Here we go again. In an attempt to get away from it all, hubby whisks me off on a romantic night in DC. First he presents me with the gift of cheese. What is it about cheese that sets my loins aflame? Once again he had found his mark. And this was no ordinary cheese. No common or garden piece of Gouda. No rubbery cheddar or Dairylea square. Oh no. This cheese was art. One piece was studded with dried apricots, another had been rolled in rosemary. I savored every bite, then guzzled down as much as my stomach could hold without exploding and glugged down the Moet. Next we performed the activities that are required by law to be performed amongst married persons who find themselves naked, covered in champagne and in a bed and breakfast. Once the saucy part of the evening had been completed it was on to the concert.
I was to see George. My husband, who is 29, has no real knowledge of who George Michael is and how Careless Whisper is a milestone of sorts, the song that most of us thirty somethings did our first slow dance too. And so I found myself at this concert: 20,000 middle aged women in tight spandex screaming for George. And since I’d had a few glasses of champers I found myself screaming myself hoarse for George too. It was time to let go. It was time to say, I am an embarrassing old crone and this is where I can dance like a spaz and let it all hang out.
All I can say is that it was heaven. I was so close to the stage I could see into George’s eyes, into his very soul. I believe his sweat splattered me and I don’t think I will ever wash again. Although, I have to say, he doesn’t look too good for 42. All wrinkled like an old prune. Is this simply the way stars look who haven’t had ‘work’ done? Or is he suffering from some mysterious illness? I think we deserve to be told.
After the concert, things got a bit less romantic. When we got into bed, while I was still humming Georgie’s hits under my breath, I could immediately see there was a problem. There was a feather duvet under the sheet which just made me feel like I was suffocating. My husband fell asleep after about five minutes. I lay there for about five hours and then decided to take two cushions off the sofa, place them on the floor and sleep on those. Suffice to say, that wasn’t very successful either. I slept for about two hours before waking up in a really shit mood.
And then things got a bit less romantic still, when I insisted on wrapping all the left over cheese in cellophane and lugging it home. Yes, I had become my mother. There was no way I was leaving stuff at the hotel that I had paid for.
So when I got home I was carrying a reeking and sweltering bag of cheese.
Had it gone off?
It certainly smelt like it had.
Did I eat it?
Do you really need to ask?
Ever had a dirty weekend that ended with a whimper not a bang, and left you with the smell of cheese on your hands?
Not so long ago I informed you all about the emergence of a new literary genre I term Prick Lit, in which men 'reclaim their masculinity', grab their pipes and slippers and bow down and worship at the altar of Hugh Hefner and his inflatable friends.
And to the Prick Literati I say, fair dos, have a little cry about the fact that your penis is too small and no one will sleep with you. But at least be droll about it! Please! The latest author to have a rant is Dick Masterson who has written a book called Men Are Better Than Women. Well you can guess what that is about. But to give you a flavor, on his website he writes:
As I cover in my book, only three of the top 100 highest grossing films of all time star women in the lead role. Women can’t direct movies for shit. Also, what would happen to cinema if men weren’t working the movie cameras? Every scene would have the actors’ heads cut off. Never let a woman take your vacation pictures.
No comment is needed on the extent of Masterson's mental problems, but let's have a look at his pic (above). Now, I don't think I am stepping too far out of line to say that Dick's problems are more than mental. Looking at this picture it is clear he is, well, deluded in his choice of facial hair and sunglasses. Basically I don't think there is a woman in a two hundred mile radius of Masterson who would sleep with him. However, if he stepped out into the local gay leather bar he'd be beating them off with a stick. So take comfort in that, Dicky.
So, while Masterson is one sort of arrogant git, there are a whole other group of men in pain, or as I call them, Whingers, like Dave Itzkoff, who penned a memoir called Lads.
Dave Itzkoff is a short, effeminate looking man with a voice like Minnie Mouse, who wonders why no one likes him. He thinks it is because he is short and has a high squeaky voice but it's actually because he's a whiny little rodent with no redeeming features. Here he chronicles his experiences as a hack at a series of lads magazines. You should feel sorry for the guy because no woman wants to sleep with him. He gets one girl into bed and she tells him to stop in mid-thrust! This is how unattractive he is: He can't even get a girl to make out with him even while she is on Ecstasy. Oh God. One should feel sorry for him, but his ponderous writing and bad attitude really leaves a bad taste in the mouth, and, what more can I say about this book than, don't bother?
And lest you think that I don't like these men just because they are ugly, tis not so. I love men who can make an arse of themselves and Toby Young does this, with bells on! Most women won't sleep with him for love nor money, but he just accepts it as his fate. Instead he concentrates on becoming famous. In fact, Toby is so obsessed with becoming famous that he will do whatever it takes - even pose naked with a book over his crotch. He is an unbelievably funny British writer who has written two books about how to succeed as a loser on two continents. The Sound of No Hands Clapping is the hilarious tale of how, after being asked to write a Hollywood script, he moves to LA for three months, dragging his long suffering wife behind him. He rubs everyone in LA up the wrong way and ends up leaving with no movie deal and with his tail between his legs.
So, all I'm saying, prick litters is, if you're going to show that you're a bit of an idiot, at least be funny about it, please?
Well, I was gobsmacked when I saw a video today for the insanely catchy tune: I Kissed A Girl by Katy Perry:
I was hoping it was going to be rude, but all it involved was some floozy getting turned on by another teens cherry chapstick. I guess Katy Perry is less a lipstick lesbian than a chapstick lesbian. So listen up, Ms Perry, I suggest if you really want to make some waves, why not do something a little more interesting than licking her chapstick. [Is this song really meant to be shocking? I don't think it would shock even seven year old Scarlett who knows all about lesbians]
So without further ado Katy, here's some lyrics for your next song:
I SHAGGED A SHEEP
This was never the way I planned Not my intention I got so brave, drink in hand Lost my discretion It's not what, I'm used to Just wanna try you on I'm curious for you Caught my attention
I shagged a sheep and I liked it The taste of her grassy bad breath I shagged a sheep just to try it I hope my boyfriend don't mind it It felt so wrong It felt so right Don't mean I'm in love tonight I shagged a sheep and I liked it I liked it
No, I don't even know your name It doesn't matter You're my experimental game Just human nature It's not what, good girls do Not how they should behave My head gets so confused Hard to obey
I shagged a sheep and I liked it The feel of her furry back flaps I shagged a sheep just to try it I hope my boyfriend don't mind it It felt so wrong It felt so right Hope I don't get a UTI tonight I shagged a sheep and I liked it I liked it
Sheep are so magical Cute hooves, sodden lips, so kissable Hard to resist so touchable Too good to deny it Ain't no big deal, it's innocent
I shagged a sheep and I liked it The pong of her hooves deep in sheep shit I shagged a sheep just to try it I hope my boyfriend don't mind it It felt so wrong It felt so right Don't mean I'm in love tonight I shagged a sheep and I liked it I liked it
Well, it is Sausage's fifth birthday on Saturday and as usual my husband is trying to get me - kicking and screaming - to involve myself in the concept known as having a 'kids' birthday party' aka hell aka screaming brats in my house. So. It was time to think of new concepts. Concepts that involved maybe, having a bunch of five year olds at a birthday party on the sea, sans me.
Luckily I was able to make my idea bear fruit. Here at the harbor is a pirate boat that takes kids on a 'pirate experience' manned by adults who dress in pirate costumes, who may or may not be escapees from a mental institution, who talk pirate all day long and also fire (water)pistols at the gang of bad pirates in the little dinghy that sails alongside the pirate ship.
So I said to my husband, "I've got it. We will put the kids on the pirate boat. We don't have to even go on. We will just let the adult pirates do things with the kids!"
My husband said, "Do you want to rephrase that?"
"You know what I mean. The kids will be contained on a ship in the middle of the harbor. What can possibly happen to them? And of course, beside where the pirate ship casts off, is a fabulous french patisserie where I can truffle in a sow's trough of almond croissants. Heaven!"
So it seems that casting the kids off to find buried treasure is the way to go. There is one small problem though. A kid called Angie who is coming to the party.She was the one who went to school wearing her brother's cock ring on her finger. Which is fine, no harm done. The problem is that her mother told me Angie jumped off a rollercoaster the other day. Her mother said, "Well, it didn't occur to me to tell her not to jump off before she got on."
Me: "Well it wouldn't, would it?"
"It was just going round and round and Angie said she got bored. And because she's so tiny she easily slipped free of the restraints and jumped off."
"Wow. She's quite athletic isn't she?"
"Yes. It wasn't that dangerous actually, because it was only a kids' rollercoaster and she jumped out onto the platform which was only ten feet off the ground."
I really don't need Angie deciding to jump into the Chesapeake Bay, which looks like an oil slick. Or for that matter, me having to jump in after her.
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?