Sunday, 29 July 2007

Disastrous Dating #2...

The Mummy's Boy

It was Albert who first 'winked' at me and showed interest. I was not giving this particular dating website my full attention at the time as I hadn't quite worked out how I might flirt successfully without paying over the astronomical subscription fees and had thus lost a bit of interest.

When I saw Albert's photo, I thought he had quite a sweet looking face and his profile denoted an intelligent man - there weren't any typos for me to get irate about, no LOLs, LMAOs or GSOHs - anyone who writes these things to me must think I am a bit of an idiot, I reckon. Yes, I know that words can often be misconstrued without the associated intonation, but do I really need someone to tell me when to find something funny, like the 'Cue Laughter' blokes stood in a live audience? Most of the orders when to laugh from male daters are associated with blatant sexual innuendo, too: "I bet you look great in a slinky black and red basque with stockings and your hair up...LOL!!!!!!" What's funny about that? The chap’s feeling lucky, wants you to know, and then deep down knows you're going to think he's a creep, so attempts to vindicate himself by tagging LOL onto the end. Hit the 'Delete'

So, back to Albert. His title caption stated that his Mother thought he was a good catch. It's a long time since I have been out with a Mummy's boy and my memory plays tricks, what with my age and having to sort out my five retarded children, Greebo, Rastus, Flo, Britney and Farquhar, whom you may have read about in previous blogs.

We had very little online chat - just a few mails back and forth, and it transpired that he was into clay pigeon shooting at the weekends. Well, it was the middle of winter, and I quite fancied the idea of becoming a huntin', shootin', fishin' gel, striding around the pages of Cheshire Life with my Harris Tweed flat cap on, hob-nobbing with execs and footballers, providing the latter group knew which end of the gun from the other. I asked Albert if he would take me shooting to his gun club and he readily agreed, but suggested that we met in the pub one night to finalise arrangements.

He was insistent that we met half-way between us. I think he may have even got a piece of string out, measured the distance between our towns and halved it for the exact spot. We arranged to meet in The Smoker, a pub I had heard of, and which had been recommended in the past, but never been to. A chance to get dressed up in my latest crimplene and nylon! That's always fun in my book. I do like to look good when given the opportunity. But the next email asked me to alter my plans and meet him at the Golden Pheasant, as this was slightly closer to him. Hmmm. OK, I thought, maybe he has some strange 'blushing bowel' syndrome, gets taken short, and has to dash home to his own loo as he cannot 'perform' on public lavs. That was an incorrect assumption. I think he just needed to be nearer his Mum (read on).

I worked out my route, and was told the dress code (no dressing up; just jeans and top would, hiss). I made an effort to balance out the informality of casual wear, with some very elegant make-up and my hair shone and hung like a blanket of silk (well, I'd slopped on some hair straightener and it was now so oily you could have fried a pan of chips on it, but we'll stick with the romantic notions instead). Yes, I got lost, as per usual, and ended up down a back lane in the middle of nowhere. There was nobody to ask directions from, either. When in doubt, I always double back on myself, so back towards The Smoker I went, in the hope that there was a Golden Pheasant lurking on the road. It was there: on the left - I'd just been singing along to the Daniel O'Donnell and Cliff with such 'gay' abandon that I'd missed it.

Albert was sat in the car park waiting for me in a gleaming silver BMW. Ooh! I thought. Nice car! I felt a bit cheap in my Morris Minor, which hadn't had a wash for nearly 18 months by this stage. He got out to greet me, and I immediately noticed that the sweet smile on his photograph was hiding a mouthful of tombstone-like teeth, in dire need of orthodonty; a new buzz cut which made his head look like one of those gimcrack hedgehog boot cleaners old ladies such as myself have on their back door step for the gardener to wipe the muck off his soles, and he was not 'tall'.

Why do men insist on calling themselves 'tall' when they are 'average'? Is this the age-old case of men not knowing how to measure six inches? Six inches to me is half a foot. It cannot be applied to anything measuring five, four, or even, on one very memorable night, two inches. So, once again, I was towering over my date - I suffer with giantism, I'm afraid and am currently standing at 7'9".

We made our rather formal hellos and entered the pub. He didn't hold the door open for me, and I recoiled from the back-swing of the fire door as it bounced back onto my arm. To say I was underwhelmed by the pub is to put it mildly. There was little likelihood of me mingling with the Cheshire Set here. Maybe old-time dancing with the Cheshire Vets, though, going by the average age of the punters - that was a possibility. Albert got the drinks in. A beer for him and a port & lemon for me. We sat in the 'snug': some pew-like seats upholstered in mock Black Watch tartan, clashing with the Royal Stewart on the floor, and some Monarch of the Glen-type nasty posters hastily plonked into Ikea clip frames. I started to break the ice, asking him about himself, what he did, what the shooting entailed etc.

He had a lovely, well-modulated voice, and spoke intelligently. The subject matter (IT) wasn't of great interest to me, and nor did he punctuate his conversation with any humour (I didn't require LOLs to be metered out, as there simply weren't any to be had). We talked about his choice of pub, and he explained that The Pheasant was pleasant (unintentional rhyme for you there) but if he really wanted to impress somebody, he took a lady to The Smoker.
Hahaha! So you weren't fussed about impressing me tonight, then, Albert, or you don't think I am a lady! I laughed.

Ermm, well, I wasn't sure what you were like, so I thought we'd dress down...

OK, that's one black mark now, I mentally catalogued.

After a bit, he asked me about my work. I had recently moved jobs and was rather enjoying my role as a world famous psychologist, having been a fish-gutter at Tesco since I was ten and was thus ready to expound at length. As I opened my mouth to speak, he interrupted and offered to get the drinks in. Ah, yes, I seem to be a bit empty, I replied. Another port & lemon for me.

Off he trotted to the bar, and I started to scour the pub for potential single men. I was in luck. There were loads: average age 75, past-times include dominoes, pub darts, nurturing hernias and cleaning their false teeth in public...bit young for me, really...

When he returned with the drinks, I jumped straight in and asked the question I am always dying to know the answer to: How has your experience of internet dating been so far?

Albert took a deep breath and proceeded to tell me about all the strange women frequenting the sites. I have heard this from a number of men. The women are either after a jolly good night between the sheets, or a counsellor. A counsellor who is good in bed is the ultimate prize, obviously. None of the women he told me about seemed to be out of the ordinary - they all came across as normal human beings to me - jolly nice girls, in fact. He complained that on his dates he hadn't been able to get a word in edgeways, that the women were peculiar and that he had 'a theory' on why women in their late 30s, early 40s were single. Now this was exciting! Perhaps I was about to discover the real reason why Internet dating is always so disastrous for nice young gels and mature ladies such as myself...Tell me more, I encouraged.

Albert took a deep breath, leaned in closer to me over the table, and said: They are all mentally ill.

What? I exclaimed. What do you mean, 'mentally ill'?

They are unstable, he replied. They have obviously been dumped by some nice bloke, never forgiven him, gone down the bitter ex route and it festers inside of them. They store it up for the next bloke to come their way and after some time of social niceties, all the weird, psycho-type behaviour comes out.

At this point, my right eyebrow was raised so high (always a bad sign that somebody is getting on my nerves) it was meeting my hairline.

So, from your experience of...ooh, how many dates did you say? Two? You are generalising that all single women have some form of mental health problem, thus why we are single.
Yes, that's what I believe, came the firm response.
And how long is it since you last had a girlfriend?
About ten years.
But your Mum reckons you are a 'good catch', doesn't she?
Hahaha! Yes, dear old Mum. I might be moving back in with her, actually. I'm selling my house and fancy going back to the home comforts. She has this gorgeous farmhouse in the middle of the country and makes all her own breads and jams. She's a whiz with the self-raising. I often go there at night for my tea and drop in my washing on the way. Mum keeps ducks you know. I often go over to help her feed them. They are such adorab.....WAKE UP, READER!

'Nuff said.

I went to the bar to get myself a coffee, chatted up the barman, and also had the craic with the bar manager who told me about trying to get Most Haunted to come and do a show there as she was convinced they had a resident poltergeist. It was a fascinating conversation and I was loathe to return to Albert, sat by the fire, hunched over a glass of water in his anorak, checked shirt, frayed jeans and enormous trainers. He hadn't even glanced up to see why I was taking so long. Probably planning his next trip to see Mummy.

I'd ended up drinking a coffee as I chatted to the manager, so as I returned to Albert, I asked if he'd like to make tracks. He jumped up out of his seat, asked if I still wanted to shoot on Saturday and explained he would pick me up if I emailed him directions to my house. We duly parted and I kept my head well away in the event of any of that 'air-kissing' nonsense.

I sat in the car on my own for a few minutes after he had left - primarily to get my bearings, but also shaking my head in disbelief that a man who obviously adored his mother and she, too, had a mutual appreciation society on the go for him, could find all single women mentally ill. My bi-polar disorder was under control at the time, so I found his remark quite insulting (if I used it, I would insert LOL here, then you'd know I had cracked a joke if you can't quite read yet and are under the age of eight).

Next day, I told my workmate about the date.
He advertises himself with testimonials from his mother, stating he's a good catch? expostulated Frederick Ibsen. Mhm, I replied: Last Mammy's boy I had got his mother to ring me up and dumped me on his behalf. I was only 15. He was 21. Don't think I want any of that again.

Agnes, said Ibsen. Stay away from that!
Yes, I know, I pondered. I think, just for his safety, I had better blob on the shooting. I am highly likely to turn the gun on him out of indignation, whilst screaming manically, MENTALLY ILL, ARE WE? EAT MY LEAD, YOU GIT!! At least it would make him think twice about making any more sweeping statements if he encountered me on a bad day...If I still suffered with those nasty monthlies, he'd have been even more scared...

I emailed Albert and declined to shoot with him, pleading commitment (not to a lunatic asylum!) to a funeral which I had overlooked. He wrote back and said he would rearrange for another time, but to 'keep in touch'. No thanks, I thought. No more Mammy's boys for me, and proceeded to surf the website for blokes who looked like my Dad.

Saturday, 21 July 2007

Dame Tess Tickle's 50th Birthday

Sir Matt Chinguvé and I, Ms Agnes Mildew, should like to wish Dame Tess Tickle a fantastic 50th birthday.

The half-century celebrations commenced at 7pm at the Strachan Hall, Aberdeen on 26th June 2007. Hundreds arrived to participate in lots of balloon-blowing events, pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and Postman's Knock, which resulted in Dame Tess taking a number of underage boys back to her hotel bedroom...

The Dame's husband, Sir Drew P. Cock sent thousands of invitations out to everybody from his work's email address, and many wanted to come but couldn't quite make it into the Hall due to Fire Regulations. However, we had the chance to interview such celebs as Jonny Depp and George Clooney who were quoted as saying, "That Tess is a sight for sore eyes. She is such a hip-swinging chick, we couldn't get here fast enough. What a fantastic party this is!". Their only complaint was that Matt & I couldn't be there in person...

A sumptuous buffet was laid on for all, a live band and Tess danced her laddered tights off, as is her wont - you should see her performing her shag! Sir Drew P. Cock's funky chicken goes down in the annals of history, believe you me!

Dame Tess patronises the halls of the overstated Robert Gordon University, lecturing on whether butter is more healthful than margarine, if it is wise to flush the toilet in a drought, and should she buy a dress from Oxfam or British Heart Foundation, such is her humanitarian nature. Her work colleagues (shallow pigs that they are, none of whom had the decency to say if they were coming to the party or not and will shortly be receiving 'flaming pasties' through the post from HexMyEx) are obviously in awe of her capabilities and from now on, as befits her Superior Status, she is no longer buying cakes for the parasitic little gimps.

We want to wish Dame Tess the bestest birthday in the whole wide world as she is one of the most wonderful people you could ever hope to meet, even if she can't pronounce 'curry' or 'Durham' properly. She looks after her 'Mam', she looks after her three boys, she even looks after the great unwashed of Scotland, and that in itself is a major task...

Happy Birthday, Dame Tess (JT) Tickle!! You deserve it!

The Summer Lectures: Men from Mars; Women from Venus...

Are women from Venus and men from Mars?

This rather silly book was published in 1993 and daft women are still buying it in an attempt to understand their man. I was one of them and gave up after the third chapter in disgust, preferring to read The Beano instead.

I should like to take this opportunity to analyse this theory, discuss my findings with you, extrapolate my opinions and draw an informative conclusion for you all.

First, let us take the assumption Men are from Mars.

Mars is a planet with half the radius of our Earth and only one tenth of the mass. Therefore, it is a bit of a silly planet attempting to be something bigger than it is, what with its red dust and polar ice caps. Earth has these in abundance and we don’t go on about it. Indeed, my outhouse passageway is currently covered in red dust since I was sanding down my mother’s toenails last weekend and haven’t got round to brushing up. I have many polar icecaps knocking about, too, whenever the ex has visited – Hell freezes over when I have to talk to him.

Mars has a ‘thin’ atmosphere. I know very few thin men, but I certainly know that they aren’t ones to get the party started on the whole, so, yes, their contribution to atmospheres could be deemed as ‘thin’. It is also named after the Roman God of War and this makes perfect sense. I am constantly battling with my ex, as he is the most pugnacious, belligerent piece of rotten fish you could ever have the misfortune to meet. All I want is a quiet life and I know to do this, I would have to hire another Roman God of War to bump him off, but I only have £4.57 saved in my penny jar at the moment, which wouldn’t even pay for a tooth to be extracted without anaesthetic.

Mars has two moons, Phobos and Deimos, which are small and irregularly shaped. That reminds me of the brains of most men I have ever met. Sounds promising, doesn’t it? Or if you were being rude, which I am rarely, if ever, you could liken them to what hangs between their legs. Hmm…the evidence is starting to stack up, somewhat…

The surface of Mars is comprised mainly of basalt, which is a ‘shallow, intrusive rock’. Wow – this is amazing. Men are shallow and intrusive, aren’t they? Especially when they are rifling through your knicker drawer and wanting you to wear the frilly pink and black things that ride up your bum and give you VPL.

Liquid water cannot exist on Mars, but frozen liquids can. Vodka cannot freeze in our deep freezes, did you know, so that sounds about right, too. I have seen many men downing so-called frozen vodka, which turns into a gloopy syrup when left in the freezer overnight. This, in turn, forces their brain cells into a gloopy syrup and they either love you dearly forever or beat seven bells out of you when you decide to buy a new three-piece suite.

Mars is scarred by a number of ‘impact craters’ – yes, I have snogged many a man festering with acne scars. Another tick for the theory that men are from Mars.

The only thing which disturbs me about all of this is that Mars isn’t a very dense planet…it’s less dense than the Earth, and we have enough denseness here, what with George Bush and Tony Blair, so what’s going on?

Let’s have a look at the statement, Women are from Venus, then…

Venus is the brightest natural object in the night sky, except for the moon. Well, most women I know are pretty bright and chirpy, especially when they have been at the cooking sherry.

Now, it is classed as an ‘Inferior Planet’ due to its positioning between the sun and Earth. That to me, is utter codswallop. Just because it decided to plonk itself closer to the sun to get a better tan doesn’t make it inferior, does it?

Venus is covered in clouds of sulphuric acid. That’s the eggy, nasty gas which is contained in stink-bombs. My fridge, admittedly, can sometimes smell like that. Indeed, I no longer refer to my fridge as such – it is called ‘The Museum’. Plus, I don’t smell like a stink-bomb. I shower on a daily basis if Greebo has run the pump and Rastus has clambered up onto the cistern and filled it from the mill pond. Flo, Britney and I fight for the privilege of being first in, but sometimes, Britney knocks Flo into the middle of next week and I just leave them to it, so I can shower in peace.

Venus has a very low level of meteoric craters. True. On the whole, us girls don’t get the rotten awful acne blokes suffer from, and if we do, we are sensible enough to get down to the doctor’s for a good dose of Vitamin A. Being nearer to the sun helps, too – Vitamin D is excellent for the skin, don’t you know?

Most Venusian features are named after Goddesses of Love, such as Ishtar and Aphrodite. Well, any old fool can call a lump of rock after some mythological Goddess and establish legends, can’t he? I have a lump of something in the back garden, and I know damned well it came from Norman’s bottom, but I’m not about to call it Penelope or anything like that!

Yes, yes, I know us girls are supposed to enjoy being called after Goddesses etc., but to me, they were all a bit anal and obviously hadn’t been potty-trained properly as they are so hung up on things that they really need to get a decent counsellor.

Much of Venus’ surface appears to have been shaped by volcanic activity. By Jove, there was some volcanic activity in the Mildew household two nights ago when Flo, Britney and I decided to have a girly night in, got Scarface out on video, ate a few vindaloos and partook in ten Guinnesses between us. So, I can uphold that statement.

But, another thing worries me. Venus is the densest of all planets. I’m not dense, I know that for sure. So, for that reason alone, I am going to refute this whole silly argument and determine that I am actually from Uranus, which is referred to as a ‘Gas Giant’.

Friday, 20 July 2007

Summer Beauty Secrets for Girls...

It's that time of year again when the British and US media like us all to feel completely paranoid about the way we look, bombarding us with images of bronzed, plucked, toned bodies, which isn't far off the description of the roast chicken I am making for the kids' tea - Rastus likes to gnaw on the carcass, so I throw it into the outhouse for him to scuttle after.

Well, girls! If you're like me, and totally fed up with all the hype about how to look good to get your man, you've come to the right place! Here, I will let you in on all the little shortcuts to looking as good as me - and I'm 166!

Holiday Skin: OK, so the furthest you are going this year is Cleethorpes. And you want a tan. Never fear. You don't need to go out and buy the latest Elemis self-tanner which will cost enough to feed four families of Biafrans. Over the next few days, switch from your soothing cuppa tea to fresh ground coffee - and save the grounds. Don't put them on the rose bushes because your Dad says they make the flowers healthier - that's tosh! The flowers just want a caffeine rush, too. Keep those grounds - you're going to need them in a bit.

First you need to perform a bit of deforestation on the pins. Most people use a razor, some use waxing techniques (although my candles don't drip very much and it takes forever), but I always say, use a sharp potato peeler. Always does the trick and if you see any ingrowing hairs on the way, you can always gouge them out with that super-dooper handy eye scooper-outer!

All the glossy mags tell you 'Exfoliate, exfoliate' as though they were flippin' daleks. Right. You don't need to buy those overly expensive 'scrubs' - and nor should you waste decent porridge oats such as the weird beardy types tell you. Get into the back garden, grab a few handfuls of sand and gravel and scour it over your rough, scaly bits. After a few minutes vigorous rubbing, you'll come out looking like a tumbled amethyst!

No expensive moisturisers needed now - for the most natural moisturiser, daub on some lard. Whale blubber is best, but that's illegal now, thanks to those horrible little foreign Jonnies killing all the poor things. For a great summer look, mix in those coffee grounds we prepared earlier and wait!

Next morning, if you rinse off, you should be left with a healthy glowing tan, so I've been told.

Hair: We all want long, glowing locks to show off in the hazy days of summer, so these are reputedly the best treatments money doesn't buy.

For the brunettes amongst us, I always recommend steeping my hair in Guinness. It pongs a bit, and leaves it sticky, but you can save the residue to have with your pie and chips for tea. Waste Not, Want Not, as Grandma Mildew always says!

If you are blonde, steep your hair in Carling Black Label - same technique as above.

If you are grey, why not try something a little different and dye your hair in diluted Quink ink (Royal Blue, of course, befitting your age!). This should give a very different take on the blue rinse. If it comes out a bit patchy, this is purely due to the porosity of your hair and I cannot help that.

If you are ginger, there's very little I can do to help, but you could think about colouring it?

Styling: For that 'just come out of the sea' look, you don't want to be paying £40 for a bottle of 'buffered salt water with added seaweed extracts' - what a load of claptrap that is. Answers on a postcard to what that is, really. Anyway, if you want to look like you have just walked out of the sea, get some used tampons, condoms, a bit of bladderwrack and an 0ld tyre and drape it all artistically around yourself. Tracey Emin will be impressed and probably want to meet you, but be careful she doesn't wee on you or anything, as she is scary.

Hold: If you have run out of hairspray, either use spray adhesive fixative, or my personal favourite, Vapona, as those pesky mosquitoes will stop bothering you at the same time.

Face: Keep using the lard for moisturiser, but if you need a bit of a face-lift, there's no other better method than smearing Anusol around your saggy bits. Make sure you have cleaned the nozzle since the last use, otherwise you may feel somewhat uncomfortable with the lingering smell. Use Anusol at night for four nights, and you will be tighter than my ex's wallet.

If you need a bit of foundation, I always recommend gently stroking used teabags over my face. The tannins work wonders for a colour uplift. Soak some talc in tea and when it has dried out, you have a marvellous matching face powder, too - Tea really IS the best drink of the day, isn't it?

Eye shadows: Vaseline, and a bit of metallic paint you can scrape off next door's new car. It looks a treat!
Mascara: There's a bit of black gloss in everybody's garage. If you can't find any, the builder left stacks in mine, so help yourself.
Blusher: Just smack yourself across the cheeks every hour.
Lipstick: I advise eating anything ready-made from Tesco. All their meals, no matter which part of the world they are supposed to represent, are red. Dyes your lips a treat...indelibly.

Matt Chingduvé made a very salient point as I was drafting out this article in the office, whingeing and complaining about his bikini line during the summer months. He advised me that he never bothers with waxing any more, he has simply shaved his cat and glued the fur onto the legs of his bikini bottom to make a furry bikini - no more unsightly spiders' legs - just a fluffy bundle of fun around your bits, which will make people stare! Don't worry about the cat - by the time winter comes, its coat will have returned, ready for next year's harvesting!

If you have any top tips to looking good this summer, please drop me a line - I'm always on the look out for kindling as we haven't had much of a summer, really and I am walking around in my sweaters, freezing to death.

Thursday, 19 July 2007

Hex Your Folks!

Now I know a large proportion of our readers are under the delicate age of 16, so I shall try not to use too many rude words, but forgive me if I slip accidentally...

As you enter adulthood, that murky time which you call adolescence and us parents call, 'Oh God, he's at that stage now', you lot go all strange, spotty, smelly and moody. And all of a sudden, you think us parents just don't understand!!! Well, as a mother of five children: Greebo, Rastus, Flo, Britney and Farquhar, I can tell you that I do. They range from 13 to 17 and all of them are twins, so you can imagine how hard I worked to get these cherubs out after Mr Mildew had his wicked way with me...dirty old beggar...

Your first problems may lie with members of the opposite sex. You may have parents who get rather over-protective when it comes to 'opposite sex' relations and are rather sniffy about it. When our Rastus brings a girl home and wants to commune with her, I sling them into the outhouse passageway. It smells of catfood and has flies buzzing around, so they don't stay there long. But at least I allow them their privacy.

You may be tempted to try a bit of osculation at some point in this new relationship. Well, there are a few warnings attached to this you know. First, if you have braces, watch you don't razor-wire your beloved's tongue off. Second, make sure your own and your beloved's breath smells sweet as there is nothing worse than smelly slobber dried all over your face and finally, didn't you know that you can get pregnant* from kissing too much? Wear a cardigan with leather patches on the sleeves and this will stop you walking round with a kid for the next 20 years of your life. And this warning goes for both boys and girls...

Bodily secretions! Up until recently, the only time your body secreted anything was when you were salivating for more lard and chips. Now it seems every pore in your body is leaking. Yes, you will get smelly and your parents will point this out to you repeatedly, telling you to get a wash. I was a very smelly teenager, unfortunately, as, being the middle child of 15, I didn't fancy hopping into the kitchen sink after my seven older brothers had been in there lathering up and doing all sorts of odd things with the nail brush, so I would run to Tesco, buy some air freshener and squirt it around my armpits**. It stings a bit, I must admit, and did leave me with some rather interesting scarring from where it burnt, but Glade smells infinitely better than BO.

However, if you have the use of a shower, please jump in it from time to time as there is nothing worse than telling off a minging teenager as you can't get close enough to them to wag the finger under their nose...just spare a thought, eh?

And please...pick up your crusty undies and stick them into the wash tub...last time our Greebo left his grunts lying on the floor, I used them to wipe down the mirror in the bathroom. I can't get rid of the smears now, despite trying lighter fuel and bleach.

Spots! Well, spots are some of my favourite friends. I like nothing better than having a jolly good pick at mine. I was quite disappointed not to be on the receiving end of a good dose of acne when I was a teenager...I have since made up for it now that I am 166. Don't hate your spots - Rejoice in them! Form a Spot Appreciation Society (S.A.S) or the Acne Rules Society of England (A.R.S.E). Have competitions with your peers to see who can squirt their pus onto the mirror furthest. Your first time will be a shocker, but you will soon get over it and be aiming with the care of a marksman.

Mood swings! Well, mood swings happen to the best of us, don't they? Do they? No, they don't. Yes, they do! SHUT UP! I HATE YOU!! When you are in a foul mood, go and fester under your blankets for a few days, please, as it is boring. When you are in a good mood and want the world to know, you've come over all Julie Andrews because some beloved has asked you to go to the chippy with him/her, DON'T come asking me for money. I gave you a fiver last week.

Money worries! There's just never enough, is there? As a teenager, I was permanently skint, despite working a paper round, helping to gut pigs at the weekend for Mr Mildew's Dad, serving pints in the Ferret & Frogspawn and running laxatives across the borders. There is a simple answer to your skintedness...STOP TEXTING STUPID THINGS LIKE: LOL, L8TRZ, GR8, which all cost anything from 10p to 20p. Get your money's worth out of a text and bullet point it, so you can easily incorporate at least five questions/statements. That's saved you at least a pound, now, hasn't it? I never send texts - I use smoke signals; infinitely cheaper.

Studies! Your parents will nag you incessantly to do well at school. Well, I can only advise you that this is exceptionally important. You MUST study hard. Can you imagine, if I hadn't worked hard at my 11+ when I was 14, do you think I would have got my apprenticeship on the fish counter at Tesco? No sirreee! I would have ended up picking up the dog poo for the local council Parks & Gardens division. Parents nag you to study because we want you to be able to earn lots of money so we can retire and you can look after us.

Well, I hope this can make all you grunty adolescents realise that we, as parents, do understand and can sometimes even empathise with your plight. I hated being a teenager as I was the ugliest girl at school, didn't have a boyfriend, worked very hard and had no spots. Now, I am still ugly, still don't have a boyfriend, still work very hard, but have lots of spots. So I really am in a position to help you all out.

Write to me with all your worries***, and I shall try to help you in my capacity as Auntie Agnes, World Famous Agony Aunt. If I am busy, leave a message and I shall reply to you if I think you need my help. If I think you need psychiatric help, I shall just call the local loony bin.

Disclaimer to all you divs who might think this is serious:

*This is a joke. You don't get pregnant from kissing. But go further than that and you might.
** This is another joke. Use soap and water like normal people.

*** You think YOU'VE got worries? I have five teenagers - that's a 'WORRY'...

Disclaimer #2


Friday, 6 July 2007

High Days & Holidays...

As a singleton, I am not about to enjoy a poncey love-fest in some exotic clime this year, canoodling with some hunky Chippendale (not that I would want some plastic specimen like that, anyway!), so Matt Chingduvé and I are off to forage for mushrooms, come October, down at Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's place in Dorset for a couple of days and hopefully find some of the psilobycin variety...although why I need to do that when they grow quite gaily on my back lawn for the rabbits to munch, is beyond me...Have you ever seen a psychedelic bunny? It is a sight to behold, believe me! No wonder they have carved Escher-esque pictures into the walls of their hutch with their teeth...

As a well seasoned traveller - I have been to Anglesey - I am here to recommend some love fest holidays for you singletons...and if you are now in a relationship, well p*ss off over to Ibiza and leave us poor lonely sods alone.

South Africa: Visit the Cape. See the dassies (local term for some vicious rodents whose primary cousin, believe it or not, is the elephant. These swines will have your tampons out of your handbags quicker than you can batter them senseless) on Table Mountain. Go to Sun City and indulge in golf, gambling, sunning yourself by the pool and trying to find out where Prince Harry's girlfriend's Dad hangs out.

Australia: Queensland. Well, you can cream your underwear at the talent on show around here. Why they never made BouyWartch [to be said with an Aussie accent] is beyond me. These are fine specimens of humanity, but they all seem to be under the age of 14. Many, many years ago, I got into a clinch with a 14 year old as he had informed me he was 19. I realised that the lack of stubble was a major give-away...but he did look old for his age...he must look older than me now, God help him...

Dubai: OK, get it out of your head that it is full of terrorists and rubbish like that - Dubai is one of the fastest, most incredible places on the face of this earth. I can only manage three days and then I have to clear off out of sheer exhaustion. Best places to go are the public beaches as loads of locals like to walk down there playing with themselves...hilarity abounds!

Cyprus: there is a quaint little tradition which goes on in Paphos hotels here...they get some really gorgeous, slim-bottomed males and lots of fat-arsed females with boobs that you could mistake for barrage balloons onto the dance floor and the slim-bottomed male tucks a few sheets of newspaper in his kecks and dances around, wanting all the harriden, female audience to set fire to the paper. They call it the Cock Dance. I realised straight away that you don't try to set fire to the end, because he will fan the flame away, so I went right up to his bum crack, set it alight, and he scarpered with his a*se-hole aflame...serves him right, as I didn't get a prize, just a maungy kiss, which I tried to turn into a snog until the (now) ex came along and knocked him senseless...

Borneo: Saba island. Full of orangutans...infinitely preferable to finding your one true love in Manchester, believe me...These males are ambidextrous, have opposable thumbs, lovely eyes, and can communicate lovingly. Obviously, I do not advocate a relationship further than hugging and kissing, but sometimes, that's all that we want.

Boston, Lincs: You must go here if you are feeling down. It will cheer you up to no end as within ten minutes if parking up outside the Oddbins, you will discover that everybody is much, much sadder than you, and is probably unfortunately married to their cousin...the countryside surrounding is lovely, though - just ensure that you wear a Femidom, even if you are a man.

So, I hope that my recommendations for your hols have been pause for thought. Should you wish to find out more about destinations (cf. Anglesey), please contact my hot line 0898 HolidaysforFuckUps-999 and I shall answer any of your queries. This premium rate line only charges £15.76/minute, which I am sure you will agree is good value for money, especially when you think Matt Chingduvé is trying to get in on the act!

Stay away from him girls - or should I say, 'gals', having recently been referred to as a 'gal' on interrodate - Matt Chingduvé is a naughty boy who likes to pull the leaves off lettuce just to hear it scream.

Top Ten Chat Ups

These are my top ten chat-up lines, which have been used on me to great effect - that is to say, I generally took them back to my place and gave them a bit of a sorting out...

I like to think that these men were erudite, witty and good in bed, but that was not necessarily the case...errr, in fact, I don't think it has ever been the case.

1. My name is Rasputin - my hearse is waiting for you outside. Shall I take you back home and give you a good embalming?
2. I happen to be a Managing Director. Would you like to take up a position on my staff?
3. Do you like animals? What type of animals do you have? [I answered, 'Two bunnies and a cat']. Oh, so do you ever let your rabbits play around your pussy?
4. My favourite past-time is fishing. If you play your cards right, you can have a fiddle with my tackle.
5. My mate happens to think you are the best looking bird in this place, but I fancy your mate more. [I rose to the challenge on this one]
6. You are the fairest maiden in this motley Mott & Bailey. I want to take you away from all of this. Will you ride my charger?
7. If we were characters in a Shakespearian comedy, I would play Fellatio, and you could be my Cunni Lingus [I was impressed by this one purely do to his ability to cite Shakespeare - Fellatio is one of my favourite characters in It's Been a Hard Day's Much Ado about Hamlet...]
8. May I carry your bag - and I don't mean your mother.
9. Now I will have to make some up because I think these are the only decent chat-ups I have ever had, so number nine was from George Clooney who asked me to be in Ocean's Seventeen when he gets round to making it in a few year's time...
10. Fancy a shag? [That's an authentic one, actually...]

I have heard of a number of chat-ups from gents in my life, not aimed at me, which have certainly impressed me, though. A certain Enigmacrypt, who shall remain nameless, is a wow with the women and frequently makes my jaw drop with his way with them. This gent of my acquaintance lures unsuspecting young ladies back to his den of iniquity by purposefully breaking digits - i.e., he gets so a*se-holed that he ends up face down in a bush without any memory of the event - and when ladies comment on his bandaged hand, he claims to have done a Superman, dived out into oncoming traffic to rescue a puppy and was side-swiped by a car, breaking his fingers in the process.

I think this tactic deserves a Gold Star award for innovation. Two thumbs up there!

As I don't like puppies, being a cat lover, I would have told him he was a Daft Sod, but then, there's no accounting for taste, is there?

There are many chat-ups out there and many of them work and there is no accounting for taste. The ones I despise are the complimentary ones: Ooohh, you have such beautiful eyes, a rare intelligence and a kind looking face - I may have a kind looking face, but that is because I spread Anusol over my wrinkles at night and it tightens my face, making me look slightly less saggy than people of my age (166). My eyes may look bright and shiny, but that is probably from the vodka, and my intelligence is purely because I am a Superior Person with an IQ of 135 which I discovered through taking a test whilst bored at work one day on Tickle. I am too tight to pay for the full version, so I just brag about it to anyone who cares to listen.

I am short of decent chat-ups, so I would welcome any suggestions from the ladies out there, but even if men have some fairly unisex chat-ups, I will take those on board, too, as it looks like my life is getting cluttered with males, but unfortunately they consist of two warring tom cats and two incestuous homosexual rabbits and I am in danger of turning into an eccentric old woman.

Tuesday, 3 July 2007

A Real Life Story of Heartache...Norma Stits

I met Duane when we were both working at the pig gutting factory in Macclesfield. Our eyes met across the carcass-strewn workshop floor and as he wiped the blood and pig spleen from his glasses and cheeks, I knew that those dimples could make my knees go to jelly.

He came over to me and wiped a tendril of intestine from my lips and asked me softly, "Ey up, gorgeous. Fancy a pie an a pint ternight and I'll show yer me black puddin collection after the City match?"

Being a United fan, I was initially put off, but I knew the blood stains would be difficult for him to scrub off so he'd get beaten to a pulp at City, turning up in red.

He was a perfect gentleman. He turned up for me in his City strip astride his Vespa and chucked me his spare helmet. "That's not the only helmet of mine you'll be handlin' ternight darlin'" he husked to me over the pop-pop of the back-firing exhaust. I belly-laughed delicately, while trying to hoik up my white denim mini skirt and balance on the finely honed steel of my orange stilettoes. He noticed that I was a bit cold and remarked on the corned beef like appearance of my size 18 things. "Them's reet blue trunks, them, lass. Watch yer don't squash me 'ead to a pulp wi 'em later, won't yer?"

The date was perfect apart from the fact the pub had run out of mushy peas and I was on a diet so stuck to five pints of Carling rather than my normal ten. I wanted to look good for Duane and I knew he'd appreciate it. "Yer could do wi shedding a few of those pounds, couldn't yer, pet?" he remarked.

At this point, I knew I would do anything for this man...utterly anything and I set about transforming myself into the woman of his dreams.

By the time he proposed, six months later, when we were expecting our first set of twins, I knew it would be love forever. He was a caring soul who didn't complain when I burnt his Dairylea on crackerbread, or cut myself opening a tin of oxtail for his supper. And he didn't even mind that I could only make love to him three days after giving birth to the twins, Keanu and Kylie. He told me he'd rather I tightened up a bit first.

But things didn't get back to normal as I hoped they would. I found bottle-feeding the twins and breast-feeding Duane a terrible personal strain and I noticed that Duane was starting to come home later and later from his pig-gutting. He had also been given a promotion and was now starting to slaughter bulls, too, so I think this might have made him a bit more confident and arrogant.

When I found lipstick on his boiler suit collar, he swore blind that it was a bull's ball sac, but I knew a ball sac when I saw one, and this might have been from cattle, but it was from a cow, not a bull.

As I walked up to the Coop for some cans of stout one night, I heard the tell-tale sound of his back-firing scooter round the back of the offie and found him in a knee-trembler with Fat Cow Gladys from the knicker factory. Weird thing about her was that she never wore knickers.

I saw red, shook the cans of stout up really hard and opened them, spraying them with brown sticky goo. Duane went ballistic and tried to hit me, but I had thought of this already and ground an empty tin can of beans a passing Pub Man gave me into his hateful face. Fat Cow Gladys was screaming like a stuck pig, so I thumped her in the knockers and kicked her shins, hard.

I ran back to my house, crying at how Duane had hurt me, going with Fat Cow Gladys behind my back. So, I got the twins, chucked a load of petrol all over the house and set fire to it, burning with it all his Man City memorabilia, which was worth about £27.

Next day, I went down the social and claimed for a council house. I am now living in Alderley Edge in a five-bed detached, next to Wayne Rooney and his bird, Colleen (who's dead nice and gives me all her George at Asda cast-offs - she also nicks outfits for the kids, too!). The social give me £1000/week beer and fags money and I have offered to adopt lots of Cambodian babies 'cos that's what all these skinny WAGs want to do round here. One of them asked me if I'd surrogate for her cos her insides are all wrong, so I'm up the pipe again, what with the kids only being 10 months old!

Duane broke my heart, but I am getting over him every day...

Monday, 2 July 2007

How to avoid dating disasters...

I am still waiting to meet the man of my dreams from these crappy dating websites, but I think you gents might like to read what really puts women off...every time...

These are the top ten no-nos on your first date:

1. Talking about yourself all the time. Yes, yes, I've heard it all before that you blokes, when you are nervous, you have to talk about yourself. Well, it's dull. Dull as ditchwater. I am much more interesting than you, so let's talk about me.

2. Calling up your Mum to tell her you are going to be out late. This happened to me on the one occasion I deigned to go out with a younger man. I was incredulous...I was even more shocked when he revealed that his Mum wouldn't approve of me because I was divorced...I let him off, but when he got cold feet as I got a bit jiggy and offered him a free lap-dance with my wellies on and he ran home to Mummy, he was crossed off my list.

3. Calling up your wife to tell her you are going to be out late. I know she definitely won't approve of me...

4. Wearing skanky clothes. I always make a point of dressing up for my dates. I could hardly credit it when one chap pitched up wearing flip-flops, cargo poofter-pants, a footie shirt (and it was Man U - bleurgh!) and a baseball cap.

5. Grabbing hold of my thighs, arms, face, bum and anywhere else at every opportunity. One bloke, on our first date, rubbed himself up on me so much I thought I would end up with either splinters or pregnant. He didn't redeem himself by slavering in my ear that 'This is nice'. Might have been for him, but I was wearing a new leather coat and spunk stains are difficult to remove from leather.

6. Forcing your tongue right down my throat when we say goodnight. If you do it again, I'll bite the bloody thing off.

7. Having bad breath. Because when you try to shove your tongue down my throat and I jerk my head away quickly, your smelly slobber will cover my face and I will smell it the whole drive home.

8. Showing off your car/phone/watch/Man at C & A suit...whatever. I, despite what some people say, am not a gold-digger. I am not impressed by your material goods. My stuff is nicer than yours, anyway, and it's not been bought on the never-never, either.

9. Trying to be cleverer than me. You aren't. Get that into your head right now. If we have a relationship, I will always be cleverer than you and don't you forget it. I am a Superior Person and use Superior Words. And I have an O level in Art. Don't ever come to the Stretton Fox with me and try to analyse my body language. I will punch you on the nose and you won't be in any indecision over that gesture.

10. Banging on and on about your ex and how she didn't understand you/hurt you/abused you. Get a life. Get a move on. If you can't, go away, you are boring and stupid. I have no time for pathetic miseries. I don't help people move on. I am not Marjorie Proops. I am Agnes Mildew and I don't take any crappy-crappy nonsense from blokes. They take it from me.

If you think you can come out on a date with me without succumbing to any of the above, I am happy to meet you, bring you back to my house and rampantly seduce you whilst stealing your credit cards from your Man at C & A suit pocket. I shall also sign your mobile phone up to receive my affirmative hourly texts at only £13.50 per text.