Sexy corpses

If you were ever going to get hit by a bus, the best time would be within the first 6 months of a relationship. As you lay limp on the pavement you could relax knowing that if the paramedics had to begin cutting away your clothes they would discover a nice set of underwear. I wouldn’t go as far to say a matching set but at least some sort of colour harmony between the two pieces and more importantly a total lack of any discolouration or bits of loose elastic-like worms coming out the seams. They would notice that your armpits were freshly shaven, even the annoying hairs that reside in the armpit crater. Your lower legs AND even your knees would be hairless. As they checked to see what limps were broken they would notice skin that was super soft to the touch, exfoliated to an inch of it’s life with a mitt and Moroccan apricots. If they had to cut off your knickers they would behold ground maintenance that would make the lawn master at Lords weep with jealously. Not a hair out of place.

If you did actually die I would imagine that after guessing the time of death the coroner would speculate how long you had been in a relationship. Speaking in to his Dictaphone, judging by the complete lack of hair on the upper lip, bikini line and absence of any rouge hairs around the nipples, I would put the relationship at 4-5 months. Give or take’.

Don’t get hit by a bus if you have been single for over two years. You would probably rather die of internal injuries then let the surgeons gaze upon your saggy off-white high-rise bikini briefs teamed with your favourite bra, the care instruction label so eroded by time that only a couple of numbers and letters could be made out. Not a good way to go. 

Remember the days of the old scab yard?

Whatever happened to scabs? They were a stable of being a kid. Most scabs where kept perfectly covered with pristine breathable 3M plasters. But mine were not so lucky. You see my Mum, after rummaging through out of date Pandols and jars of tiger balm, could only ever find the tiny circle or long skinny rectangle plasters. So I would end up with this strange abstract art piece across my knee. Or sometimes Dad would get some scissors out and craft me a bespoke one out of a massive roll of plaster tape. He also used the tape to hold wires together or to wrap up our birthday presents.

But no matter what the plaster was I could never resist picking if off. Sitting on the mat at school it gave me great joy to peel it back to inspect how the healing was going. If it looked as though it was remotely healed I would try and pick a bit off. It would go well at first but I would get over vigorous. And it would start to bleed. I would freak out because my teacher hated scab pickers. Almost as much as she hated kids that played with the Velcro on their shoes. So I would try and stick the plaster back down. But as I had already peeled it off so many times that there was little stick left. And if I was really unlucky it might have even folded back on itself so there was no chance of sticking it back down at all. I would be forced to let it just dangle down my leg like a sad, ripped down Happy Birthday banner.

So now 20 years later and my knees are covered in little scars. I also have one on my hand in between my fingers. Remember how annoying it was to have a plaster there? Every time you moved your fingers it would come off . Or you would forget about it when you washed your hands and it would become all slimey. For some reason when this happened I would put the plaster in my pocket like a souvenir or something. Strange child that I was. But times have changed, I get quite excited when I can put a plaster on now. Strange adult that I am.

There's an art to a good fart

We all fart but we don’t like to admit that we fart so farting will always be a covert operation.

One of the techniques we like to employ is the slight leaning to the side to set the little guy free. But you have to make sure the angle is as subtle as possible so people don’t know what you’re doing. If you end up basically lying on your side while you pass wind you’ve gone to far and it will be obvious to everyone around you that you have just farted.

On the tube I think most of us sitting down feel like we can get away with farting. They make the chairs out of fabric that has excellent fart absorbency. I hate to think how many farts one poor chair has to deal with daily. If you looked at the fabric of each chair under a microscope I imagine it would look very much like a poo particle Jamboree.

Tube seats are good as they are cushioned but you should never try and fart on a plastic chair. Try as it might the chair is far too smooth in texture to be able to get a grip of your gas. Worse still is as your fart ricochets around the pastic chair its every move will be amplified by the superb acoustic properties of plastic. Like farting into a microphone then playing it back through a subwoofer.

Try as we might we’ve all been caught out before. Dropping a loud one tends to be the most embarrassing as it’s easy for everyone to pinpoint its exact location of take off, sometimes a slow moving quiet wafty fart can be passed off as belonging to some one else, preferably a small child or old person.

Hot = Horny

This whole thing about English being prudish is complete bull. They’re just too fucking cold to think about fucking. I was at the park the other day when it was a balmy 18 degrees and the park was littered with couples basically having sex with their clothes on. Gyrating, dry humping, the works.

You only need to look at the randy Brazilians, Spanish and Italians to see there is definitely a connection between the heat and the horny.

And it’s easy to see why. It’s hard to have sexy time when your partner is so pale they camouflage into your white Egyptian cotton sheets. Or they’re so void of any colour you wake up in the middle of the night and freak out that you’re sleeping next to the Casper’s sister.

I know that global warming will probably destroy the world and all that but on a positive note (every acid rain cloud has a silver lining) it might help defrost the frigid English.

I could see a Mardi Gras style parade rolling past Buckingham Palace with the Queen getting low, low, low while Prince Edward puts his back in to it.

I sat next to the bogeyman

If you enjoy studying weird people there is no better place than the tube. It’s like anthropology on acid. After living in London for a while you find it easier to find who will be the best subjects. So I knew I had hit the jackpot when I spotted a guy in his mid twenties riding the tube at 3pm on a Saturday clutching a can of lager. He was either a) still drunk from the night before or b) had been drinking since breakfast. Either way I knew I was in for a treat and something to make my 40 min journey more interesting. So I sat right next to him to so I could observe him out the corner of my eye and in the reflections of the opposite window.

I am not sure what I was expecting him to do but I wish my eyes had not witnessed what he did. He picked his nose and then ate it. Not in a discreet way, he didn’t try and look like he was scratching his nose then pretend he was biting his fingernails. No, he very blatantly drilled deep into his nostril with his finger then almost proudly produced a green nugget for the whole carriage to see. He then held it really close to his face as though he was marveling at its beauty or conducting some sort of rigorous bogey quality control. Once he deemed it was up to scratch he put his finger in his mouth and nibbled away.

I have to clarify that this man looked sound of mind. It was only the can of lager that brought him to my attention, apart from this there was no other indication that lead me to believe he would eat his own bogies.

Now I am not looking down my nose at this guy from a throne of someone that has never eaten one of her own green nuggets. Like most people at the age of 8 curiosity got the better of me and i began to wonder if i might have been gifted with Willy Wonka style nostrils that produce bogies that taste of sherburt. But one taste was enough to make me think ummm yeah that tasted like a shriveled up caper that’s been rubbed in sand I won’t be trying that again.

My diagnosis of this man was he was suffering from invisible delusionment. This can also be seen in people that think no one can see them while sitting in their cars so again they pick their nose. If their case is serve people can even wank while waiting at the lights, I have yet to see this on the tube…yet.

Aint nothing good about it. Period.

Boys cover your eyes. I’m talking about periods.

When you first start getting your period is a bit of a novelty and really you’re quiet happy that its arrived because you were starting to worry that it might be a no show.

You feel quite excited to have been allowed into the world of womanhood. You carry around of couple pristine panty liners or ‘pads’ hidden in a secret zip pocket in their school bag as there is a constant fear of the floral packaging being exposed. After you feel a more confident you move on to tampons. You change them with stopwatch precision, every four hours, for fear that they might self-combust.

As you get older you get a lot more nonchalant about the whole thing. It’s pretty standard that at any point in time you will have at least two wild tampons flying around your handbag. You’re so over the embarrassment of it all that you will tell anyone within earshot about how annoying and painful it is, even your boyfriend if he is lucky enough.

You feel comfortable around most of your guy friends but you know that the men you work with can not handle knowing this lady information. So you have to perform a covert operation to get the tampon out of your handbang without them noticing. First you pretend you’re looking for something in the bottom of your bag using the rummaging as a diversion. Once they have been fooled you can grab one of the tampons running free across the vast fabric landscape. You then try and hold the tampon in your hand so it appears that you are actually not carrying a tampon in your hand. This takes years of practice.

Thou shall not covet my neighbour's tiny bottom

Everyone has at least one person that they’re envious of. They have the job you want, the cellulite resistant bum, the hair that doesn’t go frizzy or a lack of bodily hair that needs constant waxing. You know, important stuff like that.

Envy is a terrible emotion because it really serves no purpose apart from reducing your self-esteem down to the size of Prince in a pair ballet flats. But the thing that makes me laugh is that there are probably lots of people that are envious of YOU! Don’t scoff, it’s true.

The person whose bum looks like it was sculpted out of titanium might be envious that you have so much junk in your trunk you could have an impromptu garage sale.

Not that you’d ever know this because we never admit what we’re envious of. That is until we’re in the club getting tipsy. Then you can’t shut us up about it. We end up swaying in front of mirror watched by a bemused toilet attendant holding out a towel and a chuppa chup. We go through each others body like a checklist, I love your skin you never get pimples, look at the size of my pores they’re like fucking overnight bags. But look at your tits, they’re amazing, mine look they belong to Old Mother Hubbard. And on and on we go.

Although you might not always remember what was said it’s pretty fascinating to see what people really think of your body compared to their own and generally I think most of us our a lot hotter than we think.

If we lived in a world where everyone was an alcoholic or the Thames water supply was treated with ecstasy we would compliment each other all the time and as a result our self-esteem would probably be higher. I better start writing to Boris with that suggestion…