Today I realised that I had written my 1,000 online blog. It all started in 2004 when I wrote a blog to help me get over writers block when I was writing my autobiography. It turns out I loved the blog and can’t quite let it go. It is syndicated to over 170 sites across the World Wide Web, it gained thousands of regular readers, it enjoys over half a million hits a week across the sites its published on. I have made many friends, learned loads about myself, annoyed people and ended up writing for a prominent Scottish newspaper and got freelance work throughout the world. That’s what happens when you write down all your thoughts for people to read!
Whatever site you are reading this on, please enjoy and accept my heartfelt thanks for all the support, here is my 1000th blog…
Nut Brittle and frayed tempers…
I love Lidl as the moment, their fresh trout and their low fat frozen yoghurts are the best I have EVER eaten in my food noshing life.
“Excuse me do you have nut brittle, I got it here last week and it was in your Greek produce section, where is that been moved to?” I asked a podgy faced man in the fresh veg aisle.
He pointedly ignored me and carried on talking about some bank loan he applied for to a wee red haired bloke who was stacking up Christmas cards against chocolate flavoured Santa’s.
“So, I called the bank and they have refused my loan…” he droned. I watched the red haired bloke bend down deeply into the display as if he was trying to hide inside it. Podgy face carried on regardless, his bank conversation needed to be aired.
I walked off and decided, rather than do my usual thing and argue with spotty penniless podgy man, I went in search of the nut brittle on my own.
I got absorbed in my wee Lidl shopping experience and as I turned into another aisle I stumbled yet again on the podgy bank loan refused shelf stacker, he was still droning onto the red haired man “So, I then asked to be put through to head office and they kept me…” at that the red haired bloke leapt up and screamed “Shut the fuck up you annoying smelly bastard”
The red haired man threw a big tantrum and started to pull down all the Christmas trees and boxes of cards whilst screaming at the top of his voice “Fuck you Colin”. Fat podgy man (who I assume is Colin) stood there aghast, and then decided the best thing to do was run away from the devastated Christmas area and leave red haired man to explain himself to the manager who was fast approaching having dashed from the Polish fish display.
Just at that moment the woman from Afghanistan who sells the Big Issue outside (she is called Tick Tack- I swear to God that’s what she told me) well anyway her dog which is called ‘Bad Dog’ got off its leash and ran towards the melee and bit the poor ginger haired shouty man, then tried to rape a Christmas tree by humping it hard with it wee pink tongue hanging out.
Chaos ensued, Tick Tack started running after Bad Dog and chased it back out of the store and ginger man had to be calmed down. The Lidl is just so crazy on Tuesdays – I found the nut brittle, it is so delicious you should try it.
So after my Lidl experience I headed up to Easterhouse Platform Theatre ‘The Bridge’ and got some posters prepared for their display, ticket sales are going great and you can come see the show on November 14th, just call 0141 276 9696 or email them info@platform-online.co.uk for tickets, give them your details and they will get back to you.
Am still reeling about the closure on some Jongleurs comedy clubs after a take over of the company last week, loads of comics, staff and management have lost- jobs, cash and future work and I am just hoping they all recover at this difficult time near Christmas.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Me talking again
Firstly I cannot escape Cheryl Cole’s new single…everywhere in Belfast was battering it out on radio etc…making me insane, though it does sound better after it has been electronically voice tuned - she was shit singing that live. I didn’t recognise the damn song from her military dance display on X factor.
Secondly I LOVE the way Irish people say ‘wee’ all the time.
“Do you have a wee key to your room? Do you want a wee help with your case? Do you have a wee credit card so we can have a wee swipe at it?” that’s awesomely lovely. I also flew on a wee plane called Kevin Keegan (yes it really was called that) and couldn’t stop giggling that I was inside Kevin Keegan and arrived at George Best airport, football players are so big in aviation.
The Ulster Hall was just lovely and I did enjoy the Amnesty gig, all the people were so bloody good onstage.
So after all that I went for a ‘wee’ cup of tea outside Oscars champagne bar in sunny/rainy Belfast. It didn’t look like a champagne bar as it actually sells Danish pastries and breakfast buns. I just sat my arse down on a wee seat when a woman sat opposite and called me a cunt for no good reason. She then told me all about Frank in 1967 and how he was a cunt as well. She had a mullet hairdo and skin that look like crumpled tin foil that had been flattened out but refused to go smooth, I called her Scary Betty. She had the haunted eyes of a woman who could set fire to trees just with her memories. Her continual rant never stopped when my niece Ann Margaret called, in fact she could hear Scary Betty in the background.
“Aunty Janey, I can hear a nutty woman in the background are you sitting beside a Looney?” She asked,
“Yes, I am” I answered, Scary Betty leaned over and whispered “Tell her to go fuck herself”
“She can hear you Ann Mags, you’re not really helping by talking about her” I giggled.
Scary Betty stared hard at me and then a great thing happened, three Asian men sat down. Scary Betty shut up, she knew that shouting at them would be really bad, so went back to hissing filth at me, as me being white could not take offence to her abuse…apparently!
Eventually the waitress came out and told her to leave, Scary Betty stood up and told the Asian men that nobody likes their music (which was the least racist thing she could say) I meanwhile breathed audibly and went back to my newspaper. The smell of stale sugar puffs magically disappeared as she left and that was just a bonus.
Bigger news was taking afoot but I didn’t know that, though I was about to find out. Jongleurs comedy clubs had a big meltdown. If you are unfamiliar with Jongleurs they are a comedy chain that hire loads of comics every weekend and huge amounts of staff in their popular clubs.
Apparently, and I am not sure of the entire facts, but the company got bought out and it means that in the hand over five clubs have been closed for good. Nottingham, Southampton, Bristol, Oxford and Bow have been shut. I was gutted as I am booked into Nottingham this weekend, any way my personal grief gave way as I realised that almost 200 jobs have been lost, throughout the company. I will miss all those lovely people who made me welcome and who always checked my happiness levels before I went onstage. Bless all those poor folks who have lost their jobs, I wish I could do something for them. I am thinking of you all as Christmas approaches.
So therefore I have the weekend free, and will have some weekends to fill but am not that fussed as I am a comedian and will pick work up anywhere.
On another note, I am looking forward to Christmas as I am going to be home this year and near my dad. I love him and he will need me this year as he is alone, it will be nice to share it with him.
Also have a big audition coming up in London and will need all the luck I can get for that one!
Speak soon.
Secondly I LOVE the way Irish people say ‘wee’ all the time.
“Do you have a wee key to your room? Do you want a wee help with your case? Do you have a wee credit card so we can have a wee swipe at it?” that’s awesomely lovely. I also flew on a wee plane called Kevin Keegan (yes it really was called that) and couldn’t stop giggling that I was inside Kevin Keegan and arrived at George Best airport, football players are so big in aviation.
The Ulster Hall was just lovely and I did enjoy the Amnesty gig, all the people were so bloody good onstage.
So after all that I went for a ‘wee’ cup of tea outside Oscars champagne bar in sunny/rainy Belfast. It didn’t look like a champagne bar as it actually sells Danish pastries and breakfast buns. I just sat my arse down on a wee seat when a woman sat opposite and called me a cunt for no good reason. She then told me all about Frank in 1967 and how he was a cunt as well. She had a mullet hairdo and skin that look like crumpled tin foil that had been flattened out but refused to go smooth, I called her Scary Betty. She had the haunted eyes of a woman who could set fire to trees just with her memories. Her continual rant never stopped when my niece Ann Margaret called, in fact she could hear Scary Betty in the background.
“Aunty Janey, I can hear a nutty woman in the background are you sitting beside a Looney?” She asked,
“Yes, I am” I answered, Scary Betty leaned over and whispered “Tell her to go fuck herself”
“She can hear you Ann Mags, you’re not really helping by talking about her” I giggled.
Scary Betty stared hard at me and then a great thing happened, three Asian men sat down. Scary Betty shut up, she knew that shouting at them would be really bad, so went back to hissing filth at me, as me being white could not take offence to her abuse…apparently!
Eventually the waitress came out and told her to leave, Scary Betty stood up and told the Asian men that nobody likes their music (which was the least racist thing she could say) I meanwhile breathed audibly and went back to my newspaper. The smell of stale sugar puffs magically disappeared as she left and that was just a bonus.
Bigger news was taking afoot but I didn’t know that, though I was about to find out. Jongleurs comedy clubs had a big meltdown. If you are unfamiliar with Jongleurs they are a comedy chain that hire loads of comics every weekend and huge amounts of staff in their popular clubs.
Apparently, and I am not sure of the entire facts, but the company got bought out and it means that in the hand over five clubs have been closed for good. Nottingham, Southampton, Bristol, Oxford and Bow have been shut. I was gutted as I am booked into Nottingham this weekend, any way my personal grief gave way as I realised that almost 200 jobs have been lost, throughout the company. I will miss all those lovely people who made me welcome and who always checked my happiness levels before I went onstage. Bless all those poor folks who have lost their jobs, I wish I could do something for them. I am thinking of you all as Christmas approaches.
So therefore I have the weekend free, and will have some weekends to fill but am not that fussed as I am a comedian and will pick work up anywhere.
On another note, I am looking forward to Christmas as I am going to be home this year and near my dad. I love him and he will need me this year as he is alone, it will be nice to share it with him.
Also have a big audition coming up in London and will need all the luck I can get for that one!
Speak soon.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Let me tell you something…
Leeds was sunny and I love autumn, isn’t that something? The drive through Ilkley and Skipton and all across that area with the trees and foliage turning bright gold to vivacious red was awesome. That’s officially me getting old, I am a leaf peeper! But I have to say the Midlands countryside is just stunning to see at this time of year, and Leeds looks so quaint, who knew it was hotbed for terrorists? It looks so peaceful and nice as well!
As I was walking through sunny scary hotbed of terror that is Leeds, I sat by the little river and took in the view. A man approached wearing inappropriately short shorts, you know what I mean, over 40s mens shorts should be below knee, under 20s men shorts can be showing some clam if they want, they are young and their skin still fits them. This man was in his 50s and was grossly over weight, the shorts were disgustingly tight, and I couldn’t stop staring at his crotch which is disturbing to say the least.
Of course saggy ball man sat right beside me on the lonely tow path, what else do you people expect?
“Lovely day isn’t it? Do you like robin red breasts?” he shouted into my face, I realised he look a bit detached and possibly slightly special needs.
“Erm…yes they are nice” I stuttered.
He then pulled out a Christmas card with a robin on the front and shoved it in my face. “Nice” I said and prepared to leave. He grabbed my arm to sit back down; I looked anxiously around for some help as tight short baggy ball man might throw me into the river.
“My name is Barry and my mum is dead” he whispered.
Now, in my head all I could think was ‘has he just killed her?’ or is he disturbed because she died years ago?…I was getting scared by the minute…I always imagined how I would die, but I never thought I would end up in the river at Leeds by a fat man wearing shorts wielding a robin red breast Christmas card.
“My mam died years ago and she gave me this card” he said as I sat back down and his arm was gently now resting on mine.
I suddenly didn’t feel scared, I felt sad for him. We chatted for a while and he told me things about his mam and how she used to sing to him and after she died he lived in a big home and made pottery.
His speech was rather stilted and childlike and I didn’t feel threatened. Then we just sat in the quietness and he had a wee sleep! Yes, he napped as he clutched a Christmas card in his hand. After about half an hour I heard a woman shouting at us along the pathway. She hurried up to us as he jolted awake.
“Barry, what have you been told about wandering off?” she shouted at him. She wasn’t being angry more concerned and I explained he had been sitting with me chatting. Barry was all confused and stuttering out sentences trying to explain himself.
“Barry was having lunch with us at the river side pub along there and just disappeared, didn’t you Barry?” she calmed down, but still looked harassed.
He got up and staggered a wee bit, I think he was tired. The woman just took his arm and walked him off. They got about 30 feet away when he turned and shouted “Bye Katherine” at me. Nice to know he paid attention when I told him my name! I hope Barry had a nice day.
I walked slowly back to the flat and noticed that Leeds has its Christmas decorations up in the town centre.
IT ISNT EVEN HALLOWEEN PEOPLE!
Either that town is obsessed with Christmas or they want to shove Christianity down everyone’s throats and wipe out their reputation as a town that breeds bombers of the Muslim fundamentalist nature.
Now don’t everyone comment and write hateful things about me slagging off Leeds, just don’t shoot the messenger, by the way as an addendum to that four counter-terrorism detectives have been arrested for allegedly abusing corporate credit cards to claim up to £120,000 in fraudulent expenses while gathering intelligence after the 7/7 bombings.
Is everyone corrupt?
Either way I had a great weekend in Leeds, and I had fun.
As I was walking through sunny scary hotbed of terror that is Leeds, I sat by the little river and took in the view. A man approached wearing inappropriately short shorts, you know what I mean, over 40s mens shorts should be below knee, under 20s men shorts can be showing some clam if they want, they are young and their skin still fits them. This man was in his 50s and was grossly over weight, the shorts were disgustingly tight, and I couldn’t stop staring at his crotch which is disturbing to say the least.
Of course saggy ball man sat right beside me on the lonely tow path, what else do you people expect?
“Lovely day isn’t it? Do you like robin red breasts?” he shouted into my face, I realised he look a bit detached and possibly slightly special needs.
“Erm…yes they are nice” I stuttered.
He then pulled out a Christmas card with a robin on the front and shoved it in my face. “Nice” I said and prepared to leave. He grabbed my arm to sit back down; I looked anxiously around for some help as tight short baggy ball man might throw me into the river.
“My name is Barry and my mum is dead” he whispered.
Now, in my head all I could think was ‘has he just killed her?’ or is he disturbed because she died years ago?…I was getting scared by the minute…I always imagined how I would die, but I never thought I would end up in the river at Leeds by a fat man wearing shorts wielding a robin red breast Christmas card.
“My mam died years ago and she gave me this card” he said as I sat back down and his arm was gently now resting on mine.
I suddenly didn’t feel scared, I felt sad for him. We chatted for a while and he told me things about his mam and how she used to sing to him and after she died he lived in a big home and made pottery.
His speech was rather stilted and childlike and I didn’t feel threatened. Then we just sat in the quietness and he had a wee sleep! Yes, he napped as he clutched a Christmas card in his hand. After about half an hour I heard a woman shouting at us along the pathway. She hurried up to us as he jolted awake.
“Barry, what have you been told about wandering off?” she shouted at him. She wasn’t being angry more concerned and I explained he had been sitting with me chatting. Barry was all confused and stuttering out sentences trying to explain himself.
“Barry was having lunch with us at the river side pub along there and just disappeared, didn’t you Barry?” she calmed down, but still looked harassed.
He got up and staggered a wee bit, I think he was tired. The woman just took his arm and walked him off. They got about 30 feet away when he turned and shouted “Bye Katherine” at me. Nice to know he paid attention when I told him my name! I hope Barry had a nice day.
I walked slowly back to the flat and noticed that Leeds has its Christmas decorations up in the town centre.
IT ISNT EVEN HALLOWEEN PEOPLE!
Either that town is obsessed with Christmas or they want to shove Christianity down everyone’s throats and wipe out their reputation as a town that breeds bombers of the Muslim fundamentalist nature.
Now don’t everyone comment and write hateful things about me slagging off Leeds, just don’t shoot the messenger, by the way as an addendum to that four counter-terrorism detectives have been arrested for allegedly abusing corporate credit cards to claim up to £120,000 in fraudulent expenses while gathering intelligence after the 7/7 bombings.
Is everyone corrupt?
Either way I had a great weekend in Leeds, and I had fun.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Who Knows why?
Luton has no place for me; I know this because its transport system basically shouted it at me. “Battersea, I don’t think so love?” Luton guffawed and left me standing trying to work out the myriad of buses and trains that get you to fuck out of its small town.
Luton is the kind of place where you land and run away from as fast as you can, but I couldn’t get a flight into Heathrow Terminal 5 which I adore and love, it has a tube station that takes me practically to my door when I stay in Central London.
My mate John came and picked me up and drove me out of the orange Easyjet painted hell hole.
I saw newly arriving Eastern Europeans take one look at the place and pour petrol over themselves and go up in flames with despair in the outside smoking area “this is what we gave up our shanty but happy homes for?” they said in a language I couldn’t understand but could tell from their actions, that’s what they meant.
Guantanamo bay has a better vista and more interesting facilities than Luton, the mere fact that everyone who asked me where I flew into does a Lorraine Chase face and shouts ‘Luton Airport’ in a Cockney Accent cements my opinion of the place.
Anyway I made it into London and had a great weekend. I was performing at The Groucho Gang Show which was just amazing. I sat on an expensive carpet and watched The Feeling, The Alphabeats and The Waterboys (technically it was A Waterboy as the band wasn’t there -just him) sing live! They were great and I love the Gang Show.
Later on I met David Thewlis who is a very interesting and lovely bloke who adores comedy! Then my mate Monica turned up with Heston Blumenthal (she owns her own PR Company) and I got papped outside hugging the lovely chef as we made our way in (I was outside waiting for them to arrive). We had a good old giggle as the gang show wound down; Hamish and the Groucho House band are just brilliant musicians and they had the place jumping.
I got home on Monday night (after suffering the horror of getting back to Luton fucking Airport 2 trains and 2 buses to be precise) and promptly fell asleep at 8pm and didn’t wake up until Tuesday at 10am. I am like a baby who ‘is going through the night without waking up for a feed’ its awful -who sleeps that long? Coma victims that’s who!
Husband watched me trying to get dressed today for a meeting and said quietly “Do you know there is a big clip in your hair sideways at the back?”
“Yes, I do, its fashionable” I retorted.
“It’s sideways and makes you look like Susan Boyle who can’t see the back of her head and clips random hair accessories without checking” he answered.
“Well you fuck a woman who looks like Susan Boyle so the jokes on you fella” I said as I struggled to get the clip out of my tufty mane, it got caught and eventually husband had to use nail scissors to free it out of my head. I now have a bald patch, that’s how fashionable I am.
I brushed my hair up and tried to put it in an up-do and managed to look like Chaka khan on crack, am sure the woman at the BBC meeting didn’t mind me looking mental. I am whacky and funny, that’s what I do!
I know I am not fashionable as I did comedy for an event last week where women who were really rich, successful or married to footballers bought handbags for £400 a piece. I nearly gagged on my champagne when I saw the cash flow for HANDBAGS…but it was all for charity so that’s ok, but seriously I couldn’t cope with the pressure of a fancy bag, I throw handbags on the grass and sometimes sit on them. I have been known to keep a Greggs pasty in a handbag for emergency steak bake moments.
Ashley got a £2,000 Bottega Venetta handbag as a graduation gift from a lovely rich friend and I get scared just looking at it.
It knows am from Shettleston and shouldn’t be near it, the bag shudders visibly when I pick it up. It literally vomits when I open it to look in.
“Get your grubby council house hands of my exclusive Italian leather you spam sucking caravan dweller” it whispers when I finger its clasp.
I am ok with an Asda long life plastic bag, don’t give me expensive leather or designer couture – I get nervous and burn it accidentally or spill red wine onto it.
Anyway the hand bag event was at Loch Lomond Golf Club and honestly the place is awesome, you should see the spa there…I was gobsmacked and one day I am going to save up and buy a bar of soap from that place.
I am joking, but go to http://www.lochlomond.com and check this divine place out for yourself, its just spectacular.
Click on Spa and tell me that doesn’t look heavenly?
I think we should have a ladies blogger day there what do you think?
Luton is the kind of place where you land and run away from as fast as you can, but I couldn’t get a flight into Heathrow Terminal 5 which I adore and love, it has a tube station that takes me practically to my door when I stay in Central London.
My mate John came and picked me up and drove me out of the orange Easyjet painted hell hole.
I saw newly arriving Eastern Europeans take one look at the place and pour petrol over themselves and go up in flames with despair in the outside smoking area “this is what we gave up our shanty but happy homes for?” they said in a language I couldn’t understand but could tell from their actions, that’s what they meant.
Guantanamo bay has a better vista and more interesting facilities than Luton, the mere fact that everyone who asked me where I flew into does a Lorraine Chase face and shouts ‘Luton Airport’ in a Cockney Accent cements my opinion of the place.
Anyway I made it into London and had a great weekend. I was performing at The Groucho Gang Show which was just amazing. I sat on an expensive carpet and watched The Feeling, The Alphabeats and The Waterboys (technically it was A Waterboy as the band wasn’t there -just him) sing live! They were great and I love the Gang Show.
Later on I met David Thewlis who is a very interesting and lovely bloke who adores comedy! Then my mate Monica turned up with Heston Blumenthal (she owns her own PR Company) and I got papped outside hugging the lovely chef as we made our way in (I was outside waiting for them to arrive). We had a good old giggle as the gang show wound down; Hamish and the Groucho House band are just brilliant musicians and they had the place jumping.
I got home on Monday night (after suffering the horror of getting back to Luton fucking Airport 2 trains and 2 buses to be precise) and promptly fell asleep at 8pm and didn’t wake up until Tuesday at 10am. I am like a baby who ‘is going through the night without waking up for a feed’ its awful -who sleeps that long? Coma victims that’s who!
Husband watched me trying to get dressed today for a meeting and said quietly “Do you know there is a big clip in your hair sideways at the back?”
“Yes, I do, its fashionable” I retorted.
“It’s sideways and makes you look like Susan Boyle who can’t see the back of her head and clips random hair accessories without checking” he answered.
“Well you fuck a woman who looks like Susan Boyle so the jokes on you fella” I said as I struggled to get the clip out of my tufty mane, it got caught and eventually husband had to use nail scissors to free it out of my head. I now have a bald patch, that’s how fashionable I am.
I brushed my hair up and tried to put it in an up-do and managed to look like Chaka khan on crack, am sure the woman at the BBC meeting didn’t mind me looking mental. I am whacky and funny, that’s what I do!
I know I am not fashionable as I did comedy for an event last week where women who were really rich, successful or married to footballers bought handbags for £400 a piece. I nearly gagged on my champagne when I saw the cash flow for HANDBAGS…but it was all for charity so that’s ok, but seriously I couldn’t cope with the pressure of a fancy bag, I throw handbags on the grass and sometimes sit on them. I have been known to keep a Greggs pasty in a handbag for emergency steak bake moments.
Ashley got a £2,000 Bottega Venetta handbag as a graduation gift from a lovely rich friend and I get scared just looking at it.
It knows am from Shettleston and shouldn’t be near it, the bag shudders visibly when I pick it up. It literally vomits when I open it to look in.
“Get your grubby council house hands of my exclusive Italian leather you spam sucking caravan dweller” it whispers when I finger its clasp.
I am ok with an Asda long life plastic bag, don’t give me expensive leather or designer couture – I get nervous and burn it accidentally or spill red wine onto it.
Anyway the hand bag event was at Loch Lomond Golf Club and honestly the place is awesome, you should see the spa there…I was gobsmacked and one day I am going to save up and buy a bar of soap from that place.
I am joking, but go to http://www.lochlomond.com and check this divine place out for yourself, its just spectacular.
Click on Spa and tell me that doesn’t look heavenly?
I think we should have a ladies blogger day there what do you think?
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
I am politically incorrect
I was on the tube in Glasgow (yes we have a tube system, its two wee trains that go round in circles, called the clockwork orange, don’t ask) anyway I stepped onto the train and there was a young teenage boy with an older woman hugging him. She was running her hands through his sticky up blonde hair and whispering to him, he giggled and pulled up his baggy jeans onto his skinny bony frame. You could see the elasticated band of underpants showing, boys do love showing their big man pants off!
I thought it was nice that a young teen boy would let his mum cuddle him like that in public; Ashley would punch me if I stroked her head in front of people at that age.
Anyway the mum had her arms around him from behind and was rubbing her head into his, then they kissed fully on the mouth and I stopped thinking it was nice. Then I realised it was two lesbian lovers, who were happy as hell and I was a freaky onlooker who mistook the small lesbian for a 13 year old boy. I was annoyed at myself for judging them as a mother and son, but truly that’s what they looked like, am sorry if this offends anyone writing about this. It was heart warming that they could love and kiss in public and we in Glasgow are not homophobic and open minded, but I mistook the blonde girl for a small boy, so what does that make me? A creepy fuckwit I assume!
I have also discovered something about people today. I am stunned by the written language and the way younger kids use the internet. Let me explain, there is the tragic story of two young girls who killed themselves by jumping off a bridge near Glasgow. Now the minute they died, their mates all went to their Bebo networking site and started to leave messages on the deceased girls’ pages.
The thing that struck me was the text language used by teens as they left messages for the girls who died. I read this on one of the girls Bebo page “Hunni, ets pure rbish that yer deed, a dinny know yay were hinnking aboot dain that”
Which is translated as “Honey, its pure rubbish that you are dead, I didn’t know you were thinking about doing that”
There are loads of messages in this text speak and it was quite compelling to read them, it is like a code that you start to understand slowly. Hunni= honey, gr8=great, Geeiz= give us.
Writing messages to the deceased is a relatively new phenomenon; it’s a bit like when people wrote on the memorial books for Princess Diana when she died, except its people writing on a website to dead people as if they can still read the messages.
I recall my mate waiting hours to sign the condolence book for Princess Diana and she wrote on it “It’s a shame you died just when you got your hair looking nice” which is fine, because the dead don’t really read the messages do they?
I believe that leaving messages like this does help the grieving process, and people feel they got to say something after a death that they couldn’t express elsewhere, I am just aghast at the spelling and language used on today’s networking sites by teens who have invented their own lingo.
Does that make me insensitive? I don’t mean to be, I hope the kids involved in those two deaths find peace as do the families surrounding the tragic girls.
I thought it was nice that a young teen boy would let his mum cuddle him like that in public; Ashley would punch me if I stroked her head in front of people at that age.
Anyway the mum had her arms around him from behind and was rubbing her head into his, then they kissed fully on the mouth and I stopped thinking it was nice. Then I realised it was two lesbian lovers, who were happy as hell and I was a freaky onlooker who mistook the small lesbian for a 13 year old boy. I was annoyed at myself for judging them as a mother and son, but truly that’s what they looked like, am sorry if this offends anyone writing about this. It was heart warming that they could love and kiss in public and we in Glasgow are not homophobic and open minded, but I mistook the blonde girl for a small boy, so what does that make me? A creepy fuckwit I assume!
I have also discovered something about people today. I am stunned by the written language and the way younger kids use the internet. Let me explain, there is the tragic story of two young girls who killed themselves by jumping off a bridge near Glasgow. Now the minute they died, their mates all went to their Bebo networking site and started to leave messages on the deceased girls’ pages.
The thing that struck me was the text language used by teens as they left messages for the girls who died. I read this on one of the girls Bebo page “Hunni, ets pure rbish that yer deed, a dinny know yay were hinnking aboot dain that”
Which is translated as “Honey, its pure rubbish that you are dead, I didn’t know you were thinking about doing that”
There are loads of messages in this text speak and it was quite compelling to read them, it is like a code that you start to understand slowly. Hunni= honey, gr8=great, Geeiz= give us.
Writing messages to the deceased is a relatively new phenomenon; it’s a bit like when people wrote on the memorial books for Princess Diana when she died, except its people writing on a website to dead people as if they can still read the messages.
I recall my mate waiting hours to sign the condolence book for Princess Diana and she wrote on it “It’s a shame you died just when you got your hair looking nice” which is fine, because the dead don’t really read the messages do they?
I believe that leaving messages like this does help the grieving process, and people feel they got to say something after a death that they couldn’t express elsewhere, I am just aghast at the spelling and language used on today’s networking sites by teens who have invented their own lingo.
Does that make me insensitive? I don’t mean to be, I hope the kids involved in those two deaths find peace as do the families surrounding the tragic girls.
Monday, October 05, 2009
Get me peace
(To see the blog about Domestic Abuse, Red Card it! My current campaign please Click at bottom Older Post)
My daughter Ashley is better; her swine-flu has finally left her body. I didn’t enjoy her swine-flu period, there were no surrealist paintings or amazing art work- it just made her grumpy, whiney and her hair grew five inches in depth as well as length during her bedroom internment. She looked like a big woolly snot ridden mammoth.
She emerged recently looking paler, thinner and was slightly alarmed that the world had still turned despite her having nothing to do with it for three weeks.
Ashley got up this morning and asked her dad if he could go get her a ‘Fat Toosh’ he thought it sounded sexual and hid behind the toilet door till she stopped speaking, turns out a fat toosh is actually a ‘fatoush’ which is toasted Lebanese bread with salad, the local take away had shoved a brochure through our letterbox. She also got Ian Rankin’s new graphic novel shoved through the letter box, she was excited and even danced a wee bit.
I on the other hand have been suffering some deep self loathing; I need to lose weight and its not happening fast enough. The non smoking is going great, but my will power falls flat when it comes to stopping eating fatty food. So my weekend at Jongleurs Bristol was dominated with cottage cheese and cold meat, as that was all I would allow myself to eat. Low calorie and minimum carbs was the call of the day.
I have realised that I am the same weight that I was the day I gave birth to Ashley! So I am now walking about carrying that big lump of weight around my body, I could hardly walk when I was fully pregnant with Ashley and now that’s the body fat I live with. I hate myself now.
The good news is I have lost half a stone since I started really hating myself. Maybe I will really hate myself enough to lose another three stones and then I will look slim but full of deep tortured self deprecating low self esteem and develop borderline suicidal tendencies. But fuck it, I will look good eh?
Husband is ill prepared for this recent mood swing and has been staring at me in the dark in bed whispering “Are you ok Janey?”
“Why do you think I am fat? Can you feel the bed dip at my end?” I snipped at him.
“I am scared” his voice was like a thin shadow veiled with fear.
“I am fine, when I get thinner I will be finer” I shouted and broke the hush.
Bless his wee soul, he thought it would cheer me up if he got up at 5am and danced and sang a song at the side of the bed…naked. He didn’t know it made me want to take a toffee hammer to his eye. Sometimes I don’t think he knows me at all.
I think I may be going through a mental mid life crisis.
My daughter Ashley is better; her swine-flu has finally left her body. I didn’t enjoy her swine-flu period, there were no surrealist paintings or amazing art work- it just made her grumpy, whiney and her hair grew five inches in depth as well as length during her bedroom internment. She looked like a big woolly snot ridden mammoth.
She emerged recently looking paler, thinner and was slightly alarmed that the world had still turned despite her having nothing to do with it for three weeks.
Ashley got up this morning and asked her dad if he could go get her a ‘Fat Toosh’ he thought it sounded sexual and hid behind the toilet door till she stopped speaking, turns out a fat toosh is actually a ‘fatoush’ which is toasted Lebanese bread with salad, the local take away had shoved a brochure through our letterbox. She also got Ian Rankin’s new graphic novel shoved through the letter box, she was excited and even danced a wee bit.
I on the other hand have been suffering some deep self loathing; I need to lose weight and its not happening fast enough. The non smoking is going great, but my will power falls flat when it comes to stopping eating fatty food. So my weekend at Jongleurs Bristol was dominated with cottage cheese and cold meat, as that was all I would allow myself to eat. Low calorie and minimum carbs was the call of the day.
I have realised that I am the same weight that I was the day I gave birth to Ashley! So I am now walking about carrying that big lump of weight around my body, I could hardly walk when I was fully pregnant with Ashley and now that’s the body fat I live with. I hate myself now.
The good news is I have lost half a stone since I started really hating myself. Maybe I will really hate myself enough to lose another three stones and then I will look slim but full of deep tortured self deprecating low self esteem and develop borderline suicidal tendencies. But fuck it, I will look good eh?
Husband is ill prepared for this recent mood swing and has been staring at me in the dark in bed whispering “Are you ok Janey?”
“Why do you think I am fat? Can you feel the bed dip at my end?” I snipped at him.
“I am scared” his voice was like a thin shadow veiled with fear.
“I am fine, when I get thinner I will be finer” I shouted and broke the hush.
Bless his wee soul, he thought it would cheer me up if he got up at 5am and danced and sang a song at the side of the bed…naked. He didn’t know it made me want to take a toffee hammer to his eye. Sometimes I don’t think he knows me at all.
I think I may be going through a mental mid life crisis.
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