People whose breath smells like poo

What can I do?

Housemate A drinks loads of tea and dear jebus of nazabeth, it stinks to high heaven - her breath, not the tea. I don’t understand this biological phemonenon seeing as my parents drink tea all the time and they dont have stinky breath and usually her breath does not stink. The first time I caught a whiff we were watching TV in the Box (very small tv room) and I was like, wooooooah what is in your mouth, a rat bum? Course I didn’t say this, I just thought it and I cunningly moved forward and away from her so I could eat my dinner without feeling sick.

It smells like maybe animal bum and tea, like if there was this bum that had tea-diarrhea. We cleaned out the fridge today because Housemate C tends to leave things in the fridge till they go out of date and we have to fish for them. The fridge was mcstinksville and as I found the smelly thing - hiding right at the back, I turned to Housemate A and went, “I got it!”. She was excited and said, “Yay!” and then I thought I might keel over from the synergistic effects of the smell of the rotting meat loin and my housemate’s tea breath.

I have decided to take mints with me wherever I go in the house incase she is around in a post-tea state. It really is stinky! I wonder how her boyfriend deals with it, though he sees her very seldomly, so maybe this is the reason! I don’t think I should tell her. Once, I went to the cinema with Euphagania Buttkiss (not her real name actually!) and she had the worst off-yoghurt breath I ever smelt. It smelt like… off yoghurt. I didnt have the heart to say anything and she kept whispering in my ear about the movie and I was like “mmm yes, yes I agree” whilst I leant on one of my fists which was cunningly covering my nostrils.

The moral of this story is as follows, it is good that everyone with bad breath knows they have bad breath. To everyone who doesnt have bad breath please check that you don’t have bad breath! Smell it yourself by doing that lower jaw movement, you know the one I mean, jutt it out and smell your breath. Especially after drinking tea! *shakes fist menacingly at you*

 

Why does the smell of banana get on everything?

When I pack something up and put it in my food cupboard e.g. massive bag of crisps, bread or even biscuits, the stench of banana will overcome it! Even if there is NO BANANA IN THE CUPBOARD! Tis a quandry, why this should happen. Why is the banana so omnipotent? It is like passive smoking except passive-bananaism, I’m not eating a banana yet I am eating the banana taste!

Often, there are bananas in the food cupboard and I hear what you say, “don’t put the bananas in the cupboard then!” But that would be giving in to their terrorist demands and letting them win. The bananas will not be negotiated with. No other fruit manages to get inside other foods. I’m eating doritos right now and they taste like doritos but there is the aftertaste of… BANANA that explodes in my mouth like a bomb of distaste! Last week when I was eating digestive biscuits - the Rambo of biscuits, they tasted like banana! Another time I was eating a sandwich and the banana smell had gotten inside the bread! I toasted the bread and it stifled the banana’s powers which means I know one thing about the enemy - fire kills it!

I’ve never liked bananas (why are they always in my cupboard then, I know) vengeful ma used to force me to eat bananas to give me energy in sports competitions. I once vomitted a banana and it came up almost whole! See Bananas know more than they let on, they can reform in your stomach and then attack from the inside. A man just told me that the banana plant is becoming extinct. I cannot say I am displeased, my old yellow advisaries, we have fought many battles. I think the banana might out live me though but I have a dream. A dream in which my little child can walk hand in hand with another little child and neither will worry that they will fall ill of passive-bananaing. Banana be aware that the time for honouring yourself will soon be at an end.

 

God be with you, Ireland.

Well there’s 7 minutes left of St. Patricks day although I heard that officially those wacky Catholics had moved it to the 15th. It’s no secret I heart Ireland. I don’t know why, I’ve always loved it and I’ve always been fascinated with everything about it, especially the history, the writers and the land (literally) oooh and the irish film board, man about dog and intermission, need I say more?!!

Anyway, I’m just midnight rambling here. This is all well and good that St. Patrick’s was allegedly on Saturday because I dont think you need reminding that Wales won the 6 Nations on Saturday so whenever Patricks Day was it was greatly overshadowed. In the words of Al Pacino in scent of a woman, hoo-ah! Or wait was “hoo-ah!” the soldiers chant in Black Hawk Down? I forget.

Saturday, I can barely remember either, so very drunk I was! The bar which is notorious for the sporting Welsh was absolutely packed with all the nations. When Shane Williams scored the significant try, I was besides myself and everyone was going mad. Someone shook my shoulder, I turned around screaming, “Wooooo-” damn near got cut off by the lips of a (very sure of himself) Irish guy. I was so elated with the Rugby and so veeery drunk that I snogged (there is no other word for it than this, I’m afraid) the Irish fool back without a second thought. And the rest of the night is history. History of which I don’t really remember because I was very, very drunk. But of course nothing beyond PG.13, you know me, I have my reputation.

I’ve got to do a country review of Ireland soon, of course by this I mean Dublin, I was last there for my birthday with my Mobile Ethnic Brothel (we’re like the power puff girls!) ridiculous amount of fun, I assure you! I’m going to bed now, I will tell you about the House Idol fiasco later. Night!

 

House Idol: The search for a housemate (part 3)

Friday evening came and I was sitting at my desk when Housemate B came in and whispered in a tone devoid of any emotion, “he’s here”. Excitedly I whispered back, “ooh what’s he like?” She didn’t respond to this question, “do you want to come and meet him?” she whispered instead, “yeah!” I fought the urge of surpressed laughter. Something so daft about inviting complete strangers into your home and following them round your house as they look at everything whilst you judge them in return. Haha, I’m laughing now just thinking about it.

Anyway yeah, he was in Housemate C’s room and Housemate B gestured at the door and whispered, “he’s in here”. In retrospect, I should have sensed the alarm and hint of fear in her voice although I auspiciously and hopefully took it for excitement on her part that the art student was indeed a fitty. Well now, how to put this coherently…

Candidate 3 makes ze german look like David Hasselhoff.

I should have known that a postgraduate art student would be 1) around 30, 2) still live with his parents and 3) possibly under the effects of heavy horse tranqualisers. When he talked he never looked at us, he was looking up at the ceiling at one point, fiddling with his sleeves. It was almost endearing, he would have reminded me of Dustin Hoffman’s autistic Rainman if there hadn’t been sinister undertones.

Perhaps it was his bald head or maybe it was his eerie soft speech but he definitely possessed a mass-murderer quality. I got the Kevin Spacey from Se7en vibe from him. I asked if he enjoyed his course and he said, “yes”. I noticed a twitch. As he was speaking in broken sentences, I had this sudden flash of him coming home with a box and saying it was his latest work, opening the box and showing us the severed head of his fine arts lecturer that he really fancied. Here is an excerpt of the strained conversation:

Candidate 3 [looking at ceiling]: Oh and I sometimes play music.

Me [enthusiastically]: Oh like guitar?

Candidate 3: Yes

[long serial killer-esque pause]

Candidate 3: It’s-it’s- expe-experimental, though sometimes it has a-a melody.

Me: Oh like…

[pause]

Me: Oh.

Earlier in the visit… when we were all in Housemate C’s room. Candidate 3 had his back to me as he talked to Housemate B and I took the opportunity to stifle laughter with a pillow.

Housemate B: Oh no, dont worry about being late, we were all in tonight, so it doesnt matter!

Candidate 3: I’ve just had a really bad day

Housemate B: Oh dear

Candidate: Sorry I’m just in a daze. The tube and the bus. I just graduated.

Housemate B: That’s nice, will you be going to celebrate tonight then?

Candidate 3: And my friend might die tonight.

Housemate B [faltering]: um

Candidate 3: I’m totally spaced.

[long pause]

Me: Would you like to see upstairs?

[long pause]

Candidate 3: Alright.

Later in the visit…

Candidate 3: mmm the bath-bath-bathroom smells nice.

Me: Yeah but no dissolving people with acid in the bath, Spacey!

Housemate B: And please dont wait outside all night and kill us in the morning.

(Last two sentences may not have actually happened in real life).

Tomorrow we have candidate 4 coming, a greek man. Yep, it’s turning into a regular eurovision song contest in this house. I do not know anything more of him, though. At the rate House Idol is going I am learning to expect little so I’m picturing some kinda 50 year old fat ass.

 

My review of… Striptease

Everyone has probably already seen this movie so there is no need to explain anything… ever… again. To my credit, I was the one who spotted Robert Patrick, I was hoping he would morph into the terminator and kill her. I know this film must be a comedy. I think Demi Moore was taking the role seriously though, her stripteasing was pretty frightening like something you might see in the Tate Modern under “interpretive dance”.

 

House Idol: The search for a housemate (part 2)

Hear ye! Hear ye! *rings the leper’s bell*

Let it be known that candidate 2 did not turn up for a viewing. Any villager or country dweller found to be harbouring this outlaw will be put to the stocks or hung depending on the mood of the mob that is Rome my home.

Yeah so, she didn’t turn up. Anyway, no skin off my nose, like “whatever trevor”, she sounded really boring. Her name was Martha (not really but it was a lot like this genre of name e.g. maude, ethel, elsbeth etc) and she had written in her email that she only wanted to share with girls, this means “I am a religious freak” or “I am a pru-hude” she also had written “Oh I have wonderful references!” this means she needs to get out more. I’m glad she didn’t come! In the words of a rebellious 13 year old, she can eff off! Maybe ze german got rid of her, though. She might be trapped in the cupboard underneath his stairs as we speak, crying for help! For some reason I am thinking ze german is an assassin, ahh yes I know why, he was wearing all black but he had white trainers on, obviously for chasing after his victims.

Tonight, candidate 3 comes. He is apparently an art student, his codename will thus be Salvador Dali - I hope I am not jinxing him with profound eccentricities and moustachness.

I shall be back with a full report including his vital measurements e.g. length of his paint brush. Will he be more attractive than ze german? Will he actually be ze german in a cunning disguise? Stay tuned for the next part of House Idol: The search for a housemate.

 

Crossing the road like a drug-fuelled bastard

Most days I only daydream about being this crazy but today I took it to the next level… I crossed the road like a bastard!

I think the correct term is jay-walking but that sounds almost fancy and there is nothing fancy about not waiting for the traffic lights risking your life to get to the otherside, unless we are talking about “the otherside” in the terminal sense, then you dont really risk your life so much as end it but that’s neither here nor there.

The thing is - and now you will see why this is a big thing - growing up (cue flashback with sombre violins), there weren’t many busy roads to deal with. In fact, the roads back home are made out of mud, they haven’t changed since ancient times. I once walked almost all the way to Rome from the road that begins in my back garden before I collapsed from dehydration and spent 3 weeks in intensive care. So yeah, when I came to London the roads were thrice as busy and so the traffic was daunting. This was when I began my affair with Green Man. God, when I see him, I just light up (much as he does), I wish he was three dimensional so I could press my body to his and satisfy him carnally! He is my god! I’m not sure if Green Man exists in countries out of the UK. I know in the US they have the plain old DONT WALK/WALK signals, in Ireland they have that weird duh-duh-duh-duh-duh club sound but I can’t remember the international Green Men.

Whenever I am in times of stress I look to the stars and ask, “What would Green Man do?”. His wisdom soothes my soul like the smoothest balm. I have my answer - Green Man would wait until he was sure of the situation and then he would go all out, guns a blazing, firing on all cylinders, tearing up the traffic and pulling out the stop signals! That’s what Green Man would do!

Housemate A thinks my love of Green Man is hilarious. She actively takes the piss when I refuse to cross the road with her when no traffic is coming. She’ll scoff and exclaim, “oh no, you can’t cross, cause there’s no.. GREEN MAN!”. She can mock me but I know our love is pure. Sometimes my love for Green Man is crippling. Once there was no traffic for about 30 seconds and I still couldnt cross. I am so bad at crossing roads here in London, I often annoy drivers. Some drivers are “sympathetic”to pedastrian loiterers and slow down and gesture at you to cross. Now I dont trust these motherfuggers one bit because it’s not like they control the traffic going the other way, is it?. Especially if Green Man isn’t on the scene - it’s like when you’re playing “Simon Says” and someone goes “sit down!”. No simon, no sit. No Green Man, no crossing.

I especially don’t trust motorcyclists, I know they want to run me down like nobody’s business. So whenever the traffic is kinda jammed or busy and a car/bike stops and gestures for me to walk, I just look away and stand still. It’s like they’re dinosaurs in Jurassic Park and if I stop moving they wont be able to see me. One guy in his car got really annoyed and wound down his window and said, “oi cross the road!”, I was so freaked out I ran across like a sheep and almost got hit by a car going the other way. Okay, maybe the car was a good 10 seconds away in the horizon but with no Green Man I am prone to misjudge road crossing dangers.

So after all that you can see why crossing the road like a bastard meant so much to me! I was a rebel without a cause and I liked it so I did! Tomorrow I shall be crossing blindfolded and naked. Green Man, you and I had some great times but I get the feeling I was more into you than you were into me. Well, the time has come for us to part ways. Maybe I will see you around but I wont wait for you anymore (cue violins to fade out).

 

House Idol: The search for a housemate (part 1)

So one of my housemates is moving out, therefore someone else needs to move in. She has advertised on well known websites and we had our first candidate yesterday, who I have decided to nickname ze german. There will be a cash prize to the sum of one hundred thousand dollars for guessing why.

Ze german is a typical, grade A nerd. If there was a competition for nerds he would come first without even trying - well the lack of effort doesnt sound very nerdy but blah I’m bored of this sentence. He is about to start a phd in something about mosquitos. I studied his face and I think he’s about 28, he has those little lines around his eyes. We were really hoping for a fitty and he is definitely not a fitty. I asked Housemate B what she thought and she replied, “Well, he’s german”. Yes, indeed he is! He wanted to take us for a drink and he asked if we cook. Housemate A pointed at me and said, “she microwaves”, I was secretly offended and although I laughed it off, I went to my room later and cried the night through.

Ze german was very keen on the house, he wanted to see all of our rooms. He wasn’t allowed in Housemate A’s bedroom as there was a great big ginger naked man lying across her bed. He was very eager to move in, to the point of not actually getting the hint we wanted him to go away. I have an inkling he would be great at cleaning though because he has a gayness to him (and I mean in the homosexual sense). He likes the idea of sharing with 3 girls so he is either indeed a homosexual or a pervert who is going to steal our knickers. I don’t mind so much as I have tons but Housemate B might be quite upset.

Tonight another candidate will knock the knocker of doom (that’s our door knocker, I was trying to be atmospheric). Will this candidate usurp the german? Only time will tell, my friend… only time will tell.

 

The oldest pair of lesbians I ever did see.

Now I’m no veteran lesbian-seer but I think, since coming to London, I have seen a fair few. I don’t understand why one lesbian in the couple tends to look like a man. They will have short hair, maybe just one ear pierced and be wearing an england rugby shirt TUCKED IN to loose, baggy jeans and maybe a good, sturdy pair of doc martins also known as “comfortable shoes”. I would understand if the lesbian was waiting for a sex change and wanted to be a guy, but this is not often the case. As for the other lesbian, who can be more feminine or just as butch - if you fancy women why do you go out with women who look like men? Unless you are waiting for a sex change to become a gay man and then what happens to your partner who is supposed to like women? I hear those folk who get all het up and say, “love isn’t about gender!” so I assume lesbians who dress like men just lack femininity and it’s not that they want to be men, they just cant help being ugly frumps.

Back to the originial intent of this post. I met the oldest lesbians ever. I thought they might be sisters at first, or rather I hoped. One of them looked like an aged Miss. Trunchbull (from Matilda) she must have been about 80. She had her hair screwed up as a bun sitting on top of her grey old head. She had a fair few boils on her face and a healthy grey moustache. It wasn’t volumous (the tache) it grew like it does on old ladies, wild and erratic. What was strange and a bit funny was that she was wearing those Adidas poppers - the trousers that were fashionable in the middle 90s. She had a hoody on also. Her partner was a bit older, maybe 85. She was very slim and frail, she looked like your token disney granny. She had a red sweater on and black suit trousers and her hair kept short and almost white. She had a tiny voice and she kept reminding her gf, Trunchbull to say things. Trunchbull would look at her and snap, “I know, shut up!”. It was terribly odd and I really wanted to laugh or puke. It’s just that Trunchbull had cancer of the vagine and her partner had bowel cancer the year before. I couldnt help wondering if these lesbian lovers were still sexually active and if they both kinda liked that Trunchbull had grown a moustache and if her partner had discovered irregular lumps within Trunchball during sexual fumblings *passes you the sick bucket*. Anyway, the whole thing made me feel pretty queasy. Old people don’t have sex, especially not elderly lesbians with moustaches and colostomy bags. I want to take it out of my brain! Erase it from my mind, Will Smith from Men in Black! Erase it from my mind!

 

London stalling

TODAY IT RAINED. THIS IS NOT A HOAX. GRAB YOUR FAMILY AND RUN! HEAD FOR THE HILLS BUT BE CAREFUL BECAUSE THEY HAVE EYES AND THAT GUY FROM THE SAW MOVIES IS STILL MANAGING TO KILL PEOPLE EVEN THOUGH HE’S DEAD. DID YOU NOT HEAR ME? RAIN! SAW! EYES!

Ahem.

Okay, that was just a test, a little internet experiment. I was trying to recreate the mass pandamonium that a bit of rain and wind caused in our nations capital, London, today. You’d think we were actually in Barbados because the rain brought a complete stand still to the traffic and everyone was running around like headless chickens. People were looking up in fear as if grenades were falling from the sky (see photograph below, taken at 12.21pm in Westminster, for devestation caused even before the first drop fell). A more than mild gust of wind caused peoples umbrellas to fly from their grasp and screams of “nooooooooooo” in slow motion could be heard echoing through the subway. One man fell behind his battallion when his foot became immersed in a puddle. He put on a brave face, urging his fellow men to go on and forget about him, to lead good lives with dry socks and be thankful for each day…

I mean cmon, we’re complete shitty weather veterans. Pull yourselves together, people! There was a feeling of hysteria in the air… like this lady next to me on the bus. She ruffled her feathers as she sat - her mannerisms were the spit of a hen on ecstacy. She then proceeded to ring everyone in her phone book squawking floridly “ooh it’s raining! so badly! my umbrella, it’s soaked through” (no shit), “ooh i will be late for work, oh dear! Such traffic, taking ages! Raining! Have you rang Albert? He’s on his own today! Check the fridge for butter! I don’t think we have enough! Get into the bunker and wait for me! It’s too risky out here. I can’t see a damn thing. Johnny just went blind! I’m coming home Ma! MA I’M COMING HOME!” (okay so maybe I embellished this a little but she did eventually lay an egg).

In truth, the great british public love any excuse to sack off work. I could see through her feigned dismay at being late for work. If she had been dressed to reflect her mood she would have been wearing a bra made out of coconuts, nothing but a fig leaf to cover her bajingo and doing the hula to celebrate her freedom. Any interruption to the monotonous Londoner’s commute and day is always welcomed. Hmm, maybe not when all the bombs went off though. I think a line might be drawn when it comes to the “things-that-give-us the-day-off-because-they-exploded-in-our-face” scenarios.