Hallowe'en Hexing

For some strange reason, my hand looks a bit abnormal on this photo. I can guarantee, it is not a penis at the side of my head...

Considering this blog was originally started to Hex my Ex and cast all sorts of curses and incantations on those who have thwarted me over the years, I'm not doing very well on the Hallowe'en front, bearing in mind it's the one night of the year that evil witches like me can get on their broomsticks and legitimately hex all and sundry.

So, out of respect for this day, I am going to provide a top ten list of those people and things which I would (still) hex with impunity. Although my conscience is generally quite alert, today, it can bugger off while I flex my talons, search inside the knife drawer for the sharpest tools, and rip forth with the most barbed remarks I can possibly make about the following damnèd irritations of which I have/had the misfortune to experience.

10. Lisa Tickle. The Head Girl at our High School. She beat me to it by one vote and so I never got to take home the plastic shield all Head Girls were offered for a grand total of eight months. She also claimed that being size 14 was enormous (that was my size at the time), yet when I peeked into the skirt she had taken off before PE, I saw that the label read size 16. AND she snogged Paul Speed after I did and ended up going out with him for six months. I think that is what makes me want to hex her the most. I snogged him first, he told me my brown eyes were as beautiful as a Jersey Cow's (was that a compliment, do you think?) and that he wouldn't mind getting into my pants. I declined that offer, I must admit. Knowing her, though, I bet she didn't...

9. Mrs Brown, our 4th year Junior school mistress. She sported a bosom upon which you could have set a row of pint pots with whiskey chasers and wore a conical bra long before Gaultier even thought of bedecking Madonna in his gold creation. One day, I snuck my maths text book home to ask my brother to give me a hand with some complicated work (this was punishable by death in Mrs Brown's book) and intended to surreptitiously slide it back into my desk the following day. Unfortunately for me, I fell ill with tonsilitis that night and couldn't return to the school for a few days. Mrs Brown decided to do a spot check for desk tidiness during my absence, and thus noticed the concomitant absence of my Alpha-Beta book. Upon my return to school, I was warned that I was 'in for it'. Sure enough, I was hauled up to the front of the class, bawled out and then the hand went back for an almighty wallop across the back of the legs.

I moved out of the way, just in time, and she clattered her arm right across the hard metal corner of her desk. I legged it, the Headmaster entered to speak to her, and I was saved...for once!

8. Mindy Hammond. This just says it all.

7. Mario, my former boss. What a lech. This egocentric, rotund, smelly South African decided that whenever his skeletal, equally smelly wife (who picked her ear wax and ate it) was out of the office, he would try it on with me. It got to the stage where I used to simply laugh at him. But he didn't like that at all. It was when he clicked that I was winding him up, asking him to regale us all with tales of his days in a band, when women threw their underwear at him, and I asked if they also threw their white sticks, that I got the sack. I can't stand people without a sense of humour...

6. Another boss, Bernard. Just a little upstart, really. Told me that I was desperate for him but he would have to fend me off, 'unfortunately' for me. Used to sneak up behind me and tickle me hard in the ribs, getting me screaming abuse loudly, at which he would then take umbrage and interrupt me constantly when I was trying to get work done. Never used to pay me on time, either, so that one Bank Holiday weekend, once again without a monthly salary, I had no money to buy cigs, fill my car up with petrol or buy any food. It was the lack of cigarettes which grated the most...

5. Trinny and Susannah. These self-appointed TV fashionistas are obsessed by boobs. On men or women. They grope, analyse, critique and denegrate every breast which comes into their line of vision (they would have had a field day with Mrs Brown, above). They are rude, obnoxious, sport the most dreadful dress sense (the picture aside is the only one I could find which makes them look well-dressed, actually) and purport to be able to tell us peasants how to dress our best. I have had the misfortune to watch their programme, Undress the Nation, once, and vowed, Never Again. Banal, puerile tripe for people who don't know how to make an appointment for a hair-cut; don't realise that Charity Shops sell the best designer gear for a fraction of the prices you pay in the High Street, and are generally gormless, slavering morons. 'Nuff said.

4. Steve Wright. A BBC Radio 2 DJ who is the most sycophantic little tosser one could ever have the misfortune to listen to. He invites guests onto his 2-5pm show, purports to have read their books/listened to their latest CDs/had them over for dinner and positively gushes over their every word. His laughter is that of a gurgling drain, belching over raw sewage: stinking, foetid and not pleasant to witness. He refers to celebrities as his 'great mates' (even if he has never met them previously...or perhaps they asked him directions to the toilet at some BBC awards ceremony) and his nose is so dark from 'brown-nosing' that you might suspect he has severe circulation problems in his extremities.

3. Air musicians. Anybody who plays the air-guitar, air drums, air-saxophone, air-sackbut. I don't care. Whatever they 'air-play' deserves a very extreme hexing in my book. Now, I am a classically trained organist (no jokes, please) and will, in deep reverie, mildly tap out tunes on the arm of the settee, or atop my leg - with only one hand, I will have you note - but I DO NOT close my eyes as I am doing it, I DO NOT simulate orgasms while I am doing it, I DO NOT pout and jut my head back and forth in a manner reminiscent of Mick Jagger,  and I DO NOT think I look cool. It is a very private affair between me and the sofa. People, (and particularly men) who decide that virtual scratching of their privates, whilst pretending to pluck a bass guitar are just sad. Sad, lonely and need to get some outside interests such as toad-sexing. Anything but air-playing...

2. Sunday League Cyclists. If you live in a rural, or semi-rural area as I do, every Sunday the country lanes are plagued by these be-lycra'ed human-insects. They don all sorts of bright colours to stand out (and thus make fair sport for me to attempt to knock them down if I am out and about in my car), ride two or three abreast, gob everywhere as they are cycling and basically look abnormal. They also slow me down. And I only want to be slowed down in my car if I choose. Last time Sunday League cyclists slowed me down, I crawled behind them for about 200 metres then blasted on my horn so loudly that they wobbled dangerously, hit the kerb and I overtook, shouting the Highway Code at them (ergo: Thou shalt not cycle more than one abreast on a road. Particularly if Agnes Mildew is abroad).

1. Yes, it's the one you've all been waiting for. Well, possibly two of you have been, if you haven't dozed off yet. It's the Pick of the Pops (and you really ought to listen to this music, as it is seminal for us 30-somethings in the UK who listened to the Radio 1 charts!).

The Ex!

How could I write a blog called HexMyEx without mentioning that little malodorous junket of crap? Big Nose; Tosser; Knob-end...ah, my terms of endearment go ever on. If you want to know why I hex him, read the blog. If it's a case of TL;DR, well, your loss. Don't come crying to me when you can't follow what's going on...

Happy Hallowe'en, Hexers!