It’s Spring!

Spring is sprung. The grass is ris.
I wonder where Prince Charming is!  🙂

Adapted, of course, from a famous, intellectual poem about birdies. Yes, that is the full extent of  my knowledge on the subject. And I prefer my version.

Anyway, moving swiftly along – there’s a bunch of workmen building houses across from me and it’s a nightmare; the whole cul-de-sac is clogged up with lorries, vans, diggers, concrete mixers and burly builders.

And this was a quiet morning!

Today I was driving my neighbour home from the dentist and this fuck-off great big lorry was blocking the estate. I pulled up, trying to decide what to do: drive on the pavement? Nope! Not enough room! Reverse and come in the other way? Nope! There is no other way! Yell Politely ask the driver to move? Hmm…possibly…

And then I had that feeling. The same feeling you get when somebody’s watching you… A builder guy was enjoying his ciggie break in a van parked on the pavement next to me. He grinned. I grinned. He got out of his van. I got out of my car.

‘Hi! I don’t suppose you know how long that lorry driver’s gonna be, do you?’
‘Oh, that’s Brian. He’s only just got here and he’s waiting for the truck in front of him to unload. And now he’s chatting and he’s worse than a woman when he gets going. I reckon you’re stuck here for the next couple of hours…’
‘Oh, great!’
‘Well, at least you get to chat to me while you’re waiting!’
‘Oh, well that’s okay then. It’s not as if I’ve got anything more urgent to do!’
‘I Know! Why don’t you drive up on the pavement!’
‘Already thought of that! Too narrow! I’d never get my arse through there, let alone the car!’
‘I could give it a go if you like!’
‘What? Shifting my arse or the car?’
‘How about going in the back way?’
‘Excuse me! I’ve only just met you! Talk about forward!‘
‘Ha ha! I meant another way onto the estate!’
‘Ahh, I already though of that one as well! There isn’t a back way in!’
‘Hmm… so there’s only one thing to do – yell at the driver to move.’

This was seriously freaky; this guy was reading my mind! And boy! was he cute – not in a conventionally rugged and handsome way, but because he was so at ease in his own body, smiley and flirty, open and cheeky, with mischief twinkling in his eyes.  Jeeze! He was the male version of me!

‘There is another option,’ he said with a grin, pointing to the bit of pavement in front of his van. ‘You could always squeeze in, in front of me.’

Oh, be still, my twitching knickers!

‘Ooooh! That’s the best offer I’ve had in a while!’ I squealed in my best Barbara Windsor accent, ‘But I’ve got my disabled friend in the car and she can’t walk that far.’
‘Story of my life! I’ll go and ask him to move for you.’
‘Oh,  that’s so sweet *simper simper* but I don’t wanna interrupt your ciggie break.’
‘No problem!’ he said, flashing me a wink and leaning on his horn (not that one!).
The lorry driver came rushing out, looking all red-faced and confused.
‘Here, mate,’ said my Knight in Dusty Denim, ‘There’s a gorgeous young lady here who needs to get through!’
(I really must stop squealing; I sound like a pig …) ‘Oh,’ I said, innocently, ‘is there someone else waiting as well, then?’

Oh, that wink! Either Builder Guy was flirting or he’s got one serious eye twitch…     😉

Hello Bristol!

Image by nicksarebi via Flickr

Small favour, guys. Would you all hop over to Vicki’s blog and say hello!? She reads Prince Charming, so she’ll know you all.

Vicki shares a student flat with my son in Bristol and between me and you, she’s a bit of a darling. Last night she was cooking him Spaghetti Bolognese. He can cook by the way, but chooses not to. He’s more of a Can’t-be-arsed to cook. Unless it’s noodles.

I just hope she made him do the washing up. And clean the cooker. And the bathroom. And sort out their living room; apparently, it’s a shit-pit.

Thank-you, sweetheart for helping to keep my boy alive! I’m sending chocolate back for you after Christmas 🙂

And on a brighter note…

Image by jaimelondonboy via Flickr

If you’re reading this, then I’m presuming you’re not dead. And if you’re not dead you will have heard the news. Several times, I would imagine. Even the sexual exploits of the X Factor contestants have been ruthlessly knocked off the front page to make room for The Royal Wedding.

But if you have, just this second, emerged from a coma, and your first conscious thought was to catch up on my pitiful excuse for a love life, then let me fill in the missing blanks: Prince William will marry Kate Middleton in the spring or summer of 2011.

Awww! Ain’t love a bootiful thing? Real-life prince meets and falls in love with a ‘commoner’, drops to one knee in a humble Kenyan hut and  jams a fancy ring on her finger. Together they make plans for a lavish, no-expense-spared, fairytale wedding.

And questions abound. Will the ceremony be held at St Paul’s? Or Westminster Abbey? Whose career will be launched by designing the dress? Will she go for a modern style? Or traditional? I have only one simple question: who is footing the bill?

Will the Queen dip into her personal money pot? Or will she ask David Cameron for extra dosh to cover the nuptials? And can we rely on him to give the morally right answer? ‘Sorry, my love. Our country owes trillions of pounds worth of debt. And, at present, we have approximately 2.9 million children living in poverty in the UK. There’d be riots on the streets (again) if I handed over tax-payers’ money to pay for you lot to have a party piss-up at the palace. And we’ve just allocated an extra million for your Diamond Jubilee celebrations in 2012. Nope. No can do. You’re just gonna have to sell off a castle. Or how about a part-time job? I hear they’re taking on at Sainsbury’s. ‘

No, I can’t imagine it, either.

And what exactly is a ‘trillion’? It sounds like a made-up number kids in the playground might use. ‘I’ve got seventeen Barbie dolls and Barbie’s new Mercedes convertible with authentic leather seats. ‘So? I’ve got seventy-three Barbie dolls and Barbie’s new Kensington attic conversion flat with authentic stripped floorboards.’ ‘That’s nuffink! I’ve got a trillion Barbie dolls including the new princess-in-waiting, and she can talk ‘cos she’s been educated. When you pull the string, she says, ‘you know’ every 3.7 seconds in an authentic upper-class accent.’

Although it is jolly nice of the young Royals to announce their plans when the country is in such crisis. Nothing like a nice wedding with a nice frock to cheer us up, take our minds off social inequality, poverty, national debt, university fees, increased bankruptcy rates, repossession, massive job losses and Gillian’s insect phobia in the jungle.

On the bright side, with the new cuts to legal aid, at least we won’t be paying the bill for the Royal Divorce…

Prince Charming’s arse…

Image by id-iom via Flickr

Only a quickie today as I’m not feeling well 😦  I should have known, when I crawled to bed at half-past eight on Friday night, that I was going to wake up to something unpleasant. And I did. A throat infection that feels like I’ve been chewing glass. And I’m all choked up with horrible green goo! If you’d like to know more, please mail me and I’ll fill you in on all the gruesome details.

Well, over here on WordPress we have this amazing little gizmo that tells us where reader traffic is coming from. It’s also rather revealing about the phrases people type into Google – the same phrases that search engines use to  direct readers to our blogs. That’s probably a clunky explanation, but I’m ill. Feel my pain.

Let’s see. There was arse, courtesy of our very own Gorilla Bananas. (He’s got a thing about bottoms, you see. The wobblier, the better, because he does enjoy a bit of a spank. Allegedly…)

And someone was searching for Prince Charming’s arse. Join the queue, my love. Join the queue.

I particularly like my arse. This one shows just how dependant society has become upon technology. Modern man or woman needs Google to find their own bottom. In my day we would’ve just looked in the mirror…

And then we had my first hot date. I’m not quite sure why that poor person was directed to my blog; I haven’t written about any hot dates because I haven’t bleedin’ had any! Well, not since the early 80’s.

Someone else was looking for penis photos. Good to see the system works; I’ve got hundreds of those pesky little peckers on file.

I saved the best ’til last. The funniest search engine term that people used to find my blog is….drum roll, please….big titted, small-arsed trollops  🙂

I didn’t know I was hosting a kinky porn site!

My mate, primate…

Image via Wikipedia

It’s happened! I think I may – at last – have found my Prince Charming! I am rushing around  the house, all overheated and excited, and for the first time in my pitiful excuse for a life, I am squealing. Squealing!  I can’t breathe, my tummy’s a mass of swirling butterflies and I’m having palpitations. I’m really and truly in lurve. Or I’m having a heart attack.

Either way, it’s exciting.

And I’m trying extra hard with this one; a good male friend of mine has suggested that my ‘oddness’ is attracting the Wrong Type. I have to be normal and girly, simper and giggle, flutter my lashes and flash coy smiles. I’m following his advice, so advance apologies if  my simpering gets on your tits.

Okay, so we ‘met’ online *sound of girly giggling* and he’s just soo lovely! He’s intelligent, has a fantastic sense of humour and an impressive grasp of English grammar and punctuation. *swoon* No text speak at all. OMG, he’s gr8!  We’ve swapped photos, and I’m smitten. He has the most smouldering, wise eyes, the exact colour of  a Cadbury’s Whisper bar. With broad shoulders and a hairy chest,  he’s perfect. Women like wide shoulders on their men;  it’s an indication of  the protection he can offer. *coy smile* He makes me feel so safe!  And  I can feel my fingertips running across his chest, gently tangled in dark, coarse hair. I tug. He growls, deep in his throat, throws back his head and moans. *lots of blushing*

He also rather likes my large and wobbly bottom *more titters*

But, alas! Alack! Alliteration! The course of true love never did run smooth… *Back of my hand is resting dramatically across my frowning brow*  Lady Luck is a meany mare; she has shown me a glimpse of true love, and, with an evil laugh, has torn it away.  *Sound of high-pitched evil cackle* My life is over (again). My Prince Charming? My One True Love?  He is a gorilla…

Image by nailbender via Flickr

I don’t know how I’m gonna break it to my mother…

I blame Walt Disney…

Once upon a time I believed in love. You know, Someday My Prince Will Come, thundering through the forest, muscular mount between his thighs, and our eyes would meet across a crowded glade. Sparrows would chirrup, deer would skip and those furry, black-eyed creatures with stripy tails would do – well, whatever it is that furry, black-eyed, stripy tailed creatures do when they’re feeling the lurve. Sparks would fly. Breasts would heave. And we’d all live Happily Ever After, Amen.

Happy ending, my arse.

You see, time has passed. The world has changed. I’m old now – so old I’ll soon be losing my teeth, forgetting my name, bulk-buying incontinence pads. And in all that time, all that searching, all that hoping, all that bikini-line waxing, not one measly, distant, on-the-horizon, fleeting glimpse of Prince-Chuffin’-Charming!

And that pisses me right off!  True love should be mine; it’s my right as a fairytale fan, a Disney disciple. God knows, I’ve done the homework. I’ve read the stories and sighed. I’ve watched the movies and mooned (moped, not bared my bottom). I’ve lived the life, goddamnit! I’ve toiled and scrubbed; I’ve dressed in rags; I once had Shrek in the shower. I’ve dated my share of the vertically challenged (Bashful was boring, Dopey was dull and Happy turned homosexual.) I wasn’t afraid of the Big Bad Wolf ‘til I caught him in Granny’s knickers; my fingers have suffered too many small pricks; they put me to sleep every time. I’ve let down my hair; I’ve danced with the Beast; I’ve gobbled a Ginger-haired man. I held Jack’s magic beans for a while and boy! did his beanstalk blossom!

I’ve put in the hours. I’ve served my time, now where the bloody hell is he?

I’m 45 years old for God’s sake. I’m nearly dead. What’s he been doing all that time? Wandering the dusty forest paths on his trusty steed, too thick to plug-in the Sat Nav? Even Dappy, who’s too dumb to put his hat on straight, had the sense to search on Facebook.

Nah, it’s time I faced facts. My time has passed. My knight in soft, crinkled-at-the-crotch, stonewashed denim? The bastard’s obviously been hit bit by a truck.

Image sourced from here.