Here’s what I want to kick off about: (and apologies if you’ve already caught my ire on Twitter) sanctimonious, two-faced, priggish little hypocrites who simper about being supportive and friendly and inclusive, and then just shit all over that, behind your back, in the worst possible way. Fuckwits. Innit.
As if I haven’t got enough to stress about. As if I don’t have enough farking shite going on right now, that someone feels the need to snipe about me – via the medium of a mutual friend, which was their first mistake; I mean, SERIOUSLY. Dude. You wanna bitch about me? Check who yo’bitching to, fool – and then has the nerve to expect me to keep quiet about it? Really? REALLY?
Now. Draw your beaks in. I ain’t going to disclose who it is. I’ve already blogged about my disclosure policy, which I am standing by and enforcing. I am a lady. I do not bandy about menial gossip. Well, not here, not through my blog, anyway. It would make me feel grubby. It would sully whatever integrity I happen to still cling on to with riven fingernails, and gawd knows I have nothing else right now. FFS.
Doesn’t mean I’m not pissed off though. I’ve always maintained that I am not everybody’s flavour – which is cool – and, dear haters, if you don’t like me, then don’t read my posts, and don’t follow me on Twitter. Simple, mais non? No need for hexing or rabid flying monkeys, everybody’s happy, we’re all vengeance-free and full of love, yeah? So this is the crucial bit, pay attention now: trying to curry favour by slagging me off with someone who, inevitably, will tell me what you’ve been saying, is the single most stupidly irritating thing you could do. Ever. Because, now, sunshine, I’ve got my eye on you.
And that, you farking shite-faced twat-bastard, sucks for you. See?
I suspect that if I did decide to name and shame, the resulting drama – and there would be drama, because of who you are – would mean ructions within the sphere, and, y’know, I just can’t be arsed with all that. I’ll sleep on it and tomorrow, I won’t even care. And then when we meet,which we will, soon, I can just bestow upon you a belligerent smile, and you will know exactly what I think of you. Understood?
Ah, it feels so good to have a quick venting. Thank you for indulging me, my lovely readers. Normal service will resume soon.
Dear Slow Moving People
Thanks for taking the time to read this blog post. Its purpose is to draw attention to the fact that you walk really slowly. This is really really not helpful at all. Sometimes I find it absurd that you walk so slowly. How do ever ARRIVE anywhere? Please note at this early juncture that I am refraining from swearing a lot.
I know I walk fast. I’m pretty sure I walk faster than normal. This is because I hate being late for anything and like to turn up at least five minutes early. Still, my walking speed, though fast, is not annoying. If I do annoy someone, then ZOOM, I am past them and down the road and then it doesn’t matter at all.
But YOU – walking as slowly as Mr Slowly Slow on his way to a slow convention in Slow Town – are slow. Slow is not good. Slow is farking annoying.
The pavement is narrow. You are walking slowly. You may have your slow wife with you. And your slow kids. You are ALL slow. Farking hell. I have to get past. I resist ramming the pushchair into your dragging ankles. I briefly consider training Moo to shout ‘GET OUT THE WAY YOU FADGING ARSE MOOKS’. There is no convenient place to overtake you. I refuse to go into the gutter. You seem to get even slower. Time starts to flow backwards. I can feel my brain cells atrophying. I decide I hate you. With a pure, focused, white-hot steely hate. I glare at the backs of your heads with this piercing hate in my eyes. You do not feel it. Not only are you slow, YOU ARE MADE OF GRANITE.
YOU ARE FARKING MONOLITHS OF SLOWNESS.
I cough politely. One of you turns your slow head slowly. It’s as if you are underwater. YES – YES – YOU NOOB – there are OTHER PEOPLE on the pavement! How UNEXPECTED! NOW MOVE!
There is another buggy behind me now. The person pushing it is also a fast walker. I can sense her impatience, like mine. The air is flavoured with our sourness and frustrated bile. My heart beats to an aggravated rhythm: move, faster, move, faster, MOVE, FARKING, FASTER, YOU, FARKING, SLOW, BASTARDS and so on.
Then, you notice us. You finally see us. You… What? WHAT? Wait. You – STOP?
YOU STOP MOVING ALTOGETHER?
The slowness has reached its zenith. So slow that it is actually stationary. We are frozen. There could be no slower example of slowness. The slow has got me. I have stopped. The woman with the buggy behind me has stopped. Everything has stopped. A billion little air molecules shift infinitesimally around us. They are the fastest things on the planet in that moment.
Yes, that’s right, you motherfarker. A MOLECULE can move faster than you.
Ten thousand hours later, we get past. I move again. I even nod politely at you as you slowly move out of the way. You smile, as if your slowness were some sort of joyous thing to be celebrated. I merely want to punch you in the back of your slow-moving head.
Again, thanks for reading. If you have any questions please do not hesitate to get in touch.
I am really farked off. Everything is really really farking me off.
Even the use of Mumford and Sons song ‘Little Lion Boy’ on one of The One Show‘s stupid motherfarking mini film things which are always about random shit, and in this instance, is about swans, is farking me off. Farking swans. Who gives a flying shit about swans? No one. Seriously. Unless you’re a, er, swan doctor. Or a swan collector. Or a swan lover. Bestial freaks. Stop using Mumford and Sons! That’s good music. It deserves better than to serve as a backdrop to some slack-jawed greasy-haired noobs touching themselves just cos there are some FARKING SWANS poncing about on the TV. Forfarkssake.
Yeah so I know what I’m doing. I’m grieving. I’m mourning. I’m going through a difficult time in my life. And my brain is having some sort of meltdown. I would not normally let The One Show piss me off so much. I usually tolerate it, like one does a mildly offensive relative who insists on showing up in your living room at the same time every night and talking bollocks. But tonight is different. I’ve had a tough weekend. I’ve had a rubbish six months or so. I’ve had a pretty farking soul-numbing year. It is not surprising, in fact, that I’m feeling somewhat venty. S’pose I should live up to my alter ego, innit.
Loads of shit farked me off today. The roadworks. The queue in the Co-op. Twitter. The news. Cbeebies. My feet. My boobs. My arse. My daughter. My absent husband. The stairs. The weather. Trains. Telephones. Pasta. That person. And that one. The buggy. The lack of foresight I have regarding stocking up on gin.
I am really needing to punch something or someone. Preferably someone.
And I just know, I JUST KNOW I will end up tearful and feeling sorry for myself later. Which farks me off even more.
It’s when I’m in this sort of direful, raging mood that I end up doing stuff I regret.
Am I invisible?
Do people really not see me when I’m walking along the street? I am pushing a buggy. I am human-shaped. I am definitely there. I am not a figment of their imaginations. I think.
So why do some folk insist on acting like I don’t exist? I’m a polite person when out in public, I say ‘excuse me, can I just get through please?’ in a nice, mannered voice, when really all I want to do is ram the buggy into the ankles of the c*nts who are blocking the pavement and talking loudly about how much they enjoy a good farmer’s market over the festive period.
Just for the record: I HATE BEING MADE TO WALK IN THE GUTTER. Especially when I have a buggy. If you have legs, you can move out of my way, as a response to my polite request. I don’t care if this irks you and you feel the need to malign me as I push past. Go ahead. Just get out of my fecking way.
Manners cost nowt in this world. For some, it’s all we have left.
I am not invisible.
Venting over. *breathes*
You know in the film 28 Days Later when all the crazy people are running around and biting other people and generally making themselves a nuisance by killing and spreading their virusy goodness until everyone is basically fucked?
Well, that is how I felt today. Red-eyed and flesh-hungry.
I’ll blog about it another time. Still feel raw.
What was the last thing to fill you with rage?
Fleas! Aren’t fleas fascinating? Here is a flea, in close up of course!
Here are some fascinating facts about fleas:
- the female flea is usually larger than the male
- there are more than 2000 species of flea worldwide
- Britain’s largest flea can be found on the pygmy shrew
- the Black Rat Flea was responsible for the Black Death in the mid-14th century
- a female flea will lay approx 30-40 eggs a day
- sixty three species of flea are resident in the UK
- fleas live for about 100 days
- fleas can jump up to eight inches high
- and about 16 inches horizontally
Hi, my name is motherventing and I have a small baby. How old is she? She’s 7 months old. Yes, 7 months. What’s that? What’s that you say? She’s a bit small for 7 months? A bit SMALL for 7 months? So how old are you? Thirty-seven? Bit SMALL for thirty-seven, aren’t you?
Part of that ‘dialogue’ may have been fabricated in my head, but I want to say it, believe me.
So my baby is small? So what? Is it really that remarkable enough to comment on? Do I comment on the size of your baby? No I do not. If I feel the need to say something then I will say that your baby is cute or sweet or smiley or summink. I would not say that they are small for their age. To me, that implies that there is something wrong with the child. ‘Bit small for 7 months’ sounds like you think that she should be bigger – maybe I’m not feeding her enough? Or maybe you think she’s a bit under-developed? Why don’t you just say that – ‘oh she’s a bit under-developed for 7 months’? At least then I can smack you in the chops outright.
I’m only ranting cos it seems like that’s all anyone says about Moo lately. My little girl is bloody amazing and I’m totally hacked off that some folk think it prudent to comment on her stature as if it were a point of marvel. She might be small for her age – but guess what – I’ve seen smaller babies. And I’ve seen bigger babies. And – this will really FLOOR you – EVERY BABY’S DIFFERENT. They come in all shapes and sizes, like, uh, cucumbers. Only with less e-coli.*
I’m not being over-sensitive. So lay off the baby sizism, pretty please. My baby is cute and sweet and dainty, just the right size for a Moo. Which is the correct thing to say, every time.
*Although apparently it’s beansprouts now. They also come in different shapes and sizes.
Wow I’m actually writing a post about the weather. It’s kind of inevitable, I am British after all. And the subject is a great leveller – we can all comment on the weather, can’t we? It’s the ultimate small talk. Generally the kind of small talk that makes me want to gouge my eyes out with chopsticks (along with the question, ‘So what do you do?’. My heart sinks when asked this, a)because I am not defined by my job and don’t think anyone else should be, and b) uh, I don’t have a job) but necessary all the same. So – seen the weather recently? Farking shite, innit?
One good thing about living in Italy for a bit (along with the best pizza, ice cream and public transport in the universe) was the weather. Default setting: sunny, warm, with a hint of a breeze. And that’s in winter. Oh how I miss the Italian weather! Sure, there were mentally bangtastic thunderstorms every now and again, and once there were hailstones the size of my fist (yeah, didn’t go out that day) but GENERALLY SPEAKING it was pretty darn pleasant.
But here. In the UK. In gloomy, dreary, rainy, damp, dingy, dirge-like and dumpy ol’ England. It effin’ rains all the effin’ time.* Take today. Set off for the shops, Moo safely bubbled away in her buggy, me with a slightly-too-big-for-me mac on. The hood kept flapping off so I got fed up and left it down. Within seconds I am soaked. I arrive at the shops. I am so wet I have to use Moo’s buggy blanket to wipe my face and neck and hands. People are staring at me like I’m an eejit. Then I noticed something: WHY ISN’T ANYONE AS WET AS ME? I wasn’t the only one who had just walked in. But I was the only one forming small tidal waves by the banana stand. A woman strolled past who I swear had walked at least two blocks just ahead of me – not a spattering! Not a drip! Wha-? How? *splutter* HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?
You can tell I’m very pissed off about this. So I formulated a theory. Some people embrace the rain. They accept it, and move through it serenely and with confidence. They hardly get wet. Others deny the rain; they hunch and bunch, and mutter and squint, and wriggle as the drops land like icy needles on their faces. And they get fucking drenched. I am obv a rain denier. I hate it. I must’ve been feline in a previous life (that’ll also explain the whiskers).
Embrace or deny? Which are you?
And how I can learn to embrace? Cos living in this country, I think I’m going to have to…
‘Fuck you, man, I am so going to rain on you. Deny it then. Deny it!’
*Apart from when there’s a heatwave. And then we all go, ‘Oh, it’s too hot’. SHOOT ME NOW
My morality was severely tested today. All week I’d been following the euphoric hoo-ha surrounding Bin Laden’s death with a kind of fascinated horror – how could people celebrate the murder of this man, despite his heinous crimes against many innocent people? I don’t deny that his being dead is probably a good thing in terms of moving towards the dissolution of Al-Qaeda, but to whoop and cheer in the streets seemed a bit pointless and crass to me. I imagine anyone affected by Bin Laden’s murderous machinations would view his demise with a sad, quiet satisfaction rather than a wild-eyed triumph – I don’t know. Like I said, I can only imagine.
For those who believe he had it coming to him, I would have disagreed. An eye for an eye doesn’t work. A man bent on that much destruction and mayhem would only view his death as part of a greater plan; there’d be others to avenge him; and the revenge would be terrible; this is inevitable. Indeed, our country is on high alert. There are rumours that Wills and Kate postponed their honeymoon because of the potential risk (the Royal Family having been alerted to the impending US military strike) rather than because of Wills going back to work. In that respect – if, because Bin Laden is dead, now more Westerners must die – where does an eye for an eye end? Does it just go on, ad infinitum, each time dressed up as more legitimate murder, more acceptable assassination? I’m not nearly smart enough to argue about the politics of it all. I know Bin Laden is dead. I know this is a good thing. I just find the method and execution (ha, apt word) uncomfortable and the consequent celebration reprehensible.
Then today, I found out that one of my loved ones has been hurt in a most despicable way. And my first thought – as a red mist seemed to bloom behind my eyes – was, ‘If I ever find that m*****f***ing bastard I’m going to kill them’. No time to reflect on the circumstances. Just sheer, visceral reaction to the hated idea of someone I love dearly being violated, and the sudden clarity of my – suddenly very fair-seeming – notion of revenge.
A breath or two, and the red mist is still there, but my brain now takes over. I still want to kill someone. But now I entertain the thought of killing – at least harming – this person’s own loved ones, and possibly making them watch. You realise only a few seconds have gone by. I’m still assimilating the news. Then there are fresh details, and so, a fresh hunger for blood. I cannot believe I am feeling this rage. I know I have a temper but this is ridiculous. I contain it all. I don’t let my fury show – that would be bad. I know I can vent later, through this blogorific medium, and that makes me simmer down slightly. And then I reflect. I am still reflecting. My natural, gut instinct was for revenge. I didn’t think I prescribed to an eye for an eye. And then I showed, in my most basest of human forms, that I really do. Wasn’t sure I had it in me.
In that moment, had that person (the scum) been standing there, I’d have ripped their head off and spat down their gaping neck hole. I’ve calmed down now. As far as I’m aware, the scum has already been punished for their – ahem – misdemeanours. So let it be. I’m not a monster. I’m not interested in the whys and wherefores, but if they’re suffering (just a tiny bit) now, I’m OK with that. Can’t guarantee there won’t ever be any head-ripping or throat-spitting, but then I’m not going to find out who they are. And that’s where I’ll leave it. I think.