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