Friday, February 27, 2009

Back to the kitchen sink

Friday, February 27, 2009 15
Turns out that I'm contractually obliged to follow every non-work related real life people meeting with a lengthy pity-fest about how unlikeable, socially inept and down-right fucking weird I am. And so I renege on another contract, break another promise. Because I think I'm getting better, less mumbly surely, not quite as awkward, occasionally capable of maintaining an unstilted conversation with a complete stranger. Yes indeed, careful, careful, lest I make friends. But hold your jeers at even this modest muttering makeover, folks, because there's a flip side.

Last night's cycle home afforded me the wind-blown time to get straight in my head just what it is that I have replaced painful shyness with. The answer came as I peed fully frontal in a sea front bush. Pomposity, people, I have attained perfect pomposity. The accent and bearing have given me a head start, but I've taken that affected ball and run with it and am now well on my way to David Norris levels of magniloquence.

Still, at least nobody punched me in the face goodbye.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

In your own backyard

Wednesday, February 25, 2009 15
It's so fucking dystopian, this modern life shit. You cannot turn your head without looking at an ad. Even as we slip into dust bowly depression, they want not only all of the threadbare cash in our pockets, but all of the space in our minds too. We scurry about like ants, our annetenae buried in our iPhones, or our laptops, doing every fucking thing online. Me and Common Law were attempting something banal last night, finding directions or some shit. 'The internet is deadly, huh?' I said, not for the first time. Deadly meaning really good, Yanks. But of course it's deadly too. I'm dying inside as I type. Dying from a need for stuff I don't need.

And yes, Big Brother is watching and we don't give a fuck and if we do give a fuck, Big Brother doesn't give a fuck that we give a fuck, because there's fuck all we can do. Or so it would seem.

I call for revolution. Revolution, I call!

Put down the mouse. Step away from the screen. Look around you. You're going to need something heavy. You might want to grab that kitchen knife too. March, now. March on whatever comes to mind. Folks, we're going to do us a little revolutioning. Well, you are. I'm going to nod off listening to some deadly science fiction on BBC iPlayer.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

What you started, I didn't start it

Tuesday, February 24, 2009 4
By sporadic I really just meant shit.

I bet you missed your Saturday tune, you pack of leeching cunts. I was going to put up some Cure but despite Robert's efforts sometimes those homies out of Crawley just ain't big enough. There are feelings outside of adolescent self-absorption and petulance, I have recently discovered, and these are not covered, no, not even by 'Lovecats'.

Big I want, and big you're going to get. Jesus big. Jesus agreeing with my opinion that in the astronomically unlikely event of His existing, God is a bit of a cunt, big.

By way of further introduction, let it be know that this song was violently censored in the school production in which I played, once again, a non-speaking apostle.

Finally, Riker tells me she is a believer. I feel like Dick Cheney, but without the power or riches.

And so I give you Jesus and some quality shrieking:

Remember you can fill up the sky

It's all bad here, with unnameable traumas, imminently dead aunts and a new twist of a birthday list. And three days notice on a 1940s costume. Cunts. We're not all SUV driving Fianna Fail banking scum. Forcing children into a competition where the winners are decided based on their parent's income is perhaps not the best of life lessons, you stupid fucks.

The batter is lumpy and my arm aches from my futile attempts to remedy this. I need to develop a more circular masturbatory technique so that I might transfer this oft practised action to the annual force feeding tradition that is Pancake Tuesday. But what if this makes my batter lumpy?

Sigh.

Posting will be sporadic, while I deal with and/or fail to deal with, crisis after rolling crisis.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Softer than shadow

Thursday, February 19, 2009 12
What is it about my mouth? Why do I think that shoving stuff into it is going to make me feel better? Less angry, less weepy, less massively fucking terrified? I got in from seven am spin and mid-term breakingly went straight for a Whole Nut nap. Since I got up I have eaten: a bowl of muesli and weetabix, a bowl of broccoli pasta, a breast of chicken, a bowl of rice, half a ciabatta with melted cheddar, a bagel with ham and another bowl of muesli and weetabix. There's mostly likely a whole load of other stuff too that my over-carbed brain cannot recall. But I still have a gnawing rumbling in the pit of my gut. I know that it is not hunger. It is fear. Fear it is that needs feeding today.

I'm glad there are no cigarettes in the house. I wish there were cigarettes in the house. I need to keep going with the oral fixation but if I eat so much a mandolined slice of carrot I am going to fucking hurl.

I'm going to try a glass of water and another little cry.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

All that talk of opportunities, TV breaks and movies rang true

Tuesday, February 17, 2009 12


I need to throw something up here, to move my petty bad-loserness even a couple of inches down the computer screen.

How about some cycling? Tour of California is providing much thankfully distracting entertainment at present, mostly due to its hilarious weather conditions. I feel heartily for all those bitter Benelux riders who jumped at the chance to avoid any number of miserably wet and windy, freeze your bollox off European classics in favour of a pleasant nine day jaunt in the warm and sunny Golden State.

'Oh vat vun ve shall haf! Nobody gives a vuck about the result except Leipheimer and with Lance and Floyd and Ivan back ve can do all ze drugs vat ve vant! That's vat ze sanctioning body are zaying, no?'

And they arrive in Sacramento to begin their mini-break only to discover rain and gales to rival a Brittany beach. Conditions have been so bad that the planes that are used to bounce the live pictures about have failed to take off, and therefore provide coverage for large sections of the race. This has led to the joy of watching two struggling internet commentators attempting to find something to talk about for hours on end. Frankie and Beardy guy they have been christened and I'm beginning to get the impression that the younger, broodier Frankie is sleeping with Beardy's wife. Beardy knows it, too. It makes for delightful viewing.

So Levi's got the jersey, his team mate Lance is backing him up by swerving into him occasionally (just keeping you on your toes, bitch) and yesterday brainless Brit bruiser Mark Cavendish completely fucked up a sprint. Other highlights include Landis's anonymity, not so easy without a testosterone patch, is it Floyd, and the sidebar chat client that ticks pleasantly over in the window pictured above. We mostly just bitch about the commentators, us California tour tracker chatters, but occasionally we take time out to blame Al Quaeda for Lance's cancer.

Coverage starts at nine tonight, here. Be there, kids.

Billy Whitecloud, last December, went and made a first class bomb, bombed the high school, when we found him he was dancing on his big Tom Tom

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

That is all.

They came and drew us diagrams

I am tired. You do not want to know about this. Nor do you want to know about the spin classes that have been spun nor the iron that has been pumped. But I am too sleepy to write about anything else. So instead I suggest that you take yourselves off and build your own Stranded on Gaia post from the following birthday bricks:

Riker's turning of the ten.

Mother in Common Law getting Riker a sewing machine.

The fucking patriarchy and Mother in Common Law's enthusiastic embracing thereof.

By special Common Law request, Mother in Common Law never having been arsed explaining to her own daughter what the fuck a bobbin is.

The recession and how much cheaper it would be to make our own clothes.

Unless we shop in Penneys.

Where you can get a child's t-shirt emblazoned with the words 'Queen of The Universe' for €2.

So fuck you, ten year olds in Bangladesh.

Why, when wearing a white baseball hat with pink trim, pink writing what proclaims 'Pretty Princess' and a built in pink bow, Data believes that she looks like a boy.

More patriarchy stuff.

Off you go now.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Until you have it all you won't be free

Monday, February 16, 2009 11
I am walking through the monster that is Dundrum Town Centre. I hate this place. I hate it so fucking much. It is too big, it has too much shit and it is much too filled with a terrible dressed up ugliness. People fucking dressing up to go shopping. Me, I'm late from work, back in my beige linen cut-offs, my green Denis the Menace, my inevitable Kayanos. My hair is at its most huge. Everyone, everyone that I see is wearing their Sunday best. No one but me is dressed like they just don't give a fuck. I say this not with pride but a certain shame.

Not as busy as the last time I was here, there's that. I am present shopping for the soon to be ten, oh jesus god how can she be so old making me so very much older, Riker. I buy her a book. I buy me a book. I'm a big Colfer fan. She digs Twenty. What can I tell you?

I take a minute to hang out right at the top of this cathedral of cac, to listen to the whisper of the walls as it echoes through the halls:

Worship yet, my chldren, worship yet. You now know that I am a wrathful God, but you have yet to feel the full ferocity of this wrath. Worship on, consume until you can consume no more. Perhaps you might still be saved from my righteous rage. But I fucking doubt it.

Looking down now through the travelator slashed floors, I am picking out assassination targets. Scumbag. Bang. Splat. Screams. Slow moving, highly painted, precisely pinned rich cunt. Bang. Splatcrunch. I've gone for the head shot, missed, but removed the jaw. More screams. The woman herself looks half-faced but merely resigned to more time with her favourite plastic surgeon. I look for a rugby type. But they're all in the pub, watching the rugby, so I return to my banal, rifleless life.

And move on. How I very wish I was not here. I spot a red-shirted, red baseball-hatted hander-outer of leaflets. He is targeting the girl kids, this kid, like some kind of Belgian Amish-hating Nazi, shoving red and white page after red and white page into their not even the rain small hands. I approach. I reach out my hand. It is easier, he dead-eyely reckons, to simply give this scruffy bouffanted buffon a leaflet than to attempt to avoid him. No eye contact will save him from a discussion as to just what he thinks he's doing, he is sure. But he is surely wrong. We preform a perfect exchange and I slow as I draw the leaflet into my eye line. It advertises High School Musical phones on the Meteor network. They cost €99. This is what he has been handing to my daughter, in my mind, over and over and over again. I stop. I turn on my heel. He has turned too, in search of fresh meat, and clocks me walking purposefully towards him. Our eyes meet for the first time. He sees in mine an uncontrollable zeal, a certain subtle insanity. I see in his a justifiable fear. I am there in three quick, long steps. The front of his t-shirt is a ball in my fist. I continue to walk, quickly, lengthily, purposefully pressing this boy ahead of me as he stumbles but maintains his balance and falls into the rhythm of my walk. But backwards he goes, on and on, my fist in his heart until eventually his back meets wall. I stop. I lean in. I breathe on him. And then at him. 'Stop. Stop what you're doing. There are other things that you can do. Walk the earth, work in Spar, end your own life. All these options are valid. But stop. Stop what you are doing now. It will soon to be too late for you, for them. Stop.'

I release him. He is released. I am released. And I continue to shop, for what else can I do?

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Saturday, February 14, 2009 5
I have the horrible feeling that I'm being lampooned. But I like it.

Friday, February 13, 2009

You're the gold medal kid with the heavyweight crown

Friday, February 13, 2009 17
Common Law was going to guest post tonight but she had to play Diner Dash on her new early birthday iPhone.

Instead some Stranded snippets:

Riker has the shingles. Data threw herself on the ground and grazed her knee so that the doctor could look at her too. They'll both be fine.

I need more sleep. I need less spin. More food, less dope. More uprising, less downsizing. Etcetera.

I am beginning to question my commitment to one post a day.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

She scratches a letter

Thursday, February 12, 2009 15
I hate this race of humans, though I am happy with my current placing. What a pack of cunts we are. All the horrible nasty shit we do. The insanely imbalanced world we have created.

I'm a little upset and disbelieving. I can't fucking believe a whole lot of shit, but chief among the shit that I cannot believe is that neither Medbh nor Twisty have touched this motherfucker yet. They'll probably get around to it but I can't wait. I need to be told what to think, now. And so the task falls to me.

I guess I'm just sickened. Sickened that they decided to try a twelve year old girl for being assaulted. Because she's black and she's female. Those are some pretty shitty cards to be dealt, right there. If she only fancied the ladies she'd be right up the crap creek.

They were looking for white prostitutes. They saw a black child. They bailed out of their unmarked van. She held onto a tree to try to prevent what can only have seemed to her to have been a gang of paedophiles from taking her away. They pulled her off the tree. Roughed her up a bit. And somehow managed to get her put on trial for assaulting them.

Want to hear the hilariousest part? These fucking monkeys said that this child knew they were police officers because she yelled out 'Fuck you! I hate the police!' Nobody talks like that, guys. No child, while in the midst of an abduction think to express their disrespect of Galveston's finest in such stolid terms. 'I hate the police!' For fuck's sake.

We've wandered away from me. I hate that. But now I know how to feel. Sickened, outraged, and ultimately bored and ready to move on to the next hideous display of what a shitty world this is. Though not for me so much. I'm a white man. Being a white man rocks.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

I am so fucking prescited

Wednesday, February 11, 2009 15
You know what? I really like Aaron Gavin. I stalk him on Twitter. He doesn't follow me back though and I think I know why. If, when I began to follow him, he came by and checked out this here section of the Great Gaia Ganglia, then he'll have moved away again pretty quick, not shocked, because nothing is shocking any more, but saddened, and filled with pity. By the language, by the subject matter, by the style.

Aaron is a Proper Christian. He's on the pastoral staff of a church in Minneapolis these last twenty years and soon he'll be a church planter. I'm not sure how you plant a church but I bet it involves a pretty big hole. Thing is, I think he's a proper Christian too. You know, a follower of Christ and his teachings as opposed to someone who just fucking hates queers, and women, and sand niggers.

Aaron has kids. Two boys, or is it three? I should pay more attention. He's a great dad, I can tell you that much. Always doing stuff with them. Coaching their basketball team. Taking them to basketball, watching them play basketball, and fucking nightmare of nightmares, keeping score at basketball. I would totally fuck that shit up. And cheat too. Fuck it up and cheat. Aaron does not fuck it up. And I don't think cheating would even occur to him.

He's a good husband too, you can tell. Speaks respectfully of his wife. Seems like he's still a little in awe of his luck. He spent four fucking hours shopping with her for a dress last weekend. This is a man of great patience.

I like him. I respect him. I even respect his beliefs, mostly. Clearly I can take or leave the Santa Claus fairy crap. But the important stuff, the love and the humility and the living for your fellow man, now that is some good shit, and the most Dawkins of you fucking knows it. Of course, I am totally shit at all that. I think only of myself, normally with emphasis on how great I am, all the while avoiding my fellow man to the best of my abilities.

The perfect hilarious ending presented itself there. 'I am so going to Hell.' That was it. But it doesn't really work, does it? Because there is no Hell unless it's here on Earth and me and Aaron are both going to finish our jobs as DNA rickshaws and go back to where we came from. Back to the dust. And who's going to have been the happiest?

Aaron, right?

Can we feel Gimme's Pauline conversion coming on, folks? It's going to be a long boring, boring ride.



Twits can follow Aaron here.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

As fast as I pick it up it runs away through my clutching hands

Tuesday, February 10, 2009 21
Stranded presents an open letter to the distant absentee landlord owners of, oh, just some random gym, not the one I occasionally whore about in, oh no, not that one, easily identifiable as it may well be by now what with all the posting I do when I'm drunk and stoned and generally uncaring and also because of all the people who go to the gym to whom I may have revealed the address of my bleugh on the basis of their being able to read and possibly even think.

'Look, look, I'm good at other stuff! I know you already think I'm great at shouting 'Circles!' And 'Engage the core!' but look, read this! See? I'm funny and dark and mysterious too! Approve of me! Love the Gimme!'

So not that gym. Some other gym.


Dear Absentee Gym Guys,

Your gym is great. I love it. I particularly love this wonderful manchild who comes in and teaches spin a couple of times a week. He's great. You should give him more money. But thing is, I do have one or two iggly wiggly niggly little points that I would like to make in relation to how you might better improve your service.

In the men's changing room there is a shower area, and in this shower area there is a shower, and in this shower (first on the left as you enter the area) there is a soap dispenser. This soap dispenser has not worked for more than three years. One may remove the lid and take out a big scoop of yucky skin cancering soap but as far as its primary function goes, the dispensing of said soap, it is something of a failure. For three years this alleged soap dispenser has been naught but a soap holder. This makes me sad. It makes the soap sad. And there is no place in a gym for said sad soap.

I'm not certain if these two points are holistically, or if you will, karmically connected but for almost precisely the same amount of time the flashing coloured lights in the spin studio have been out of order. Participants are required to spin in almost total darkness or in a hideous mother-in-law kitchen fluorescent brightness that hightlights every blemish, every stain of sweat and every O face on show. The most wonderful thing about the wonderful spinner guy is that he allows the spinners, most likely in violation of any number of health and safety regulations, to spin in the dark.

The sauna, which is rarely at a temperature above room, has, for just eighteen months it must be said, been labouring under the nomenclature 'AUNA'. I do not know where the 'S' has gone and I have no reason to believe that it is at the bottom of a pile of toys in a four year old's bedroom. Perhaps someone could paint a new 'S' in?

The pool, which seems now to close at least once a week, for a minimum of three days, is never, ever correctly chlorinated, unless it is correctly chlorinated when it is closed. Don't ask me how I know this. I just do. When open, wildly it veers between tastily toxic highs and freshly fecaled lows.

In the last three years, (three years again - three, it's a magic number) there has been no occasion on which you have failed to have in your employ at least one receptionist breathtaking in both rudeness and lack of basic acceptance of the concept of customer service. At present we have squeaky foreign rude, but before now there has been super camp bitchy rude, mind-numbingly stupid or obtuse or both rude and most impressively, considering their position as 'Front of House Manager' all-out psychotic scream at you if you have forgotten your membership card rude.

The leg press, never, ever works.

With the exception of these six small issues, attendance at your gym is always an unmitigated pleasure. And I really, really like that spin guy I was telling you about. And his blog. I like that too.

Yours,

Gimme A. Minute.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Is it safe?

Monday, February 9, 2009 19
'Well, why don't you get them?'

'Because I would eat them all in one sitting and then I would die. Do you want me to die? Is that it? You wish for my death?'

'You wouldn't die.'

'I might die.'

'You wouldn't die.'

'You want me dead.'

It was an odd combination of two specials. Two five packs of various chocolate bars for €4 with each Snickers pack containing two 'free' bars. Seven, count 'em, seven bars of sweet soothing Snickereses for the measly sum of four shitty euro. How did I pass them by?

'Eating fourteen Snickers in a sitting might well make you very, very ill but it would not kill you.'

'Fine. So how many would it take?'

'Do we need tuna?'

'You're avoiding the question.'

'No, I'm avoiding jamming the offer in question into your flapping gums to prevent you from going on and on about it.'

'Ah.'

So what do you folks think? Just how many Snickereses would it take to fell the mighty Gimme?

And why do I ask? Because when I get old and useless, older and uslesser, and the pain from the debilitating disease that is my everyday existence becomes too much, that is how I want to go, regurgitating the peanutty chocolatey goodness into a brightly coloured bucket of caramel bile before bolting down another bar. And another. And another.

I just need to know how many I need to get into the house.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

No more work for two whole days

Saturday, February 7, 2009 3
I pick them on a Friday night, you see.

If anyone knows where I can find David's 'Candy Man' about the Vietnam vet turned child molester, I'd appreciate a heads up.

Friday, February 6, 2009

Someone's knocking at the door, somebody's ringing the bell

Friday, February 6, 2009 13
See me sitting here, typing. Drink to the left, phone to the right. A mindful sink of dishes at my back. Double doors too. This house is heavy with a not silence. It is by no means quiet. Endlessly creaking or weeping. Even when the children are sleeping, even when the missus is out, the sounds still surround. The waning of the heating, the melting of the snow.

My feet are so wet, so cold. The snow, melting, drips down my neck.

These glass double doors behind me lead to what we meaninglessly call the sun room. It has fallen out of favour as an evening haunt, freezing as it always is in winter. Slowly but indefatigably too it fills up with toys and magazines that are not mine, that I never asked for, and that I cannot be bothered to throw out, either in the dead of night or above the inevitable howls of daytime protest. I have been driven out by the cold of the night and the warmth of my children.

Fucking state of the place.

It is dark through these glass doors now and if I glance up and turn in their direction I can see my own reflection but little of the room itself. I glance up. I turn in their direction. I think I see movement.

Slowly, slowly, move more slowly. Slower than that. He's glancing up. He's turning in my direction. Stop. Freeze. Don't even fucking breathe.

Nothing. Just my pallid face and my ridiculous, tied back hair. I go back to my chatting, my tweeting, my excuse for this writing.

It's okay. He's gone back to his writing, his spewing of shit. All those nasty words, all those stinking turds. He pretends that he loves those girls but he don't. He cares about only himself, and his drink and his drugs. Lies are all that he writes. He must surely be writing lies right now, the cunt. And he'll pay. He'll pay. Right now, he'll pay.

I should go to bed. Bodypump in the morning and no way out of it.

He's stretching. He's moving. It has to be now. I have to go fast. Go fast now, go fast. Burst through the door, raise up the knife, drive it down quick. Down through his arm, raise it again. Grab the ridiculous tied back hair, plunge into the pallid face. Ha. Right in the eye.

Haha.


Haha.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

The kid in the corner looked at the priest and fingered his pale blue Japanese guitar

Thursday, February 5, 2009 20
Stranded on Gaia notes that Pope Benedict The Add The Appropriate Superbowl Number, ex-member of Hitler Youth (everyone was a member, it was like being in the scouts, but with Jew hating) is working to un-excommunicate Holocaust denying bishop Richard Williamson.

Jewish leaders are breaking off ties with the Catholic church faster than they can burn the skin off of Palestinian children. Angela Merkin is having a total shit fit. Even Catholic church bigwigs are going public with sentiments along the lines of 'Uh-huh, yeah I know about the whole infallibility bit, but don't you think that maybe in this case you might be just slightly totally fucking wrong?'

What Gimme doesn't get is why Nazis, be they Neo or Trinity are always denying this stuff. Aren't they proud? Don't they think that the boy Adolf done good? Why so coy Pope Naziburger?

UPDATE: I see that the Vatican has demanded that Williamson recant his positions before being fully admitted into the Roman Catholic Church. He must now say that the Nazis did horrifically and systematically murder the whole six million and fair fucking dues to them.

Dues. Jews. Get it?

Sigh.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

A newspaper blown through the grass

Wednesday, February 4, 2009 13
It's not hard to be a friend of Gimme's. Not hard at all. To be my friend you must simply be:

Intelligent. Way, way above what appears to me to be a breathtakingly low average and ideally just a little bit smarter than me. Just a little mind you. I'm easily intimidated.

Not a complete cunt. Note the qualification. Plenty of my count 'em on one hand friends are cunts, but not one thumb of them crosses the line to cunt completeness.

Brilliant. In one way or another. You might be very good at table tennis. You might knit a mean scarf. But there will be at least one thing that you can do that takes my breath away on a regular basis. Well done, you.

Possessed of a high level of moody fuckhead tolerance. Really, you random readers have no idea. Okay, you probably have some idea, but even if you do, you don't. And even if you're one of the friends under discussion, you're probably unaware of just how much tolerance you're showing. If you were aware you wouldn't be nearly so tolerant.

A little bit sexy. Oh yeah. No friend of mine, boy or girl, man nor beast (I have no beast friends) is without a tilt of the head, a sway of the hip or a smile of alluring crookedness that makes the Gimme go 'mmmmm'. What can I tell you? It's the fucked up way I'm built.

Happy to listen to me rant and rave in a manner so bitter, incoherent and down-right nasty as to make the shit that is to be read here on Stranded seem like the collected work of a gleefully re-animated Eleanor H. Potter.

And that's it. Easy, huh?

You'd think I'd have more friends.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

I'll never wash these clothes, I want to keep the stain

Tuesday, February 3, 2009 10
Mary Jane came in from the pouring rain. She had cycled all the way to work and had been absolutely soaked! She was quite dispirited as she walked in behind reception to collect a towel. As she reached for the towel Evelyn suddenly ran up to her!

'What are you doing? You're not allowed behind here!' she shouted.

'Yes I am! I work here!' Mary Jane replied.

'Well, you don't work at reception and since this morning nobody who doesn't work at reception is allowed behind reception,' said Evelyn in an extremely miffed tone.

'Well, I wasn't to know that, was I?' said Mary Jane. 'And anyway, who says?'

'Miss Grayling does. Now please move out from behind reception.'

Miffed, Mary Jane did as she was asked. That Evelyn could be such a beast! Mary Jane wondered why Miss Grayling had changed the rules. She and all the other freelance instructors had always been allowed behind reception before. She scuttled off to the changing rooms to get out of her dripping clothes. Just as she got to her locker, Gwendoline suddenly ran up to her!

'Oh Mary Jane, Mary Jane, did you hear? Did you, did you? Did you hear?' she said, breathlessly.

'Hear what, Gwendoline?' said Mary Jane, a trifle impatiently. Gwendoline was always running up to her breathlessly.

'Oh you haven't then! Oh, Mary Jane it's all so ghastly,' continued Gwendoline, still out of breath.

'What is Gwendoline? Do spit it out!' said Mary Jane, a little more impatiently.

'Oh Mary Jane! Last night, when Evelyn was closing up, she pushed the day's takings into the timelock safe but she thinks that maybe they were sticking out a little bit and then this morning when she opened up the money wasn't there and the CCTV tape hadn't been turned on which is the job of the person who closes up and Miss Grayling is ever so cross and everybody is being taken into her study, I mean office and being given a jolly good going over and everybody seems to think that it must be Evelyn who is the beastly thief because she closed up and opened up and was the only one to have any contact with the money and it was her job to turn on the CCTV and she came in with a new dress and a fancy haircut this afternoon!'

'Oh, Gwendoline. How can everybody be so foolish? How can they? Oh poor, poor Evelyn. How can people accuse her of such a beastly act with so little proof? No wonder she snapped at me.' said Mary Jane despondently.

'Why, what can you mean, Mary Jane? You...you don't think that it was somebody else?' asked Gwendoline confusedly.

'Yes, Gwendoline. Yes, I do.' said Mary Jane firmly.

'But who, Mary Jane? Who could have done such a beastly, dishonest thing?' asked Gwendoline searchingly.

'Magda, Gwendoline. It most certainly must have been Magda.' said Mary Jane decisively.

'But why Mary Jane, Why would you think it was Magda?' asked Gwendoline askedly.

'Oh, Gwendoline, can't you see? Can't anyone see? Magda is...well, you know...Magda's not from our country, Gwendoline,' whispered Mary Jane revealingly.

Gwendoline could not believe how silly she had been. Mary Jane was so frightfully bright! 'Oh, Mary Jane, of course! You are so frightfully bright! Should we go and tell Miss Grayling?'

'Yes, Gwendoline, I think we better had.'

Monday, February 2, 2009

She might get out a nightstick and hurt me real, real bad by the roadside in a ditch

Monday, February 2, 2009 13
I should probably save this sharing for when I'm feeling a little more energetically rage-filled. But the next in the long line of Purple Danger related woes is the NCT. Oh, those money-grabbing fuckbags and their nasty cunt testicles. Yes, that is the best I can fucking do.

Do other countries have this crap, this grease monkey subsidising piece of bureaucratic toss? Do they? Answer me! I bet they don't. I bet this is more Irish shite like having the same fat, fetid foghorns in power for ten years and that whole Irish language scam. It angers me, but it just goes on the list with all the other car concerning crap that fills me with guilt or rage or deep never to be shifted self-loathing.

I want answers. I could ask Twitter, but I'm always asking Twitter stuff and it's never fucking answering. So I'll ask you people. Am I supposed to go and fail on purpose, first time around? So as I know what's wrong with the Great Purple Beast and can thusly be specific with said monkey? Or as the Danger Mobile is due a service, in that he's not had a service under the Gimme watch, should I just go and get that done and then hope for the best.? There's lots wrong with this car, I know that much. The oil, I suspect, is too oily or not oily enough. The tires are under pressure, pressurised about their pressure. And the rear windscreen wiper? Well, that motherfucker stopped working altogether the day before yesterday, on hearing the NCT news.

So tell me what to do. And then do it for me. I couldn't be arsed. Or you know, just buy us a new car. They're cheap now, I gather, at these repossessed Ann Marie Hourihane sponsored sales.

I'd quite like an Alfa, please.
 
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