Exit, Stage Left.

Or right. Whatever you do, just get off the damn stage. Quickly. Unfortunately, I had one of those moments when I didn't exit from the stage quick enough and found myself covered in old eggs and rotten tomatoes thrown by a hysterically laughing audience at my feet.

A few days ago I had a conversation with my mother about our worst fear in the world, a fear we both share. No, it not technically a phobia of sorts, though I guess if it had to have one of those ridiculously long names just to fit in with all the other phobias and so they don't take the piss out of it, then it would have to be Lackofmoneytopayforhugeamountofpetrolaphobia. In English (or, with the spaces put back in) a fear of not being able to pay for your petrol after filling up. Sweet Jesus, just the thought of it made us wince. We couldn't work out what you would do - it's not like you could go and get some money on your own, as surely you would bugger off never to return. So what? Get someone to come and bring you money? Hope some passing millionaire feels pity for your pathetic situation? Fortunately for us, I learned today exactly what happens. Holy Hell.

Yup. Picture the scene: I've had a looooooong hard day at work, done extra hours and am heading home. Unfortunately, the amount of petrol left in my petrol tank means that, if I don't fill up before setting off for home I'll find myself half way there, at the side of the road looking like a total knob, weeping in to my work shirt and hitting my head on the horn repeatedly. Hard. Sooooo... Petrol time!! Easing the petrol pump from its holder and gently sliding it in to the hole leading to my petrol tank I apply slight pressure to the handle to get the juices flowing (Yes, I cannot even put petrol in my car without making it sexual.) £35 in later and I head for the tills, a massive queue forming behind me and myself resisting all urges to call out about being in a Michael Mcintyre sketch. Smugly, being in the queue before it got too big, I thrust my card in to the machine with gusto and swiftly tap in my PIN and flash a quick grin to the people behind me. "I'm sorry, young lady, but your card has been declined." "Oh. OK then... Could we try it again? I've been having some trouble with my card lately" (Woe is me for risking it.) Gingerly I put my card back in, heart thudding so loud I could hear it over the general groans and tuttings coming from behind me. Nope, card declined again. I resisted the urge to throw my wallet at the cashier's head and turn and plough through the queue behind me in an attempt to escape but naturally, I had instantly become trapped there.

Instead, I found myself on the phone to my mother, asking for her card details to 'break the usual rules and pay over the phone' and hearing her scream of abject terror when I told her she had to spend £35 on petrol that wasn't even in her own car. Finally, I was free. I ended the phone call to my mum with "I'm racing home to sob in to your arms, now." turned to the cashier and lightly said "Well, that was my worst nightmare. At least now I've experienced it once I won't have to again. Like chicken pox. Toodles!" and all but ran from the till, knocking over shelving units with gay abandon as I went (ok, I made that bit up). So what happens when you can't pay for petrol? You all but die of embarassment and have to have money sent to you somehow. They should have a pen of shame in the corner for you to stand in while you wait, where people can freely mock you and show you how smug they are that they have money and aren't a penniless git.

On a brighter note, I got home to find a wack wack sitting in the garden. Yes, I am the proud owner of a frigging DUCK!!!!!!!!!!! XD My mum had gone out and got her for me to cheer me up. My mum is awesome.

Talk to The Boobs, As Apparently the Face Isn't Listening

There is no real reason why women have bosoms, well, apart from the whole 'need to feed your infant' thing, but other than that they have no real purpose. Decoration, of course, is a consideration and I'm sure millions of men everywhere will have to admit that they believe thatv they are there merely for decoration. Their 'dribble' stains cannot speak otherwise.

Ok, so let me rephrase slightly - there is no real reason why women have LARGE bosoms. Women that do have to cope with so much and they really don't get anything in return for their troubles. I myself, am one of those women, and by writing a blog about breasts I get the feeling I may write myself in to peoples' thoughts as 'one of those women that has sex with other women.' But with that aside, what is wrong with large boobs?

A lot, I think you'll find is the answer.

1. They get in the way.

Yes, they do A LOT. I haven't seen my feet for about 9 years now, and my feet are a rather large size 9. That is what I am up against. I'm sure there are many women out there who, like me, long to see what has become of their feet.

2. They knock things over.

I have lost count of the number of times I've sent objects/shelving/people flying thanks to turning round too quickly and throwing them a glancing blow with my numga numgas. Small children and short adults alike bounce off in all directions. I once knocked an entire rack of nail varnish off a shelf and it shattered everywhere. What knocked them off? Well, have a guess, but as Mazi always reminds me, it was one of the most amusing and emabarassing moments of MY life.

3. They weigh a tonne.

I am approx. 5"7 tall but I have a slight hunch. Slight, nay, enormous. If I were able to stand up straight I believe I may reach heights of about 6"3. The way I look at the moment I feel like I should be ringing bells in ye olde French cathedral and rubbing shoulders with gyppos and magic statues. And a goat.

4. They are impracticle.

Forget about running. Just forget it. I have actually given myself a black eye when jumping once. Just ugh.

5. They're embarassing.

In the fact that I have to wear a size 18-20 on top, even though I am a mere size 10. Also, in the fact that my work uniform consists of a shirt that buttons up at the front and a shirt that is too small. So, imagine my horror when I was busily serving a man and his family consisting of young and old children alike and I eventually look down for some reason and discover that my shirt has been wide open thanks to over-thrusting of bosoms and my manky bra is on display. I actually cried a bit.

6. They attract unwanted attention. A lot.

There I was, 'happily' mopping the lobby at work as the last bloke walked out of the store. He yelled a farewell as he left. Well, a farewell of sorts. What did he yell at me as he left? "Bye, Tits!!!" How charming. I also believe that it has been almost 10 years since a man has looked me in the eye while having a conversation with me.

7. They're expensive.

Bras to support breasts of such gargantum proportions cannot be found in normal shops (Even though the AVERAGE bra size in the UK is now a 36D) most shops only stock up to 38DD. So step up, specialist shops and step forward hideous huge price tag. My bras cost £40 each. Case = rested.

8. They're painful.

Back pain, chest pain and chronic snoring thanks to the weight of the damn things.

9. They'll change.

Eventually, large breasts will, um, sag, to put it lightly. Shocking images of spaniel ears or a couple of snooker balls in socks come to mind. Followed by the viewer of said images vomiting politely in a corner. Ahhh... I don't know which is the more attractive image - the old boobs or the polite vomiting.

I know I'm not the only one who suffers with things like this, I'm sure. This is why I find women who pay for bigger breasts slightly laughable. Yes, let's pay for pain and scorn and embarassment. Fools.

And for one, why are men so bloody interested in them? All they are are literally just lumps of fat. With nipples attached for added sensation ;) All my complaints aside, I do love my boobs rather a lot. ^^

Mental Retardation - We Are Not Amused

I get the feeling that writing the following statement will cause people to form an angry mob and dig spike-lined pits in my path but: I HATED the original The Hangover film. Physically hated it with every ounce of my soul, smexy Bradley Cooper aside of course, but loathed it none-the-less. It did not make me laugh at all, and trust me - I know funny. So naturally I was not exactly jumping with joy at the thought of going to see the sequal - more like I was dragged kicking and screaming, with only the thought of sucking on a (leave it) Fanta Frozen to entice me a little.

I was pleasantly surprised and enjoyed the movie, I even found myself doing my usual massive bark/hearty laugh. But I found myself listening to the audience more than I would usually, and found that I was laughing almost alone at more subtle moments of humour, and remaining silent while the rest of the audience was reaching a point where they might have had to consider changing their knickers. The reason for their hearty laughter and my stoney silence? Zach Galifianakis, yet another actor who is only capable of playing slight variations of the same character over and over again. In his case, a retard.

For one thing, his character is known to have ADHD. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Here is a brief discription of the condition I have copied from the NHS website:

Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) is a group of behavioural symptoms that include inattentiveness, hyperactivity and impulsiveness. Attention deficit disorder (ADD) is a type of ADHD.

Common symptoms of ADHD include:

•a short attention span
•restlessness
•being easily distracted
•constant fidgeting
Many people with ADHD also have additional problems, such as sleep disorders or learning difficulties. However, ADHD has no effect on intelligence.

See that last sentence? 'HAS NO EFFECT ON INTELLIGENCE!!!!!!' So why, pray tell, does Zach's character Alan act like such a dumb fuck all the time?!?!? The way he has portrayed the character shows no implications of learning disibilities. So why does he act like said dumb fuck? Because apparantly, that is what people find funny. WHY!?!?! It really isn't! It's infantile and stupid - hence, so is the audience.

It's insulting to an audience - it is assuming that they are also all dumb fucks that need a joke rammed down their throats in order for them to be able to understand it. They aren't allowed to figure the joke out on their own. Every apparant funny moment is so obvious it's like it's accompanied by a fanfare and a massive neon sign screaming:
"LAUGH AT THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I feel sorry for the bloke - he has now awkwardly shoe-horned himself in to a type of character he will play for the rest of his acting career. A retard. My proof of this? Due Date. Same character, different name. Ugh.

If It Wasn't For You Meddling Kids...

*Shakes fist at Great Dane and stupid hippy children wearing exceedingly bright items of clothing*

It was about 3 years ago, when I was going through my ultimate 'THERE IS LIFE AFTER DEATH' phase when I found myself in the audience of one of Derek Acorah's live shows. For those of you that found themselves living under rocks or in damp cellars about 3 years ago, Derek Acorah called himself a 'spiritualist medium'. Loosely translated, he claimed to have the gifts that enabled him to hear, feel (creepy), smell (ew) and see the spirits of dead people and was able to communicate with them. He has since been proved to be a fraud, but that isn't the point here.

My point here is the suggestibility of a human mind. Back to the show (I need to paint a picture here, settle down kids). For those of you who aren't stupid enough to have paid to go to one of these things, basically, a medium stands on a stage in a room full of people and waits. Then, if they are feeling generous (and just happen to be following around their loved ones everywhere they go) the spirits of the audience's dead friends and relatives give the mediums CLUES as to who they are. These clues are then relayed to the audience, who speak up if it's their relative, and they have a little chat. Of sorts.

I roared with laughter the entire evening due to the stupidity of the whole set up. It's clear to see that the mediums are quite literally stabbing in the dark and relying on some poor old bat sitting in the audience to cry "OMFG that's my dear GEOFF!!" or else they would find themselves standing in silence, performing to crickets and tumbleweeds. Quite literally, some of the clues given were "I have a person here... Of the male sex... Whose name starts with a letter of the alphabet" and almost immediately you could see men and women alike begin to mutter amoungst themselves and actually CONSULT NOTES that they'd brought about their loved ones (yeah, you loved them soooooooooo much, didn't you??? So much so that you knew sod all about them!!!!!). The following conversations that these poor saps then had with their 'loved ones' were so vague and could be applied to anyone - "You're having money issues." was a popular one as well as "I'm happy and at peace."

Even though I was laughing hysterically the entire time, I felt so sorry for these people who genuinely believed that they were talking to their loved ones. They obviously missed them so much that they were willing to try anything to be able to talk to them and could have taken even the slightest hint from the medium and applied it to their relative. It's sad. It's very sad.

On that note, my mother and I are going to a psychic evening tomorrow night. Tee hee hee.