It's a Wonderful Life…

…isn't it…?

Where on EARTH have I been?! September 13, 2012

Have I been swanning off round the globe? Have I contracted a horrific flesh eating illness that has prevented me from accessing my computer? Were my hands chopped off by rogue pirates?

Alas, no, dear readers, the reason I haven’t been able to keep you updated on my Wonderful Life of late is that I have simply been too busy spinning too many plates. We’re organising a charity fundraiser, you see: a Ball, in fact, (well, a less starchy affair than most people might envisage when we say ball) to raise funds and awareness for Macmillan Cancer Care Support. So, many a sleepless night has been had fretting about how this event is going to pan out with lots of jolting awake at 5am worrying about floor plans and welcome drinks and I’ve been so busy persuading some lovely local businesses to support us that I simply haven’t had time to blog. But we’re just 16 days til D-Day now so I figured I had better let you lovely lot in on it in case you wanted to come along: I’ll be doing a speech and everything (anyone who knows me well knows this is likely to be comedy highlight of the year considering my track record with public speaking)! What will this ball of ours look like I hear you ask, well:

Sessions House (our amazing, donated, venue) is a beautiful grand building with a red carpet entrance up a grand staircase. With a professional photographer (the very talented Ben Anker) taking photos in the sumptuous “members lounge” and vintage teas, coffees and cupcakes in the public gallery (very kindly being provided by the gorgeous Benny&Boo) we’d understand if you thought you wanted to stay there all night.

But there’s more: the mobile bar (provided by the lovely team at Mobile Bar Hire) will be on hand to mix you up a delicious special Macmillan cocktail, there is are delectable goodies to consume at the buffet (kindly donated by Maggies Cafe), our confirmed live music act (The beautiful songstress Andrea Magee) will blow you away with her voice and the prizes you could win in the raffle are not to be missed. We have been overwhelmed with the generosity of so people who have made this raffle and silent auction a must-take-part. Some of the amazing donations we have received include:

A Pandora bracelet from the new collection worth £130

A week’s stay at a luxury apartment in Cyprus

A stay at a luxury Bed and Breakfast

Plus…

Two tickets to a Chelsea Champions League Match courtesy of Heineken UK!!!!

We do still have tickets available for just £15 per person so if you would like to attend this event or wish to hear more about our fundraising efforts please do get in touch with Lea or Karen at the Boots store in Fremlin Walk, Maidstone. Alternatively you can book your tickets online via:  http://www.bootscharityball.bigcartel.com/

 

Ten Signs It Might Be Time To Fly The Nest May 21, 2012

 

You know that feeling, you’ve been back living under your parent’s roof for longer than you all would like to admit and you parents are starting to give you the oh so subtle nudge towards the door. If you’re having difficulty picking up on their signals I have kindly listed below the signs that your parent s think you should fly the coop:

  1. Your Mum asks you repeatedly when you will be moving in with your BF/GF
  2. Your Dad persistently complains about how your red hair dye (insert other rage inducing messes caused by you here if this is not applicable) staining the tiles in the bathroom. You say you won’t stop dyeing your hair…there’s a significant pause while he waits for you to catch the drift…
  3. Your Dad starts referring to your beau’s place as your home e.g. “You can take that with you when you go home”…time to go then..
  4. Your dog is getting cranky living with two other blind dogs; you comment that she would prefer to be an only dog, your parents cannot agree more. Pause. Silence. Penny drops.
  5. They tell you repeatedly how they can’t get over just how quiet the house is when you’re not in it. And how they are really enjoying the peace and quiet.
  6. The dog starts trying to tell you something Lassie style: “What’s that girl? What are you trying to tell me? Go…Home?” Oh.
  7. Your Mum has forgotten about your dietary requirements since you last ate with them. She poisons you. Hint. Hint.
  8. A whispered conversation between your parents ceases when you enter the room. You have caught snippets of a “swatches” and “paint charts” debate. They already decorated every other room of the house. Just yours then.
  9. Leaflets suggesting you engage the services of “first class” local removal services keep mysteriously appearing under your bedroom door.
  10. Your stuff starts migrating out of your bedroom. Into boxes. Into the hallway. Down the stairs. Out the front door. MOVING DAY.

And if you are more of a visual learner I have included below a video of a current advert that illustrates many of the above points nicely.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oI_f7qMGVH8

 

Sunday Morning Chuckle Vision May 6, 2012

As I may have mentioned before my boyfriend has a penchant for staring at another man’s lycra clad behind. Last weekend, like many other weekends was rudely interrupted by the pair of them spending Sunday at a cycling event. Do hold your “where’s the harm in that? What an unreasonable girlfriend” until I’ve explained my issue with this. My main concern is not that I don’t get to see him or that I’m concerned by the love of a man’s lycra clad bottom: no I’m more concerned with the fact that this morning I was roused from a rather lovely Saturday night – don’t have to be up in the morinignsnoze. At six. A.m. Yes that’s correct: SIX A.M on a SUNDAY. For those of you that know me well you will understand what this means. I am a snarly, fire breathing dragon when awoken from my beauty sleep. His cycling buddy made the error of saying something about my looking less than impressed to be awake. I believe my mumbled “good morning” (social niceties, pah!) quite possibly came out more like the guttural snarl one would expect from a very.Hacked. Off. animal.

I didn’t run off to my own bed for further slumber though dear readers because what I saw next had to be observed until the bitter end. Two lycra clad men (I think they think they are ninjas/power rangers) both scratching their heads and detaching various parts of bike turning them every which direction and both trying to be the most expert “NO, I’ve done this before you know, I know what I’m doing”. Nothing like a bit of a Chuckle Brothers re-enactment to make loss of sleep bearable: “to me…to you” between the boot and the back seat, I was desperately hoping one would let go and fall flat on their lycra clad behind.  Eventually they were off after a good deal of pushing and shoving.

So now, would you like to play guess the number of puncture readers?

 

Somebody Do Something Funny April 11, 2012

One of the hazards of writing a purely comedy inspired blog is that sometimes the funny all dries up. I realise, given the content of my previous posts and my ability to attract slapstick like a moth to a flame, that seems impossible but I really am currently sitting here wailing “somebody do something funny!” How is it that I haven’t done anything absurdly stupid in a while? Have I learnt caution? Doubtful. Something is wrong in the universe Watson and I’m determined to sniff out the “fishy” by Jove! Perhaps what I should do whilst I await my next calamity is go out and make funny happen to myself or others. Which of the following would generate the most comedy value:

1)      Whilst driving my Dad to a Dr’s appointment I do my best rally car driver impression: driving at high velocity round precarious bends yelling “Yee HAW” whilst Dad’s knuckles turn white with the vice like grip of the dash board. Dad does his best impression of “The Scream” – he’s hoarse from, well, all the screaming – then faints in pure terror.

2)      I decide to take my dear little bumper car through the car wash: sounds innocuous enough but, you forget, dear readers I am due a little mishap. Things that could go wrong/comedy gold on offer at the car wash (and the reason I have always been too scared to go through one) are as follows –

  1. My recently “Auto Glass-ed” window pops again causing me to weep and wail like a banshee and make me incapable of  moving my car: the nice boys in the petrol garage have to come and move it for me muttering “I thought women liked fairy sounds” and proclaiming that this would never happen to a male driver
  2. My roof is torn away from the body of the car exposing my head to the big washer thingies. My hair gets tangled up in said washy thingies and is torn from my head. Or: my head won’t give up my hair and my head is pulled from my body. The end.
  3. The car wash fills with limitless water and then breaks down. I have to live in said car wash for all eternity. I evolve to an amphibious life: I now have webbed feet and scales.

3)      I go for a smaller, noisier target: I throw large sticks so accurately that they get wedged in the spokes of the bikes that small children are riding up and down the street on. They are pretending to be motorbikes. Broom, Broom indeed children.

4)      I get arrested for what the police term “manslaughter” when one of the kiddies is killed. I then:

  1. Plead diminished responsibility – “my blog followers made me do it, your honour”– they believe that I am psychologically disturbed and lead me to my padded cell in a straight jacket
  2. Am sentenced to a life living in a car wash (see point 2. A)
  3. Am sent to prison where I acquire a questionable room mate…
  4. Am found not guilty: clearly children pretending to be a motorcycle is a fraudulent act therefore I was simply doing my civic duty. I will then get a magazine deal to sell my story “I just did what anyone would have done” and rise to stardom overnight

Vote now!

 

Bus Rage Part 2: A Case Study April 8, 2012

Further to my post entitled “Bus Rage Part1: A Profile of the Syndrome” I shall now continue with the second installment: putting the profile into perspective by means of a case study. Case study subject was, invariably, lucky. old. me.

Two nights ago I left work at 5.40 pm knowing I was likely to have already missed the closest bus to my actual finish time so I wasn’t in any great hurry – until I turned the corner of the street and saw my bus coming down the high street – running really isn’t my thing (those of you that haven’t read “My Boyfriend Thinks I’m Fat” please do so now) and yet the thought of being stood waiting for the next bus for an indefinite length of time forced me to commence an attempt at a run. I watched the bus stop as I ran (slow mo) down the high street towards it and I then watched as it closed its doors and started to drive off. But no, I’d already run this far I was NOT going to miss it, and then, hurrah; the traffic lights at the end of the road turned red as the bus pulled up to them so I continued my panting – flailing run (I definitely was not a gazelle in a past life) right up to where the bus had stopped at the traffic lights and knocked on the bus door (no need: the driver had clearly already seen me)…unfortunately this was not the end of my plight as, when he looked at me the bus driver merely shook his head and refused to let me on his bus.

So there I stood; gasping for breath in the freezing night air fit to collapse from the running, and there he sat in his nice warm bus for several minutes while he waited for the traffic lights to change. As I walked back up the street to the bus stop I must have seemed like I had developed Tourettes Syndrome; cursing and swearing to myself as I was. I then had the pleasure of waiting over twenty minutes in the cold for the next bus, at risk of losing a hand because I left my gloves in my locker at work. Excellent.

The following night I was determined not to get caught out again and so left work five minutes earlier than on the previous night: no need for running that way I’d be in perfect time for their perfectly made up time table. And yet once more as I turned the corner I found myself lurching and flailing towards the bus stop. Thankfully there were a lot of passengers getting on at that stop that evening so he only just got the doors closed as I got there. He reopened the doors for me and took my ticket then looked at me and said “that was lucky”. This was the same bus driver that had refused me getting onto the bus the previous night. And I was still M.A.D. really mad. My response verged on the hysterical and there were definitely symptoms of bus rage apparent “LUCKY?! LUCKY?!” definitely tending towards the hysterical, does this man have a death wish, I mean, REALLY! Lucky indeed, privileged in fact to have obtained the service for which I pay considerable sums of money each week. My response? “Oh yes, very lucky…Not like last night though” accompanied by a not subtle at all “death stare” which earned me the explanation of: “Well I could have lost my job for letting you on” I believe I snatched my ticket and snarled at him while stomping my feet as the red mist came down. Lost your job? Listen, losing your job is the least of your worries given the slow a painful death I had planned for you, I can assure you!

Bus rage is not simply limited to buses though, dear readers, it is also transferrable to every other method of transport but most especially the dreaded Public Transport.