Follow Friday Four Fill-In Fun #4 On Saturday…

Yay! It’s Friday and time for Follow Friday Four Fill-In Fun Blog-Hop! Try saying that after a pint of vodka.

Each week Hilary on Feeling Beachie posts four statements for us to fill in the blanks on our blogs. This week Bernie is co-hosting because she provided the last two sentences. Feel free to hop on over to Hilary’s or Bernie’s and join in the fun by adding your link and filling-in those blanks!

1. I can’t help it, but whenever I see oldies holding hands, I smile. I’m incredibly cynical, yet wildly romantic – go figure! Love that transcends the smooth skin and pert wobbly bits of youth is just wonderful, and I adore seeing oldies hand-holding or cuddling in public. It’s just so, Wow! There’s hope for me, yet!  

Image by Royston Rascals via Flickr

2. Every time I smell pipe smoke I’m immediately transported back to my childhood. It’s not a common smell these days, but occasionally I’ll catch a whiff and suddenly, I’m seven again, sitting with my dad while he puffed away on his pipe.

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Oh, and mothballs! They take me right back to my Gran’s wardrobe where she hoarded fur coats and wraps. I spent days in that damned smelly cupboard, convinced I’d found Narnia! 🙂

Image via Wikipedia

 

3. When I was little I wanted to be a TV cooking show presenter. Lol at me ‘cos my cooking’s atrocious! I spent half my childhood (when I wasn’t busy looking for a non-existent, magical land) in the garden, mixing up pots of mud and leaves, adding coffee and practising camera poses. And I can’t believe I’ve just admitted that in public!

Image by photos_martha via Flickr

 

4. If I had to eat one meal for the rest of my life it would be a roast chicken dinner. Oh yum! Roast potatoes – crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside – oodles of moist meat, stuffing balls, Yorkshire pudding, roast carrots, parsnips and sweet potatoes, crisp brocoli and lashings of gravy. And now I’m dribbling on the keyboard.

Image via Wikipedia

(Yeah, I know it’s roast beef in the photo, but it was the yummiest picture I could find!)

Now get yer butts over to Beachie’s or Bernie’s and join the hop! PS Apologies – I’m late; so this week it’s Follow Friday Four Fill-In Fun Blog Hop on Saturday!

What Every Guy Wants for Valentine’s Day…

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This is the post I so wish I’d written. When I read it on Ellen’s Guide to Bad Internet Dating, I peed myself, laughing! Hope you enjoy as much as I did!

I keep hearing ads on the radio for ‘what to get your guy for valentine’s day’.  They tout everything from sweaters to watches to romantic trips to whatever. 

Duh, it’s not that hard.  Sure, I don’t have a guy this Valentine’s Day (or for any Valentine’s Day in recent memory for that matter), but it doesn’t matter.  I know men.  I know what they like and what makes them happy (I just usually choose to do the opposite). 

It doesn’t have to be expensive, or cost a thing, for that matter.  It doesn’t have to be wrapped in a bow or gift wrapped in any  way at all.  It’s really no secret, but just because I’m a giver and want to help those of you that are stumped on what to get your guy for Valentine’s Day, I’m going to share my top secret, make-em-cry and be sooo nice to you the rest of the day present.

What does every man want for Valentine’s Day?  Regardless of age, height, weight, socioeconomic status, bank balance or anything else it’s plain and simple.  He wants a blow job.  Duh. 

I for one feel that those things need to be earned and not just handed out willy nilly.  Actually, to be perfectly honest, I’m not a huge fan.  Any wonder I’m single?

*note – this gift also works for Christmas, new years, birthdays, anniversaries, st. patrick’s day, kwanza, hannukah, president’s day or any random Tuesday (or monday, wednesday …. you get the idea) 

Ellen has as much luck dating as I do, and it’s never right! She’s funny, insightful and gorgeous! And she knows what every guy wants for Valentine’s Day! Could there be a more complete package?

Thanks, sweetie, for letting me steal your post. Happy Friday!

Dear Santa…

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Please could you stuff my stocking with chocolate this year? Any kind. I’m not fussy. Although a family-sized bar of Galaxy would be good. And maybe a Crunchie, or seven. And, ooohhh! A couple of boxes of Cadbury’s Creme Eggs…

And for my main present, I’d like Robbie Williams.

No?

Oh.

Well, how about a guy who looks like Robbie Williams? With Alan Rickman’s smooth voice and Mel Gibson’s hairy bottom. Intelligence and a sense of humour are essential. Own hair, a definite asset.

Oh, and a pulse would be good too…

I’d like him naked, but wrapped in layers of pink tissue paper, tied with silver ribbon and topped with a huge bow, please. If that’s not too much trouble.

What d’you mean, Santa? Of course I’ve been good. Well, okay, I’m not perfect; I have frequent evil thoughts and I swear too much. And I’m not very tolerant of weedy, needy men. And I really enjoy taking the piss. And I have no self-discipline when it comes to chocolate. Or deadlines. Or exercise… 

But I’m not evil, exactly…. just mischievous. And fun-loving. And – oh, all right! It was me; I’ve got Rudolph. 

Whoa! Stop yelling! Desperate times call for desperate measures, you know. And it’s not like we’re mistreating him; I’ve cleared out the shed, thrown in some straw and set up a TV and DVD player in the corner. He’s currently watching Saw VI.

He’s been a nightmare, really. It was 3am in the North Pole and the kids and I were decked out in SAS clothing and black balaclavas (try saying that after a sweet sherry or two), trying to lure Rudolph out of his stable. It took two bags of carrots and a bottle of Jack Daniels to get him moving.

‘Mu-um, we shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not right,’ my kids moaned, in unison. (Who’d have thought I could raise kids with a conscience!)

‘Look,’ I snapped. ‘Do you want presents or not? For fuck’s sake, just get behind him and push! No! Don’t let him doop in the boot!’

All the way home, the kids sulked and Rudolph sang Christmas carols. But bawdy versions. That’s something you’ve kept quiet, Santa. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is a raging alcoholic and swears like an Irish navvy.

I know you need him back. But I’m willing to trade. One decent bloke or the reindeer gets it.     😉

How not to behave on a date…

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It’s that season. Everyone’s looking for a jolly good rogering love, so I thought I’d devote a couple of posts to great date etiquette. We’ve just had Things You Really Shouldn’t Say On A Date, and today, for your titillation, here is How Not To Behave On A Date…

Don’t:

• forget to shower
• forget to wear clothes
• turn up in fancy dress
• arrive late
• arrive on a camel
• arrive with someone else
• forget to arrive at all
• get yourself arrested
• do a strip at the dinner table
• ask to meet his parents
• use baby talk
• cut up his food
• wind him
• ask if he needs a wee wee
• talk to your food
• pretend your food talks back

Only follow these simple guidelines if you’re serious about dating. If you’re only going out because there’s naff all on TV, then have some real fun and DO all of the above. Not sure where you’d find the camel though….        😉

 

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…

Whatever happened to Perry Bacon?

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The year was 1986: George Michael had big hair and was singing with Wham! Kids all over the country were nervously sitting the new GCSE exams. Margaret Thatcher was busy fucking up the country, but took a day off to open the new M25 motorway – the biggest car park in the world. And I fell in love.

I was 19 and in the second year of my teacher training degree. Although we were affiliated to Hatfield Poly, our campus was in Watford, so us girls would bus over there on a weekend, or they’d come to us and crash on our floors. Not that any of us ever slept – we were too busy with parties and live music, end-of-term balls, country pubs and finding lurve. Who am I trying to kid? We were students. All we wanted was beer and sex.

Oh, they were halcyon days…

And smack bang in the middle of this was Perry Bacon. My First Love. Aged 18, studying chemistry and The Finer Points of Theakston’s Ale. I don’t remember how we met. Oh yes, I do. I was dating his mate, David. He was a bit of a knob, too.

Perry had ADHD, but in those days we just called it annoying. He was funny and loveable and smart. Always laughing, generally causing mayhem, and usually chucking beer. Oh yes, whenever I saw him, we’d end up in an infantile, enthusiastic beer fight. What can I say? We were kids. It was foreplay.

And each night apart we’d feed our food money into cramped campus phone booths and smile our way into the early hours, whispering our fears and breathing our dreams along the phone line.

And the funny thing was, we never once spoke about being in love. Never once said the words out loud, or acknowledged it, even. We were friends. Good friends who just couldn’t stop snogging. I bought him a huge floppy teddy bear and that’s how we communicated: ‘Come for the weekend? Theodore really misses you!’ or ‘Tell Theo I need a Bear Hug!’  

Bear Hugs!

And one day, two years later, it was over. I don’t remember the details, but we were on a train travelling through London. I was crying and then he was gone. Or maybe he left, and then I cried. But there were certainly tears. And he definitely got off the train. And I’m pretty sure it was London.

I bloody loved that bloke, and I often wonder: whatever happened to Perry Bacon?

Even more ridiculous ways to find lurve…

• Attend a stripping party: Tell a friend her house looks shabby, and then suggest she holds a decorating party, inviting everyone (single) she knows. Zoom in on a potential mate and offer to hold his (scraping) tool. If he starts flicking gluey strips of jaded wallpaper in your hair, you know you’ve pulled.
• Through a friend: The perfect way to find love because your mate can pre-screen for undesirable qualities and deep-rooted psychological neuroses. She can pre-screen, but it doesn’t mean she will, though… A mutual mate once set me up with a moody, miserable bastard who hated women.  ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was a moody, miserable bastard who hated women? I moaned, a week later. ‘Well,’ she said, with a shrug, ‘You’re funny and lighthearted. We thought you might bring out his happy side. And it gave us a break for a couple of nights…’
• Through a hobby: Is there an activity you enjoy doing at home? Could you turn it into a club for others to join? 

Oops! Maybe not...

• Venture into a Man’s World: Try DIY stores, golf ranges, garages, football matches – any place where men congregate! But, unless you’ve been chugging tequila slammers all night, probably best to avoid changing rooms or the gents’ toilets… Dress fluffy and do the whole ‘I’m a girl’ *flutter eyelashes* I need a big, strong man to check my oil/explain the offside rule/advise on the best screw fittings.’  If you’re not immediately surrounded by a flock of flashy peacocks, fall back on Plan B – cry.
• Join a Health Club: Every day, across the country, millions of fit, attractive, gays are pumping iron…Whoops! I meant guys, of course…  😉
• Throw a party: Invite everyone you know. Ask your friends to bring other friends, and their friends to – Just open-house to everyone! But, be prepared for vomit on the lawn, up your stairs and in the dishwasher. And don’t, for the love of Mars bars and other things holy, advertise your Singles Will Mingle event on Facebook, unless you’re prepared for: Confirmed Guest Attendance – 7, 631 …
• Advertise for lurve:  Pop a notice in your local Spar, pub or post office. Make it stand out from all the usual Mature female WTLM male for companionship and walks by the sea. Go for something bold, eye-catching and unique. Old Banger, free to a good home. One former negligent owner. Bodywork’s a bit knackered and dented in places. Engine’s sluggish, but she just needs turning on and given a bloody good revving! 😉                                

Old but still beautiful!

It’s all in the jeans – I mean, genes…

Image by Limbic via Flickr

Men and women are different. And not just in the obvious way. We have different priorities, thought processes and behaviour . Not rocket science, I know, but it makes you wonder why?  I remember sending someone a birthday card with this amazing snippet of wisdom on the front:

How to turn a woman on: Caress, pamper, massage, empathise, serenade, compliment, soothe, stroke, whisper, hug, tantalise, protect, smooch, nuzzle, charm, listen to, trust, defend, spoil, worship, adore, acknowledge, embrace, tease, idolise, die for, phone, anticipate, hug, love, ignore fat bits, stimulate, praise.

How to turn a man on: Get naked. Bring beer.

And it all goes back to what’s in his jeans – I mean, genes. One of Man’s greatest instincts is to procreate, to ensure the species survives. Poor old Stone-Age Man, needing to do the business, yet surrounded by fiercely predatory creatures – sabre-toothed tigers, wooly mammoths and rampaging mothers-in-law. His engine had to vroom from 0 to 60 at a second’s notice, making sure he reached his …er…destination in as short a time as possible. The risk of having something sharp and pointed plunged in your butt would do that to a man.

Us girls, of course, are more like diesel engines. Turn the key. Wait for the red light to go out. Ease s-l-o-w-l-y away from the kerb. Slip into second gear…You know the score. And I’m sure this is because our Stone-Age sisters couldn’t afford to get carried away; they were too busy guarding hubby’s bottom, while he got on with the serious business of hiding the hot-dog.

And you know why most men have a pet name for their penis? It’s because they don’t want  a stranger making 99% of their decisions for them  😉

Every name tells a story. Unfortunately…

  

Searching for The One...

 

Okay, I’ve chosen a site, written a sparkling profile and uploaded a not-too-awful looking photo. Now it’s time to hit the search button and go find My One True Love.  

*An interestink hour passes*  

Hmmm…well, there are hundreds of (supposedly) single men on here. And most of them have only one head. Always a bonus, I find. Let’s see…there’s TimmyTantrum. I’ll be giving him a miss, I think. And there’s Jolly Jimmy, although I fail to see how anyone could be particularly jolly with that much dental decay…  Oh, and Mr Wowe who’s obviously a modest chap, and yep, there’s his little brother IAmFunDate4U – this should, of course, be pronounced in an Arnold Schwarzenegger voice for maximum comic relief. 

Dear God! I’ve just found a Bottom Dweller! What a thing to advertise! And here’s Rootbeaver and his wingman Muffsnuffler 😀 

Just goes to show, romance is still alive and snuffling in Cornwall!