Friday, March 17, 2006


I have a dental appointment now. And I'm dreading it. Not for the normal reasons. I'm fine with the dentists. It's just I haven't been back for three years. Out of embarrassment.

It started when I innocently decided to see if the little saliva suction tube was powerful enough to hoover up my little pink fluoride drink. It was. I just kept doing it, a little bit, every time he turned his back. Then popping it back in my mouth before he could turn round and see.

Then I realised that his eye-candy dental nurse could see everything, and was looking at me with a blank stare of bewilderment. That's when I started giggling.

I'm not normally a giggler. But the trouble was, they both just pretended it wasn't happening. If he'd just acknowledged it somehow. If he'd have laughed along with me, or asked me what was funny, or got annoyed, it would have ended it. Slightly embarrassing, but bearable. But he insisted on pretending that it wasn't happening. He just kept trying to calmly get on with inspecting my pie hole.

And it just got worse and worse. I was gagging on the cotton wool because I was laughing so hard the vibrations were dislodging from my cheeks. I was haemmoraging dental equipment from my mouth. Each time something fell on the floor, Binty McHygeine would pick it up and clean it as if it had just fallen from the sky, not even looking at me.

Eventually, I was having to tuck my legs up to my chest, in the absense of being able to fold myself in half normally, and had tears running down my cheeks.

It's not like the original stimulus was even funny anymore, but the current situation was feeding itself like some hideous perpetual giggle machine.

Now I fear it will happen again.

Thursday, February 09, 2006



I thought I'd do a Not Funny post. Because on my way to work this morning I suddenly remembered a story I heard when I was little, that I seem to remember having some sort of profound effect on me. I'm not quite sure why, so I'm going to attempt to re-tell it from a distant memory. So I've probably got the story entirely wrong.


Once there was a was a frog, who lived on the river in the middle of a jungle. He was the nicest and bravest frog there. This jungle had a scorpion, who was feared by all the other animals, because although he was small, he had a deadly poisonous stinger which could kill any animal in seconds - and he used it whenever he could.

One day, the scorpion came down to the edge of the river. All the frogs backed off - they knew the scorpion couldn't swim, and they were safe out in the water.

"Please help me" said the scorpion. "I need to cross this river. Will one of you carry me across on your back?"

The frogs moved further away, except this one, kind frog, who swam closer, and said "How do we know you're not trying to sting us?". "I promise" said the scorpion. "I really need to cross the river. Here, swim closer, and I will jump onto your back. Then I won't sting you, because if I do, I'll drown."

The kind frog thought about it, and decided the scorpion really did need to cross the river, so he swam closer. The other frogs tried to stop him, saying he was foolish, but the frog let the scorpion jump onto his back. "Thank you kind frog" said the scorpion. "You are welcome" said the frog, and began to swim.

They were well on their way, and the frog was feeling happy. He had done a kind thing for the scorpion. But then, just when they got to the middle of the river, where it was deepest and most treacherous, he suddenly felt a sharp stinging pain in his back. It quickly started to spread all down his legs, and he stopped being able to swim - he realised that the scorpion had stung him.

"Why?" said the frog. "Why did you do this? Now we shall both drown"

"I can't help it" said the scorpion. "It's what I do."

I don't really know why this story upset me when I was little. Maybe it was just that I identified with the frog, or maybe it was the horrific idea that we define ourselves by the things we do - even if they're bad - so we never ever change, even if we want to.


Tuesday, January 03, 2006


Two months and two weeks. That is how long it has been since my third post on here. My third. In a blog. You know, an online diary. My ability to stick at something didn’t even last a month. From being a fun little outlet for my own private rants, this Blog has very quickly become a testament to my pathetic inability to follow things through. A common theme.


Part 1: Karate

I went to karate when I was about 9. I went because my sister went. And Ain’t No Way I was going to end up some karate bitch to my sister’s whims, writing in agony on the floor while she snapped my limbs like matchwood.

My sister was, in fact, literally incapable of hurting a fly due to being both incurably nice and frighteningly overweight, but this did not occur to me. My sister was taking karate because Her Friend Megan did karate and if Her Friend Megan jumped off a cliff my sister would get my parents to drive her to the edge of the cliff and push her off. A follower, but not one for effort, my sister. Of course, after the first lesson, in which it became clear that my sister actually had to do more than put on the outfit during a lesson, she didn’t go back. I did. Twice. Then I didn’t go anymore. I liked it, I just genuinely felt that, after 3 lessons, I was done.

Lesson 1: How to Tie your Sash.

“No, not like that you little retard. I can see your willy.”

Lesson 2: How to fall over safely.

“Oh Jesus, someone call the doctor. His arm’s broken. No, we hadn’t started – he did it tying his sash wrongly.”

Lesson 3: How to trip someone over when they’re standing still helping you trip them over.

“Don’t push. DON’T PUSH. You’re not allowed to push. One fluid motion. That’s it. No, you’re shit. Let me show you how to do it. There! I’m the MAN. I’m a six foot two forty-five year old and I tripped up a small child. I am amazing and so is my life”

I was, I felt, now equipped with all the karate knowledge I will ever need. Besides, it got boring and it hurt when you fell. I have always been of the firm belief that pain is bad, and an indicator to stop whatever it is you are doing. I still truly believe that no good ever comes of breaking this rule. This explains my anal virginity.

Jamie as the Karate Kid:

Mr Miagi: See, Jamie-san. Bonsai tree. Cut... like so.

Jamie: OK. *snip*

Mr Miagi: No Jamie-san. You not trying. See, feel tree. Feel tree on inside. Make picture in your head.


No! See, you cut too much Jamie-san. Watch Miagi. You not looking. Fucking watch Miagi Jamie-san!

Jamie: This is hard. I’m going home. Thanks for fixing my bike and all.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005



Showers are a brilliant invention, enveloping cleansing, thought inspiration and opportunity to explore one's person all in one go.

This very morning I was trapped in the shower dimension. A nice warm, reasonably powerful shower, surrounded by a yawning chasm of freezing, tortuous, slippery bathroom, at the far end of which was the disappointing salvation that is the towel.

This six feet of space is an eternity when distorted by the warm water running down your face, and given that the towel must be followed by the clothes, and finally the going to work, there really is no positive reason for ever actually leaving the shower.

So there I was, trapped.

Experience has taught that games such as "if I ignore the warning signals from my brain, how far up does my finger actually go?" can only end in pain and vague yearning, so the inevitable happened - I started having ideas. Great ideas. Things to make my day better. To make my life better. To make the world better.

For that brief, lather-splattered moment, I was Haley Joel Osment in Pay It Forward. So much so that it inspired me to end the shower so that I could go and write it down.

Ah, the naivity of idiocy.

Of course, the second the dial on the shower hits zero, your memory is wiped. All conscious, sub-conscious and super-conscious thoughts, all ideas, memories and philosophy is suddenly and viciously replaced by JESUS SODDING CHRIST GET THE TOWEL GET THE TOWEL I WANT TO DIE WHERE'S THE TOWEL. And by the time you're in the towel, the idea is lost to the ether.

There is no solution to this. If there were, the world would be a much better place. Wars would die out and disease would be a thing of the past. Attempting to put some sort of water-resistant message board in your shower would only obliterate your ability to think as you try to come up with something to write on there, and end up drawing an outline of your hand and giving the fingers faces representing the five emotions of the shower (trepidation, longing, contentment, boredom, terror).

So here I am, again. Clean but bereft.


Monday, October 17, 2005


It turns out Kanye's not chanting "We Want Primark, We Want Primark", but instead "We want Pre-Nup", which makes more sense in the context.

Incidentally, with all the money spent on the video for that song, why did nobody tell poor Kanye that the camera was behind him?


Wednesday, October 05, 2005


God there are some scum in the world, aren’t there? You know who I’m talking about. People who just don’t deserve to be alive. People who have given up the right to the classification ‘human’. Mouth-breathing, fist-clenching, spitting, retching, bile-inducing scum.

Now, I’m not being classist, racist, sexist or anythingist here. Scum exists in all walks of life, from posh scum to chav scum to homeless scum. Black, white, yellow and brown Scum. Girl Scum. But all of them deserving of a series of rabbit-punches that leaves them unable to walk without looking like they’re trying to reach the bottom pocket of their combat trousers without bending at the waist.

I have now come up with the definitive formula enabling the identification of Scum. Here it is:

S = v/d

Where S is scum, v is volume (in decibels) and d is the distance between me and them.

To illustrate:

So, you can see that Scum are people who speak abnormally loudly (because their tiny brains are too self-absorbed and concave to appreciate that there are other people around who do not want to hear their braying/whiny/horse-pitched/estuary scum talk), and stand ridiculously close (because they have learnt that only through intimidation can they ever get any sort of response from another human that isn’t abject disgust).

PSI stands for ‘Personal Space Invader’. A phrase I suspect I got either from some ‘down with the kids’ psychology textbook, or more likely from reading the entire collection of my sister’s “The Babysitters Club” books as a child (see below). Thus, the PSI circle denotes the radius within which another person’s presence makes you feel uncomfortable. Unless this person is a sexual partner, in which in my case I probably feel uncomfortable around them all the time.

Note that the equation is a ratio, and the units are defined in a way that anything over 1 is Scumtime. One of the component factors alone is not enough to classify a person as Scum, rather than human. They may speak loudly because of a hearing deficit, or because they were raised by deaf folk, or because they were ignored as a child. But these people will have learned long ago that their propensity for volume means that they need to stand well clear of the PSI circle to avoid causing eardrum damage and inevitable bursts of violence.

A person may also invade the circle and speak quietly, and not be scum. Perhaps they need to be that close for their pathetic little no-voice to reach your ears. Perhaps they were raised by bears and need constant closeness. Who cares.

The point is, when both inappropriate closeness and volume are combined, you have Scum.

Exceptions to those who score over 1 on this scale are children under 10 and spastics. Neither of whom can help this Scum-like behaviour but gradually learn through knowledge, experience and repeated beatings the correct way to behave.

Once you have identified Scum, it is only a matter of time before you see them shouting insults at people in the street, spitting their sickening phlegm on a public walkway and talking on their mobile phone so loudly that the other person hears their voice twice, once in their phone and once across the entirety of fucking London. The only solution, sadly, is to disembowel them like the psycho Japanese teenage schoolgirl in Kill Bill.

Vive la revolution.


Monday, October 03, 2005


In the violent maelstrom that is my fragile emotional state, gut-clenching, bile-raising envy has been the one constant emotion of my life.

I realised this today when I stumbled across Log’s Blog. As I trawled through the various witty, concise, well-put comments of the residents there, I felt that blind fury I have come to know so well. Fury at my own inadequacies, in the main, but also fury at their (in my head) smug superioriority when they don’t even know me. I picture these strange, hunched figures, at their screen, scanning a lexicon of terms, thinking "Now, which one of these will intimidate SL the most?"

Back in the vacuum of hopelessness that was my childhood, there were plenty of objects of envy for me to carve a compass into my leg over. The kids who were good at sport, or were popular, or weren’t me. But now, those people who ruled the school are shiftless losers, still living with their parents and wishing they were 13 again. Now, the school’s underclass has taken over. People who were never deemed worthy are the ones who've made something of their lives. Suddenly, it’s cool to be a geek. Sport is for losers and fat middle-aged men desperate to cling on to the last few drops of testosterone. Suddenly an insular, arched wit is the prize to be sought after. Those who were ignored, bullied and despised at school are kings of the New World, where popularity is sad and freakiness is in. The worm has turned, the earth has flipped.

So shouldn’t I be on top now? Shouldn’t I be lord of my domain? Shouldn’t I stand shoulder to shoulder with these people who, like me, never achieved cool back when it was desperately sought after, but suddenly find themselves setting the standard for the next generation? But no, Envy, and all the yawning chasm of difference between me and them that it implies, remains.

And the very worst part? I know that, were I to mention this to anyone in this, the real, 3D world, they’d tell me it was “all in my head”. And they’d be right. I have had people express jealousy towards me before – I have after all a lot to be thankful for. Perhaps I shall list them, though that will undoubtedly ensure abject loathing from all who read here. But then this will only be (let’s face it) me. Basically, I am well aware that these people of whom I am in awe, and desperately wish to consider me an equal, don’t consider themselves to be superior to me. And therefore this envy is an entirely futile, uni-directional emotion that can only be a force for bad in my life.

Even right now, as I’m typing, I’m in some way trying to match up to these online behemoths of angry humour. And failing. I can feel the mild anger and resentment building towards you all.