Bah Humbug II

Dear Dobson,

Christmas Eve is upon us and instead of getting ready to go out and party, as was my intention, I am in bed bubbling in my own menses.

As you know I am not a big fan of this time of year, or indeed any time of year that seems to force reflection onto those of us who’d rather not fucking reflect.  Perhaps you could send ‘Ray’ to see me so he can dispense some of his panto magic?

Christmas and the inevitability of another cunting new year seem to have whipped things up into quite a frenzy on the dating website.  You can smell the desperation heavy in the air, nostrils virtually raped from the heinous combination of too much Lynx masking the stench of several days worth of sweat. 

I have received much mail from Mr ‘I Don’t Want To Be Alone Over The Holidays’, but there was one message which stood out from the rest.  It simply read:

“would you be willing to sleep with me for a grand???”

Now, if he’d used a capital ‘W’ to start his sentence then he might have been in with a chance, however, his lower-cased opening gambit horrified me.

I will never undervalue myself again.

Christmas commences for real when the boys return to my bosom tomorrow.  Until then it’s me, the duvet and a fucking mince pie.

Frankie

Winding Doon

Dearest Frankie,

Oh, how I have missed you and our spiritual home of bloggage.

An unfortunate accident with my laptop and Microsoft's strange security measures had curtailed my entries, but I took a lot of joy from reading your last two blogs.

I have decided to batten down the hatches now and resume all things in the new year.  Despite crippling tiredness I still cannot sleep properly and my face looks like a bag of spanners. It's all about self-preservation, innit.

What was your highlight of the week I hear you cry!

It's a close run thing between:-

A.  Being in an all day Pantomime Workshop with fifty-five Year 8 children.

Funny as fuck. The guy running it, Ray, has worked with us before and is bloody brilliant. Hilarious, jokes going over kids' heads, awe inspiring. Got us all up doing stuff. I nearly knocked a child out with my bingo wing whilst dancing 'Gangam Style'.....

B.  Writing a list of 'People I would like a Go On before the world ends'.

Obviously the world did not end. However the list was comprehensive and involved several of us ladies at work going through Top 100 lists, with pictures on the internet (oh yes, we were thorough) and picking / rejecting at will.

Those poor bastards who didn't make the cut, eh?

The events that didn't make my top two of the week(s) include:

• No one who was leaving school actually turning up to do their speeches.
• The bun fight for seats at son's nativity play.
• A period that was two and a half weeks late, but still gave me all the joy of a normal one for those two and a half weeks, then made me feel like fainting in the middle of Westfield Stratford when it actually came.

Incidently, it was Moron Central in said shopping centre. What you need to do is look completely the wrong way when you are walking, or just text people as you walk. Then barge really quickly into anything that happens to be passing. Or, as one delightful family did, fill up a whole passage taking a photo of you all fucking shopping in a fucking mall.  What ever happened to taking your family out for a real fucking day out, then capturing it for prosperity? Morons. 

And breathe.

Peace and love ma chérie.

Yours

Dobson

They Call Me Mimi

Dear Dobson,

Unfortunately still in my consumptive state I have slowly evolved into a rather unsightly, overweight version of Mimi from La bohème.  I remain convinced that Mimi's calorific intake was nowhere near the thousands mine is, nor did it involve Maltesers.

My grandmother always maintained one should feed a cold and feed a fever, or something, but somehow this good, old-fashioned advice doesn't seem to be working for me.  I feel like a turkey so full of self-loathing it's fattening itself up for Christmas.

One might think that being laid out with a lingering virus could be a good thing; an opportunity to catch up on TV, e-mails, masturbation and online shopping / dating (same difference).  The trouble is, the longer the illness persists, the less inclined I feel to do any of the above.

Anyway, my masturbatory days may well be over now I've discovered the delights of 'Diamond Twister 2' on my phone.  It offers the same titillation and short-lived excitement as a wank, but the bonus is you get lovely affirmations whilst playing; 'Awesome', 'Great' and 'Fantastic' are just three of the things I've been called this evening.  It would seem I have to rely on machines for everything.

I may have to shower tomorrow, the smell of carrion is strong in my room.  I can't wait for the day that I can leave a 'scratch and sniff' offering on my dating profile - that will definitely separate the men from the boys:

"My photo is on my profile so you can see what I look like. I am friendly and easy to get on with. I am also bright and intellegent [sic]. I like travelling and cycling and computers. I have been single a very long time."

I wonder why?

Frankie

The Great Escape

Dear Dobson,

In homage to your conjunctivitis situation at home, I have come up with a tenuous top five eye related songs:

1. The Man With The Gunk In His Eyes – Kate Bush
2. Can’t Take My Gunky Eyes Off You – Andy Williams
3. Them There Gunky Eyes – Billie Holiday
4. Gunky Bette Davis Eyes – Kim Carnes
5. Smoke Gets In Your Gunky Eyes – The Platters

It is good to have you back.  I’m sorry to hear you’ve been up against it, but pleased that blogging took preference over marking.  This should always be the case.

I was out whoring again last night – sorry, I mean dating – After an initial attempt to flee at around half-four and failing, I decided the only way to get through the rest of the evening was by consuming more wine than the self-absorbed bastard I was with.  I believe for every one glass he imbibed, I had three.  That ratio even impressed me.  Skillz.

So delusional was he, I believe he thought I was gazing across the table at him, giving him the big come on, little did he know I was actually in a self-induced coma by that point and every egotistical word leaving his lips sounded a bit like this:

I even called him a ‘pretentious twat’ but he failed to be insulted or offended by anything I said.  Earlier in the day I thought drinking pints and littering our conversation with the word ‘cunt’ would put him off.  It didn’t.  Perhaps I should have taken a leaf out of your book and ingested something toxic.  Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

I finally managed to escape around half-nine.  Never in my experience had the sight of the 381 bus pulling up at London Bridge brought such joy.  I was that happy I almost cried.

On arriving home, after pissing myself ten paces from my front door, a telephone conversation with my Nan turned out to be the most satisfying part of my day.  Pissing myself came a close second.

In other news I think my virus is finally abating.  I’ve been living on Nurofen Cold & Flu; a wonderful bit of medication but it literally dries you up from the inside out.  Everything has been so arid self-abuse has been nigh on impossible without the use of a decent lubricant.  I’ve discovered orange curd works well.

Frankie

PS.  Keep the Scando jersey faith comrade.  Tak.

Blue Arsed Flea

Dear Frankie

I am indeed the Blue Arsed Flea of Nunhead. Don't want to bore you with the details but it has involved various emergency doctor appointments, gunky child eyes and general running aroundage.

I have been bringing home a bag of marking everyday for a week. The fuckers are on holiday. Every day. They are probably festering in the bag, wondering when the lazy cow that put them in there will take them out and mark them.

I know not the answer, but suffice to say they make a lovely door prop.

What's been your highlight of the week Dobson, I hear you cry?  In a fun packed week it has to be eating something so toxic Friday lunchtime that I was openly breaking wind in the office. It was bouncing into the corridor and surely reached the 100 plus young men praying to Mecca in the drama studio.

I hope they saw it as a good sign.

Off to dig out my Scando jersery for The Killing Fest later. Tak.

Dobson Lund. xxxx

Come Close For I Am Weak

Dear Dobson,

I've had a lurgy relapse, so just a brief missive from my sick bed.  Amidst the fug of painkillers and honey and lemon I received a lovely mail via the dating website today.  It simply read:

"3 inches longer than normal"

I assume he was talking about his cock, though judging from his picture it may well have been his nose.  He was an odd cross between a Hobbit and Antony Worrall-Thompson.

The pickings are rich out there. 

Time for a wank, then a sleep.

Frankie

Frankie's Inferno

Dear Dobson,

December has arrived with a vengeance, there is no denying it.  Despite having the central heating turned up to ‘inferno’ my feet are still like blocks of ice.  I am chilled to the bone like a skeletal eighty-four year old.  Today’s purchases reflect this:

1 x Trendy fleece lined hat

2 x Pairs thick ‘winter’ socks

1 x Mug for hot ‘winter’ drinks

You’ll be pleased to hear my trip to the surgery was exactly as anticipated (this satisfied the suppressed GP in me greatly).  I was informed I had a ‘nasty virus’ and was prescribed some strong painkillers to help with the muscular aches and pains.  They are brilliant with a glass or two of wine; a bit trippy but nothing too freaky.  I’m going to save some for my next night out.

Entertainment at the surgery was top notch; in fact, it was a bit of a Bermondsey Revue.  First on we had the young lady complainant in her nightwear / Ugg boots combo...  Did she really think her pyjamas would lend a certain gravitas to her argument and encourage the Nazi receptionist to take her more seriously?

Following on from this we had the exhausted looking mother, nasally whining the names of her children alternately...  ‘Sean’ and ‘Sian’ didn’t give a shit that their mother looked as if she was about to give up on life as they wreaked havoc with leaflets and the automatic doors.  Bless.

From now on I’ve decided I might drop in once a week for fun, just to see who’s on the bill for that day.  I weep for humanity, I really do.  Whatever happened to dignity?

Anyway, I’m off to make myself that hot drink.  It’s at times like this I wish I’d thrown my own dignity aside during the autumn months and ordered a Slanket...

Frankie

PS.  As you will deduce from my bloggage, I am at home and not out having steak as planned.  I cancelled date number two yesterday.  I am now considering my visually challenged admirer.

Going Viral

Dear Dobson,

I am sorry to hear the filthy cur has launched a full-on attack.  He is a cunt.  I hope the magic pills will force him to release his locked jaw and give you some respite.

On top of the psychological shit, the physical never helps.  I am also suffering from something 'viral' - at least I've little doubt that's what the doctor will describe it as when I attend my 2 o'clock appointment this afternoon.  I fucking hate going to the surgery; still I've procrastinated about it since last Friday's sweat-fest so perhaps I should simply bite the bullet and get on with it.

After missing the first two series, I have finally taken your recommendation on board and started watching The Killing.  You know me so well Dobson.  I am enjoying watching people who cannot relate to anyone except corpses, it's right up my strasse (that was for our German friends) and I completely understand why it's on your list of good things.  Speaking of your list, there are many more things to put on it but I know the Black Dog obscures, blinkers and places seeds of doubt.  I reiterate he is a cunt.

Date number two has been arranged for Monday.  Dinner this time.  Second dates are very much like the second viewing of a house; a real test to see if all the things that impressed you first time round still do.  An opportunity to check for subsidence, dry rot, dodgy wiring and rising damp.  Although a bit of dampness could be perceived as a good thing on a second date.

In the meantime I am still receiving 'interesting' (read soul-destroying) mail on the dating website.  I received a gem from a chap whose profile picture shows his one good eye looking at you, while the other eye appears to be looking at something over your left shoulder.  All credit to him, he wrote a very nice mail, but alas there were more pictures to peruse...  The one showing him wearing a set of emerald green silk pyjamas made my eyes bleed.  This is my life.

Frankie

Make Like David

Dear Frankie

... The Hoff also made it big in Germany. I reckon we are onto something....


Well dear heart I have been up since half 4 and so am downstairs, cup of tea in hand.  Went to docs yesterday and myself and the pills are reunited once more.

To add to the Dog I also had a bit of a viral thing going on, what my gran would call 'A bit of a chill'.  Had to bail out of a training day as my head was bobbing up and down like a balloon on a stick, my nether regions were nipping and everything sounded liked my ears were wrapped in cotton wool.

Tried to make a list of good things whilst lying awake at 3.58am. The rules are you are not allowed the 'obvious' e.g. your kids, health etc.

1.  The Killing is back on.
2.  I managed to get into a size 12 bottoms.
3.  I accidently bought a size 10 top from Primark, and bizarrely it fitted.
4.  It's Thursday.


Sadly my state of mind meant that I was able to negate all of the above, plus add lots of other negatives. It was then that I realised that I had to get up.

1. Too tired to watch it.
2. There is a lot of muffanage.
3.  It's stretchy.
4.  Oh god. Two more days of work.

Etc, etc, etc.

Until next time mon cherie


Dobson
xx

 

I'm Gonna Make You Sweat

Dear Dobson,

I hear you loud and clear regarding the arrival of the black dog.  He's obviously doing the rounds.  I can smell him lurking, damp and mangy...  He'd better hope I don't see him, otherwise I will be compelled to kick his filthy head in.

At the moment I am listening to Derek and Clive 'The Pope gives me the horn...' - it brought you to mind for some reason.

You'll be most disappointed to hear there was no anal action on last night's date.  I've decided that either I'm peri-menopausal or I have flu.  I arrived at London Bridge Station heavily drenched in my own sweat - not a good look for a first date.  Walking along by the river chatting was fine but whenever we went into a bar or pub the deluge started again.  I was like a whore in church.

In spite of the above he wants to see me again.  Either he liked the way I looked as I perspired or he's taken pity on me.

A day of alcohol ingestion awaits.  It'll kill or cure.

Frankie

PS.  There are two people in Germany reading our shit.

Down Boy

Dearest Frankie

The big black dog is sniffing around. Fucker.

That is all.

Dobson x

Fiiiivvveeee Gooollleeddd Riiiinnggg (Pieces)

Dearest Frankie

All together now.

2 x Tins Chocolates (Roses / Heroes)
1 x Christmas Pudding
1 x Jar Goose Fat
1 x Cranberry Sauce
3 x Advent Fucking Calendars
2 x Disposable Roasting Tins

And may I add my "Random Woven Charity Bag" I bought in a Sainbury's Express today.

I also bought a "Fat bird's low everything" Chicken Sandwich. I sat in the rehearsal rooms at The Old Vic and worked out my propoints on the Weight Watcher App whilst talking to 4 drama teachers about their drama school experiences.  The worst by far was the poor cow who had to do a week in role whilst at E15. They had to camp out as sort of 'Crucible' characters and make cabbage soup, or summit. It sounded proper wank. She also said they had a "Our Country's Good' one where she got so sick of digging ditches etc that she pretended to have an eppy so they would 'arrest' her, take her to the 'jail' where she could have some fucking peace and quiet.

I really liked her.

I also loved the bird taking the workshop.  She seemed very articulate, knowledgeable and talented. Despite this I still liked her. And she was about my age with 2 small kids.  She also dropped in the following..

1.  She writes childrens' books
2.  She did her yoga teaching training in India
3.  Her small scene in 'Skyfall' was cut out.

I'm lucky if I put my knickers on the right way in the morning. 

Christmas is passing me by to be honest.  I'm looking at it as a bit of a rest.


Can I suggest for the date that you make a 'Bushtucker Trial' with the 7 items.  'Up yer Jap's Eye' is a ratings winner for me.  I'll let you decide on the rules...

Big love

Dobson x

Bah Humbug

Dear Dobson,

I hope, by the time you read this, your piss has returned to its normal colour and is no longer pink.  In my view, that is the most exciting thing about beetroot.  Having consumed vast amounts during pregnancy number one it really doesn't thrill me like it used to back in the good old days.

Ephiphanies are wonderful!  They come knocking in the wee small hours of the morning and reveal things your subconscious has been squashing down forever and a day.  Of course it tends to be stuff you knew all along, but I think the epiphany arrives when our conscious mind knows we can cope with the revelation.  Or summat.  That dose of cod psychology will be £50 thanks very much and yes I do accept PayPal.

I did the 'big shop' today.  It was a bad idea, though I don't think it's ever a good one is it?  In my vulnerable state of feeling a bit poorly I was unable to resist being drawn into the black hole that is Christmas.  I purchased the following token items in the hope that some good, happy, yuletide vibrations might rub off on me:

2 x Tins Chocolates (Roses / Heroes)
1 x Christmas Pudding
1 x Jar Goose Fat
1 x Cranberry Sauce
3 x Advent Fucking Calendars
2 x Disposable Roasting Tins

The vibrations didn't rub off and I feel like an arse for buying into it.  Whoever invented Christmas should be crucified. 

I've no doubt the goose fat will come in handy at some point.  I have a date on Friday.

Frankie

Beetroot

Dear Frankie

I fear for the Birdhood, I really do. I have had to hide a copy of The Observer Magazine as there are pictures of wee girls being circumcised. Fucking barbaric. I have hidden it under a pile of papers in case I see it again.  I feel it even more acutely as Mia grows older and is finding her own little way in the world. I felt protective before but now I would literally kill anyone who crossed her. It would be a full on bitch fight. Removal of organs with a blunt object and everything...

The last thing we need are more shitty ads around The Black Dog's Party Season....

I was talking to Julia the other day. I had 2 epiphanies.

Number one.

I have had enough of secondary school teaching. Period.

Number two.

I miss my children.

That is the basis of all that I am doing right now.

I was also musing, 2 and a half miles from you, at 3am this morning how wrong it was for me to go back to work, in that environment, back in January. I was way too ill. I shouldn't have been allowed. It made me sicker.  Obvious stuff but it hit me like a ton of bricks this morning.

Onwards and upwards dear heart.

I have discovered the delights of fresh beetroot. Stains and all.

Peace and love.

Dobbers xx

Saturday Special

Dear Dobson,

As sadistic as it sounds it’s perversely satisfying to have a fellow member in the ‘4am Terror Club’.  At least I know when it happens tonight, which it inevitably will, instead of focusing on feelings of solitude and loneliness, I can spare a thought for you 2.5 miles up the road going through the very same shite.

I was out and about in that London today.  For all its misgivings I love the place; a stroll along the South Bank, a crappy juggler of fire outside Tate Modern and a chilly, autumnal picnic in the gardens of St Paul's Cathedral.  People come from far and wide to see this stuff.  I’ve little doubt the boys are sick of me telling them how grateful they should be that they have it on their doorstep.  When I hear myself talk like that I feel I’m slowly turning into my father.  Better that than my mother – but there’s a whole train of thought I don’t fancy embarking on this evening.

Whilst undertaking the unbelievably long transfer from the Central to Northern Line at Bank today I noticed on a poster that Helena Bonham-Carter will be playing herself a.k.a. Miss Havisham in a revamp of Great Expectations.  To be honest, the only competition she could have had for the role was me...  Let’s hope it’s an improvement on her abortive attempt at Mrs Lovett. 

I also seem to have become slightly obsessed with the outrageous levels of sexism being bandied around in the name of Christmas advertising.  Given my earlier reference to the Asda Christmas advert (see The ‘C’ Word – 6 November) I am equally horrified by the offerings from Tesco and J Sainsbury’s:

Sainsbury’s show a ‘busy’ mother who, seemingly flustered, goes to sneak a mince pie in the kitchen (maybe the sub-plot is she’s bulimic?).  She finds the box, the excitement mounts, in fact she looks as if she might be slightly wet at this point...  BUT OH NO!!  Crashing disappointment as she reveals an empty box.  Who ate all the pies?  Her fat twat of a husband.  Did he think of replacing them?  No.  Did he think of letting her know he’d forced each and every one of them into his mouth?  No.  Is he a selfish cunt?  Yes.  As an act of revenge I’d buy two boxes; one for me to consume all to my feckin’ self along with a bottle of Cognac, and half a dozen to shove into every available orifice my husband possessed.

The Tesco offering shows a black family (oooh, get them!).  Mum is making Christmas dinner in the kitchen on her own.  She’s sweating like a rapist – flustered doesn’t even cover it.  Cut to the rest of the family ‘relaxing’ in the living room.  You can feel the heat from the roast potatoes, the steam from the vegetables...  You feel her pain, how undervalued she is by the thoughtless feckers she shares her life with.  Just when you think she’s about to grab the carving knife and massacre the entire family, Dad arrives!  Woohoo!!  He’s got Champagne or Cava (can’t remember which but it might be significant).  He passes Mum a glass with a winning smile and all of a sudden she doesn’t want to kill him anymore.

The Suffragettes are all spinning in their graves right now.

Frankie

Missed ya babe (And I don't wanna miss a thing)

Dearest Frankie

I have been struck by what I can only describe as 'toofuckingtiredistis' and all attempts to blog have been thwarted by falling asleep... I have missed it though and so I am treating myself by blogging BEFORE I go to work. *Up here for thinking and down there for dancing*.

I enjoyed the poetry and the chance to once more mention Teddy Hug.  We love the mad bastard.  More please!

I am plodding on, although I fecking well did my ankle in yesterday dashing from work to London Bridge.  Well peed off. I am also waking with a mass-ouff crick in my neck most mornings, plus I am joining you in the '4am Terror Club'.

I have come to the conclusion that it's the end of the line with me and teaching. 20 years. 20 years. I feel nothing for it all at the moment, bit bored, annoyed, sick of being a metaphorical punchbag for teenagers, and a bit for the government.  Even though the stand up terrifies me, it takes me away from it all for a bit. I can totally see why you perform. Jizz Academy awaits young lady!

We have been told to wear yellow and / or spots today for Children In Need. Acne and jaundice?

FFS.  It'll be chaos.  We are dooooommmeeedddddd!

Hope I can get back on tonight for more rambling. Mia is greeting. I haven't dried my hair yet. It's 6.24am. (I think I will ignore her - it that bad?).

See. I feel better already.

Love and peace.

Dobson. x

Flying Rats

Dear Dobson,

It has been a while missus.  It's not been the best of times, hasn't been the worst either, but I feel I could be doing with a big dose of that stuff they call 'clarity'.  I imagine this is what it's like taking a shitload of valium every day - but without the comfort of knowing you're feeling this way because you ARE taking valium every day!

I can't remember the last time I had a full, uninterrupted night's sleep.  Every night I wake with a sensation approximating terror, feeling as if there is some kind of demon sitting on my chest suffocating me...  Freud would have a field day with this shit.

In addition to this I am waking early.  This is due to the tenants that have taken up residence on my window sill.  The flying rats of South East London seem to think my windows are more special than others in the neighbourhood.  I don't know what the allure is, perhaps it's my scent, but I wish they'd all fuck off.

A friend of mine who studied chemistry told me to put bicarbonate of soda out for them.  Apparently it makes the pigeons' stomachs swell and explode - then the vermin makes its way up to pigeon heaven.  I tried it and it seemed to work, it was as if they knew the dangerous properties of the white powder and avoided my window sill.  I think that initial dusting has now been blown away / erased by the weather and a re-application is needed.

I only saw one dead pigeon a few weeks ago.  I wondered whether I had become a pigeon killer...  In homage to the fuckers, I wrote a poem:

Ode to Pigeon

Pigeon with your pink blush, beady eye
Why is it you choose to torment on my windowsill?
Feathers rustling as the dawn is breaking
Cooing and wooing, brazenly mating
Your early morning antics don't endear you to me
And given you're vermin I should poison thee
Take this poem as a formal notice of eviction
Or I might be forced into taking drastic action...
*buys gun*

I know, I know.  It's as if Ted Hughes is still alive...

The whole pigeon debacle also reminded me of this:

His is better.  More succinct.  And anything in French or Belgian always sounds more meaningful, intelligent and profound.

I miss your musings.  Please rescue me from filling this space with mine.

Frankie

Try The Sleep Thing

Dear Dobson,

Unfortunately your Christmas scenario seems all too familiar for some reason, it strikes the 'famberley' (dis)chord in me...  The more I question whether I'm related to folk like that, the more I know it to be true.  My mantra at the moment seems to be 'I'm a good person, I'm a good person'.  I'm clinging to it by my recently trimmed fingernails.

Currently listening to Lily Allen's 'Who'd Have Known' (aka Five O'Clock In The Morning), because it's almost that witching hour.  I have no desire to be awake at this unearthly time of day, but my brain seems to have made an autocratic decision as to whether we're sleeping or not.  My brain can be a real arse sometimes.

It reassures me that many of our great poets, artists, peformers etc. were tortured souls like me.  What doesn't reassure me however, is that I have done very little, if any, work to fuel my own notoriety or infamy.  Fuck!  If I were to die tomorrow, there would be nothing to remember me by. 

In order to gain said 'fame' I think I need to get a 'predicament' and get myself onto Jeremy Kyle.  I'm thinking heroin might be a good place to start?  I embrace the idea of his smug 'Daily Mail' face telling me what I need to do to magic my life better.  What a shitecunt he is.

Right.  I must attempt the sleep thing again.

Frankie

PS.  If I die tonight, set up a fund or summat.  Kelly Jones from the Stereophonics must be involved, as must Hugh Jackman...  Oh, and Daniel Craig...  Oh, and etc. etc.

TV ads as it actually is...

Dear Frankie

I think there is some mil-age in this. I feel certain that the vile and anger we feel towards the selling of twattery could somehow reap its reward.

I'll start the ball rolling.

A family.  Mum, Dad, 2 boys, 2 girls. All smiling happily round the fireplace, Christmas lights twinkling.  Camera pans in to Dad as if he is putting firewood into the burning flames of the glowing fire... But wait... It's money. It's £50 notes. The fucker is burning money. And the kids. They aren't even looking at their gifts.... they are breaking them, chucking them into a pile with the others. The wife is on her laptop. She is facebooking her husband to tell him she is pregnant again. The husband pretends to have a fit.  They all laugh.  Camera pans out to the sounds of Dana.

"Living off others. It's not just for Christmas..." (Think we could get a cut price Caroline Quentin or at a push Tess Daly to do the voiceover).

The End.


On a lighter note, I am fecking relieved that I got through last night and am so grateful for the support and love in the room.  Rock on!

Looking forward to your next blog.  Off to Fat Fighters now.  Fighting the good fight.

Big love

Dobbers  xxxx

The 'C' Word

Dear Dobson,

All my well intentioned ideas of a run this morning have again fallen by the wayside and I am now in bed drinking the miracle that is tea.  I swear it has magical properties as the mild hangover I woke with has, at last, started to abate.

I also have Jeremy Kyle on for background noise.  It raises my spirits and makes me feel like I'm a decent enough human being, like I'm doing something right in this God forsaken existence of ours.

I wanted to blog and congratulate you on your stand-up début last night.  I felt a huge surge of pride and admiration for you.  You funny fucker.  I can't wait for the next one.

Life chez Frankie has been a bit of a rollercoaster of late.  I think it's symptomatic of the nights drawing in.  The chill of winter is waiting just around the corner, like a South-east London mugger, and I'm dreading the prospect.  The arrival of the Black Dog at some point feels painfully inevitable.

On top of that we're not even a week into November and all the Christmas shite has started...   To quote a good friend of mine, it makes me incandescent with rage.  How on earth in this day and age can advertising taglines like this be justified?:

'It doesn't just happen by magic, behind every great Christmas there's mum and behind mum there's Asda'

At which point the camera pans to a smug looking man holding a glass of booze, quietly pleased he's got away with doing feck all...  Cunt.  The tagline should be 'Behind mum, there's a pissed up dad with his cock in one hand and a fistful of goose fat in the other...'

Hush my cynical mouth.

Frankie

Also. I forgot

And I have to go back to work tomorrow. That is not a pleasing thought. 

Pishballs.


xxx

Long time no see...

Frankster.

It's been too long for me and Blogger. All sorts of reasons. I will bullet point the main ones

• Eastbourne. Marathons and puke.
• No space in my head for anything so everything fell out.
• Halloween and young children.
• Family here.
• Shitting it about Monday night (The Course Finale. Thank fuck).

I feel your pain and wonder if Dr Cal has any room in his cabinet for me as well. I may just settle down for the winter, perhaps letting Blue Peter adopt me.

Anyhoo.  Am currently up before anyone else and "looking through my notes" (fannying about).

This seemed as good a place as any to start.

Blogging will begin again soon.  I can hear the nation breath a sigh of relief. Or summit.

Dobbers x

Inanities

Dear Dobson,

I’m currently in the boudoir with the complex chorus of Peter Andre’s ‘Insania’ going through my head.  As a genius early morning twist on this, I have substituted the word ‘Insania’ for insomnia.  Repeat ad infinitum…

I have been awake for almost two hours now listening to the London rain, trying to clear my mind of the junk that is irritating it, and failing.  At times like these I wish I had an off switch.  I could simply twist my earlobe and drift into the most satisfying sleep known to womankind.

Given that I lack such a switch I have a feeling that the day ahead is going to be a long one.  Instead of waking refreshed and glowing in a Doris Day kind of way, instinct tells me I will rise looking more like the somnambulist in The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (recently revisited thanks to your good self).  

I do think someone should have told him that wearing that much eye make-up is never a flattering look when you’re exhausted.

Right, I’ve three hours until my day is due to begin…  See you on the other side.

Frankie

Spring Forward, Fall Back

Dear Dobson,

Your day of 'Super Learning' made me want to weep for you and those like you.  If ever there were a valid excuse to self-harm I'd say you have one right there...  'This morning we will be dealing with conflict resolution and this afternoon we will be stating the cunting obvious'.  It's a shame your poor man's Tony Robbins looked nothing like Tony Robbins; given that visual stimulus some inappropriate nipple brushing at the back could have been a fine way to pass the seemingly endless hours.

Today it is my turn to have eyes like pissholes in the snow.  It's safe to say I am fairly fucked and a battery recharge is on this evening's agenda.  A lovely, but late, time on Friday night / Saturday morning and then beaucoup de gin in Kings Langley last night has broken me.

The train journey back from Watford was fairly horrific; standing room only and I'm sure I actually nodded off at one point during the twenty-five minute ride, unable to fight the urge to close my stinging eyes.  On waking from my vertical power snooze I noticed the dribble down the back of the young German in front of me and can only presume I was responsible.

I was so desperate to get home I was close to tears on changing at London Bridge.  An irritating toilet stop slowed me down there, though I confess the desire to just let it flow was strong.  I am unsure whether the need for 'immediate release' was a symptom of the three pints consumed with my roast dinner or simply my middle-aged bladder.  I don't relish the prospect of the waterworks going up the spout just yet.  Catheter schmatheter.

Is it too early to go to bed given that the clocks went back?

Frankie

The Yoof

Dearest Frankie

As days go, this was an odd one.  No real 'work' as such, just a day of 'Super Learning' with lots of activities for all. I was involved in 'Conflict resolution', which was being 'run' by The British Transport Police. I've lost you already, haven't I? And indeed the 200 eleven-year-olds forced into participating.

 I say participating. It was a bunch of 'Yoof Workers' who made them sit still whilst they barked and yelled at them, made them shout "Your Mum" at each other,  lectured them on the most basic stuff ("yeah right, if like a person, right, yeah, puts a knife to your back, yeah, then , yeah, give them your phone, yeah, cos like your phone is not your life, yeah, its more important to have your life, yeah, blah blah blah"). There were 2 transport cops there, but they looked like they lost the will to live.

At one point a poor man's Tony Robbins (see below, but not him.  Not even remotely), got up to demonstrate his Karate (his words, not mine) skills.  Poor dumb bastard. 

I wouldn't have minded but the FOUR HOURS of "don't stand on someone's shoes on a train, isn't that right officers?" CONFLICT RESOLUTION ended with a near Hillsborough incident outside the assembly hall, in which numerous fights broke out and several 11 year olds got crushed.... 

On a happier note the bird teaching aerobics tonight played a quality 80s mix. First time I have grapevined to Yazoo.

Having a Whisky Disco now.

Love Dobson x

Eye Eye

Dear Dobson,

Glad you managed to swing by Blogsville given your exhaustion.  I hope you are now lying in the comfort of your bed, all-seeing 'eye' tightly closed and dreaming pleasant things - perhaps the odd fart thrown in for good measure.

Did you know the Norse god Odin gave up one eye in order that he could gain wisdom and power?  Have you struck a deal with someone somewhere?  For the record, I only know this as a result of Googling 'Thor' after seeing the film with the boys - nothing to do with knowledge, schooling or being well read.

Still focusing on all things visual (see what I did there...) modern educational practice sounds blinkered (I'll stop now...) and frighteningly naïve.  Next time you're in one of these meetings and get the urge to draw phalluses left, right and centre, spraying obscenities all over the place, I suggest you do it.  Get it down on paper.  You could make a mint selling that shit to pubescent boys.  Forty minutes scribbling could earn you a lot of money.

I am tired but wired.  Seems to be a bit of a mantra these days. 

I think I shall retire to the boudoir with some Neil Diamond and seek inspiration.

Frankie

Pissholes in the snow

Dearest Frankie

Despite my tired, battered condition, I felt it amiss not to blog and applaud your bucket list for Friday evening.  I don't often get out, but it only takes one bar of "Sweet Caroline" for me to want to ram an entire roast chicken up my arse.

"I am, I said" makes me want to include the roasting tray.

Same old, same old, same old. We had a meeting where we discussed 'email etiquette'. Basically Big Brother is watching and he has a severe  case of passive aggression. In case any of us hadn't worked it out, "sending an email in haste is not good". Apparently we have to |talk to the person face to face.  Don't cc in anyone important." Thanks for that. Next week, bring an egg and your nan. Take her teeth out.

I took the minutes and to be honest I had to resist with every fibre in my body not to just draw big willies with cascading cum erupting out of the top. (Like you used to see graffitied into RE books at school).  Amongst my phallic masterpieces I would write like a cartoon character with Tourettes.  Then just add in some education speak and, volia! A document which sums up perfectly my state of mind during those long 40 minutes ,which I will never get back.  Probably educational too.

On the plus side my pisshole eyes are shifting towards my nose thus creating one big eye. Like a minotaur. Or Mike Lebowski. Depends on my mood.

Later Skater.

Love

Dobson x

Mid-Week Special

Dear Dobson,

Sorry to hear your evening panned out like the plot of The Exorcist.  I hope the girl is on the mend and that you've made it through another day enlightening the 'yoot' of East London.  As the hugely popular band Musical Youth once sang:

"The youth of today has got lots to say
  It's our life, it's our future..."

I'm assuming those lyrics were written before one of them went to prison?  Or was it two?

As you know, Wednesday is my mid-week special.  The one day that my trusty trio of boys are collected from school by someone other than me.  I have indulged by way of a trip to the cinema; Ginger & Rosa was the fillum of choice.  It was nicely acted if a little predictable, although I think my indifference is more to do with the fact I can't concentrate on anything at the moment.  My diagnosis hovers between ADHD and Mid-Life Crisis...

In online dating news, I received this gem from a 23 year old today:

"your probably going to get really angry at me now but im going to have to risk it..basically iv got a problem im just scared that my thing is too small iv not been with a girl yet so iv not been able to get opinions and i don't know what girls will think of it..if i show it you could you give me an honest opinion?

P.S..if your mad at me im sorry and wish you the very best of luck in your search"

I propose a response highlighting the grammatical difference between 'your' and 'you're' and a recommendation that he target someone more age appropriate with his small penis.  Before signing off though, I might share my top three guilty pleasures with him just for fun; Neil Diamond, Wetherspoon's roast dinners and anal sex (in that particular order) - on that bum note I'm offski.

Frankie

Boden s'moden

Dear Frankie

I am jealous. Seriously. I have spent the evening/early hours clearing up baby puke. Now I have to go to work.  Not even in Boden.  Wish you had come over as it would have given me a "bit of an evening".

And after the girl had been sick for the third time her first word, with a smile, was "The Boys".

My side cabinet is clear, but within the drawer lies all sorts of shite.  Take from that what you will.

Happy Wednesday Mon Ami.  x

Dobson. x

S'late

Dear Dobson,

I've had no online requests of marriage today, this disappoints me greatly.  However, I've decided to accept the next one that comes my way.  Times is hard.  On the bright side, there are 91 people out there who would 'like to meet me' - go me.

The pissed-off part of the description of your 'persona' provoked an image of you dressed as Michael Douglas, à la 'Falling Down', brandishing a NERF Gun and causing all the middle-class parents in your locale to actually defecate in their Boden underwear.  Small pleasures.

I was saddened to hear you'll be keeping your debut clean, though I am sure there will be time for cunt and cock away from the smell of the greasepaint and the roar of the crowd.

I have overdosed on Chet Baker this evening.  Never a good thing; it's like Pedigree Chum for the Black Dog.

I will leave you with some highlights from my bedside table:

-  iPod playing Chet
-  Two tampons
-  A Mr Tom Peanut Bar wrapper
-  Sore throat lozenges
-  Nail varnish x 3 / remover
-  Thrush cream

Try not to envy my life.

Over and out.

Frankie

Comedy, tragedy, over to you Kev.

Dear Frankie

I am surprised at the choice of men you have. What more could you ask for?  Illiterate and low expectations.  Always a winner.  Dear god.  It's like evolution never happened....

I am just back from The Course. Feel ok really.  Apparently my persona is "high status, friendly, but pissed off, like having a chat with someone".  No dirty stuff though. Even though I am potty-ed of mouth in "real life".  Reckon I have enough for 5 mins.


 Feel quite calm although I expect that will change in the next week....


Right. Night night.

Dobson

Defining the 'D' Word

Dear Dobson,

I agree, Sunday night does have the tendency to loom like a portent of doom...

Though I must admit, for me, there is a tinge of relief in there somewhere.  Monday to Friday brings order and structure.  I don't have to think about what to do because it's all pretty much mapped out for me.  I like it that way, choice is confusing.

Which segues nicely into my next point...

I have a plethora of dating choices to pick from this evening, 'Monsieur you are spoiling me...'  My quandary is obviously which to go for or should I take a sharp knife to my delicate wrists now and give up on the whole fecking game?!

*to be read in an 'our Graham' style*

Choice One - "Hello damsel, just passing by and your profile just pop up, well i dont make friends like that, but i like your profile picture..
These are some of the things I think about when I fantasize about friendship, i like good look, well am widowed and am relocating to your area soon, i want to get to know you more.. maybe we can start as friends, well you can add me on msn to *******@hotmail.com , join me on there for chat and you can send me email also there and i will email you with my pictures and more about me.."

Choice Two -  "You look finger lickin' good.Even kfc would admit they don't serve thighs, legs or breasts that tasty!"

Choice Three -  "Hiya and real lovely profile you have here and i am **** working as a telecommunications consultant in North Western London. I would really like to get to know you so much more if that's fine with you. Wishing you a lovely day."

Now that's depressing...

I'm more excited at the prospect of a pre-9pm bedtime and a quality wank.

Frankie

Sunday night feeling

Dear Frankie

... surely as a bona fide grown up person I shouldn't still have that horrible Sunday night feeling? It's that heady mix of dread and anxiety,  creeping up you from around 4pm, like you haven't revised for an important exam.  I feel rather sorry for myself, not prepared for the weekend to end, to face work. What a load of old tosh.

 I was talking to someone today who exclaimed "It's just a job!"

Agreed, but it was as difficult to explain to her in that moment as it would be to go into the tedious reasons of my 'job hate' on this blog entry.  

Especially I am typing next to my 5 year old son who keeps asking me who is married to who on "Strictly Come Dancing". 

"No-one".

*Silence* "But you can't dance with someone you are not married to".

"No not really".

*Repeat this conversation x 25*

This surely must help push the Black Dog away until at least the end of Downton Abbey.

You would hope.

Dobson

Merlin

Dear Frankie

To avoid X Factor I made myself watch 'Merlin' last night, which seemed to do the trick as Anthony Head was the most wooden ghost ever.  Even in the afterlife he still can't act. I had to go to sleep at 9am to avoid possible depression setting in. FFS.

Dobson