Merry Whatever Doesn't Offend You.

To wish or not to wish. Chances are when you wish someone a Merry Christmas, said person is not a Christian or a big fan of this Jesus person anyway. Might as well say Merry Capitalism, as most Conspiracy Theorists would agree. I, for one, don't give a shit if you wish me a Merry Christmas. I will not be offended, being a person without faith in anything, and it will just be one of the many things my brain will process and store into that Don't Know, Don't Care, Not Worth Giving A Shit About Right Now space. I honestly do not care. If Merry Wishes were given to me out of the kindness of someone's heart or, more likely the case, something the staffs of TESCO has to say as per the daily morning briefings leading up to the fucktarded mayhem that is Last Minute Christmas Shopping, I'll take it. Or, like for myself, for lack of a better thing to say out of awkwardness when leaving the the doctor's after my son getting his second lot of jabs on Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas, and have a good evening. Like I care, because it in no way affects me but I will just say it anyway so as not to come off as the social retard I actually am. No, really. Even if the person were to ramble about her husband's mid-life crisis after that I'd just sympathetically nod and worry about how on Earth are we going to survive until the next pay day when we have spunked hideous amounts of money on dinner for this one night and gifts for the children that they will be grateful for for the next ten to fifteen minutes upon opening them. The next day they are just going to open the kitchen cupboards and moan about there being fuck all for when The Munchies hit anyway.

What am I going to tell Kai about the meaning of Christmas? I don't know, mate, I don't do Christmas growing up. I just jumped on the bandwagon because presents and getting shit-faced on chocs and sweets appeals to me. There is no God but there is Santa, according to Daddy. Look, Santa ate the mince pies and left a fuckload of glitter all over the carpets. Guess we are all going to look strippers all the way to Easter then, my child.

I do get a kick out of  telling Jaz's other children that Christmas is not really Jesus' birthday anyway. His real birthday was on the 11th of March and the 25th of December is actually one of the many Pagan holidays the Christians took and made their own. Give the Pagans credit where it is due, I say!

Okay, it may or may not be the 11th of March but that is like saying the first sighting of Unicorns may or may not be during the Ice Age.

Fact is Pope Julius I declared Christmas on 25th December to convince the Roman Pagans to convert to Christianity because that the day Pagans celebrate Saturnalia to honour the God of Agriculture. An agricultural bloke is worth honouring, me thinks.

But who cares? I don't.

Just have a good holiday, rip open a lot of gifts, go mad with sugar rush, have a traditional family row, chuck roasting pans about in retaliation. It's just another day anyway. Do whatever you want with it. It is the end of the year and if you partake in Christmas you will definitely be skint as fuck, no matter what your household income is, so just enjoy the ride while you pork out on that obscenely massive dinner and harbour hate for your family members.

For me I am just glad that this year Jaz and I are no longer homeless. We have a home and if I want to kick shit up I am entitled to it. Men love when bitches go crazy during Festive seasons.

I should start blogging again.

Jaz said that I should probably start blogging again. I have a feeling he has never read any of my entries and he has no bloody idea what I've been going on about. My guess is he is probably, most definitely, sick of my running commentary on every single thing and clocked that my verbal diarrhoea re-surfaced each time I come away for too long.

Poor man. He has no idea that my desire to bludgeon people with blunt objects has got fuck all to do with my menstrual cycle. No idea at all. I just time my verbal assault to fit that time of the month so that I behave like a fully-functional woman, all stereotypically-pre-menstrual-y and stuff.

I came away to have a baby, just in case you're wondering, if you're not on my personal Faceshet account. He's three months old now. A slobbering little lunatic. He has yet to showcase the full extent of his lunacy but if Genetic Make-Up is a proven fact then I am sure some of mine and Jaz's would spill onto his person's personality. He is an amazing cuddler when he is not trying to force himself awake by spasming violently and planking. Amazing little human being with his own brand of Eau du Bebe Sick. Oh how I love him and his little sticky-outy ears and grabby Monkey Boy toes. Love. Every time I stare at him sleeping I get filled with love for the spit-encrusted baby. And then he will usually violently jerk himself awake, be extremely annoyed that he fell for that jiggy-bounce trick again and moan. Then, I will just look at him and think 'Oh, you silly little gibbon'. That was the toned-down version. Days on end of not enough sleep and what comes out of both my mouth and Jaz will make you question our characters.

So yeah... I will be back. But don't you worry. I won't be posting any of those Elf on the Shelf shite or Mummy and Baby Craft bollocks.

Until then, have a Happy Festivus, Restivus Pastafarians. Hope you attended Mass at the Church of The Flying Spaghetti Monster and properly aired your grievances at dinner.

My Parents, The Amazeballs Story-Tellers

I wonder if there are still parents out there who read to their children. Do fathers still sit with their kids at night and read to them? Do mothers sit with their kids in the evening and tell them stories? Or have those type of parents gone extinct altogether?

Both my parents are good story-tellers in their own right. My mom was not big on reading, claiming that reading puts her to sleep immediately, so all her stories were from her imagination. Whatever type of stories she starts with, be it poor little baby elephants that got lost in a parking lot or a little girl that swam into a lake, it always took on a weird espionage turn. The kind of turns that made me and my brother look at each other going 'Eh?'. Always, her characters turned into spies of the government one way or the other and they always ended up being kidnapped and she would end her stories with conclusions like: The moral is... Never talk back to your mother because Mothers are Wise. Mommy Logic For The Win. I come from The Secret Seven, Nancy Drew and The Naughtiest Girl generation and even I thought her twists and mysteries were fucked-out weird. That was why I love that imagination of hers and what she had contributed to my childhood so much.

My dad, on the other hand was almost never seen sober until he gave up drinking when I was about 15. He was not those abusive-drunk type. I have yet to meet another drunk who was as adorable, sweet-natured, soft-spoken and so fond of cuddles as he was. It was when he got reacquainted with God and turned sober that it all went to hell, in my opinion.

He would wake my 6-year-old self up and insisted on telling me a bedtime story at 3 in the morning. He'd pull out Beauty and The Beast and I could see that it was Beauty and The Beast and I would be sat on his lap with the book before us. His forefinger would underline the words he was reading and yet the tale that came out of his mouth was fuck all about Beauty and The Beast. I remembered being angry at first because it was the wrong story and he would cover my mouth with the other hand, laughed and said, 'Shh, don't interrupt me, the story is getting good' and read to me a story that was a horrendously hilarious mash-up of The Little Mermaid and Aladdin. Of course my dad was stupid silly to me back then but his mash-up skills were Amazeballs. There is nothing like having a gigglefit with a drunk at 4 am and trying to argue logic with him at the same time.

It did not matter to me then that my parents did not read to me the exact story or that the story made no fucking sense whatsoever and it does not matter to me now. It mattered to me that they actually sat there with me when they had a many other things to do but yet they chose to sit with me at whatever hours and fill my brain with images of these weird tales of fictitious characters and the logic is that there is no logic. Take whatever images I have planted in your head and run away with your imagination.

I get Jaz to read to me on nights I miss my parents horribly and it was always when he was about to doze off his stories are always 'Once upon a time there was a gibbon. That gibbon was so very tired after his long day and this other gibbon wanted him to tell her a story. The end.'

Yeah, our children will be so fucking lucky.

Hammerhead tits for Summer

Spring has sprung here. Supposedly. I am not yet sold on that idea, what with being caught in the rain every morning walking Stevie. Three layers of coats on does not equate to Spring. At least all the catalogues that pass through the mail slot here seem to suggest Spring is here. Pictures of obscenely happy, scantily clad blondes are all over the covers. Get fucking spades and buckets for your kids to play with at the beach, they seemed to scream. Looks like a beach in Brazil, with all that sun.

Pages upon pages of pictures of nubile, young women in brightly coloured dresses that seemed to have been shot in High Definition. Fucking neon tops that give you mixed reactions. Maxi dresses that makes me look like a cow wearing a tent. I'm not one for trends, haven't you heard? Mainly because this body right here makes most trends look hilarious, not that most of them already aren't. I will just wear whatever, so long as I'm not leaving the house bare-arsed and dressed for the wrong climate altogether. I will leave zebra and leopard prints to those who don't take themselves too seriously or can't be spotted from the other space.

What I will keep on top of would be bras. Wear cute underwear, people. I seem to like the idea that I can lift my top off in a toilet cubicle and have a short giggle over my choice of underwear that day. Then again, I am quite easily amused. Plus with the stupid amount of tube tops I seem to have accumulated off Primark sale bins, I realized I sorely need a strapless bra. I have no idea why I bought them tops. Exposing my armpits have never been a favourite pastime of mine. Neither is showcasing the uber jiggliness of my flabby upper arms. Body hangups whatever. Maybe I will just wear them while I am out hanging out the laundry in the balcony and do a semi-squat while I am at it just so that I can do the whole 'Ooh look at my sexy shoulders and note how I've done my hair today' parade. Maybe even the 'Have you noticed my barely there dewy make-up that I bought just in time for Spring?' pose. Don't you wish your girlfriend was as domestic yet with a hint of classy, sexpot hot like me? Yes, pay no attention to the lower body for my body is but a temporary vessel for this lifetime. Next life, I'll be a Daffodil.

Shopping for bras have been a nightmare lately. One reason being my breasts have truly given up on me and every time I look at them in the mirror they seem to be looking at me with disappointed and disdain. Fuck off you waste of space with no dedication in life, they seemed to hiss. You diet, you stuff your face, you workout and then you give up on life and now look at the fucking state of us due to your fucking lack of commitment. Yo-yo diet tits. Fuck off now and attempt to cover our sad state with your many bras and the stupid cushions you shove in them. The other reason being Jaz behaving like a total bloke in underwear departments. A bit hot under the collar, antsy and just plain fucking impatient. The fuck he cares I'm choosing a nice bit of negligee. He doesn't care and him behaving like that makes me shop for underwear in a frenzy. Shopping for bras in a frenzy results in me sitting on our bed after a bath in my new underwear close to tears. Ill-fitting fuckers. Aww baby, your tits are still pretty, he cooed, while diving into a packet of Jelly Babies. NO. I HAVE HAMMERHEAD TITS. The fucking cut and design of the bras were stupid. They must have stuck on the cute prints on it to disguise the fact that the design was shit. My tits have fucking panoramic view. They are conical and they face the both corners of the room. A flaw in the fucking design. A fucking flaw.

Now I have to make to make sure that when I am doing the laundry out in the balcony the neighbours don't see my general chest area or they'll say, Look out it's the Oriental Hammerhead Shark. At least Stevie seems to like nicking and darting off across the room with them.

Only in England?

Only in England can the weather be so horrendous that it is painfully funny. 'Standing out in the cold in your vest top when only 3 seconds ago it was blistering hot and now your nipples feel a bit frost-bitten' type of painfully funny. This country calls for industrial-strength bra-paddings. Not because you might need the extra boost, but you might need the extra protection for your pairs of raisins. The extra boost will not hurt either. My breasts fascinate me immensely. Sometimes they look sad, sometimes they look excited, sometimes they look like a teenager: Can't be bothered either way.

Only last week I was at a funeral of a wonderful, elderly woman who had touched my life during the short time I knew her. We looked up at the skies and it parted, letting in the Sun shine through and we smiled. Then we got pelted suddenly with hail. Was it a sign, someone asked. Yes, it is sign that there is some bit of frost in the clouds and the fuckers just scratched my sunnies. Is it too much to ask for to want to turn up looking like a presentable woman, ala Audrey Hepburn, instead of like that skank over there with her bloody fishnets and *le gasputin* OPEN-TOED SANDALS? Tsk tsk tsk.

Every morning, walking Stevie would result in a stupid debate over whether to just brave it and put a jumper on or layer up and end up looking like the fucking Michellin man. Do I need my Snood? What about my gloves? Ooh shit, my hat. Just to walk the fucking dog around the block. I would go out all layered up, walk down the path and suddenly it is fucking blistering hot. There I stood looking like a fucking twat. I'd be holding my coat and scarf in one hand and bags of steaming shit and the lead in another. Hopefully no other dogs start crossing paths with Little Shit or bags of steaming shit would go all over the fucking place. Then suddenly a cloud will pass and then BAM! You are in fucking Siberia. Goosebumps, frozen nipples, snotty nose, excited puppy.

I wonder... What to the first English people make of the world when they buggered out of this country for a short holiday and end up in Egypt in their bloomers and petticoats? I saw a documentary of Queen Victoria's visit to Egypt and there was a picture of her sat on a camel with her massive dress and hat on in the blistering heat.

I looked at the screen and suddenly broke into a giggle fit. Poor soul must have shat her bloomers, thinking she must be nearing the bowels of hell.

Convenience-Store Relationships.

Declarations of being in "An Open Relationship" scares me. Basically, when someone tells me that, or these days when FB tells me that So And Sos are in an open relationship since I can't be bothered to hold real conversations any more, I immediately imagine these people's nether regions as Convenience Stores. Does that make any sense? My visualization, I mean. One person owns the store but any Tom, Dick or Harry can come in and grab things from the shelves.

I've always seen relationships as more of a museum. See, but no touch. Marvel at the beauty that is on display but don't you dare lick or fondle King Tut's sarcophagus.

Maybe it was the way I was raised or the society I've been brought up in, but I just can't fathom the idea or another woman touching my man's Secret Bits with my permission. If Jaz can allow another person to touch my Bits, I see it as no different to prostitution, except for maybe the lack of payment. Or swinging. Jealous, much, Ella? It's not even because I have a sense of ownership towards Jaz's person. Neither do I think he can stake claim over mine. It's not like it is some True Blood (which is a garbage show, in my opinion) Vampire ceremony where I can say Jaz Is Mine and no one else can touch him or drain his bodily fluids. I'm not just saying this because it's Jaz. Fuck, our relationships might go tits up tomorrow, for all I know, due to unforeseen circumstances. It's all relationships I was in, currently am in and/or will be in the until day I kick the bucket. He is not my other half and neither am I his. I'd like to think we came into this relationship as whole people not needing to be half-filled in to. Fuck knows I have enough on my plate to worry about what the bloody hell is wrong with his hardware or where I can get a better graphics card for his person. I am like Sims 3 Base Game and he is my Night Life, World Adventures, Ambitions Expansion pack. I can still run without him but it's much more fun with him in it. Stevie is my Sims 3 Pets Expansion, while we're still on the subject. I can go on about this.

Why bother being in a relationship then? Is it so that you can have that one person to pin it to, no matter what, when you get unexpectedly knocked up? Or were you each others' back-up plans? Maybe you are just charitable... Oh, hey, come try out what I've been tapping. Baby, you've got such amazing Flappy Bits I want the whole world to be able to enjoy it. Or the men in the Hertfordshire, at least. Until of course, you decide to go to Ibiza and then the men on holiday there, too. Which will mainly be English men because you know how young, privileged English Youths like to go and gather in Ibiza and get Ketamined off their fucking reproductive systems.

What happened to the sanctity of relationships? I'm not talking about marriages because that thing is looking like a fucking sham to me these days. It seems like people are getting married just so they that can fuck around and then split up so that they can use "I'm a divorcee" as a pick-up line. Most homosexuals can't get married, yet they are allowing all these mindless, young as fuck heterosexuals with no fucking idea what contraception is getting married left, right and fucking centre.  The more I see all these stupid fucks getting married for reasons beyond me and the more children I see all dumb-founded due to the aftermath of their parents' sheer fucktardness, the more I want none of it. Maybe I will just remain engaged to Jaz forfuckingever. Really, I don't see the point of this God Person and Jaz doesn't either so we are not getting married to get in His Good Graces. Maybe we'll get 'married' by the beaches of Bournemouth, butt-naked, under the Moonlight and sing Kumbaya.


"I didn't marry your father because I was so in love with him and I cannot imagine another day without seeing my name as his Legal Missus on BT bills and Boots Newsletters. It was because he had knocked me up 3 times and I think it was about time he made an honest woman out of me and we can stop living in sin. So that we can later commit Adultery by sleeping with other people. Adultery sounds more grown-up."

Youtube Chefs

Am I the only one who watches cooking tutorials on Youtube for hours, like umm 6 hours, and then end up having fucking pot noodles for dinner anyway? It always reaches to the point where I get so starved of nutrients due to the bloody Youtube loop I got myself into that I just run off and get the nearest thing that will fill the massive cavity that is my stomach. Baked potatoes? What? Fuck it, just stick the kettle on.

I can cook, yeah. Nothing majestic, though. Simple dishes that make most pot noodles connoisseurs drool, however. The most awe-inspiring thing that came out of the oven, baking-wise, was the peanut butter cookies that Kaz taught me, pretty much. Almost always, I'd run to Youtube, or saunter as that is as much I am physically arsed to do, and look up Red Velvet Cupcakes (over-ambitious, I know, but you can't be over-ambitious about baking silicone cups of sin, then you don't have a lot to look forward to in life), and see them Youtube Chefs whip out their fucking Kenwood mixers. That is as soul-destroying as watching make-up tutorials and see the Beauty Gurus whip out their bloody MAC brushes and pigment pots. Fuck them who thinks they absolutely have to own MAC garbage to get ahead in life, make-up wise. I have never owned a MAC brush and I think I look phenomenal enough. Fact. That brand have enough exposure as it is. Then again, I just can't afford a MAC brush and I can't justify spending that much when other brushes have done the job for me. Back on my self-righteous horse-on-stilts I go.  I am so sick of them over-priced, mass-produced equipments. Like Dyson hoovers of the cooking world. Still, it wouldn't hurt if someone gets me a Kenwood mixer. It would be much appreciated.

Youtube Whatever is like porn for me. I watch it, I get sucked into it for the entire duration. Sometimes, I touch myself. Sometimes I immediately close the window when Jaz walks in, though that is usually when I have Air Supply on. I go 'Ooh, aah' and pull faces but I almost always never replicate whatever it was I had just watched. Like certain things that can never happen in my Secret Bits, certain things will not happen in my kitchen, Photoshop, or my general face area. I don't see why I would want to look like Neytiri from Avatar after watching the make-up tutorial. Although, I would like to try out the Zipper Face ones.

I don't get 'Cravings'.

I get proper, stark-raving mad, full-blown, near-dementia case of wanting to eat something.

When I was pregnant with Charlie, I would say things like 'I would really like a big, fat, juicy burger, dripping with burger relish.' and people would say 'Oh, the baby is craving, eh?' Eh? No. I want it. Not the baby. It was not what my body suddenly needed since I was with child. It was because I just fucking want a burger, okay?

Even now, in the middle of Winter when I pass by the freezer sections in Budgens, I would say I wanted a massive tub of Strawberry flavoured ice-cream. Not because pregnancy had meddled with common sense being you don't have ice cream in Winter. It is just because I just fucking want ice cream. And I am not pregnant. If ever I were to fucking ask for bloody Marmite and peanut butter sandwich then yes, demand me to piss on a stick. Until then, I just want to eat something.

I was sat in bed last night, describing to Jaz, my vegetarian partner, how fat, juicy and oily I want my roast chicken to be. Fucking rude, I know. Well out of order, but if I can't share my deepest, darkest desires with the man who shags my brain out then who can I share them with? He didn't ask me if I was pregnant. He had long accepted that I just bloody love my food and if my occupying a good deal of the bed with my massive arse does not already make it obvious, then I don't know what will.

I am just a fucking porker. I want my chicken. Why lie? Why sugar-coat the truth with lies like 'My body needs the protein'. Why? I thought we are all supposed to be true to ourselves? Your body just needed for your mouth to munch on some crispy, roasted chicken skin.

Why is it that when I am stuffing my face with a mountain of lush, fresh, crispy salad people ask me if I am on a diet? You fucking idiots can ask me such a question that would be deemed insulting in some cultures but when I answered with 'No, I am just eating me greens because I am constipated. I just needed something to make me shit soft so that it'll stop ripping me bum in tatters.' you recoiled in disgust and said 'Too much information, Love'. Oh, so the details of my mythical diet was just the right amount of information then? You don't need the entire details of my bowel movements then? Why are trying to bring me down when I am performing the sacred act of Having My Dinner?

Who actually noticed I was gone?

I have been away from the interwebs for a bit for reasons being the internet connection has been a bit painfully slow and boggy.

Added to that, I was also a bit under the weather. Nothing major but any reason for me to stay under the duvet and watch countless movies, I'll take it.

I have also managed to watch the entire ten seasons of FRIENDS and have spent a few more countless hours jumping between the seasons and marvelling at the transformation the cast have gone through. I have also found a new-found, bottomless pit of hate for Rachel. She is a slag, that Rachel. Let's face it. A fucking typical slag. Ross is a spineless swine. How is she 'The favourite Friend'? If I ever have a fucking friend like that, who is so hopelessly dippy, and self-centred, I will fucking top myself off. And why is she always walking around without a fucking bra on? I fucking despise anti-gravitational tits being flaunted on the telly. Stop. Trying. To. Offend. My. Tits. Media.

I had not realized I have spent this long being away from the internet, actually. Must be all those days killing animated spawns of Satan on Vampire: The Masquerade Bloodlines.

I'll even try to jump on FB for a bit later or something. There are some things on Facebook that I would rather not face at the moment. Yes, Pussy Way Out. We all take that route sometimes.