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.