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!

A Reight Yorkshire Lass

January - 14th
Saturday Night Baby - Best Night Ever!
6.30pm
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.

http://warvici.wix.com/jennajaghe

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

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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.

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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!

My new website!!!!

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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.
Later
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.


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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!

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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, well....it 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.


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Smashwords Jenna Jaghe

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The Unconventional Life of Jenna Jaghe is now available on Smashwords x

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My Make Believe Green Granny

Later
Ooh that was Peter Handfril on the phone, he is coming over this evening and I am going to cook something lovely for him.

Later
Later
Ooh that was Peter Handfril on the phone, he is coming over this evening and I am going to cook something lovely for him.

Later – In the Supermarket
I grabbed some radishes, cucumbers and other healthy, ripe perishables so I could prepare a scrumptious dish for my Peter Handfril. He would think me wonderful for preparing him a nutritious yet fulfilling, hearty meal after his hard day of dealing with undesirables and keeping our streets safe and crime free, I suppose in a way I was also contributing to the public’s safety by feeding a strong man of the law. I popped them into my trolley and wandered off into the next isle to select a lovely piece of Rump.
I was just about to throw some soft cheese with a delicious herb coating into my trolley when I saw three bottles of feminine wash lobbed on top of some long stemmed broccoli. I looked around to see if somebody was trying to tell me something – maybe one of the sharers from face book but as I looked back into the trolley I discovered a boat load of stuff that I hadn’t put in: tissues, donuts, tena lady and then I realised that this wasn’t my trolley! I had taken somebody else’s trolley......again!
Just as I was about to abandon ship, I heard a familiar husky voice calling my name – Peter Handfril was bounding by the sliced cheese and before I could hide he was on me, the upholder of the law.
He said he was just picking up a desert for tonight, he also had a huge bunch of flowers (which I think were for me and I smiled) but that smile soon turned upside down when I saw him inspecting the contents of the trolley, the trolley that he thought was my trolley that was not my trolley.
I considered asking him if he had a warrant but I could see him painting himself a disturbing narrative based on the contents of this trolley that suggested: down below, things were not going so well for me and I panicked.
So instead I told him that it was my Granny, Mavis’s trolley but that I had lost her over by the beef burgers. Bad idea! Never lie to a policeman. He immediately grabbed hold of my arm and escorted me over to the customer service desk and before I knew it blaring out over the public address system:
‘Mavis, if you can hear this please come to our customer service desk which is located at the bottom of isle six. Can all members of staff and other shoppers please be on the lookout for a missing elderly lady wearing a.....’ Both Peter Handfril and the over-keen customer service lady were now looking at me urging me to share what my counterfeit granny was wearing.

‘Erm, err.....a green, tweed coat and matching green trousers and a green handbag with erm, er matching green shoes and a green hat.’ Who was she a fucking leprechaun? What is wrong with me?
At least if you are going to make up a granny to cover the fact that you’ve hijacked incontinence in a trolley at least make her realistic. And just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse my mother tapped me on the shoulder, with Glenda and asked me what I was doing and then that counterfeit old lady that I rendered unconscious walked by, looked inside my trolley, scoffed and called me a, ‘cheeky bastard’ and snatched her trolley back!
I had to blame the hormones again and unfortunately my mother and Peter Handfril and Glenda have now met.
The crook whose trolley I had taken (with a head wound that still hasn’t healed) didn’t wish to press charges (her handbag was hanging from the hook on the trolley so she very well could have).
She settled for Peter Handfril flashing his badge and assuring her that I would be given a verbal warning and my mother just shook her head and said thank god for Peter Handfril.
Downside: Peter Handfril now knows exactly what happened that day in the town. Apparently she thinks that I am stalking her.
Anyway I have sulked all afternoon and I can only imagine that Peter Handfril will not be turning up for tea later.

Nipple Fetish Supreme

I am very worried about becoming a mum. Maybe I really should consider living with my mother, like she suggested.
8pm – Lactating for the minority!
I will not, ever, ever, ever live with my mother, ever!
The only possible outcomes of living with a woman who refers to me as the fruit of her loins are:

1) Me, sectioned in the psychiatric hospital, under the mental health act, alongside Sarah’s murderess mother, jabbering incoherently, clucking and licking a pissy mattress.
2) Living with a vile, vast, big bellied, adult baby donning a shitty nappy, a dummy dangling from his neck with a nipple suckling phillia and a giant rattle cum bottom dildo.
May I also point out that either scenario is preferable to living with my mother.
After the woman spent a full hour priming me on the horrors of crack babies and single mother’s she went on to lecture me on the importance of securing a husband before I ‘get even fatter.’
She then proceeded to tell me with much excitement that her and her best mate pissing Glenda have set up a dating profile for me on and I quote, ‘one of those internets!’
I demanded she take me to her computer right way.

33 year old average height and average size woman who can cook and clean is seeking a gentleman friend who has no objection to raising an illegitimate baby as his own.
Worker bees only.
Must like days out with the mum-in-law.

What the fucking hell! Thirty fucking three! It comes to something when your own mother doesn’t know how old you are!
I asked her why she didn’t just set up a site for freaks who like to do pregnant women, or blokes who are into erotic lactating.
I lost it. ‘Well I suppose I should really consider it Mother, I mean, I guess I could earn a fortune. I’ll tell you what mother, while I’m breastfeeding them, I’ll let em shit on my lap too because I hear there’s some serious coin to be had there. What the hell were you thinking? You silly, mad, irrational woman and why would you think that I need supporting? And please tell me that you didn’t put any private details on there like my address and phone number. Do you realise what kind of men actually seek out pregnant women? Google it mother on one of those ‘internets’ or read Take a Break now and again...better still watch Jezza. Jesus Christ mother! Would you like me turning up on your doorstep with a gummy pensioner dangling from my stretched nipple with baba up his back?’
Her reply: ‘You shouldn’t speak to your mother like that Jenna. Glenda’s daughter doesn’t.
‘That’s because Glenda’s daughter will probably be the one answering my ad.’ I screamed.
In the words of Albert ‘A thought that often makes me hazy, is it me or the others that are crazy?’ I feel your pain Albert, I feel your pain.

Jenna Jaghe

One single mum, her adulterous ex, his helmet haired lover and her descent into the pits of insanity: Hilarious!

Bearing My Privates In Public

My mother has, once again, rudely invited herself on said outing. I really need to try and make sure that I avoid telling her my plans in the future. I do however have a slight method behind my madness: that is, if she is going to buy things for baby and me, then it is best that I am with her, thus avoiding a repeat of the nursery and doily disaster.
Later on
Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the Jacksons!
My life can never get any worse and then it does.
Once again the woman lectured me all morning on the importance of finding a suitable mate and how it was too late for me now.
‘What a lovely thing to say to your one and only daughter mother I would.......’ I turned around to shame her face to face but she had disappeared.
I looked around, couldn’t see her. A wicked thought flashed through my mind: ‘What if she is dead?’ and I fist punched the air. Horrified, once again, at my horrible hormones I slapped myself on the hand and then I spotted her and stroked my hand better – the fist pump resumed.
The woman was only stood chatting away to Flannigan and Tabatha and they were all laughing! At my expense no doubt. I didn’t know what the hell to do so I just left. I ran out of Harvey Nichols’s practically spitting blood as my mother stroked Tabatha’s ginger skinned gut and I headed for the escalator.
I stepped on to the escalator spitting venom. How could the psycho even begin to think that this was acceptable behaviour? She had gone way over the line this time.
And then, as if this situation could not possibly get any worse, it did; of course it did.
I was drooling down the escalator wishing my mother was dead when the worst thing that could ever happen to anybody happened to me and I wished that I was dead too.
As I was approaching the foot of the moving staircase, I saw with horror that the eager teeth of the escalator were starting to devour my skirt, ‘oh no!’
I pulled and pulled and I pleaded with this mechanical dragon to give me a break but it clung on like I was trying to cling onto my sanity, that very same sanity that Flannigan stole from me way back in January.
It was no use. The more I tried to yank my boho skirt out from the aggressive fangs of these steel teeth the more it gobbled it up.

As it gnarled at the fringe of my hippy hem, I quickly came to the horrifying conclusion that the only item of clothing that now fit me was about to be dragged from my body and there was sod all I could do about it.
My body immediately reverted to its primitive survival mode state (fight or flight and let’s face it I couldn’t exactly take flight....only thing was I couldn’t fight this either, I was losing, skirt down) as my hands tugged frantically at the cheesecloth. I had no choice but to beg for mercy as the skirt was literally sucked from my hips to reveal my bare arse just as the escalator safety system kicked in and came to an emergency stop, as did my skirt which was now resting just above my knees, the only place was down – a fitting analogy for my dreadful life.
Mortified I dropped vertically to my knees and pulled the skirt up as far as I could, at least my pubic area was covered now, I had a builders bum going on but, well.....small mercies and all that.
I desperately yanked on my skirt and begged the lord above to end this horror and to stop the world of Yorkshire and its inhabitants from seeing my rear end again but alas I realised that that this bastard in the clouds had so much more in store for my sorry ass.
In the world of Jenna the only persons to stop and help me were a group of teenage girls. The older people just sniggered at me. Some twat took a picture on their smart phone and all I could do, as I had already assumed the prayer position, was beseech the lord to not let this appear on social media sites globally and wait until somebody came to my aid.
‘Jenna what are you doing down there?’ The involuntary knee jerk reaction of physical bodily attention when my mother speaks kicked in and I literally stood to attention not thinking, ‘and where is your underwear?!!! Honestly Jenna the things you do to get attention.’
My mother spoke as if I had done this to myself on purpose as she rolled her eyes at me towards Tabatha and my bastard ex who were just stood glaring at me and my privates as the whole of Harvey Nic’s and its staff began to form a tight circle around me – it was not a protective, shielding circle, more a circus freak show. For me it was dehumanizing at best and I had no choice other than to just smile at the crowd but at no one in particular like this was how I spent a regular Sunday.
I considered asking someone from the audience to pass me a hat from over by the fascinators so that I could at least collect money for my show but the dissociation prevented me from being fully in the present moment.
Around 10pm
Well I was eventually cut free. Not by the fire brigade but by a woman named Mavis from the curtain department.
I am still fuming with my mother who left me to go grab herself a quick alcoholic beverage because I was going nowhere fast!