If anyone ever asks me how many people I've slept with I get a bit confused on the numbers. Because I've slept with literally hundreds. In my head. Crushes, they call them. Man, those fantasy guys really know what they're doing in the sack! I still get crushes now, although I'm a bit long in the tooth for all that, but ho hum, I'm not hurting anyone am I?
There's this teacher at my daughter's school who's obsessed with Simon le Bon and goes to as many Duran Duran concerts in America as she can afford. I think that's a bit sad, quite frankly. I never fancied Duran the first time round. All that makeup they wore, it would have ended up all over your pillow, wouldn't it? Thanks but no thanks.
I suppose it would be fun to go to a Duran Duran concert if only to laugh at the desperate middle aged women wearing flourescent eyeliner shouting: "Over here Simon!" and throwing their panties at him.
There was quite a funny post done by a woman here, who is a journalist. She was recently sent to interview Duran Duran after one of their concerts and she was quite excited because she'd had a massive crush on all of them in her youth. She got a thrill out of talking to John Taylor and having a few girls give her the evil eye as they wondered if she was his girlfriend.
But the odd thing about her post was that she was surprised that when she interviewed Simon le Bon that he didn't have much in the way of a brain. I don't know why that would surprise anyone. From the amount of coke they all took in the eighties I'm surprised that any of them still have their nasal passages, let alone their brains, intact.
Simon always seemed like such a prat, and still is, judging from this:
“Simon’s still prone to going off on benders,” Nick Rhodes said (in a recent interview) with a shrug, “which is frustrating when we’ve got work to do. But it’s difficult for him, chiefly because he is Simon Le Bon. Simon loves people, he loves to socialize. It’s what he does.”
My best (and most futile) crush ever, was during a period between 14 and 16 when I had a crush on my friend's brother's mate Jake. He was literally draw droppingly gorgeous. Blonde, strong jawline, tall, sexy. We'd often bump into him at clubs. And the worst thing was he had a crush on me too! I mean, he had told his friend I was hot. All we ever did was pass each other a joint or occasionally shout something over the music which neither of us could understand. I had a crush on him for two fucking years! He deflowered me every night in my head. He was older and more mature. Seventeen!! Why didn't you ask me out Jake? Why???? He later became an actor so maybe it was for the best. His work schedule would have been irregular, his paychecks small etc etc.
Where was I? I'm trying to remember some famous crushes from my youth. My top three were:
1. Paul King from the band King. I'd do him now although I'm not sure about the mullet.
2. David Bowie. My friends and I spent many, many hours reviewing a VHS of The Man Who Fell To Earth which has a half second still of Bowie's penis. It's not very big actually. But I'd do him now, except, oh yeah, he's married and about sixty. Actually to be honest I wouldn't do him now. Unless you're interested Dave. If so, give me a bell.
3. Rupert Everett. I'd do him now, except, oh yeah, he's gay. I was in love with him for about five years. Thanks for wasting my time Rupert. You could have told me you were a chutney ferret!
Okay, dish. Who did you have a crush on when you were a teen: male, female, animal, mineral, famous, alive or dead? And would you still do 'em now?
Well, I have a great new job as a sex toy reviewer, and was just perusing the site I'm working for when my six year year old daughter Scarlett comes up behind me and looks at the site. I was filling in this form on it so I didn't immediately close it down. She said, about the vibrators: "Wow, those are some really cool pens. I really want some for Christmas."
Then she saw this and said, "Wow, that's such a cool belt. What do you need the hole for? Is it to keep the pens?"
"Er, yeah." She's a smart kid. But I realized it was time to close down the site.
Apart from tramatizing Scarlett, I have also put my life in peril. I went to visit a couple called Mike and Tiffany yesterday who have caught a really nasty disease called Mercer Staph which is pretty resistant to antibiotics. The husband developed this spot on his leg and he didn't think much of it, then it became redder and then a red line started to make its way up to his heart and he thought, "Fuck!" So he went to the hospital and the doctor told him he had Mercer, and the spot was a boil and under it was masses of pus. If left untreated it would have killed him! The doc scraped the boil out, a deep crater - without anaesthetic. Absolute horror show! And now his wife has a small boil too. God it's so scary. Reminds me of the plague.
I'm not a hypochondriac, but since hanging out at their house I constantly check my body for boils. This is a public service announcement. If you find a large spot on your person, run don't walk to the nearest doctor. For more info go here.
John and I are also kind of regretting that foursome we had with Tiffany and Mike a few weeks ago. It was fun and all but we're just hoping something nasty doesn't erupt anytime soon.*
I was rushing around like a headless chicken today, trying to get some turkeys for Thanksgiving, but alas, the only birds left at the butchers were these two (click image to enlarge). The butcher claims they're all natural, but I have my doubts. So come on now everyone, would you like breast or leg? Mmmm...I wonder what silicone tastes like?
Also, if the sight of these festive turkeys makes you feel all merry and dying to cry out: "Ho ho ho!", please remember that it is now politically incorrect to use this phase. The alternative phrasing is: "Ha, ha, ha," apparently.
And now, let's pop open the champers and raise our glasses for a Thanksgiving toast:
Cheeers to the queers Applause to the whores And a huck huck huck For a jolly good f....
My husband and I walk into the pub on Saturday night to meet a bunch of Brits and John's already sneering at this one guy. "What's wrong?" I said to John (Irish, supports Man U). "That guy's wearing a Fulham shirt and he's not even embarrassed about it," John replies. Now, I don't pretend to know why it's shameful to support Fulham, but I told John to behave. Well, luckily the Fulham guy pushed off before there was a bloodbath.
Other Brits of note were Darren, husband of my long suffering friend Daisy (Yank). Daisy is the only person in the world who does not believe Darren is certifiable. He had had a busy day. Their washing machine was broken and he had spent a long time taking it apart to find out what was wrong with it. He could not find out what was wrong with it and also could not put it back together. This is a guy who is training to be a dentist. Frankly, I wouldn't let him anywhere near my mouth, or my washing machine for that matter.
To get away from his conversation about whether he should buy a front or top loader, I started talking to a portly guy from Nottingham called Mike, with a long flowing beard and hair.
"I'm doing a degree in military history," he told me. "I'm obsessed with battles."
I was about to ask, "You're not one of those wankers who does battle reenactments are you?" but he beat me to it and said,
"When I lived in England we did Viking reenactments all over the country. It was fantastic."
I gathered he was a bit of a fantasist. But wait, it got worse.
"I saw Twister Sister in concert last year. They were as brilliant as they were twenty years ago."
Er, weren't Twisted Sister heinously embarrassing even in they heyday?
Wait. It got worse.
"I reckon England's got a good chance of beating Croatia to qualify for the European Championships."
I roared with laughter. It was clear that this Viking was severely delusional.
He suggested we all meet for a pub crawl next week and declared that when he lived in Nottingham they'd do twenty-two pubs on an all dayer, but with a fried breakfast in the morning, to settle their stomachs. "Anyone up for it?" he said.
I realized I must have a very serious sense of home sicknesses if I was even considering going on this pub crawl with this Viking, Darren the Crazed Dentist, the Fulham Supporter and assorted other Brits.
Then I realized I wouldn't be able to crawl to more than maybe two or three pubs. I used to be able to crawl with the best of them, but these days, well, three pints are probably my limit.
How the world has spun on its axis since I left England seven years ago! Today I read the tragic story about how the spiralling costs of dentistry in the UK have forced people to remove their own teeth, just like in medieval times!
When I lived in England, it was all so easy. So simple. Now, I'm not saying that I ever did any of the following, but there were some unscrupulous people (you know who you are) who did the following:
1. Fiddled the Dole
Remember when finding yourself made redundant from a job was a cause for celebration? Break out the champagne! You are now officially on the dole (you can't claim dole if you leave a job). Yes! YEEEEESSS!! Now, no need to ever worry about looking for a job, because the Job Centres in London are hopelessly understaffed and do not have time to keep track of every Tom, Dick or Dolebludger. The main thing they need to know is that you are hopelessly overqualified for any of the seven pound per hour jobs cleaning encrusted shit off the local public toilets. So just go in and say something like "My last job was as a Senior Derivatives Analyst and I pulled in 300K" and watch their faces go blank. Case closed. You have won. They will never be able to find you a job.
Or better still, say you are something like a highly qualified sheep herder. This will fox them. Because there are no jobs in London herding sheep! Result! You will be on the dole gravy train for your foreseeable future. Then pop off and get a nice cash in hand job at your local. Sweet.
I bet things aren't as rosy these days, eh? Can anyone enlighten me?
2. Getting Dental Treatment
Used to be totally free if you knew what you were doing. All you did was tick a box on the back of a form saying you were unemployed and you got the treatment for nothing. No one gave a monkies if you actually were or checked. I have, of course, never done something like this. Ever.
And now I read that desperate people in England are pulling out their own teeth:
One respondent in Lancashire, northern England, claimed to have extracted 14 of their own teeth with a pair of pliers. In Liverpool, one of those collecting data for the survey interviewed three people who had pulled out their own teeth in one morning.
"I took most of my teeth out in the shed with pliers. I have one to go," another respondent wrote.
Others said they had fixed broken crowns using glue to avoid costly dental work.
What have you done to this once proud country Gordon Brown? To think that the British Empire, which once held sway over a population of 458 million people, is now reduced to a desperate nation of black teethed folk jabbing at their bleeding gums with rusty pliers!
They're a couple of clueless Kiwis called Brett and Jermaine who are in a band called Flight of the Conchords. They were on the radio the other day talking about how after a gig in Scotland a girl came up to Jermaine and said:
"Would you be interested in a spit roast?"
He had no idea what she was talking about. He thought she was talking about a BBQ, so he said, "Yeah, oh yeah, definately."
"What about Brett?" said the girl. "Would he be interested in a spit roast too?"
Jermaine, knowing Brett loved steak said, "Oh yeah, he would be so into it."
Then the girl said, "Great. I wouldn't usually ask because I'm a lesbian. It's just that I'm so into your music."
And after a while the penny dropped in Jermaine's head that she hadn't just invited them to a BBQ.
(Jermaine explained on the radio that apparently spit roast is a British term for a threesome. I had never heard of it. I hang my head in shame).
The E-Spot is a problem page for people who are tired of the wishy-washy pscychobabble of Dr Phil. Please email me your problem at emma.theespot@[remove]gmail.com (please say if you wish to remain anonymous).
I don't wanna reveal my name because I'm an heiress and kinda a role model to young girls everywhere. Hang on a sec, let me get my chihuahua Banjo out from between my legs. Where woz I?
I don't want to be boastful, but I am one of the most beautiful women of all time. I even had a blow up sex doll created after me which was an honor, so now guys can masturbate over me (I did a sex tape once), as well as in me. I am also an incredibly successful business woman whose latest project is launching a nightclub called Skank which will be the concept Moulin Rouge meets Manhattan. I also do a lot of work for charity and run an orphanage for brain damaged dogs who are too dangerous to be kept as pets.
So where is my problem? Everyone is always saying I was born with a silver stool in my mouth and that's how I got to be so famous. I never get that, how can you get a stool in your mouth? Anyways ....Banjo, stop chewing my toe! Banjo's one of the brain damaged chihuahuas I rescued from the dog orphanage. When I'm feeling lonely, I put a doggy treat on my lady parts and he licks and chews at it for hours. Sometimes he goes nuts and bites but usually he's a great little pet. Where woz I?
I wanna have a high flying career but don't know what to choose. After I saw this pic I kinda thought it might be cool to be an astronaught but then I heard the costumes aren't really that neat and also you have to wear a diaper when you're up in space to stop your shit flying about. They must eat really light crispbread up there so as your turds fly in the air, but anyways, I didn't feel like wearing diapers under my micro-mini skirt, so that was out. But what I am trying to say is, what kind of career do you think I am suited to? I don't mind studying. I have a real big brain and I wanna use it not just my body.
I would love to have a really hot career like all you normal people. I really want to give back to society. I am crying here. Can you help me?
Paris Stilton xxxx
[To all you bloggers out there: PLEASE SEND ME YOUR IDEAS FOR A CAREER FOR MS STILTON. I AM AT A LOSS HERE...]
Dear Ms Stilton,
Many bloggers have given their input on this. And I am still asking people to send in their ideas for a suitable career for you.
But a couple of thoughts have occured to me. Firstly, I believe a career as a performance artist is in your future. The artist Allen Jones previously created the works below from fibreglass, but I believe your ability to do nothing and look vacuous for hours, as well as your shapely legs, would mean that you could earn a great deal of money being a living sculpture. I suggest you start practising by getting into the following positions:
(NB: This one can be performed with your sister):
Suggested title: Nicky and Paris Always Threw the Best Cocktail Parties
Suggested title: When Alec flew first class he always sat on Paris' Seat
If being a living work of art does not appeal, a blogger called Electro-Kevin has said he will pay you to clean his house in a kinky costume. I have already taken the liberty of designing an outfit for you:
I think both these careers would greatly enrich your life and bring pleasure to millions, thereby allowing you to give back to society in a charitable capacity.
Who am I? Displaced Londoner now living in the States with my two little girlies and long suffering husband. Co-author of hilarious parenting book Cocktails at Naptime www.cocktailsatnaptime.com
My mom's an Austrian, my dad's a Brit, which makes me a Britaustrian, or possibly an Austrish?