Friday, 26 March 2010

Confessions of a Temperamental Waiter


It’s true I’m back being a waiter. These finely manicured nails of mine were not meant for serving over priced tea and coffee in a branded chain restaurant, they were made to serve tea and coffee at 36,000ft for a dodgy airline with a low safety record.

Perhaps the worse thing of all in my new position is that I can no longer get away with scolding ugly and vile people by simply smiling and saying ‘Opps Turbulence.’ Instead I have to put up with the council masses trying to redeem their Tesco vouchers on a steak and chips.

It’s not the first time I have been waiter, well I say waiter, what I really mean is a man who takes orders forgets to put them through the till, spends all my time skiving on the fire escape and running to my locker every two minutes for a swig of Gin&Tonic from a can; an ingenious invention from the folk at Marks & Spencer. You can also buy Harvey Wallbanger and Vodka and Tonic.

You see I don’t mind serving you as long as you don’t ask for a glass of tap water. Automatically I know you’re cheap and won’t be leaving a tip, consequently you’ll be waiting a lot longer for your food. Also people when I ask you how you like your steak it’s not because I care, it’s because I have to ask you. In all honestly you’ll get it however the chef can be arsed to do it as he’s been in the kitchen since 8am and it’s now 9pm, he’s lost the will to live and is contemplating gassing himself in the electric oven. Nor people do I want to listen to your life story when I’m asking you if you’d like more drinks. I really couldn’t give a shit that your son has just got into Oxford and you’re popping into Selfridges to get him something extra special. In fact madam looking at the photo you’ve just shown me of him may I suggest a muzzle?

What’s that madam you want fries instead of salad? Of course you can, not a problem you fat bitch. Whilst I’m at it why don’t I nip back to Primark and exchange your top for a size 18 as you’re obviously a little uncomfortable having squeezed your back fat in a size 12.

I’m sure you’ll agree that clicking your fingers at a waiter is one of the rudest things you can do, a sure way to make the blood boil. Yet Ladies and gays this happens to me at least once a day and my response is always the same; sorry sir, but it takes more than that to make me cum. Generally they look baffled to what I’ve just said as I mince away.

‘Thanks love, have a nice day.’ No tip. ‘Tight bitch.’

Ladies and Gays don’t forget to click onto the banner on the top right of the page and vote for HandbagsnBotox in the best entertainment category for the Bloggers Choice Awards. Some more exciting news is to follow and you will soon be able to write to me in my new column ‘Dear Blanche’ for the new look moanaboutmen.com when it launches next months. One last thing you tight bastards, click on that donation button at the side of this page and help me buy some more Rohypnol. It doesn’t matter how many times I spike my own drink no one seems to want to take advantage. Also don't forget to click on that follow button, make me look popular.

Wednesday, 17 March 2010

Three In A Bed...


Now you know I’m not one to be a bitch but after bumping into my super stud ex who had a six packed, bulging biceps and an even bigger bulge some where else I couldn’t help but smirk after seeing he now obviously keeps his six pack in the fridge. Now he hasn’t put on a little bit of weight, he’s fucking inflated like a hot air balloon. He’s obviously eaten the contents of Charlie’s chocolate factory, the Umpa Lumpas must have feared for their lives.

Its fare to stay we didn’t have a very amicable brake up on the account that he cheated on me for several months behind my back. We have actually spoken since and become friends courtesy of FaceBook. It wouldn’t be fare of me to reveal his name so let’s call him Gareth, because that’s his name. He was a compulsive liar and money grabbing twat. I was a young naive seventeen year old when I met him and worked hard to pay off his credit card. He was very generous, buying me gifts with my money, that sort of person you know.

It would be fare to say that there was a point that I found myself crying into my Chinzano and lemonade whilst playing my Chicago soundtrack. I know the soundtracks not very sad but I found it helped to smash up his Titanic collection with a beat.

When I bumped into him last Manchester Pride my eyes almost exploded at my first sight of him in four years. He’d turned from a straight acting macho man to a vile camp obese queen. I had heard on the grape vine that the person who he had cheated on me with had put him in hospital several times. I don’t condone violence but there was something so bitter and sweet about that.

Several times we’ve bumped into each other and he’s felt the need to boast where he’s going on his holidays. The fact that I’m cabin crew and have travelled the world had obviously escaped him. Just recently, this morning in fact, I bumped into a mutual friend of ours who told me he was going to Australia today for two weeks. It was followed by a statement that he hadn’t paid for it. Needless to say I wasn’t shocked at all. Now he had told me he was going down under several times, which is fantastic and good for him, however, the way I have been brought up you should never brag or boast about something you haven’t earned.

Just a few short months ago messages were also exchanged that he was deeply sorry for what he had done to me and that if he wasn’t in a relationship he’d love to fuck me again, shortly followed by pictures of his cock, I have to admit I returned the favour. I’ve met his new fella he’s no oil painting at all, more of car crash, but still no one deserves to be deceived like that. Which leads me to this statement; once a cheat always a fucking cowardly bastard money grabbing wanker of a twatting cheat. Just for the record I wouldn’t touch him with a shitty stick and yes I do feel like I’ve had a lucky escape.

Don’t get me wrong I’ve not always been an angel. Hard to believe I know. I have cheated once on a partner but at least I had the sense to do it whilst I was a twelve hour flight away in Cape Town. I’d like to say I regret it but I don’t, the sex was amazing, and so was the wine and my boyfriend at the time turned out to be cheating on me too.

I think I’ll give relationships a miss for the minute, however if you know anyone who wouldn’t mind a fling let them know where I am, it’s been a while since I’ve been flung.

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Friday, 5 March 2010

Confessions Of A Cart Tart


It’s not all just tea and coffee at 36,000ft you know. The glamorous life of a flight attendant still exists, as long as you don’t work for Ryan Air. It can be hard work perfecting that mince up the isle, pouting and saying ‘you fuckoffee sir’? Listen carefully the next time you fly. Rules have always been made to be broken and onboard that is exactly what happens. Well sometimes if you’re doing a four sector day you have to spice things up a little don’t you? This can be achieved with a little Jack.

Us trolley dollies are drama queens that’s why we’re so good at pretending that everything is fine when we’re hurtling through turbulence in a metal tube. You ever heard that famous saying, ‘only worry when the cabin crew look scared’? Well it’s not that we’re not scared, it’s just that we’ve painted false smiles on our faces and helped ourselves to a couple of brandies to steady our nerves.

You see the job of a trolley dolly would be the best in the world if it wasn’t for you, the passengers. As any crew will tell you all passengers leave their brains at check in when boarding a flight. Why bring a 10kg case on board and try and bang it into a 5kg luggage rack? It clearly doesn’t fit. If you were a size 18 you wouldn’t try and squeeze into a size 8 dress would you? Mind you I have done a few night flights to Ibiza where it’s clear a few Chavs have got dressed in the dark, into their Primark finest.

Perhaps the most annoying question asked by any passenger is ‘Where are we?’ ‘Well madam, if you just look out that widow you’ll see a cloud with a sign post for Alton Towers.’ I have absolutely no idea and I’m not going to ask the captain as he’s put himself on oxygen to help himself get over his hangover. His wife has left him after finding out that he’s shagged every Galley Bitch there is he got a bit worse for wear last night, don’t worry though he’s not flying the plane, we’re on autopilot!

A personal favourite of mine, whilst flying for a long haul low cost airline a passenger was over heard complaining to a colleague. ‘This airline has ruined my holiday,’ the response; ’really sir, well this airline has ruined my life’! Not much he could respond to that.

Another one of my pet hates from passengers is the constant observation that ‘this would never happen on British Airways.’ You’re right of course madam it wouldn’t; you wouldn’t be going anywhere because they’re on strike! May I also remind you that you’re not flying British Airways you’ve chosen to fly low cost you cheap bitch, now please step behind the curtain and go back to your economy seat, where we will shortly be serving you with the choice of Chicken or Beef PotNoodle, served with a plastic fork and stale bread roll. Now Fuck Off!

As for the shenanigans that occur down route, well now that would take me all year to tell you. Especially if I was to tell you about the time when I got pushed a round Cape Town in a supermarket trolley, went skinny dipping in Cyprus, woke up in a recycling bin in Toronto, missed my flight home from Vancouver, woke up naked next to the captain in Frankfurt, or when the Finish solders came for a day round the pool in Africa. I’d love to post you the pictures but I fear I’d never get an airline job again if I made them public. Instead, I will explain some of the cabin crew lingo for you. Happy flying!

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Cart Tart Talk
The Flaps are smashed – I was partying till all hours and I’m hung over to fuck. I can’t possibly serve another tube of Pringles without projectile vomiting, can also mean I had sex last night and can’t sit down.

Can ya bare it? – The famous words muttered a 1000 times a day when it all gets too much

Drinks&Snax – Alcohol and cocaine.

Dragon Wagon – Person in charge.

Night stop – A chance to get pissed, fall asleep in a recycling bin and vomit all the way home across the Atlantic tomorrow.

Immediately if not sooner - Normally talking for a need of alcohol.

Thursday, 4 March 2010

Vote for Blanche


As the general election campaign gets under way, and as I don’t feel like I can trust a single one of our politicians to go to the shop and give me the correct change, never mind running our country, I thought I’d start up my own political party and ask you lot to ‘Vote For Blanche.’

First and foremost I would make it my mission to fire Dev Alahan from Coronation Street and place him in front of a court for crimes against drama. I don’t think a single person wouldn’t agree that he is the most appalling actor to ever be on prime time television. I would also burn Shobna Gulati at the stake as she recently said in an interview about Dev, ‘he’s a fantastic actor and brings something new to every screen.’ She’s obviously on crack.

Secondly on my political manifest would be to ban every company in the world from using foreign call centres, in particular Virgin Atlantic and AOL. Just two of the most awful call centres I’ve come across. After being on hold for 30 minutes you finally get to talk to Sabina who is Queen of the lost tribe of ‘Camel Toe,’ in deepest darkest India. Straining to hear her down a phone because she only learnt English that morning and she’s still not sure of this alien technology as she sits there in a loin cloth.

Thirdly on my agenda would be to ban PRIMARK. Most of you already know how I loath this store. I understand that some people need cheap clothing, I have nothing against this, but I do object to walking down Market Street and seeing a cloud of smoke at each entrance to PRIMARK from the 50 teenage mothers that loiter outside. I also don’t believe they’re entirely ethical, and I think if you’re going to use cheap labour we should use the criminals in prison instead of giving them laptops and gyms….

Which brings me onto my forth statement if you elected me to run our fine diverse country. Make prisons, prisons. I don’t think it is a punishment to be locked away and be given fantastic education opportunities, personal tuition, that should be for the middles classes. Nor do I believe prisoners should be given televisions, internet access, game consoles and gyms. My gym membership costs me £38 a month and it is a privilege that I can afford it, it’s not a rite. Our prisons are fast turning into a Butlins style resort; it certainly has no deterrent not to reoffend.

Second to last on my manifest would be to ban the Jeremy Kyle show. Instead anyone of the scrotes that apply to go on it would be rounded up every Saturday morning and shot at dawn. It would be a lesson to all Chavs out there that this is what will happen if you continue to tuck your track suite bottoms into your socks.

Last but no means least I would ban Geri Halliwell from ever attending another awards show. After her public display of desperation at the Brit Awards I think the kindest thing to do for her is lock her in a white cell, along with the deluded cunts that run our country at the minute and actually think they’re doing a good job. Oh and that’s another thing, I would do away with political correctness.

So followers and readers of Handbags’n’Botox, I ask you and urge you, to stand up for all things classy and camp and at this years general election ‘Vote for Blanche.’

Wednesday, 3 March 2010

Moan about men…


A little website got me thinking and inspired me to write this blog; believe it or not it was called moanaboutmen.com. Now I’m sure you’ve all moaned about the normal little things, like when your hubby leaves the toilet seat up or when he leaves his crusty boxers on the floor, but I ladies and gays, I have lots of things to get off my chest about my ex’s.

Well apart from the fact that they were all knob heads, they all also had their own way of making my blood boil and leave me reaching for the vodka.

Take my first fella for e.g., let’s call him Gareth, because that’s his name. I was only 17 when I was with him, he was 24. It was a whirlwind romance with the aftermath of a tsunami. He was gorgeous, massive muscles and beautiful. He was very loving, so much so that he liked to share his love, specifically with a lad called Rob behind my back for six months. He was also a compulsive liar. I kid you not, one day he went shopping to ASDA, when I asked him where he’d been, he replied, ‘KwickSave.’

Next came the first of my three Scottish boyfriends, Craig, he was stunning; unfortunately he was one of those pricks who knew it. We were holiday reps at the time in Cyprus. I was desperately unhappy over there and planned to come home several times, each time he persuaded me not to leave. At the end of the season he wrote me a lovely little letter to say that I was just ‘a means to an end,’ almost like a toy just to pass the time. He’d also said to one of my friends that I was a lot fatter than the normal men he goes for, ladies and gays, I was 11 stone.

Next came another Scottish boy that was also called Craig, I should of heard the alarm bells. I met him on New Years Eve, he lived up in Elgin. Every time I returned off a flight from Cape Town at work I’d get straight onboard another and go and see him for a few days. After only a couple of months I paid for him to move to Manchester. I found him a job, paid his rent and did everything for him. Then one night whilst I was intoxicated in a little bar called ‘Hollywood’ a stranger came up to me and said ‘Mike I’m dead sorry you and Craig have split up.’ This was news to me, but in the hours that followed I found out he’d been shagging his colleague. Two hours later I boarded a flight to Toronto where I got over that man by getting under the next.

Now the third one, another Scottish one, he really was sweet and beautiful. I still have a lot of love for him, although we’ve not spoke and seen each other in nine months. We split up through circumstances. He wasn’t any of the above, a genuinely nice person who if I could wave a magic stick I’d make everything better between the both of us. The only thing that made my blood boil about me and Derek was that he was deaf. In the middle of an argument he would simply switch his hearing aids off so he didn’t have to listen to me, and as you can imagine, he could sleep through a bomb blast.

I’m sure my ex’s would say I have lots of annoying qualities, but until they discover I write this blog I won’t worry about it too much. There are just a few of my own I can think of, like smashing up boyfriend number one’s Titanic collection, climbing through boyfriend number 4’s window, actually the list is pretty endless. Now who would like to take me on a date? Low maintenance and only four previous owners…..