Friday, 19 October 2012

Dating With Blanche

Well once again I found myself succumbing to complete desperation and re-activating my PlentyOfFish profile. I am still scarred from my last date, literally, well it’s not everyday you attempt to jump from the balcony of G-A-Y to escape a man whose profile picture was obviously taken twenty years earlier and now bares more resemblance to Myra Hindley’s mug shot, from after her death.

This may appear even more desperate as I no longer live in the UK but in the very tolerant and welcoming of puffs state that is Dubai, well it has a torture chamber for gays and I’m quite sure that would be right up the street of 50% of the cliental in the Rembrandt. One has started eyeing up the camels and wishing that being taken up the Kalhifa meant something completely different altogether.

After trying to crawl beneath the dish dash of a few locals and not quite fitting due to my extra Christmas weight, from 2008, I thought I’d try and do what I couldn’t for four years and get a man back home in Manchesterford.

After choosing some very well angled pictures, the sort that makes Vanessa Feltz look like a zero and exaggerating about my completely sane personality, I decided to leave out the bit regarding climbing through an ex boyfriend’s window, I was ready to go and capture my next victim. A few burly bears and some men who made an ameba seem interesting later, I stumbled upon quite a handsome chap. Yes he was wearing Pat Butcher’s but I just thought to myself I could cut his ear lobes off as he sleeps, should things ever get that far.

Now me and said man, let’s call him Daniel, because that’s his name, have been chatting for about 6 weeks now and I can honestly say our relationship has blossomed, more like a Venus fly trap than a daffodil. It’s even had its ups and down, well I say ups, it was more half a smile before flat lining like a cardiac screen. However, not one to drawn things out, I much prefer to let things go before things get too bitter, we have decided to meet up when I’m home in Manchesterford next week.

As many of you will be aware the very thought of a date is enough to send me into a diabetic coma after eating a bag of sugar free sweets. With such advice from Lady Rodwell as ‘tell him there’s no time to be a lady, just drop your fucking knickers,’ I decided it was best to plan ahead to take the stress out of the evening so here is my dating schedule. . . .

October 24th . . . .

13.00 – head into town to get haircut
13.30 – get back waxed
14.00 – Veet the flaps
14.05 – put yoghurt on burnt flaps
14.15 – trim the undercarriage (remember to return next doors hedge trimmers)
14.30 – see above
14.45 – see above
15.00 – have a shower
15.05 – douche
15.07 – mop up shit bomb
16.00 – choose an outfit
16.20 – pour first glass of wine
16.22 – pour second glass of wine
16.23 – change outfit
16.30 – sit down and wonder why I got ready so early and how can I pass the next two hours

16.45 – pour third glass of wine
17.00 – panics slightly after not receiving a text for 3 hours
17.01 – send text to see what’s going on
17.02 – send second text to see why not replied to first text
17.03 – send third text to accuse of cheating after not replying to previous text
17.04 – pours first glass of Jack Daniels and coke
17.06 – change outfit
17.25 – sits nervously

17.16 – checks phone
17.16 and ten seconds – checks phone
17.16 and twenty seconds – turns phone off
17.16 and thirty seconds – turns phone on
17.16 and forty seconds – pours second JD
17.40 – change outfit
17.50 – receive a text to say ‘looking forward to tonight’
18.10 – plays Steps ‘Summer Of Love’
18.40 – change outfit
18.50 – receives text ‘sorry but can’t make it tonight, some over time’
18.51 – drinks from bottle of wine
18.52 – plays Celine on loop
18.53 – takes an overdose of tictacs and attempts to slit wrists with plastic knife
18.54 – brakes plastic knife
18.56 – downloads grindr and upload status ‘no time to be a lady, just drop your fucking knickers’

Tuesday, 14 August 2012

The Ribbons Ruined My Life

It was just a normal Thursday morning in August; I was stood at the sink polishing my platinum douches, the sun had just started to warm up and the dogs were barking at the sound of the next door neighbor’s creaking leather sling. I’d just turned round to put my Dora the Explorer tea towel back on the rack when the most glorious sequined costume caught my eye beaming out from my telebox.

It was London 2012 and the turn for the Artistic Gymnast to fight it out for their chance to be crowned Olympic champion. I was mesmerized be all the twirls and summersaults as the gymnast managed to work a hula-hoop and glide gracefully through the air with satin ribbons flowing beautifully in a spectrum of colours. As the crowds cheered like mobs at the London riots I thought that’s what is missing in my life.

The very next day I signed myself up at the local gymnast club. I was larger than the other gymnast, but I as lubed my 100kg frame into my lycra onesie I knew there and then that this was the place for me. Beads of sweat formed on the palms of my hands and in my gusset as I held a ribbon for the first time, it was magical. It wasn’t long till I was gliding through the air, like a brick; still I stuck with it and after 3 months of having nothing but ribbons for breakfast, ribbons for lunch and a proper dinner I was ready to compete at the Greater Manchester Council Estate Games.
I came in second, it was the exact catalyst I needed to strive to compete on a professional level, soon I was walking the dog whilst hula-hooping 3 miles a day. The grueling schedule meant that my relationships suffered, me and my boyfriend started to argue and tragically he died as his neck become tangled in a stray ribbon in a freak accident as I summersaulted down the stairs, it was an awful time in my life but as the judge found me not guilty of his murder I knew that ultimately it was the thought of standing on the Olympic stadium that got me through it.

As I rehearsed for the next qualifying games I found that I had to up the difficulty in my routine if I really wanted to compete on a national level. My coach suggested that I do the whole routine whilst wearing roller blades, I wasn’t sure at first but once I’d done my first rehearsal in my new Hello Kitty skates I knew he was right. Now I was zooming round the floor with my ribbons flapping in the breeze.

That’s when it happened, the day my life changed forever, when all my dreams were taken away from me. As I did a backwards summersault with double pike twist one of the ribbons became caught on one of my wheels, there was nothing I could do as I tumbled into the refreshment stand. I was trapped under the rubble and had knocked over a jug of Ribenna Tooth Kind, I was struggling to breath as the purple juice began to trickle over my face and a stray custard cream had become lodged in my throat.

I blacked out and was sent to The Salford Royal Rehabilitation Centre for Injured Gymnast. As I looked back at what had happened and how the ribbons had ruined my life I vowed never to pick up a pair again. It took seven months of grueling physiotherapy for me to learn to walk again. I also had to learn to read and write; I could never do that before so that was a bit of a bonus. Soon my accident had made front-page news in the Anglers Times and a collection for my recovery had begun. As I was handed a cheque for £15 I was touched knowing I could book a one-way flight with Ryanair, without luggage, to the Isle of Man, it gave me something to focus on and speeded up my recovery no end.

I now spend all my time helping other gymnasts who are addicted to their sport and I’m running a public awareness campaign to rid the world of this awful disease. As far as I’m concerned the ribbons are more addictive than cocaine. I will not rest until we live in a ribbon free society. 

Sunday, 5 August 2012

Olympics With Blanche

Fear not my friends, Blanche is back. One is awfully sorry regarding the lack of updates but you see one has been in a Cillit Bang induced coma for the best part of six month. Apparently it is not an appropriate substitute when faced with the dilemma of an empty bottle of gin. What’s a full bottle I hear you cry? I wont lie, my heads a bit groggy, my insides feel bloody marvelous though.

Well I’ve been inspired to write again after the spirit of Lilly Savage inhibited my body, this may come as a surprise to you but she’s a great fan of the Olympics, she once came second in a trolley dash around Primark so she’s practically an Olympian herself. It wasn’t until the day after we realized that it was in fact the start of the Birkenhead riots, well Dale Winton was shopping for a new onesie so you can see the confusion.

Well it has startled me to see the gays have embraced the Olympics and have managed to dragged themselves out of their local dark room long enough to find the TV remote. Maybe they were just confused at the mention of 5 rings and thought it was something else entirely. Although I think that being able to pause live TV during the middle of one of Tom Daley’s exquisite dives may have been a catalyst.

I myself have been overcome with Olympic glee. I found myself attempting quite a technically challenged routine with the ribbons. I was feeling rather daring after a special Olympic GnT – with just a splash of Dettol. Had it been an official sport of the games I’m quite sure I would have got gold, putting the business of the strangled camel aside.

The gays have embraced the sports so much that they too have their own special ‘Gay Games,’ an event that has taken part every 4 years since 1982. It surprised me to learn that the Javelin had not been replaced with a stiletto nor are the sprinters running towards a mid season sale at Abercrombie and Fitch. However the opening ceremony is a little different in that the games cannot officially begin until all 5 Olympic rings have been found which have been hidden within a local sauna. Gone are the big name sponsors too instead replaced with Aussiebum and Liquid Gold. Medals have also been replaced with a selection of Tony & Guy hair products in Gold, Silver and Bronze bottles respectively.

I also hear that there is a new sporting event in the planning called the ‘Giro Games.’ The first event is to be held in Liverpool this autumn. Some unconfirmed rumored events include replacing car wheels with bricks, skinning up as well as throwing Rockport. The Team GB kit has been designed by McKenzie and sponsored by Jeremy Kylie. Gold medals have been replaced with packets of Golden Virginia. Contestants are reportedly in exhausting training regimes up and down the country in your local Safeway car park.

With all this excitement one feels exhausted and must dash away to relax and unwind. I’ll leave you with these words, ‘it’s not the taking part that counts, it’s the winning.’

Love Always, 

‘Jeeves, I’ll have a shot of Lenor and a line of Daz’

Tuesday, 24 April 2012

Biscuits With Blanche

Chapter One; Seats For Take Off

Blanche is not my real name you understand but a moniker thrust upon me by former colleagues, it’s one that I have grown to be accustomed and one I now adore. Fortunately my life is one of peace, happiness, gin and luxury. I came to this conclusion as I sunbathed around a lagoon inspired pool in the ‘Dead Heart of Africa,’ formally known as T’Chad. As the tonic fizzed and the gin quenched my thirst I knew then that I was perfectly safe and care-free; I’m almost positive my armed guard watching over me with his AK47 was placed two feet away from me purely to admire my elegance.

It hadn’t always been this way, hard to believe I guarantee for my face is not scared with lines of distress or burdened with the appearance of a hard life unlike that poor soul VictoriaBeckham. It must be so frustrating to have millions in off-sure accounts out of your possession, leaving you unable to buy food and having to survive on the scraps of a singing career; I realize that using the word career is generous but one must not kick a size zero horse when it’s down, well not unless it is thoroughly deserved.

It is true that I once too suffered from inner turmoil and been the victim of a foolish heart on more than one occasion. The last time I was the receiver of such fate I even left the gloriously fabulous northern city of Manchester to cohabit with my suitor in the den of iniquity and all round miserableness in what is the capital of our ailing country. It was clear from the start that our families were not compatible for companionship for they were lovers of the forbidden cloth, Primark. Eighteen turbulent months passed by before I found myself climbing through my Romeo’s sash-window following an underwhelming brawl in a Soho bar. Apparently removing the batteries out of his hearing aids was the straw that broke the Scotsman’s back.

My upbringing too was one of poverty and neglect. I was often the object of taunts from neighboring children when they discovered we only had TVs in the downstairs rooms and none available for myself to watch in the solace of my own neutrally painted chamber. I've never quite got over missing the final episode of London's Burning.

In result of this I comfort ate myself through 5 stone of vol-o-vants and canap├ęs every evening until one realized a change had to be made. No more was I prepared to be laughed at or allow myself to feast upon my own misery, instead I choose to dance. I tapped my sling backs repeatedly through the entire catalogue of Steps singles, skipping Tragedy every time it came on in respect for the Bee Gees, until there was smoke coming off my perfectly pedicured soles.

Like a caterpillar I cocooned myself until I was ready to fly away beautiful and elegant, as it
turned out I hadn’t grown wings but had developed an awful lot of mince and a fondness for the same sex. Luckily this realization helped when applying for a position as cabin crew, I didn't realize it at the time but it was a requirement of the job. I’d like to tell you which airline I worked for but for legal reasons I think it’s safer not to. All I’ll say on the matter is that they ruled the Airways and they were British.

On one particular flight, to Toronto, I escaped to the washroom; it always provided me with a little alone time to enjoy a mid-Atlantic gin and tonic whilst reading the latest highlife in-flight brochure. Always positively filled with exaggerated remarks on the excellence of the cabin crew. Whoever wrote it had obviously never flown on board or they would have known the passengers were the last inconvenience the crew cared about, all more focused on throwing an overcooked rump steak at them that had been frozen and defrosted more times than Jackie Stallone’s face, all in a desperate bid to be the first to get to the toilet and place a condom over the smoke detector and enjoy a mile high nicotine rush.

It was then, whilst delicately enjoying my G’n’T that the spirit of Lady Blanche Crawford inhibited my conscious for the first time; I have to say I positively enjoyed the experience. Back in 1977 when the glorious giant of the sky, b747-200, made it’s maiden voyage home from New York, Lady Blanche was siting elegantly in first class, a posture she’d had to learnt since she was once a lady of the night, when she choked on a custard cream, lost consciousness and died somewhere over the Bermuda triangle. I have since learnt from her Spirit that the cabin attendant onboard half-heartedly performed the Heimlich maneuver, not using full force for fear of breaking a nail. As a result Lady Blanche’s Spirit had been travelling around on this metal tube for 24 years haunting any stewardess that had dared to spill coffee in what had now become her aluminum tomb.

Fearing the retirement of this now old bird and facing an eternity baking in the heat of the Arizona aircraft graveyard, Blanche thought her only escape would be to inhabit a body of another. Through later subconscious conversations with her I discovered she chose me as she recognized a desire in my eyes to self invest and improve ones self, a trait she possessed herself.

Over many cups of tea and variety of biscuits, although never a custard cream, I learnt more about Lady B as she lurked shallowly under my skin, ever ready to take complete ownership of my body, using it as a vessel to communicate with the natural world. This most commonly occurs during episodes of Jeremy Kyle or whenever Denise Robsertson’s advice is offered to the public on This Morning. I’d often awake to find the lounge turned furiously upside down from Blanche’s frustration of not being able to grab hold of Jeremy’s guests and give them a good slap whilst telling them to ‘get a grip.’

Blanche knows that she herself, through the struggle in her own life could offer much better straight talking advice. She was determined, through inhabiting my body, to take over Denise’s reign on the This Morning sofa and fix our nation of downbeat souls. Before I had chance to question my actions I had enrolled on an evening course at Bury College in Computing, by the end of the first term I’d set up, unknowingly,, a website offering help and advice for all those stupid and desperate enough to ask for it.

As Blanche’s ambition to rule the agony aunt columns grew she possessed my body more and more until............

Thank heavens for that, I can’t stand his insistent dribble, he’s much more interesting when he’s drunk not to mention far easier to consume with ones superior Spirit. I think I’ll teach him to be more interesting and stick around for a while longer this time. Hopefully he’ll get a hobby or an addiction, I don’t mind which one as long as it gets him out the house. That’s if I ever let him come back into being. I might give him one more chance to come back and get rid of his man boobs, I'd do it for him but physical exertion does not sit well my daily beauty routine.

I’ve got to give him credit though; his idea to make all these letters into a book, or a catalogue of patheticness as I like to call it, was a marvelous idea. Plus it’s an ideal way to pass the time before I can dive into my first Gin and Tonic of the day, and it certainly is a tonic from your miserableness. One can only assume that you have taken inspiration for your own lives from EastEnders, what a pity that you don’t have the same short life expectancy of most of their ensemble.

When you think about it logically it’s a crime that I was snatched from the world so soon, just as I was enjoying the supreme comfort of the first class cabin and seeping marvelousness over my fellow travellers, whilst you, no doubt rotting from your stale odor of failure in a residence that is no doubt one up from a rats nest are allowed to live. One can only hope that rats don’t gain the ability to read, as they’d surely be offended, not even they would live in the squalor that some of you choose to do so.

To be quite honest I sometimes feel thick with dirt just reading the letters that you send me, I’ve had no option on several occasions but to fill the bath with gin and lay in it for several hours to let the alcohol cleanse my pours of your infectious melancholy peasantness.

You see when I was alive people had more class, even when I was a lady of the night I still had standards. Very high ones in fact, impeccable even. I would never escort a gentleman who was married, not unless he was paying twice the going rate, and I wouldn’t entertain the idea of dinner with a suitor if he were not dressed appropriately. I find it inconceivable what the girls wear these days, many of them squeezed into a size 10 when they’re clearly an 18; you can almost here the fabric screaming from the strain. The phrase mutton dressed as shite springs to mind.

You’d be surprised what one can learn whilst haunting the seat pockets of a business class cabin, in all the 24 years onboard I never once passed the purple curtain cabin divider into economy. It was definitely there though; I could smell it, the odor of working class perspiration only masked by the desperation of Geri Halliwel’s singing career.
I liked to keep up to date with the latest showbiz goings on; the inflight magazine was my monthly bible to the shimmering stars of Hollywood. Gone were the greats like Marilyn Monroe, I met her Spirit onboard once, she was going on vacation to the Seychelles, she told me she still needed frequent holidays even in the afterlife; she was still very much a star. Judy Garland’s Spirit passed through a few times too, she was an awkward one, I had to hold her back from trying to overdose on a passenger’s TicTacs, she thought they were paracetamol, she clearly hadn’t grasped the concept of being dead. Another time she was trying to slit her ghostly transparent wrists with an economy knife, even if she was alive she wouldn’t have caused much damage, a nasty scratch at the most, you see it was plastic; you’d have a job cutting butter with it never mind flesh.

Yes gone are the greats leaving a trail of stars in their wake that have clearly been trained at the local council, I can think of no other reason for their poor onboard behavior. Madonna was one of the worst, I went off her as soon as I saw her wipe her nose on the seat cushion, Julie Roberts wasn’t much better either, the way she opened her bottle of Budweiser with her labia was grotesque.

It’s no wonder Britain is now full of such low life; I blame new Labour and Vanessa Feltz. Well not all is lost; at least I’m here to put you back on the straight and narrow. I promise dear people to answer your questions without prejudgment and together we will aim to fix your sordid pathetic worthless lives. Move over Denise Roberts and Jeremy Kyle for Blanche has arrived....