The Fart War: The Boyf Sides With the Feckin Farters

I know that one of the things that I love about the boyf is his ability to put me back in my box and not take any sh*t from me, but this morning he left my mouth flapping with horror when he sided with those feckin' train farters. We were on the fast train which meant we had to stand all the way and it was one of those trains where it's all air conditioned and there doesn't appear to be any windows to open. He was playing his PSP and I was doing my morning brain training on my Nintendo DS when my nose wrinkled with distaste at the smell of commuter bowel. Whoever the fecker was, kept up a steady release of them for several minutes till finally I hissed to the boyf "Someone has farted! This is f*cking outrageous! I might vomit!" which admittedly was rather dramatic. He looked up from the racing game and gave me one of his warning looks and said "Shush. Stop it!"

I stared at him and realised that as a prize farter himself it's no wonder he's empathetic with them. "Don't tell me to shush! That smell is WOEFUL!" and I got the warning look again and he replied with "One more word about the farts and I'll put my earphones in." I veered between wanting to sulk and having a complete hissy fit and said bitchily "Put the earphones in and I will tell this whole frickin carriage what I think of their farting! Loudly!" and we both cracked up laughing.

I went back to the brain training, covering my nose and mouth to let them all know in no uncertain terms that I was on to them. When we got off the train at London Bridge, the boyf hustled me up the platform. "Jesus NML! How can you be so cruel!?! People have to fart! And you're there shaming people!"

Outraged, I flashed his hand off me. "It is POLLUTION! Just like when people don't want you sneezing and coughing over them, I don't want to inhale someone else's rancid SHIT! And the bleedin' cheek of you telling me off!"

"Sometimes you need it!" and he pinched me on the bum cheekily. "And it is NOT pollution - NML, if you had to fart on the train, you'd do it. "

"Er, NO! If YOU had to fart you'd bloody do it. If it was me, I'd hold it in."

"Even if you were in pain?" he said triumphantly.

"Yes!" and envisioned myself cramped up with wind.

"Well you do know you let some out in your sleep..." he murmured.

"This conversation is OVER!" I hissed. Flipping cheek of him.

Faux BJ

I was sitting on the train checking on 'Doggy' my Nintendog when something made me look to my left. There was a couple sitting opposite each other in the six seater with a carrier bag on the floor between them. She had leant forward to look inside the bag so her head was facing down into the carrier bag but also happened to be close to his crotch because he was sitting on the edge of the seat. At the point where I looked at them, he was pushing her head down blowjob style in a mini-frenzy and laughing as he gripped her hair. I froze in embarrassment and he looked at me, at least had the good grace to blush and loosened the grip on her hair and let her come back up for air... Suddenly farting and BO seem like a more pleasant alternative. If the boyf had done that to me, he'd have had no nuts left...

Tits Up, Tools Down

This is one of those times when I can not be as honest and candid about my life as too many people that know me read this blog. Ugh. I'm trying to locate my sense of humour and struggling, as at the moment I'm going through a personal crisis which is testing me and making me want to scratch out my eyes in frustration. OK...that might be an exaggeration. Fortunately the boyf is being great and so I haven't cracked up as I thought I may. I'm even thinking of trying the same crack my ma does.... I will be OK, in fact I'm sure that in time, I will be fine, but until then I will veer between being a bitch on wheels and a blubbering wreck.

On another note, 'ole Bony Arse (my boss) otherwise known as Skeletor is leaving us. Seriously, it's like one big fricking revolving door in this place - I should just sign over my salary for leaving present collections! As is my nature, I deal with displeasing news with humour - "Does this mean I can have your Sony Vaio?" and "Any chance of us getting a boss with hair this time?" I will miss him although he is trapped with us for almost another 3 months and MSlash and I have taken the piss out of him every single day. He's taken this in his stride to be fair to him and he even let me point out the fact that his hair is thinning at the back. I'm thinking a toupe for his leaving present? Or a weave?

I had an acupuncture session with an American specialist yesterday who is apparently one of the best in the field and found myself surrounded by 9 people in just my bra, knickers and a blanket to protect my modesty. It was mortifying and at one point she asked if I had any lumps in my body and I suggested that there may be one in my back. On further investigation, it turned out to be my rib...

Tampons on a Plane

So it's what feels like the crack of dawn and the boyf and I are going through security to get our flight to Rome. It was only when we got there that I read the signs properly that I realised that 2 tubes of Juicy Lancome tubes, a bottle of nail varnish and some hand cream were not supposed to be in my bag according to the rather strict rules. Oh f*ck! I wonder if they'll notice....I won't say anything. "NML, have you read the rules about cosmetics?" the boyf enquired. Ah feck....

Naturally my bag was taken aside to be searched and the security guard, who sounded like Ricky from Eastenders, proceeded to empty out the contents of the bag, and explained the cosmetics rule. Spotting an opportunity to embarrass him and take the piss I said "So what, I can't even bring tampons on the plane?" and I stared pointedly at the unopened box in front of him. The boyf started pissing himself laughing and back away from us and the security guard started to stutter and laugh. "I mean seriously, as if a tampon could take out a plane full of people..." I muttered and he cracked up laughing. "No they are OK. You aren't the first person to ask..." he said with a bright red face as he gingerly handled the box as if it was a weapon of mass destruction (WMDs) that would explode in 30 seconds. Mind you, Tony Blair never did manage to find those WMDs....

The Rome Trip

Jaysus! It's practically been a week! I got back from Rome last night and I'm sure I came back with a few pounds of extra baggage due to eating 2 courses and a starter for lunch and dinner each day, and consuming copious amounts of wine. We had a great time in Rome despite the fact that after our first day it pissed rain in mega buckets for the rest of our stay. Rome is a stunning city and a fantastic mix of the old city - It was amazing how you could be walking along checking out shops and stumble upon the Pantheon for instance. We actually managed to visit everything except for the Colesseum which we only got to pass by. Despite assurances from the Pope that he was expecting us...he clearly forgot to mention that when we got up to the Vatican that there would be thousands of people queuing up in the rain. The boyf and I stared at them in bewilderment for a while, took the piss out of peoples rain macs and then decided to hotfoot it to the Sistine Chapel. I thought I was experiencing early menopause with the stifling heat from so many bodies crowded into one place. I loved the visit to the chapel and I couldn't get over how vibrant the paintings were despite the passing of so much time. I also couldn't get over how many people farted and failed to wear deoderant! For once, it wasn't London commuters that were trying to kill me with their bodily odours. I also threatened to leave the boyf on his own in the damn place when he kept letting out miniature farts due to his stomach 'adjusting' to the food.

We actually managed to navigate around the city really easily, jumping on and off trams, buses and the metro. This was the first time I had been away with the boyf without other people and the first time I had been away with a guy in years so there was that fear that 1) we'd get there and I discover that he was one of those holiday psycho's that only wants to do what he wants to do 2) we'd murder each other over the map and getting lost and 3) we'd get sick of each other . As it happened there wasn't even a flicker of a disagreement and we had a really relaxing time, talking complete sh*te sometimes, telling stories, taking the piss out of each other and some of the funny locals and porn displayed on the street. Seriously, I have never seen so many posters of the same woman with her tits out all over a city... We met up with a friend of the boyf's who is a Rome native and took us to a 'proper' Italian restaurant where they have stuff on the menu called 'Typical Italian Food'. I must admit I wasn't hugely enthralled with the food and even less so at the thought of eating lamb intestines which I left the boys to...

We splashed out yesterday on the perfect black coat (for me - must find a pic of it), 2 bags (for him), a skirt and the pictured Guzzini spice rack (40 feckin euro for a spice rack...bejaysus..) pictured. I thought it was some sort of pisstake when we asked for the whereabouts of the rack and box (we got it in orange) and the very elderly shop assistant sprang to life speaking very hyperactively in Italian whilst her moustache moved. Typically, I was fixated by the man-tash and rather repelled by her hog breath and she reminded me of the woman from Little Britain that pisses herself... I honestly wondered if I was on a candid camera show or something!

I have to stop saying 'Grazi' to people in shops and restaurants now that I'm back in London (it's amazing how I get conditioned so quickly) and I also have to stop saying 'Prego' which seems to mean lots of things but for me it's 'You're welcome';'Can I help you?' and 'Do you want to buy an umbrella despite the fact that you have one in your hand and I've already asked you both ten times?'

Mistaken Murderer and Overactive Imagination

I'm at the petrol station with the boyf, contemplating whether to get out my Nintendo DS Lite whilst he is filling up. I decide against it and sing along to the radio, and I'm interrupted by the boyf opening the car door and announcing "That mans a murderer!", nodding towards the 'murderer' before closing the door and leaving in the car shitting a brick. I watched the boyf sauntering into the petrol station without a care in the world and stole a glance at the black cab driver (the taxi was black, not the driver) and wondered how the boyf knew about this guy. Immediately my imagination went into overdrive and I imagined that he'd read about him in one of the tabloids and I pondered what he'd be done for. Clearly it didn't occur to me to wonder how he became a licensed cab driver...

I watched him in his tight jeans, cheap blue shirt and leather waist coat looking like a groupie for ZZ Top with his long hair and noted that he had on surgical rubber gloves. "Jaysus, I hope he hasn't got a dead body in the car.." I thought just as he stared at me before getting into the cab to drive it across the forecourt to the hose. I picked up the Telegraph (never read it normally) and pretended to read it whilst carrying out surveillance on the perp. "What the f*ck is that boy doing in the petrol station?" I fumed. Finally he returned a few moments later.

"How the hell could you just tell me that there is a murderer parked next to me and then just f*ck off and leave me here to be butchered?!" I roared at him.

He snickered. "Well...he looks like a murderer."

"So he hasn't been in the paper for killing someone?" I demanded and he stared at me amused.

"Oh no...but don't you think he looks like a murderer. I mean who goes around with rubber gloves and that outfit?"

Where the hell did I get my boyfriend from and do you think he smokes the same crack as my mother?

Speaking of which, my mother says to me about the house she has found "The fourth bedroom will be perfect for the grandchildren - They can have their own room." Huh?

Getting Kinky in Relationships

Just after Christmas 1998, I found myself standing rather conspicuously in a bar in Dublin wearing a skirt, a pair of sheer flesh coloured (it is the one time I have ever worn them and it was a sin) tights and a pair of those hooker shoes. You know those clear heel ones that have now become the staple uniform of anyone that ever wanted to wrap themselves and their vagina around a pole. Now you have to understand, I had these ridiculous shoes on ONCE ever and it was before they became de rigour with ladies of the night and they were given to me as a gift by Bee Gee (my ex boyfriend that had a penchant for dancing in ridiculous 70s style no matter what the music) who had seen them on his sister and very stupidly decided to give me the vomitous shoes. Bear in mind now that he and his sister were like that guy that Rachel dated that bathed with his sister (Bee Gee was sans the bath) but plenty of overdosing of public displays of affection and playfighting...anyway I digress...

I felt like a complete f*cking tool in this get up but I did it to please him and lasted 20 minutes in the bar and demanded to be taken home. They were consigned to the back of a drawer in my bedroom and each time I saw them, I would cringe and feel rather embarrassed that I had a boyfriend that wanted me to dress up like a I worked the streets. I feel even more embarrassed now as this guy was a complete assclown and didn't treat me very well, yet I did stupid stuff like this to keep the peace! This wasn't the only time in our dubious relationship where he tried to inject his brand of enthusiasm into things. He made a lot of wisecracks about threesomes (I declined) and he asked me to spank him a few times which had me in stitches laughing and cringing like a mofo refusing to do it, plus other requests which I have pushed to the deep recesses of my mind. This is the same guy that most suspected that he didn't go to Thailand for the sights and who dressed up in tights, boots and a weird corset leotard and garish makeup for a Halloween party. A colleague wisecracked recently that somone was so far in the closet they were in marina and when I remember that one of mates bumped into him looking like the white version of MJ with a what appeared to be rouge on his face, this wisecrack is rather applicable to my ex...

So why am I talking about kinky stuff? Just for the hell of it and partly because the boyf and I had a general conversation about kinky people. Before anyone jumps to any conclusions, the boyf hasn't even hinted at anything kinky but I did say to him that if he ever did feel like broaching the subject, to make sure that nothing with poo, wee, bondage or goldfish bowls filled with car keys is involved. We were howling with laughter and the boyf remarked that he's sure that people do kinky stuff after a week together! "If someone is trying to get you to do kinky stuff in the space of a week, what do you do in 6 months time!?! A year?!" I demanded. My idea of kinky is the more unusual stuff - I'm not talking changing position or location, I'm thinking when there is whips, chains, an extra person, several people or a room full of them, animals, submission, strangulation, coffee tables and poo, golden showers - you know - that sh*t that makes you think twice, three times, ten times and it still seems far out! It's the stuff you're unlikely to admit to anyone that you do it for fear of them crossing the street the next time they see you!

And some may ask why did I keep going out with this fool? I was young and dumb and I think I thought that he'd stop asking. I'm sure Clinton stopped asking for blowjobs (some people even think BJs are kinky)...but he didn't lose the thirst for them...he just went elsewhere... Of course people do kinky in relationships and more power to them, but when I think back to my ex who couldn't stop waffling and hinting about all things kinky all the frickin time, I remember feeling distinctly uncomfortable, distinctly unappreciated and under pressure to be something that I'm not. I've heard many a tale of women who have started up a relationship with a guy and when their men have presented them with the request to do something kinky, they've balked, and either brushed it under the carpet and hoped it would go away or gone along with the request and felt resentful and/or like a complete tit. I guess if my ex or any of these guys discussed the expectations and got us to feel comfortable and treated us well in general before asking if they could do something more risque, who knows what kind of reception they would have got, depending on what it was (some stuff just never goes down well, excuse the pun). How do guys get to be such complete assclowns yet they still have the brass balls to ask if they can poo/wee on you, beat you or have another woman in the room?

If there is one thing I've learnt about kinky stuff, it's that a kinky guy needs a willing and kinky girl otherwise it will all go tits up. It's one thing if he puts in an occasional request but if you find yourself with someone that professes a great love of swinging, golden showers, pooing on coffee tables et al, they don't just stop wanting it and go back to holding hands and the missionary.

Fortunately I don't have to worry about arriving at a so called dinner party and having to have sex with a stranger or anything kinky right now, but I'm sure if it ever comes up, I'll be sure to be honest if it's not my thang. Now I must go as lord knows what the boyf is doing in the other room. Maybe he's in a secret dominatrix chamber.....

Mama Goes to Bingo and Get's Out Jamaicaned..

I have a confession - I have bought a Nintendo DS Lite and promptly become addicted to it! I even dreamt about the damn thing last night! Flipping Animal Crossing! Anyway...

My mum had me in stitches laughing at her recent adventure to bingo. Now you have to understand, my mum is not really a bingo type of woman. On an average day, my mum looks like she's mid thirties (she's 48) but in her mission to be a grandmother (sans the actual grandchildren or even a foetus) I think she has taken to trying to live the gran life. She rocked up to the local bingo and promptly felt out of place. She was dressed very stylishly as usual and even though she chose a 'tame' outfit of jeans, top, and heels, she still managed to look like as out of place as a black person at a klan meeting. There were a lot of mu mu's, housecoats and jacked up Sunday best outfits. My mum used to be a model back before a now 29 year old blogger came along and busted her out and left her with stretchmarks which she insists I will cough up for the plastic surgery one day, and she has a bit of an air about her when she walks.

She took a seat and another black woman, who couldn't be more different to my mum said in a harsh Jamaican accent "I gwan win the bumbahole (Jamaican for bum hole) f*cking bingo tonight!". Now I wouldn't go so far as to say that my mum speaks like the Queen, but she still has a very English accent and froze in shock. "Ya hear. Me a win the bumbahole bingo!"

She is going to win the bumhole bingo my mum recited back to herself in her head in a very exaggerated posh English accent.

"I need a f*cking lighter!" the woman announced and my mum offered to go and get her one in desperation to escape. Unfortunately when she got to the front desk, there were no lighters and apparently she was too scared to go back for a few minutes. At this stage of the story, little bro and I are doubled up laughing at the thought of her running around after this hardback woman.

This woman managed to get a lighter eventually and smoked like a trouper for the remainder of the evening. Whenever she got a number she said stuff like "F*cking number five!";"Bumbahole ten!";"Raasclaat 65" and the exaggerated posh English accent in my mums head was saying "That's effing number five", "Bum hole ten";"Bum cloth 65".

Of course, as my mum got settled into the game, where apparently lots of black folk called 'Bingo' even though they didn't have all the numbers and where they all cussed at the bingo caller, my ma decided to try to converse with them in Jamaican by trying to match their accents and 'get down'. Now when my mum does her Jamaican accent with us it sounds very Jamaican, but in this situation, nerves got the better of her and seemingly she sounded more like Ali G. So she was met with stony expressions as they no doubt thought that she was taking the piss out of them.

It's safe to say that she won't be going back there again but she's keeping us entertained as she settles into London life. A recent post got featured in The London Lite which is a free afternoon newspaper that's part of The Metro. I mentioned it to my mum and fortunately she didn't read it as she had a serious case of bubbleguts - Lord knows what she would have said when she discovered that London knew about her granny desires... Little Bro on hearing this exclaimed "Oh my God! That was you! I read it on the tube earlier and you said that stuff about.." and I shot him this look that no doubt shrivelled his goolies and shut him up. My mum was far too busy going on about wind to notice what was happening... I am also in trouble with the boyf for slagging off Stargate SG1 and I have been instructed to point out that he deleted 55 hours of that sh*te off the TV hard drive. Thank f*ck!

Have a fabulous weekends. I'm behaving myself and staying in tonight...and I have a hot date with my Nintendo DS Lite x

The Fight For Penis Supremacy,

I had a 'brainstorming' meeting with the crackerjacks on my team yesterday and honestly...it was like the fight for penis supremacy. I thought women could be bitchy but we don't have anything on the guys that I work with. As each one tried to be more bossy, more clever, more bitchy, more egotistical, I looked around the table in amusement and thought: If I close my eyes know and reopen them, there will be giant sized penises bashing each other saying "Bla, bla, bla, bla...." I guess the only question was who would be the biggest and the smallest....

As I strolled down the platform at Bond Street Tube station last night, I walked into a fart cloud and wrinkled my nose in disgust. As I pushed my way through it, a woman who was standing at the fart cloud started to move ahead of me. Obviously I'm not the only one trying to escape someone's horrendous bowels I thought and it was only when the smell appeared to be worsening and she couldn't seem to get away from me fast enough that I twigged that she was the one responsible for trying to choke me out. I am seriously considering starting a Keep Briton's Clean campaign... Why do commuters have an allergy to holding in their farts, wiping their arses properly, washing and using deodorant, and brushing their teeth?

I had a dream last night that I was 'old' and I had my hair dyed purple (I'm sure it was only older white women that I saw with dyed purple hair and blue rinses...) and I was attached to what looked like a blood pressure machine but it was drip feeding me Jerk chicken. On waking up I realised that I dreamt about the blood pressure machine as the boyf and I had to take his mum into hospital for an op on Sunday and it was all I could do not to ask the nurse if I could 'have a go' of the machine. As for the chicken...well I haven't eaten chicken for over a year (along with pork, white bread, yellow peppers and grapefruit - rock on the immune system disease...) so that may explain the chicken appearance. And yes I know blood pressure machines don't normally have drips....

The boyf is away with work for the next couple of days so I bade him farewell and tried to walk at lightening speed in my heels to the train station. My ma called me rabbiting about tubes and buses (I don't think she's twigged that if one doesn't work, you get the other...) and just after I got off the call, I started to cross the road and this assclown turns off the main road and comes dangerously close to running me over. I had no choice but to back up onto the pavement and without thinking thinking I found myself shouting 'Dipstick!' at the driver. Naturally his window was open and he looked outraged and said something unintelligible at me whilst having the cheek to wave his fist at me. Seeing as I had temporary turrets, I yelled 'Penis!' at him as he drove away and for the first time since I was probably a teenager, I actually gave him the finger.

This week is starting very well...

Normality (ish), My Ma's Taken Wedding Crack

Life has been pretty uneventful for the past few days which is a little unnerving because I'm used to pockets of drama. Other than my mum flipping her proverbial wig and having a freak out yesterday (Are all mothers on crack or is it just mine?), life has been normal and quiet.

The boyf and I were lying sprawled out on each of the sofa's this morning, him watching that blasted Stargate SG-1 (Seriously, there are about 50 frickin episodes blocking up the bloody TV hard drive! And he LAUGHS during episodes!) and me reading and it felt like domesticated bliss. Later we had to worship at the church of Ikea and we actually managed to get out of there in less than 40 minutes. Why is it that if you need two of something, you can almost guarantee that Ikea will only have one?

I'm off to Rome in less than two weeks for a long weekend with the boyf who will have been working out there earlier in that week. My mum is convinced that we are eloping out there - I need to eradicate my mothers obsession with my getting married and at first I denied it vehemently and now I'm just half hearted. Ah feck it! I can't be bleedin arsed to keep repeating myself swirls around in my brain. Yesterday she raved about a house that she had looked at and my ears pricked up at references to "room for lots of grandchildren";"swings and slides in the garden";"big dining room for family dinners and for grandchildren to run around" and other child friendly references. I didn't rise to the bait but it did make me wonder what it would be like if I was one of those people who got their knickers in a twist when experiencing parental pressure.

As it is, I suffer from "DGAFA" Don't Give a F*ck Attitude so whilst it's entertaining, I don't turn into an irate woman sulking around the flat doing clickety clickety swipes with my hand, saying "I don't see no ring on this finger!" to everything that he asks me. There is this danger for people to get carried away with the romance and expect you as a couple to run before we can even walk. We've been together for over 6 months and living together is more than enough. If I listened to a number of the crackheads in my life, I would be down the aisle and knocked up, with no preference on the order. It's funny though because marriage has not exactly been high on the agenda in my family, when I look at with the whole extended kit and kaboodle.

My grandparents have been together for more than 50 years and a few of my relatives have gone down the aisle, but most have gone for cohabiting...and some 'outside' kids thrown in for good measure. Black families, like any family to be fair, tend to be complicated and mine could take up about a month of Oprah shows. I don't doubt that one day I will get married, but it does cause me to break out in a cold sweat. Not because of marriage per se, but more like, how do I cope with my circus of a family when it comes to getting married? Do I invite everyone and look at it as lighting a match and chucking it at naked gas? How do I get all the people with their grievances with other family members not to create trouble? Do I actually put on the invitation that I have a phobia of black women in white tights and white shoes (it's from when the bro and I suffered 'trauma' at gospel churches when we were kids) with skin hanging over the side of the shoe like they're baking bread? Jaysus I could be hyperventilating soon if I stay on this subject.

I think that's what I find so funny about my ma having wedding fever - She KNOWS what family I have! Her facination bewilders me though because I display no signs of interest in weddings yet she seems to think that I will suddenly be gripped in a fever. Let's hope one of the bro's brings a new addition to the family before me... not the 16 year old one though!

Enjoy the rest of your weekends x