Fright Night

I had just been performing some rather awful debauchery with my boyfriend on an average Sunday afternoon, as one does. When all of a sudden (contrary to previous blogs) my father stormed in through the front door like a bull in a china shop to declare, "Quick, assemble yourselves, your grandmother will be here in 5 minutes".

It went quickly from pleasure to nearly wetting my pants (although a fine line can be drawn between the two). I jumped out of bed and struggled to find my knickers, kicking my cat in the face whilst doing so. Upon reflection, the cat being in my room at this time cannot be healthy for his personal development at all, and since this afternoon I've felt he may have lost a little respect for me. Loss of respect, a concept that's new to me. 

What one is to understand about my Grandmother is that her presence in my household is reminiscent to a visit from the Queen of England... tea and sandwiches at the ready, or one can expect to have their head chopped off. My family and I ran about the house in a flurry, tidying, cleaning, cooking, preparing, etc. In so many ways I should have seem what was to come, the cliche when the boyfriend meets the grandma for the first time. We've all watched geeky American sitcoms, we've all sat through that questionable episode of Friends in which we simply 'cringe'. On some levels, I blame myself.

I bowed and hugged my grandmother as she entered the door, baring some delicious kosher goodies. I pointed at boyfriend to indicate this was the person we had had a number of conversations about. We discussed how he was a 'good Jewish boy' and we kept a good 2 metres from each other most of the time. Most of the time. The scene was set. It was like watching a bomb go off. Powerless to stop the events, yet this awkward social situation was far too strong for a girl like me to stop, what was to come was in the hands of the universe. They both swung left. They both went right. They kissed on the lips. I think a part of me died today.

Deleting contacts on my mother's phone. De-flowering the daughter. Hated by the cat... and now the grandma? I've crawled into a hole, and am sufficiently dying. When the next apocalypse occurs, maybe this time I'll be better prepared. What a frightening Halloween.

The Queertopian Meadows. Part I.

Welcome to Queertopia.

Think about a land beyond G-A-Y and just short of Never(touch that young boy)land, direct yourself straight to the Southern star; a long, hard, strenuous journey. However, when you get there it's like nothing you've ever expected. Long thin streams of white cream run all along the coast, acting as an excellent tourist attraction as well as fertilizing the land and being the national dish. The sun is always shining. The rainbow flag stands erect in the centre of the capital, Old Compton, and in the heart, soul and pants of each of its humble citizens.

Like in every great nation, there is also a hierarchy, and none as infamous as the Gay Family. There are the King and Queen, who spawned two children: the great and wise Prince of the East and the wicked Gaybe of the West. Like all great men, there is a humble faghag behind them, illustrated perfectly by Princess Lyna: a beautiful young girl who is, however, rather naive. Their wedding was a white one: white swans, white napkins, white dresses (on both participants), and cheesy white smiles. Bride and Groom said their vows, swearing an oath to obey the teachings of Gaga and live by the ways of Madonna.

After the wedding there was a reception held in the Royal Court and therein was a majestic performance from Diva Fever, an avid influence over contemporary pop culture in Queertopia. Little and large sausages were served covered in the national dish. As all marriages that have occured over the years in the nation, the royal vibrating staff is passed from generation to generation, and this is how it would be today, or was to be.

The royal advisor finished giving her speech, which is the equivalent to parliamentary approval of the match. The regal Queen stood. Looking down upon her subjects she felt proud - people had turned up wearing the colours of the empire: blues, reds, yellows, purples...especially purple. The scene was set, the newly wed couple approached the cock-shaped podium to receive the jewel-encrusted vibrating staff. The people were just finishing the anthem, with a crescendo of "I will survive, yea, yea!" when the doors to the royal court swung open...

There he stood, the Wicked Gaybe of the West, draped in black and possessing the only thing the average gay man has ever feared... clogged pores. He was technically the first adopted son and should be the one to own the staff, but his definite virginity never allowed him to legally qualify for the position. He fled the kingdom a while ago after discovering he had a slight Oedipal complex, only reversed. In his hands he grasped the complete series box set of Will & Grace, including unseen edits.

"I will destroy it, I swear", Gaybe spat on the ground by the feet on the royal couple.
"You know not what you do!" the Queen said, sensing the panic that was growing in the room. Most of the people had begun to pray to Gaga or say goodbye to their loved ones. The Queen remained calm, and composed herself, "Son, please, for all that is right and just in Queertopia, give me the DVD".
He snarled, and clutched his cape tighter to himself. "Never!" he hissed. He grabbed the staff and whispered an evil spell then he disappeared, with a poof, ironically.

In the coming days a dark grey cloud arose over Queertopia; the only silver lining is that a homosexual adventure had begun, as bright and shiny as a supernova and as long and hard as a...well, you know.

Soya cappuccinos. The bane of my life.

Dear Diary,

In truth that's what 'blogging' is: an online diary. This can provoke two main reactions from my audience

1. Giggling like a 5-year-old girl who just uncovered her sister's hidden diary and a lifetime of blackmail. Remind you of anyone, Ruby? November the 6th 2003, the day I gained power.
2. A re-evaluation of one's life; recognising one has nothing better to do than read my blog. If you decide to stop reading now, I think you should remember I still get a hit on Blogspot and hence feel super good about myself. 

So let's carry on, shall we?...

So what to rant about this evening... As I often complain about meaningless things that have very little significance in anyone's life but my own, I'll do the same again. I hate working. Yes, somehow I was able to attain an actual job. I would say it was good luck, if you call 'good luck' a lot of lying on your CV. I won't name the shop specifically due to copyright reasons - darn those bastards in Human Resources! So for legal reasons let us say that it is a frozen yogurt shop in Mill Hill... yes... conspicuous. If that doesn't work, I'll simply have to call my lawyer who lives next door. His name is Mr. Bigglesworth and he is a cat.

This weekend I worked for 15 hours... 15 hours. I'm going to break this down for you (because I've had a substantial amount of time to think about doing so), 900 minutes or 54000 seconds. Clearly, this longs out my life. In this time I surely could have done something productive, like invent the world's biggest vacuum cleaner similar to the one that sucked the life out of me. Oh no, wait. That was this shop.

The customers are the best thing about this shop, all eight of them. So wonderful to observe, watch, judge; an anthropologists dream and a young teenage girl's nightmare. I've had one Jewish family come in in the past 2 hours. They bought a small cup with no toppings and shared... typical. Perhaps the guy that winks at me would serve as a better subject to study. I call him Blinks McCoy, a slight Scottish accent and 3 years champion of the National Staring Competition. He's a wonderful character and always seems to be on the phone whilst ordering. He likes to repeat the same few phrases, such as; "Yes, we can close the deal, I'll email you" (WINK), "Oh dolly, you know you're special" (WINK), "Yeah, last night was brilliant" (WINK). My reply: a coy, nervous and uncomfortable laugh.

Then there is the most anal couple on the planet; a pair of new-earth contemporary sold-out bohemians living in their mediocre-sized home in Mill Hill, riding wistfully on their failed dreams and taking their dog to a Frozen Yoghurt place to have coffee every day... how avant-garde. Can't they just do me a favour and go to the Costa across the road? So where do I begin... I imagine their names are something totally incompatible to the look they are trying to achieve, perhaps Mr and Mrs Smith, even though they wish they were called Apollo and Rain. Perhaps their detestable look would work if they weren't the most harrowing people I'd ever met in my life. Mrs. Smith likes to bring in her own soya milk to the shop. That's right. And expects us to keep it in our fridge... for her sole benefit. Herein lies the recent issue we had. She came into the shop, as per usual, appearing as though she had a bad smell under her nose. Maybe she too could smell trouble.

Ordering her kooky soya milk cappuccino with a sense of normality, my colleague proceeded to remove said necessary soya milk carton from fridge. But wait, what ho? Her face began to turn bright red and her pierced lips began to wither even more (which originally I couldn't conceive to be humanly possible). "That carton was full when I bought in yesterday: who's been using it? That is my milk". I felt the need the need to duck and cover as she flung herself over the counter. Well it all kicked of from there really. The issue is, she needs to recognise that this is a shop and not her kitchen. I wanted to explain to her that Costa have soya milk... which they provide themselves and probably for half the price. But I didn't. I fear death.

Arguably however, the best customer of my day was my own mother. She waltzed in at around 7pm, took a good look around and muttered not-too-quietly under her breath "What a shithole...". I stood, gob-smacked... next to my manager.

Home time couldn't come soon enough.

Middle-Eastern shenanigans and my tortoise friend.

Oh my darling readers, how I have missed thee.

An absent blog for ten days and my strange disappearance, you must have all believed I went to Hogwarts or something along those lines, but alas, I went to a place even more magical than Daniel Radcliffe's penis in Equus... Israel. Now now, before you begin raving about how Israel is the evil 'slut' of the world, taking everyone else's land, or the opposite and doing the whole Zionist thing, I went to Israel for a holiday. This week's portion will be an explanation of all my shenanigans and not-so-sexual endeavours, so listen in faithful flock and let me guide you through a mystical journey.

Well it all began in the airport, as most holidays often do, unless you're going somewhere like Cornwall, in which case a trip to the airport would be a massive inconvenience and waste of time, instead, I advise you drive. I arrived at Luton airport, potentially the smallest and most useless plane hut ever, containing only one minute duty free and about 20 boarding gates. After having an overpriced panini from a understaffed Starbucks I proceeded to Gate 15 to board. Boarding is often a simple experience, one waits patiently, sitting in a spacious lounge, reading what appears to be a classic novel with a copy of the latest Mills & Boons tucked inside, but this wasn't like the magnificent Heathrow I had come so dearly to love. Instead, I was hauled into a tiny room with one door and a small window (which I later realised was my symbol of hope and escape), passengers came in there hundreds squeezing us in like cattle. Everyone pushed together, I was groped a few times, it was pretty standard. Then from nowhere a feminine high pitched voice commented "they don't call it Squeezy Jet for nothing"... I chuckled and as I did so  banged my head against a middle class man who turned to scowl at me, in my fear I retreated into my sister's bosom and was stuck for a while.

The flight was as a flight often is, high and unentertaining, similar to my average Saturday night.

As soon as I was re-united with my mother (who you shall remember as flying out before me and leaving me alone to fend for myself against the big purple suitcase) was propositioned to be bought for 100 camels. Fortunately she declined the offer seeing as I have not yet learnt how to rear a camel farm.

Let's title this next bit, bored. Time goes by slowly when one is abroad, that may be because of the complicated time difference or the fact that I don't really know how to read an analogue watch but I felt that I needed to do something alternative and creative with my energy. Now, for all readers who have not tried this difficult and competitive activity, I urge you to... Shell-collecting. You may snigger, but I was up against the wrath of every five-year-old on the beach and the sea who was trying to reclaim my precious gems. This excitement lasted for around 10 minutes, it had to cease after I was heckled by an Israeli mother who was complaining about my elbowing her child in the face, but I saw the shell first. 691 trinkets later and I was growing wearisome...

There must be something else to do... but what?... what?

Two days later and I found myself in the underworld of Tel Aviv. It was an odd scene, sitting in a drug dealers apartment with my mother and her friend looking far more sluttier than I, and appeared to be having a better time then I have ever had... ever. We drunk-drove of to an exclusive hatched club, me holding on for dear life in the back while my mother sang along to Britney, called 'Cats&Dogs', I thought I'd be going to a petting zoo of some sort, apparently, it was a petting zoo... of some sort. The rest is a bit of a blank, I was never one to say 'no' to guys buying me drinks, a glass of wine, three vodkas and two tequillas later and I was getting into a cab. My mum forced herself to bring me home because I was on the verge of passing out and all that jazz, I felt grotty and shit, it was 3 in the morning and I was ready to retreat to my bed around 2200 miles away, but I was not appeased. Instead I was kicked out the cab, while my mother sped of, not to return til 5.30am.

Now this next part of my tale is a truly sad one, the events leading up to the moment I am about to describe were done with nothing but the love of a good Samaritan and a heart of gold. It was Tuesday night in Tel Aviv and my family and I were strolling along the busy night streets of the way to have a nice bottle of wine in a small restaurant when there, in the middle of the pavement was a huge tortoise. It was heading straight for the busy road... "We have to save him!" cried Ruby.
"But how, how?!" I replied.
We picked him up and took him far away from the road so he could live in a small patch of grass. Feeling good about ourselves we continued on our mirthful way. The night was warm, we drunk and got merry. On the way back we thought we'd visit Torti (original name, I know) and see how he was progressing in his new life, perhaps he had settled down already, married a nice Jewish tortoise and got that business deal he had been wanting for a while, but suddenly... CRACK, CRUNCH, it was a real horror show, I doubt whether Tarrantino could have imagined something as brutal. There lay Torti, or the pieces of him anyway, three lanes in (which was pretty impressive if you ask me). Ruby fell to her knees "NOOO! Take me instead", she banged her hands of the coble streets and reclined into herself, sobbing "take me".

R.I.P Torti

We did all we could.

We think you were trying to make it to the park, but the grass isn't always greener on the other side.

That really put the holiday on a new low. The food didn't seem to taste as nice after that, every time I bit I just heard the distant crunching of our long lost friend.

Eat, Beach, Eat, Eat, Drink.

Eat, Beach, Eat, Eat, Drink.

We were sitting on the plane on the way home, awaiting for take-off, the usual crowd were there. People from JFS who you smiled at coyly knowing that for the next 5 hours it would be best if we sat on opposite ends of the plane to avoid awkward conversation, a few old people, some young people, and a boy, a young troubled torched soul, who would not shut the fuck up. He just kept crying, I say 'crying' but it was more like the wail of a banshee meets Karen Walker on acid. So this Air Steward stood up, minced (I use that term deliberately) his way through the isle, pointed at this blond 2-foot-something cupid and said "Now you shut the hell up you little bugger because you don't have a choice whether you sit down during take off, get it?". I didn't know whether the laugh that followed was from nervous shock or absolute. He was so anal about the whole thing, which I suppose was a reflection upon his sexual preference. They don't call it Sleazy Jet for nothing.

I landed in England to step of the plane into 12 degrees and torrential rain into the open arms of my wine cellar on legs, Josephine GaGaus. It feels good to be back.