Dear Dr “finger up my”…


I like to think that I have an open mind. I like to think that I can understand most people and their odd ways. But I am starting to doubt this. Mainly because WordPress can tell me the search terms that people Googled to reach my blog.

I’m starting to get quite scared. First of all there are the perverted ones. Granted, some of my entries have a sexual theme. But really?

Some people know exactly what they want:

no clothes katy perrys bum in a shower

aroused walrus,

penis in the emporer’s new clothes

constipated push hard ejaculate

pirate erection
saggy tit sex

and the evocative

doctor “finger up my”

Christmas is fast approaching. For those people who have everything, here’s some tips:

rastafarian clothes for dogs

or perhaps a “masturbation chair” and some “masturbation mutual books” for the full experience of “mutual mastrubation in our bed room”

and lest us not forget a fresh supply of

ugly slaves

Then there are more personal cries from the heart. This ‘beautiful’ poem brought some freak here:

me & your mom never dreamed you’d be so beautiful…in all of the times we tried to imagine every last detail of who you would be,thru all of the nights we spent quietly thinkingof how we would feelwhen we first looked at you,we patiently waitedand silently wondered.we hoped and we prayedand we tried to imagine…but we never dreamed you’d be beautiful.

Probably the same person who demanded of Mr Internet

“i feel poorly who gonna cheer me up”

and “box don’t lock”

and the touching appeals for:

fat bastard prosthetic

emaciated old man

very fat chav woman

and
down syndrome midget

Celebrities also get a look in:

Bjork eating own cardigan

cher lloyd ugly face

winona ryder and the penis

and old JC:

jesus reborn hitler

chocolate jesus and vienna

So, this goes out to you, freaks of the interweb: yes I’m talking to you guilty as sin security guard with the beer bellies and beards calendar  . Whatever your kink, you can find it in my blog.

Sticking it to the Pink-Cab Man


Well, last night I made the depressingly common error of leaving my mobile phone in the back of a cab. And as usual I struggled for the rest of the night against the materialistic melancholy of having lost an object.

This morning, Esther got a call from a cab driver who demanded £30 for the return of my fone. Choking on my effervescent vitamin drink, I began to realise that my precious smartfone was being held to ransom.

“Can’t I just pay the fair from there to here?” I reasoned.

“You can but that will be even more money” he replied calmly and with calculation. He had an answer for everything..

“I can’t afford that much” I moaned, my head filled with monstrous images of money spewing from cash machines over the course of the weekend.

“Well, why don’t you ask your friends for money?” he said tersely, in his strange Asian Alan Partridge voice. “Or perhaps you want to call me back later when you have woken up?” he snided. Well reader, I was rather annoyed. But I agreed anyway.

‘Goddam privatised schmuck’ I hissed once the receiver was safely down. We had arranged to meet at the Natwest at the bottom of our hillock, and I got 3 ten pound notes out, a cunning plan forming as I walked. I met two accomplices, Jarvis and Panda, who were heading down early to get the first-fried chips at Two Steps. I told them my predicament and they decided to loiter with me for moral support. We were not an intimidating bunch: rather than heavies, I would have termed us ‘lights’, so feeble and friendly of face as we are.

"We are the 'lights' and we disapprove of this sort of business"

Another call from Mr Partridge, saying he would be half an hour late. Cursing, we stumbled down to Lisa and Dom’s house for a cuppa and some fighting talk.

I decided to stash a tenner in 3 separate pockets, so that I could profess to only having one, and two if pressed, and then as a last resort, all three (although by the time I produced the second, it would be clear I could have many more hidden about my person).

Eventually, he called back and we headed back up the road, where he sat waiting in a hideous pink cab. With trepidation, I climbed in the back.

To my surprise, he handed me the fone first before negotiation began. ‘The naive fool’ I cried internally. As he told me his long and deeply boring blow by blow account of the difficult drive over here, I fingered my most scruffy tenner, waiting for the right moment.

“You’ve caught me at a rather bad time” I began, noticing the spasmic microexpression of lost opportunity flash across his face.

“I am very poor at the moment. Ten pounds is like £30 to me, so that’s all I have to give you” I offer up my scruffy bit of paper.

“This is not good at all!” he says, mostly to himself. “Your friends out there, can’t they help you out?” he says, nodding at Jarvis and Panda.

“Oh no, they are even poorer than me”

“This is no good at all. No good at all”

I reach for the door handle before he can lock it and drive me to deserted moorland. I pass the tenner through the hole, and he snatches it away. Then I’m away- feeling proud of my victory of wills over a grasping jobsworth. So what if his children starve, the takeaway’s on him tonight. Smashing.

I walk home with much better posture. I was channelling Cher Lloyd’s gypsy swagger..

Why I am in love with Cher Lloyd


1. She is a freak. She pulls ugly faces and talks like she’s on drugs. She has all the hormonal world-challenging coke-high of being a teen, but none of the sweaty self-consciousness. Her ugly facial expressions reveal an inner landscape of earthquakes, cyclones and floods, with a population of personas drowning and surviving as each disaster passes over it.

2. She is selfish and egostistical and lacks a conscience. She is a bitch and a diva. She would be a shit friend. But that is what we want from a superstar- everything about them should be antithetical to normal life.

3. She’s a psycho who would beat the shit out of you any given Friday night, but luckily her ferocious chav-complex gets channeled into a pop star persona that makes the walls shake. She has the solidity of a Platonic form, next which worldy objects, like Simon Cowell’s hair, are but wisps in the wind. When she appears on stage, space and time bend under her weight, and the moon and sun move that bit closer.

4. She swaggers and pouts on the stage not a like a plugged in sex doll (yes you, The Saturdays), but like a feral child of indeterminate sex, who feeds on the heightened emotions of her audience. She devours our empathic fear (what must it be like to be on that stage?), and binges on our vicarious vanity, drinking deep from the adrenaline we leak from every pore. In return, we get an in vitro transfusion of pure transcendental POP.

5. She is an automaton, an alchemical genie that takes on a solid form far more durable than her lamp-holder’s (the public) shaky-handed mortality. She is post-human, not because she has machine-parts, but because in a sense, she is a machine. She has been made in the X Factory, and while the other products (One Direction, I’ll see you in the Bargain Bins of 2011) perish as they reach sunlight, the Cher Lloyd™ is eternal..

6. She is God- and we have invented her to fill the hole left by Jacko- that peter pan figure who made impossible dreams come true, all the while generating nightmares that incrementally destroys the world from the inside out. Forget dubious Descartes, she offers the true proof of existence: I get goosebumps from Cher Lloyd, therefore I am. Like God, true celebrities are proof that we exist because they represent beings more wonderful and awesome than our imaginations could ever come up with.

7. She has an old soul. If the vampire in Let the Right One In could sing, she would sound the same. A life of pain and over-analysis is fossilized into an eternal well of molten anti-matter, spewing from her Superdrug-glossed lips.

8. She is as common as muck, and every Guardian reader who encounters her will be sickened by her unapologetic vulgarity. You couldn’t take her home to your mother, unless your mother was a scary gyppo. While they are placated by Katie Weissel’s pseudo-aristocracy, Rebecca’s aspirational poise, and Matt Cardle’s fake humbleness, Cher offers no such comforting veneer of class.