Sink or Swim

There are two main reasons why I am crap at talking to men who fancy me.

1. I always assume that they don't fancy me; or, more accurately, the possibility doesn't generally enter my head until later. Therefore, unless the person in question actually utters the words "I fancy you," I am likely to assume that the 'chatting up' taking place under my nose (sometimes a fair way under - yes, I do manage to notice when men talk to my breasts) is no more than amusing banter.

2. I have the unfortunate habit of being honest. Which is bad enough in itself, but I then compound this error by assuming that my honesty will encourage them to reciprocate in kind. Fool.

And thus, a combination of the above two errors has ensured me an awkward night out next week with a man who fancies me, but who I don't fancy.

Because when he asked me out for a drink, I didn't think, ooh, he's asking me out on a date, I should really base my response on whether I want to go out with him or not, but, ooh, going out for a drink, what larks!

So I said yes. And only the next day, when sober reflecting on the conversation, did I twig that I'd agreed to go out with a man I don't want to go out with.

Thus is exemplified error number one.

But far worse than this is error number two: honesty.

Which meant that when he called to arrange a date for the, er, date, I proceeded to agree to going out for a drink, but only if it were a platonic drink.

Why on earth did I have to say that?

So now I am guaranteed one of two scenarios.

Scenario One: I am sat in a pub with a man who was too polite to say: "What, a platonic drink? No way - I was only interested in getting into your knickers," but is now feeling very embarrassed at having to take somone out on a date who has rejected him before it started. Mutual discomfort reigns, at which point there is only one thing left to do.

Get drunk.

Scenario Two: I am sat in a pub with a man who believes that the way to a woman's ahem heart is persistence, so even though I have said no, he will act as though I said yes and will spend the entirety of the evening trying to flirt with me, so that either through embarrassment, or as the natural effect of being plied with drinks by a horny bloke, I will end up doing the only thing possible.

Get drunk.

Thirty years old, and I'm still clueless...

Whaddya know.

I appear to be wankered.

Happy New Year's Eve's Eve!

But what did he do with his sack of presents?

So they've been talking about providing more medical services in pharmacies.

However, following my recent experiences, I'm starting to think that they should simply move the GPs into pharmacies, seeing as all they seem to do is dish out bloody drugs.

Witness this morning:

Doc: Well, I'll prescribe you some antibiotics, in case you have an infection.

RTB: But... didn't we just establish that if I had an infection I'd have symptom X or Y - which, incidently and thanks for asking - not, I don't have? Instead of symptom Z, which I do have?

Doc: Well, yes, you don't have those symptoms, But really the worst that can happen after your operation is an infection. So I'd advise you to take these, just in case.

RTB: So... you're prescribing me antibiotics just in case I get an infection? As a preventative measure?

Doc: Yes. Well, no. It's in case you have an infection.

RTB: But... didn't we just establish that I don't have symptoms X or Y?

Doc: That's right. But you don't want an infection.

RTB: But... er...

Doc: Okay then. Here's my 76th prescription slip of the morning... fill yourself full of this chemical shite for no apparent reason whatsoever - other than my random whim, utter disinterest in doing my job, oh, and my substantial Glaxo SmithKline share portfolio, of course - and have a happy New Year.*

RTB: But... what about symptom Z?

Doc: Ah... yes. Well, if it doesn't stop, come in again.

RTB: Innumerable frustrated expletives. Thanks.

*May not be the exact words used.

The following is the Christmas gift that will doubtless bear the brunt of the blame for my increase in dress cup size in the New Year...

Methinks I shall be spending much of next year lying open-mouthed underneath said object, having conveniently lost the bottom tray. And the rest of the year at a local liposuction clinic.

Pile of arse!

Here's to families, and festive wine.

xx

Either way, I think it's pretty clear why I am the way I am...

Mum, to Dad: "Your role for Christmas is to make sure our wine glasses are topped up."

Some bloggers analyse their lives,
Some talk about the dawn,
Some rant and rave about the news,
Some specialise in porn.
Yet others seek to entertain,
Delighting in the banter.
But what about the blogger who's
Become my Secret Santa?

Well, if blogging's mad diversity
Is what you wish to sample,
A purple-spotted alien
Must be a prime example.
The blog of Thomasina Fool
(Who's better known as Dafter)
Has one key aim: the spreading
Of a little thing called laughter.

Daft rhymes (ahem) and limericks
Adorn her bloggy pages;
A tongue-twister I tried (and failed)
To say for bloody ages;
Funny pictures, silly jokes
And lots of random matter,
All dotted with emoticons
And Dafter's crazy chatter.

Yet, those who think her blog has only
Humour as its theme
Have missed the fact that Dafter's
Not as daft as she may seem.
For in amongst the random jokes
There lies another trend:
Our Dafter won't just have a laugh,
She'll also be your friend.

She takes an active interest
In Blogland's community,
Supporting any cause that
Comes her way wholeheartedly.
She won't just browse the blogs of friends
And comment on the way,
But dedicates whole posts to them
And tries to make their day.

And so, medear, to celebrate
This foolish festive time,
I dedicate this post to you,
Your very own daft rhyme.
I wish you lots of Christmas cheer
Upon the Silly Isles
And hope that your New Year is full
Of yet more silly smiles.

And tonight, I am hosting a mull(er)ed wine party round mine.

.....

I laugh scornfully at the pitiful wails of my liver as it melts into a puddle of liquified goo, in much the same manner as the Wicked Witch of the West, except laced with alcohol.

God, I really just want to go to bed.

It will come as little surprise to anyone to discover that I did pretty much all the don'ts yesterday.

And then some.

Hurrah!

Email from (male) work colleague:

"Are you by any chance wearing your 'pussy pelmet' again this year?"

Christ. Thank God I'm wearing jeans.

Do: Embrace wholeheartedly the general work malaise pervading the office on the morning before this afternoon's Christmas do.
Don't: Admit that you'd be embracing wholeheartedly your own personal work malaise anyway, due to a raging hangover of the black soup variety.

Do: Enjoy partaking in a festive yet sedate glass or two of red wine over the meal.
Don't: Focus on the fact that the red wine is free, while the drinks in the bar afterwards won't be, and make it your mission to guzzle an entire bottle in under half an hour. And then another. Ad infinitum.

Do: Join in with the inanity hilarity of the organised games, like a positive team player.
Don't: Loudly take the piss out of the organised games and declare your boredom to the world. Or get so drunk that you actually find yourself enjoying the organised games and partake in them with inebriated enthusiasm that in no way disguises the fact that you are failing miserably at tasks that a foetus would have no trouble completing, all of which is punctuated by raucous squeals of laughter, which echo deafeningly around Manchester.

Do: Enjoy a quiet chuckle at the fact that your line manager is really rather pissed.
Don't: Forget that 'really rather pissed' does not mean 'deaf, dumb and blind' and shriek: "Ha-ha, she's wankered, the daft moo! Oh, and don't you think she looks like Amy Winehouse on a bad hair day?" whilst pointing and laughing in a screechingly obvious manner.

Do: Exchange a few sage words with big boss about the year's progress and the exciting plans for the division in 2008.

Don't: Repeat over and over in your head: "You rejected my voluntary severance application. Bitch." And quietly procure a sharp knife from the dinner table.

Do: Avoid the cameras.
Don't: Get your tits out for the lads.

Do: Leave at a sensible hour in order to get into work bright, breezy and completely unruffled tomorrow morning.
Don't: Throw up on a sleeping student on the night bus.

God, I'm doomed...

Ouch.

I have a new magazine column for 2008.

I envisage its glorious future as a column less along the lines of Victoria Coren, or Richard Littlejohn (erk!), and more along the lines of the leaning tower of Pisa.

That's right folks - my little local mag has just commissioned me for a year's worth of columns on the topic of WINE.

Mwa-ha-harrrrr!!

*hic*

Good  night, don't let the bed bugs bite.

They're not.

But the fecking Beatles are.

Of all the things my tossy wank-stain of a neighbour could choose to blast at maximum ampage through ten thousand megaphones in the middle of the pissing night, why oh why oh why does it have to be I Wanna Hold Your Hand????

I mean, come on mate, it's hardly appropriate.

If you are going to insist on rupturing the eardrums of your previously peacefully slumbering currently ragingly cognisant neighbours, you could at least retain some hint of credibility and make it something that befits such unceremonious, inconsiderate rudeness.

Some intensely irritating duf duf duf duf hard house; the excruciating screeeeech of thrash metal; a bit of rebellious Led Zep; some self-indulgent Smiths; bloody U2, even.

But no. We get some asinine twat simpering away to I Wanna Hold Your Hand.

He's probably prancing around doing the fecking hoovering to it.

I wanna hold your hand, all right.

And then grab your arm, yank you out of your flat, jump up and down on your head, chop off your offensive poxy Hand and feed it to my other neighbour's cat.

And then return to bed and sleep the sleep of the unrepentant just.

I hate being woken up...

Q: Why did Redleader cross the road?

A: Like he's gonna know - he can't even remember his bloody birthday!

Happy Birthday medear... I sincerely hope it's a really positive year for you and yours. Not to mention a fecking good laugh.

xxxx

Short?
Skint?
Vodka drinker?
Celibate but permit yourself the odd bit of sausage?

You might be around for some time...

Have to admit, it makes me feel slightly nervous for some reason... perhaps because I don't know if I'd be able to do someone else justice.

But, despite that, I really rather like this idea... perhaps because I'm just plain nosey

Happy birthday Mr Shipscook!

Hope you're having a good one

xx

Forget exhaust emissions, power plants, chlorofluorocarbons, budget airlines, paint fumes, landfills, nuclear warfare, those naughty Chinese and Indian people greedily demanding electricity, radioactive decay, televisions on standby, volcanos, farting cows and smokers.

It's Christmas that will kill our planet.

I'd like you all to share in the moment when the full realisation of what becoming part of the web team at work means struck me in all its fearsome force, as I opened this email...

From: lokeinwebteam@rtbsworkplace.com">blokeinwebteam@rtbsworkplace.com
Sent: 13 December 2007 11:08
To: webteam@rtbsworkplace.com
Subject: A little light entertainment...

I managed 43; how well can you do?

http://www.justsayhi.com/bb/html_quiz

Wake up.

Realise am horribly late.

Flap around flat in compulsory mad panic, getting everything done in twice the amount of time it normally takes due to panic-flummoxed disengaged brain.

Get on bus.

Remember far too late that there is a diversion affecting this particular bus route today and, instead of taking half an hour, it is likely to take twice that long. Or, indeed, even longer, as it turns out.

Get off bus one and a half hours late for work, decide that five more minutes won't make a difference and that after the morning's trauma I need, no, deserve, a chocolate croissant. If not two.

Enter shop, stride purposefully to the rear, scornfully bypassing the fruit section, and put three two chocolate criossants into bag. Join queue at till and start fiddling around in bag for purse.

Continue to fiddle.

Continue to fiddle.

Continue to fiddle, fighting back rising panic.

Swear copiously to self and do mini stamping dance of desperation in the aisle, observed gleefully by chavvy kids who really should be in school by now, the sciving little sods.

Fight urge to stuff chocolate croissants into mouth and run from store.

Stride purposefully back to rear of shop, fling bag of croissants back onto shelf in "I didn't really want them anyway" manner, which fools absolutely no-one, and stride purposefully out of door, knocking shoulder painfully into frame on the way.

Curse self for ridiculous idea that attaching keys to purse would ensure that I wouldn't lose them, instead of realising that attaching keys to purse simply means you're completely screwed when you lose both of them at once.

Remember that flatmate is currently working away during the week and back on Fridays.

Remember also that friend who has spare key is currently working away also, and back on Fridays.

Realise that, even if I manage to find somewhere to sleep tonight which doesn't involve staring up at the underside of my car, I will be incapable of doing anything resembling work or indeed preservation of life tomorrow, since I have put daily disposable contact lenses into my eyes this morning, meaning that in 24 hours' time I shall be as blind as the proverbial vermin with wings.

Fight urge to run back into shop and stuff chocolate croissants into mouth.

Trudge resignedly into work and glare vengefully at the world.

Dear Walter,

I hope you can help me.

The other day I set off for work, leaving my husband in the house watching the TV as usual. I hadn't gone more than a mile down the road when my engine conked out and the car shuddered to an abrupt halt. I walked back home to get my husband's help. When I got there, I couldn't believe my eyes.

He was in the bedroom with our neighbour, making mad passionate love to her. It turns out that he's been having an affair for the past six months.

I told him to stop, or I would leave him.

He was let go from his job six months ago and he says he has been feeling increasingly depressed and worthless. I love him very much, but ever since I gave him the ultimatum he has become increasingly distant.

I don't feel I can get through to him any more.

Can you please help?

Sincerely,
Sheila

...

Dear Sheila,

A car stalling after being driven a short distance can be caused by a variety of faults with the engine. Start by checking that there is no debris in the fuel line. If it is clear, check the jubilee clips holding the vacuum pipes onto the inlet manifold. If none of these approaches solves the problem, it could be that the fuel pump itself is faulty, causing low delivery pressure to the carburettor float chamber.

I hope this helps.

Sincerely,
Walter

Well, the operation was all straightforward, no complications and unless I hear anything over the next four weeks, I can assume that all evil cells have been blasted away and I am back to normal. Which probably still means pretty abnormal, but hey.

There are a few things I've been advised against, which have some ups and downs associated with them.

On the down side, I can't go swimming for six weeks.
On the up side, I can't swim very well, rarely ever go and it's not exactly beach weather right now.

On the down side, I can't have a bath for six weeks.
On the up side, I don't actually own a bath and am still allowed to shower, which means I am still able to leave the house and don't have to test the theory that pigs stay clean by rolling in mud all the time.

On the downest of down sides down side, I can't have sex for six weeks.
On the up side, my chances of bumping into Thierry Henry must currently be better than at any other time in my life, since sod's law would dictate that I could only ever meet him at a time when I can't shag him.

Thanks for all your messages, texts, emails and wishes.

xx

Happy Birthday Brad!

I'd rip the piss out of your age, but I couldn't possibly be that mean to you and you're younger than me *ahem*

xxx

It seems it's not just Juzzzy who loves to hate copywriters...

I was working hard - oh, who am I kidding looking up car insurance quotes online during my lunch hour.

With one particular company, by changing my job title from Copywriter to Marketing Executive, I save over £60 on my premium.

£60. What a swizz!

Which occupation dya reckon gets charged the most?