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Wednesday, May 19, 2004

Looks like Upsaid is down again, so here's what you would see, if it weren't.

BUGGER ME!

Dear bar tender woman in the Standard,

I have been in a lot of bars in my time, and I MEAN, a lot. I have to say that without a shred of doubt you are the biggest most unpleasant bitch it has ever been my misfortune to run across. You are foul, surly, nasty, unhelpful, unpleasant and clearly you have a lot of issues. You should become a civil servant.

So, last night was incredible fun, despite my fears, and my provoking a last minute crisis when I absolutely HAD to piss just before I went on and everybody thought I was fleeing in panic. Many thanks to the fabulous Chris who covered gamely for me.

It was a fine cast, I think all present will agree.



It was really rather nice to spend the evening with such nice, funny, clever writers. Beats the shit out of watching anorexics fall over at the Lincoln Centre. And it's cheaper, too.

So here's what I read last night. Sadly, it's all true.

"The first time I ever went to Schillers Liquor Bar it was full of cunts. Metaphorical cunts, although obviously there were vaginas there, I just couldn’t see them at the time because the women were wearing knickers, or so I imagine. I mean, I can’t guarantee that they were all wearing knickers, I’m just telling you that I personally did not glimpse any vaginas that day. No, the metaphorical cunts were sitting Italianly around a table in their faux-80’s electroclash leg warmers and lace fingerless mittens. One particularly objectionable wanker was wearing dungarees and a stud belt.

They sat there, their laughter tinkling with self-regard, sublimely confident that everyone was looking at them and wanted to be them. My hatred was almost gleeful. I wanted to walk over and tell them that even in this veritable temple of pseudo-intellectual wannabe media hipster wankerdom, they still looked like utter fucking twats.

You see, these 20-something arseholes haven’t EARNED THE RIGHT to look like a cunt. They didn’t HAVE TO DO IT all through their teenage years in the 1980s because that was all that was in the shops if you didn’t want to be dressed by your mother and spend the rest of your life as the smelly weirdo, picking scabs and pissing down your leg in solitary confinement at the back of the classroom. I had to look like that, they had a choice. Choose life, Willamsburg. Stop being so painful and irritating.

Speaking of painful and irritating reminds me of the first time someone tried to bugger me. It came as something of a shock. You see, when I was growing up anal sex didn’t exist. Nor did penetration really. The first porn I saw was page 3 of the Sun. A topless large-breasted young lady in lacy knickers who listed her hobby as macramé. That's making handicrafts out of knotted string.

The next porn was a magazine that was passed around my class and nearly got me expelled from my convent school. Suffice to say I was caught with it in my schoolbag by my mother, and had to formally witness its ceremonial burning on the compost heap while she prayed for my soul. She sexually suspected me for the rest of her life. She had a point.

Later on, I saw some vaginas in a magazine a boyfriend brought back from Amsterdam. Gripping stuff. I remember one being this kind of pseudo-intellectual effort, called something portentous like THE INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF SEXUAL RELATIONS. Like Playboy, I’m sure people claimed to buy it for the articles. Of course they just skimmed over the split beavers and readers’ wives and accounts of randy truck drivers getting it on with willing hitchhikers. My mother found this porn too in the end, by cunningly searching underneath the spare tyre in my car boot. If she were still alive, Osama Bin Laden would be wearing an orange boiler as we speak.

So, a few more porn-free years until we get to around 1990. The Communist Block was getting freedom, and we in Britain were getting satellite TV for the first time ever. Very nice. Very nice indeed if you were into porn, as you could now access strictly illegal hardcore stuff via those nice people at the legendary channel Red Hot Dutch. On a sidenote, penetration is still not allowed in Britain, at least not on film. As the proud possessor of a law degree, I can share with you that the definition of whether a picture is obscene rests on whether the penis is at a 45 degree or more angle from the body. 44 degrees ok. 46 and it’s a fair cop, guv.

This knowledge came in handy when a colleague who routinely took pictures of all her sexual conquests, naked and post coital, rang me in a panic one day. It turned out she’d dropped off a film for processing but was worried a couple of her conquests had still been erect at the time of their portraits. We debated, using pens and post- it notes, and finally concluded that the angle had been more in the region of 30 degrees, and sort of leaning over a bit. Flaccid enough, we decided.

Anyway, the whole impact of Red Hot Dutch (which was banned by the UK government a couple of years later) was to briefly drag buggery kicking and screaming into the 20th century. I mean, of course we knew anal sex existed. But it was for boys. I had a rampant sexual imagination but I never dreamed anyone would want to stick their organ up my sphincter. I was catholic. I thought poo was sinful. I was constipated on religious grounds, for chrissake. It could have KILLED me!

So there was a brief exposure to buggery, but not long enough I think to make the definitive case for its regular practice among the heterosexual fashionistas. At this stage, it was still an elitist sport, restricted to women who shagged racing drivers or fading coke-fuelled members of Duran Duran.

Of course, my parents being alcoholic depressive luddites meant we didn’t have satellite TV. We didn’t even have colour TV or a stereo not made of wood until I was 20. So Red Hot Dutch passed me by. I discarded my virginity at the age of 18 in Greece with a speed-freak called Paul who had lost the tip of his finger in a freak deck-chair accident. It was perfunctory to the point of dull, and I was just relieved to have shed the increasingly uncool burden of my hymen.

Fast forward to 1991 and I’m sitting on the top of Primrose Hill in London on New Year’s Eve watching the fireworks and smoking a joint with my on-off fuck buddy Max. Max was living in Spain at the time, studying how to make toys. I thought that was quite exotic of him. We went back to his folks place – his mother was a conveniently permissive alcoholic – and began to have the kind of sex you have when you’re 21 and you think you’re finally grown-up because you can fuck someone without being in love with them.

We’re jogging along quite nicely when all of a sudden I feel a distinctly unfamiliar nudging at my arse. I shifted politely and he shifted insistently. I shifted warningly and he shifted persistently. Finally I asked him what the fuck he was doing. He told me he wanted to place his erect penis inside my arse. Well, that’s not quite how he said it, but essentially it was what he meant. I was momentarily stunned into silence, which he optimistically mistook for complicity, quickly launching himself into a hopeful stab.

“Fuck Off!” I yelled. “No fucking way!”. I prided myself on my sexual liberation but no man or beast was going to prod MY turds with his engorged love pump. I think I felt it violated my socialist feminist principles in some way. I can’t for the life of me now work out why. “Oh come on,” he said. “I saw it on a porn channel in Spain. It’s supposed to be fun.” It turned out that Max could access banned porn on his TV via his satellite dish. It wasn’t decoded but if he switched to the right channel and jiggled up and down on his sofa while squinting furiously at the screen, he could get the general idea. At least that’s what he told me he was doing.

Well, it was one general idea too much for me. My anus remained unviolated and we parted amicably. Ironically enough, a couple of years later I went out with a French man. Come back Max, all is forgiven."

Friday, March 19, 2004

Looks like the Hobbits got me again. Upsaid.com appears to have been wiped out by a neutron bomb or something.

I think I may have fallen into a gutter at some point on my way home last night. My hands were dirty when I woke up on my couch this morning. That's a pretty big clue.

I have a terrible fear of Hoboken cab drivers. Not that they're bad drivers or psychotic killers or anything. It's really just sheer embarrassment. I'm fairly sure that when I fall off the PATH train at 3am my auto-pilot kicks in and takes me to the taxi queue. I'm fairly sure that I state my address correctly, as I tend to wind up in my apartment, if not precisely in my bed. And I guess I pay them, but how much I pay them is anybody's guess. Enough so they don't beat me up, I suppose.

The problem is, I don't ever remember any of this. But they will, because they're sober when I'm flying like a fllaming arsehole through the sky. And I can just imagine what they say the next morning when they see me scuttling shamefacedly to the PATH station, eyes lowered, head bowed, soul mortified.

"Eh, there's the drunk English girl. She's up early this morning.

"Yeah, I had to carry her in to her apartment last night.

"You too? I've had to do that a few times myself. She's only little but Christ she weighs a ton!

"Do you sit her on the toilet? I generally do, otherwise she's prone to accidents.

"Yeah. Then I put her on the couch. She snores like a pig.

"True. But she's got a PS2. That's fun. I'm halfway through her Ratchet & Clank 2 at the moment.

"I'm still on Klonoa myself. I've got further than she ever did though. I'm doing her a favour.

"But she never has any food in the house though. Only popcorn and peanut butter.

"I usually call a pizza. She has great Polish vodka though, don't you think?

"Mmmm. I prefer beer. I bring my own six pack.

"Yeah. It's a shame she's not better looking, you know what I mean?

"Yeah. She has great hair, but she drools a lot."

Friday, January 23, 2004

NOT SO FAST, MR BOND. I, SAURON THE ALL POWERFUL WILL PUT AN END TO YOUR LITTLE GAME.

Ha. The furries of Middle Earth have not won. I'm back where I belong. Screw blogspot.

Until the same time next month, or the Hobbits get me. Whichever is soonest.
LISTEN UP HOBBIT LOVERS.

You can take my internationally-acclaimed (I have fans in Finland, you know) blog down, you can deny the world my Tolkein-hating genius, hell, you can even step on my blue suede shoes, but you cannot deny me my freedom to deride second-rate fantasy novels.

Lo, though verily you plunge me into the Chasm of Doom, like Gandalf after four heavy rounds with a Balrog, I rise, rise to ever more greatness, albeit with a design that totally fucking sucks like Wormtongue up Theoden's arse.

Though I hate to admit it, Blogger is my own personal Frodo, a dogged, humourless saviour, willing to trek to the ends of Middle-Earth to throw cheap jewellery away (good move there, Frodo, from a grooming perspective), yet unable to wind down after the ordeal with a laugh and a glass of wine clutched in his nine-remaining fingers.

If this blog-loss turns out to be somewhat more mundane in origin, I apologise, oh worthy halfling devotees, but as mighty Legolas once said to that raging psycho Boromir, sometimes it's hard to know who's trying to stick what up you.

I'm off to go kiss an orc.
Lost in fucking cyberspace again. Fucking Upsaid.com is down, and as a result, so is Eurotrash. I fear I have enraged the hobbits and they got Gandalf to blow up the Upsaid servers. Pesky little fuckers.

Monday, December 22, 2003

And I can't even add comments as I can't figure out how the hell to edit this fucker. I'm truly in hell.
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT.

FOR THOSE WHO CARE.

FROM EUROTRASH.

I appear to have been cut off in my prime. I've never had a penis, but now I know how it feels to have one cut off. Dreadful. My oxygen of publicity is gone. I am no-one, nothing. Nobody loves me or even tells me off any more. Not only am I in England where no-one knows what a blog is, but I'm cut off from my server and I can no longer share my pain with anyone outside of my family home.

God this is awful. And here I am, squeezed into the unfamiliar blogspot. It's like wearing plastic knickers - plainly wrong.

I have no idea how long this will last or how I will cope with it.

Pray for me.

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