I also noticed it’s too slick. I know it’s not meant to be real life, it’s escapism, I mean we wouldn’t watch Hollyoaks if we just wanted our own lives mirrored back to us. However, when I compare these sexcapades to my own, the only comparison I can draw is that something goes into somewhere, and that also happens in snooker. Snooker is closer to how I have sex rather than pornography. I’ll start at the beginning.

The first time I had sex, the curtains went on fire. My boyfriend had lit candles. Not to be romantic, but because the electric had run out and his mom was down Bilston Market so we couldn’t tell her to get any more. It was pre mobile phones. We’d taken the rare opportunity of being home alone to get rid of my pesky virginity but boys 80s bedroom curtains (you know, grey black and red patterns with matching wallpaper and duvet and underwear) billowing in flames around us kinda put us off. Also, with the sight of my boyfriend’s erect penis quivering around as a council condom slithered off the end, while he skittered between the bathroom and the bedroom with mugs of water, it’s a surprise I didn’t go gay. We didn’t finish it. In fact does that mean I didn’t lose my virginity? Am I still a virgin now? AWESOME. *updates CV*

I took a long-time friend back to mine one night while I was dog-sitting for my mom. Everything was going okay (apart from this weird growth thing on his ribs that bothers me to this day) until he put his hand on my face. Before we’d gone to bed, I’d gone into the back garden for a smoke and he’d come with me, sitting on the ground as we chatted. (Hey, we were punk, we didn’t need no chairs man.) I don’t think I did any sexy chat. I don’t have any. I have a ‘sex eye’ but it looks more like Paris Hilton’s lazy eye. So…back to the bedroom, he looked into my eyes, he ran his hand down my cheek tenderly and the most almighty stench eminated from his hand. He had put his hand in dog shit. He had put his hand in dog shit and then put dog shit hand on my face. He married within the year to a girl he met at the gig we’d hooked up at. I like to think I contributed to this romantic tale.

I’m not really the kind of girl to pick guys up, (see the aforementioned Paris Eye) but the next candidate I spotted on the bus and I took a shine to his tattoos so struck up a conversation. Yes I can be that shallow. We had a lovely chat and I invited him to a party my friend was having that night. He seemed little intense but it was going well and when he invited me to a bedroom I thought ‘Meh…free sex’ and followed. He proceeded to start his own style of foreplay on me. He sang me a song. About me. We had met only seven hours previous and he was here singing me a song about my ‘swanlike neck’ and ‘siren’s beck(oning call)’. Free sex or not, this man was going to murder me and wear my vulva as a beret. I had to get out of there. He went off hunting for a condom and I climbed out the window. Luckily, many student houses have ground floor bedrooms so I was safe and wandering the arse end of Wolverhampton with no shoes or coat before he returned. I have no idea how he got hold of my phone number but my mother had learned to pass on the message that I was out/ill/had been sectioned. The last contact we had was when he left a tearful message for me to look down an alley in a particularly salubrious district. I thought he was going to be my death day but nope. It was just a TEN FOOT HIGH GRAFITTI MURAL DEDICATED TO ME. All black swans and pictures of my face.

It wasn’t long after this that I accidentally moved to Leicester and shacked up with a very good pal of mine. We had an amazing time, doing what we wanted, ruining our bodies and basically slagging it about for a bit. (In the name of feminism.) The next character in this comedy of terrors had been procured from Po Na Na. This should have been the first warning light but I get very confused in there. There’s too many mirrors in dark corners and I have no idea where this reality ends and the next begins so I took this boy back to our hovel. It started badly and went from there. I was in the bathroom shaving my legs in the sink (never tempt fate by shaving them before you go out, am I right gals?) as I heard an almighty crash from my room where I’d left Boy. I ran in with a naked bottom half like Winnie The Pooh to find he had managed to knock over my dressing table. I have no idea how. Then in the panic he’d trod on and cracked all my CDs I’d filed carefully on the floor. With blood running down my shins I decided to try and get this over with as quickly as possible. I fell off the bed, he poked me in the eye and at one point he farted milimetres from my face and I still can’t face asparagus soup many years later, due to this. I could hear by this point that my housemate and some other friends had come back and were having what sounded like a great time downstairs. I was so jealous but it was a perfect time for me to earn points in the most emasculating game ever invented by two women. Every time we got a boy back to the house, we had to shout something so the other could hear but deliberately not sexy. For a while I’d been using the delightful roar of “I CAN SEE ‘IS KNOB” in the most broad Black Country accent possible but this called for something new. In a flash of inspiration (delirium?) I demanded “CALL ME BOO BOO KITTY FUCK”. Well the uproarious applause form downstairs was better than any orgasm I was going to get so I did a little acting and rolled over. I pretended to sleep but he kept prodding me in the shoulder telling me he had to go home and that he was locked in. Sighing and huffing I wrapped a sheet round me and proceeded to let him out. As I followed him down the stairs, I slipped on my new sheet dress, kicked him up the arse, he went flying and sprained his ankle. Did I point out he was a semi-pro rugby player and he was out for the rest of the season? As he hobbled into the living room to collect his shoes, to add insult to literal injury, my housemate and friends were dancing around in his shoes.

I never found out his name. We all knew him as Snakeskin Loafers whenever we saw him around town from then on.

There have been many individual sex blips along the way: trousers stuck on a sexy shoe, fanny farts, drool in face, monkeys looking (broke into Dudley Zoo), period starting on his face, being sick off the side of the mattress mid-throes, poppers in the eye, to name but a few. I’ve asked around if people have had similar sorts of comedy sexperiences? One now and again, sometimes someone who’s slept around a lot has had two MAX but nowhere near as many as I have. Am I bad at sex or just unlucky? I don’t know but I do know I’d rather laugh during sex than have shitty poetry read at me. You should all stop taking it so seriously, have you seen how ridiculous you look naked?

So where do I go from here, do I get myself a director to tell me how to do non-disasterous sex or branch out into comedy porn? Would you watch that? I’d never shave my legs but it wouldn’t matter, apparently girls look sexiest when they’re laughing.

Me somewhere in France circa 1995. Still a virgin but I had great thighs and a bell in my hair.

My formative years were spent in Wolverhampton in the early to late 90s.  We shall call this era, ‘the 90s’.  I was lucky enough to have about a million friends.  I was by no means the coolest of any gang but I was above average.  I think this was due to my willingness to try and get people to like me by doing ‘naughty’ things.  Nothing like setting fire to a teacher or stealing money from the blind, but I’d stand on a bin and throw a McDonald’s cup at Scott The Chod and it would garner me fans and followers.

People in Wolverhampton still have low standards of entertainment, I may add.  Have you ever seen an episode of either X-Factor or Come Dine With Me where someone from the Royal Borough of Wolverinetown doesn’t feature, giving you more ammo to mock our looping drawl?  We can’t help it.

Anyway, back to the Golden Era of Kerry: the 90s.  My friends and I were a wide array of reprobates and squares and dorks and losers and beautiful people who all had something in common: we liked Nirvana.  I have no idea how this became the benchmark for ‘I’ll be your friend’ but every one of us had a C90 of Nevermind/Bleach that can be traced back to Claire Moran. (sister of you know whom)

Every Saturday afternoon would be spent byt the Man On The Horse trying not to get beaten up by the Sharons and the Kevs but come eventide we had one common goal…HOUSE PARTY HOUSE PARTY!! *Vyvian from Young Ones dance*

The people who usually held these were in the bottom ten percent of the pecking order and their parents would be out of town or stupid enough to encourage them to make friends by hiding in an upstairs room until 11pm when they expected us to make a hasty exit.  These events were where I came into my own.  I’d be great.

At HD’s party, myself and my best cohort, Dando, started gently.  A knife in the video recorder.  A premium-rate sex line called and the phone left off the hook.  It all went to shit the moment Greg turned up.  He was one above me on the ‘don’t invite them to your party’ scale because he was willing to shit in a rubber glove and throw it over the neighbours fence.  Next thing we knew, there was a frog in the toilet, drawings of cocks sellotaped to the dog and sandwiches in the cushion covers.  HD went mental.  At the time I called her a control freak but looking back now, she was quite within her rights to try and kill us with her shoe.  We hid upstairs in her parents cupboard and unfortunately got ourselves locked in.  LOL NOPE!  There was a case of whiskey in said cupboard.  I have no idea how much later it was when HD caught us climbing down the drainpipe wearing her father’s suits.

She has never forgiven us.  I think she’s still not talking to us actually, sixteen years on.

No more house parties were held for several months, or none that I can remember hearing of.  Dando and I were blacklisted and spent most of our time in the park over the back of her house sledging on wet grass and playing with terrapins frozen in ice.  This was about the time we pierced our belly buttons with nothing but poppers to help.

Luckily, on the last day of term before christmas holidays started up, a new boy arrived on the scene and held a party.  Apparently he’d heard of our previous record so we used false names. (both using the same name of a friend of ours who does exist, sorry Jeema)  What a rookie.  We tried to be good by sitting in the garden and taking care of all the drunk people coming out to throw up but this one guy was annoying.  I think his name was Crisp and he worked in a crisp factory or he was pissed off that we were calling him Crisp and asking him what it was like to work in a crisp factory when he didn’t.  Anyway, blah blah blah we pushed him in the pond.  He was so paraletic that he didn’t even try and save himself so we had to drag him out by his leg as he lay face down like a scene from Paranormal Activity 1995.  Some how, a fit of conscience came over us and we felt sorry for getting his shoes wet.  (Regardless of the bit where he nearly died and he was now sat soaking head to toe in the december air).  We took one of his shoes and popped it in the microwave for about ten minutes.  The patented Nike Air system popped, the microwave went a bit on fire and the shoe shrank three sizes.

It was Poo-Glove Greg who was high-5ing us on the driveway as the ambulance turned up.  I have no idea who called 999 because of a shrunken shoe.  What a massive square.

That was it for the big stuff.  We were over.  There was the odd occasion where we’d get done for striking a special camping match on someone’s verandah wall or sicking-up chocolate frosting on the neighbours car or treading on a stereo or battering someone’s younger brother with a line prop but it was never the same again.  Our reign of awesome was over and we could no longer use ‘being a bastard’ to pick up boys.

I moved to London and tried my best but it just wasn’t the same.  If you fuck up a squat, it actually improves the ambience and a poo in a glove would be funded by an Arts Council grant.  If it wasn’t someone’s parents house, it just didn’t bring out the same demon Kegs. (Kegs was my nickname all through my golden era, no wonder I was a virgin until I was 17.)  The last I heard of Poo-Glove Greg around this time was that he was living in a tent on a graveyard dressed as Jesus and got trench foot.

There was a brief reunion one time around about 2001.  A roll of gaffa tape hooked round a door handle and the end stuck to the wallpaper so that it was the host who technically fucked up the place was far too calculated and a cork coaster spread with philadelphia and passed out as a snack before being stuck to the ceiling simply didn’t have the same satisfaction now I was paying Council Tax and had to buy my own Philadelphia.  Another time, I found myself at the home of a Glam Rock Legend’s daughter’s house up the road from my mother’s.  I kept getting shushed and was kicked out within half an hour.  Yes I made away with a box of washing powder, a toothbrush, a magnum of Champagne and some posh ham but it wasn’t the same.

I’m nostalgic for the days of trying to impress people with my devil may care attitude and lack of respect for others.  I snarl at kids in the street squawking or hanging upside down off a bike rack.  Pffft.  I did bigger and better and before anybody else.  Yes of course I was the first.  Every teenager is and we also knew everything.  Wait.  I’m not nostalgic.  I don’t hate these kids.  I’m jealous.

I wish I could still get away with it.  I’d willingly do it all over again yet what’s the point when all around you are telling you to ‘be careful’ or ‘come on, we should get the last tube’ and there’s no kudos or laughter when you ride a sleeping bag down the stairs and into the ornaments while smoking and getting ash on the stair carpet.  It’s all you lot’s fault.  Quit killing my buzz man, stop being a square and help me get this banger up this cat’s arse.

I was completely taken aback.  I was shocked, and then dubious and then finally settling on ‘meh, horses for courses’.  Fair fucking play to her.  She’s worked hard to achieve in her chosen field, and she’s succeeded.  She graded fifth place in her first competition.

Bodybuilding isn’t my thing.  However, neither is sports in general.  X-Factor.  Driving.  Contemporary dance.  Cakes.  Sorcery.  Wood carving.  Panel shows.  Roller Derby.  Vampire fiction.  Soaps.  Bathing.  War games.  Tiny ditzy floral prints.  Vodka.  Purple ink.  Using a like for a particular food or drink in place of a personality.  Cotton wool.  As you can see there are many things that aren’t my cup of tea but that doesn’t make the peolple that like them scumbags or whores or subhuman.

So why is Jodie Marsh doing something she wants to do, yet you’re not interested in bothering you so fucking much?  She’s been called all sorts her entire career.  Yes, she has been an attention seeker but is she coming in your house, kicking your dog in the fanny and yelling LOOK AT MY ABS DICK SPLASH while you’re shovelling the reformed dregs of what looks like a Harley Street Biffa down your gullet like a self-harming Fois Gras goose?  Nope.

Yes…yes…I know.  Such is the nature of’ ‘celebrity’ here and now in 2011AD that they are putting themselves on a pedestal (no less) but why are we so het-up about a woman doing something that we personally don’t like?

She was slated for wearing belts as a bra,  she was slated for her nose job, she was slated for getting married as part of a tv show, she was slated for having a boob job, she was slated for having ‘saggy tits’…she was even fucking slated for her work with and promotion for PETA.  This poor woman can please nobody.  I can’t say, as a feminist how many of the above statements I do support (about as much as her belt bra) but hey ho.  I don’t fucking care.  I think she’s finally happy.  This bodybuilding thing has given her something to do, to be, to like herself for.

What makes you unique?  I bet I, Kerry, hate it.  I hate a lot of things, not least of all people.  Going around, having their thoughts and their views and opinions all different from me and thinking they’re smarter because they have skills and specialities and probably loads of friends.  Does this make me better than them?  Not at all.  Oh christ of we were all the same, imagine the queues?  I’d never get my Friday Falafel on time from Mr Falafel becuase I’d have been arrested for stabbing a person for wearing the same ridiculous cape as me and the hat they crocheted themself on Saturday night because they were cold and had no plans (as usual) and probably because they were musing over whether they needed to re-do that pretentious white streak in the front of their hair.

Utter bellends.  Every last one of them.

But wait.  Who would make the falafels?  Because the man who would be Mr Falafel would be English with a great rack yet crappy hips and be trying to rip-off the free-bus and trying to get off with strangers either too old or too young or too disinterested.  So I (the one of I) would go home and muse upon this fact BUT I COULDN’T.  Because the roads hadn’t been built.  Kerry isn’t a road-maker.  She doesn’t even know what they are called.  She’d be falling through space.  She’d catch her bra on the doorhandle again but there would be no door handle and there would be no bra and there would be no Kerry because her grandparents and her ancestors and her distant lizard climbing out of the primordial soup would have been Kerry.

And in conclusion, leave people the fuck alone if they’re happy.  TXT BK xox

We had some amazing trips out on a coach with the alcoholic life-drawing teacher. (One time he made Big John do The Crab all afternoon.)  I spent several hours trying to pee into a Lucozade bottle on a bus to London and almost missed the coach back from Wales because I was buying The Offspring cds.

The Oxford Pitt Rivers Museum trip was especially poignant, not only because it was the time I fell down some steps and my tit came out but also, it was AWESOME.  I vowed to return again and it only took me twelve years to do so.

Upon the recommendation of a pal of mine, I took the Oxford Tube.  Now, the first thing you will notice about the Oxford Tube is that is is not a tube.  Nor does it become a tube or go in a tube or marry a tube.  It is a double-decker coach.  It smells less of sick than the Megabus but there are more crisp packets stuffed between the seats so it’s swings and roundabouts.  Because I live on the Oxford Tube route, I was lucky enough to be able to walk to the stop rather than hike to Victoria.  I was NOT lucky enough to get the ‘pretend to be the driver’ seat.  A stupid woman with a wolf fleece on was sitting there just being all smug and shit.  I hated her.  She was going to be my Outing Enemy.

I spent about a fortnight trying to log onto the free Wi-Fi on the bus and upon looking up, I noticed we were in the countryside, there were spring lambs leaping about the fields and THAT COW IN THE BEST SEAT WAS ASLEEP.  I hated her.  I hated her more than I hate people who ask if my glasses are real glasses.  She wasn’t pretending to drive OR taking photos of the Spring lambs.

Upon arrival of The City In Spires (nice work Oxford Marketing Board although you know tourists don’t get puns right?) I headed  to the Vaults Cafe where I had arranged to meet my  666th Twitter Follower for their prize.

He was a little more casual than he appears in his Profile Pic but we got the messy business over with, shook hands and I was off on my way again.  I was wearing these pants I’ve got that go up my bum in the back and the front.  They were doing just this as I was going down this pretty road with blossom and neat grass and nowhere for me to throw my fag butt.  I spent the entire day with pants up my arse and vagina because I think it’s illegal to yank them out in Oxford.  Yesterday I had the same problem with a pair of Wonder Woman pants.  She looked like she’d had a stroke, so I showed a passing bus.  (Another story for another time.)

Upon arrival at the Museum, I found what I remembered to be the main entrance and proceeded to find myself in a Gent’s toilets.  They’d had a little move around since the last time I came.  I found the actual entrance next to some ducks, nodded to the stairs I fell down and was instantly confronted by the AWESOME CABINET!  At this time I was in the Natural History Museum of the University Of Oxford and it dicks on the London NHM a billion billion times over.  Let’s check out the Awesome cabinet:

A pigeon brain and spine after it has been pulled out of his arse by some naughty kids

Two headed-snake

Totally cute leopard paw where a bit of it has been cut off and replaced with metal to make ROBO-LEOPARD

A Lamprey sliced down the middle or maybe a penis sliced down the middle. I can't remember. Quite similar I expect.

I can't remember what this was so let's say it's a lesbian baby crocodile.

Two headed shark. This was a little shark, not a big jar. Would it be shark or sharks? Does number of heads denote plural?

I stayed here for quite a while until the man said I was getting snot on the glass and some kids looking from the other side were upset at seeing all my teeth at once.  Part of the charm of the Natural History/Pitt Rivers museums is that they’re really old and from the days when people thought that the best way to look at cool things would be to keep them in a drawer.  They did this with nice clothes and babies.  Look what I found when I opened a drawer next to the Awesome Cabinet:

Cold chillin'

A motherfucking trout in a drawer.  Just hanging out, all like “Hey, I’m a fish, look at me, I’ve got no genitals.” and other such boasts.  You can see a bit of my scarf in this.  That is not my penis or a ghost.  I opened another:

A Bun

Half a bunny.  Happy Easter kids.  One year on Easter, Wendy and my dad took me and my brother to Chirk Castle for a walk and shit.  (You may remember Wendy from such posts as Spa Day and the hashtag #TextsFromWendy).  While we were walking round the gardens looking at the boring fucking plants and shit, we came upon a rabbit that had been torn apart by foxes or Wolverines or cavemen.  Wendy told my brother and I that this was the Easter Bunny.  We were seven and two years old respectively.  (I just had a look and the formatting of this post has frottaged itself.  Fuck it.)

It was lunch time and some kids on a school trip/borstal outing were settling down to eat catfood sandwiches.  I saw someone else deciding what to have for lunch.

Eeny-meeny-miney-mo, I'l quaff the runt wearing the prettiest bow.

I’ll put some more pictures and shit in now.

An R2-D2 before he gets his gold, often at sexual maturity.

A North Sea Pickled Dick bug.

Whee, look at me mom, mom, mom, mom, look, mom, look, mom. Mom.

An Asshole Urchin

This is an Otter. The most erotic of all river mammals.

A real T-Rex dated from about 1973 and me.

FRAGILE Do Not Touch or the crappy little thing may fall over.

And then I tripped over a child eating houmous (stupid fuck) and went down the stairs to the Pitt Rivers Museum.  I met a lady and asked her for a torch.  You can borrow torches cause it’s all dark and old victorian cabinets and shit.  (Very exciting) I told the torch lady all about the last time I came here and how I loved it and then I fell down some steps and my tit came out and I don’t think she actually gave any kind of a fuck.  I then realised that Oxford does not follow the same rules as everywhere else, because I had gone DOWN steps so I was underneath the earth….AND THE SKY COULD BE SEEN THROUGH THE GLASS CEILING.  I had a little sit down and a weep as I thought about this.

LOOK SKY. But also, amazing cabinets and shit. WITH DRAWERS.

Hehe, I said drawers.  In the old days that meant crotchless knickers.  So Pitt Rivers was like this dude who went exploring, or had a job with the army or something to do with guns or the MoD.  You could Google it I guess.  And anyway, he went everywhere and plundered and stole all this interesting tat/shit/AWESOMENESS and it’s totally just jammed in all these cupboards with millions of things in there so we can look at them and go ‘ooh the old days were cool’.  I’ll show you some stuff now.

A wicker dog wolf pig. In the old days, sex took three beasts to make a new one, and they were all made of wicker until they invented blood and fur in the 1890s.

It's a fucking totem pole isn't it? I wish I'd put a wanky iPhone filter on it now. I might do it later. (Probably won't)

The heart of a bull or a pig or a pygmy or something with nails in. Look at the totally cute handwritten label thing that I didn't read from a billion billion years ago.

A skull pendant made of Larva. How Amazing Squared is that? (where's the little 2 button guys?) Not available in the gift shop.

All these bits were in the Witchcraft Department.  I pulled out one of the drawers but can’t remember what was in there but I do know I wanted to steal it all.  Unfortunately, the gallery staff had met me before and took it upon themselves to cover all the cool shit with perspex.  My handbag wasn’t that big so I wouldn’t have got away with loads.  Worrywarts.

Stuff protected with perspex.

I was just balancing my phone and torch on the glass to get a cool shot of the witch in the bottle (One of my brother’s favourite things) when I heard cajoling and frivolity behind me.  A group of youths had been lucky enough to be brought to the museum at approximately the same age as I was the first time I came here and I fell down the steps and my tit fell out.  Two were kissing, one was texting, several were taking drugs I think.  Oh how I rolled my eyes and slowly shook my head while chuckling.  I approached the one with the shortest acrylic nails and imparted the advice that she would look back on this day for many years to come as a highlight in collective archiving.

Silly old cunt is what I think she called me.  One of the boys did that weird clicky thing and another put his hand in his pants. I saw their teacher crying later on the steps where my tit had come out.

A witch in a bottle. They must have used some sort of funnel to get her in I think.

I was slowly approaching my MOST BEST BIT.  The Tsantsa department. (Shrunken heads.)  To prepare a Tsantsa, you first get a head.  Any one will do, but a dead one will be best.  You then slit it along the back of the scalp and slowly peel the skin away from the skull, leaving you with what resembles a wrestling mask but a bit more made from a man’s face.  You then must stuff this with pebbles, put a big stone on the middle, sew-up all orifices (orifi?) and simmer slowly on a low heat for several days.  Don’t boil it else you’ll fuck it up.  Then leave in the sun to dry out after it’s contracted around the rocks, add a natty leather strap and wear about your body to parties or formal events.

Cool necklaces (Also not available in the shitty gift shop)

Honey I Shrunk Your Head (I'm so sorry)

YOUR MUM LOL

This is my favourite. He looks like if Andy Warhol was the size of a cat.

And then there were like loads of bones and spears and stuff and I was hungry so can’t remember much.  I’d been there about three hours though.  That’s longer than I go to work some days.

Dragon Teeth necklace. (Wait, were dragons real? Or was it wolves?)

Spine Belt and SURPRISE SURPRISE (the un-expected that hits you between the eyes) not available at the fucking gift shop.

Your boat got dissed.

Horses have to have special furniture because of their massive arses and backwards knees.

Teeth in a cabinet. I couldn't read the instructions to this because another fucking Middle Class child (called Ophelia) was debating some shit in front of it.

[ETA: ARGH LOOK AT THE GHOST DRUID WITH GLOWING EYES IN THIS PHOTO.  No lie, that was not there when I took it.  Call Derek and Sam.]

A bra for a baby. (My hand included for scale purposes, and also so you can admire my nails)

Alright, that’ll do pig.  So yeah, it was well fucking good and you should go.  If any of you decide to go on the back of this Cultural Review please do let me know.

I proceeded to head back to the Oxford Tube stop, did not fall down steps, tit did not come out, pants stayed up vagina, lost the bus stop.

5*, swift delivery, would visit again A++++++++

ETA :

Amazing double denim on the way home.

It’s been there for about two years.  I asked her what it was and she said it was ‘Dolly head on a stick for the coronation.’  She’s not a racist. By November 2010 she (dolly not Wendy) had developed some interesting eye-weed.  I can’t find the photo though.  It’s lost in the depths of my old BlackBerry.  It’s got dinner in it.  The BlackBerry.

For my birthday Wendy bought me a Spa Voucher because she thought I would ‘ruin their day’.  Meaning the staff.  She knows me well.

It took three months for the appointment to come around and boy was I nervous.  There’s certain protocol about shit like this that I simply don’t know.  Spa stuff has passed me by, it’s simply not on my radar.  I got my nails done once when I lived in Leicester.  Barely ten minutes after I left the salon, I smooshed my colour when I jammed my hand in my pocket looking for a lighter.

(OT, Wendy just text me.  It was a photo of Trevor the cat in my dad’s pants drawer.)

So today was the day.  I shaved my legs but didn’t wash my hair.  Batiste, thou art my friend.  I thought if I was doing it properly I’d get oil in my hair. (Never had a ‘cosmetic’ massage before.)

I had to run the gauntlet of wheelie suitcases that is known as Marble Arch/Park Lane.  It’s like if they hosted an episode of Gladiators from Victoria coach station.  But less leotards.  I nearly wore a leotard due to having NO IDEA WHAT TO WEAR TO A SPA but Wendy said no.  Just wear nice pants.  I’ve lost 2 of my best pants this week so I’m down to the newest pair with only one hole in them.  I swear my washing machine has a vendetta against me.  It doesn’t understand the command to ‘wash’ and then adds insult to unwashed clothes by putting holes in everything.  I walked past the old Met Bar and missed the old days of All Saints and the Gallaghers falling out in a haze of coke snorted off the back of a Smash Hits Award.  *sigh*

I got to the Hilton early and asked directions of the top-hatted lackey stood out front.  I think I flummoxed or unnerved him.  He was about 23 and apologised for mangling his words and didn’t make eye contact.  I still had clothes on at this point.  I made my way into the foyer and look at this:

Sorry about the grimy pic.  I think I got some lunch on the lens of my phone.  Anyway, CHECK THIS SHIT!  I don’t fucking belong here.  Look at all that marble.  It was sooo hard holding in the desire to skid along it on my knees.  There were women in traditional African dress and men in traditional Arabian dress and me in traditional 1994 Kerry dress. (GnR tee/leggings/DMs…told you I don’t belong here.)

I got tooken (new word alert) to a waiting room where there was an old woman who looked like a hand and two girls from Up The North who had just had their hands done.  Apparently people come to this place from everywhere.  I just went on my local bus for a bit.  Brunette Up The North girl mashed her nail polish as I had in the past so I helped her do up her coat.  Then she did a little cry.  The Hand Lady had gone away and she wanted her nails all nice for seeing Gary tonight.  So I stepped up.  I took her to the nail bit and touched up her hand job.  Make yourself at home they said so I bloody did.  Brunette Up North Girl gave me a kiss and it was nice.  We didn’t lez-off but Gary’s got competition.

A little tiny nervy lady turned up and asked if I wanted a drink of Champagne.  I hate Champagne but this shit is free/pre-paid for by my mother so I said Yes Please in my best telephone voice. (No accent, clipped vowels, minimal swearing.)

Here is my first glass of Champagne next to a bundle of twigs tied up with rattan in a dish made of slate.  I think this was meant to be relaxing but I just found it jarring.  Like imagine if you saw a dog in a Miu Miu poncho on a speedboat in Morrisons?  Jarring.  Beyond the ‘conglomeration’ you will see what I can only presume is a urine sample left behind by a previous client.

I tried to be polite and sipped the plastic glass of bubbly (not allowed glass where people flail and walk round barefoot) while reading Happyslapped By A Jellyfish but was constantly distracted by the woman behind a screen to my right getting her nails done while somehow also on the phone.  The general gist I could get, her brother was in the Middle East and had been kidnapped and she was on the phone to various news agencies.  WHILE GETTING HER NAILS DONE!!  And she had a fake Chloe bag.  Yeah, I know this shit.  There’s lots you don’t know about me.

A tinier lady who had eyelashes that looked like this:

came and introduced herself as Holleeeee in a voyce likeee thissss.  There was this vague gentle edge to her tone that I took on myself throughout the experience but she still sounded like a beauty-school cop-off and I loved her.  She was about fourteen and had more make up on than I own.  She informed me we were running behind due to the Qatari Royal Family (?) and would I like a complimentary Manny or Peddy while I waited?  I assumed a Peddy was a Gary Glitter (bumming) which I politely declined and asked to be made to look like this: 

Turns out I don’t know the lingo and she meant Mani.  As in manicure.  As I said…too much protocol.  This is why I’m not down with Sci-Fi or El Presidente (American President) movies.  You have to presume a certain amount to get the hang of shit and I simply don’t.  I start every new film as if I’m an idiot who’s just stepped off the boat from moron’s-ville that has no newspapers or Wikiepdia.

She took me to The O.P.I. Cabinet and asked me to chose a colour.  She kept carrying my coat and bag around which made me feel bad.  She was tiny and my bag is full of uneaten packets of Reeses and bus tickets and scissors and brown money.  I asked for black.  It was all gone.  I asked for grey.  All gone.  BARBIE PINK!!  It was available.  Yowser, I’m in luck.

She sat me down, I gave her the pre-amble about not using cotton wool (phobia, don’t ask) and we got down to business at the special desk.  She asked me if I was a student.  I did the customary HAHAHA I’m thirty (you idiot) thing and she then asked what I did for a job.  I don’t know why this came out of my mouth and I liked this girl, I did, but I told her I was a stunt-man.  Cue twenty minutes of me talking about my work on James Bond movies and being the body-double for the tram-driver in Coronation Street.  As she was massaging my hands (nice) she asked about the cuts which I always get on my hands for unknown reasons following a heavy weekend.  I told her I had to plunge may hands into broken glass for a cut-away shot in Blue Peter.  An absolute lie.  She went on to ask who had bought my treatment and I told her about Wendy.  ”Why didn’t you come together?  Most people do.” Me: “I don’t like talking to people.”  Holly barely spoke to me the rest of the treatment.

She guided me into the treatment room where I was instructed to undress to my pants and ‘take off your bra if you’re wearing one’.  You got eyes girl?  We’d both lose an eye if I weren’t.  She left, I disrobed and jammed my clothes in what turned out to be a meter cupboard, and put myself face down on the bed-with-a-face-hole with my feet dangling off the edge.  Hoolllleeee returned, and started with a weird sex-voice to talk me through the treatment.  I was first to have a back-exfoliation but apparently I didn’t need it as I have ‘astonishing skin’.  Who even says that apart from potential sex-affiliates and even then it’s an odd turn of phrase.  So we went through the motions much like a stale marriage as I drank more champagne through the face-hole with a straw.

I was concerned about the presence of whale music but luckily it was a loop of pan-pipes and sitars.  Over and over.  And over.  Until the fire drill started.  If the Twigs On Rattan On Slate was jarring, this was an assault to the extremities.  If I’d had a penis It would have gone inside me in protest.  Hoolllleeee brought me more champagne and a fresh straw to say sorry and also because I had chewed my last straw into what resembled an umbilical cord.

What followed was the most confusing massage in the universe.  It felt like there were at any one time at least three hands on me.  She moved around the bench and there was always one hand on my back.  We discovered the most ticklish part of me is my right side-boob.  A surprise cheeky reach-around and I spazzed out and punched the wall.  Are we still allowed to say ‘spazz out’?  There is no modern substitute that fits the bill to a tee.  And Wrick from the Young Ones says it and he’s Wright on guys yeah?  Yeahhh.

I felt a snuffling round my ears and I didn’t work out what she was doing but later I found out she’d took out my earrings without me noticing.  This reminds me of the time I went for one of my (many) hip operations.  I told the pre-op ward staff and nurse and my surgeon that I was on my period and was using a tampon and would they need me to take it out?  No, no, no was the reply I received.  I’m not ickish and thought ‘fair enough’ if they say it can stay.  However.  I came round several hours later.  Got my bearings.  Wendy was by my side as usual with Waitrose ready-meals to shove in my gob.  I leant myself up all woozy like to inspect the damage and there was paper pants on me.  With what appeared to be a child’s cot mattress jammed inside.  ”Hello? HELLO LADY!!” I proclaimed to the nurse.  She explained they’d removed my tampon during surgery and replaced it after with what the hospital had to offer.  THEY TOOK OUT MY TAMPON WHEN I WAS ASLEEP?!  I wouldn’t have been bothered but I fancied my anaethetist.  Moral of the story: never believe what a pre-op ward tells you.  Even that bit about you not dying in surgery.

And three-two-one we’re back in the room.  Hoolllleeeee asked me to turn over so she could undertake my facial.  She did a discreet lift of  the towel so I could shuffle round but still passed comment on a piercing only a peeper could notice.  Cheeky Hollleeee.  She commented on my lovely skin AGAIN.  I think she was trying to get off with me.  She asked me about my skincare regime.  I told her in all honesty, I take my make off twice a week at best and am constantly picking eyelash glue off.  She giggled.  I was serious.  She offered to take my make up off first.  I told her I haven’t put make up on since Saturday but go ahead and get rid of it.  She giggled again.  She seemed put out that I’ve never took care of my face and it’s mostly brill yet she cleanses/tones/moisturises twice a day and looks like shit.  I was inclined to agree but blamed the nod on a sick-burp from the fourth glass of champagne.

She finished up.  I snaffled my fifth glass and took this pic:

Then I mashed my wet-drunk manicure in the meter cupboard as I retrieved my clothes.  I trolled the feedback form with tales of bum-touching and skipped off home.  I left feeling as relaxed as the first cigarette following a Sunday morning wank.

Four stars, I could get a taste for this.  Would be five stars if I could smoke in the spa.

So.  News.  Not much has changed.  Well a lot has since the last post but that update/tell your nan shit is boring.  EXCEPT….my nans are all dead.  So for an update I’d have to go outside in the street and shout out into the ether what I’d been up to.  The neighbours wouldn’t care.  There was someone out there playing a harmonica earlier.  Every third day, the crack-head off the top floor of Coningham Towers’ girlfriend stands outside my room calling his name.  One day, when it’s summer, I’ll get a pool-cue and poke it out the window into her thigh.

The Crack-Head’s surname is Haddaway.  Every three months he gets some sort of official cheque in the post.  I’m hoping it’s the royalties from What Is Love?.  That would make the eternal cunt-fuckery at least 4% bareable.  He steals our post.  He stole my ukulele case and his bird stole some postal tampons I was meant to be reviewing.  My review: ‘I didn’t feel them at all seeing as they were 2 floors away.  0/10 for absorbency’.

I went to Dragersize tonight.  Dragersize is an exercise class run by my Gay BFF. (Every tragically single thirty-something woman must have a gay bff if she’s not to get too fat.)  He’s six and a half ft tall and from NY.  In this incarnation it’s run by his alter-ego: Sharon Husbands.  I KNOW RIGHT?  On paper I should hate this man but in real life I like him enough to marry him if his visa goes doolally again.  He’s already met my mom and she approves.  She just wants me to call someone else when I’m crying though so anyone will do.  LOLZ.

So, Dragersize is an exercise class run by a screaming drag queen with more make up than me on but no wig cause she’s a fraud.  And she sweats more than me.  And I sweat like a fat lass in the queue at Greggs.  Tonight though I had a boo-boo.  I looked great (Goth I decided was my glam-theme this week….black sequin hot-pants, cape…you know?) but unfortunately I hadn’t eaten.  AND I took a pile of Tramadol on my way to class.  For my fucked hips. About 20 mins into class, body said no.  It went dark.  All closing in.  I blacked out and it was AMAZING!  A little bit.

I went back in after I’d rolled in the corridor a bit until a child came in and looked at me and asked why I was doing it.  Then we got our free beer and then went to the pub and had dinner.  there are far more Americans than there are me so I end up saying weird things like ‘pants’ and ‘egg-plant’ and ‘Rachel Zoe’.

I met a crying middle-aged Baltic woman on the street.  She couldn’t tell me what was wrong so I directed her to the police station and she hugged me.  Then I fell off a step and knocked my friend’s beer out her hand and all down my cape and I had to give her my beer.  That bit was shit.

Look….I’m great

luv u bye xx

Ps my teeth hurt

pps if any beauty companies are interested in using me to review their products under duress, I do wear a full face of make up during weekly dragersize.  Last week I had plentiful good things to say about my eyelash glue.  This week, MAC eye make-up = achieved.  Urban Decay lipstick = must try harder.

I’ve got some new pain pills.  I’m crippled as hell so the Dr gave me prescription Heroin.  The chemist has to order it in from drug-dealers and he has to keep it in a locked metal cabinet and everything.  It’s very exciting.  So on the initial dose I was all ‘what the fuck, I don’t even feel a little bit high’ so Mr Dr quadrupled the dose.  No beating around the bush dude.  Go straight in for mainline opiates please.  And do you know what?  It really hits the spot.  I have no pain.  Well maybe I do but I don’t care about it so much.  Neither can I see straight.  My eyes are constantly crossing over.  If it’s a day where I can stay home it’s not rally a problem.  I can stay in my room watching videos of pandas on see-saws and looking up transexual porn and it doesn’t matter what direction my eyes are pointed in.  But I have to go to the JobCentre later to sign on.  On my bike.  On a busy road. Ug.  I’m not going into the details but the Dole team are the pain in my ass.  They had me begging for a crisis loan yesterday.  1 hour on a pubic phone on Uxbridge Rd.  The smell of piss and Guinness weren’t the worst part.  Pleading with a stranger for enough money to eat was the worst bit.  I foolishly told them I only spent £30 a week on food.  I should have told them I only eat Heinz and fois gras and simply can’t wash anything down without Crystal and Coca-Cola.  And Cocaine.

So I had to go to the big special JobCentre in Acton this morning.  Morning.  I can’t even say it out loud.  I’m not lazy…lying in bed until lunch time everyday.  Well yes I am.  But I don’t go to sleep until 5am.  This is the way I work grandad.  When I am in work, this is what it requires of me so I’m just getting ready for it.  Shut up.  nothing interesting ever happens before 3pm anyway.  Except for the international gate-banging championships this week just outside my window.

This is the worst blog post ever.  I’m going to get back in the swing of things again though.  Ive got drugs in me at the moment.

If I were you I wouldn’t read this.

So this has been on my mind.  I have also been punctuating the endless hours of self-sycophancy with hours and hours of Twin Peaks.  I’ve seen series one, the movie, read the secret diary of Laura Palmer and The Autobiography of Special Agent Dale Cooper and am currently ploughing my way with glee and rapture through season 2.  Can you believe it…22 episodes?  It’s like free sex and wheat free white bread that tastes like white bread and rollerskates with jet packs attached all rolled into on.  Yowser, I’m in love.

So I dreamed I was designing for All Saints when I came up with the Twin Peaks Collection.  The image of Laura Palmer wrapped in plastic would translate well to the t-shirts and could you imagine the owls/horses/BOB repeat print on a parachute dress?  There would be traffic light jewellery and everything would have an underlying scent of burning to bring the line to life.  I woke up convinced I was a genius.

Looking back on it now…I’m not so sure.

I Don’t write essays any more.  I’m too old.  I’m not going to let on how old but it’s old enough for my grandfather to have given up on asking me when i’m going to meet a ‘nice lad’ and settle down and distend my nethers to pop out ungrateful short people.  And also old enough to get beyond ‘huffity’ when I get id’d for booze.  Yeah that’s how it goes.  id’d.  If I followed proper grammar rules I think we’d end up with IDed which looks like the name of a club in dudley when all the DY1 tags were already taken.  I’m a grammar nazi by the way.  Nice to meet you.  I’ll kick you in the nuts if you mess up the ‘there/their/their’ business but i’ll send you a laminated cerificate afterwards and maybe a drawing of myself on the back of a cereal packet in crayons. (‘Should of/could of/would of is unforgiveable.  I kill you now.)

I know I haven’t got over my lack of capitals laziness but this is my little bitof techno-world…leave it out.  My little fingers are only little.  you many have guessed that from what I call them.  Little fingers.

There’s holes in this computer.  Bits keep snapping off but I keep bodging them back together with stickers which is a bit like me.  I have crappy bones and blood and brain.  Pick a body part beginning with b, mine’s shoddy.  Bladder?  yeah actually.  well, i just like going for loads of number ones.  Bowel?  This brown stuff keeps coming out.  I ought to see someone about it.  Or write to Take A Break magazine problem page.  I’m trying  to write a story for the real life pages of Take A Break cause I’d really like a grand.  Seriously they give a grand to people who have been stabbed by their spouses.  Even more if said spouse was sleeping with the grand-receiver’s moter.  If it’s the father than ding-ding-ding jackpot.

So this is my introduction.  Those ‘pishfingers’ were disgusting and I’m going to marry a rockstar.

x