And What You Are Is A Crack Whore With No Fashion Sense

photo by Jeremy Scott

Hi! Lindsay Lohan here! Yeah I know, like...a superstar like ME, in this piece-of-shit blog thing. When I learn to read I'm so going to write someone an angry email about suing. So like, I thought I'd share my newest cover photo for next month's "Paper" magazine. I was psyched to do this shoot because it's a very elite publication. I turned down like....100 other shoots to do this one you know. I totally made the people at "Dog Fancy" cry! Yeah! Anyway, Paper's really high class so you philostines probably never even heard of it. Anyway, they totes wanted me to do it as I'm like...the biggest skan...star...I'm the biggest STAR in the world.

Of course they wanted me to look really sexy as usual cuz sex sells suckas. Like I could be anything else. I wake up sexy. I go to bed sexy. I take a steaming dump sexy. You all just wish you were as sexy as me.

I'm wearing this chic little silk Chinese inspired number here to highlight my fabulousness and it is SUBTLE, cuz like, it doesn't even show my whole boobs! I feel like an Amish lady.

OK, well, look, maybe it's not SILK so much as polyester but it's really hot.

Talking of hot, oh my God, my special place itches like a shit. That's what my daddy calls it "my special place". At least when he's sober and not trying to kill my mom. Granted, it's less special nowadays and more like a YMCA for b-list actors and homeless guys with accents. I wonder if there's a pharmacy round here that sells Vagisil. Or Monostat. I wonder if this is what they mean by FIRECROTCH...

Are my legs blotchy? I think the people at Paper totes made my legs look blotchy. Oh wait, it's my freckles. Some guy just said I look like a whore but I don't pay attention to that sort of thing. Good luck finding a whore who can blow three Italian men in one night while wearing VERSACE, asshole! I've had more spicy man-sausage in my oven than a German Bratwurst factory.

Where is Germany anyway? Is it near Florida?

The Funny Part of Tragic

I'm so sorry. I had to post this because it's so goshdarn funny. Just when you thought that pictures of Amy Winehouse couldn't get any more tragically funny, today I saw THIS. I mean I know it's not funny to mock the afflicted but dude. How high do you have to be to leave the house looking like that? Because I'm thinking at least "sub-orbit" possibly higher.

Another Britney Moment

In case you're wondering, "What does the Guv do with her downtime, with those moments home, relaxed and with time on her hands?"

Well, here is your answer. While looking through some folders on my laptop I found the following from a few months ago that I made then promptly forgot about. So just for you, dear friends, the Guv'ner presents: MY BRITNEY.

It's rather NSFW so you'd think, out of the kindness of my heart, I'd put it under some sort of cut wouldn't you? HA! Suckers.


I know. I'm sorry, truly.

The Guv'ner Pretends There Are No Embarrassing '80s Photos Of The Porcupine That Lived On Her Head

This entry is for everyone, but I dedicate it especially to FALWLESS, Catholic schoolgirl and Jesus' personal home girl.

You see, unlike Falwless, as a little child, Jesus most certainly did not love me, nor did he touch me in any way (because that would be a felony) since I was a godless heathen who ate babies and puppies. Here I am right here, looking 6 years old and Scottish - both of which I was - and if you look real hard you can see Satan's reflection in my 6 year old blue eyes. Yes, I was a tomboy child. Yes, I wore that sweater of my own free will. It was part of a set of fashion statement pieces I like to call "desperate 1970s' hell". Don't worry, that non descript hair soon became a big, spikey '80s pineapple of hell. And yes, despite this picture, I DO have eye lashes.

I'll spare you the 1980s' photos mainly because I've burned them all due to the eye burning danger element and my desire not to get my ass sued for cruelty. Ok, I admit, I do have some and one day I will scan them and in a particularly low, drunken move, post them here for hilarity purposes.

For now, here's one from the mid 90s of myself and my big-faced sister.

I should point out that I have no idea, a) why her face is the size of a small planet as it really isn't in real life, b) why we look like we've never seen the sun - damn photobooths and their flash of death, c) Why I have no chin, d) Why we share two parents but look nothing alike. e) Why I look totally cheesed off.

Around this time, I was playing in a band so here's one from about the same time of me looking uber-cool, like the freaking ghost of Kurt Cobain or something. Gosh, you are pointing a camera at me, I HAD NO IDEA! Allow me to caress my Les Paul and pretend you don't exist.

Now here's one from 2005, taken at a weird "My Space" type of angle that makes me look like my face is totally squished and that I have a giant, Karl Malden nose (I do NOT). I have no excuse for that hairstyle (two pony tails, I am hip!) or the fact I'm standing in front of a shower curtain.

Don't you feel like you know me now?

How Low Can YOU Go?

You know what's funny? Duets are funny.

No, no, I'm not talking about Barbra "Mecca" Streisand and Kenny "Beard" Rogers singing "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" (Or its lesser known but still relevant trade title: "You Don't Give Me Herpes") or Elton John and Kiki Dee crooning their ginormously, annoyingly catchy 1970s' pop hit, "Don't Go Breaking My Heart" (Trade: "Don't Go Breaking A Fart").

No, I'm talking about the sort of duet that occurs when you emit a particularly violent sneeze and as a golden bonus, an unexpected keester-kamikaze at the same time.

Not that I am suggesting I would ever do this. I am a lady therefore I don't emit gases of any sort from my posterior (only Jade plug-in scents in peaches and cream). However, let's say for a moment someone else busted a sneeze with such gusta that out popped an air grenade, unannounced? That would be very hilarious, no? Take my word for it. It would be even more hilarious if the butt-muffin and the sneeze were in the same key and produced a little light harmonizing. Like a barber's shop quartet of bodily expulsions. A Satanic Butt Orchestra.

Which may be the name for my new band.


This would probably not be cute, however, if one were to get the ratio slightly wrong and sneeze viciously only to realize they had stamped their underpants with a beige daisy. I know because this happened to my friend Timo while on a conference call and he was so surprised he had to email me about it.

Farts are funny.

This public service announcement brought to you by the Guv'ner, aged 7.

Happy You Know What

For all you lovely people. The Guv'ner loves you.

(pilfered and altered from FALWLESS' even funnier Jew Card)

The Guv'ner is Cross

There's nothing screams "I'M A BRIT!" quite like standing in the supermarket line clenching a jar of Roses' Lime Marmalade in your sweaty fists. Well, except maybe standing in a supermarket line wearing a Union Jack t-shirt while sporting a skinhead and featuring a tattoo of the Queen.

Naturally I was doing that as well. Look. Apparently I was also a zombie, but no law says you can't multi-task.

Scary isn't it? Maybe I should do it for real and freak my coworkers out? Anyway, lime marmalade is the cat's bollocks. (Not literally, that would be gross!)

This damn writer's strike will be the death of me. There's only so much Vagina Vision one can take, you know. Lifetime, LMN, O. Hallmark. Movies where fancy dressed soccer mom types solve murders. Where widowed housewives rent their guest house to some suave but overly creepy dude, with poufy hair and amazingly he turns out to be a pyscho mad stalker type who video tapes her in the shower and then tries to kill her with her own panty hose. Whoa dude, no one saw that coming!

I'd actually like to see the national, female suicide rate for the period of the strike. There must be thousands of TV addicted women throwing themselves out of windows and slicing into their wrists, while muttering, "Not fucking Valerie Bertinelli again!" and "What does Richard Grieco DO these days anyway?" and "You'll always be LAURA INGALLS, bitch!" I blame Canada for making movie making affordable. Damn you Canadia.

End the damn strike already!

Hobos and Miscreants Line Up Here

Once, while a touch intoxicated, I let my guard down and kissed a dude with a moustache. Not the “permitted” type of moustache either, for example, that which is attached to a cute goatee or a nicely trimmed beard, no, I'm talking about a little bum-fluff, downey, trainee moustache, the sort that screams, “I aspire to grow a mullet, wear plaid and belch hilariously when I grow up!”.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Just how high were you at this point in time, Guv’ner?” and you could be forgiven for thinking it. However, I had merely partaken of a few stiff ciders and I was 18 and this volatile combination of these two combustible elements made for a very dangerous evening. Thinking back, this is probably why having a legal drinking age of 18 is probably not a wise idea.

Even while I was dancing with Mr. Suave, I knew it was wrong. I just didn’t much care. I was inebriated and happy and I was looking sassy, thanks for asking. I was at an indie show and the band had been great, the drinks were cheap and the world was my oyster. And given that analogy, when you consider I could’ve gone for the pearl, I instead decided it was wise to snog some moustachioed undesireable who looked like Joe Dirt.

This was the first of many undesirable men I would kiss over the years, for varying reasons, because I was an equal opportunities kisser and thought I was doing my part for humanity. I mean for some of those men, who would kiss them if not me? See? Call it the good deed of my lifetime. A public service if you will. (I didn’t “public service” any of them though, don’t go thinking it.)

Mr. Moustache though was a strange oversight. Kissing him was like kissing a particularly hyperactive slug – one that had digested a bunch of crack causing it to wander around my mouth aimlessly banging off my teeth. And he sort of grunted while he was kissing me which creeped me out because I kept envisioning opening my eyes and noticing that I was actually kissing a pig.

After about two minutes of this I claimed I needed another drink and while he went to fetch it, I ran off and hid in the cloakroom where two of my girlfriends staged an intervention that went something like, “You are coming home with us RIGHT NOW, miss, you will NEVER drink again and you will gargle mouthwash until your lips burn off.” And next thing I know I’m in the back of the car, still drunk, singing Pogues songs and going “Did you see that guy? Did you see him? He was NASTY! Did you see that guy?”

Yes indeed they saw. And proceeded to remind me of him for the next 10 damn years.

A few days later Joe Dirt called my house. Yes, I’d actually given him my phone number. My real phone number! I guess I was drunker than I thought. Luckily, I was sober by then and managed to get out of the whole thing. This was also the first of many times that would happen over the years – in particular there seemed to be a slew of hippies and other people no one else wanted anything to do with, that I’d encounter in clubs, feel sorry for, dance with, let follow me around all night then a few days later they’d call and I’d have to instruct my sister to say I had gone on a very important mission to Timbuktu, possibly never to return. Thankfully I didn't kiss many of them. But still.

I don't know what was wrong with me. I'm quite picky nowadays about whose tongue I allow to sweep my molars.

The Guv'ner Gets Creepy

Someone called me out recently because I happened to mention that I don’t watch much in the way of TV shows. “Are you some kind of pervert?” they wanted to know? “Who doesn’t watch TV? What do you have to do in the evenings that's so important? What are you, a serial killer?”

I can’t help it. I have never seen “Heroes” or “Lost” or “Gossip Girl” or “The O.C.” or “Will and Grace” or that abominable sit-com that Charlie Sheen is in, or "American Idol" or "Survivor" or that tart Tila Tequila, or a multitude of other offerings from recent years. I just don’t watch many current shows mainly because they are either reality shows, which I hate, or they are ridiculous dramas featuring overly pretty people in designer clothes and perfect eyebrows, emoting all over the damn place without their make up even running.

If it’s not one of those it’s guaranteed to be a law enforcement show about some police types or government agency, running around being angsty with guns and still sporting the perfect hair and make up.

I don’t have much patience for all this perfection. Therefore, my TV viewing is restricted for the most part to older quality shows, because I am a TV snob. My favourite shows are quite lovely and apart from being quality, well-written dramas, they feature some quite bodacious gentlemen. Not that the Guv’ner watches TV shows for the men, of course, but she is certainly not complaining if some happen to find their way in there. And none of them are perfectly coiffed and wearing Armani thank you very much. Think of the eye candy as a bonus. Like the frosting on the cake. The cherry on the cocktail.

One of my very favourite shows ever made is the outstanding Baltimore detective show, “Homicide: Life on the Street” and I fully believe if you don’t like this show, you are missing a chromosome and should just end it all now because there is no hope for you to ever win at life. I mean the show is real, gritty, funny, disturbing, haunting, hard-hitting and if I can just throw it out there for a moment – hosting some prime eye-candy for the Guv’ner’s discerning gaze. I mean I can’t help but notice. Sue me.

Take Detective Lewis here. I would certainly like to! A mere photo doesn't do him justice, but what a prime hunk of big, black, sexy, manly man. The way he fingers his big, steel Glock with a glint in his eye. The way he bites into a doughnut. The wicked grin as he’s joshing with the scary, rubber-faced Richard Belzer. The aloof leather fedora he likes to wear to crime scenes. He just oozes sex. The raunch is just enormous! Get me to a nunnery.

Then there’s Detective Bayliss. There’s a lot a lady can do with a tall, lanky, white guy with brown eyes and floppy hair and a penchant for complaining and trying to be deep. Because honestly, the more neurotic he gets the more the Guv’ner would like to teach him a few hard lessons on the floor of her living room. Yes ma’am! Look at him. He’s just asking for some Guv Luv. You know it’s true.

Moving on in a timely fashion, my other all time favourite show is the X-Files. Contrary to what you might believe, I did not have the hots for David Duchovny at all even if he did look cute in a suit. That was more my sister’s domain. She made it clear that if I stole her love for Agent Mulder she would cut me. No, I loved Mulder in purely an innocent, sisterly way. If I was alone with him I’d make him play Scrabble and watch a chick flick and we’d braid each other’s hair and eat nachos.

The X-Files was an amazingly atmospheric show with some inventive storylines. It was a great accomplishment of film making for the small screen.

Naturally, I must also add that Alex Krycek was totally smokin' hot for an evil, double-crossing agent dude. Look? Did someone turn the heat up in here? If I got him alone in a room I’d chain his wicked ass to the radiator and do things to him with a feather, chocolate pudding and evil intent until he was my slave forever. I mean the Guv is only human after all. If he didn't want such treatment, he shouldn't be looking all leather clad and brooding should he? No!

“But do you like any current shows at all Guv?” you may ask. Well heavens child! Of course I do. I love South Park and the fact it pushes the envelope to the limit every year then proceeds to outdo itself in the next season. Of course it doesn’t host any eye candy unless you count 9 year old boys made out of construction paper. That would just be wrong even for the Guv.

I also love “Medium” but Patricia Arquette isn’t my type, mainly because she has a vagina. Therefore, that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Wasn’t that enlightening? It's like you can see into my soul.

Can You Feel My Love Buzz?

Hey there! Yes, you! You're looking FANTASTIC. Yes, really! No, don't listen to that guy, you're beautiful. I might kiss you.

The Guv'ner is a little TANKED right now having succumbed to the evils of tequila finally. Icy, frozen, made with fresh strawberries tequila. It just took me five attempts to type "strawberries" because I HAVE RUBBER FINGERS! And a serious buzz. Typing with rubber fingers and a buzz on is laborious and dangerous all at once. But you people...you are worth it. The Guv'ner loves you all.

Myself, and my lovely boy-toy El Codo, put on our party pants and went to my fave Mexican bar which coincidentally and quite conveniently, is just across the street from my apartment. Within handy staggering distance, one may say. Their margaritas are frozen, gigantic (they come in a freaking sundae glass) made with fresh fruit and potent as holy shit. Is holy shit potent? Can shit even BE holy? And does it matter?

Anyway, I am out of practice with the old alcohol consumption due to recent financial hardships, therefore, it doesn't take many of these colossal beasts to push me over the edge into the drunken void. There must be eight shots in those suckers. I'm not even kidding. My tongue just quadrupled in size and gave me a lisp! And I think it's possible I have no toes. Or someone replaced them with french fries! And I love everybody!

But I am in control, people. The past will not be repeated. I will not wake up tomorrow still wearing one shoe because I got exhausted half way through undressing and gave up. Ahem, not that that's happened before, you understand. Well, not more than twice anyway.

Hey, it's the weekend goddammit.

Long Meme Makes the Guv'ner Flippant

I stole this excessive meme from Miss Wendy B. so you can blame her for the tedium. Thank you.

Do your closest friends have any nicknames for you?

None that they’d dare tell me about to my face. I have a feeling the words “psychopath” and “delusional” would feature quite heavily.

What would your ex-(boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse) say about you in one sentence?

He’d say “Man, I really let the most wonderful woman in the whole world go, I am a peckerhead of the highest magnitude and a first class moron!”

What is the greatest achievement of your life so far?

I’m still here. Maintaining an astounding level of immaturity that will probably continue until I’m 92.

How should people think of sex in this, the 21st century?

A little like jogging only without standing in dog shit.

Where would you live if anywhere was possible?

In my vivid imagination. You have no idea the magnificent scope of my imagination.

Is there a sex toy that you would endorse?

I don’t know…is there a good looking RealDoll type of male figure that cooks, tells good jokes and vibrates in all the right places?

Is there a religion that's fulfilling for you and/or the masses?

The Religion of Cheese. I invented it. We all gather and drink wine and worship a wheel of Dutch Edam. We get a tax break and everything.

What inspires awe in your life's experience?

Nature. I’m really a tree-hugger at heart. Save the Earth! Do they know it’s Christmas time at all?

What and when is the most potent emotion you've ever experienced and why?

Lust and anger. If you say otherwise you’re lying.

On what occasions do you act self-absorbed or just plain selfish? If someone assigned you a quest, or if you decided your own, what would you be looking to find?

Selfish? If there are two people and only one chocolate I can see that happening. As for the rest of the question, say what?

If you had to choose between them, would you live in Hollywood, Washington D.C. or New York, and why?

Well I’m already IN New York and have little desire to live in either of the other two places I’d have to say….Santa Fe.

Who or what makes you feel "whole”?

Big, open scenery like the ocean or the desert or the Scottish Highlands. Or a good margarita (frozen, no salt).

Where is your greatest opportunity for change?

I'd say the best place to get change is a bank. Drumcrash.

What do you consider to be the greatest opportunity for humankind?

I’m all about space travel. We need to know what’s out there and more importantly, who. And if their ears are pointy.

What surprises you about getting older?

That you don’t feel any different than you did at 21, you just KNOW more.

What or who makes you feel younger or rejuvenated?

I think I’ll always feel like I’m 25 inside. Music is a good one though. Music can take you anywhere. Even Iceland.

Where or when do you feel most alone?

In a crowded room. I know it’s a cliché but it’s true. I only ever feel lonely in a crowd of people. I don't really feel lonely much. I like lonely.

Where or how is society most ripe for change?

Well wherever people don’t change their underpants regularly, certainly.

Do you think of yourself as attractive to the opposite sex?

I’m more of the girl-next-door, tomboy type whose shoulder they cry on when their girlfriends dump them.

When or where do you feel the most free?

On a sunny, deserted beach or in Death Valley. Or when I’m driving.
.
What is the greatest memory of your life to date?

I don’t think I can pick one thing. My most vivid and traumatic memory was the death of my dog. I’m more of an animal person than a people person so it affected me a lot. I think I started getting cynical after that. Before I was all angelic and stuff.

Where and when did you find out who you really are?

Well I have my birth certificate! I mean DUH.

How and when do you collect your thoughts and why?

Seriously, do I seem like someone who collects their thoughts ever?

If someone told you when and where you would die, what would you do immediately after being told?

Well first I’d drink till I fell down. Then I’d inform all my friends never to let me go to that place. Then, assuming my death date was many years in the future I’d party like a monster and do all sorts of crazy stunts knowing I would be fine since I wasn’t going to die for many years. See? Logic at its best.

What are the best parts of being in love?

Anticipation. When that person is the most exciting person in the world.

What's your favorite libation (a drink offered to a god)?

MARGARITA of course. Again, frozen, no salt.

What "life philosophies" have you adopted since you've become an adult?

“Adulthood is seriously overrated.” Oh yes. And "Never lick your own or anyone else's arm pit."

How would you like to be remembered?

I think a bigger than life-sized statue of me in a bikini would suffice.

7 Random Things About The Guv'ner You Have No Desire To Know

That mischievous beeyotch, TERI has tagged me to do this meme thingy, and since this blog lately seems to be all about the meme, here it is! Try not to faint with the joy.

Seven Random (or Weird) Things About Me. (only seven??)

1. I don't burp. Really. It's not an etiquette thing or some noble reason like that, it's just that I can't. I try really hard. I want to be able to burp words like my sister Ahnnie. She can say things like "BOLLOCKS!" while burping and this is a talent I long for. She got all the talent in cool stuff and I got none. (She can also do that wolf whistle thing with two fingers that can hail cabs two miles away. I can't do that either.) I only burp maybe once a year if I get taken by surprise by a super gassy soda or something and even then it's a weak yelp that no one can hear and I'm more surprised than anyone. So surprised in fact I have to advertise it to anyone in the vicinity. "Did you hear that? That was me! I let rip with a mouth-fart!" I do make up for the lack of burping prowess by emitting gasses from my rear at regular intervals and blaming the cat.


2. I have fantasies about moving into one of those perfect showrooms at IKEA full of furniture called Krav and Hub and Stankar.


3. I secretly like mariachi music. The simplicity. Harmonies and Spanish guitar. Perfectly melodious. Big-assed sombreros and sequins! Ahem...yes.


4. Sometimes, at home, I talk to myself in French.


5. I wish all my neighbours would move out and disappear and that the new people moving in would all be older, quiet, childfree, enjoy solitude and have no urge to party or play loud music, but not be too old that they'd fall asleep soaked in gin and set the house on fire with a stray candle.


6. When I was three I fell over, hit my face off a shop window and split my lip open, requiring stitches. I can still remember every moment of this incident including the sewing of the lip and having to eat custard and soup for a week. I know, how interesting.


7. I once recorded an E.P. of "comedy" songs about British celebrities I hated and sold it at my band's shows. I recorded it on a four track in my bedroom and produced a fanzine to accompany it. I had a lot of free time on my hands in those days. No I don't still have a copy.

Well that was sort of anti climatic, no? Oh well. January is sort of a blah month, what do you expect? Happy New Year!

Are you There God, It's Me, The Guv'ner

Dear God,

What have you done with Bert and T.? I don't actually believe in you, God, but if you do exist I'm sure you believe in me, therefore, please let me know where Mr. Bananas and Big T. are because I'm getting kind of worried, ya know? Are they being held hostage by wild coyotes in the desert somewhere, unable to crawl to a water pool for sustenance, limbs hanging by a thread, throats parched like sandpaper? Did they elope to Mexico and not tell us and are, even as we speak, living a life of debauched luxury in Acapulco surrounded by Latin lovelies? Are they looking for Lord Lucan? Please God, I'm worried for their balls. It's golf season in SoCal you know.

Love,
The Guv'ner

Kat Rocket Gets a Year More Fabulous

Saturday was the fabulous Miss Katrocket's birthday and I assume Canada was awash in Labatt's and frosting and hot car-racing men in tight leather, carrying chilled champagne in celebration.

Myself, I wrote a poem in commemoration of the lady who just proved that even cool, popular, cutting edge gals possibly once sported a mullet.

BIRTHDAY OF THE KAT

There's booze and there's cheer
For Kat's birthday is here
And Canada's back in the race
To head south, I must mention
You have no intention
But the border is closed just in case
There'll be wine there'll be cheer
Naked men toting beer
There'll be cake full of frosting and glaze
There'll be glamour and glitz
Kat screams "LOOK AT MY TITS!"
Before falling down flat on her face

OK, I never claimed to be a poet. But (belated) happy birthday miss Kat!!!! I hope all the cake/booze/men came true.

The Gland...It is Watching You

I have a gland of death.

Before anyone thinks that would make an excellent concept for a horror/porn movie, the gland in question is in my neck and it hurts!

I've had this pesky pestilence since before Thanksgiving and it keeps mutating and infecting other parts of my respiratory system. Last night my breathing sounded exactly like Darth Vadar! And smelled just as evil. The cats dove for cover under the bed and the neighbourhood quaked in fear, but I was high on Robitussin so I merely waved an indifferent hand and went to sleep.

I have had sore throat, scratchy throat, red throat, dry throat, phlegmy chest, coughy chest, bronchitis nastiness and now the wheezy breath and the gland of death.

OH...

That should so be a band. Coming to a Heavy Metal Hair-fest near you: Wheezy Breath and the Gland of Death. It should feature a tiny geriatric rocker like Brett Michaels and his walking frame and there should be oxygen tank refills between songs.

Everyone is sick. The world is ending.

Talking About Boobs With The Guv'ner

I don't wish to imply I think about boobs a lot (my name ain't "Pistols"). However, as the owner of a pair, I was just thinking about men and their unnatural preoccupation with all things boobular and I can't really figure out what the attraction is. I mean, they're just fleshy bags with a tiny bump on the end, they don't really do anything magical except feed babies and although I'm sure that's quite beautiful it's also not sexy particularly. The only other use they have is as a coat hanger when it gets a bit chilly and you're wearing a thin top.

Really boobs just sort of sit there looking either perky and interested or suicidally depressed and floppy. They also like to jiggle up and down while you run, get in the way during sports and sometimes attempt to make a break for freedom out of your tank top if you're in a particular hurry and wearing a somewhat compromised balconette or demi bra.

I can only figure they must be the equivalent of those deluxe stress toys that you keep on your desk and squeeze when you feel a little agitated. Those siliconesque lumps of gel you can prod and squish and pull into long stretchy things, sort of like Stretch Armstrong.

And if anything puts a man thinking about boobs off his stride it might just be thinking about Stretch Armstrong.

26

The perky and sexy miss Catherinette made me do it. I didn't want to, she made me. 26 random facts about me (as if choosing 26 as the number of facts wasn't quite random enough).

1. My right foot is one size smaller than my left and a whole width wider.


2. I once tried to take a whiz in the woods and while squatting, fell over into a patch of stinging nettles and got nasty white bumps all over my butt.


3. I am left-handed therefore much more intelligent and fabulous than you.


4. I'd secretly like to own a handgun.


5. I once kissed some guy with a moustache while severely intoxicated in a student union bar.


6. I once sent my ex-boss an "official" letter on Photoshopped, very authentic looking letterhead, telling him he'd won an award in his field. It was a very serious letter and it asked him to call to find out when the award would be presented and the number on the letter was for a help line for people with severe adult incontinence.


7. I hate Ben Stiller and fantasize about bashing his stupidly expressioned head with a frying pan.


8. I hate tea.


9. I have never smoked a cigarette. Not the kind you buy in a store at least...


10. I have eaten cakes in Amsterdam that uh...made me feel "special".


11. I loathe soccer/football.


12. I once attended a garden party with my dress tucked into my underwear.


13. Once, for a joke, a friend and I bought a third friend a rather frightening looking vibrator as a birthday gift (birthday friend was a boy). We were there when he opened it. Unfortunately, so were his parents. Excruciating.


14. I can say the alphabet backwards super fast.


15. I think Al Pacino and Robert deNiro are overrated.


16. Secretly, I'd love to work for the FBI as a profiler.


17. I get a lot of Kelly Clarkson's phone calls.


18. My favourite fruit flavour is lime.


19. I like lonely, desolate landscapes like the Scottish glens and the American desert.


20. I spent months traveling in Europe with a balding, straight guy who liked to wear granny nighties to bed and who wore bras and fishnets under his clothing.


21. If I won the lottery I'd start a no kill luxury animal shelter so all those abandonned, misplaced and abused animals could live in peace and comfort.


22. If I could pass one law it would be making garroting irritating or cruel people, legal.


23. Cake!


24. My land line phone is a rotary phone with a dial. Pray you never have an emergency in my house. I call my mum in the UK once a week and half the time I have to quit half way through dialing the number because I fall asleep.


25. I don't get why anyone thinks Orlando Bloom is hot.


26. I have a birth mark on my bum that feels like a third nipple. (it isn't)

Eight (Part Three)

I say lots of things, mostly nonsensical. These are fairly common though for me.

Eight Things I Often Say

1. I just ripped one: I say it so that people around me don’t think the boiler’s exploded and start making for the fire escapes.



2. Will there be cake?: If you want the Guv’ner’s attendance anywhere, there will be cake…oh yes, there will be cake.



3. Do you want to see my finger?: Because ingrate, I will show you my finger.



4. Get out of my office: You have no idea how many times I say this. Sometimes I even say it to myself!



5. See anything you like?: People are always staring at me. I’m pretty sure it’s not my fabulous serene beauty so what? Do I have a booger? Is my top on backwards again? Did I pull a “Britney” and forget my underwear and indeed my skirt?



6. Where is my machete?: Seriously, do not fuck with my machete.



7. Where is my Diet Pepsi?: Let me make one thing crystal clear. I don’t do a single thing till I have my Diet Pepsi. Don’t even try to make me. No I won’t Xerox your document, not until fizzy, caffeinated, faux-sweetened goodness is in my tummy. And it better not be Coke. The Guv’ner does not do Diet Coke. If you bring me Coke I will heat it to boiling point and pour it in your pants.



8. Fuck you, you fuckin’ fuck! . There’s always a reason to use this. I live in New York City. Whether it be a rude commuter slamming their bag/child/crotch in my face on the subway or a fucktard on a cell phone wandering all over the street in front of me like a lost chicken, while I'm trying to walk home, or a demented fuckstick on a phone, driving an SUV through a red light in the crosswalk and almost sending me into orbit. I once had the distinction of uttering this phrase at a raised volume while kicking a yellow NY taxi cab that tried to kill me when I was crossing the street on my light. Fuck YOU you fuckin’ fuck!

Eight (Part Two)

Back due to no demand, whatsoever...

Eight Things to Do Before I Die

1. Live in a desert town. See last entry. I think I've made my desert love perfectly clear.



2. Swim with dolphins: Preferably not overly amorous ones who would try to do it with me using their stupendous marine appendages.



3. Go to Antarctica: Do you know the movie “The Thing”? For some bizarre reason, despite that movie being about alien life forms and its starring one (i.e., a bearded Kurt Russell), that movie actually inspired me to want to go to Antarctica. Now how screwed up do you think I am?



4. Finish writing a book: Again, see last entry. One day I will finish it damnit. And I will tie people down and force them to read it too. And don’t laugh because it might be you.



5. Go to Key West: OK I know what you’re thinking, “How hard can that be?” but honestly, you don’t know me. Every time I try to go to Key West I get my ass evacuated before I get anywhere near it due to various Hurricanes. I’ve gotten as far as Islamorada in the middle Keys to this point. I’m pretty sure someone in the Keys hates me and plans all this evacuation nonsense the second I book a ticket to any place in Florida. Bastards! They’ve obviously heard of my legendary capacity for tequila and are aware of the very real possibility I will make Key West a dry town within hours.



6. Drive across the U.S.A. and Canada: I’ve always wanted to drive across the country and now I want to do the same to Canada (I have no shame). There are so many places to see and no time (or money to do it). This makes me very sad. I like to drive. And I like to go places. This seems the perfect combination to me, why won’t my life cooperate? Won’t someone give me a grant?



7. Own a Vespa: I love Vespas. The closest I’ve ever come to owning a Vespa was an old Honda, 49cc Moped that used to belong to my room-mate’s dad. This was back in the 1990s, and I used it to zip around my town at a whopping 30mph (35 if you could find a vertical hill and coax a gale force wind to blow behind you!) The thing was fun but not very cool. I mean it had pedals, for the love of God. Pedals! The idea was you can either ride the bike with the engine or pedal it like a bicycle. In theory yes. In actuality? Don’t even go there. I once broke down a mile from home and tried to pedal that sucker home. It was like pushing a military tank with a feather. Oh you can pedal ok, but I defy anyone to make that sucker actually move. On the upside, I made three local teenagers practically laugh till they vomited.



8. Quit Swearing: Because I’m a potty mouth and it has to stop. I won’t though because swearing is funny, goddamn it. In print at least.

EIGHT

The lovely Mr. Radloff tagged me to do this meme thingy. If I ever meet Mr. Radloff face-to-face some day, I will have to kill him.

Naturally I can never just dole out one word answers I have to post a diatribe, so here's what I'll do. I'll post the first part today. And subsequent parts (rants, all of them) in following days. No? Believe me I'm doing you a favour by not killing you with words.

Eight Passions In My Life

1. Food: Who doesn’t love food? An idiot with no taste-buds, that’s who. Sadly good food is fattening so I must reluctantly limit my consumption of it and sacrifice my “all cake all the time” mantra, for a few carrots or accept that I may just be mistaken some day for the Goodyear Blimp. If a genie granted me three wishes, after the obvious “world peace” and “Get Britney a Decent Weave” my main wish would be that I could just eat food 24 hours a day without putting on an ounce.



2. Animals: Honestly, I love animals. People can bite me most of the time but animals are special. They provide unconditional love and trust. They live by instinct and are non judgmental. Me, I can’t even read animal cruelty stories on the news because it would ruin my entire week or send me into an axe-wielding homicidal frenzy. When I'm in a position to donate to charities it’s almost always animal shelters. I think being a crazy old cat lady one day sounds appealing.



3. Men: Men are nice to look at. You know, in theory. Naturally not all men. I mean look at Fabio. Or don’t, might be a more prudent idea.



4. Travel: The Guv’ner loves to travel. I would travel full-time if I didn’t have to do tiresome things like work and care for cats and men. I love to visit new places. I really want to do a lot more tropical traveling and maybe some sliding around in the Antarctic too. I would like to be one of those eccentric people who just live in an RV and go where they please.



5. Photography: I love photography. I love taking pictures and I love looking at pictures (again, not pictures of Fabio). I would love to be in the position to travel and take pictures and therefore kill two passions with one stone. Or something...



6. Music: I love music like everyone else. I play it too and have done since I was six and took up the recorder. I can read music, I can write music, I have written hundreds of songs, played in three bands, recorded for the BBC and played live in the UK and Europe. (Yes, I am aware the UK is IN Europe, thank you). I love having a fresh new song to listen to – those first few moments of aural delight, before it becomes familiar, are magical.



7. The Desert: Not to be mistaken for “The Dessert” which I’m also quite passionate about, particularly Lemon Meringue pie!
   
   I love the desert. I can only fathom that this is because I grew up in a cold country with long dark hours in winter and often extreme snow/wind/fog/rain. Really though I truly believe I was born to be a desert dweller. I just have a fascination for it and I feel a pull towards it. I love heat, sun soaked landscapes and sparse terrain. I am over the city.



8. Writing: Sure I’m passionate about it, but I’m also lackadaisical when it comes to actually doing it. I have started about eight books and haven’t finished a single one. I aim to rectify this, I really do, but you know, you have to have things aligned just right to be that creative.

Next up, 8 Things to do before I die. Boy, I bet you can hardly wait, huh!