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!

Hex The Boss

Now, some of you may remember that I wrote an educational post under a similar name a few months ago, but this post is to try to illustrate why I wish certain bosses would be hexed, as I have had a fair few clots in my time. The ones who spring to mind immediately are the crème de la crème of berks and I am sure that our two readers will be able to empathise with me in my descriptions of them.

My last boss, Bernard, was a jumped up, arrogant, little toe-rag who claimed that any woman (including me) fancied him, and that he had to ‘beat the women off with a stick’. Probably using their white canes, as a matter of fact.
It wasn’t just the fact that he didn’t have a clue about my job and would thus attempt to humiliate me in front of clients that makes me want to hex him; nor was it his turbulent, manic-depressive temper which made the other staff go into a huddle and try to work out if the temper was ready to explode or would just rumble away for a few more days.
It wasn’t even his constant boast that he attended an Oasis gig, needed to pee, urinated into a burst beach ball and lobbed it into the crowd where it drenched a young girl.

No, it was the fact that I rarely got any money out of him…

Salaries were never paid on time…Expenses? Don’t make me laugh. He still owes me around £100 for fees, petrol and bank charges for when he didn’t put my salary in to my account.

The first time I didn’t get paid on time, I was rather horrified to receive two snotty letters from my bank, charging me £60 for the privilege of having two direct debits bounce. When I diplomatically broached the subject of being paid on time with him, he took great umbrage, made me out to be a liar and gave me hell for the rest of the day.
The second time my salary wasn’t paid on time, I was left stranded over a long Bank Holiday weekend, penniless, with no response from him to my increasingly urgent voice mails which culminated in the question, ‘Where’s my f*cking salary?’ The next day, I didn’t even have enough money to fill my car up with petrol to get to work. It was only when I didn’t turn in that he decided to answer my calls. I had that day off deducted from my holiday entitlement…

A female boss of my acquaintance – let’s call her Bridget, because that is her name, and a nastier woman you could never meet - possessed the most revolting personal habits known to man. Everybody knows someone who picks their nose and eats it, but have you ever watched someone, in deep concentration, hook a whopping piece of earwax from their ear and chew on that? I felt my jaw seize up with the shivers when I caught her at it. She would adjourn to the Ladies, perform her ablutions, and leave, without ever washing her hands…When she had a cold, she found it hilarious to sneeze all over my predecessor’s work station – poor old Lou, who had suffered with an immuno-deficiency virus in her earlier years, was constantly off sick with colds and stomach upsets. When Lou decided she had had enough putting up with the Muppet Show and left without a job to go to, Bridget’s reference to potential employers made a major point of her sick leave, and Lou left each interview jobless…

Bridget’s husband, Mario, was equally as nasty. An egotistical, jumped up little oik, who claimed to have killed a King Cobra with his bare hands: he informed me on a number of occasions that he was ‘available’. After the third occasion, when I quite firmly told him that he was way too married for my liking, the atmosphere in the office suddenly became quite frosty.

Non-contractual demands were soon made of me, which I was totally unable to fulfil, and warnings of sackings dished out left, right and centre. I attempted to beat them at their own game, and succeeded in passing an exam with flying colours, despite not having studied for it in the stipulated minimum of 90 days – taking it after 44. This still wasn’t good enough and at the end of my probation, I was told that I didn’t quite cut the mustard. I did what all good Hexers do: bunged a load of laxatives into their drinks and breezed out and off to home where I proceeded to apply for every job advertised and was back in work within two weeks. For the next two weeks, they sat on the toilet, groaning…

One boss became a bit of a fling. I have mentioned him before in the excommunicated priest guise. For some very odd reason, I fancied him like mad, despite the massive age difference, and obviously, being a single 40-something, he was quite taken by the attentions of a 19 year old. When I realised he was interested, I stupidly, and mercilessly, dumped my stalwart boyfriend, who was heartbroken and called my mother every day, begging her to dissuade me from my actions. Her response was to tell me what I HAD to do: I did the opposite, so she sent me to Coventry (for our American reader, this means you don’t speak) for weeks. After meeting the boss (another Bernard) in Birkenhead Shopping Centre where he had attempted to look ‘trendy’ by wearing trainers (always a no-no in Agnes’s book), a sweatshirt and tight jeans, I knew this was not the Man For Me…particularly when he proceeded to compare the shape of my legs against former girlfriends…

When I quite gently told him that I didn’t think I wanted this to go any further (dear reader, it ventured no further than a furtive grope and lots of Confession), he got rather spiteful and reduced my lunch hour, denied me my study leave, and generally made my life hell. He fell very ill, and during his hospitalisation, I found another job and left without a trace. I was, however, rather sad to learn, two years ago, that he had actually died of the same condition…so he shall, despite his bitterness, remain unhexed.

My current boss is a broad Yorkshireman who says what he thinks, without any allusions to grandeur. He is shorter than me, standing at around 5’ 7”, whereas I am 5’ 7.5” (and that extra ½ inch is very precious to me!). He probably also weighs twice my weight. He is foul-mouthed, but finds it hilarious in that he has met his match with me. He brings out the worst in me – and I love it!

I think I may have found the boss of my dreams!

Food for Thought...

While Matt & I were having our early morning MSN rant, we were, as per usual, moaning about previous employers and how they simply do not appreciate the quality staff they have in us two. I recounted an employer for whom I had worked about 15 years ago during the summer break from University as a waitress and how, two years ago, she banned me from her pub - for breathing in a happy manner, I think.

The pub occupies a great position in the small village, Cronton, where my ageing, cantankerous parents still live. It was once a coaching inn and is about 300 years old (I think), almost the same age as the landlady, S.

I don't think anything gave S pleasure apart from bitching. She rarely smiled and if she did it did nothing to lighten her nasty, slitty, gimlet eyes. As a boss, she was totally unfair, and as a landlady she was not the genial host. I hated her and so did my mates, who were also banned one particular day after she wrongly accused one of them of using her payphone to order drugs - a completely inaccurate statement - Al was simply asking his mate to drop some mucky videos off at his house for a massive porn marathon - a considerably innocent past-time, in comparison. She lost the custom of five alcoholics that day who moved over the road to the other pub where they could have lock-ins until 5am if they so wished.

One particular night, the 'restaurant' (and I do use that term loosely) had a gourmet night and I was waiting on along with a few other girls. It was a set menu and the entrée was a dish which contained truffles (those prohibitively expensive fungi dug up by pigs and dogs from dirt). As it was a busy night, the chefs were a bit manic. One of the truffles fell on the floor and I bent over to pick it up and throw it in the bin. One of the chefs grabbed it out of my hand, licked it, wiped it with his dirty tea towel and sliced it up for the plates. "Don't throw that away! They're f*ckin' priceless those things!" he barked at me. I was speechless at the lack of hygeine, and knowing how he put himself about with any awl slapper he picked up at the 'Dope & Anchor' up in Prescot (that's where the drugs were purchased in the late 80s), concerned that the unwitting truffle-eating patrons might end up with a dose of clap by the end of the night.

Towards the end of the shift, I was the last member of staff remaining. I was starving and had been rushed off my feet. I hadn't had chance to eat all day due to all the poxy jobs I did to pay off my student overdraft and decided to pinch a sliver of cheesecake from the fridge. I think, by this stage, the cheesecake was about seven days old and had I dropped it on the floor, it would have bounced back up into my hand, but my belly thought my throat had been cut, so I demolished it.

Five hours later, I woke up with severe cramps and just about made it to the loo where I exploded from practically every orifice. I woke my mother up with the noise and she came hurtling in to accuse me of being wasted on beer. In between heaving, I protested my tee-total innocence, and she finally realised that I had a massive dose of food poisoning. The doctor was called, checked me out and confirmed it. He asked what I had eaten and I mentioned the cheesecake...

The next day, I received a rather aggressive phone call from S. Under duress, I was forced to confess that my food poisoning was probably from the lemonade I had been drinking and most definitely not the listeria-riddled cheesecake. She'd received her training from the Gestapo back in the 1940s, you know. I was actually surprised she hadn't docked my pay packet for the dessert - perhaps she considered I had got my just deserts* instead.

Considering this was the pub which had been shut down by Health and Safety a few years previously for dishing up mouse pie, their standards of hygeine hadn't particularly improved. Within a few weeks of them starting to serve food, a mouse had accidentally fallen into the meat filling of the quaintly termed Cronton Pie (the filling was made from Scousers, footballers' wives, wellies and used condoms - probably). The pie was cut at the table of the unsuspecting diner and there, peering out at him (if a dead mouse can peer), was good old Mickey. The story was considered newsworthy and that fount of all local gossip, The Widnes & Runcorn Weekly World ran it on the front page.

My mother's friend, who used to clean for the pub, swore she once unwittingly saw S and her now deceased husband** getting jiggy atop the polished wooden bar top. I cannot verify this as Mrs X was a terrible gossip, but it made for a great tale and was soon all round the village. Allegedly, all S was wearing were two Christmas baubles dangling from her little fingers. It sort of gave a new meaning to 'bar meals' in my eyes.

Anyway, two years ago, I stopped in at the pub for a drink and was at the bar chatting to some local residents whom I knew. I was stood by the bar hatch and was asked to move by S as I was in the way. There were only about four people in the whole pub, so the staff weren't exactly rushed off their feet and needed urgent access. However, polite to a fault, I did move. I asked her if she remembered me from my waiting on days and she peered at me. She remarked that I obviously hadn't impressed her much as she couldn't recall me. I smiled and said, "You haven't lost any of your charm, have you, S?" I was promptly told to clear off. I considered whether to finish my drink and then turned to her and said, "You'd better keep this and re-sell it. At the rate you lose customers, you're going to need to save as much money as possible" and I walked out. A bit of a lame come-back, really, but I simply couldn't be bothered getting into a slanging match with such a completely egregious woman.

They are still doing business....just. The carpark is rarely busy and most people drink and dine at the other pub which has been taken over by a chain and knows how to treat its patrons. If you ever find yourself in the vicinity of Cronton, don't go to the white pub - go to The Black instead...

*And I have spelt that right - check it out if you don't believe me: it's from the Old French 'deserte', to deserve. Don't tell me I never teach you anything on this blog.
**Maybe he'd eaten the food as well...