Thursday, 16 September 2010

A movie script ending.

It sure has been a very long time since I wrote anything on this. This can be attributed to the following things: being happy, being busy and being inarticulate. Whilst the latter still remains a significant hurdle, the former two obstacles have diminished significantly, so I'll give it a go.

Today is a non-day. A non-day is the type of day that you utterly waste, but you don't enjoy doing so, which makes it truly wasted. Too dumb to read, too comfy to get dressed, too lazy to wash, too numbed to do anything. Blah blah blah. Shit, this is boring. At least it's something. I'll write something better sometime soon. Pinky promise.

Saturday, 5 June 2010

Somebody's done for.

I felt very inspired earlier, but then something odd happened. It was either the heat, or the lack of dinner, or the very peculiar sexy undertone to the day's events, or something, but I just lost it. I had a horrid gruelling shift spent vastly looking at my feet, or the ceiling, or through people. Then there was a kids party at the end and I just wanted to take every child and methodically insert party food into their eyes. Except one, she was very cute. I actually forgot what it was I so desperately wanted to write about until I had some dinner. It's put me back on the straight and narrow.

This past week I have noticed a very large surge in ugly, retarded looking Brownies. On at least three separate occasions on three separate days, some halfwit, toothless, redneck, backwards runts in signature yellow jumpers and brown neck ties have come into the shop. Each and every time their ugliness astounded me. They all looked completely batty, too. Now, I once attended Brownies (shut up) and I also had a very ugly phase, which, come to think of it, happened simultaneously. I ask you this: is it the uniform that makes you severely ugly and retarded, or do they only accept deformed and cracked young girls into Brownies? It's just like that chicken/egg conundrum, but far more relevant to today's society.

On my lunch break I went to Specsavers to pick up my glasses. Despite being a pathetic prescription and only necessary to stop me getting headaches when I read or spend long periods of time stalking people on Facebook, I am very excited about having glasses. Anyway. I was walking up to the Kingsway from Oxford street and saw those bloody street ranger twerps chasing some shoplifter or other up the street. As if it wasn't enough of a treat to see those dingbats putting some effort into their job for once, a very fat security guard came bumbling up slowly behind, completely out of breath and actually pushed a small girl to the floor out of his way. It was just like the movies! Oh, how I did laugh. That little girl didn't though.

A very nice vegan woman came in and I spent a lot of time advising her on the best place to get sweets and chocolate from. I spent a long time telling her the wonders of Organica white chocolate before remembering I actually had a bar in my bag, so I brought it out for her to have a nibble. We bonded very well. It was so refreshing to meet someone who is vegan but is terrified of all the other vegans because they are loopy and pale. It reminded me of this time I mentioned I was vegan and some completely batshit crazy, fuck ugly goth with green hair was like "Me too! We're like soulmates!" Aiiiieeeeeeee!

Now that I have glasses, I can read for hours. That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to have a reading party. Yeah!

Tuesday, 18 May 2010

A nerd's favourite food is... cheese.

Yes. YES! I have something to say. A few things. I don't know how to tie them all nicely together so what I will do is just list them and perhaps separate them with a good space. I could even number them. Yes, I will number them. No one will get confused that way.

1. My favourite loopy customer came in today! Right towards the end of my shift, when I thought all hope was lost and I was doomed to yet another measly four hour shift putting in minimum effort for my minimum wage and acting all nice but secretly hating everyone and everything, but mostly everyone. I said hello when he stumbled in, but he did not hear me. Or maybe he did, but he didn't care. I left him to it for a minute or two before I clocked his crutches, bound in that fantastic tell-tale candy stripe tape, and realised just who had awkwardly shuffled into my life. I persevered with conversation, but he really wasn't very interested in what I had to say. I don't blame him, I am very rarely interested in what comes out of my mouth, only what goes in (I do mean food, you know). Like a paedophile working in a sweet shop, he blurted out "Which one is the lemon one?" so I showed him what I sold him last time. He was right in my personal space before I knew anything and I definitely nearly fell over. This story's getting boring. Anyway, I weighed some soap, he bought it and I did a massive smile. Yes!

2. I always see people selling the Big Issue in town. Well, I guess a lot of people see them, I'm not special. They always seem to change, though, as if selling the Big Issue is a one day fast track to being a hotshot success and probably owning a magazine, or even a newspaper. There are only a few that I recognise as being long term Big Issue sellers: 1. Girl with ponytail who is always up really early in the morning. 2. Her boyfriend who has dark hair and looks a little angry (come on now, you would be too) and 3. Placid man who looks like he has taken lots of valium before going to work and currently has a broken arm. I wonder why they have been selling it for so long when there seems to be quite a fast turnover of vendors. I have come up with some (numbered) solutions. 1. They are really bad at selling the Big Issue, probably because it sucks. 2. They are really good at selling the Big Issue and they are on a special wage to shift those magazines because everyone knows that it sucks and it will never get sold otherwise. 3. They LOVE selling the Big Issue, even though it sucks. Who cares, the point is: don't buy the Big Issue because it sucks. It's the biggest pile of gobshite I've ever fucking read and I'd rather buy a homeless person dinner than have to torture myself reading the shit they're peddling. If homeless people were allowed to sell Heat or Hello magazine then society would be a much better place.

3. Earlier on I saw a woman with THE fattest ass in the whole world. She was kinda tubby overall but her butt hung off her back like a truck off a cliff. It was its own entity. I just don't understand how someone can get so big exclusively in one place. Maybe she wanted to be more ghetto or she wanted to keep her legs trim, but either way she must've wished all those calories onto her colossal backside and figured she'd deal with it later. Now she's dragging it around like a mortgage and all that extra movement's making her chin swing like a clock pendulum. Somebody get this woman a wheelbarrow! Christ, I am horrid.

4. A big camp man came in. Upon arrival, he immediately announced "Hello! I would like a present for my mother's birthday. She's got hair like a troll. It's disgusting." Well, what do you say to that? What a guy.

5. I went for a lovely walk to the bank and to get milk for the shop, during which I caught a woman from Holland and Barratts smoking! That deceitful old bint. I should've known all this herbal remedy shit was a hoax. I wouldn't be surprised if that other horrible bastard who works there is on heroin. He might as well be, he never gives you the right change. The whole world is on a shitslide to doom. DOOM.

6. On writing the mild introduction to this load of trollope, I learnt that I have been spelling 'separate' wrong all my life. So much for my A in English. So much for going to Uni this September. Why has no one told me this before?


Thursday, 29 April 2010

Dumb it down.

It's my day off and my assistant manager is calling me. No doubt someone has called in sick, or gone home, or straight up just not showed up. I'm in my pyjamas and listening to Death Cab For Cutie, feeling sorry for myself and looking like shit. It would be so easy to ignore that call and pretend I am asleep, then wait a few hours until they couldn't physically need me any more and call back and apologise, maybe have a nice little chat. But I'm not that kind of person, so I pick up.

Hi, how are you, I'm alright, what's up, cut to the chase. I think of how much I need the money and how I can't turn down a shift vs. how shitty I look and feel and how I've got three shifts tomorrow and could really do with the day off. I think of all the excuses I've ever used and try and think of something new. I hold my breath.

"There's a food tasting in Cross Keys." She knows me too well. The place or the pub? The pub. Will it matter if I'm vegan? I don't know. You get paid for it though. Get to the chopper!

I take a shower and get dressed and you know what? I don't look like shit at all. I set off, still listening to relatively depressing music. I put on Lagwagon instead. They're fun.

When I get there, I sit down with a lovely lady and give her my details. She asks what type of milk I'd prefer and I say soya. Not a problem. But alas! the cereal I am required to taste is a new type of Special K, and that shit has milk in it. I tell her I am lactose intolerant and slowly admit that I am in fact vegan, and she doesn't give a shit. She actually says "Does it look like I give a shit?" as she goes on and breaks all the rules. She says not to make it obvious whilst she eats the cereal for me. She hasn't had breakfast and she is grateful.

So there I sit at a table opposite a delightfully funny woman, filling in a questionnaire based on her answers. "Oh, it's very hard! But crunchy, too. It's not very nice. Yes, it's far too sweet for me. Look, it's gone kind of soggy. Put that down." We go through four different cereals which are slightly different from each other and she concludes that the last one is the best by far. She tells me to circle "exactly right" on all the questions regarding hardness, crunchiness, strawberry taste, cereal taste, aftertaste. There are some really bizarre questions where I have a set of four words and I have to circle the words I am both most and least likely to use to describe the cereal. Sounds pretty straightforward, but not when the words include 'powerful', 'youthful', 'embarrassing' and 'pretentious'. Kelloggs are fucking weirdos. The lady and I laugh at the questions and she admits that they are truly ridiculous. Then we talk about tattoos and she shows me the one on her foot. It was the last thing I expected her to come out with and when she told me about the tattoo she had going from the bottom of her back to her neck I was astounded. She was such a smart and respectable, friendly lady. Wow.

When I finish the questionnaire, I hand it in and get paid a tenner which I use it to buy breakfast I actually want to eat. Fuck you, Kelloggs!

Tuesday, 27 April 2010

When you need directions.

Teeth knackered. Parts of body don't work. Job prosperity zero. Marriage on the rocks. Can't go to 5 Bells in the night. Social life zero. Money coming in £113 per month. Smoking 40 fags a day. Been in some jams in my life but this is the worst. Car only worth £300. I have managed to lose all my self respect and I suppose deservedly so. Made family's life hell with my selfish and really childish behaviour. I hate myself for what I'm doing to everybody. I don't know the future but it's looking very bleak. The nights are the worst. Long and watching TV. When I awake in the morning the feeling of emptiness is overbearing. I finally realised my head has gone. Had to have lager, reminiscing, can't go forward. Still stuck in the past. Destroying family. I hate myself. Saw J. Morris. Couldn't face him. Went different way.
My life is finished.

Last night I dreamt my dad was alive.

As crazy as it sounds...

I wonder how long I will leave this entry on here. I can feel myself whining before I start. I haven't seen any batshit crazy people, except for that one woman running outside of Costa. Shit, I can't even explain it. It was like love.

I've been writing my dreams down. I have noticed a few things, mostly that it really annoys me when my handwriting looks like shit, which it does when I first wake up. I don't believe that you can analyse your dreams to a large extent, or that dreaming of pooping brings you money (even if it's true for my mam) but there must be correlation between what you consciously think and feel and what your silly head comes up with when you're snoozing. Recently I have been dreaming of looking after a young girl. This girl is either my own baby (who in the vast majority of these dreams rejects me entirely as a mother) or my cousin, Allisia. She's sixteen (or seventeen, shit!) but I haven't seen her so much in recent years, and so I always think of her as eight or something. I don't have any children, I promise, and it's a fucking miracle if I'm pregnant. I don't even want kids. Well, I don't want to have to think about it right now. But then there was always that feeling that I'd have a kid in my early twenties. I don't like getting feelings about things, because I am always right. Gross.

I want to finish my zine, but I think I am too dumb. There is a show at the Punkalow tonight.

Monday, 19 April 2010

Get some sleep.

I should probably do this more regularly, turns out some people like reading this crap. My stomach is currently a battleground between my menstrual cycle and the latte I had earlier. I want to go to bed.

Today in work a lady with the fattest bottom in the whole world came in. She said she was looking for a face mask and I sold her a cleanser too. I don't know why I'm not the manager. Anyway, during the consultation (which was full of shithot essential oil knowledge), that bloody fat dyke kept staring at my tits. What a pervert! In hindsight I should've got an expensive moisturiser and placed it firmly infront of my breasts to see if she took the bait. But whatever, I'm no sales whore.

I've actually been meaning to write about some fruity people I've seen around recently. I'll try and recall...

Easter weekend I went to the crematorium to see my dad. I nearly bloody slipped there was so much shitting mud everywhere, what a fucking disgrace. It's a place for mourners and sorrow, not comedy slips. Saying that, mam and I had a hearty chuckle over it all. I was arranging some lovely roses when I noticed a boy, I'd say he was about fifteen maybe, walking around talking to himself. He was definitely cracked as hell but it was hard to work out just who he was talking to since, being a generic teenage boy, he was mumbling a lot. I like to think that he was talking to all the people whose powdered remains were buried there. Like the Sixth Sense, or something. Because real life is mostly like the movies, right?

On a shitty ten minute lunch break not so long ago I was walking to Holland and Barrett's, the place of vegan dreams, to get a pasty. Yum. I heard a guy doing the most insanely terrifying death metal whispers. He sounded like the fucking devil! It was way cool. I didn't cop a good look, but I did notice he was walking with someone who was on the phone and seemingly oblivious to his mental friend. I swear to god, he sounded like Michael Akerfeldt in a library.

A very cute little girl came into the shop last week. She wasn't mental, just really sweet. She saw a robot ballistic that prompted her to swing her arms about and shout "exterminate!". Seeing a three year old girl in massive pink sunglasses jump around chirping "esstermunate!" is about as scary as, well, it's not very scary at all. When I tuttied down to ask her if she'd like a little label on her bag, she almost gave me a cuddle. As she was leaving, she stopped at the feet of a tall lady, a complete stranger, and looked up to say "BYE!" and then skipped off. What a cutie.

I'm boring. Come to the Bridge & Tunnel / Young Livers show on Wednesday. It'll be fun. Go on.

Friday, 12 March 2010

I don't know how to sing.

'Slacking' isn't the word. The weather's been beautiful and I think I've lost my mind a little preaching the arrival of summer like it's the second coming. I've worked a lot more than usual this week which is good because I need the money to move house but frustrating when the sun's out and all you want to do is get out and play. A work experience girl, Katy, has been in all week. She's fifteen and refreshingly naïve. She's been learning lots about products and the way the shop works so I thought being the second youngest and undoubtedly the most streetwise badass in the shop, I should give her a few life lessons. We talked a lot about drugs. It's truly terrifying what people think is a good idea these days. I took particular delight in seeing her terrified little face when I related some truly awful drug mishaps, most of which I think I made up, but whatever. It scared the shit out of her. Good.

I think I've run out of things to say again. I went through a very brief phase of mild intelligence and productivity and I've hit a wall once more. I've been scribbling lots of secrets in my notebook but they're far too 'out there' to put on here. It'd break the internet. I guess I should say that if anyone is even reading this, you should get a ticket for the Chuck Ragan show if you haven't already. Don't be a dick, it's going to be amazing. One thing I did want to broadcast to the world is that I don't get paid anywhere near enough to see my supervisor in her underwear. I'm moving house very soon. YEAH!

Monday, 25 January 2010


I have yet to write my remaining two cat stories and I had a good day at work which I shall document when I am in less of a productive mood (I have done a lot of things on my 'things to do' list today, and writing on this piece of crap ain't on the list). In other news, here is a copy of what I sent to the TV Licencing people, those fucken shitcrackers.

The reason we do not have a tv licence is because we don't watch tv. We have a television set which we use for playing dvds and playing XBox.
I haven't had a tv to actually watch tv shows on since I moved out two and a half years ago, and I don't miss it one bit. There's nothing good on the tele these days and if there's anything I do actually want to watch, I ask my mam to record it and I watch it at her house (she has a licence). Please don't flatter yourself by assuming we are watching tv without a licence because it sucks and I can find much better ways to break the law.
Please stop sending us letters. I don't even read them any more, I just put them straight in the recycling (and I don't think you can even recycle envelopes, so just think about that!).
Get outta here! Leave me alone! Have a pleasant day though.

Yours sincerely,
the present occupier. :)

Friday, 22 January 2010

Things just getting good.

I didn't want to disappoint you, so here is a horrid little post because I am in a stinky mood about screwing up my Politics exams. It's even worse being in the college canteen in the corner on my own eating chips that taste like water whilst everyone around me is three years younger than me and particularly loud and obnoxious. Dicksuckers!

On the way to Happy Cats Hotel last week we were all happily joking about drowning kittens when I found out that my dad had drowned loads of his pet cat's little kitties when he was a kid. His mam didn't want to do it and they couldn't afford to keep the kittens or get the cat spayed so whenever a new bundle of joy arrived, my dad stuffed them all in a bag with a brick or some rocks for good measure and dunked them in the river until they all died a horrible death. I don't know what he did with a sack of dead cats but they were so bloody poor they probably took it home and made a cat and brick stew out of it. I guess that's just the way things were in those days. Dark times.

Last year I read a story in the Metro about a man who got sentenced to a wee bit of jail time for killing his neighbour's cat. Now, I don't know just how reliable the Metro are as they seem to me to be quite the sensationalist newspaper but this is near enough what was reported. A man killed his neighbour's cat, describing it as a "bully" and a "menace". He told the paper that the cat had broken into his house, knocked over a vase and "looked pleased with itself", so he punched it in the face and threw it in the river to drown. Admittedly it was funnier before I wrote it down. Poor cat.

Tilly didn't spend very long with my brother at all. He took her back to the rescue place because it wasn't right for him, or something. I'm pissed, but whatever. She was the closest thing to me having a cat and now she's gone. I'm not allowed to even adopt a cat because I've got to move out of this house and find somewhere else to live and that's probably only going to be for a year before I move on again. I feel like a tramp, kicking my bag of shit from crummy house to filthy dump. Except I pay rent, which is an even worse feeling. I even asked about volunteering at the local cat rescue place just to hang out with the kitties and tickle their bellies, but they said no.
Fuck everything.

Thursday, 21 January 2010

Different cat, same result.

I anticipated writing this in the foulest of moods, having earlier drastically failed my last ever attempt at getting a good grade in A Level Economics. I had already planned how I would write about drowning kittens and the hopelessness of rescued cats. I even thought of mentioning a relatively amusing story of animal cruelty (controversial, I know, but it is very funny I promise) I once read in the Metro. But since the exam wasn't too disastrous (given that I consolidated all of my revision into the bus ride to college) and I ended my troublesome relationship with Economics on a very positive note, feeling that I had eventually had the last word, I am in a jolly good mood. Onwards with joyful cat stories!

My grandfather, my mum's dad, is one of few people in this world that I truly idolise. He can't read or write properly but he is the most intelligent and hard-grafting person I know. He can speak five languages and can fix everything except the economy and a broken heart. I had to wait until I was about sixteen until he conversed with me like a human instead of muttering and swearing at me, and I've treasured every word to leave his mouth ever since. I promise this story is going somewhere.

I'd happily describe my grandpa as a hard bastard because it is apt and summative. He chased and hit my mam in the good old days because her hoop accidentally knocked over a tin of paint. He perfectly deconstructed and rebuilt a Kinder egg in order for it to contain a cold, hard boiled egg, just to watch me cry. He's banned from Lidl for shoplifting salami in his seventies. A few years ago, he punched a guy in the face at the pub because the guy owed my grandpa money. £2.50. Despite being absolutely hilarious and the best story teller I know (you haven't lived until you've heard an 80 year old man relate in broken english and through fantastic, uncontrollable cheeky laughs at the christmas dinner table how he got caught scrumping by a woman in the Ukraine so he pissed on her from up a tree), my grandpa is definitely someone to be respected and revered.

Even though he is a dick to lots of people, always comically though (to me at least), there is a sure way to my grandpa's heart. Cats. He has a funny relationship with them. He doesn't have one, probably because his age prevents him from looking after one properly, but he likes to teach them things. Actually, that's a huge understatement. My grandpa is to cats what Martin Luther King was to America on the matter of civil rights.

He likes to befriend cats in the neighbourhood. At one point his house must've looked like Madam Meow's kitty brothel with all the cats coming and going all the time. There was one in particular that he really liked so he installed a cat flap that only let cats out of the house and then spent I don't know how long teaching his favourite kitty to slip his paw under the flap and lift it over his head to get in. I swear if it was possible he would organise a cat orchestra that could play you any Tchaikovsky classic on request.

I almost feel that since his blackbird Fred died, he is capable of expressing happiness and love only in the company of or when speaking about cats. Aside from when he does a particularly triumphant fart, I only ever really see him smile when he's talking about a cat he used to know or one that lives in the street.

So here's to cats, the only real joy in my idol's life, an otherwise cruel, horrid, inappropriate, hard bastard.

Wednesday, 20 January 2010

King of the road.

After Ninja, a wonderful cat graced our lives at my old student house. Garfield didn't visit regularly, which made it even more of a treat when he trotted up our steps and patiently waited to be let in. Every time we saw his shadow against the door, created by the ominous glow of the streetlight, it felt like Christmas when you're five years old.

I think the thing I liked most about Garfield was that he was approximately 10% affection and 90% mystery. We saw him every few weeks and what he did inbetween those visits was anybody's guess and nobody's business. We could only speculate as to where he went, what he did, how many houses he visited, where he originated from, how much he ate in a day, who actually "owned" him (was it even possible for him to belong to anyone but himself?), how many little kitties he had fathered in his time, how many lady cats wished he would call...

Garfield was a huge ginger cat, hence the unoriginal nickname. He had short, stumpy legs that gave him a really gnarly walk, like he was picking up pennies. On one hand you could imagine him listening to Madball and pumping iron, yet those little legs of his once caused him to trip up a curb and my housemate even said that he looked around to see if anybody saw him do it.

Like any cat in their right mind, Garfield loved a fuss. What surprised me most was that once inside the house, he rarely went further than the hallway. I remember once we conned him into going into the kitchen (as shown below). Garfield was not interested in our lives. Not one bit. He would come in, stand on the letters strewn across the floor, roll around and enjoy a tickle and then politely request to leave. It was hard to stop him in the street too. Either he didn't want to be seen with us in public or he wanted the relationship to be entirely on his own terms. But what a treat it was when he would get on his back and offer his tummy to us on the pavement outside our house! What a boy.

I haven't seen Garfield since I moved house, which at least tells me that his adventures don't take him this far south of my old street. Probably because there's a big scary dog that goes bow wow wow wow wow! every time you pass him.

Tuesday, 19 January 2010

In response to irresponsibility.

Last night I was fed a mushroom wrap in my sleep. It was really tasty but it turns out it had egg in it. Doh. Here's another cat story.

Floyd, as previously discussed, opened my heart and mind to cats. I didn't have another serious cat relationship for quite some time after her. Every time I befriended a kitty in the street and gave it a tickle, it felt like a one night stand. All I really wanted was love.

The next cat I gave my heart to was Ninja. She belonged to my old housemate, a sixteen year old Ukranian girl who was a massive wanker. She regularly cooked a stack of burgers in the steamer! Who does that?! A cat in the house was controversial and a breach of the tenancy agreement but it was nobody's business but hers so we let her take the fall for it whilst we enjoyed the novelty of having a pet.

Ninja, for want of a better expression, was fucking mental. Her name confused us at first, especially the way in which it was said, "Neeeeenja-neenja-neenja-neenja!", but it was soon understood to be quite a fitting name. She was a ninja. She was like a bloody exocet missile, always running and never walking like a sensible kitty should.

I wish I could tell you all her funny little mannerisms but I don't recall them so well. She liked a good fuss, but then so do I. The whole point is that Julia treated her like dogshit. She fed her either too much or too little and a lot of the time she fed her frozen peas because she had spent her food allowance on clothes. We bought Ninja cat food and the meat eaters in the house parted with ham and chicken and all sorts. We looked after her and gave her the attention she didn't get from her owner. I remember when Ninja was terribly lethargic for a few days. She never, ever stopped for anybody so to see her sitting down was just crazy. She had an eye infection that looked pretty grim but when I suggested Julia should take her to a vet, she picked up her cat by the scruff of her neck, looked at its shitty, oozing little eyes and informed us "it's fine" and then locked the poor dab in her room away from our tender loving care.

When Julia went to Liverpool for 3 days and locked Ninja in her bedroom, giving only Benny the key to go in to feed it once a day, I went a bit mental. I called on Katie, the patron saint of kitties, to help me take action. We spent, shit, I don't know how long calling Ninja out of a third story window. We had to bully her off the ledge. We chased her from car to car as she hid in fear and we ran after her down the street. Just as she was about to jump a wall to the street below, I grabbed her tail and stuffed her into Katie's cat box (that's not a metaphor). Call it tough love, or something. Katie drove me to the train station and I caught the train to Bridgend with Ninja. When I got to my mam's, I had to go out with her and I left Ninja with my brother, instructing him NOT to let her out of the box. Needless to say, when we got home she was running riot and had pooped on the living room carpet. Muggins here cleaned it up.

I then took Ninja to my friend, a serial cat lover, a few streets away from my mam's. It took her a little while to settle in but she fucking loved it there. She would go on late night adventures, strut in at 3am and curl up with him under the duvet. I remember being at his house and looking out of the window to see her stuck on the church roof, perpetually meowing. That was funny. They were the best of friends and he absolutely adored her. She went missing for a little while but she came back. Then she went missing again, right about the time China China came to Bridgend, never to be seen again. Poor Ninja. At least she was happy.

Monday, 18 January 2010

I'm like yeah, but she's all no.

I was always terrified of cats. There was my good friend's cat, a vicious little cunt that would act all nicey nice infront of her and her family and the moment they were gone, POW! She'd be sinking her little teeth into my poor hands and I'd be trying my hardest not to swear. She moved in mysterious and terrifying ways. My ex's cat slept at the bottom of his bed when I stayed over once. I accidentally kicked it in my sleep and it bit my toe. I went to befriend a little kitty outside of the upper school gates of my old comprehensive school and it bit my fucking hand! There was that time someone put a cat on my head, perhaps even knowing how much they shit me up, and it dug its claws into my shoulders and neck before leaping off. Cats always brought pain, betrayal, and ultimately heartache.

Then I met Floyd.

It was a beautiful Summer's day as I recall, although such fond memories are likely to invent such glorious weather to accompany them, and I was pottering about my mam's house, hell, it was my house then, when my brother remarked upon a little kitty in our back garden. I thought perhaps she may have been attracted by all the little birdies that love nesting in a particular tree of ours, the one with the crazy twirly branches, or the big bird sculpture my Uncle made, or even the pretty flowers mam had planted about the place. Roses and posies and pansies and er, daffodils. She was hopping about the place, catching things in the corner of her eye and darting at nothing. It was as if she had invented an imaginary assault course in her head and she was training for the marines.

My brother was listening to Pink Floyd at the time, and so we called her Floyd. We enticed her into the house like a paedophile might entice a child to their car, or a witch to their gingerbread house. A little nervous at first (her and me both!), she hesitantly poked around our humble home. She seemed to like running up and down the stairs a lot and her whole life appeared to be one massive game of hide and seek. I let her sniff my hand, and I tickled her behind the ear. My confidence grew and grew and soon I felt confident picking her up, cwtching her like a baby and rubbing her belly, or putting her on my brother's head when he least suspected it. She answered to Floyd, which surprised us. In hindsight, she must've answered to a dozen names. Clever cat.

As far as I understand, cats are very hygienic and shy. Not our Floyd. Floyd shat in the plant pot in the bathroom. Floyd jumped down in front of my brother on the computer and curled one out on the table. Floyd left little presents everywhere and for everyone. Floyd did not discriminate.

She had other funny antics, too. I thought they were normal of a cat but my inexperience got the better of me. Floyd was the first cat to make a nest in my heart and before her, I didn't know a thing. I don't think I even understood love. Everything was a learning curve, from the first time I couldn't work out where she was hiding until I looked up and saw her smirking down on me from on top of the door, to the first time she stayed over... and slept exclusively on my face.

Floyd stayed with us for what seemed like forever but at the same time it felt like a day. We had the best of times. Literally. Then one day she just stopped coming around. We searched up and down the back lane, we called her name, we left her food, we did everything short of making a poster (she wasn't actually ours, remember). At first I was angry, thinking about all the people she was rubbing up against and all the bloody good dinners she was getting up and down the street. 'The whore!' I thought. Fuck, I missed her.

I was feeling particularly sore and broken hearted for a few weeks, right up until my brother excitedly related the most beautiful tale. He was at his computer, just like the first time, when she tootled down the garden path, half a dozen kittens in tow. On opening the back door, she jumped down, her kittens stood before her in a row. She looked at my brother, looked him right in the eye as if to say "It's been a good time, but I have new responsibilities now". She turned and left, her little kitties following her, and she never looked back. I'll always remember you, Floyd.

Actually, I've seen her since and she acts like she doesn't know me. Bitch.

Saturday, 16 January 2010

Three cats.

Work has been uninspiring as of late. I get very few shifts, nowhere near enough to pay the rent, and when I am in work it's either very quiet or I am in a bad mood so I ignore everybody. People are boring though.

Today I went to the Happy Cats Hotel with my mam and brother. My brother wanted to house a little rescue kitty. They had big old ducks and chickens and horses and dogs and cats everywhere, it was pretty magical. I felt about five. The nice lady let us into the shed that all the rescue cats were living in, shit, there must have been forty or so of them! They were everywhere. There was an outside bit where I befriended a rad little kitty I think I would call Mop. She was a bit clumsy and kept falling in this puddle of water and then jumping on me and getting me wet. The bit that really stole my heart was when she bitch slapped this white cat that was trying to get my attention. Mop is a little tortoise shell kitty. She must be about a year old and has the tiniest face. Nathan went to look around for a cat and he went inside to a little room where there were loads of cats hanging out listening to the radio. Everything about it made me want to be a cat, hell, they even had the heating on which I can't afford to do all that much. I stayed outside and met some other kitties. One was called OJ, a big fat ginger fucker that was clearly the boss. He was very laid back. A few cats tried to have a scrap with him but he must've done a fuck off meow because there wasn't ever any trouble. Nathan thought he was called OJ because he killed his wife but apparently it was OJ like Orange Juice, because he was ginger. Boring. There were a few other enormous cats that actually looked like bears. I don't think they could fit through the little hole to get into the room with the radio, the poor things. The lady said they all had the sniffles and because there's so many of them (the current financial climate makes people not want to have little cats about the place) it just keeps getting passed around. The cat that eventually chose Nathan had a sore throat. I think a lot of them were sneezing in fact. I think Nathan is going to call her Dilly but I'm going to call her Tilly. She's a funny little thing. I'm going back for Mop as soon as I settle in to my new house. The lady said she was left behind when her old family moved house :( Well Mop, you may be a bit thick and naughty but you're alright. I'll be back...

Friday, 8 January 2010

Two beats off.

Shit, I wish I'd written this as soon as I got home instead of doing it after spending hours cleaning the house for my stinking landlord. My manager turned up late to work today which meant me and Amy couldn't get into the shop so we stuck a note on the door and went to Costa for a lovely cup of tea. What a pleasant way to start a shift. The whole day was abnormally pleasant actually, everyone was just really, really placid and happy. Weird. In other news, here is a brief list of every item a customer has thought we sold: cheese, sweets, candles, fossils, nut roast, ham, cakes and slippers. People are STUPID.

Thursday, 7 January 2010

Johnny, Johnny, get on with your life!

I went into work for a measly two hours today because I live within walking distance and I was asked to cover for a little bit until someone else could come in. I went out last night and had a terrible night. I left in a foul mood, my sleeve somehow doused in apple Sourz, at around two and told anybody that would listen that the world is full of dicks. Complete fucking assholes. Anyway, I took my bad mood to work with me. Bad moods always make me more observational and critical than normal. You know, where you see a fat man running and you chuckle a little. Or a particularly clumsy bird. A bad haircut. Frozen piss.

There were barely any customers at all today, I think there were only two whilst I was there. Actually, the first person who wasn't staff that came in was the Postman and I think I scared him a little when I said 'GOOD MORNING!' with too much gusto. He handed over a Dominos Pizza leaflet with coupons, addressed to 'The Pizza Lover', which I assumed was me, so I swiped it. Anyway, the customers. The first one was quite unassuming and boring but the second one was a charmer. He looked really fruity and excited and was buying some soap. I'd say he was in his fifties and had probably never had a girlfriend. Or a pet. He had those glasses that make your eyes look huge and terrifying (not in the cute way like Bubbles) and suspect facial hair. I only caught the end of the conversation he was imposing on my colleague that went a little something like "I came in here... and Dracula dropped dead! And Frankenstein!", I couldn't help but laugh a little. He didn't mind, he joined in with a hearty chuckle and tried to involve me in the conversation too, but he was just babbling. I didn't have the heart to tell him that Frankenstein wasn't the name of the monster, but the creator of the monster. Since reading the book and feeling educated, I've tried to start a truth inertia but this guy already had a one-way ticket to Ignorantville, next stop Incorrect Pop Culture References. Whatever. He was happy though, good for him.

On my way home I saw lots of funny things that made me smile, very few of which I can remember. In Holland and Barretts a man in a grey tracksuit was buying some manly protein stuff and partaking in what sounded like an important phonecall. He had little pee pee patches on his tracksuit bottoms though and I felt good knowing that I may not be in good physical condition or have a good job, or any career prospects, but at least I knew how to not piss my pants. I saw lots of frozen sick and piss on the streets, reminding me of Swansea's incredible ability to capture both beauty and crackhead charm in one little thing. I also saw my second favourite member of the Special Brew Crew actually drinking Special Brew, true to form. She either keeps getting smaller or she keeps finding taller and taller men to hang out with. I like her though. I saw a discarded kebab on the wall close to my house. Now I'm no scientist, but I wonder why all the piss and sick froze but the garlic mayonnaise didn't. I'll leave you with that one.