If you don't like Gay marriage, Don't have one

The Friendly Atheist just wrote a brilliant post on Gay Marriage, Religion and the U.S.A.
Well worth a quick look.

Wisdom from a Lamppost.

Wisdom from a Lamppost.
Originally uploaded by Freelancecynic

It's amazing. It's like the lamppost knows me!

Church of Scientology to come to Bristol

According to a report on GWR. Bristol's local radio, this morning, the scientologists are thinking of starting a new Church here in Bristol.
After handing out leaflets at the Bristol Balloon Fiesta the Church believes that the University town has lots of young fresh minds seeking answers and wants to set up here so they can help guide them.

Lets Review some facts about Scientology.

• Scientology was invented by the Science-fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard
  
  
• Scientologists believe that mankind is plagued by the spirits of Aliens, Thetans, that were brought to earth and killed by the Evil Galactic Warlord 75 Million years ago.
  
  
• The only yourself of the Thetans, which bring misery and depression, is to work your way up through the Scientology course towards the Bridge of Freedom.
  
  
• These courses are not free. To became a fully fledged Level 7 Scientology, and discover true peace, happiness, and enlightenment, can cost more than $350,000.
  
  
• Scientologists are encouraged to lie to their family about how much they are spending and what they believe
  
  
• Scientology breaks up families by pushing individuals to sever contact from relatives and friends critical of Scientology.

In Short

• Scientology is a cult, designed to brainwash people, separate them from their loved ones, and take their money.

If they do try to come to Bristol I will be more than happy to lead the Protest.

There's enough lying here as it is.

The Apartments Strongest Man

As I was walking through the apartment carpark tonight, I was approached by the kind of man one might more often associate with a Harley Davidson.

"Hello there, young man," he said. Well he certainly knew how to get on my good side. "Feeling strong?"
For a second I wondered if he was running a 'test your strength' stall in our carpark, but then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Van. He was moving someone in. Bugger.

Heavy lifting is not, in fact, my strong point. I understand that when you look at my photographs you may think, 'now there's a hunky, husky man!' but the fact is I just know how to dress well. In truth a resemble a Snowman that has been giving 2 pipe-cleaners for arms.

But of course, when someone comes up to you and says, "feeling strong?" there's any one answer you can give...
"I reckon so. You want some help?" Who says 'Christian Charity' is dead, huh! No really. Who? I'd quite like to meet him.
"Well, I've got a big old TV I need to carry up the stairs." A TV for Ganesh's sake!! How hard could it be.
"Sure, why not." And I walked to the back of the Van to see what I'd just agreed too.

It was like a palette of Breeze blocks in TV form; 32 inches of pure lead. For someone who struggles to lift 25kg at the gym it felt like I felt like I completed my entire workout with every single step. We only had to climb one flight of stairs, but by the time we got the top, some several hours later, I was sweating like a Eskimo in Disneyworld.

Finally, I reached the room, put the TV down and shook the bikers hands. Or at least I tried to, but suddenly realised my arms didn't work anymore. I wished his step-daughter luck in her new flat and half walked, half fell back down the stairs to my flat, where I've spent most of the night collapsed on the couch trying to recover.

Christian Charity indeed. I knew there was a reason I'm an atheist.

Previous Posts
Entering the forbidden room

Entering the Forbidden Room

I emailed the landlord on Sunday night about the teenager’s abuse.

On Dan's suggestion, I also mentioned that our door was starting to lean off its hinges. It was a small meaningless issue and I hadn't even thought of raising it until Dan pointed it out. I'd screwed the hinges back on myself and, although the door was still slightly awkward to close, it was so minor an issue as to not even be worth mentioning. There were many other, much more important, issues I could have mentioned, like the intercom entry system to the apartment not working or the smell of Weed that hovers in our hallway, but I figured she know about these things already. And besides I’ve never met my landlady, having found the apartment through a letting agency, and have no particular desire to meet her now. For one thing I’d have to tidy up.

Imagine my annoyance then when, yesterday morning, I got a text message from her. "Hey Simon. Would it be alright if I come round about seven tonight to look at the door?"
Bugger. I forwarded the text to Dan, appending a footnote: "so we're tidying tonight then?"

Now, fortunately, Dan’s mum had been down the week before so the house was already reasonably tidy. All we had to do was Hoover, hide any stray underpants, and tackle the forbidden room.

The forbidden room lies behind a thick wooden door in our bedroom. There was a time, before the door was sealed and barred, when it was an ensuite bathroom, clean, pristine and with a beautiful power shower. Then one day the shower stopped working so well. And we started to notice that the walls had gotten damp. I bugged Dan to tell the landlord about it, that being his job in those days but he never seemed to get around to it and eventually, to save ourselves from having to think about it we shut the door and locked the damp away.

So with the imminent visit of the Landlady we faced a problem. What if the landlord decided to do a tour of the property when she came too look at our virtually undamaged door? What would she say when she opened the door to our ensuite and saw a new species of six foot fungus growing there. I can’t be sure, but I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to paste it here.
Drastic action was needed.

And so we rushed home, getting in about six, prised open the door and got immediately to work.
The next hour was a mass of arguments, dust, cobwebs and semi-nude cleaning. Walls were scrubbed, tiles wiped, mirrors polished and toilets flushed.

At five to seven, we found our clothes again, and sat down in front room, trying to look as if we had been idly waiting for her the whole time. The bathroom was as clean as it had ever been. The damp was still there, we couldn’t hide that, but that was hardly our fault. The important thing was that the room looked loved. We just might get away with it.

By 8.30 there was still no sign of the Landlady. We had Dinner, watched the Olympics, and then sat there to stare at the clock for a while. Finally at 8:50 my phone rang.

“Hi, Simon?” It was my Landlady.
“Hey ya. You ok? What happened?”
“Yes well, I turned up at seven to see you.”
“You did?”
“Yes," she said, "But I couldn’t get in. Your intercom system doesn’t appear to be working!”

And so ends our foray into the forbidden room. But join us again next time wont you, when the landlord comes to call...

Previous Posts

• Homophobic Abuse

Thank you for your support

A massive thank you to all your support on my last post about the homophobic abuse suffered by my hubby and I, both here and over on my facebook profile! It's awesome to have so many of you agreeing that I did the right thing.

I'm beginning to believe it. So far, the kids are staying away.

Homophobic Abuse In My Own Home

Tonight my partner and I suffered homophobic abuse in our own home. And I handled the whole thing so badly.

We live in an apartment block, renting a ground floor apartment in a block shared with 17 others. Recently the teenagers in our area have decided that hanging round in our carpark isn't cool enough, and through the use of slender wrists through the buildings letterbox manage to break in every evening and hold a gang meeting in our Hallway. They're kids mostly, kid's with nothing better to do than Invade our property to get out of the rain. And as it turns out, nothing better to do than shout abuse at my partner and I whenever we try to enter and exit our home.

It's not even like they're particularly creative. We've been called Batty boys, faggots, and been told that we 'like it up the shitter.' But it's abuse, pure and simple. I try to ignore it, but it annoys me, and it upsets Dan. These kids ve no right to be in my home and no right to make me or my partner afraid to walk out our own front door.

Tonight I exploded at them. I told them to get the fuck out of my house.

"If you're not gone in ten minutes I'll be reporting you for trespassing.
"It's not your house. And my mate lives here, he invited me in."
"Then go to your mates flat!" Dan said, to them. Surprisingly he seemed calmer than me. I was so angry. All I could think of was how much they'd annoyed me.
"Fine," I'm yelling at them now, "then I'll report you for Homophobic Abuse. Take your pick."
"Report us for what?" One of them said. He can't have been more than about 13.
I ignored them and turned to walk back to the flat. The kid started to follow me, panicking.
"What do you mean. What did we say?"
I walked into the flat, held the door open and turned to face them. They knew where I lived now. What the hell had I done? But then, the kid who followed me looked genuinely concerned. Maybe I'd scared them. I'd threatened to report him, he was trying to talk his way out of trouble. For a moment though, I wondered if he truly even understand what him and his friends had done to upset me.
"You were there!" I snap at him, "You know what you said." And I closed the door, fumbling to lock it in case they tried to get in.

10 minutes later I went to look again, and all of them had gone.

But here's the thing. I did it all wrong. They're Kids. Just Kids. Kids with nothing better to do than sit in places they have no right to be and hurl meaningless abuse. They can't possibly understand the hurt and the pain they caused or how much they scared Dan. Why couldn't I have told them that? Why couldn't I have tried to stay calm, reasonable, maybe even educate them a little. Why couldn't I at least have just ignored them, maybe that way they still wouldn't know where I live now...

I got it all wrong. I saw red and just shouted and yelled and gave them a reason to hate me. Now I don't know what I'll do next time I have to walk past them. Because they will be there again, at the very least they'll still be in the carpark next to my house. They're not just going to go away and now I've given them a reason to single me out and make things worse for me and Dan. Especially Dan. I'm so worried I've made things worse for him.

How can I fix this? Any advice would be welcome.

Hag Night

It was my stag night last night, so I'm absolutly nackered, and still full of champagne bubbles.

Photos are on the way. I only hope I'm not doing anything stupid in any of them. Facebook is a very dangerous thing.

The cost of a wedding

It's all a bit too familiar.

The Final Countdown to Love

It's literally the final countdown to the wedding now. I don't want to say this, because it sounds like an old Aunt or Uncle, pinching the cheek of their favourite Nephew and remarking 'My haven't you grown fast?' but it's come around so quickly.

It's been over a year since we got engaged, over a year since we first start looking at venues, and everything seemed like it was a such a long way away, they was so much time.

Now time's pretty much run out. In a few weeks it'll be all over, all the hard work, all the fights, all the months of planning and the continual colour scheme changes, and all the dieting and binge eating, and saving and worries will be over and done with, and we'll be sat in the Jacuzzi comitting it to memory and to a finacial debt that will last until we retire at the age of 90.

Love. Thank God I'll be over and done with it soon.

Little Fluffy Clowns - Balloon Modelling Down Under

More Fluffy Clowns.
These guys are taking part in the RedBull Flugtag, raising money for Mcmillion. But inbetween they still have time to be educational.
And nude...

Confessions Of A Balloon Modeller

I had no idea the squeak of rubber could be so dangerous

I skip a heartbeat

This post is brought to you by InsideCardiacArrest.com

Heaven knows I worry enough about death. In fact, I'm kind of fascinated by it. There's something about the total finality of it that both interests me and scares me half to death. So if I keep thinking about it too much I might find out about it much earlier than I'd like too.

It's so easy to go as well. 325,000 people die from Sudden Cardiac Arrest, such as congestive heart failure, every year. Thankfully, sites like InsideCardiacArrest.com exist to fill me and others in on how to spot the signs.

So that's one less thing for me to worry about.

Oh No Vision

Any time I mention that I watch EuroVision people look at me funny, as if I must be mentally retarded and should probably be put down.

I used to think they were the crazy ones but this year I'm not so sure. No matter what the UK does, we always end up right at the bottom of the list. And you'd think that as the UK pays for the majority of the event we could rig the voting a little...

There were however some highlights. Terry Wogan getting more and more bitter as the votes were counted, the terrible jokes by the Eurovision hosts, and of course this wonderful entry by Bosnia.

Lost at Sea

I'll keep this short because there's nothing more tedious than reading about someone elses dreams.
Last night however I dreamt I was on a boat where you had to jump over a railing and onto a saftey net to get to the bottom decks. This was just fine until the entire boat seemed to turn into a circus, and I not only had to jump once but had to jump onto swinging tire, onto a trapeze, into the arms of another trapezeist and then drop comfortably onto the saftey net below. Everyone seemed to think that this should be really easy and kept telling me to hurry up and jump.

"Well you hurry up and jump damn it," I shouted in my poshest dream voice.

And then I woke up.

As odd as it might be a circus ship doesn't sound like to bad an idea. I might go talk to my bankmanager tommorow to see if he can give a loan

There are times when I hate myself.

Like the times when I realise that in my own efforts to make my own dreams come true, in my own futile attempts to make something of my life, that I've let the biggest thing in my life suffer. It's scary how easy it easy to overlook my boyfriend. He is just there, he's always been there, and I feel fairly confident that he always will be. And so I get on with my life, doing the things I want to do with my time, happily beliving that he will be ticking along just fine.

And then there are times when the whole thing collapses. Times when I just want to go up to him and hold him, and say 'sorry' a million times until the pain goes away. Times when he needs me and I'm too busy caught up in my own little world to notice.

I hate myself for not being everything to him that he needs me to be. Hate myself for not being the man he sees when he looks at me. But mostly I hate myself for being so selfish that I can take him for granted. Because, tommorrow, if he wasn't there, my world would cease to exist. He is the my morning, my lunch-time entertainment and my night. He takes my moaning, my complaining, my cynical bitterness and he welcomes it, loving it. He takes me as myself. So many times I forget what an amazing thing that is to ask of somebody.

This is all very dramatic of course and the cynic in me is screaming at my lack of style. Right now I feel worried for him, and sorry for myself, and sorry for him and worried for me. Even when I'm upset for him my emotions are selfish.

I want to know how to give him more of me. I want to know how to find the relationship we had.
I don't think we've lost it, we've just had to ration it out to last a lifetime. But right now, I'd take a firework over a fire anyday...

UPDATE: Due to a technical error at The Freelance Guru the blog URL is now http://freelanceguru.co.uk.
http://www.freelanceguru.co.uk is currently not working due to Bloggers inability to handle double domains.
Please update your links

Over 9,000 hits later the Freelance Cynic has been re-incarnated.
The 'Freelance' saga continues over at The Freelance Guru

RECENT POSTS ON THE FREELANCE GURU!

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Moved to the Freelance Guru

Over 9,000 hits later the Freelance Cynic has been re-incarnated.
The 'Freelance' saga continues over at The Freelance Guru

RECENT POSTS ON THE FREELANCE GURU!

Subscribe to RSS headline updates from: Powered by FeedBurner

• Get Guru Wisdom to your inbox with the Freelance Guru Mailinglist
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• Or simply bookmark the Freelance Guru Homepage

Reincarnated as the Freelance Guru

This blog has been usurped by the Freelance Guru.

The Freelance Guru
One Man - One Pole - One Mission

'I was once like you, until a chance encounter with a snake inspired me to quit my job and seek wisdom. Taking only the bare essentials, such as my laptop and mobile phone, I now live on top of a pole overlooking Bristol.'

Most Read Posts Here

• Anglo sexton
• How to keep an idiot busy
• Reasons to visit Britain
• Taking Note
• 3 sides of James Blunt
  

Thus I Resign the Cynicacy

Unfortunately, The Freelance Cynic has become more real than I ever hoped, and as a result he's no longer any fun to write for. I never wanted this blog to be a place where I come to moan, that's what I have my boyfriend for, but this blog has become little more than a place where I write weak humour weekly in exchange for a few weak, weakly words of praise, and even that is getting harder and harder to achieve.

I've flogged it for as long as I can but now I think it's time to own up and admit that'll be best to just let Freelance Cynic age and decay as the years increase until eventually it crumbles to dust.

Now, the blog of my slightly deranged friend Marcus however, over at the Freelance Guru, now that's a character I could really write for. In fact, he's so right for me, you might even be tempted to believe that I invented him.

Like Casino Royale, this is a rebooting of the 'Freelance' blog tradition. Click to the Freelance Guru, subscribe to the Freelance Guru Feed, and let the blessings and wisdom flow.

Anglo Sex-ton

There are many rumours about British sex. All of them are true, even the ones that contradict each other.

When it comes to the British and sex, we’re as varied as the rest of you. Some of us like missionaries and some of us dogs; some of us like dogs so much we dress up in fluffy suits and start barking. Some of us enjoy pushing things in, some like taking them out and some like doing the okie cokie although too much shaking it about can somewhat break the romantic mood.

But mostly, when it comes to sex, we like not talking about it. We treat it in a similar way to death. This doesn't mean that the whole family gets together to mourn after it happens (at least not normally,) but rather, although we appreciate it has to happen, and sometimes we're even glad when it does, we'd really rather not talk about it thank you very much. Comedians can make great use of this embarrassment when warming up a crowd. Next time you’re at a posh restaurant stand on the table and shout the word ‘Sex!’ very loudly and you’ll see what I mean.

Because it’s programmed into us that sex is so dirty and sinful it goes without saying that Teenage Pregnancy is on the rise. In fact, if things keep up at their current rate the next generation will be born before their parents. It’s a shame really that we can’t use Chav offspring as a form of currency as the world’s economic problems would be solved in a day.

To solve this the government has come to the rescue. Believing the parents need educating, they've done what the British Government always does when faced with a crisis. They’ve created a TV program about it - Sex... with Mum and Dad. The ellipsis is essential; it’d be an entirely different program otherwise and shown much later at night. For a painful hour, two sexually-deficient teenagers drag their legal guardians in front of a 'sexologist' (surly a more made up role than 'Vice President') who encourages them to speak openly about their sexual worries. The show apparently demonstrates that by talking to your teenagers you can encourage them to have a normal sex life, which means they might be able to keep their depravities to themselves until they are old enough to handle them – around 57 for example. The problem with the show however, is that the parents are too embarrassed to watch it while their offspring, made to feel bad about sex since they first discovered their genitalia, watch anything with sex in the title as a form of rebellion. The whole idea has somewhat backfired. And, with more and more schools relying on practical lessons to engage the interest of the ADHD generation, Sexual education classes are proving somewhat counterproductive.

And so, in the end, the British learn about sex the way they learn about everything else – through practical experimentation, largely involving Shampoo. And they end up, just like their parents, having sex behind closed doors, secretly, privately, rigidly and as quietly as possible so as not to wake up the children. Maybe this is the reason that the British are reluctant to talk about sex. Because, when it comes to sex and the British, there really isn't much to talk about. Sex, in Britain at least, is sex - whatever else you may choose to call it. And, of course, like all four letter words, we’d really rather prefer you didn’t mention it at all...

Unless, of course, you're gay. But that is a story for next time...

Previous Posts

• Sex - An introduction

Sex on the Blog

I think about sex a lot.

As a homosexual, homophobic, red blooded mammal of the male variety, it comes naturally.

For example, if I converse with a man about, say, the weather, it's essential to put up a front, allowing them to see me either as a perfectly harmless straight bloke, or as gay as an Enid Blyton picnic, depending on what they find acceptable. (Generally, I choose the former; acting excessively camp makes me want to take myself outside and beat myself up as an example to others.) Woman, however, are less fussy about that kind of thing, and I can discuss the current meteorological situation with them without first having to check my belt buckle is facing the right way, or whatever daft system homosexuals are using to 'identify themselves' these days.

So it helps to be aware of sex. That way, I can avoid going up to the wrong one and mentioning Madonna.

As to the other kind of sex, I try not to think about it. It's said that men think about it all the time, but that's not true. We think about it at set times, once or maybe twice a day at the most. The rest of the time we're too busy deciding what channel to flip too during the ad breaks.

And I certainly don't write about it on this blog. This is probably to my downfall; sex sells, and he's a much better salesman than I am. Just having the word sex on this blog will increase my Google score tenfold, and if I include the words 'slut' and 'porn' (or 'Pr0n' or whatever the devil the kids call it these days) I'd have the top ranking site for months. But sex is taboo here. You see, my family read this blog and talking about sex in front my family would be like chatting about Chinese box kites to a Pro-Wrestler. It's just not the kind of thing that comes up in conversation.

In fact, the entirety of my sexual communication with my parents came, quite appropriately, during one of our traditional weekly bible studies, a tradition, which if my memory serves me, lasted for about 6 weeks. (Of course my memory has never served me once, not even so much as got me a beer from the fridge. But I digress...) We were reading one of those family friendly passages that mentions harlots and sodomy and other such wholesome things when, an ignorant child, I asked what a prostitute was.
My dad sighed.
"A prostitute,' he said, 'is someone who has sex for money.'
I nodded wisely. To my immature self, sex simply something enjoyable and extremely naughty, I couldn't think of a better job. It was fun, exciting and profitable. So naturally it was easy to see why God hated it.

My sister pushed a bit further.
'He doesn't know what sex is, does he?'

Now of course I knew what sex is. We had books in school which described the reproductive rituals of Daddy and Mummy robot in great detail. Sex, as far as I was aware, was a kind of horny metallic struggle.
Under pressure, and seeing a chance to embarrass my parents, I shook my head.
My dad turned peach. 'Surely you know what sex is?' I shook again causing him to increase several notches to Virgin red. My mum, realising that if this went much further my father would clash with the curtains, stepped in.
'Sex,' she said, 'is when mummy and daddy get together to make a baby,’
And with that, my dad turned back and carried on reading.

And that was that, the entirety of my sexual education. In a way now, I'm glad they didn’t teach me the ins and outs of reproductive sex. It would have been quite a waste of their time. And so I don't talk about sex on this blog. I wouldn't want to force my family into admitting I actually know about it....

But there's another reason sex is Taboo for the Freelance Cynic, one that I'll serve up for your lustful pleasure next week. It will take me at least that long to gain enough courage to talk about the filthy topic again anyway.

After all... I'm British.

Previous Posts

• Si-Kick - My Predictions for 2008
• Eeek-mail - Or how the internet almost got me fired
• Taking note - Or my Static Obsession

Si - kick

It is traditional, around this time of year, to do things that are bloody ridiculous. Amongst other things these include making new years resolutions, attempting to lose the Christmas pot belly, and getting the pine needles out of the carpet.
It is also tradition, around this time of the year, for psychics, in between scamming naive members of the public and choosing the wrong lottery numbers, to make their annual predictions.

And so, as yet another attempt to make myself famous, I got out my playing cards, shuffled them with the left, more psychic side of my body, and dealt out my predictions for 2008. However as all the cards predictions were along the lines of ‘the Queen of hearts will gain 10 Diamonds from a Black Knave,’ I put them away and just made up some predictions instead.

1. A crop circle will appear near a Barn in Baltimore in the shape of a letter M, or possibly a W. Maybe an E. This will lead many enthusiasts to set up camp nearby and release countless books postulating about the letter’s meaning
2. In the latter half of the year, much to everyone’s surprise, archaeologists will unearth evidence that suggests man once had 3 toes on each foot.
3. The war in Iraq will continue unabated.
4. We will find conclusive evidence that Alien life exists.
   This will later be proven false by scientists.
5. Throughout 2008 this blog will raise it’s popularity until it receives an average of 25 comments per post.
6. At least one reader of this blog will be E-mailed by a Nigerian millionaire.
7. Weather patterns will continue to be disturbed in 2008, causing the UK to suffer the wettest summer of recent years. There will however, still be a hosepipe ban.
8. The hosepipe ban will be ignored by all but the most loyal of UK Citizens.
9. Religion will continue to suffer in 2008. However the alternative medicine market will peak in the middle of the year, when it will be announced that Chi has been shown to exist.
   This will later be proven false by scientists.
10. A new Hobby Magazine will be released.
11. People will finally begin to get bored of Facebook and stop bugging me to add on applications.
12. The rapture will continue not to happen.
13. There will be no major terrorist attacks in the UK or the USA this year.
14. In August 2008 a cure will be discovered for cancer, and announced in big letters on the front pages of the Sun Newspaper.
    This will later be proven false by scientists.
15. In the Olympics the UK will win at least 2 gold medals, both in events nobody cares about.
    Saddam Hussain will continue to remain Dead.
16. Intelligent Design will be taken to court in the South West of America
17. The person elected as president in 2008 will have a penis, possibly kept in a desk drawer.
18. Old people will find it increasingly difficult to climb stairs.
19. A reader of this blog will comment on this post, saying how brilliant they thought it was.
    This will later be proven false by scientists.

Previous Posts

• Eek-mail - Or how the internet almost got me fired
• Taking Note - Or my stationery Fetish
• Claims, Stains and Octogenarians - or the worrying world of Insurance

ECNALUBMA

You know what really grinds my gears?
Vans that are so up themselves they feel their need to have their company name written backwards across their bonnet so you can read it your rear view mirror.

Of course this trend was started by ambulances. Now personally, I have to wonder how, when confronted by sirens that whine louder than Louis Walsh and more lights than a chain smoker, anyone would still have to look in their rear-view mirror to check they are, indeed, being followed by an Ambulance. And even then you think the hulking lump of white and yellow metal would be enough identification without the need for its name to be plastered all over it like a pair of Nike Trainers. For Doc's sake, ambulances are just one offence away from being a public disturbance, If you installed them with drum machines they'd be mobile hard house discos. I fail to see how having some fancy backward lettering makes them more noticeable. It's like putting a red nose on a porn star. That's simply not the bit that anyone notices.

But ambulances can save a life and for that we should cut them some slack. After all the life they're saving might owe you money and as such we'd all be a little worse off without them.

But I find it completely unbelievable that it would ever be useful to be aware that the van following you was full of orange Tango. If anything, that would just make me slow down and move into the middle of the road, just to make sure that the horrible beverage doesn't get delivered. You would think it would be enough that the vans are bright orange with bubbles, but no, they have to decorate them with their fancy stylish backwards writing as well, as if they believe they were designed by that famous Italian inventing artist, who wrote his diary backwards. You know who I mean, that Leonardo fellow who inspired the DaVinci code. Leonardo Dicaprio, that one

But the number of back to front words on the road is only going to increase. Because, if I looked in a mirror and saw a word that was readable in the normal left to right fashion, my concept of reality would be recalled faster than a children's toy from China. Believing up to be down, and left to be right, I would veer off the road into a ditch. And when they finally came to rescue me they would find me sitting upside down on the grass, rocking back and forth, mumbling random phrases out of Alice Through the Looking Glass. And obviously, I couldn't be the only person who would react in such a way...

And all that, of course, would result in a hell of a lot more ambulances...

Previous Grinds
Here, Here, Here, & Here.

New Erection

It's nice to see that on a street of brotels, sex shops and gay saunas there can be a company of repute. All I can say is, thank God for the apostraphe.

Previous Posts
Cap Comp, Caption Contest, Toad Work

Wedding Day Blues

There was a time when weddings were simple. All that was required was a broken condom and a shotgun. There was none of this fuss with wedding lists, or Evening Entertainment, or cake; just a night of unbridled passion followed by a life time of being bridled.

Our wedding was meant to be simple too. It was supposed to be about our feelings for each other, about promising to spend our lives together until we waste away together in a nursing home eyeing up the young carers.

Somehow, it got confused.

Because now it's about everyone else. It's become less of a fairy tale wedding and more like the Rocky horror Picture Show. Madness takes control.

Forget Love, our wedding is about seating arrangements and table decorations and dessert choices and photographers and accommodation and suits and best people and loans and family politics and scatterfetti and party poppers and invites and speeches and wine and transport and tiny chocolates...

And money, always about money.

At present, I'd be quite happy to forget about the wedding and skip to the honeymoon, just like I managed to forget being born. These things just aren’t major life events.

But over Christmas ,when I was lying in bed on my third consecutive night away from Dan, my thoughts were dancing round my mind like a raver in a army obstacle course. And I realised, slowly, that without Dan lying next to me, my bed was a void waiting to be filled. I missed him; I really missed him. It would be fair to say that was somewhat surprising. But I couldn't wait to be home again, hugging him, punching him and annoying him while he cooked dinner.

I am so enraptured by him, that if he asked, I would spend the rest of my life researching, designing and building a machine which could transcend the clouds, steal the stars from the sky, and grind them into a fine biological washing powder to make his laundry whiter than white.

He's worth the money. He's worth the stress. He's worth the rising feel of panic. Our wedding is, and always will be about us, the 2 of us, together for the rest of our lives, pinching each other when we get bored, fighting over the TV remote, and gazing 'thoughtfully' at the shirtless men on the beach until one of us loses our eyesight and has to 'eye up men' using Braille. I want my happily ever after, I want my pet dog, and my evening strolls, and my cold nights in bed spent stealing the duvet. And I want my Fiancée; I want my Dan, I want the one person who has managed to be more important to me than the Simpsons, whilst still managing to increase my latent homophobia on a daily basis.

I want my husband.

And if it costs me all the money in the world, a mental breakdown, and a wedding day styled after Nightmare on Elm Street, I'll do it. I'll do it for him.

Because promising to be together, forever (or until one of us gets really fat) will be the Happiest Day of My Life.

At least until the honeymoon...