Sunday, 6 November 2016

Seven Sweedish Singing Pxxxxxx: Another Disastrous Date

When you go on a date and he spends the first half hour describing, in detail, a documentary that he watched the other night about 7 Swedish Singing Pussies, you know you haven't met your prince just yet. In fact you've not only not met your prince, you realise that, even though you've been kissing frogs your entire adult life, you're still not done with the spawny lips of the deviants just yet. 'Will it ever end?' I mouthed out loud as i massaged my temples in circular motions and stretched my eyes as if somebody had switched out the lights (i think they may have in this guys head). Luckily he was too enthralled in the art, or flair of the foofs, to hear anything that came out of my mouth. Maybe i should have whipped off my under crackers and broke into song, that is if i had cared about trying to impress him - i did not.

I had to at least get something out of this date for myself so i told him that my mother did that for a living, in fact it was probably her that he had seen. The twat believed me and i got the hell out of there before he followed me home and asked my mother for a private show.

Not gonna lie though, it did intrigue me and i did check it out on a dodgy site and i have to say that my world is that little more disturbed for it!

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.