A Boring Post About My Boring Dead Husband, Boring Ex-Simon Garottey (Part 1)

 

Seeing as I’m still having trouble thinking of what to write because nothing happens to me because I CAN’T GO OUT, and seeing as little Emily is still recovering from the Sickness so she hasn’t been able to come and see me, and seeing as Branwell talks a load of shite when he does stay to talk to me, and seeing as Lottie is too busy, busy, busy to talk to me in the first place, and seeing as THE BERSERKERS have been told to stop ringing me up for bedtime stories because Lottie’s been whingeing about the phone bill, and seeing as there’s only SO many times I can stick a poem up and pretend to myself I’ve written a proper post, I thought that today I’ll write about something I’ve been avoiding writing about – my dead husband, ex-Simon.

I’ll apologise in advance for how BORING this post will be – it can’t be anything BUT boring because ex-Simon was boring, he was VERY VERY boring, he was the most boringest bastard ever to have been boring, he could have made every boring bastard in every boring chapter of THE BORING CLUB OF BORING BASTARDS die of boredom.

He didn’t SEEM boring for the first couple of years of knowing him. Yes, he liked CLEANING but any woman with any sense in her head would skip down the aisle to marry a man who liked cleaning, wouldn’t they – I didn’t have to lift a finger, he cleaned ALL THE HOUSE, everything, he kept the place LOVELY and SPARKLY and HYGIENIC which was brilliant for the most part except when he tried to ban me from smoking in the house because he said I was turning the ceiling and walls beige and making all my books yellow and why didn’t I GET RID OF SOME OF MY BOOKS?

You can imagine what I said to that. See, another problem with ex-Simon was he decided, after 2 years of marriage, to become a MINIMALIST – actually, being a MINIMALIST isn’t another problem, it’s the SAME problem as being a BORING BASTARD because who in their right mind wants to live in NOTHING? I’ve never understood MINIMALISM – human beings are ANIMALS not MINIMALS and how do animals live? They live in cosy little nests and burrows and dens and holes and hollows and other snug places, don’t they? Except fish (and other water creatures) who don’t have the bricks or the fingers to build themselves a proper home so they only have vast amounts of open water to live in – BUT THEY DON’T ONLY HAVE VAST AMOUNTS OF OPEN WATER TO LIVE IN, they have the BOTTOM OF THE WATER to live in and that’s what they do, they sleep in a bed of cosy grit and silt and pebbles with little (or BIG) rocks for walls to keep the BIG FISH and other BIG WATER CREATURES away from them because if they went to sleep in their vast amounts of open water they’d soon be EATEN by the BIG FISH and the other BIG WATER CREATURES. And it’s the same for human beings, we need THINGS AROUND US for protection because if you’re a MINIMAL and your house has fuck all in it, WHERE DO YOU HIDE WHEN THE PSYCHO COMES TO GET YOU? 

Wanting to become a MINIMALIST was the first real indication of how much of a boring bastard ex-Simon would become before I finally sent him to sleep with the fishes (SLEEP WITH THE FISHES!! HA HA HA HA – get it?) I did try to compromise with him (I told him he could keep the little downstairs toilet collection-free) because I still loved him then (though, on reflection, him telling me to get rid of my books is what started the slow swing from love to HATE). I couldn’t understand why he wanted me to get rid of my books when he had a COLLECTION OF STAMPS that he was meticulous about. Yes, stamps are the boringest item to collect but the fact that he was a COLLECTOR wasn’t boring even though the thing he collected was. But (again, on reflection) maybe at the beginning I shouldn’t have been blinded by him BEING A COLLECTOR, I should have focused more on the boringness of WHAT he collected. Ah, Hindsight, you fucker, why are you never there when I need you?

 

I’ll tell you a bit more about ex-Simon later, the thought of having to get rid of my books is bringing on a panic attack and I need my beta-blockers and a little swig of  laudanum.

 

 

 

Dinosaur Eggs And Disheartening Disrespect

 

Today I was going to write about my collections of which I have LOTS and LOTS including two of my most prized objects, my DINOSAUR EGGS found in Montana about 11 years ago and given to me by dear dead Daddy (before he died of course, idiot). After months and months of debate THE FOSSIL BOFFINS suspected the eggs are SAUROPOD EGGS because they were found next to the skeleton of a SAUROPOD. What’s to suspect, FOSSIL BOFFINS? DUH! 

My dear dead Daddy actually gave me FIVE DINOSAUR EGGS but curiosity and scientific experiments involving hammers and drills and great quantities of arsenic based concoctions lost me three of them – in the scientific culinary experiment I attempted to produce a lovely, rare, black fried egg that Russian oligarchs and Chinese zulti-zillionaires would clamour to eat and pay me squidoodles of dosh for but it didn’t quite work out as I’d planned mainly because the DINOSAUR EGGS have become FOSSILISED and are just like BIG HARD BALL-SIZED ROCKS THAT ARE HARD TO OPEN.

Anyway, if you were paying attention at the beginning you’ll have noticed I said I WAS GOING TO write about my collections (and if you weren’t paying attention, why do I waste my time?) but I can’t write about my collections because I’m still reeling in shock at what I saw on telly last night – Amy Winehouse’s FATHER helping to sell one of her dresses on FOUR ROOMS. Granted, the dress had been donated to charity by Miss Winehouse before her death and granted, the dress was being sold by and for the charity – BUT WHAT THE FUCK WAS HER FATHER DOING THERE in the first place, getting his face on telly AGAIN on the back of his dead daughter’s fame, HELPING TO SELL HER CLOTHES? And I read that he said on his Twitter thingy that he’ll be SELLING MORE OF HER CLOTHES (he didn’t say whether or not it will be for charity). She’s hardly cold, at least give it a year before you schlep her clothes round the vulture’s lairs.

What happened to basic decency? And respect for the newly dead? In little Emily’s time people wore BLACK for a year after the death of a loved one and during the mourning period decent intervals of time were expected and adhered to before certain things took place, such as FLOGGING OFF THEIR CLOTHES. What happened to STANDARDS?

The word ‘memorabilia’ was mentioned in reference to the dress. I’m not even going to go there…

But, surprisingly, one of the FOUR ROOMS collectors had a conscience, the fat bloke with glasses who I didn’t used to like but I do now, he refused to make a bid because he said he didn’t feel comfortable, “IT IS TOO SOON.”

Yes, fat bloke with glasses who I didn’t used to like but I do now. It IS too soon.

At least if my scientific culinary experiment had worked it wouldn’t have been MERCENARY and PROFITEERING because my DINOSAUR EGGS are older than ancient, MILLIONS OF YEARS HAVE GONE BY SINCE THEY HAD LIFE IN THEM.

Oh, and the dress made £25,000.

Fucking disgraceful.

 

 

Collecting NOT Hoarding

 

I’ve been getting oh so bored lately and after a lot of thought I decided I need to start a new collection. I’ve written elsewhere in this blog about hoarding (see Hobbies For Hermits), and this is NOT the same, not at all because what I’m now collecting is American Therapists and Life Coaches. So far I’ve got two, one for each category, which is pretty good going, don’t you think, to say I only started my collection the day before yesterday.

But apart from being bored I have another motive for this new collection. Lately I’m in a positive mood, a self-help mood, so I chose to collect American Therapists and Life Coaches in the hope that they will become my friends and emigrate to Britain and treat me for free for the rest of my life (they would have to if they lived here in Britain). Did you know this, my American Therapist and Life Coach? When you come to live in Britain you’ll need to know these things, you’ll need to know how we do things here.

I’ll explain it all.

We Who Are Mental (I’ve decided we deserve to be capitalised from now on) do not pay you a penny for therapy or for life coaching. David Cameron pays you. He’s a nice man. All you do is come here, tell him a little fib – that you’re a failed banker who wants a career change – and what he’ll do is give you loads and loads and loads of money, and he’ll give you MORE loads and loads and loads of money if you also tell him you really, really hate poor people. If you say you once went to Europe, he’ll give you a big bonus and let you play with his little doll called Nick.

You can live with me, all of you. I admit, the house I live in at the moment is far too small for lots of us (I’m reckoning on having many more than two American Therapists and Life Coaches in my collection) but I’ve thought of that – with the pile of money David is going to give each of you, you can all club together and buy a great mansion set in mmmm, let’s say 2,000 acres of beautiful gardens and woodland, with streams and badgers and otters and hawks and huge ancient oak trees and fairies and elves and hobbits and ten big gamekeepers with big guns to blast the heads off any intruders. You’ll have your own rooms, you’ll have a fantastic time conversing with your intellectual peers, you’ll have the beauty and grandeur of the British countryside, and best of all you’ll have the professional satisfaction of collectively treating a lost cause (me). And the cherry on your cake is – wait for it – FREE HEALTH CARE, you won’t ever have to shell out for a doctor again. Howsabout that!!

If the two I have collected so far, my American Therapist and my American Life Coach, would like to come here now I am able to accomodate you, at a squeeze. I have a sofa bed stored in my cellar (you can scrub the mould off when you get here), and my sister, Lottie, has a camp bed (she won’t charge much). Be prepared to start work immediately though – although I DO want you to come and live with me, my People Phobia and my Hermititis will make it appear that I don’t, but it’s your job to sort that out, it IS the reason you’re coming after all.

If the collection goes well I might consider expanding it to include American Personal Trainers, American Plastic Surgeons, American Hairdressers, American Publishers Of Satire And Farce, and American Actors Who I Fancy. Actually, I’m going to start on the last one now –

Ian Somerhalder, where are you?

 

 

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