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!

Bored to Tears...

I stumbled across a strange little website (it's probably massive, actually) called Jyte this morning whilst attempting some research. (I honestly wasn't trying to find the website Matt and I encountered once where a white woman was taken by two black men from both ends. That research was over and done with long ago...) Jyte appears to be a type of polling/claim forum where one uploads a statement and waits for visitors to agree (thumbs up) or disagree (thumbs down). This particular statement claimed that people who say they are bored are, in themselves, boring. I have heard this many a time from the ex who fires it at daughters #1 and 2 when they want him to entertain them and he wants to watch the rugby; thus I have always deemed it to be of the ex's making.

However, to find that somebody else thinks this, too, was a bit disconcerting. You see, I have a terribly low boredom threshold at times. And the trouble is, when I am bored, I become either very constructive, or very destructive, depending on my mood. Many a time, the ex would return from one of his boozy nights out and I would have mooched around the villa, wondering what to do with myself (no TV, only pirate videos, and dark at 7pm) and suddenly the paint on the walls in the living room had changed colour (constructive); the furniture had altered position to become more symmetrical with the marble pattern on the floor (constructive); or his underpants and socks had been cleared out (destructive).

I am actually able to tell when my boredom limits are about to be reached. I become a bit restless, narky and then suddenly, as if a switch has been flicked on, I am completely disinterested from thereonin. This happened to me quite vividly whilst studying for an accountancy A level at night school, and continued whilst studying for the professional Taxation exams through a former employer, years ago. I have claimed ever since that accountants must have had either a charisma bypass or a frontal labotomy in order to do their job.

Charles Parsnip asked me one night if I felt that my life was fulfilling, and I replied that, yes, I found it very full and very exciting. And that was sort of true. But it's the little things in life which I can find unutterably dull, such as explaining for the nth time to daughter #2 who has interrupted a film 200 times in the first five minutes wanting to know the ending that I have never seen the film either, So. I. Just. Don't. Know. Please. Shut. Up. (She is now on her guard that when I tell her to be quiet through gritted teeth, the masking tape is about to come out. And she really doesn't want that...)

When these things happen, the switch flicks instantly. And I am then officially bored.

I think a lot of people without a technological bent would find my job very boring - indeed, my work colleagues have now labelled me the Geeky Freak which came about because I knew how to create é by pressing ALT 0233. And I was only trying to help one of them write Michael Boublé for her Secret Santa list. Ingrates...So, whenever a techie question comes up, there's a piping chorus of Ask The Boring Geek! Thankfully, I am pretty quick with the acerbic come-backs so they are left in no doubt that, boring my job may be, when it comes to put-downs, I leave my geekery far behind!

I do, however, find many minor aspects of my day deadly boring. Such as when my work colleagues analyse the latest goings-on in a dreadful soap opera called Hollyoaks, or when they are discussing which Z-list celebrity has got herself knocked up with another equally untalented Z-list celebrity. I also found, yesterday, talk of how the Secret Santa presents would not be recognised by putting the present in a bag, within a bag, in a black bin liner, with printed labels (so nobody could recognise anyone's handwriting), left in the stock room and the boss alerted by secure transmitter via Interpol deadly dull...At the time, I was attempting to run some link checks on our website in the hope of finding massive errors so we could leave these particular web developers and take our business elsewhere. Listening to the cackling, giggling, whining and Carol singing left me so distracted and drained my IQ so rapidly that I stalked out of the office for an illegal cigarette. I say illegal because I had only put one out about 15 minutes previous and a second in that space of time was taking the p*ss somewhat. Well, the boss wasn't in...

Other things which bore me are receiving credit card bills, final demands, and cold calls from salesmen desperate for me to change my internet service provider. Because they bore me so much, I decide to have a bit of fun with the latter and feign interest, let them run right through their spiel, making encouraging Ooh-ing noises to them and then inform them right at the end that I don't possess a PC. This really angers them and some, you can tell, if they were in front of me at that point, would probably give me a couple of black eyes. Ah well, such is life.

Conversations I have endured which have made my eyes glaze over have generally happened on internet dates and which I have shared with you on many an occasion. However, my mother can talk a glass eye to sleep, too, when she gets on to her favourite topic of What Are We Having For Dinner? This starts just before breakfast, continues through the muesli and toast, onto elevenses and right up to lunch when the decision is finally made, the meat brought out from the freezer and left to defrost on the work top. The debate then focusses on which vegetables can accompany aforesaid meat, what time dinner will be served, and will it be ready on time. Let me just put you in the picture here: this little scenario happens every day. And it happens even more when she has decided that I need some company so she is stopping with me for a few days. I generally feel the life blood slipping away from me and inform her that I will be eating Ryvita as I am on a diet and she can therefore help herself to whatever is in the house.

So, does my low boredom threshold make me a boring person? I'd like to think not and consider that I simply find the mundane doesn't fire off my synapses like it does for others.

Well, if I am being honest with you, outlining all these dull, ghastly things has now bored me. So, I shall head off and go and do something less boring instead. Like rearrange my collection of empty cat food cans or watch some paint dry. Don't let yourself get bored and become destructive like I do. Telephone a car showroom and ask for the specs on all the sports cars, arrange lots of test drives and then reveal that you are only 16 and haven't yet passed your driving test. It'll set you up for the day...

Stormy Weather

Some of you may have realised that, once upon a time, I lived in the Middle East. I spent almost eight years there, happy as an animal (not a pig: it was a Muslim country) in poo. That was, until the ex decided he preferred my best friend to me and felt I had to clear off as I was cramping his style.

The expatriate lifestyle in Oman is such that you are fortunate enough to meet many new people, from all walks of life and can engender such friendships that last a lifetime. Your social circle is not just quality, but also quantity, and great fun can be had on a daily basis...

The ex worked as a Design Manager for a large construction company, building palaces for the Sultan (who collected them like I collect credit card bills) and came into contact with many sub-contractors with whom we ended up socialising and becoming good friends.

One such couple, Chris and Dave, were firm favourites of ours and we were thrilled to be invited to their wedding, to be held at the British Embassy. It was a small gathering, with only a handful of guests allowed to come and I felt very privileged to have been invited.

Chris had selected the two young daughters of a work colleague to be her bridesmaids and they looked beautiful carrying their posies aloft and attempting to carry Chris's train as she hobbled up the steps in too-tight shoes and a definitely too-tight skirt. My own #1 daughter was in a foul mood because she hadn't been asked to be bridesmaid, but as she was only about six at the time, and a bit daft, I think Chris made the right decision.

As is the bride's prerogative, she was late. So late, in fact, that Dave (Hobbsy) told us we might as well all clear off to the pub and have a skinful as he 'wasn't waiting around for any bloody woman'. He proceeded to chat up all the other women in attendance, liberally poured the Moet & Chandon into any empty glass and started singing Oasis songs. I think he was somewhat disappointed when Chris did finally show in a vintage Rolls Royce as he was having such a good time. Where Hobbsy got that Roller from is still a mystery, but he was a wheeler-dealer if ever there was one - if you needed anything in Oman, Hobbsy was your man...

The ceremony was lovely and we all traipsed outside for the obligatory photographs. Hobbsy didn't want anything formal, and ended up lying on the grass with me hovering over him, my right foot holding him firmly to the ground by his neck. In retrospect, this may have been because he wanted to see up the women's skirts as he had been rather flirtatious all day...Chris's photographs consisted of her in the arms of pretty much every bloke in attendance, and then they all carried her à la Madonna's Material Girl which really tickled her fancy.


The reception, unbeknownst to all of us, was to be held on a dhow, which is an old, galleon-like vessel, and which would set sail for the afternoon with all of us on board, getting more and more drunk as the day wore on.

Well, let me put this question to our two dear readers. When you think of Middle Eastern weather, I am sure the image which is conjured up is one of glorious sunshine, clear, limpid blue skies and searing heat.

OK...it started off that way...but the minute the last guest had got on board the dhow and we had cleared the marina, the clouds closed in...

Dressed in all my finery, and getting merrier and merrier with each bottle of Corona I imbibed, I briefly wondered whether my unsteadiness was due to the ever-increasing, wind-whipped waves (God, my alliteration improves with each blog, doesn't it?), or my ever-increasing inebriation. My balance was starting to go, somewhat, and in order to cover it up, I decided to put on an impromptu line-dancing display, having put myself through a crash course by DVD so I could help a friend out and teach 10 nine year olds the basic steps at a birthday party. The rocking helped me to look almost professional until I tripped and fell heavily into the mainstay mast where I decided that it would be easier to cling on for dear life than attempt any more Fuzzy Duck.

I felt nice and safe holding on to the mast. Unfortunately, other people started to feel the same insecurity as I was feeling, and after a few minutes, there were four of us fighting for the same piece of pole.

Buffet was announced and I considered that if I was going to be sick, I should at least attempt to have something other than Corona with which to feed the fishes. I ladled myself out a large portion of Prawn Cocktail and attempted to eat it. I felt sicker and sicker - so much so that when Hobbsy saw that I didn't have a beer in my hand, was shocked at my request for 'some water, please'.

I felt a trip to the lavatory might be prudent at this stage, but was summarily informed that there was a queue. My only port of call (pardon the nautical pun) was to get to the side of the boat, pronto. I moved as far from the bulk of the guests as was possible, but there's always some bleeding heart liberalist who deems himself your saviour and feels he should be mopping your fevered brow as your rectum hits the back of your throat, isn't there? My 'saviour' was Simon - one of the most handsome, lovely men in Muscat, and I really, really didn't want him there as he watched technicolour yawn after technicolour yawn come hurtling from my guts.

'Urghoahgggoooo aaarghway, Ssimmon!' I growled at him through retching.
'No, no, you need someone here with you, you poor thing,' he replied. 'Where's Anal (this is an anagram of the ex's name, by the way - work it out for yourselves)?'
'Urghodunnnnoooo, anna don currrr, gooo awayyy, pleeeeeeasasse, urghoahghghh!!'
'Oh dear, this isn't good. No, this isn't good at all. Stay there, I'll get something sorted out right now.'

He left me in peace to dry-retch with tears streaming down my face, my hair covered in all sorts of nasty stuff, and feeling very sorry for myself. I pathetically brought my head up to view the horizon where I saw forked and sheet lightning scudding across the skyline, heard the rolling thunder, saw the roller coaster waves and wondered what I had done to deserve this.

We were way out to sea, but on the other side of the dhow, land was still in sight, in the form of Marina Banda al Rhowda, slap-bang in the middle of nowhere.

Simon returned...

'Right, we are putting you off on the outboard. One of the crew will take you to the Marina and you can wait for us there. OK? You can't carry on like this.'

Relief - I was eternally grateful to my saviour. He helped me stagger across the deck - Christ knows where the ex was at this stage - and gently assisted me down the ladder into the waiting inflatable outboard.

I climbed aboard and the guests gathered at the side of the dhow, cheering, jeering, making vomiting gestures and calling me lots of rude things. As we set sail, the sun came out, the wind died down for a few minutes, and a fantastic rainbow appeared in the sky...In the half mile journey, I lay across the sides of the dinghy and vomited while the young Omani sailor stared at me with distaste. At least he didn't charge me five rials for soiling his transport, though.

Suddenly, he stopped.

'You get out now,' he stated.
'But the marina is over there,' I stated rather obviously, at a distant speck.
'No. I cannot get any further up to the beach. You will have to swim now.'

I stared at him, askance, pleaded with him; offered him my wet, vomit-stained body; was refused; and thus walked the plank...

I landed in icy cold, choppy water, wearing some of the most expensive shoes I have ever owned, a Oui Set dress which had cost me my last pay-packet, and a beautiful pure wool jacket. Remembering my Swimming Certificates from Primary School, I trod water and removed the shoes, buckled them together, clamped them firmly between my teeth, and swam for safety, being unable to touch the sandy bottom of the sea. I have never swum in tights before and I must say, I do not recommend it to any of you, male or female.

Ten minutes later, I reached the safety of the beach, and crawled up it, exhausted, still hearing the jeers coming from the dhow which had stayed moored in order to watch me arrive safely...or was it basically to video me for viewing at the party later? I have my own suspicions...

I was bitterly cold. My clothes clung to me and the biting wind made my extremities turn waxy blue and white. The Marina's café was deserted, and I plaintively knocked on the locked door until a waiter showed his face...

'I have no money, but I can open a tab, and when they come to collect me, I will settle up with you. Can I have a black coffee, please?' I begged forlornly, looking like something the cat had dragged in.
'Yes, ma'am. No problem, but you will have to stay outside as we have Pest Control in at the moment and the buildings are off-limits, hence why the café is shut.'

So, I sat by the beautifully-lit swimming pool as the sun set, soaked to the skin, shivering with the icy wind, sipping my coffee and choking as the DDT fumes were pumped all over the premises, inside and out, to eradicate Malarial Mosquito.

With a spirit of adventure, I wrote this event up for the happily married couple, who actually managed to consummate their vows on board without regard for their guests, and published it for them using Microsoft Publisher. I framed it and presented it to them a few weeks later.

What's the bets it's now hanging on their toilet door?

Liars Anon...Beware Internet Dating!

Now, dear reader, strictly speaking, Paul was not a date. We came very close to dating, but for reasons you will discover, the actual date never happened. Paul advertised himself on interrodate.co.uk with an absolutely stunning photograph - without a doubt the most attractive-looking man online.

I decided to complete his questionnaire and add a pithy comment in the box provided...something along the lines of, "You are drop dead gorgeous, what on earth are you doing amongst the sociopathic misogynists listed here?"...well, perhaps not quite as succinct as that, but you catch my drift...To my delight, he responded accordingly, and thus our virtual dating commenced.

We started chatting via MSN and found we had a great deal in common - the same types of music; similar sense of humour; outlook on life, attitudes to parenting etc., and a mutual, physical attraction, which was very rare for me online. No matter how many times I stated that I was seeking tall men between the ages of 35-45, every stunted grandad would contact me with a lecherous grin, a mouth full of false teeth and nursing an ever-expanding hernia. If I applied the condition "Only 'sorted' men need contact me", meaning, no emotional hang-ups, I would get every depressed, love-sick Romeo getting in touch, telling me I had 'kind eyes', looked a lovely girl, and they needed someone to help them mend a broken heart. "What about pulling yourself together and stop moaning, instead?" I'd think, and hit 'delete'.

Mending somebody's broken heart sounds too much like hard work to me - I've had my fill of my own and am not about to inflict that burden on someone else...seems a bit selfish to me, to be honest...

So, an online romance appeared to be developing. We flirted gently with each other, testing the water, and then more blatantly. He removed his profile from the website and I stopped visiting it quite so much (always keep your options open, my mother says). We arranged to meet one Friday night. Unfortunately, Paul lived on the other side of the country to me, so a quick drink in the pub was not on the cards, but as he did a lot of travelling, we waited for his next trip to the northwest. He hinted that he'd like to sleep over at my house, what with me having 'two spare bedrooms', and tempted though I was, safety prevailed over lust and I refused. He arranged a night in the Manchester Travel Inn instead and sent me through his booking confirmation so that I could verify that he wasn't a 'nutter' - his words, not mine...read on...

I was full of eager anticipation and excitement that Friday. Paul texted me in the morning to tell me he was taking possession of a brand new company car - a Jaguar XJ-something or other (Mr Clarkson, if you ever pick this book up, I am getting educated through Born to be Riled, and really ought to know this spec, but I have forgotten if it had 'breeding', 'torque' and 'welly'...sounds like a chatty farmer to me...) - and I would be the first to be treated to a spin! Whizzo! Things were really looking up! All day, I mentally planned what I would wear, checked and double-checked the route to Manchester Travel Inn, and made sure I had some decent matching underwear to put on, without the brand name 'George' stitched across them...just in case...

I was late getting home from work that night. The weather was appalling: lashing down rain, howling gales, and my heart sank at the thought of my mascara running down my face at 8pm to meet my lipstick and my hair taking on the texture of coconut matting. But, ever the optimist, I resolved to dig out my daughter's manky No. 17 waterproof make-up and wreck my already-ageing skin with it, just for the sake of a fun-filled, flirtatious night.

Having waded through the swamp to my back door, I fell in to the house with relief and saw the answer machine light flashing. The last person I expected to hear was Paul. He'd rung at 5pm, stating that he had gone to the car, ready to set off on his drive, and his brand new Jag had been nicked. Well, I don't know who was more disappointed. Me at the lack of date, or him at having his car stolen. He'd turned his phone off - no doubt down at the police station, I thought as I tried to ring him.

I did what all stood-up dates do - made myself a fried egg sarnie. Unfortunately, whilst stomping around in an ever-growing strop, I let the oil get too hot and upon cracking the eggs into the pan, the oil spat spectacularly, hitting me fair and square between the eyes, and all down the bridge of my nose. The blisters which immediately decided to have a party on my face were a focal point for many days and I still bear the scars, three months on. Shares in Boots' concealer stick have risen sharply since my mishap.

I heard nothing from Paul for two days until he texted me to say that the police had recovered the vehicle. It had been used in an attempted building society ram raid in Newcastle. He didn't say if he was getting a new car or not. Don't think the front grille would have looked too shiny after that, though.

So, more online chat, more texts, the odd phone call and then the request to meet again due to a trip to Manchester. I accepted, offered to cook us dinner for two as it was midweek and set about creating a feast fit for somebody who isn't too fussy about what they eat. Actually, I am doing myself a disservice, here: I'm actually a pretty good cook when I am given something adventurous. So, I made 'seared scallops' on a bed of spinach; marinaded swordfish steaks with julienned freshly steamed vegetables in a bitter orange drizzle; chocolate banana mousse; and macaroons with freshly ground coffee. This can be interpreted as seafood and leaves; fish and greens; sickly chocolate gunk; biccies and a brew. I am from the north, after all.

At 4.30pm on the day of our date, I received a text stating that he was with his friend in hospital. She had been attacked on her way home from a club and he was giving her moral support. I was quite impressed. A man with an empathetic side! But if her parents were with her, as he stated, why did he need to stay? I gave myself a slap across the cheeks for being so self-centred and texted my condolences back.

Two days later, there was another invite to meet. The gloss was starting to dull by this stage, I must admit, so I wasn't that surprised when, an hour before we were supposed to meet, and I hadn't even bothered to get showered, he texted to say aforesaid friend had committed suicide.
Now, I may appear dreadfully cynical and hard with my narration of events, and I apologise for any offence caused. But either he was a dreadful jinx, or a whopping liar. And I suspected the latter. In fact, my radar was going overtime and I seemed to be zoning in on Homo Sapiens Marriedus.

I withdrew from contacting him, but I received a blow-by-blow account of his latest misfortunes via text. I declined to respond to the next invitation to meet. I had a sneaking suspicion that he would contact me at the last moment to tell me he had just found out he was pregnant and was struggling with morning sickness...

SOSOTL Market Research Report

In light of MUBM’s recent research into SOTSOTL syndrome, Hex My Ex hired ace German Marketing Researchers, “Bugya-industreet” to discover what causes SOTSOTL to set in.

Over an intensive 37 minutes, their crack-head team consisting of Heimlich Maneouvre and Heidi Schnapps, asked two and a half unwilling volunteers to proffer their opinions on the causes of SOTSOTL and how it had happened for them.

For reasons of clarity, we will call the candidates A, B and C in providing their comprehensive responses and maintaining their anonymity:

1. What did you most hate about your ex?
A: She didn’t want a threesome.
B: He refused to get up to go to the toilet and would soil his underpants all the time on my settee.
C: I have never had a girlfriend.

2. What clothes did your ex wear which really used to annoy you?
A: Dresses, skirts, trousers, jeans, shirts, T-shirts, tops, suits…
B: His dirty undies.
C: I’ve never had a boyfriend, either.

3. Was there anything about your ex’s eating habits that annoyed you?
A: Well, there wasn’t much munching going on with her, I can tell you!
B: He would balance his sandwiches on his big fat belly and store cake in his beard to suck on later.
C: I don’t like this.

4. Did your ex ever employ a term of endearment for you, which you hated?
A: If she called me anything other than Stud Muffin, she would get a load of verbal.
B: Bitch.
C: Mum…Help!…there’s a weird lady talking to me. Tell her I’m only 42.

5. What was your ex’s worst habit?
A: Constantly having to visit her gynaecologist.
B: Scratching his dirty bottom and sniffing it.
C: Leave my Harold alone, you harlot!! Take that! And that!

6. What type of music did your ex play which annoyed you?
A: Anything that wasn’t played on my organ…
B: His kak klaxon music.
C: [silence]

7. Did your ex help around the house?
A: ‘Course she did. She helped me all the time. I’d sit and watch her clean while she was wearing her French maid’s outfit.
B: He helped to foul around it.
C: [silence]

8. What do you think about the recent SOTSOTL findings?
A: What? Don’t know what you’re on about. Now, bugger off - I have Stringfellows to run.
B: I wrote the report.
C: Would you like to come out on a date with me?

In conclusion, it is glaringly obvious that if you aren’t nymphomaniac with a penchant for company and need to wear clothes or you are a gruesome slob in every aspect of your life, SOTSOTL is likely to affect your relationship fairly dramatically and rather quickly. So, take a leaf out of Matt Chingduvé and Agnes Mildew’s books and dump your partners pretty quickly and take us out for a double date.

You can contact us anytime on 0898-Incontinence Problems 666. Be sure to leave a message if we are not there and we’ll get back to you if we can reverse the charges.

Ten Top Tips to Get Pay-Back! Instalment One

Some of you may be wondering, What's all this hexing about? When are we going to get into the downright bitter, nasty, let's dish the dirt on the ex stuff...Well, OK, I shall titillate your senses a little to give you a foretaste of what is to come on the HexMyEx website when it is launched.

I shall be writing things from the female's point of view and no doubt, my friend and collaborator Matt Chingduvé will ably assist from the male's side.

So, how do we hex our exes, girls? How do we curse that rat and get our own backs once and for all? Well, I shall give you my top ten tips, five today, five tomorrow...(some of these can also be applied to nasty bosses, male or female, too)

1.If you have the misfortune to be dating a married man and you suspect his plaintive cries of “She just doesn't understand me like you do” are a pile of poo, particularly when you bump into his work colleagues who have just been out with him to wet his new baby's head, you must slip a sealed envelope into his jacket pocket for his wife to find next time she puts a delicates wash on, which has emblazoned all over the front, Gonorrhea, Here Today Burra Gonna Termorrer. Open Now for Your Test Result! Inside, ensure that there is a professional-looking letter, addressed to the cheating two-timer stating that his gonorrhea has been found mainly in the anal area (make sure you smear some cochineal on his undies) and requires further rectal examinations forthwith.

2.Pick up a mucky dirty wino off the streets and treat him to a few burgers and chips, mash up lots of carrots and turnips to smear over the fast food. Treat the wino to a bottle of meths and then drag him over to your ex's new car. While the wino stands around bewildered, wondering what is going on, ply him with sickly chocolate cake. The wino will then vomit violently all over the car and with all the meths hurtling out, the paint will strip off his car faster than you can say Lady Boys of Bangkok. Give the wino a fiver so he can go and buy 48 cans of Carling Black Label and tell him, Same time, same place, next week.

3.I am reliably informed by Matt that this next curse is called the Flaming Pasty, but basically what you do is gather up some fresh dog poo (cat is better as it smells so foul and is much more viscous, but it's quantity over quality, I'm afraid), wrap it loosely in some old newspaper, and place it on his doorstep. Squirt a bit of lighter fuel on it, casually drop a lit match on top, ring the doorbell and leg it. Hide behind some bushes and enjoy the spectacle of your ex attempting to put out the package by stamping furiously on it. If the poo is fresh enough, he may vomit; he will probably retch...he will certainly stink as if something has crawled up his bottom and died.

4.Get a photograph of him and upload it onto a dating website. List his hobbies as toad-sexing, train-spotting, trying to cure his impotence and knitting cardigans. Give his vital statistics as 5'1”; weight 240lb; hair: plenty in the ears and nose; eyes: blind; pets: cockroaches; Likes: playing with rubber ducks in puddles, picking his nose and eating it, putting earwigs down his underpants, and scratching his bum, then sniffing it. Dislikes: intelligent, sexy, vibrant, honest women - obviously, that's why he dumped you...Email the link to all his friends and work colleagues anonymously.

5.Send him a subscription to Playgirl magazine or Fistf*ckers International and have it sent to his work address.

More utterly evil, twisted thoughts from me tomorrow, but in the meantime, I shall hand you over to Sir Matt...