03/24/13

Horror movies that aren’t.

H and I just watched half of The Amytville Horror.

I’d read the book as an easily spooked 12 year old so when we found the remake on Netflix I got all excited.
‘Oh go on, let’s watch it, it’s dead scary this is, it’s brilliant, go on, you’ll kack yourself watching this,’ I said, huddling under the duvet and taking an excited gulp of Booze Bargains, Vin de Cheapo.

We watched as blood dribbled out of light switches, fridge magnets arranged themselves into misspelled messages and the door to the boat house slammed all by itself. Continue reading →

03/8/13

Breakfast with Proust.

I was looking out of the kitchen window, at wet rooftops and a slate sky, the view only slightly brightened by a splash of vomit on the window, the result of a brief but exciting liaison H had with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. (Sorry Mum, really sorry, I’ll clean it up, honest.)

Then from a bag of crusty rolls, a yeasty smell escaped and barged its way up my nose to my brain, flipping open a bright cine-screen from a very long time ago.

I was 19, had just pitched up in Algiers with my feckless fool of a fella. I’d tell you his name but as a compulsive fantasist, he had a whole string of names and I never found out which was the real one. Continue reading →

03/3/13

Our Mix ‘n’ Match Man.

We sat in a pub, my scholarly friend and I. We sloshed our way through a bowl of pea and mint soup each. We agreed it was delicious. Then, with the man at the next table pretending he wasn’t listening, we embarked on a wistful and completely imaginary construction of our ideal lover.

We both have a penchant for the rock star look so we gave our composite lover Roger Daltrey’s face on the grounds that it was handsome yet pretty.

My scholarly friend suggested we give him Roger Daltrey’s hair to match his face but I pointed out he now has short hair (to look the part strolling round his trout farm in his muddy wellies) so we narrowed it down to Slash or Robert Plant.

I read somewhere … OK, I’ll come clean, it was on Groupiedirt.com … that Robert Plant really loves having his hair stroked. Now I would happily cleave my way through a prairie full of snakes to stroke long hair so she relented and agreed that our composite lover should be graced with Robert Plant’s golden tresses.

The man at the next table was stroking his bald patch disconsolately.. Continue reading →

03/1/13

Too late, mate.

After two weeks of decision making, H said he was positive he wanted to abandon his A-levels and leave school.

For days we trawled through all the opportunities available for a bright 18 year old: jobs that would allow him to cuddle dogs all day; cannon fodder for the Army; being part of a dynamic, motivated team for 30p an hour in Tesco; jobs that would utilise his unwavering zombie shooting accuracy (back to the Army idea then) ….

And I asked him several times a day, ‘Are you sure, absolutely certain, this is what you want?’ ‘Absolutely,’ he said vehemently, ‘I’m sure.’

He was so absolutely certain about jacking in school that when we gave his room a clear out, he threw all his school work into the recycling sack.

‘Oh God,’ I said, ‘are you really sure? Throwing away your school work is a huge step.’

‘Yes Mum, I’m sure. Really, really sure. Throw it all away, I don’t need it.’

I put the recycling sack outside last night for collection.

This morning, he strolled in to my room after what was obviously a sleepless night and, raising his voice over the roar and crunching of the recycling lorry outside, said: ‘Mum, if I want to change my mind, where’s all my school work?’

02/26/13

Found in my back yard.

Note to trans Atlantic readers: a yard is what you have at the back of your house when you’re too skint to afford a house with a garden. It has a wall just about the right height to lob things over or for a medium sized burglar to scale if he stands on his mate’s shoulders.

Although at least one gained an incompetent entry over the top of the shed, which is how I came by my least-favourite back yard find: a large swathe of roofing felt. My son, H, and I had felted the shed roof one vile afternoon, climbing gingerly up a scary ladder then boiling our brains in the sun while we crawled round, getting holes in our knees and slapping on black gunk to stick the wretched stuff down. Seeing the results of that vile afternoon shredded on the ground induced a string of fantasies involving roofing tar and an oversized brush.

Amongst the sweetie wrappers, slugs, discarded joints, pizza boxes, condom wrappers, used fireworks and cat shit, there is the occasional inexplicable gem, such as the pile of gravel, swept underneath the gate into a neat pile. Baffled, I was.

Particularly irritating was a collection of empty mayonnaise and ketchup bottles, flung over the wall in a bitch fit by the petulant old queen who lives next door, revenge for a myriad of misdeeds, both real and imagined, perpetrated by my son. At least that’s what the accompanying poison-pen letter said. Continue reading →

07/21/12

Suckers & springs & sex toys

Me: Have you seen those toys called Trashies? They’re quite cute.

New Man: No. Are they kids’ toys or sex toys?

Me: Kids toys. Tsht. Would you seriously go near a sex toy called a Trashy?

Pause.

Me: OK. Maybe you would.

…… later, after a bit of feverish Trashy googling ….

New Man: But what do they do? There’s no suckers or springs or anything.

Me: My dear child of the 70s, of course there are no suckers or springs.
Suckers and springs would increase production costs and thereby reduce profit margins. Suckers and springs would also increase the likelihood of Trashy-takes-eye-out compensation claims.
This is the 21st century. Toys are designed and marketed to induce an obsessive need to acquire the whole collection for the purposes of showing off to friends. You’re not supposed to actually play with them ….

07/20/12

In Berlin with a map, a camera and a new man.

Easyjetting to Berlin on Monday.

I’m taking my new camera. Am also taking my new man.

I will do my best not to break or lose either of them.

I have instructions for the camera, a map for Berlin but no instructions or map for my new man.

However I am still confident about finding my way around all three.

07/6/12

Bad Beetroot Day

Crazy colour hair dye type stuff in the shop….

‘I know. I’ll do a couple of funky streaks in my hair – yeh, that dark cherry red. I’ll look dead cool and trendy then.’

But the small tub of clotted blood type goo only has instructions written in Foreignish. Everything except English. Even languages that don’t exist are represented on the tiny bit of paper.

Ah. OK.

So I stumble through the French instructions, through reading glasses because they appear to have been inscribed by a small insect using a cocktail stick.

But it’s simple enough. Brush it on, leave for 15mins and rinse. Off we go then.

After 15minutes I have a cherry red streak in the hair behind my right ear.

It’s not very vivid though.

The one on the window ledge is much brighter. As is the one on the mirror, the towel and the 3 hair clips. There is also an bright trail of cherriness across my bedroom floor and the sink, the soap and our toothbrushes are pink.

My hands looked as though I’ve murdered a beetroot and then wiped them on my chest.

So now I’m doing a second streak on my fringe, watching the Dead Kennedys on Youtube and remembering doing the same thing with food colouring when I was 15.

If this is a mid-life crisis, I highly recommend it.

06/13/12

Last night Alan Sugar gave me a job.

In my dreams of course.

Sir Alan Sugar gave me a job, not because I won the Apprentice or did a good interview. He just said, ‘You seem brainy and I do like your business suit, £4.99 from New Look was it? Oh go on then, have a job. Here’s a calculator and there’s your office, that big posh one over there with the glass table that’s on the telly.’ Continue reading →

05/28/12

Wild Mouse Terror, Blackpool Pleasure Beach

The Wild Mouse is an entity that sprang from the loins of Satan and its life force is sustained by the sadistic pleasure it gains from terrifying anyone daft enough to climb onto its rickety frame and into one of its little tin mouse cars.

Oh, it looks innocuous enough. Cute, even.

Like a roller coaster for beginners, the tiny, sugar-coloured cars bearing hand-painted mousy names like Jerry or Lulu or Minnie.
‘Ha!’ you say with chest-swelling bravado. ‘Ha. It’ll be a doddle, this.’ And you beckon to your family: ‘Come on folks, all aboard.’ They hop on, smiling, anticipating a few minutes of wholesome fun. And within about ten seconds, your well-adjusted, happy family is reduced to a blur of flailing limbs and anguished howls, barely audible over the hissing and rattling of the sadistic, Satanic creature. Continue reading →

Stephanie Buick

Writer and Blogger

Category Archives: Humour