will fly in action should anyone be wrongly accused of ‘grinding’ and/or ‘bogling’ or any illegal grinding acts can be addressed by the proper channels. 
If someone is incorrectly accused of Grinding (haven’t we all been?  I know I have on at least 100 seperate occasions, each one more extravangant than the last) an application can be made to the Insitute to investigate.  This will be done by interviewing several sources (usually, Cardinal Mazarin, Cardinal Richelieu, le Dauphin and le Roi de Soleil) and reviewing video footage of alleged grinding.If allegations are largely insubstantiated, and injunction and legal proceedings will follow.  The slanderer will be dealt the punishment of watching MTV’s ‘The Grind’ until they can correctly idenitfy all 68 components of a ‘grind’.  They will then be forced to pull out all their eyelashes and categorise them into either ‘fluttery’ or ‘spindly’. 
I put it to you that such an insitute will save so much heartache and wrong doing in society.  Soon we shall all be able to roam the streets without fear of facing an illegal bogle.  no longer shall we fear being in a nightclub where some inebriated young chap decides to lock you in a ‘reverse unsolicited grind’ (this is a move where a gentleman approaches you from behind, so you can’t run, and puts his arms around you and then gyrates suggestively into your back).  Won’t the world be a better place? Won’t it make us all cry out “P’Tang Yang Kipperbang”.
and now I rest.  I feel all flushed now, and only essence of radiator water can restore my senses.
Until the next time, stay safe
Your pal in all ‘dance’ matters

When I grow up I want to be…

Dear, sweet smelling shedders

Ladies, let me ask you a question (I’ll answer for you though).  What did you want to be when you were a child, or a teenager?  That might sound like a existential question, Foucault, but I’m asking about your career aspirations, your goals, your ideas…

Let me share mine, indulgently.  That’s what having a blog is all about.

I wanted to be a teacher, a policewoman or a radiographer.  Not all at once.  Taking x rays would prove difficult in in front of a classroom jam packed with offenders. Standard aspirations though, I’m guessing. I’m sure many of you had similar aspirations, be it dentist, lawyer, a champion of human rights, a scientist or an author. 

Well then, shed enthusiasts, let me update you on a worrying trend that has captured my attention.  Whilst driving to my regular polo neck wearers meeting I noticed a mini with a playboy bunny motif on the reg plate.  This is not the first time I have noticed such an abomination.  It’s becoming an all too common occurrance.

Being a deep thinker, even beyond that of the French Philosophers of the Enlightenment (this one’s for you, Descartes!) I found myself thinking about the meaning of this.  We all know that we choose motifs and emblems that in some way have a personal resonance, that speak of some value, commitment or principle that you hold dear.  Or perhaps a motif to the world about the way in which you wish to be seen. 

This stationary lends gravitas to any letter or essay.

So, what is it about playboy that young women aspire to?  What values does this reflect about things that they hold dear?  What can we assume is the personal resonance of the motif to the modern young lady, so much so that it would compel a young woman to seek out a personalised reg plate specifically with the bunny on? 

Is it being seen purely as a sex object?  Being subjugated?  Being essentially a prostitute in a leotard?  And when did it become OK for children to wear playboy watches and t-shirts? What parent in good conscience could ally buying their 10 year old daughter a playboy bed spread?  “OOh, I hope this will help them be seen as a sexual object only”.  When did the playboy bunny become something that we want to aspire to?  When did the valuing of women on their sexual subjugation become de rigeur?  Why can’t we celebrate scientists, poets, artists, lawyers, nurses rather than hookers?

If you work really hard and study for your exams, you might get to have sex with this man!  Just think!

What next can young women look to for their dreams?  Crystal Meth addicts, Smack addled street walkers, benefit cheats?  Perhaps one day you can hope to order a reg plate with crossed syringes as an emblem or the logo of the local social services. Maybe just a crude drawing of a penis. 

Until that day, I can only dream.  


Call Antiques Roadshow!