Flying Girl! She Flies Through the Sky!….. With A PIE in Her EYE!!! *whoosh*

I’m having this flashback of my oldest sister holding me up above her going, “Flying Girl!!! She Flies Through the Sky!!!!….. With A PIEEEE In Her Eye!!!”  And then me shrieking with laughter at the rather surreal image, aged about 6.

Ah, Flying Girl, always with a pie in her eye. Was it apple? Steak? Who knows?! All that we know is that it was now situated in her face. Probably through some over-enthusiastic hand-flailing while flying, and clearly the subsequent result was that it ended up in her eye. Due to the temporary (we hope) blindness, my big sister would then let me fall. Flying girl goes down!! Oh but I forgot to mention I wouldalways land on the bed, or couch, or mattress or similarly soft surface. Otherwise, that would just be child abuse. And if she did throw me across the room, I’ve forgotten after the concussion.

Elspeth was the oldest growing up. She was the first one to go to primary school, high school, bring home her boyfriend, play loud music, get wasted (though not in front of us), make friends, go to art college, listen to good music (which me and Ally now listen too as well), move out, move to New York… the first of the Maxwell sisters to go stomping into the horizon and on to greater things. The list is obviously way longer but I doubt everyone wants to read about her being the first one of us to like, sit up and hold a pencil, etc.

Me and my sisters look pretty similar. Well, that’s obvious. We all have kind of round faces and big cheeks, making us all look younger than we are. We’re all short, we’re all pretty creative and we’re all nerdy in our own ways. We have similar opinions and political stances and a similar sense of humour. We’re all in steady, long term relationships (second sister is married now :)) and none of us are particularly athletic. Other people have told me we talk the same and laugh the same. Ok, this is sounding creepy and clone-like. Basically, you see the three of us together and apparently it’s like, “WOAH they’re a bit related” (and that’s a direct quote).

I’m rambling a little here, as usual. But the point is, me and my sisters have been in different continents at the same time and the minute we’re back together it’s like no time has passed at all. Wait, that wasn’t the point. But anyway. We go off and do our own things but as soon as we see each other again we’re back to our old antics. Maybe not quite of the “flying girl” caliber but you know what I mean.

Elspeth, being eight-and-a-half years older, was naturally and obviously a role model. Listening to Tori Amos blaring from her room, while I sat in my own room playing with barbies, it was clear that Tori Amos was what older, cooler people listened to. Me and Ally, being closer in age, spent most of our time playing and/or squabbling (usually one followed by the other) so while I was obviously influenced by Ally too, I think I noticed it less because I spent more time around her. Elspeth, being at art college, was this amazing Art Master (I think in the back of my mind I still think that….) and clearly a genius since she could work out what to do in computer games when I could not (Dizzy, Prince of the Yolkfolk comes to mind. CLASSIC.)

Dizzy, Prince of the Yolkfolk, helping a lion. What a saint.

I sound like a total kiss-ass. But as a kid, that was what I thought, and this is getting embarrassing now since I’m all like, “oooooh Els is so great blahblahblah!”

But fuck that. Elspeth IS great. And that’s because she’s a Maxwell gal and the first one to pave the way for her two adoring younger sisters, and later another little sister and a sister that is a year older than Els…. Yeah, there’s kind of a lot of us. Obviously, Dad, being the only guy in the family, is hopelessly outnumbered.

So why this sappy blog? Well it’s the first of the Maxwell girls’ birthday! Huzzah! We love Elspeth, that we do. So 17th June marks the day she gains more wisdom with her extra year, on top of those 8-1/2 years of experience she has on me. *so wise*

Happy Birthday Els, hope you’re having an awesome time in New York.  *more sappy blogging and reminiscing…..*

  But what would a birthday blog be without one last wee story about Els? A boring one, that’s what! Hey Elspeth, remember the time we were crossing the Links by the Meadows? A helicopter flew over us really low. “AAAARGH!!!” I shrieked, and promptly turned around to make a break for it. I then walked STRAIGHT into Els, face first. *SMOOSH*

Possibly my dumbest moment ever. Well at least ONE of them. Good times had by all.

The troll be a harsh castle guard...

*Flies off, holding…..A PIEEE! How will this end?!?!?! Tune in NEXT TIME!!!!*

In The Wild, Wild West… There Was….A BAR WHERE THE SAME THING HAPPENED ALL THE TIME!!!

Somwhere in the wild west, a small, sleepy town stood on the pink, baked ground of a dusty desert. Well, it wasn’t pink because it had been baked by the sun, it was actually just pink because that was the colour it happened to be. In fact, I’m pretty sure that baked things come out browner or black, not pink. And when I say dust, I mean those clusters of dusty, fluffy bits you find in the carpet if you haven’t hoovered for a good long while.

The town was quiet, and consisted of nothing more than imagined buildings lined parallel with each other. In the centre was the bar where the locals frequented. While the sound of clinking glasses and laughter echoed from behind the swingy doors, a mysterious figure approached. They rode on a white horse, holster rattling as they galloped towards the town.

Back in the bar, Celine, who owned the place, was busy cleaning the glasses. She was friendly, and a wonderful singer, at least when it came to reciting the CareBear’s theme tune. She had a habit of wearing green a lot: a green waistcoat to be exact. She also had a matching green tutu but it was often abandoned for different items of clothing given the slightly distasteful colour.  Her hair was reddish-brown and short, sticking up in an interesting wave-type style at the back of her head. Truth be told, beneath the hair was a velcro patch for the purpose of sticking on a giant hair extension. Truly, she was the most beautiful woman who had ever… owned a bar in these parts.

Working by her was Blossa, a young blond woman with wavy hair that had been cut to her shoulders. She was the one who lent a helping hand to all who asked. Everyone loved her, for she was a kind soul. Also, she was quite good at singing, but not as good as Celine, though she could certainly warble out any Disney tune at request. Someone came sauntering through the saloon doors as she wiped clean the greasy glasses at the bar (Wiping glasses was pretty much the only thing the barmaids actually did, might I add). Blossa met their gaze and she smiled happily, for the exotic man with long black hair who stood in the middle of the room was none other than Kocoum, the town sheriff and the love of Blossa’s life. (Others may recognise him from Pocahontas, the guy Pocahontas was supposed to marry before she got off with John Smith instead.) Kocoum looked around, confirming all was well. There had been reports of a stranger approaching, but then again anyone who passed through was called a stranger, and feared. After a quick shot of… something, and prolonged gaze at his girlfriend, Kocoum left the bar again to investigate the suspicious claims. Meanwhile, the stranger from the desert arrived in town, dusty and squinting in the low light of sundown. He came in on his white, pink-haired horse, one hand on his holster, ready to whip out his gun. I realise I’ve already mentioned the horse and the holster, but I thought it would be cool to mention them again. Anyway, where was I…..
Ah yes. This town was full of suckers. He’d robbed it before and goshdarnit he’d do the very same again. Except this time, he wouldn’t get caught. Pause for dramatic sustained minor chord on acoustic guitar. And resume.

Blossa and Celine were busy serving customers: among them being Michael Jackson, who sang “Black Or White” when his belly button was pressed, and also Mulan, wearing a long red chinese-style dress. She didn’t say much. There was also  Carolla, who was Blossa’s twin sister with significantly less hair after an unfortunate haircutting episode. Phoebus from “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” had also arrived, and him and Michael Jackson were happily knocking back whiskies as Celine began belting out one of the slower numbers from Evita. The doors to the saloon burst open all of a sudden and the stranger entered, the doors swinging wildly in his wake. Everyone fell silent, including Celine, which was remarkable since it was ordinarily an impossible task to make her stop singing at the best of times. Standing there was, as everyone soon realised, not a stranger at-all. In fact, it was none other than the scum of the wild west, the baddest bad guy for miles around, the most terrible criminal ever to live…. Simite Sam!!!

Simite Sam. He was tanned, orange in fact, with a very white smile plastered on his orangey, orangey face. He had orange hair to match, moulded into an 80′s side-parting. He was wearing a tuxedo, stolen from none other than Shaving Ken. He sure was the most evil crook out there. First the robbery of the town shop, followed by his arrest and then instantaneous escape, and now this.

“Well, well well….” Simite Sam smirked as he tapped up to the bar in his plastic bare feet. “Back here again….”

“Get out, Simite Sam!” Celine said bravely. He ignored her however, like baddies so often do to people. So rude. Just then, Michael Jackson came squaring up to Simite Sam in his white shirt and vest and black trousers.

“AHEEHEE!” he said threateningly. Simite Sam laughed meanly.

“Sh’mon!” he added, really meaning it this time. Simite Sam shook his head.

“You’re a fool, boy!” Simite Sam chuckled, and he threw a punch at Michael Jackson’s plasticy face. Michael Jackson fell to the pink carpet, frozen into a standing position with his arms all dramatic, except he was on the floor.

“You’ve gone too far Sir!” Cried Phoebus, suddenly plucking up the courage after his 6th whiskey shot. Clunking towards Simite Sam in his gold-and-blue armour (how spiffy), he drew his sword and pointed it threateningly in the criminal’s general direction. Given his hands were positioned in a weird half-clasp position, this was a much harder feat than initially indicated. Simite Sam whapped out his gun and fired a warning shot into the ceiling. Phoebus dropped his sword and decided to sit quietly instead, since he was obviously going to lose this one, and besides, Esmerelda was watching and as soon as she found her right arm again, she was going to whapeesh him upside the head for being such a reckless fool.

“Now ya’ll are gonna sit still while I go ahead and help myself to this here money safe,” Simite Sam announced, pointing to the only safe in town which, for some reason, was located at the bar as opposed to the bank. Celine and Blossa slowly edged out from behind the bar and stood to the side while Simite Sam barged past. He shot the lock and helped himself to all the money, scooping it into his bag of swag, which he probably stole from some bandit somewhere in the first place.

After this horrendous display of rudeness and criminal activity was over, Simite Sam slowly began to back towards the exit. He cackled evilly and fired another couple of shots into the ceiling for effect.

Just then, a blur came tumbling through the swinging doors and landed right on top of Simite Sam. They lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. His gun was knocked from his hand in the commotion and it slid way across the room. But what had happened!?!?

Why, the blur had been none other than Kocoum, the town sheriff! He was always there to save the day. Blossa clapped her tiny hands together in awe and amazement.

“I don’t THINK SO, Simite Sam! You’re under arrest!” Cried Kocoum, raising his voice to create a distinct impression of authority, even though he ordinarily kind of sucked at it, given the abnormally high crime rate of this stupid town. Which was actually ALL caused by Simite Sam. Also, there were babes watching, among them of course, his beloved Blossa. He flexed his muscles just to make sure attention was still on him.

Just then, Shaving Ken entered the bar. “Hey…..HEY! Is that my suit?? What the hell, man?!”

Unfortunately, Shaving Ken’s disdain was drowned out over the cheers as Kocoum arrested Simite Sam’s orange ass in an unnecessarily dramatic display (hey, there were still babes watching). “Hooray!” cried the patrons of the bar. Celine cleared her throat and began singing “Once there Was the Sun” from Thumbelina. Blossa took the swag bag and returned the money to the safe. Truly, all was well again with the world.

Kocoum marched the criminal across town and to the sheriff’s office. Then he shoved Simite Sam in his usual jail cell and locked the door. “Done and done!” he said in a very manly fashion, dusting his hands as he did so. “This time, Simite Sam will never escape! Therefore, it will be safe for me to leave the keys on this table directly in front of his jail cell. Why, that’s the safest place to keep them!”

And he left the jail, a hard day’s work done. Now it was time to go celebrate with everyone else at the bar, and possibly earn a slim chance of scoring with Blossa. They partied well into the night, and Celine and Blossa even extended their repertoire to include several numbers from VeggieTales.

****

“My GOD!!!” Kocoum shouted as he walked into his office the next morning. Some of the locals came running.

“What is it, Sheriff?!” they cried, wondering what could possibly have happened.

“Simite Sam! Why, he’s escaped! That son of a gun!” Kocoum added under his breath, shaking his head. “He always seems to be one step ahead!”

“Never mind,” replied Celine, who had ceased singing songs from The Little Mermaid long enough to form an actual sentence. “Next time, we’ll get him Sheriff….. we’ll get him!”

Meanwhile, Simite Sam sat on his horse, back in the desert again. He scowled back at the town. “I’ll be back!!!” he hissed, before galloping off into the distance. Cue dramatic acoustic guitar again. Roll credits.

———————————————————————————————

For second sister tangerine, who has a birthday on the 15th of May :) This is dedicated to the awesome barbie games we used to play, back when I was like 6 or 7.  and in case I don’t have time to write a blog for her (since I’ll be seeing her in person this year, that seems likely!) I thought I’d write one now. Happeh Birthday Squishy xx

This was the Ken we used for Simite Sam! MEMORIEEEEEES ^^ Except he was wearing clothes, obviously. Shaving Ken's tuxedo, to be exact.

And Now… For the Speech of All Tangerines!! (get ready for boredom, people)

So Second Sister Tangerine Peach got hitched on Friday, which was the 29th April. Huzzahs all round! Of course, the royal wedding was also on that day, but we all had a bank holiday for the Tangerine Affair as opposed to the royal one, because let’s be honest, who gives a fuck about them. So if you were off, thank the tangerines :)

As third sister of the family I had the sworn and sacred duty of giving a wee speech during the reception. Since I still have it, but will probably loose it, and also since I sort of wrote it and delivered it in the style of most of my bloggy writing (which was sort of an accident but oh well), I thought I’d put it up for posterity and memories and niceness and all that.

Of course, some bits I changed slightly as I said it (also I was nervous as hell) but it went a little something like this…

* * * * * * * * *

  This one time, a monkey ate Ally’s shoe.

She was wearing flip-flops made of foam, and while visiting the monkey farm one fateful day, while on holiday, one of the chimps took the liberty of taking a rather impressive chomp out of the heel. This of course, rendered poor Ally completely distraught, and nothing she said could quite be discerned through the sobs.
This is actually one of my earliest memories of Ally. Ally, with two plaits on either side of her head, wearing a t-shirt and shorts and one-and-three-quarters of what was left of her blue flip-flops.

It’s funny to think of that now, as I look at Ally here on her wedding day, sitting with Li Nah as they go on to take the next step in life together.
But even though so much time has passed between 8-year old Ally grieving over her shoe and now, Ally still retains the many funny and amazing sides of her personality that I remember from our childhood…

For instance, Ally proved her braveness and commitment to helping others as we were both walking home one Summer’s day. As she trod over a particularly ill-tempered wasp, a woman stopped us to ask for directions. Ally, who was probably in a great deal of pain, refused to run home without first giving the woman very clear directions and a polite smile. Ally will always put the needs of others before her own, even a stranger, who didn’t seem to notice Ally whimpering quietly between sentences.

Not long after, a particularly dramatic episode took place. Ally and I played in a garden that belonged to a nearby chapel. It was surrounded with trees and Ally, demonstrating her dare-devil side, climbed halfway up what must have been the tallest tree out of all of them. In case there was any doubt about her fearlessness, she decided to jump, all the way from the height she had reached to the grass way below her. Well actually, it was more like, “Hey Deedee, do you think I should jump down from here?” “….. yeah, whatever….”
So jump she did. Unfortunately, she landed not as smoothly as expected, and actually ended up with a broken wrist. Not realising she had seriously injured herself, I somewhat neglected the role of being a caring younger sibling. Instead of agreeing to take her home, I sat on the grass, rolled my eyes and told her to stop crying because I was trying to play with my little toy plastic animals, which I couldn’t do because she was making such a noise. Despite this, Ally forgave me, and has always been a loving and compassionate older sister. She even let me write on her cast, which was a plus.

Throughout the years, Ally and I have been there for each other, particularly when we would do stupid things as children and get into trouble as a result. A certain event springs to mind, one which demonstrates our total incompetence when it comes to washing the family car: to save time, we decided to use steel sponges to clean it. As you can imagine, we managed to scratch off more than just the dirt, much to Dad’s complete horror. Needless to say, that was the last time we were ever recruited to wash the car.

Growing up, of course there were times we would fight. But as the years went by, our fights became increasingly epic. One particularly memorable evening involved giant, super-soaker water-pistols. In the house. While Mum and Dad held a bible study. There was much screaming and carnage, and by the end of it, we were completely soaked. The walls didn’t fare much better, and I seem to remember water dripping from the ceiling. The carpet actually squelched underfoot for the following several days.

My childhood with Ally is a blur of great memories and amusing stories, and all of them I wish I could share with everyone. They’ve taught me many important life lessons over the years, such as: never use a steel sponge to wash the car, and don’t encourage Ally to jump from ridiculous heights. Every time I think back, it makes me smile and I know I’ll always hold them in my heart.

Li Nah: I couldn’t have asked for a more devoted and kind-hearted partner for Ally to share her life with. In the time I’ve known you, you’ve shown your caring, your generosity, your sense of humour, your excellent cooking skills and your sense of style, which incidentally, makes me feel really uncool when I stand next to you.  I know you’ll both have many adventures and hilarious antics to add to the crazy shenanigans that Ally and I got up to.

And finally, I look forward to having you as my sister-in-law. I know you’ll always be there to love and support Ally. You’ll be the one to comfort her and be her shoulder to cry on… especially if that vengeful monkey ever comes back to finish the job.

* * * *  * * * ** *

So that’s pretty much how it went. Oldest tangerine sister said her speech first – it was a little more serious than mine so we agreed I would go second. While her’s was all lovely and sentimental, mine was all like,  “yeah, so…monkeys”

The ceremony itself was really sweet, and all us bridesmaids ended up all teary.  Everyone looked amazing and very spiffy. It was generally just a lovely day, and despite my feet falling off after 12 hour in those massive heels, I had a really good time. Plus, the drink was flowing and the food kept coming, so I was on and off a little tipsy throughout the day, though (apparently) I didn’t show it. It was good to see the relatives and family friends again as well, and it meant boyfriend could meet everyone too.

So, wishing second tangerine and new–addition-to-the-family tangerine luck, and other similarly cheesy sentiments.

this wasn’t the actual cake by the way, but I thought it looked yummy…

I Move That Everyone Come to My Apartment to Snuggle My Cat

I am fairly convinced that I’m a 90 year-old grandma stuck in a recently-turned-20-year-old body.

This is because I’m a tad on the scroogey side. I complain constantly about the weather, I grumble about students and children, I glare at people who are too loud and the joints in my legs click so loudly every time they’re bent that it sounds like two building blocks banging together. I like to sip gin and tonic whenever I go out and I grumble about kids watching too much TV these days. I can’t use computers and I hate those microwaveable meals because they’re so damn lazy and I constantly moan about money. I shout at my guy friends who all mumble way too much. Kids these days have no respect. I can barely use my phone and disapprove of those goddamn Kindles – hold a book, you young whipper-snappers!

And I’m a total cat lady.

Then again, I’ve been like this since I was like, 17, so it’s nothing new. It’s just that since turning 20 (a couple of weeks ago), I’m much more aware of how damn OLD I am compared to everyone else I hang with at college.

Oh well. With age comes wisdom, they say. Or bitterness perhaps. I’m scowling all the time now, at all those younger 18/19 year olds and plotting to steal their youth.  I tend to rub my hands together evilly and shuffle to a group of nearby young ‘uns, not to talk nicely to them you understand, but to hit them with my walking stick. Since I am so old, they can’t say anything because obviously I’m senile. Brandishing said walking stick, I take a swipe at their young, carefree heads. Mostly I miss, so my handbag can serve as a flail with which to bonk them upside the face. My task complete, I meander away slowly yet with a sense of triumph. Then I forget what is going on and suddenly change direction with a surprising sense of purpose. Onlookers then witness me trying to eat the plants by the foyer entrance.

Most of the time I yell, it is not out of anger but from a busted hearing-aid. I would use one of those electric wheelchairs but I’m not allowed anymore because I tend to use them as a weapon against small children and animals. As an old person I enjoy buying single pieces of fruit with a coupon and then returning it ten minutes later, making people wait behind me while I complain loudly. I also enjoy having my blended food drunk with a straw. Yes, you read that right. But don’t let me have steamed carrots or I’ll complain that it’s too spicy.

I go into the post office and spend half an hour buying a single stamp, only to exclaim after I’ve put it on the envelope already that it’s the wrong one. I shuffle into coffee shops demanding watery tea and then getting angry when it’s all watery. I also point out to staff if a queue is too long, or I’ve been waiting for more than five minutes, despite the fact that the people in front of me require lots of time from the staff to deal with whatever it is. I constantly wear my slippers outside and I dye my hair with weird purple-rinsey stuff. I prefer the company of cats more than people and I own too many things that are tartan. I spend my days knitting and watching Bargain Hunt on daytime television and godawful soaps and bedtime is always 7pm. I also take afternoon naps in my armchair.

So perhaps it is safe to conclude I am an old, senile person.  But isn’t that what makes me so darn endearing….????

Of course it is.

Now off I shuffle to go and tell the postman at the door that I’m not at home.

Because Apparently All Women Are the Exact Same

While innocently browsing through some interesting Feminist articles online, my attention was drawn to a particular one about wolf-whistling etc, otherwise known as sexual harassment.  The author (contributing to www.thefword.org.uk) was writing about how she mistakenly stumbled upon a stupid-ass page entitled: “53 secrets girls don’t want guys to know”.

All 53 secrets are annoying, dumb and obviously ridiculous generalisations, but what really annoyed the author and myself the most was secret #1:

1. When we get whistled at in the street, we feel uncomfortable and we’ll always tut and roll our eyes. But we’re awesomely flattered and we’d be gutted if it stopped.

Hmm. Really? Thank you for that enlightening “fact”. Of course we women enjoy sexual harassment. Hell, we fucking love being judged like pieces of meat and objectified in every possible way.

Because when I was walking past a group of builders and one of them tried to get my attention by shouting, and then (when I ignored him) began shouting abuse after me, of course there was no way I felt in the least bit uncomfortable. In fact, I was actually euphoric by the fact he was staring at my ass.

And of course I enjoyed being cornered on the bus while some creep was going “oh FUCK” and covering his crotch like he had a hard-on and I couldn’t actually get away because he was blocking me in, or when he tried to play fucking footsie – of course, moving myself away was merely me just trying to play hard-to-get and of course I was actually having fun.

And of course I greatly appreciated being told I was “all tits and no brains” because where I worked failed to provide the usual prawn mayonnaise to a certain body-builder prick who probably takes so many steroids that his junk has undoubtedly shrunk to the size of half a crouton.

And of course being viewed on camera is always fun. Really, I was just so flattered about being on screen. Hell I was there every day because I obviously couldn’t get enough of it.

And let’s not forget my love of nightclubs and my particular fondness for being groped in the dark and you can’t really tell who did it. Really, that just adds excitement on, not an icky uncomfortable feeling or anything.

And Summer is my favourite time of year. Of course, I dress solely for the male population, not because it’s hot or anything, so that gives them the right to stare whenever they fucking feel like it. But really, I’m GLAD they do that, even if I glare or roll my eyes or sigh or look and feel embarrassed.

And I do relish the thought of guys shouting stuff when they’re with their friends. And honking their car horns is always such a confidence booster when I’m trying to get somewhere, it’s not like it’s inappropriate or slightly threatening. And random guys on the bus? I love it how they turn round really indiscreetly so they can enjoy a good gawp. Especially if I then have to walk straight past them and stand for a bit before I can get off the bus.

That article enforces the ridiculous, and dangerous, idea that when it comes to women, “no” means “yes”. That when guys see a woman walking down the street they have the right to judge or talk to or follow her. That women are supposedly pining for the attention of males, even if we don’t seem like we are. That we need verification from them. That we feel complimented by disgusting and inappropriate language and/or behaviour and we enjoy being whistled at.

No matter what anyone says, men are NOT animals. They are human beings who can CONTROL their fucking emotions, it’s just a percentage of them who choose not to. Don’t give that percentage the excuse by saying they’re just stupid and don’t know any better. Men who sexually harass are trying to exercise power over someone else with intimidation and/or mocking. Do you really think a man worth being flattered by would make such disrespectful comments about all or part of a woman?

There is appreciating a woman’s body, and then there is plain harassment. There is a line there and we all know there is. So don’t give them the excuse by saying, oh they’re just dumb animals.

And of course, there are also women who enjoy such attention. To them I say, fine, whatever floats your boat. But everyone is different. If they don’t mind being viewed as merely boobs or ass with a body attached instead of being appreciated as a person, then I’m not going to argue.

Interesting fact: if, for example a builder, whistles at you, you can sue the company for which he works. Remember that! And I’m sure mentioning that to them in passing would be good for them, since knowing a thing like that can be oh-so-helpful.

And for guys who are fully aware that such actions are inappropriate, then great. Carry on being a nice human being, and call bullshit when other guys say or do stupid stuff like whistling or groping. And if you’re one of those girls who grope guys in nightclubs, think about how you might feel if that happened to you, and if you happen to enjoy it, stop applying your own preferences to everyone else.

In other news, my cat just horked up her food onto the bedroom floor. Perfect.

Those Doggone, Pesky Injuns, Where’s Ma Shotgun…

“Political Correctness is a doctrine fostered by a delusional, illogical minority, and rapidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end.”

Let us pick apart this annoying, smart-ass comment that has been popping up all over the internet, shall we? People are quoting it on their blogs, their status updates, their emails, thinking they’re being so damn clever when in fact this is the dumbest thing I have ever read.

Firstly, “Political Correctness is a doctrine”. A doctrine? Really? Why don’t we have a wee look at that. A doctrine, I believe, is a specific principle or position that is taught or advocated and to do with religious, governmental or philosophical  teachings. Political correctness – is it a fricking religion? To do with governmental teachings? Is it in any way philosophical? No, so shut the hell up you racist.

Next: “delusional, illogical minority”. If you would call someone who supports the idea that society shouldn’t be offensive in terms of race, gender, orientation, sex, religion, views etcetc “delusional” and “illogical”, then either you are a total moron (for a start it is the MAJORITY and not a minority supporting being non-offensive) or a total asshole – most likely it is both. Why is it delusional to believe in being nice to people? And how the fuck is it illogical? That doesn’t even make sense. Well, maybe it does to a stupid and (most likely white middle- upper- class) prick.

“Rapidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media”… So you’re moaning about everyone being p.c. with their high-and-mighty-principles, and now you’re complaining about an “unscrupulous” media? Silly hypocrite, now seems like a funny time to complain about a media without moral standards. Plus, since when did the media even promote much p.c-ness anyway? I mean sure you get the odd one, but think about the hundreds of rather offensive adverts we see from day to day. Most of these are extremely sexist, and often kind of racist (think about food adverts, or ones for sauces or something – you know, like those dolmio adverts for example, those aren’t exactly that politically correct now are they! Alright so that isn’t the best example but you get what I’m saying) . And it ain’t just adverts. What about movies and tv shows? Don’t get me started on the stupid racial, gender, homosexual etc stereotypes portrayed in those.

And lastly, the turd in question is obviously the offensive thing these morons are so damn desperate to say, while accusing everyone else of trying to pick it up “by the clean end”. How about you just try to avoid saying something stupid and offensive? Do you really have to comment on her ass or boobs? Do you really find it so important to refer to people of African origin with the N word? Do you have to comment on people’s skin colour all the time? Alright, so sometimes things come out wrong, or we let things slip that are un-p.c, but this happens. At least if you TRY to avoid that, less people will become upset. How about you just respect that people don’t want to be degraded, instead of moaning about how you’re not allowed to refer to someone with a mental illness as a “spastic”. People make mistakes, or maybe they’re not always aware that what they are saying is offensive. But you can make the effort, I mean come on, it’s not fucking difficult to be courteous to another person.

Also, might I just point out that people who like to be p.c. aren’t actually trying to pick the turd up by it’s “clean end”, they’re actually just NOT fucking saying it. Duh.

So take THAT, smart-ass, know-it-all little quote. Whoever came up with you was truly an inspiration to morons.

In the words of Dylan Moran… “Oh, I remember back when-”  “What? What do you remember? Fucking slavery, shut up.”

 

 

 

***side note: if anything I said doesn’t make sense or whatever, then oh well. But my position still stands clear, and that’s what matters :)

…And NO Mr. Random Drunk Man, You May NOT Have Some of Our Champagne, For My Boyfriend Is Busy Putting It Up His Nose, Or Something.

Since you were promised a wee update about New Year, I suppose I shall oblige and give you…well, a wee update about New Year.

So we arrived at ex-flatmate’s flat, which is just off the grassmarket, right next to Edinburgh castle where the view of the fireworks would be most awesome.  Him and his girlfriend live there, and girlfriend’s brother had flown over from Poland for Hogmanay. Given the last rather awkward few months, it was nice to see ex-flatmate again without any tension involved. But anyway.

We started off drinking at our own flat. We got sorta bored ya see, so we figured we’d start with a couple bourbon and cokes before it was time to go over to ex-flatmate’s flat. So by the time we got there, Tangerine-Peach was a little tipsy as you can imagine. Not only that, but I was still really ill – coughing all over the place and all that. It wasn’t too pleasant. But anywho, when we got there (after forgetting to bring the mixers and having to run out to grab some diet coke or else we’d be drinking straight bourbon for the remainder of the evening) we started drinking again.  The closer it got to midnight of course, the drunker Tangerine-Peach got, until she stopped noticing the texts she was getting on her phone. Also, the tequila shots probably didn’t help.

Midnight came around and we stood at the bottom of the castle (in the car park, specifically) where the view was really good for watching the fireworks. Of course by this time I was swaying quite impressively in my heels and the whole vision thing – it was a little spinny and fuzzy. Also, I was still coughing, which was not nice. Let’s just say I don’t recall much of the fireworks, though I do remember a random drunk trying to steal our champagne (which I didn’t fail to point out of course, loudly and drunkenly). Meanwhile, the brother of ex-flatmate’s girlfriend was busy passing out on a fence so she took him home, and we followed soon after. Well, when I say “followed”, I mean “staggered”.

We got back to the flat where we were partying. This is when ex-flatmate and boyfriend decided to break out the ol’ Singstar – which me and flatmate’s girlfriend flatly refused to take part in. I had an excuse, however, since I was busy having my face make rather good friends with the toilet bowl. Again, not so pleasant. I mean, it’s not like I was going to sing karaoke when I was busy horking up my oesophagus.

I have no idea how much time passed with me half-lying on the bathroom floor but eventually ex-flatmate suggested we stay the night. Wanting to go home to my own bed, boyfriend called a taxi and we were off, me with an empty tin in my hands just in case I felt the need to spew once again. It came in bloody useful, too.

After we collapsed into bed, I’m fairly sure I didn’t get any sleep. I seem to remember just drifting off when suddenly I would have to reach for a plastic bowl by the bed, so that sucked.

The next day was of course spent with an already swollen throat, which was now burned with acid. Eww. It was rather painful, I can tell ya that. It was also the day I spent apologising profusely via the medium of text to ex-flatmate, and replying to the texts I had forgotten to reply to from the night before. In the evening we actually had to call my mum to bring over some juice because I couldn’t stand drinking water any more and the shops were all closed. Happily, she was ok with bringing some over, which I was extremely grateful for :) The following day was spent feeling worse than I had before New Year and I felt like I was trying to avoid swallowing my tonsils.

Feeling a bit better now but my throat is still slightly fucked – and no more tequila for me, methinks. Just the thought of it makes me gag. GAH.

So overall, it was an alright New Year. I mean, what I remember of it, at least. But seriously, no more drinkies for me for the next while…. *shudder*