Tag Archives: bus

Babblings of a Bibulous Twerp.

15 Jul

I reach out to you from what may very well become my death-bed. The arm I reach out with resembles the rotting claw like limb that pops up from the grave to try and scare you in a film… but you know its going to happen…but you still jump anyway and it makes you cross with yourself. I look grim is what I’m getting at. It wasn’t going to be like this. It was one of those situations where you say you’re going to head out for just one or two and then before you know it those little drinks multiply quicker than a Gremlin in a swimming pool.

In those first waking moments when you realise how grubby you feel, the first thing that drifted into my head was my biology lessons with Mrs Jenkins when I was about 15. I thought about the diagrams discussing the make up of cells. It always stuck in my mind because that was where I learnt of the words ‘turgid’ and ‘flaccid’ and my relationship with giggling at them began. But this morning I was just thinking about all the nasty alcohol pieces living it up in my bloodstream. They’re probably making a total mess of the place. They’re like gatecrashers at a party… the sort that still think throwing toilet roll about is hilarious and will probably sneak into your room and cross dress in your clothes ‘as a laugh’. Then they will be sick into your favourite shoes and pass out after reading aloud extracts of your diary, unfortunately having already reached the parts about your purchases from Ann Summers and that time you did a poo in a flowerpot. What swine. Then I remembered the diagrams of cells doing that whole osmosis thing and (I have googled this to assure myself that it aint possible) I imagined all of these wretched alcohol chaps laying siege to every cell and ransacking them. My already aching head did not need such added vexation.

Its a bit like that scene in 'Return of The King'. Them little green nice cell blobs don't stand a chance. They're all old men and young boys that shouldn't be fighting... they only have rudimentary insufficient weaponry and Legolas and Gimli are busy having a competition rather than fighting properly expressly to add a comic element to the film... That cell membrane don't look sturdy at all and the Alcohol Tribe have come with hooks on rope and ladders and catapults... They need a cellular equivalent of a surprise not-dead Gandalf to save the day. A white blood cell? I remember in my cell learnings that he was always like the don of the cell world. White Cell! I choose you!!!

I feel like a withered old hag. I had the textbook definition of beer-mouth. I’m going to go as far to say that I was able to scrape a bit of hangover from me palate. Looked like something that Lucifer would blow into his fiery hanky. I think the main problem, apart from all the booze I drank, was the fact I was a silly and didn’t drink any real drink when I got in before bed. The kitchen always feels like a million miles away when you first open your crispy eyes to the first light of day (especially when you discover that you disintegrated into sleep completely naked with the curtains wide open. In your ground floor front-of-house bedroom. In a house that’s on one of the busiest bus routes in the UK. Anyone on a top deck playing my own favourite game, ‘Nosy-a-peek-in-strangers-windows’ would have probably got a bit of a surprise. I do tend to kick the bed covers off. Particularly during my exhaustingly vivid booze dreams.) You tend to lie there picturing the tap. The glorious sink that you nearly puked into last night. The giver of life. That deliciously soothing water. But the thought of moving is hideous. You’ve not built yourself to even sit up yet.

I thankfully didn’t have to deal with this added issue this morning. I had a bottle of Vitamin Water in arm’s reach of the bed left over from my haul that they delivered to my house. FOR FREE! Yeah they’re nice like that. Even 50 Cent likes them. Well, he’s probably paid to… but still. Who’s gonna deny Fiddy?

Karma also got me good and proper with a true and literal example of ‘you snooze you lose’ as it turns out that according to their Twitter, they’re giving away three free iPads if you go on a Vitamin Water treasure hunt… and they were in Manchester today. Sob. I might have fought through the pain to play if I had known. However, the bottle you needed to find was located at Old Trafford. I don’t think even an offer of a free iPad could lure me there.

So, plan for the rest of the day. First, wash. Yes, I am still in my nasty grubby nest sharing my nasty grubbiness with you. Nastily and grubbily. I have already had my beer poo. Oh, don’t look at me like that. You can probably tell I am quite an open person and its a fact; there is nothing better for putting you on the road to recovery than that first trip to the water closet after a night’s heavy drinking. It’s literally flushing the pain away. I have always dabbled with the thought of getting a colonic irrigation.  Are they expensive? I don’t know… hello, Google old friend. I heard that there’s years and years worth of nastiness all clogged up inside you. It must feel lovely to be all empty. Only in the physical, not emotional sense. One thing I have always wondered though, is why do they make the tubes clear? I don’t think I’d actually like to see what’s coming out, and I fear nausea would mean I’d start emptying out through the other end too.

I’ve gone too far. I’m sorry. I feel like the social elephant man of the blogging world.


I didn’t get too sunburnt.

25 May

For anyone fearing that I may be one almighty blogging flake you can shut that proverbial trap of yours for here I am, my arms laden with straw donkeys and verbal morsels for you to chomp on. Actually straw donkeys are a Spanish thing which would probably account for why I didn’t see a single one in any shop. I have just had a few days away in the continent darling, Portugal to be precise. Ma and Pa Sanderson were planning a trip and decided that their poor waif of a child lamenting in the north of England may appreciate a little bit of sunshine and take me along. Free holiday? Hummm… yes please.

I will take this opportunity to quickly introduce you to this week’s set of bloglets. I have had this all written down in a notebook I took away with me. Dedication. It’s what you need if you want to be a record breaker you see.

I don’t know if I’m going to be able to find an internet cafe around here. I’m not trying to say that Portugal hasn’t discovered computers yet, but generally speaking the local vicinity is primarily dedicated to golfing, sunshine and snacks.

So what you are reading is lifted from a good old fashioned analogue blog. I’m gonna say it… yes, it’s an anablog.

Let me take you back…


It will, until I forget about it, linger in my memory as the most obscenely long day. Time is strange, isn’t it. An apparently unchangeable and unstoppable thing can be completely different from one day to next. Well, this day felt like when you get a slightly warm Curly Wurly and bite into it and the toffee gets stretched out further and further until it snaps. Yeah, like that.

I thought it was Snickers that used to be called Marathon?

I was to have a day shift at work, then had to pack and manage to squeeze in some kip after I’d got myself all sorted.

The day shift happened anyway, then I got struck down by some extreme girly-ness. Anguish various from not one, but two gentlemen (not as dodgy as it sounds.) . I promised not to go Carrie Bradshaw, so I won’t go into it. But suffice to say, it falls under the cliched umbrella of ‘Men are wankers.’

Precious packing time was stolen by weeping, anger, and my housemate doing the right thing offering me soothing, self affirming words. And ice cream. It got so late that I realised that kip was off the menu and I was going to have to just go straight through as I had to leave the house at 3am for my coach to the airport. This was helped greatly by another two of my housemates, who, in their own way also provided me with some comfort by showing me this film which they stumbled across on Sky’s ‘Horror’ channel. It was, for want of a better phrase; fantastically s**t.

It kinda rolled into the first day of the actual holiday really so may as well bunch the two entries together…

Tuesday 18th May

5.15 am. Departures. Liverpool John Lennon Airport. I am drinking borbon with ginger ale and musing on the fact that in about three small hours I will have been awake for 24 hours. I don’t know how Jack Bauer does it.I’m knackered. I talk to a couple of old scouse ladies eating their packed lunch in Wetherspoons. We collectively scorn the ash cloud for the stress and disruption he caused. They’re off to Benidorm. Of course they are.

6.00am. On the plane. All I want to do is sleep. I’m at that stage where I am a fugitive on the run from rest and Detective Inspector Exhaustion has caught up with me and has be flat on the ground with his big fat boot pressing against the side of my head. Guess what? There are no less than FIVE babies on this flight. I want to henceforth rebadge my flight as my ‘plight’.

It goes without saying that, of course, I manage to get surrounded by these ticking timebombs of tears and smelly nappies. I feel like a poor helpless antelope, tired and just wanting to stop for a breather, with a circle of ruthless lions with kicky feet coming to tear the fibres of my being apart with screaming and crying and a barrage of pain and misery.

I was busy cursing the adorable but startlingly strong-legged little boy booting the hell out of the back of my seat when his Mum starts to read about ‘Mr Grumpy on a boat’ aloud to him. Substitute the his transport and give him a sex op and yeah, we’re about where I’m at.

After arriving and getting to where we were staying I realised that the cold I had felt brewing before I left was worse than I thought as I couldn’t taste a drop of my first sip of cool Sagres. Cast-iron, 24 carat disaster. I obviously feigned joy for the sake of photography though.

Did a lot of kipping by the pool and had tea at a place my Dad insists on calling ‘The Pizza Hut’. It aint a ‘Pizza Hut’. It just sells pizzas amongst other things. I believe they were probably nice. My senses were being held hostage by the evil Count Blocken-Sinus and his mucal henchmen. They robbed me of my chance of ever knowing what that bruschetta tasted like.

Well…. that is the first installment. Don’t worry they aren’t all full of woe. I failed to manage to get the word ‘corpse’ into that one. But its in the blog now through that very observation. I’m sure Descartes would have something to say about that.

I must get to sleep. I have the textbook returning-to-work misery post-holiday to look forward to in the morning, and I am also dabbling with the idea of going to a knitting group with a couple of friends in the evening. How very wholesome.

4 Hours, 3 Sandwiches, 2 Little Room and A Baby.

15 May

Greetings Blogzoes, have you missed me? If the answer is anything but a resounding yes I shall be reaching for the kitchen scissors and forcing through an expiration of our friendship by cutting up your membership card post haste. You have no idea of the cuddles and baked goods you will forego.

Where have I been? I have a good answer for this. I have migrated living space this week to the considerably larger bedroom next to what was mine in my house. This took up all of my spare time. It is neither piffle nor poppycock. I daresay I reckon I could potentially be the solution to cure all of the problems in the third world if only I gave all of my inventory of utter nonsense to Oxfam. They would never need to ask for a donation ever again. But alas I am nothing but a shallow shoe smitten, trinket treasuring, bric-a-brac bewitched twerp. And, it really did require all the energy I could muster to get such an overwhelming task well and truly… tasked. However, my new room is looking like a palace. Anyone lucky enough to get an invite to Sanderson’s Sleepover Club is in for a treat. I would like to clarify that is euphamism free. I like to kip in with my loved ones and tell ghost stories under the influence of muffins and whiskey-what of it?

Today I write to you from the comfort of Ma and Pa Sanderson’s house in the lovely quaint leafiness of Surrey. Wanna see?

Oooh green.

I’m from a little town where the biggest news of recent years was the local Waitrose burning down. Through arson??? No. Just a bit of a whoopsie. Not really even a legit disaster. The local old folk just had to hold fire {unintentional but cracking pun there. So much so that it’s staying. And that’s that.} on getting their organic eggs and lamb cheeks for a bit or whatever it is them posher types of supermarkets monger.

I swear this is God's honest truth, there is a book available, called 'The Great Fire of Banstead' to commemorate. This was said of the event: "It was a night that the people of Banstead will never forget. The fire that destroyed Waitrose in Banstead High Street will be etched on people’s minds forever. Ninety people were evacuated and dozens spent the night in a community hall." Try selling it to the poor blighters that happened to move to Pudding Lane in 1666, yeah? Jeez.

Oh yeah and there was that corpse found in some woodland somewhere recently. Non-Waitrose related. Beady eyed viewers of this blogging odyssey may have noticed I have used the word ‘corpse’ multiple times over various days. This wasn’t actively done. It’s not like I’m Wednesday Addams. It’s just unfolded thus. But, would you mind awfully if I tried to include the word at least once per blog? Like a sub-challenge? We shall see how it goes. There’s not always a call for corpses. Unless you’re filming ‘Murder She Wrote’. Or you’re in the coffin fashioning biz. Or just a straightforward necrophile.

So, I’m at home for the quickest of visits. Let’s, for argument’s sake, call it the swift half in time terms. It’s equally weighted for football, friend’s-birthday-celebrations and hair dying reasons. But if said friends are reading this… it is TOTALLY for you. Obv. Ahem.

I enjoy visiting the motherland, but not so much the means of getting here. I am a veteran of Megabus-ing. I could be the female, less beardy, slightly hotter Ray Mears of it in fact. I have tips and everything. If you keep it to yourself I’ll tell you this one- always get in the queue for the luggage stowing before you boldy flirt with the notion of stepping up to the driver with that Superdrug receipt you scribbled your ticket code onto. Only a fool does this. You effectively cut queuing time by up to 37% by remembering this simple ditty; ‘Stow before you go. {To the driver.}’ Like that? You can have that for free. Any subsequent tips will cost you sixty five pence a pop.

Surly drivers, cramp, toilets I'd avoid even if I had the squits, creepy man in the logo; all for the bargain price of £1!!! (Sometimes.)

I reckon I might have spent up to a week in total on these chaps. To be fair, it really is good value. If you book fifteen years in advance you probably can get a ticket for a pound. (Before booking fee etc.) I’ve usually got my routine down for ensuring optimum comfort and promoting Megacus chic. Often I get a two seat berth, and that is without having to do the whole strategic bag-placement as a means to stake a claim on the adjacent pew. I suppose I could just be repellent to all other passengers. Maybe that can be a supplementary measure, neglecting personal hygiene for the occassion to err any potential neighbours… I shall just make a note of that.

If I have to sit next to someone I obviously look for the most attractive gentleman. Daydreamer Lucy has been known to imagine up some kind of beautifully romantic fairytale blossoming on the aisles of the Megabus, what with being trapped in close proximity of each other for four hours, and potential drool-soiled shoulders to encounter if one of us nods off at some point. And imagine the fodder for the best man’s speech… aisles of the Megabus… to going up the aisle, if we want a bit of blue can go into the realms of ‘taking-it-up-the’. Beautiful.

Well, today’s four hours turned into an ordeal. Delivered in a package of misery with a ‘S.W.A.L.K’ from Lucifer himself. I was sat next to the window. Suddenly a rather portly lady comes and settles her sizeable booty down on the seat beside me, also encroaching on at least two of the precious inches of my Megabus space. {Must equate to at least twenty pence’s worth.}

Is my body too bootylicious for you? Yes it effing is.

But it gets better. She has a wriggly baby on her lap.

All of my experience let me know that I was quite right to be suddenly overcome with horror. I was pressed up against the glass with a baby bag set on my feet in a prison of human flesh and itchy gaudy seats. I felt like when people are sent into ‘solitary’ in war films. Well it certainly broke me. I aint no Steve McQueen. I tried to go internally Houdini to feel less claustrophobic. Worst thing was that just two minutes before realising my plight I’d just hammered some Pro Plus so there was no chance of snoozing the pain away.

I feel like I have developed as a person through this experience. I had to find joy from somewhere. It was in my treble sandwich bonanza from Boots. I do love a sandwich.

Oh and I did a little ‘lol’ with each rape field we went past. As in those yellow plants called rape. See, it does still sound funny.

It's a dangerous thing googling for rape. It's ever so pretty though.