An open letter to my neighbour.

June 29, 2009

Dear Neighbour,

I completely understand that, as a responsible parent, you do not wish your offspring to be  wobbling, wheezing, truly foul specimins of the country’s child obesity problem. What I don’t get is why you persist on locking them in the 6×4 concreted area that masquerades as your garden, to stand facing the closed back door and scream like banshees for what feels like hours on end, when they clearly don’t want to be there.

They’re driving me mad.

Please desist, or I will be forced to erect a banner outside your property stating that Father Christmas doesn’t exist. At least then the little shitbags will actually have a reason to be upset.

Yours Sincerely



So, where are you from?

June 28, 2009

Asked Nell, the old lady in the diagonally opposite hosipital bed.

I answered; one word, name of town.

‘I meant originally’ she said, barely hiding her disdain.

‘Kent’ I replied, and tried to return to my crossword.

‘No, BEFORE that’ barked a now visibly irritated Nell.

‘Inside my Mum?’ I enquired, putting down my crossword, knowing this wasn’t going to be then end of it.

Nell sighed, annoyed at having to start her line of questioning again.

‘So’ She said, slowing her speech, just to make sure I understood the question. ‘Where.. is.. your.. Mum.. from?’

‘Ilkley.’  I replied. ‘And my Dad is Welsh.’  pre-empting question 5 (out of a possible 20, perhaps?)

Nell looked pleased. ‘Told you she was foreign’ She informed Margaret.

Margeret wasn’t listening. She was trying to remember whether it was 1988 or 1989 (It was neither).

I’ve just spent 6 days incarcerated in the lovingly and thoughfully named Ward B3

June 24, 2009

The only company I’ve had has been 3 pensioners: A special clan consisting of a woman with a sore foot who professed a hatred for foreigners and foreign food (muck, as she put it), before opting for lasagne for tea (you know, lasagne, that classic British dish), a woman with far too many ailments to mention, but that she liked to remind you of every 10 minutes, and a woman convinced it’s 1989 thanks to a head injury.

AND I kept dreaming that Justin Lee Collins was trying to kill me.

It was awful. Truly awful.

I said, ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

June 13, 2009

He said, ‘No, but how about a verse and chorus from Copacabana?’

To my shame, I didn’t burst into song. Bang goes my customer service award.

Overheard conversation at work…

May 28, 2009

Girl #1: ..So North Korea could drop a nuclear bomb on us?
Girl #2: It depends on how far they can fire them. It might not reach us.
Girl #1: Oh right. Where is North Korea?
Girl #2: Past Germany…. Imagine if they bombed the bullring.
Girl #1: Oh my god that’d be awful. Where would we shop?

Someone reminded me I’m almost 30 today.

May 27, 2009

At some point 29 years has past me by and I haven’t paid attention. All of a sudden all of my friends have bought houses, are married/nearly married, having *stifles vomit* babies, and have careers.

I’ve ended up in suburbia in a job that is essentially just one big argument with various pensioners. When I’m not trying to send the country’s elderly to an early grave I occupy my time by playing internet scrabble……….

Still, plenty of time to do something…give it another 30 years, I might even think about growing up.

Jeremy Kyle has worryingly become the man of my dreams

December 6, 2008

I’m not normally one for reading into dreams. I don’t believe they hold any meaning requiring a dream dictionary or indepth analysis, but over the couple of weeks I have had the same recurring dream and it’s starting to worry me slightly.

The scenario causing concern is as follows:

I am a contestant guest, what’s the word? Ah, yes, I am a participant on the Jeremy Kyle show, I’m sat, centre stage, in one of the uncomfortable looking arm chairs, and the repulsive Mr Kyle is shouting incessantly at me, in the same way he bollocks anyone daft enough to appear on his show knowing that they may have a) cheated on a partner b) knocked up their brother’s missus c) been a bad parent.

More surreally, I am aware that I am actually inside the TV, and while I have no idea why I’m there, I can see the title of the episode written backwards at the bottom corner of the screen. Every time I try to look at the title to work out what it says Kyle screams at me that I’m not looking at him when he’s talking to me. He also keeps shouting ‘WELL?’ but obviously, I have no idea what he’s asking me for. Eventually, just as I think I’ve worked out what the title of the show is I wake up.

Except on Wednesday night when he morphed into Charlie Brooker sat on his sofa a la Screenwipe, who repeatedly called me the C-word (complete with bleeps) until I woke up in a cold sweat.

I’ve had the same dream 6 times now, and while I am loathe to search for meaning in a dream, I’d just like it to cease immediately.


October 25, 2008


Washing Machine related blog number 2 (Still not fallen victim to the feral Zanussi)

October 24, 2008

I’m astonished. I thought I had one of the worst jobs in the world, then it turns out someone is paid to search blogs for the words ‘washing’ and ‘machine’, and then send the writer a tonne of washing machine related spam.

New machine arrives tomorrow, I have the best landlady in the world. Hurrah

Washing machine roulette, and other ways to spend a Saturday

October 11, 2008

I’ve had a marvellous week, in the sense that I’m still living, seeing as today could have had up to four alternate endings, two involving an obituary.

The beginning of my brush with death was our annual appliance inspection, which for the uninitiated is where some brummie turns up on the doorstep of your rented property, berates you for working on a call centre and not being a world famous novelist (he says being too scared to let anyone read my work is holding me back – no shit, I hadn’t worked that out), pokes at various gas and electric powered items and condemns your washing machine.

So I weighed up my options:

1. Accept that my washer has morphed into a potential 240volt weilding maniac and go to the launderette.

2. Ignore the advice of the man with the red ‘do not use’ stickers, and continue to use the psychopathic zanussi.

Having thought long and hard about it, the chance of death by washing machine had to be statistically lower than being murdered down the local launderette and opted for a game of washing machine roulette, safe in the knowledge that should I get fried my demise would be much quicker than during a failed mugging in Cradley’s finest washeteria.

2 loads later, I’m still here. Me 2, Zanussi 0.