Sunday, 26 June 2016

A Reight Yorkshire Lass

January - 14th
Saturday Night Baby - Best Night Ever!
I haven’t been out for absolutely ages. I’ve either been stuck in here trying to be somebody I’m not or worse imprisoned in the Flannigan’s Lilliputian mansion with their vain (more like veins) guests christened pretentious names such as Rupert, Albert, Dagbert, Ansbert and loads of other erts, that quite frankly make a weekend at the third annual cabbage fest seem entertaining – this was not my idea of how I would be spending my flirty thirties.
I’ll have to make tonight count though. Don’t know when I’ll get out again.
I can’t wait to see my friends – mi mates (James Flannigan, my bf, call these common utterances Freudian slips. Says it reveals who I really am. I’m a Yorkshire lass born and bred; strong in’t arm, thick in’t ed, but he gets mad when I say things like this so I don’t say them anymore; I don’t really say much of anything anymore.) James can be a complete arse sometimes but I just blame his mother, makes it easier to tolerate him.
Seriously though when you’re from Yorkshire you seem to spend your adult life trying desperately to shed the accent if you ever want to be taken seriously at least once throughout your entire lifetime and avoid being stereotyped as a porn-tashy farmer (yes women too) who get up to far more with the livestock than just milking and shearing, and that your brother is yer dad and his sister is yer mam.
James Flannigan is different though. His parents paid for elocution lessons. Unfortunately the inbred accent, words, sayings and phrases that the rest of us have spent years trying to turn into ones that will enable us to mix with people outside of Yorkshire (to be fair not that many escape) eventually slip out. Our neural pathways are just too hardwired – probably from the clap cold weather – and there’s just no getting away from it. We always revert back, especially in times of stress.
I will not be worrying about my linguistic capabilities tonight though. For the first weekend in over a year, I will be amongst my own kind. I will show mi mates that they are wrong about me changing and turning into somebody I am not and that I can still be fun even though I do have a serious boyfriend now. I will prove to all and sundry that my spark is, as ever, still very much ignited, on fire even, and ready to throw out some serious flames – especially to that little bitch Harriet Harper.

Monday, 9 May 2016

When That Yorkshire Slips Out!!!!!!!

Me: ‘You know it’s really ard to let yasen gu when yuv got to live ya life to a strict missionary position unless pre-planned and approved a fortneet in advance and run by Mrs F. To deviate would mean sudden withdrawal and that’s ard for any girl to tek. It’s bad enough that foreplay’s a nudge and a wink and I’m like, er ok shall I tweak me own nipples then ya fucker?’
Oh the horror of myself....I threw up again.

Tweed Brigade!

Unfortunately my weekends now involve adhering to a strict itinerary of mapped walks, dressed like the twatting tweed brigade, compass in hand, within the Flannigan’s grounds (as if we’re going to get lost, they own the fucking land!) The only arousal I experience is when I accidentally on purpose step in a cow pat and flick my foot toward one of their intolerable guests – especially funny when it knocked Egbert’s tweed cap clean off his head – bull’s-eye!

Sunday, 10 April 2016

My new website!!!!!jenna-jaghe/cnec

Wednesday, 23 March 2016

Brown Eye!

Wednesday - 20th June
My bum hole is driving me insane. I now fully understand why dogs scoot. I am going to have to get this sorted because I can’t possibly fasten bridal gowns with these fingers.
Little Later
Google says that garlic will shrink the piles. Sent Sarah out to buy a clove to test this theory.
Well that wasn’t embarrassing in the slightest! Mental note: when you shove a clove of garlic up your rear end, remember to put your panties back on. Especially when you are dealing with brides and their maids and your bottom is as unpredictable as mine! I swear this is karma for saying bad things about people. I’m going to the chemist....not Boots!
I nipped to a more intimate pharmacy and asked for some pile cream (I can only assume that the pile cream is located behind the counter, where you have to beg for it for the staff’s amusement) and if I had just kept my mouth shut instead of worrying that the bucked-toothed pharmacist would judge me, I could have been out of there and home dry by the time you could say haemorrhoids. But noooo! Instead I felt the need to justify why I wanted to buy a tube of Anusol!
‘I don’t have piles though, I just need it for under my eyes, my sister uses it all the time and it shrinks her eye bags in no time.’ I don’t even have a sister!
The pharmacist had clearly undergone the same military pharmacological training as the thrush woman from Boots and she informed me that the cream is for the treatment of haemorrhoids and not for the face. No shit Sherlock! I was not giving up and so........
Trying to drop the accent; ‘Yes I know that but I do not have piles, I just want to dab a little around my eye area so that I look like this.’ Then I started to stretch my eyes at the outer corners in an upward motion making myself look Chinese, like her and thought, I may as well follow through with the childhood rhyme, ‘Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, what are these,’ and so I did!

She was not impressed. (That rhyme could quite possibly be racist nowadays, I’m not too sure but I am not racist so it’s ok. It is only if you’re a racist that you aren’t allowed to say stuff like that.)
‘I’m sorry;’ she said ‘once again Anusol is for the treatment of haemorrhoids, you cannot, under any circumstances, put this product into your eyes. You will go blind.’
‘Well surely it’s my choice whether I wanna see or not.’
And then behind me I heard someone cough. Not the chesty, phlegmy kind of cough that you would expect to hear in a pharmacy but the kind that alerts you to an ominous presence and as I turned, I clocked the chuppa chups display and I gipped in front of an audience with Flannigan and Tabatha.
Needless to say I walked away without the Anusol. I think I have finally reached a point in my life where my embarrassment gene has withered and died from overuse because I don’t even feel that troubled by what’s just happened – either that or my brown eye is taking precedent over anything else.

Sunday, 13 March 2016

Brown Finger!

James is a faggot but I am in enough trouble already so I kept that one to myself. He said that he has had to speak with his mother about our future, whatever that means. Am I destined to have my future determined by this pair? After my antics on Saturday night I should really be grateful that he still thinks we have a future. I will try harder. I will tell him later how sorry I am – again – before they up the conditioning another level, I wouldn’t survive it. Like the time Mrs Flannigan had me entertain at one of her formal, ladies luncheons and I was so nervous that my childhood tick returned with a vengeance. It was worse than when my finger accidentally slipped up Sarah’s dog bottom in front of Horrid Harriet.

I Blame the Acid!

Wine o’clock – Best night ever again until it no longer was.
Sod off James – the millstone around my neck – was the general consensus amongst mi mates and it didn’t take much coercing for me to adopt their way of thinking (well deindividuation is a real problem amongst group members) and on that note I cannot really be held responsible for the catastrophe that happened next.
So after telling James to simmer darn when he reprimanded me again for going OTT during happy hour, I started to loosen up; that is I found the girl that had been stifled for the last year. Now we all know what happens when an animal has been locked up for way too long and is then released into the wild, don’t we?!
Anyway I was having the best time. Flannigan’s attempted conditioning of my behaviour was no longer of any concern to me once the cheap house white (working men’s club, it was probably watered down with wazz – either that or somebody had dropped acid in) started taking its delicious effect.
I was dancing around like a fairy on crack; reminiscing, back in my raving days, Old Skool style. You never quite lose the ability to dance like you’re stacking boxes on a shelf. I had been so caught up in my awesome moves that I even forgot to make Horrid Harriet jealous by rubbing myself up on James’s leg all night and rubbing it in her face (the irony not my actual leg...well you get it) that I had bagged the affluent one. Me who grew up in a corporation house with council pop – quid’s in!
James has money you see (well his mother has money, which was once her husband’s money, so James reaps the benefit of said money and the dollar sign impresses Horrid Harriet). I, on the other hand, neither have money nor impress HH.
Don’t get me wrong I earn an honest living. I run my own wedding boutique you know but my wage is chuff all in comparison to The Flannigan’s monies. I can afford my own tiny house and I can afford to employ Sarah full-time (my radical feminist and my other best mate) and I can eat (most weeks) so I am happy – rather I was until James pointed out that there are so many areas that I need to vastly improve in/on/at about life, business and everything. In other words up until meeting The Flannigan’s, I knew nowt and was bugger all.
Never the less I eventually started flaggin. There are only so many boxes you can stack before you feel like you’re about to die. I carefully manoeuvred my aching, bare feet over the dance floor, (apparently my one shoe was behind the bar and the other, still hasn’t turned up) towards my other best friend Carrie’s knees.
I flung my arms around her neck and whispered in her ear; ‘I want to do a mischief.’ I didn’t need to repeat myself. She jumped up from of her chair – leaving the elderly to their conversations about refugees (they are completely clueless to the fact that they are acutely racist but dare to point that out and you’re never too old to get a clout up side a lug’ole. Seriously though it bleeding kills. Sarah’s cousin got clouted that many times that he developed a cauliflower ear) – dropped me on the floor, dragged me up by my hand and whisked me off towards the stage. I was, by this time, what we refer to round here as absolutely chuffing kaylied!
What happened next is completely down to Carrie’s power of suggestion.
I should have stayed on the dance floor (but you know what they say about shoulda, woulda, coulda being the last words of a fool – well you do now) like the other normal party people and enjoyed myself just the right amount of crazy, maybe then I would not have ruined the lives of others, alienated my one and only ever serious boyfriend but worst of all, chuffed Horrid Harriet to bits no end.