The Lady Vanishes

My new friend, Ms. Robinson, recently told me she was going away for a while and would I care to pop onto her blog now and again and scribble a few words on it? Sure, I said, I'd be delighted to.

For those who don't know Ms. Robinson, you must go right over to her blog right now and have a good look round. At first, you may find her place a little unusual, for she writes in the third person. You may find that this method of communicating makes her seem distant, but no, she is simply more self-analytical than most. She does not do what so many bloggers do, which is relay a series of questions like, My cat was just run over, can another ever replace it? or, My husband's run off with my au pair, I don't care so much about the husband but I need to be at work in an hour and who's going to look after the kids? or even, I just had a job interview in which I said 'fuck', do you think I will still get the job? etc. etc.

No, Ms. Robinson has thought about a lot of things and actually has some answers to questions like: Can a woman live without a man? Yes. Can a woman have a one night stand and not give a toss if he rings the next day? Yes (I'm talking about Ms. Robinson here, not me!) Can a woman live without chocolate? No.

Anyway, there I was, getting to know Mr. Robinson these past few weeks. Well, it was all going along quite nicely. And then she goes and leaves me in charge of her blog, and the next thing I know, it's all over the news that she's been kidnapped by aliens, I mean Italians:



Unfortunately, this clip cuts out in the middle, but goes on to say that if you spot Ms. Robinson in peril or being held against her will, you should contact the police immediately.

In my opinion, one of the biggest problems in trying to locate Ms. Robinson is that nobody, including myself, has the foggiest idea what she looks like. Yes, the police have been scouring her blog quite assiduously, indeed many a constable has thoroughly, er, perused her blog. But what use are some photos of a brown eye, some tumbling curls and a nice pair of pins, when trying to find this woman of mystery? When I asked the police what they were looking for, they said they believed her to be between 5 foot 4 and 5 foot 8, with legs up to her armpits and a sensational figure. In my opinion, the police are treating this case as something of a joke, so naturally, I have taken matters into my own hands. I've had a word with my own personal psychic, Madame Sylvia, who has come up with these images of Ms. Robinson and her two Italian friends:


Madame Sylvia's artist's interpretation of Italian 1


Madame Sylvia's artist's interpretation of Italian 2


Madame Sylvia's artist's interpretation of Ms. Robinson

So if you spot this trio anywhere, even if they are just having a quiet pint at your local, please get in touch with the UK constabulary. This is serious. I know that there is only so long that Ms. Robinson is going to enjoy being tied up by those two Italian lads .... I need you to keep your eyes peeled and report any sightings on this blog.

In case anyone thinks this is a joke, it is most definitely not. Imagine how scared Ms. Robinson must be, locked in a room with these two heinous cads. She may well, at this moment, be being forced to lick ice cream off their naked skin or being coerced into performing unspeakable tricks with Ferrero Rochers.


I am sure she would like to be found, because she is probably sticky and pretty exhausted by now. So please, keep your eyes peeled.

Who's that Dog?

I have noticed that the thinner I become, the more superficial I have become too. I can barely pass a fat woman stuffing her face these days without declaring, in my head, "Do you really need that extra portion of fries, you great fat heffer?"

I don't really like the person I have become. No, I'm not that bad, I do have some, okay one, fat friend. And I also have to admit that when I see an ugly woman with a good looking man or vice versa, I always wonder what the good looking one is doing with the dog, when they know full well they could do better. Okay, okay, I am better looking than my spouse (although only by a small margin, there is not a beauty and the beast disparity such as in the union between Salman Rushdie and Padma Lakshmi, alas, recently severed).




A case in point is our neighbor, Charles. A young, well presented, good looking black man, who is a nurse. Now, he is a bit creepy, because he's always standing outside his house, smoking, and has a bit of an intense stare. Also, he doesn't have a car, which is suspicious for an American, I reckon, and I can't help thinking he has maybe lost his license in some dodgy scenario.

So anyway, recently, this woman, who my husband and I call The Stalker, is always picking up Charles in her car. Sometimes she sits in her car for about an hour outside his house and eventually he comes out and gets into her car and they drive off together. Now, I'm sure he's flattered that some woman is so obsessed with him that she is ready to ferry him about night and day like a taxi service, but still, the whole thing is wierd.

Now, The Stalker is totally non descript, late forties, messy grey hair, dumpy body, doughy face. Then, in a moment of extreme nausea, I recently notice she has started staying the night.

"What in God's name does he see in that dog?" I said to my husband. I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself.

And he said, "You act like ugly women don't get boyfriends."

"Yeah, they do. Ugly boyfriends! Okay, so Charles is a little odd, but he's still hot."

"Maybe she indulges him in some particular sexual kink?"

To which I replied, "I think I'm gonna throw up."

Anyway, I'm fighting a losing battle. It doesn't matter how much I try not to be, I am growing more superficial by the day. I do like good looking men, though the nicer looking, the more of an arsehole they usually are too. I've only been with a handful of uglies. But mostly they have at least looked presentable.

So, it's actually been bad for me, getting toned and thin, because I judge people more than ever on their looks. But the reality is, good looks dazzle and bewitch. Who can turn away from a beautiful gaze? Not me. It casts a spell. As Lloyd Cole said in the song Perfect Skin:

she's got cheekbones like geometry and eyes like sin
and she's sexually enlightened by Cosmopolitan and
when she smiles my way
my eyes go out in vain
for her perfect skin
yeah that's perfect skin

What about you? Did you mostly find your hot girlfriends/boyfriends to be vainer and shallower than the plainer ones? Have you put up with a person's character flaws because that person was gorgeous (Guilty). Are you superficial? Or are you one of those 'don't hate me cos I'm beautiful' types who is just so good looking that you are never sure if a potential partner wants you ... or just your perfect skin?

The E-Spot: Voyeurism in the Burbs

Dear E-Spot,

My wife and I have been enjoying the pleasures of the flesh with another married couple. They have a grandmother living in their home, so we generally get together at our house.

This adds wonderful variety to our sex lives. Sometimes it's me and the other guy, sometimes the two wives, sometimes me and the other wife...well, I think you get the idea.

Before you think we are a bunch of slutty kids, we are not all jumping into bed together. But this is where the trouble starts. The two gals like to soak in the big bathtub, where they can relax with candles and bubbles. The other guy and I like to start our fun in the hot tub, out on our backyard deck. Our friends are really into water, but I digress. So, what's the problem, you ask?

My guy pal loves getting up close and personal on the deck and frankly so do I but, oh, those neighbors. I've seen them many times on their deck, getting cozy and romantic (wink, wink), but now that they've popped out their 2.5 children, suddenly they are prudes. They've gone all radical-Christian and intense-GOP on us and started complaining and gossiping about us using our own deck.

It's not like we are in the front yard at noon, this is evening, in our own backyard. I didn't ask them to stand in their windows with binoculars staring at us. I put some bushes in pots along that side of the deck, but then they went to their upstairs windows. While we enjoy the fresh air, the dude loses momentum with the binoculars focused on his bum.

But wait, it gets worse. The Prude family has been discussing this with the couple on the other side of the alley, and now the other-siders are suddenly getting all friendly and hinting they want to join us. You might be saying Woo-Hoo Parteee Tyme but that wife is totally eeeenormous and confided to my wife that she has a herpes problem. AND the husband has an artificial leg and a bionic hand from his war injuries. I don't want to seem unpatriotic but I'm just not into that scene. Does that make me a bad American?

But really, how can I politely discourage them?

Sincerely,

No-tan-lines in the Burbs



Dear No-tan-lines in the Burbs,

I sympathize with your problem, I really do. There you are, your average suburban swinger, getting his nuts grabbed in the hot tub by your friend, when you feel a telescopic lense being trained on your crown jewels. It's just not fair, is it?

But, and this is the big but, as an American living in the Burbs, you simply cannot have your cake and eat it. It's not for nothing that celebrities have huge properties that are totally secluded and cut off from prying eyes, where they are free to have al fresco sex with everyone from chimps to Tommy Lee, without a pair of binoculars being trained on their arses.

I once met this woman in London, who told me that she and her husband liked to play a game when they went out to dinner. They would have the first course and then, before dessert was served, the wife would go to the restroom, remove all her clothes and then come back and take her seat opposite her husband. She would sit there and see how long it took for anyone to notice, getting hugely turned on, because she was a massive exhibitionist. Sometimes other diners were aroused by the spectacle, but usually people would get angry, and yes you've guessed it, the game always ended with them being kicked out of the restaurant.

And therein lies the rub. I know that you and your friend are only following your natural urges, which, let's be frank, are a little exhibitionistic, since you like to expose yourselves in all your glory in the tub. Why be surprised then, when you awaken the interest of the God-botherers on one side, and pique the erotic interest of the freaks on the other?

If you are hell bent on frisking people outside then, quite honestly, you really need to move to Europe. I remember in Paris, watching numerous couples screwing in the apartments opposite, with windows and shutters flung open. And I'm sure not one person gave a monkey's or even found it titillating, because in France, and in many other European countries, sex is not a sin as it is here, and consequently, watching people do it does not hold the forbidden lure it does here.

If you cannot afford a move to Europe, then you must take your orgy inside. I'm sorry to be harsh, but there it is. You have already attracted the erotic attentions of the herpes ridden wife and her bionic husband. There is no need to tell them you would rather share bodily secretions with a cockroach than with them, simply take the party indoors, draw the blinds and learn put the reins on your sexual appetites.

Best,
Emma

Please, dear readers, feel free to give No-tan-line more advice on this matter. And please, if you have a problem, send it in. Write to me at emma.theespot[remove]@gmail.com and please say if you wish to remain anonymous.

Love Is .... Sex Uninterrupted

Wierd. My friend Daisy (she is Hispanic, and I know Daisy isn't a very Hispanic name, but that is simply her blog pseudonym) volunteered to take my four year old, Sausage, away to her cabin for the weekend. Her dad also went, a cute Mr Magoo character who smokes a pipe. He adores Sausage and she adores him. She calls him her 'other grandfather' since her real grandfather lives in Ireland and she doesn't get to see him too often.

So it's official. We are now part of an extended family of Hispanics. Why is it so nice to be part of a family that isn't your own? Who knows, but there it is.



I am really feeling loved up after my weekend without the kids (Scarlett is still in Vienna).

Love Is....

Being able to shag all over the house without Sausage bursting in and declaring,"Daddy, why are you on top of mommy, and why aren't you wearing trousers?"



Love Is ...

Sleeping in on Sunday until the unheard of time of nine am!!



Love Is ....

Not having to read Sausage's favorite book: Princess Lilly and the Magic Ballet Slippers, for the 476th time before she goes to bed.

Update: Oh bugger! Sausage is back from the cabin and this morning I was watching Daisy's seven year old daughter Lola while Daisy was at work. I got so caught up with blogging that I didn't notice that Lola cut her fringe in a totally irregular fashion (it is about 2mm long in parts, 1 cm long in others). I tried to explain to Daisy when she got home that I did not realize that seven year olds did that kind of thing. Daisy was a bit angry because Lola is being baptised in three weeks and she looks like she has had a run in with some garden shears.

I said: "What about if she wears a lovely hat?"

How bad am I? Because of my addiction to blogging Lola will now look like Rick in the Young Ones in her baptism photos.

Cockroach in the Ear

I know a guy who works in pediatric ER, and he told me that one of the most common complaints he gets is Cockroach in the Ear. I thought he was pulling my leg, but no, he was serious. A small cockroach will tunnel its way into the child's ear and then start scurrying about in there. Meanwhile, the kid is screaming. The doctor does manage to kill the cockroach and pull it out, but the prevalence of the condition, I think, speaks volumes about the level of squalor in peoples' houses in Baltimore City.

Don't get me wrong, I've been there. In our first flat in the City, we had our share of cockroaches, mice and ants, but I never woke up to find a cockroach scrabbling its way through to my brain. It just makes me think that in the homes where kids get a cockroach in the ear, the floors must be knee deep in the critters. Whereas in our flat I only occasionally saw a cockroach. A smart cockroach knows that to venture outside in broad daylight is cockroach suicide, as the natural impulse of the human is to stomp on one. I once commited cockroach manslaughter when I stood on one while I was going to the bathroom at night in my bare feet. Not nice, picking that off the sole of your foot.

The house in which we now reside has a damp basement and has an infestation of pale bloodless grasshoppers who fester down there in the dark. I do enjoy crunching those (wearing shoes). Not that they are really doing anyone any harm, but I enjoy the occasional bout of Massacre of the Hoppers.

There are some creatures we will gladly kill and others that we will not. Like, I will always swerve my car in an attempt not to kill a squirrel. And yet, why is a squirrel's life more important than a hopper's?

It seems like it is easier to make these kinds of decisions in China. There's a rule that says: if it moves, kill it and eat it. Yeah, I know the concept of eating everying that moves is a legacy from when times were very rough and you basically ate anything you could get your hands on or starved. Still, to our way of thinking it is still odd. Did you know that the Chinese eat duck embryos, aborted reindeer foetus (good for the skin, apparently) and even human foetuses (due to the one child policy there are huge amounts of abortions, mainly of females. I am not against abortion, but I sincerely hope that eating human foetuses is an urban myth). Then there's your dog, donkey, horse, bull, even tiger penises (tiger penis, although illegal, can be procured if you are willing to shell out $5,700). Or what about cow’s bronchial tubes or braised monkey brain (eaten straight out of the monkey's skull)? I can tell your mouth is watering.

I am not for a moment saying that odd bits of animals do not get into, say, the 'hamburgers' of some of this country's finest fast food establishments. But if I am going to enjoy a dog penis, I don't want it floating in all its glory in my soup. Call me old fashioned, but I want it minced up, smothered in ketchup and served in a bun with a side order of fries. Do you know what I mean?

Mammal Massacre

In the future, mammals will have to adjust to our artificial environment or perish

I was listening to some ‘expert’ on the radio just now, who was talking about how, in thirty years, half the mammals currently alive today will be extinct. My first reaction was, how depressing. But then, after thinking about it for a bit, I came to the conclusion that it was a sad but inevitable part of evolution.

How so? Well, ask yourself this, in our current artificial world, what in God’s name is the point of a whale? You’re far too large, mate. Or a koala? Yes, they look very cute, but what in the name of Jesus is their function? And don’t get me started on the panda. Any animal that needs to be artificially inseminated deserves to go the way of the dodo.



I know all you animal lovers will be up in arms, but I don’t really believe that an animal should be your best friend. If one is, well, maybe you have a problem. You can’t talk to a cow, and you can’t make love to a sheep, unless you live in Wales and have a special permit. Seriously, how soon do you think it would be before your dog or cat turned on you and stripped you limb from limb if you stopped feeding it? Try it, I dare you.

And as for zoos, which are keeping endangered species alive, all well and good, but look at the animals that live there. How many are mad and pacing around like nutters? The majority, from what I have observed. And why shouldn’t they go mad? You would too under the circumstances. Ask yourself this: Would you want to live in an ‘enclosure’ the size of a prison cell, with people gawping at you and laughing while you scratch your privates or try and have a quick shag with your cell mate? Course you wouldn’t.

I recently flicked through a book called Why Men Are The Way They Are by Warren Farrell, which basically puts forward the premise that women should stop being so emotionally dependent on men, and if they weren’t, we would have a much happier society. He says that now, in our technological age, there is no need for any woman to be financially or emotionally dependent on men. To which I say, yes, I’m all for that, total equality, but feminism has been going for a mere hundred years, as opposed to the millions of years in which pathways were cemented in the brain which cause the sexes to behave the way they do. My husband studies the brain, so I know a bit about this, and it’s actually well documented that the way Stone Age people lived is more or less the way our brains are programmed to function today. It’s no accident that many women live in romantic fantasy worlds and are emotionally dependent on men. That’s the way it was in the Stone Age. In the Stone Age, if a woman wasn’t ga ga about her hairy brute, there was no way she was going to sit around a fire for days waiting for him to come back with a dead mammoth and give her a three minute fuck, now was there? Same as, why are men often violent? It is a proven fact that men don’t exhibit the self control women do when under attack, and will often resort to physical violence. Obviously, it has to do with how, in the old days, you had to smash the enemy’s face in first, think later, in order to defend your tribe etc. But let’s face it, the time for punching someone’s lights out because they’ve pinched your stash of Post-It notes is now well and truly over.

What I mean is, I’m all for men and women learning new ways of behaviour that are more relevant to our current age, but it’s going to take thousands and thousands of years for new pathways to be burnt into the brain. Got that Warren? It’s not going to happen next week just because you’ve written a book about it.

Now, humans will probably be able to adapt to the new, nature free, synthetic world we live in. But for those animals that can’t, what is the point of keeping them alive? You tell me.

Also, it is tragic that Planet Earth will soon be totally destroyed, but that’s the way it’s going, so deal with it. There are always doom-mongers saying, “This ruined planet is the punishment we humans have got for turning away from Jesus, having promiscuous sex, masturbating and looking at Internet porn.” But actually, God-botherers, that’s incorrect. It is progress, not promiscuity, that has driven the planet to its knees. And all those that cannot adapt will perish.

Do you agree?


*********************************************************

On a totally different topic, if you have any weird sexual problems, if your wife has run off with the postman or if you just have an urge to get something off your chest, fear not, I am here to help you out. Many have found sweet relief through my agony column, The E-Spot. You can too! Just write to me at emma.theespot@[remove]gmail.com and I will post the answer right here on my blog! By the way, do let me know if you wish to remain anonymous.

Rock Me Amadeus

Ja, ja, I had quite a groovy time in Vienna. This time, only ten days with mother, thus avoiding a total nervous breakdown by myself (which happened last year when I was there with the two kids for something like six weeks). She is very high energy and manic, and I am of the slacker persuasion and, like oil and water, the two personality styles do not mix. A few pictures from the trip:



When I arrived at the airport, the paps kept snapping me and saying: "Over here Posh!" Not much happens in Vienna, so I guess they got themselves a bit confused, and seeing as I was an English bird with bags of style, they thought I was Lady Becks. I told them not to be ridiculous, that you could fit Posh down my sleeve, that I was simply Mommyhasaheadache, a world famous blogger, and why didn't they leave me the heck alone? But the damage had been done to my psyche. And for a while there I lost my identity and was channelling Posh:




Eventually I found my old scruffy identity and watched a bit of the Live Earth Concert, which was broadcast outside the mayor's house (Rathaus):




My mother exhausted me by taking me to a lot of parties:


And okay, keep it under your wig, but I did have a bit of a fling with a man who wore a lot of white face powder and told me his name was Wolfgang Amadeus (a likely story!)


Then, on my return from Vienna, my husband informed that something supposedly bad had happened to a mate of mine called Dodgy. I immediately sat down and penned Dodgy a letter:

Dear Dodgy,

I am so relieved you are out of my life. I am so glad someone stole you away from me while I was in Vienna. Let's face it, you were beaten up, damaged, and yeah, maybe I was guilty of inflicting those scratches on your rear and sides, but I was so sick of looking at your ugly face. Also, you were full of hot air. I'd switch on the AC and hot air would blast into my face for ten minutes before it turned cold. What a blessing that you are no longer around.

Good luck wherever you are. I know you might turn up again, but it's more likely that you are burnt up in a field somewhere, unrecognisable.

You will always be the first car I had after I learnt to drive. I'd like to say that means you'll always have a place in my heart, but let's not get sentimental, you were just my first car, someone to make lots of mistakes in, and frankly, I'm pleased we're no longer together.

Take care,
Emma

In case no one got that, it was a letter to my Dodge Neon that was pilfered during my trip away. I'm so happy about it because that car was such a pile of crap. Also, I reckon I should do all right out of the car insurance. Sweet.

Shut in and shut up

They say feminism`s the way to go, but why bother when there's one born every minute? Take my mum's friend Lisbet, an alcoholic artist who's never worked a day in her life. All she did was pop out two illegitimate kids, and then the dad, a famous married Austrian artist, supported Lisbet and the kids for the next twenty-five years!

On the downside, the kids are fucked up. Years of seeing their mother shagging strangers in the front room has taken its toll. For a long time the twenty-five year old daughter, Nancy, had a huge marijuana farm in her room. I don't care how liberal you are, you don't let your daughter grow that stuff in the house, because, you know what, one day you're going to get busted by the cops. And of course, they did get busted. In any case, Nancy's now moved out into her own place. She's also moved on from marijuana onto Class A's.

But what I really want to talk about is the twenty-three year old son, 'Nigel'. The guy's basically a shut in.

I guess he doesn't find his mum as amusing as the rest of us. Like the other day she told us that she took a small Italian home with her and demanded oral sex. I said, "Was it any good?" And she said, "No idea, I passed out drunk in the middle of it."

Which is quite funny. Unless it's your mother.

Anyway, Nigel never finished school. Plays video games all night. Sleeps until five pm. Then has 'breakfast'. Then a spot of Internet surfing. At midnight, his mum brings his food into his room. He usually says, "What's this? This Schnitzel is underdone!" or criticizes the food in some fashion.

Well, I must say I find it fascinating that he rarely goes out, has no friends or interests or anything. I said to him yesterday, "I've got to film you for my blog. Your life is incredible." And so I started to film him. He was sitting in his semi-dark bedroom, blinking at me like a mole who's just come up out of its hole.

"There is nothing very unusual about my situation," he said. "And anyone who would want to watch a film of my life is stupid."

"Stupid, maybe, but did you know that at this moment there are people watching 24 Hour Big Brother? That there are people out there watching people sleeping?"

"Well, those people are crazy."

"Maybe, but I bet someone would be interested in you. What about if people could contact you through your blog? Maybe you could even meet some girls?" I waded through the foot deep piles of comic magazines on the floor. "I notice you have no porn. Strange."

"I am not interested in meeting girls. Also, if I had some porn I would hardly leave it lying about."

"Fair enough. Now then, what about this?" I said, opening a small wooden box he had by the bed. I panned onto it with my camera. "Will we discover that this box is full of weed?" I flipped open the lid of the box. "Alas no, it is full of those little toys you get inside Kindersurprise Eggs."

As he watched me with distaste, I couldn't help being fascinated by him, by the fact that instead of cracking up due to having an alcoholic mother, he had just shut down and was going to hole up for the rest of his life. But I'm not going to post the film, because he obviously doesn't want to make any contact with the outside world, however tenuous.

Sometimes I feel like shutting myself in, shutting up and that's it. But I couldn't do it for more a few days, unless, maybe, I was in bed with someone smoking hot, and even then ....

How long could you hole up for without going nuts?

Crazy, she drives me crazy

Believe me, my mother could walk into a job at Abu Ghraib tomorrow. The woman is ruthless. Usually, when I visit her here in Vienna for the summer she tells me I am too fat and then puts me on a diet. A very effective diet, I might add, and I always lose at least fifteen pounds.

Firstly, the weight loss program involves walking four plus hours a day. So, we'll walk one and a half hours to the Danube, usually with two kids, a stroller and enough food to feed the five thousand (but not me), because there is no way my mum would ever buy food at a restaurant. So, you've basically lost five pounds before you get to the Danube. Then she tells me to get in and start swimming. Okay, so the Danube is maybe the width of a soccer field. So I swim maybe twenty laps or until I think I'm going to faint, and then stagger out of the water. And she'll say something like, "No! Get back in! Just five more laps and you can come out and have a carrot stick." So I creep back in and start swimming. And after I've swum some more and have devoured a couple of carrot sticks, it's simply a case of walking home, getting dressed up for a party, walking another hour to the party, eating two pretzels and walking home again. In bed by midnight and up at dawn, ready to do it all again.

At the end of every summer, I've lost a lot of weight. Then I go back to Baltimore and put it all on again through snacking on cake and chocolate whenever I feel down. But for the last year I've really pulled myself together and started eating and exercising sensibly. I look shit hot, if I do say so myself. So, this time, when she saw me she said, "Wow! You look like a supermodel!" But I think she was a bit worried about what we were going to do with ourselves all day if the weight loss boot camp was not going to be operational. I suggested that we might just kick back and relax this time, but I think that to her 'relax' is a dirty word.

God she is manic. I simply have no idea how I lived with her all those years as a kid. I expect the answer is that I was financially dependent. I'm not saying she isn't an amazing creative individual. But does she ever sit still? And yes, most people would think that it is fun going from gallery opening to function at the Serbian Embassy until the early hours of the morning, but unless you are an alcoholic, how much free booze do you actually need? And I really think I might be getting old, because I find myself thinking, "Should Scarlett (age 6) really be out every night until midnight?"

And now my mum is saying we are all going on some bus trip to a gallery in Salzburg on Saturday night. Free, obviously. You get to this party at nine and drink the free booze. Then the bus picks you up at eleven and gets back to Vienna at two am. Which is fine, but with a six year old? Seems a bit crazy.

All I know is I can't handle the pace of my mother's wild party lifestyle. All I will say is I am glad I am only staying for ten days. Scarlett will stay for another few weeks. And I will be quite glad to get back to boring old Baltimore.

Posh reveals kinky new look

As some of you may know, one of my oldest friends is Posh Spice. She did a guest post on my blog once here. I know how much you all want to look into this fascinating woman's head, so I thought I'd let her go ahead and tell you what's on her mind:

Hi Fans and Friends!

As some of you may know, the Spice Girls are gonna get back together. Some of them people that hates us thinks that the £ 20 million we's each getting is why we'se doin it. But what peoples don't know iz that we is artists and bring joy to people and this is an opportunity to do it again.

Other stuff I'm doin in my new L.A. pad is puttin in the world's largest flat-screen TV, which is like 103 inches across and only cost us £50,000. When visitors walk into the room its in, the flatscreen displays a picture of me and David but when you claps your hands the TV comes on. Wicked! Also we has a great security system so we can look at the view of whatever is going on in any of the rooms in the house through the internet. Great innit?

We also has ten security guards so don't try breakin in or you'll be kneecapped, no disrespect.

Yes, the rumors is true, we is going to have solid gold fixtures and fittings in our house and tiling with gemstones but why not? We works hard and should enjoy ourselves, innit?

Matter of fact we also does a lot for the environment. I recycle my food by putting my fingers down my throat and also David rides a hybrid motorcycle whenever he can:





Now, some peoples say that I looked like I was "packing plastic" in that photo that came out of me recently. Some other peoples has said I looks like I have fake tits. Also that I looks like a "hideous, cosmetically 'enhanced,' badly-dressed try-hard as usual." But others said I was still "a damn sight more attractive than the rest of the old slags though." I get every press cutting from around the world sent to me and someone said I looked like "prossie spice rather than posh." Someone else said: "you just know that there's nothing perverted behind the pvc and the pout." And someone else said you'd "definitely need lube to do her, and also duct tape, if only to stop her 'singing'."

At that point I has to stop reading but what I will say is this. Me and Dave is very kinky in the sack all right, so there! Also I hasn't had my tits done. I'm a style leader remember, not a follower. And here's an exclusive, Dave likes horsies and likes me to whiny like a horse while he's sticking it to me. So for his birthday I'm gonna get this done: What do you think?



Gotta go now. If you wants to keep in touch, stalk me or go on my ace blog

Posh
xx