Cheating dogs.

Aha, oh dearie me, oh John Prescott, oh Chris de' Don't pay the Ferryman' Burgh, oh, sniff David golden balls Beckham, Oh Hugh bumbling Grant, oh, Clint-I did not have sexual relations with that woman-on, oh Paddy Clancy from down the road. What have they all got in common. They all fucked around on their other halves and got caught rapid.
What in the name of mickey relief made them cheat on women who were by and large too good for them with women who were, by and large, yuckier.
And why do these women stay with them afterwards? Hum, Mary Archer?
John Prescott is a fat, ugly, charmless behemoth, Beluga whale of a man. His wife appears to be a charming rather glamour pussed lady, younger and lither than he. His bit of nookie fluff looks -to my expert eye-like a hard faced, droop-titted piece of rough. And yet he chanced his arm, and indeed his reputation and job, on bedding said wench, who then, proving my point somewhat about the hard face part, sold her story to the highest bidder.
Politics and scandal, power and sex.
It is such a cliché.
Years ago, in my mispent youth, I worked in a nightclub, maning the door on a Satdee and fridee night. And oh dear, the amount of extra-married nookiefied commings and goings I witnessed in the eight months I worked there-before the owners copped that the two bouncers and I were fleecing them-and rightly so, our wages were apalling, well, they would have been if it wasn't for my quick and light fingers and ability to organise a scam-was shocking.
People would come in and slip me a fiver, 'you haven't seen me, right?' And then the following week, say 'Hullo there!' and I would hesitate, was I seeing them? Wasn't I seeing them? Was she his wife or was it the other one, or the other other one? Should I palm that tenner or write it in the book? Want a dinner ticket guvner? No? Excellent.
Sometimes women would ask me if I'd seen people, and I shake my head very slowly. No, I never saw anyone. Then a woman might say, 'but he told me to meet him here', and then I'd say, 'Oh well, maybe I did see him, he's inside.'
It was all very trying.
So I read the papers yesterday and I laughed about old Prescott and then I warned the Paramour. If you go dipping the wick and I find out about it, I won't be one of those ladies that cries and goes to her friends and bitches and eats chocolate and cries and watches sad movies and cries. I won't blame myself, that would be stupid. But chances are I will have your balls hanging from my mantelpiece as a decoration.
He nodded. 'I already figured that out for myself.'
'Good.'
Once we all know where we stand. People should be upfront about these kinds of things.

Getting ugly.

I knew this was coming.

Duke Lacrosse Update.

It seems the case against the Duke players has been dealt another blow.
Defence lawyers have discovered that the woman at the centre of the case also made a similiar claims to police back in '96. She claimed she was attacked and raped by three men when she was fourteen in an unspecified location in Creedmore, about fourteen miles from Durham. The men were never arrested and no details as to why not have been released. Mike Nifong has not released a statement.

This, naturally, is going to go towards credibility and is incredibly damaging to his case.
There have already been calls to dismiss the charges.

Shit, allow me to introduce you to Mrs Fan.

We were at the rented house. My mother was was lurking by the window, hyperventilating and claiming she had 'heart palpitations'. I was telling her to calm down and filling a vase of lillies with water. I carried the flowers through to the sitting room and was considering whether or not to take a look through her handbag for some kind of pill-either for me or her- when my sister's car pulled into the drive.
'THEY"RE HERE!!!' My mother screamed, frightening me so much I almost almost dropped the vase.
'Jesus, will you oooowowwww -'
She slid across to grab my upper arm in a pinching painful grip.
'Is that her?' She said, as a small dark skinned woman in a red fleece stepped out of the passenger side.
'Well let me see, the tall man is your son and the woman driving the car is your daughter, so I'm thinking, yep, that's probably her.'
'Oh shut up.' she hissed, flew across the room and flung open the door.
'Huuuloooo there!' She cooed falsetto.
'Hey there Mam.' My brother, or rather the man inhabiting my brother's form, all lanky and longish hair, looking strangly blonder than I remember it, dropped his bag, bent down and gave her a hug.
Ma burst out crying. My elder sister rolled her eyes at me.
'Cat this is Grace.' My sister introduced me to my brother's wife.
'Hello.' I said, wiping my damp hands on my skirt.
'Hello.' she said and grabbed me for a double kiss.
'oohh.' I said. 'oh, yes ha ha.'
It was awkward, we both went in the same direction, behind her ma's tears were reaching the heavens, but I recognised the false ring... she was stalling.
I could see my brother trying to wriggle free.
'Come here you!' I said, forcing her to release him.
'And this is my mother.' I said as my brother finally broke free and gave me a hug.
She tried the double kiss on Ma, Ma stiffly stuck out her hand. I think it jabbed Grace in the chest.
'Hello.'
Grace dropped her arms and shook her hand. 'Hello.'
'So you're the lady who married my son.'
My sister mumbled something about getting bags out of the car and bolted back out the door.
'Nice to finally meet you.' My mother said making 'meet' sound like 'murder'.
Eeeekk, I can see my mother look her up and down, her mouth tight with disapproval.
If Grace is offended by my mother's behind the gate growling she doesn't let on. My brother has probably briefed her well.
She is tini-tiny, she has long beautiful dark glossy hair and dark brown eyes. She is curvy. She looks about twelve-even though we know she is twenty-two. She also has a set to her jaw that I recognise, this one is no push over.
Eeekk.
We go in. I show the bride and groom around the house. They declare themselves delighted, and they are also clearly exhausted. I promise them we won't stay long. My brother ruffles my hair. I'm beam at him like a moron. Eeeeeeeeeeee, it's good to have him back.
Back downstairs Etheline and her fiancé arrive, with Poppy. More hugs. Etheline gives Grace the once over and I see her lip do the exact same thing my mother's did. Poor Grace, the odd are stacking up against her.
We stay for a while, not too long. My mother ask my brother about a million questions which he answers gamely. He is very pointed though, he says 'We're thinking about this,' and 'we're thinking about that.'
My mother refers to him as 'my son' at every opportunity. She interrogates Grace, abetted my Etheline, where did she meet 'my son', what did her parents think of her moving to Ireland with 'my son', what made her and 'my son' get fucking married so quickly (she doesn't say fucking but you can hear it in the pause)?
I am amused to watch her grow more and more irritable as Grace-who, much to Etheline's annoyance, has Poppy on her lap - answers most questions and seem oblivious to her snips.
We prepare to leave, Etheline snatches her dog back, we make plans for dinner on Friday. My mother is at a loss. This Grace person is nice, seems kind, my brother clearly loves her and she doesn't seem to get rattled easily. Even Poppy likes her.
What is an angry middle-aged mother to do?
But Grace solves it all for us, by declaring she is dying for a cigarette.
'Don't tell me you smoke Grace?' My mother says, her eyes glistening. 'Oh now, all mine gave that filthy habit up years ago.'
Grace admits her efforts to quit.
My mother nods sagely. ' Oh yes, I believe it can be very difficult, such a disgusting habit, I really can't imagine how anyone in this day and age does it.' She sniffs. 'It is against the law in this country to smoke in bars and restaurants you know.'
'Mam, come on.' My eldet sister says glancing at her watch. 'I've got to get home and these two look like they're dead on their feet.'
We arrange dinner for tonight and after another round of kissing and shaking we make out way out. My mother has the light of a zealot burning in her eyes.
A smoker. The chink in the armour.
God help Grace.

Hollywood update- Charlie Sheen has been hit with another lawsuit: a woman claims he basically stole her life for a character on his sit-com, bad Charlie, bad boy.
Josh Holloway worries about his weight and claims he likes beer- oh Josh, Josh, Joshie poo. I would sooooooo not throw you out of bed for eating crisps.

Asshole central.

I want it to be known across the land, well across the tini-tiny piece of blogland that I occupy, that I, Fatmammycat, am up disgustingly early and am hungover like a fox. My brother arrives back later today, how nice that he should find me much as he left me.
I also want it to be known that every time I wake up singing Kayne West songs, that I am
A) cross.
B) hungover
C) puzzled.
How do I know the lyrics? This is what I woke up singing...
'You mean Tarib, lyrics stick to ye ribs, I mean, that's my favourite song that I play in my crib, I mean, you don't really know him Nonchalant, Hey Ty, she don't believe me, please pick up the line...'
'Cheeep cheeepp.'
WTF? I cracked open and eye and said. 'Shut it you sparrowstarling bastards! I'll cheep you, I'll cheep you good and proper!'
Then I got out of bed and drank a gallon of water.

I shouldn't drink beer, it dosen't really suit me. I also shouldn't drink beer on an empty stomach. I also shouldn't drink beer on an empty stomach, go to bars, watch Barcelona v Milan in the company of an asshole.
Well actually, he was there already. We just joined him at his table.
This asshole is a friend of the paramour, well wait, friend is stretching it, they play soccer together. He is a know-it-all and has consistently got on my nerves for some time now, with his knowitallitness. You know the type, he's in his forties, living in a shared flat because he doesn't want to settle down, hangs around with much younger men, does coke a lot (because yeah, hey buddy, that's gonna make you less of a fucking asshole) blah-blah-cheedi-ra.
Normally I can let this kind of stuff slide right on by, but, after an afternoon with my mother and too much beer, somehow his utter knowitalliness and notshuttingthefuckupiness just rubbed me the wrong way.
And when he started to 'tell me' how the paramour is, and how the paramour was 'too nice' to be something or other, I found I had listened to enough.
'Don't start telling me about him, I don't want to hear it.'
'Yeah that's right. you don't want to hear it because you know I'm right.'
'I don't want to hear it because you're such an asshole' I may have said loudly.
'No you're an asshole.' He might have said.
'Fuck you.' Someone probably said.
''No fuck you.' Might have been the rejoinder.
'Asshole. I'm going home.' Ah, the favourite of the ladies.
So I left. Poor paramour, he came too, because he is a gentleman.
But I didn't go home, I went to another bar and spent an hour drinking more beer and giving out about the asshole that I'm still giving out about now.
Between the headache and the bloody Kayne West songs...sigh, I don't know which is worse.
Oh no wait, I do.
"you know the type, loud as a motorbike, but wouldn't bust a grape in a fruit fight."
How do I know this shit, and before anyone bothers I know that wasn't Kayne, it was Jay-Z.
Jesus, I'm going back to bed.


Now that I can at least keep a mouthful of coffee down, some
HOLLYWOOD TAT- possible June 25th wedding on the line for Nicole Kidman and her country crooner boyfriend, Keith Urban. All righty then.

Oh no! Don't answer that...

phone!
Doomed, I'm doomed I tells ya.
Alright, after the beer drinking, hoarse, shouting match last night, the Paramour naturally stayed over to...er celebrate the win in style.
So this morning a stiff and ever so slightly hungover paramour was stumbling around the sittingroom looking for his keys, pants, underwear and whatever else was scattered around.
I was asleep, buried under the duvet, dreaming of horses . In the distance I thought I heard a jangle. My horse looked at me.
'I think that was your phone' he said in a strangely accented morose voice. I kicked him in the flank and we leaped a six bar gate and began to race across a meadow, fleck of sweat and streaks of foam, his breath white in the freezing air, my hands tangled deep in his mane.
Quiet horsey, none of your lip!
But then I thought I heard a muffled 'hello?'
My horse whinnied and the meadow shimmered and lost its solidity.
Then I definitely heard. 'oh, hello there, ha, ha, yes I'm the, ha, yes the boyfriend. Oh no, really? Well I'm sure...no she's alseep, would you like me to...'
Aiiieeeeeee!!
I leaped out of bed and ran, flying, hair streaming, up the hall, taking the corner hard, skidding slidding, breasts free and jiggling, into the sittingroom.
Paramour pulled a face. 'Sorry' he mouthed at me. 'Um huh,' he actually said out loud, to my mother-for it was she- who was now in full flight.
'Oh.' I said, and like a tyre that has been slashed. 'oooohhh' I collapsed bare-arsed onto a rather cold leather chair.
Eeek, cold. My ankles twined aroud each other in misery.
I watched the paramour as he tried to escape. But to escape one must be able to speak, and to speak one must be able to get a word in and to get a word in my mother would have to shut her yap for two seconds and to do that she would need to draw breath, which, for some strange reason, she does not need to do.
I watched him nod, pace, nod, glance towards me, look at his watch, nod, say 'Uh hum yes I see' pace, glace despairingly at his watch again, until I could stand it no longer.
I leaped up- ow, -my arse had warmed up the leather and I kind of stuck to it- snatched the phone from him.
'Novice' I mouthed at him.
'Nice tits' he mouthed back.
'Mum!'
'Ohhhh, awake are we?' My mother said in a voice so gloatingly delighted I almost flung the phone out the window.
'Yes I'm awake, and I'll call you back in a while.'
''Your boyfriend sounds lovely.' She said, putting a slithering emphasis on 'sounds'.
'Yes.' I said.
'You know your brother is home tomorrow.'
'I know.'
'I thought we might head over to the house, make sure there's enough sheets and towels. I didn't realise you had...company.'
I swear, I could actually hear her filling her teeth, ready to take her pointy bloodsucking nips.
'Right.' I said.
'So I'll be up that way, you want to come over to the house with me? We should probably get a few bits and pices in, put milk in the fridge, I'm sure neither your brother or his wife (hiss hiss) will feel like shopping when they get here.'
'Right. Okay the I'll give you a hand.' I am cursing. Her, my brother, the paramour, me for having a phone.
'Good, then you can tell me all about your little guest there.'
My skin prickles.
We agree a time and I hang up.
'Sorry.' My little guest looks slightly forlorn, 'I don't know why I picked it up, I was half asleep and it-'
'It's all right.' I say.
'She sounds nice.'
I roll my eyes. 'Yep. She sounds-' I do a little slithering of my own- 'just dandy.'
I kiss him good bye and wander off to the bathroom. As I run the shower I wonder what sort of afternoon I will have. With my mother, already vicious about my brother's new bride, now gloating over her discovery, will surely be in her element.
'She sounds lovely' I mimic, falsetto, to the bigger of the cats who wanders into the bathroom, 'Ooohhhh yes, she's a fucking delight!'

HOLLYWOOD TAT!- Britney's pregnant again. Why in the name of God Britney, why?

Man's best friend.

I am horrified at this story . It is mind boggling to me that in a country as prosperous are ours so many animals are being destroyed every year. When are people going to act responsibly with regards to pets? It is really very simple. If you have a dog and you don't want puppies, get it nuetered or spayed. And absolutely the same rule for cats, who can have a at least two litters of up to six kittens a year.
There is just no excuse for it. Neuter your pets.


HOLLYWOOD TAT!- Denise Richards, estranged wife of Charlie Sheen, is now dating Richie Sambora, which is kinda wrong becasue Sambora was up, until very recently, married to Heather Locklear, Richards good friend and emotional support system. I am wagging my finger at the screen right this second. Women should not fuck around with their friend's husbands, ex or no. It is a big no-no in my book.

Update! Now is the time for getting ready for Arsenal versus Villarreal, second leg of the Champion's league. I must chill the beer just so, make popcorn, just so, and be in the exact same set outfit as the last game-suspicious fatcat that I am. There's no Senderos, Sol is bloomin' back and tempers are already flared. Oh ye fickle GODS!! What are ye up to?
Talk later!!

Disease? That's not a disease...

I had the little goth kid from downstairs up here yesterday, farting about, listening to music, petting the cats and generally being a teenager, while I made chicken curry and polished off the remains of a bottle of white South African wine.
Anyhoo, the kid was hummmming and hawwwiinnng around the kitchen and I could sense a question coming my way. I raced through my list of things I am not prepared to talk about with a fourteen- almost fifteen- year old and came up with pretty much nothing except for anal sex.
Eventually she plonked herself on a work top near the bowl of chocolate icing I was about to pop into the fridge.
'Miss cat?'
'Uh huh.' I said.
'Do you think I'm fat?'
I find that, despite being delicate little things with feelings and mood swings and all sorts of hormonal shit going on, teenagers do not appreciate being lied to. On the other hand, read the middle of that sentence again.
I looked at her carefully. She is tall, has long hair-which she has sort of dyed a strange marmalade colour this week- fairly clear skin, and good teeth. Like a lot to younger teenagers she has a bit of puppy fat, she is probably about ten pounds over weight. But then she tends to sit about a lot, being too cool for walking and stuff. And she slouches, if she stood up straight she...oh Jesus, that was close, I almost channelled my mother there for a second.
So, did I think she was fat?
'No sweetie, I don't.'
She actually beamed at me. And for a single moment she was the most beautiful creature on the planet, bar none.
'Why do you ask?'
'Some girls in my class sorta said I was fat.'
'Bitches,' I said, 'ignore them.'
She shrugged. 'One of them was taken into hospital this week. They think she's got anorexia.'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah, her and this other girl, they were really thin, but then they found a pro-ana site-
'A what?'
She told me, a pro-ana site is a site where kids can log on and talk about how cool it is to be anorexic. There is also a pro-mia site for bulimics.
Jesus fucking wept.
I listend for a while, or at least until my patience ran out.
'Look honey.' I said, when I got a word in edge ways. 'I don't care, let the silly bitches stay in hospitel being force fed, let them waste away to nothing, I don't care.'
'Huuuuuhhhm... oh my God, you really don't care?' She said, surprised more that shocked.
'Nope' I said, adding coconut milk to the wok. 'There are plenty of kids dying the world over because they simply can't get access to food, these silly cows are killing themselves because they can but they don't want it.'
'But it's a... disease!' She said, pronouncing 'disease' with such hushed reverence I started to laugh.
'PC crap. Cancer is a disease,' I said savagely, pouring the basmati rice into the boiling salted water. 'As far as I am concerned anorexia is a life style choice, same as alcoholism, drug abuse, obesity and any other bullshit outcome from poor decision making. People don't want to hear that because people don't want to be responsible for anything, it's always someone else's fault or it's a disease or whatever, they want peple to think 'ohhhh poor thing, it's not their fault'. Well bollocks to that, I'm not buying what they're selling.'
Well naturally the kid flapped around a bit, offering me the soundbites she had heard while I snorted and raised the odd eyebrow.
'Everyone keeps saying how sorry they feel for them,' she said softly, 'so did I, but really... I don't get it, what's so great about vomiting?'
'Or shitting until your arse bleeds.' I said, adding three spoons of sugar to the cream I was about to whip.
'Bleaugh!' she said horrified. 'Is that true?'
'Or growing fur all over your body to keep warm.' I added. 'Or watching your hair fall out in clumps while your teeth rot from the bile in your stomach. Ohh yeah, sounds great, sounds totally cool.'
I passed her the wooden spoon.
She licked an inch of chocolate from it, her expression thoughtful.
'You really think it's stupid?'
'I sure do.'
'Me too.' she said and gave me that smile again.

Puppies!!!

Alright, I own three cats, so while I live in an apartment I shall not be getting any more animals. In fact, while cleaning up occasional pools of cat sick or the odd 'accident' on plastic bags, I swear I won't EVER get another animal as long as I live, and that the ones I do own ARE VERY LUCKY they are still breathing.
Anyhoo.
This morning I went out early to get the papers. I was on my way home, munching on a pastry, when I saw ...a french bulldog.
I love these little chaps! So boisterous, so funny, so delightfully ugly, so charming...oh I could go on. There he was marching out ahead of his owner, wearing a litte red brace, pink tongue curled.
'EEEEEEEE!!!' I said before galloping after the monster walking him. 'EEEEEEEEE! EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE MEEEEEEE!'
He stopped and looked around slightly alarmed. 'Yes?'
'I'm so sorry,' I said spraying flaky crumbs all over him, 'but is he a french bulldog?' (of course he was, but I couldn't think of any other opening that didn't make me sound like a nut.)
'Yes he is.' The man said smiling and not brushing crumbs off himself. Oh Frenchbull dogs have such nice owners.
'What's his name?'
''Charlie'
'Hi Charlieeeeeee' I squatted down and rubbed the top of his squat head, the dog said 'Snarrfff snarff' and flung himself on his back. I squealed. 'EEEEeee he's so fricking cute!' and rubbed his belly. Charlie wiggled happily.
This went on for some time. Eventually the man sort of cleared his throat and I remembered I was in the middle of the street and not a petting zoo. Slightly red faced I clambered to my feet. The dog righted himself too, he didn't look any less cute, eeeee.
'I sorry I just absolutely adore them. Did you get him here in Ireland?'
'No, he's from a breeder in France. I don't know anyone that breeds them here.'
'Oh?'
The man paused for a second looked from his happy snarffing dog to my crestfallen face.'
'If you like I can send you their web page. Do you have an email address?'
I beamed and gave a total stranger my email address. He wrote it down on the back of his hand with a green biro.
'Okay then.' he smiled.'Well we best be off.'
'Thanks a lot.' I said, 'Bye Charlieeee.'
I rubbed him some more.
'Snrffffff snarffff.'
'Eeeeeee.' I clasped my hands together before I burst out crying with delight. (I really do like them)
Any way, it has made me grin. And the man did send me the email, it arrived a few minutes ago ( they are such nice people, those French Bulldogs owners).
I have been squealing with delight at the pictures of puppies for some time now.
I want one! They're just darling.
The cats look worried.

Friday! A day of cock ups and alcohol.

Well now, not yet late afternoon and already I'd wager I will need the steady pouring hand of my local barkeep later to help ease this day behind me.
I overslept you see, and this made me late for kickboxing.
Being late for kickboxing is like being late for assembly. You come in and everybody looks, ashen faced, at you as you stumble woolly headed through the door, your bag spilling shin pads and socks thither and yon.
Memnoch was most wrathful. Because I was late he had already assigned Claire with someone else. Someone was missing and that meant every body had partners. He left me standing by the kick bag for what seemed like an eternity before he even deigned to turn his head.
'Oh, you decided to join us.'
I might as well have been eight years old.
'So sorry,' I muttered, 'work was-'
He held his hand up, palm first. Memnoch does not care, and anyway he can see from my hair I have just fallen out of bed and raced there. My lies only serves to insult him and dig me deeper into the shit.
'Everybody is already partnered up,' he says in a tone that scrapes my epidermis like a knee sliding on an all weather pitch. His eyes are dead, like headlamps waiting for someone to throw the ignition.
'Oh.' I say, pathetically
Everybody is skipping and yet no one seems to be breathing, how can that be? I can hear the ropes slap the mats, but no breathing.
'You can work with me.' he says, and now I can his eyes are not dead after all. There is a definite flicker of malice there, how could I have been so blind not to notice.
Short of bursting out crying and fleeing the scene -which Memnoch expects of girls anyway- I have no choice. I hurry to the changing room and get changed rapidly. I bind my shin pads extra tight and wish I had hobbit fairy chain mail to protect my body.
Gulp, fucking gulp.
Oh well, no point pretending it was anything other than the torture I deserved.
Because I had not been given a chance to warm up properly Memnoch's every kick and punch into the pads jarred my body so badly I had a headache ten minutes into practice. As he demonstrated different moves to the class, I threw my weight into the pads and gritted my teeth as each blow sent me back couple of feet. Occasionally he would give me a few seconds to shake out my arms, then proceed to kick the shit out of my pads again. When it was his turn to hold he demanded every kick and punch be higher, faster, stronger, "KICK THROUGH THE PAD! Come on, FOCUS, turn your foot, long line, come on, call that punch, HIT IT!"
After a while my muscles were screaming, the sweat that wasn't running into my eyes and stinging the shit out of them was flying in all directions. I started to feel clumsy. I got a stitch that I ignored, knowing if I mentioned it he would get that look and I would be humiliated.
Around me everyone else was feeling the effects of my lateness too as he drilled us like a major with sun stroke.
Then he pulled it out. The big gun, the kicker.
'Right, we've got twenty five minutes of class left, and since every one of you lot seems to be flimflamming ( I don't know what it means either) it today, get the kettlebells, we going to hit it.'
Fuck gulp fuck. We are dazed.
'MOVE!"
We move. Strength conditioning meets endurance. The worst thing in the whole world to do to an laready exhausted body.
By the time the buzzer sounded to end class no one, save the Canadian, was standing and he wasn't so much standing as clinging to the kick bag heaving air into his body, trying not to puke.
The rest of us lay in various puddles on the mats, there was some groaning, some wincing, a lot of wet spots.
Claire rolled over to me, her face contorted in pain as she tried desperately to prevent her hamstring from cramping.
'I'm sorry.' I said before she could say anything.
'Yeah.' She said and rolled away again.
Yeah. At least she didn't spit at me.

As I limped home I realised something else. I didn't have my keys.
I stopped at a phone box and called Etheline. She called me 'a spa' and, not very graciously, said she'd go to her home, pick up the spare set, come back in and open my apartment for me.
So I sat on the ground outside my apartment for forty minutes, like a stinking, redfaced troll, trying hard to ignore the looks I was getting. Shortly before Etheline arrived I watched the Harpy come up the street with her shopping trolley behind her.
Shit.
She nodded at me.
I nodded at her.
She dug around in her bag for her keys. But I could see her cast the odd glance my way. I pretended not to notice her, which is very hard to do when you're sitting inches from her hem. Then.
'Is everything all right?'
I turned my head to her as if surprised to discover that she is still there. God I'm a terrible actress.
'Oh fine.'
'Why are you sitting outside?'
'I locked myself out.' I try smiling, can't pull it off. 'I'm waiting for my sister to come with the spare keys.'
This throws her, a charitable person would ask you to come in while you wait, a gracious person would accept. But we have had a lot of run-ins in the past and this is new and unwanted territory.
'Do you-'
'No no, I'm fine.'
Both of us look relieved.
She goes inside quickly. Presently Etheline arrives, calls me some more names, opens the apartment door and I am home.


HOLLYWOOD TAT. The Donald, aka Donald Trump has also procurred a new baby boy. It is an awful pity he would not procure himself a new hair stle.
Jennifer Aniston claims she is sick of tabloids. Boo hoo.
And finally, Nicole Kidman wished Katie Holmes and the new baby well. She never mentioned Tom Cruise and one gets the feeling she wishes he would climb into his space craft and fly far far away.

The Da Vinci Code is ficton.

Oh, groogy. Up a little late after watching football last night and I'm sleepy like a fox.
The other night, after my cabbage debacle, I was sitting somewhat grumpily on the sofa with the bigger of the cats and a glass of wine watching...sigh, the Chonicles of Riddick.
I remember wondering just how much money Judi Dench got for appearing in something so terrible,'don't threaten me nercromancer' she said at one point and I sniggered. It was terrible, and I was half thinking of getting off my arse, turning off the lights and going to bed when the phone rang.
I looked at the cat, he looked at me. Neither of us moved. I looked at my watch. It was late for a week night and I wondered if I should answer it or not, but the ringing was annoying and it didn't appear to be stopping. After a while I snatched it up.
'Lo?'
'Hiya!'
One of my country friends I like a lot but don't see very often.
'Hey there girl.'
I carried the phone into the kitchen and poured another glass, she is a talker, this girl.
Anyhoo, she blathered on for a while, giving me the run down of every person who has died and nearly died and all the gossip about people I don't really know and care less about.I told her about Country gay's new hair cut and we both wondered if he is over Cherries. She asked what I had been up to lately and so on.
But after about half an hour she suddenly said, 'The Da Vinci Code is being released in a few weeks, I can't wait.'
'Yeah, should be good.' I said nonchalantly. I was thinking of Tom Hanks and his terrible hair.
'You know,' she said, somewhat breathlessly. 'I believe it.'
'What?'
'The book!'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean it's probably all true.'
Now, I was sure I heard correctly but I tested the water.
'Er...it's fiction.'
'No it's not, it was proven in court.'
'No it wasn't the court case was over plagerism, Brown's plot was very similiar to The Blood and the Grail.'
'That's not what I heard.'
'Well, it was. I mean for heaven's sake, darling, one of the character's Teabag is an anagram of...'
But you know what? I was totally wasting my breath.
She believes it.She believes Jesus married Mary Magdalene, had babies-who all moved to France (France for ...er Christ's sake) and the church is covering it all up. She said 'what about the painting?'
I said 'Leonardo was a superb painter but he wasn't actually at the last supper, it's not like he took a photo, it is a representation-
But she sorta sniffed at this and she rang off shortly thereafter.
I think she is offended.
I told all this to the paramour yesterday while he was chopping up bits of chicken.
'What do you make of it?' I asked as he flung some fat to the cats who were lined up behind him.
'Does she believe in hobbits too?'
'Of course not.' I said.
'Are you sure?'
'I'm sure.'
'Well, there you go.'
There I go what? I thought as I set the table.
This is bizarre to me. She believes it.
And that is, apparently, that.

HOLLYWOOD TAT. Madonna is considering more children. Give it up Madge, you're eggs are probably hard boiled at this stage.
Sienna Miller is receiving death threats. Meh, can't care, won't care.
Whitney is is rehab, nobody seems very surprised.

Most hated foods.

All this talk of placenta eating reminds me of liver and ergo, food I really hate.
I was out last night having a perfectly good meal of steak and mushroom pie (which I was eating very carefully one substance at a time-don't ask) and a side order of mixed vegetables, when suddenly I noticed a curious metalic taste. I chewed on, slowly at first, but gradually I had to stop.
Oh oh.
Because I was at a table of work people I couldn't start spitting into a napkin, so I had no option but to leap up with a loud clatter of cutlery and say 'Exthuuss meth' and hurry, okay, sprint to the bathroom. There, after I practically shoved one woman aside, I proceeded to be very sick indeed. I was still in the bathroom washing my tongue in the vile tasting tap water when one of the directors of the company I had been talking to came in to see if I was all right.
'Are you all right?' She asked.
'Yeth.' I said trying hard not to sluice and spit and gargle all at the same time. I swallowed the water. My throat closed before I could sneak it past. It came back up. I blinked desperately at her.
'You're pregnant aren't you?' She said with a warm 'we're all women here' smile. 'I used to get morning sickness like this, in the evenings, ho ho ho.
'No.' I replied, heaving the water into sink despite her pressence, 'not pregnant, cabbage.'
'Excuse me?'
'Cabbage, I don't like cabbage, it makes me sick. There was cabbage in my mixed veg.' I said running my wrists under the cold water and trying not to think about it.
'Cabbage?'
'Yes.'
'Are you allergic to it?'
'No, I just don't like it.'
'I see.'
'It makes me sick.'
'Right.' She looked at my pale sweating face and smiled stiffly. 'Well, I'll...best get back out there.'
'Be right with you.' I nodded, still with my hands under the water.
After she left, I shook my hands, rinsed and spat some more, reapplied my makeup, ignored the woman I had shoved who came out out of the stall and glared at me, and tried to dry the sweat at the nape of my neck.
I have avoided cabbage most of my adult life. My mother made me eat it once when I was three and said that if I didn't 'finish what was on my plate'I wasn't coming to the beach with her. So I ate it. And then proceeded to spray her, the siblings, the interior of the car and myself with it before we had even made it out of the drive. We didn't get to go to the beach that day.
Damn you Mother!
It can't be just me...there surely must be some foods people can't tolerate. Oh and tuna, I can't eat it, I've tried countless times, it's healthy and goes with pasta, but I can't, I really can't.
Speaking of vomiting...

HOLLYWOOD TAT= Tom Crusie & Katie Holmes welcome their daughter into the world. She is called Suri, which means Princess in Klingon.
Congrats also to Brooke Shields and hubby and new baby girl Grier. Ironic that both spogs popped out around the same time. I hope these babies actually exist.

Vet shoulda looked a Meg Ryan.

Good morning/afternoon,
I'm sorry for tardy post, but I have been at the vets most of the morning with the oldest of the cats (15). She has a chronic ear problem and has had for years, so every so often the vet and I roll up our sleeves, put on our chain mail, goggles and oxygen tanks and prepare to preform a really deep clean out.
Today was actually not as bad as I thought it would be and we only lost a few pieces of skin. She yowled all the way home and is now snoozing grumpily on the end of my bed.
So Hollywood tat- Katies Holmes still hasn't given birth to Tom 'I'm not crazy you don't know crazy' Cruise's baby.
Oprah says she is not hosting Jennifer Aniston's wedding to Vince Vaughn- apparently lots of people thought she was.
Melissa and Tammy Etheridge are expecting twins.
Meg Ryan claims Dennis Quaid cheated on her. She, who had a very public affair with Russell Crowe, tried to make a grumpy face as she said this, but her new face wouldn't let her, she is still scary looking and I don't like her at all because she called Michael Parkinson ' a nut' after she was really really rude on his show. Boo hiss, Parky's lovely and you look like the joker from Batman- which is what I'm going to call my new dog when I ever get him.
So all in all there ya have it.
Going off to find Dettol now.
Ciao.
UPDATE : For the Duke Lacrosse Rape scandal, for those who are interested in the case.
http://www.newsobserver.com/1185/story/429871.html

Lessons.

Ah bank holiday weekends. A time to catch up with friends, spend time with lovers, eat Easter eggs-not me- go dancing, take romantic strolls, bliss right?
Okay. So here are some things I learned. I hope they help y'all.
1- Don't drink loads of pink drinks on friday night. Sure they taste yummy, and sure they're so sweet you can't taste the alcohol, but it is there!
2- Go home. Do not go to that club with the comfy chairs and loud music and late bar. You're drunk already, you said, 'matrizi' when you meant 'martini', go home!
3- Next morning, take painkillers as soon as you get up, nobody likes a martyr.
4- If you own a cat or more, do not,-under any circumstances- attempt to clean out litter trays unless you have rubbed vicks under nostrils. Gagging when hungover will result in vomiting.
5- Do not accept friends' invitations for late lunch and Mimosas. Hair of the dog is a myth.
6-Do go home after lunch, ignore pleas of come on, let's go shopping. Shopping after Mimosa results in buying stuff that you will have to return at some point.
7- Do not go dancing again, you are drunk-ah forget it, here comes the pink drink.
8-Sunday- when having brunch do not think it would be really great to go for a really romantic stroll. You are really wearing six inch heels.
9- Get a taxi home-nobody likes a martyr. Don't go out for a nightcap!!! It's only eight o'clock.
10-Eleven hours sleep will cure everything.

Rape and trial by media.

I have been following this case in America for the last week. It is about the alleged rape of a stripper by the players from a lacrosse team from Duke University, North Carolina.
I wanted to write abut it earlier in the week, but I decided to wait and see how it played out. And boy am I glad I did, I have never witnessed anything like the battle lines that are being drawn, not over this particular rape par se, but over rape in general and more importantly between furious women and angry men.
As it stands at the moment the evidence is sketchy. The woman in question was unable to correctly identify her alleged attacker and none of the DNA samples provided by 46 of the 47 boys has matched DNA found on the alleged victim and does not support her clain of rape.
On the flip side, according to the ER doctor and nurse who treated the woman, she does have injuries that would support an assualt of some kind and they are neither ruling out the possibility that she was sexually assualted or not.
Race is also a factor in this case, as is the dfferent social class of those involved. The girl is poor, she is black, she worked in a dubious career and has previous criminal record. Naturally in some quarters that immediately sends up a red flag and many have been quick to dismiss her as 'nothing more than a jumped up skanky ho' to use one of the nastier quotes I read.
The lacrosse team has been portrayed as a swaggering, elitist clique prone to loutish frat-boy behavior. They are wealthy, white ' privileged young men. Or in the word of one outraged lady, "Let me clear it up for you, this lovely lacrosse team is apparently filled largely with psychopaths and the psychopaths are still on campus." They are referred to is some quarters simply as 'the rapists'
In retaliation or to muddy the waters, attorneys for the players have released damaging information about the girl, and they defended releasing this information by saying their clients have taken a public beating since the March 14 incident.

The media is running the show with tilts and stabs tither and yon. Blogs have zoned in on whatever apsect of the case that best suits their beliefs. Feminist blogs are banging the drums on rape, rapists, the patricarchy, and whatever else they can staple to this case. Other more male dominated blogs are goating at the lack of 'real evidence' other that this girl 'said so' and that women "lie 'bout being raped all the time".
It is a mess.

Anyway, I am no expert on rape, or on alleged rapes or on false rape accusations. It is clear to me something happened that night, but we -the public-cannot know what until all the evidence has been gathered. This to me would seem obvious. So I was shocked by the naked hatred and vicious taunting I have witnessed this week. The glee with which the media have exhausted just about every sensational angle: sex, race, money, booze is disgusting. The flimsy curtain of acceptence and tolerance has been yanked aside, and trust me folks, the real stage is a gore soaked battle ground.
Blogs are taunting each other, colour is a badge, class has reared its head and is foaming at the mouth. Liberals and conservatives are screaming at each other. Black groups are up in arms, as are white.
But the real battle seems -to me- to be between men and women, and it was this that surprised me the most. The fury and point-scoring of the feminists, the scronful sneering contempt of the males. I amazed at the refusal of any party to take a step back and see this for the unpleasant situation it is.
I know I am a tiny segment of the blogsphere. I know I normally don't write on current affair topics. But I feel I have to comment on this. Not because of the case itself, but because of the divide.
It is staggering to see men and women take sides like this. Are we that different? Are we that hysterical and defensive that we must take a side when something as ugly as this situation happens?
When did men and women become enemies?

Filthy Scumbag bastards!

Apologies for my title but I am positively seething. Enraged I am. Impotent, the only thing I can do is rant here when I would like to turn into Chuck Norris and fucking go on a hunt and do some serious head kicking.
Allow me to explain. There is a small park near my building, a little oasis in a sea of concrete. In this little park is a tiny playground, a cute harmless affair with a swing, slide, one of those horse heads on a big spring thingies that babies seem to like and a little woonden railing around it to keep dogs from crapping all over the sand and wood chips.
Surrounding this little playground is a patch of grass, two benches where ould lads and ladies like to sit on warmer days and watch the world go by. There are a four raised flower beds, which up until last Sunday had a whole profusion of flowers starting to some up, daffodils, crocuses and other stuff ( I'm no plant expert but they looked pretty).
This morning, as I made my way back from the shop, I cut through this little park and slammed to a halt in dismay.
It has been destroyed.
Some fucker or fuckers have kicked all the railing out of the kids' play ground. They have set fire to the swings, one is burnt all the way through, the other is a mangled heap of plastic, dangling from one rope. They had obviously tried to burn the little horse too, its blackened melted head will no longer make kids squeal in delight. The benches have been spray painted with all manner of graffiti, the flowers are gone, yanked up, crushed, trampled, some of them flung to die and wither on the track scored the grass. There is broken brown glass everywhere.
I know I've had a sickie week and am probably a bit over sensitive, but I swear I felt like crying when I saw it.
Why, why would someone do something like this? Why destroy something so pretty and harmless. What pleasure did the bastards take from doing this? Did they get any or was it just 'something to do?'
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?

Psychics.

I'm against them!
Might as well get that out there first, just so we know where we stand. I think they are a load of hooey.
I'm sitting here snuffling quietly to myself and half watching TV3 (whispered). Weekly psychic Una Power has just come on to take viewers calls. The women-of course- are varied this week.
Woman 1 is clearly young-you can hear it in her voice- and is wondering whether she should split up with her partner with whom she has had a baby six weeks ago.
Una consults her cards, asks a couple of leading questions, including have they been fighting? has he children with other women...he has? Bam! yes, here it is, Ace of Clubs, good card for parenting, but not for a patrner. Girl seems happily resigned to fate. Look it's in the cards. Una says sympathically, well perhaps you can remain friends. Yeah you're right, young woman agrees- who surely might have thought about incompatablitiy before she had a sprog with this man- thanks. She sound delighted that the man will be a good provider-financially speaking. Problem solved. Yah Ace of Clubs, you go! whoo whoo!!!!
Woman 2- Bubbly cheery sort, doing a spot of cleaning and housekeeping, sounds jolly, happy-go-lucky. Asks our great psychic, should I try for a different job? Una asks... Do you have a dream job in mind?
Girl says yes, I'd love to work with people I"m outgoing and I'd love it!
Una shuffles the cards frowns and then beams at screen. Ten of Spades! You can get a new job, might take a bit ot training.
Really? our housekeeper shrieks! That's brilliant!!!
Maybe a ...with an estate agent or something.
That would be my dream job!!!!!
Well there ya go now, go down tomorrow and talk to a few agents, maybe after a bit of training you might get a job with them, the presenter of the show says laughing at the excitement in the girl's voice.
Thanks a million, yer brillinat Una!!! Than's so much!!!! girl squeals. ( Jesus, I think wincing, she really is fucking upbeat) Big round of applause for Ten of Spades!
Woman three come on- sound older, middle class, pushy and forthright. Should we move house? she demands. Me and my husband should we?
Una ask her husbands starsign.
Lady gives it, he is fishy, she is a bull. Quelle surprise, not! Una shuffles cards, declares women is boss and husband is dragging feet.
Woman agrees in awed voice. Una holds card up, Nine of Hearts, the 'wish card' you will move house! Huzzah. I blow nose, search frantically for remote.
Nine of Hearts, take a bow!
Last woman. She is older, voice hesitant and heart breakingly sad. I stop searching for remote. She is asking about her son. About their relationship. What can she do. Una -as alert to genuine emotion as a dog is to the scent of a bitch on heat- hears the quiver.
Are you fighting? She asks. Yes, woman says. What age is your son?
27. He has fallen in with a bad crowd, got in trouble... we used to have such a good realtionship now ...we don't talk.
Una shuffles frantically, I don't remember what card she picked because I was concentrating on her answer.
Don't give up on him he needs you right now. It's easter, send him a card ask him for lunch. Don't give up on him.
'I won't.' Broken hearted woman promises.
Good. Una says, somewhat smugly.
What about the first woman with the baby, I yell at the screen. She should give up on the father of her baby even though it has only been six weeks since the birth and her hormones are probably all over the camp!!!!But this woman who surely knows and loves her son after 27 years gets the trite, don't give up ? What the fuck is she supposed to do? he is her son, she will never 'give up.'
And then her segment is over. Yah for Una.
Why do women do it? Why do they ring in and ask questions of a stranger, questions they all readly know the answer to?
Boyfriend not what you thought? Leave him. ( although personally I'd try not having children with him first)
Don't like your current job- leave it.
Want to move house and can afford it, husband doesn't object-move.
Son in with bad crowd-don't give up.
It is hardly rocket science is it? Is it? Is it? Oh shit I don't know.

HOLLYWOOD TAT_ Britney's baby, Presten, probably has a fractured skull from where he fell out of his highchair a few days ago and his numbskull parents didn't notice until yesterday that all was not well. My psychic feeling on this one is that people should watch small babies closer and make sure they don't fall out of highchairs-but hey, that's just me.

Shock.

Well, I'm still ill, so I might be a touch crabby...but I'm reeling with the shock at some things I've learned over the last 24hours.
1- Calista Flockheart reveals she did in fact have an eating disorder during Ally MacBeal!
2- so too did Portia de Rossi-
3- Colin Farrell- young Irish millionaire with pulse. Admits to liking the drink and having sex with young good looking women and smoking, he also likes smoking.
4- and now it turns out that some IRA prisoner- released early under the Good Friday Agreement- was involved in the hijack of a truck load of Vodka worth 300,000 euros yesterday...imagine, a member if the IRA involved in a crime. That was the most shocking of all. That and Gerry Adams shocking statement that there was no way that the IRA was involved with this IRA man or his act of 'criminality.'
Why I nearly...I nearly, no wait, I wasn't even a little bit shocked at that one.
Good day to you.

A Pox!

or plague, I'm not sure which, but I am feeling rather rotten. After spending yesterday watching football and yelling I now have a sore throat, ear ache and am slightly sniffly. A cold? Maybe, like Samson, the four inches!! that woman chopped off my hair on Friday has rendered me weak and open to illness.
Actually I don't mind feeling a litte ill. I intend to spend the day not working and perhaps watching old movies. Like 'As Good As It Gets.' That's a few years old.

Oh, because I have discovered a whole other world recently of Hollyweird, I feel it is my duty to share this new found culture. So every day I shall be offering up a piece of Hollyweird tat for your enjoyment.

Hollyweird tat- Congrats to Gwyneth Palthrow, Chris Coldplay and cute Apple unfortunately named baby, who have welcomed a little boy into their family this weekend. I think she was going to call him Mortimor.

Tough shit!

The phone, the phone. I picked the clock up and squinted at it.
8:20? What the f-
Wearily I stumbled to the sitting room and picked up the receiver.
'aghggr?'
'Snifff...sofa...carpet...hand made rug from Marrakeesh...chewed straight through capble of lamp...on sheepskin rung...stinking...sniff'
'Etheline?'
'She's destroying my home!'
'The dog?' I try not to laugh out loud, of course it is the dog, all four inches of shivering eyes.Poppy's Big Surprise-shortened to Angel, clearly had a few surprises of her own up her designer doggy sleeve.
'She's not a dog, she's a...she's a...shit machine! I got up this morning and found four piles in the kitchen and she managed to get out under the screen I put up and -'
Anyway, you get the picture it went on in this vein for quite some time.
I let Etheline rabbit on because while I don't know why she would expect a ten week old pup to behave as anthing other than a ten week old pup, I do have a certain level of sympathy for my dear sister.
So I let her rant, drowsily, wondering idly if I should make an appointment with the waxer in Malahide. I still haven't forgiven her for the balding she gave me at Christmas, so I decide I won't go, I'll shape it myself into a heart, or a mushroom, or if I'm feeling adventurous, a thunder bolt although I tried that a few weeks ago and it just looked like I had mange.
'What am I going to do?' Etherline wailed. 'I can't leave her out the back, my neighbour says she's small enough for a hawk or a fox to take her!'
'Um.'I say. Tough shit, I think. You should have thought of all this before you bought her.
'How can something so tiny be so...destructive?'
'She's a dog Etheline, dogs, even small ones, act like dogs.'
'Can I drop her off with you this morning?'
'Nope. I won't be here. I'm getting my hair done at twelve. Anyway I'm not sure that the cats wouldn't kill her.'
'They wouldn't, she's surprisingly vicious when she wants to be.'
'Hair appointment.'
'Oh right.'
After another few minutes she rings off. I make coffee.
Etheline and I are polar opposite when it comes to our homes. I like textures, velvet drapes, chenille throws, suede, leather, I like deep yellows and reds, lots of wood, books, antique lamps, rugs, pictures, old mirrors, I like tassles for heaven's sake. This is a pain in the arse, because as the owner of three cats and their never ending balls of hair, rich fabric means lots of washing and shaking things on the terrace and grumbling, but hey, that's my lot.
Etheline likes cream, she likes white and colours called 'duck egg blue' and 'twillight hint' and shit like that, she likes chrome lamps and stiff linens, her wardrobes (beech) are full of light bright clothes and neat preppy tops. Her bathroom is dazzling, her towels match and are white, her kitchen is pristine and her plates and cutlery match. Her living room looks stylishly cool and no one has ever coughed in there let alone spilled wine/beer/coffee, dropped crisps, played cards and yelled at the telly on fight night. There is no hair anywhere and no animal has turned one side of a cord sofa into a scratching post.
So the sudden realization that my sister's neat uncluttered hoome is being systimatically destroyed by something smaller than a bag of suger and that she paid handsomely for this pleasure makes me laugh and wince at the same time.
Animals, even designer ones all carry a price, and as I gaze across the room to the partically destroyed side of my large three seater sofa, I can shrug and take it in my stride. The bigger of the cats is snoozing in a patch of sunlight, I am going to ruffle his head in a moment and then I am going to go and make toast.
Etheline has a lot to learn.

Not Mea Culpa!

"THE Supreme Court has cleared the way for an 80-year-old lifetime smoker to sue two tobacco companies for damages.

Margaret Delahunty, who began smoking when she was 12 years old - at one stage smoking up to 30 cigarettes a day - is suing two of the country's leading tobacco manufacturers for personal injuries allegedly caused by the cigarettes she has smoked.

The octogenarian from Ballinahowen, Furbo, Co Galway, who was diagnosed with cancer ten years ago, can now continue with her action for damages following yesterday's key judgment by the court."

Oh my, I read this one with something akin to tittering. But then I got irritated, and finally - it takes a while to care on one coffee - I got annoyed.
This woman has made it to eighty years of age, despite having puffed fags her whole life, she has had cancer for ten years and yet is still going strong, she has lived a full life.
And yet here it is, the blame game, the shirking, the finger pointing, the absolute certainty people seem to have that their every action can be blamed on someone or something else.
'Not my fault, do you see, it/they made me do it.'
I don't buy it.
Did the big bad tobacco company come along, drag Margaret Delahunty down a lane when she was a kid and force a fag into her mouth? Was it there every morning when Margaret had her cup tea, waving the fags at her, demanding she light one up? Did it go with her to the pub and insist she have one with her G&T or sherry or whatever she drank?
Of course not.
It is no secret that tobacco is harmful, it's on the bloody packets for a start. So if you choose to smoke then by all means smoke away, enjoy them make that face smokers make when they light a cigarette up after a heavy meal. Puff away to your heart's contentment. It is you choice. Like that word? Choice? Keep saying it with me, choice.
Oh people will say, 'But we didn't know back then.'
To which I must say. 'So what? You've know since the seventies haven't you? Fags bad, might cause cancer?'
I started smoking when I was fourteen, I quit when I was thirty. I decided both actions. Me, Fatmammycat, me.
I lit my first cigarette, I inhaled, I coughed and spluttered, I persevered until I mastered smoking with sufficient cool.
I stopped pretty much the same way. I closed the pack-with five or six cigarettes left in it, left the pack on the landing, ignored it, ate mints, grouched around for a few days and then, voila, I didn't smoke anymore. Too cool for school baby.
Margaret Dealhunty could have quit anytime she wanted. She didn't. She kept smoking her whole life and has still racked up eighty years of living.
Man I hope I live that long not smoking and drinking copious amounts of white wine. Now, who can I sue for my addiction to expensive shoes. Because clearly it is not my fault, is it?

Hollyweird.

Nicole Ritchie is a 'style icon' and- if you've been living under a rock for the last few years-Teri Hatcher is the popular one from Desperate Housewives. They are photographed, emulated and admired on a more or less constant basis.
So in a brief follow on to yesterday's chopping and snipping post, I find I have to ask...
Does anyone think they look sexy?

The Swan.

I don't like swans. I think they look beautiful from a distance, but having been chased half way up Portobello one morning by one of those psychotic hissing beasts I now view them with distrust.
I don't like The Swan, the 'reality' television show either.
For anyone who doesn't know it, this is a show where they- the producers- take/pick plain and sometimes unattractive women and (hack, saw, break, replace, tweak lift, stitch, diet, pluck, wax, dress, makeup) transform them into 'beauties' and then these 'beauties' can go on to enter a pagent. The over all winner is crowned "The Swan'(as opposed to the ugly ducklings or Goosey Lucys or whatever they call the runner-ups).
It is a horrible show, and trades on the insecurities, hope and sadness of unhappy women. A lot of the women are from broken relationships and are at a cross roads in their lives. They blame their situations almost entirely on their looks and see themselves as ugly, and as they are 'ugly' that means they have no worth.
Most of them are clearly in need of councelling and support.Some of them are boderline depressives.
The producers of this show like these women the best, because their pathetic, grateful, pleas for help. It makes for great television-apparently. ('Ah look at her weeping and saying no one loves her, don't worry baby, we'll get you a new body then you can kick that man who's cheating to the kerb like the dawg he is!')
So for x amount of weeks these women are preened over, supported (both mentally and physically) catered to, listened to and cared for. Naturally under this attention they bloom. They become stronger, more confident, they begin to smile, they feel better, loved, cared for. As ever pound is shed every cent of self worth tots up in the cash register.
Ah, but there is a bill. Ding ding. Here it comes now, beautiful, virginal, in a serene graceful line, churning the water underneath, paddling furiously with its ugly webbed feet.
Ladies, this is why you are here. Roll up roll up! I'm glad you feel better, because you are about to be pitched aganst each other to see which of you new totally articifial looking super-women looks the best. You're a nice person? Well sure honey but we ain't interested in that! Suck it in girls, suck it in.
The lights go up, the gowns sparkle, the skin is bronze, the glistening perfect teeth, lip glossed smiles are tense. The eyes say...'Pick me ! Pick me! I'm worthy! Look at me, look at my new face, please don't reject me.'
Hisssssssss....
Unfortunately, in the words of 'Highlander'...
There can be only one.
After the show the ladies are sent back to their lives. Bye bye support, friendship, motivation, councelling, makeup artist and team. The carnival must move on.
Sink or swim ladies, you got new teeth, a neck reduction, a tummy tuck, hair dos and a nose job, you look like Barbie, why ain't ya happy? What do you mean beauty does not automatically mean happiness? Are ya nuts?
They shouldn't call this show The Swan, they should call it The Vultures. After all what else are the producers if not great big ugly birds of prey, circling the skies looking for the bodies of the weak and the meek to carve up and pick over -and all for the sake of entertainment.

Nightmares.

Nightmares, what the hell causes them? Is it the subconscious? Old memories? What we eat late at night? What?
Last night I got chased all over the place by what I can only describe as a hound from hell. He was black, he was enormous and powerful, he had huge snapping jaws, he did't run straight either, he ran side to side, and as he did he made this strange rasping panting howling growl. I leaped over a ravine in my dreams and landed on the other side, and before I even had a chance to catch my breath I could see he was airborn and I had to run again.
I was so relieved when I woke up at 4:20.
I have always been a vivid dreamer, always, but lately nightmares are becoming more and more prevalent. Sometimes I can recognise that I am dreaming and make myself wake up, but mostly I cannot. Sometimes my dreams can be very useful, but not nightmares, and I would like to stop having them. So come on, anyone have any ideas?