Up the chocolate highway with Jesus

"I died for your skins"

My parents have sent us a Green and Blacks Easter Egg. My mum chose it because it is mega-thick and was the only chocolate egg that could survive Royal Mail intact. It got here safely, but as I was reading aloud the packaging’s claims about how difficult it was to crack, Esther grabbed the TV remote and with 3 heavy blows, she smashed a hole in it and was gorging herself on shards of inch thick chocolate.

We made short work of it. This was on Maundy Thursday.

Tesco has been pushing Easter eggs relentlessly since February and I hate this new policy: everyone buys them in while they’re cheap but never has the self-control to leave them alone, and they end up having to buy more.

“Every little helps” does it? Not if we’re talking puppy fat, you bastards. Have you ever noticed that all the offers are on the food with the nutritional value of a sugarmouse.

"Who you calling fat, you cake whore!"

Tesco is also responsible for my regular slavery to Esther (aka my only exercise).

At the bottom of our old hill, Esther used to complain that the only way she could keep up with me is if I carry all her bags. So, torn between a tediously slow journey or looking like a laden donkey, I choose the latter. I just hate waiting. And I like donkeys.
When we moved to our new house, I was downhearted to realise that we lived again at the top of a hill, although a smaller one this time.
Although Esther promised me that this hill wouldn’t be a problem, every time we round the corner she pretends her bags have become unbearable and then strides up with a cat-got-cream expression when I take them off her (every time). If I didn’t think it was so cute, I’d call her a chauvinist pig. Or a smug sugarmouse.

"So long, sucker"

On Easter Sunday, we were down at Lisa’s house (sitting in the same chairs we sit in every day, hollowing out what little padding they have until soon only our precise bottoms will fit into the dusty hollows)…

"Yep, this one's definitely mine..."

We were talking about the gangs of rampant men we had just seen on the dog walk: packs of check shirted, shiny shoed, gel-hardened men roaming the streets in search of cheap and slutty thrills.
Suddenly Lisa mused “It’s like Jesus. Everyone gets drunk and then finally on Sunday they are reborn and go walking the streets”.
Yes Lisa, just like Jesus.

What if God was a Happy Slapper?

Gary Glitter has found God, and is releasing a cover of Joan Osborne’s ‘classic’ What if God was one of Us? Here’s a taster of his revised lyrics:

What if God was one of us?

Just a paedo on the bus?

Trying to make it with your only son?

Catchy. And thought provoking. What if God was one of us? We are after all fallen, sinful and downright nasty compared to Mr squeaky clean upstairs. Original sin is a pretty shitty inheritance:

“Gee thanks mom and pop, I can’t have a car, but I’ve got a plot waiting in hell for me”

And if God was one of us, he’d be heading the same way.


I have just watched the Bible-bashing episode of GLEE (Grilled Cheesus), and it sickened me. Even the militant atheists (Sue and Kurt) felt the power of faith by the end. America can’t help but bring God into it, and then make him rape your face.

And who’s God huh? I’m sure there’s a few Muslims and Sikhs and Hindus etc at Glee school too, what about their gods? They may as well be damned atheists as far as the Christian Right is concerned.

Egg1 "I've found God!" Egg2 "No that's just my ass"

People only find God when they’re in a pickle. When your life turns to shit, you get so desperate that you will cling to anything. Even a God shaped floating shit.

But I don’t want to sound like Richard Dawkins (what a religious nut!). During my grumpy phase (still ongoing), my dad wisely said “you need some spirituality in your life” in a gently ‘you’ll see’ voice. Being a teenager, I blew a raspberry and stomped back upstairs to listen to Megadeth.

"Excuse me, where can I get those clothes pegs?"

However, the seriousness of adulthood has given me cause to think back about this possibility. But I can’t do it. Maybe nothing bad enough has happened to me to make me desperate to believe (but saying this makes me touch the God of wood)- or maybe it has and I just can’t? How bad does it have to get?

Maybe on my deathbed I’ll repent: Catholicism offers the best last resort. Do what you want, as long as you say sorry afterwards. Madonna and her clones make me want to get faithed up- the videos for Like a Prayer and Alejandro are hot. I haven’t seen a titillating Muslim yet, but I’m sure it’ll happen. If I were a Muslim, I’d think all women were prick teases, walking around and talking and asking for it. Yeah right.

If I were Christian, I’d think that sex was so important it has to be saved up. Talk about pressure. How disappointing when your adult body can only fumble like a naïve teenager. How shit if you can’t come- but God wants you to do it in the name of procreation. You’re a vessel of God; not so different from a Communist selflessly working for the greater good is it? How shit to defer your own pleasure for the chance of an afterlife that may never happen.

"Peace be with you?"

It’s not that I refuse to believe, it’s that I don’t know how. I went to a church one Sunday because I felt hungover and guilty about having spent money and had a good time. I accidentally dressed all in black that day, and together with my red eyes and boozey stench I got some funny looks. The vicar kept banging on about the anti-Christ and I’m sure he was looking at me. The discomfort continued when everyone suddenly started shaking each other’s hands. Oh god I though as it got to my turn: some prim bourgeoisie invaded my personal space to look into my eyes and say “peace be with you”. My fake smile trembled under their prolonged gaze. Get me the fuck out of here I prayed to the anti-Christ.

I’m not anti-faith. I just hate the way religious people can’t just think

‘I am happy and secure in my belief, and everyone else is welcome to their (non) belief’.

But no, they think ‘Heathens are abominations and must be forcibly converted even if we all die in the process’.

"Hell = A world full of Michael Keatons"

What they don’t realise is that if we were all perfect and faithful, the world domination that bible bashers bash their bibles for, religion would be obsolete.

Without the drive to convert, chastise, commiserate and coddle non-believers, what is there left for the god-botherer to do?

And without a punishment (hell), heaven isn’t a reward. It’s just the place that everyone goes. What’s the point of being good if you’re going to end up there anyway?

If everyone could shop at Waitrose, or if everyone was paid the same, what would be the point of any other shops or having a career, or being ambitious? Having competition relies on ambition, greed, and the drive to have something so someone else can’t have it.

"I'm going to scream and scream until I'm sick"

All these nasty, selfish traits that ruin the world are nicely encapsulated in the brain of an only child. I should know, I am one.

The only child never has to learn to share- and remains forever resentful that the world refuses to provide them with the attention they deserve, the sticky-fingered attention their parents gave them.

They may never come to terms with the fact that other people get stuff that they can’t have.

Esther often forces me to share with Lisa and Dom.

“But having this thing that you’re making me share is the only thing that makes me better than them!” I whine.

And if I am not better than them, I am worse. One or the other. The wheel of fortune: to be at the top, there must be poor suckers at the bottom. Pray it isn’t your turn next. All or nothing.

What’s the point of having stuff if everyone’s got it? You have objects so other people can’t- that’s my game. I would hate communism, unless I could work the system and become a dictator.

Genesis. And the Boomtown Rats.

"Down with Mondays"

Allegedly, on Monday God created light. What a crock. Mondays are days for getting by, not starting the task of all tasks. Today is after all the sick man of weekdays, the rude oik nephew at a family gathering.

Luckily, there are some people who grab a pad and paper instead of curling into the foetal position when pain come a calling.

Hence “I don’t like Mondays” and “Manic Monday” and “Blue Monday” to name but a few.

I think God actually created pain today. And the police.

Me and Govinda were sat outside Spar on Saturday night, watching two bored policemen frisk a homeless man. We started questioning their motives (excuses to touch skinny men), and they came and loomed over us threateningly.

“Are you laughing at someone trying to do their job” said bad cop

“Yes” I replied.

He stomped away to think of a comeback. After the cogs turn for a while, he comes back over.

“That man is a burglar and a junkie. He belongs in prison”

“Oh yes” I say like a flash, “That will sort him out. He’ll be much better off after that!” I can feel a rant coming on. And then some cell time.

But luckily his one working synapse is taken over by hunger for red meat and he heads into Spar for some cat food. 2 for a pound at the moment.

I used to like the police. I used to believe that they had to be intelligent and sensitive and calm. Some of them are, but they end up at tribunals after being called names by the rest of them.

I suffered a similar disappointment when I found out that Waitrose and Marks and Spencers cashiers weren’t posh. I really thought they would be like the packaging: stylish, articulate and well put together. But oh no. I want to go somewhere where upper middle class types man the customer service desk, and go “hawhee hawhee haw” into the tannoy.

The best part of the day was eaten up ravenously by an afternoon nap from 4-7pm. Lovely.

"On the First Day God created naked napping. And it was goood"



Dayglo bunnies, misfits and male whores.

"United Bunnies of Bennetton"

Govinda calls me and Esther naughty rabbits. I think it’s because our usual facial expression is ‘hunted and manhandled’ and I have a fluffy white tail.

Apparently there’s a new trend for dyeing your rabbits different colours. I have often wanted to do this to Linda and Goldie but haven’t dared. It’s always better to wait and watch someone with less morals doing it first. This is what I did with sex and black pudding.

We spend a lot of time watching other people doing stuff we wish we could but don’t want to get caught. It’s called living vicariously. Or living bicuriously. Apparently, God created us so he could get his thrills from afar and feel and see what we did. He liked the whole procreating bit, but he was allergic to apples and nearly died when Adam and Eve gobbled them all, which really pissed him off. The rest is his-story (as told on Jacko’s album of the same name).

If I was going to tell my story, it would probably be a montage of clips from Me Myself and Irene, MTV and Misfits.

The climax would be the Misfits Manifesto, which sums up my ethical principles:

Best speech ever?

It’s the Howl of our generation. If I still count, being 30 n all…

"Generation Y Wear A Belt?"


Faces I Want to Slap

Saturday, saturday, what a day. Not.

Still no call from Kristen. I will have to call out the repairmen, there must be a fault with the line stopping her from getting through.

While I wait, I compose a list of people whose faces are so annoying I want to slap them resoundingly. The bigger the picture, the more slappable the face:

Peter Beale. I wonder if his hair would even move?

"Horatio from CSI Miami. He might actually express some emotion if he is bitch slapped"


"Thinking about it, the whole rubber faced cast gets on my wick"

"I'd get them in a double-twonk"

"Shut the fuck up"

"Ellen Page even slaps her own face it's so annoying"

“Precocious, Moi?”

"Need someone to play God?"

DEFINITELY to be continued!!


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