The Exception That Proves The Rule

You know, I should have called my last post “Sistas are doing it for themselves”, given my cry for porn use equality. In any case, the tenuous link here is with this article I saw in The Independent, which suggests having a sister is good for you.

Being brought up with a sister makes people more balanced, ambitious and optimistic, research suggests.

My brother is only 6 and I think, aside from Grandpa, he is the one family member who is a positive influence on me. If anything, he makes me more balanced and optimistic, not the other way round. I am pretty sure, if I had been included in this research I would have been one of those statistical anomolies, thrown out for skewing the stats.

X- Lon -X

 

Stop Dissin My Porn

Nothing bring out our hypocritical puritanical streak like a good sex scandal. We especially like ones that involve politicians so we can get particularly indignant about it all. Imagine our communal joy when it was uncovered that Home Secretary Jacqui Smith’s husband had not only watched some late night adult movies, but had the cheek to get them charged to the taxpayer on his wife’s expenses. Oh sweet schadenfreude! Not only are our political class corrupt and inept, but they are also dirty, disgusting perverts!

Last weekend I was lounging in my bedroom with the one and only GingaDale ambivalently watching some porn he had brought over, when somehow we got onto the topic of pornography – don’t ask me how it happened – and he was telling me about a radio phone in he had heard earlier in the week that was about whether it is moral to use porn when you are in a relationship. Naturally, being a radio phone in, it had to cleverly get complete loons in from both ends of the spectrum, from the “I would show my kids porn” to the “genital love is supposed to be special, pornography degrades this”.

It is episodes like this that prove what a complete hangover we have from the body hating Judeo-Christian tradition, with its screamishness and moralising about sex and sexuality. The people who complain the loudest are normally the ones buggering schoolboys on the wasteground behind Morrisons, being whipped by a dominatrix on a weekend or watching “Chicks With Dicks 5″ whilst their spouse is out.

I also wish these angry voices of the common man would not assume that pornography was the preserve of dirty old men. Yes, of course it is mainly a ‘guy thing’, bless their visual tendencies, but increasingly, as the stigma attached to dirty movies has receded and the internet has made material available on demand, it is being used in relationships and also by women. I sometimes like to indulge in watching porn myself; you know once in a while and I am either feeling too lazy or jaded with the real thing to go out and locate some charitable manwhore, I will watch some porn and get off, well, assuming I can stop myself laughing at the porn cliches of course.

Should I feel bad about this? Of course not. Would it be a problem in a relationship? Potentially it could, if you feel it has to be your dirty secret that you cannot share with your partner, and certainly if you were a porn addict, then yeah, like any addiction, you are going to have problems whether you are in a relationship or not.

“You up for some special ‘genital love’ then?” Ginga asked me.

“Going to have to pass on that”

“Well, you do realise you shouldn’t masturbate to porn anymore right?”

“I have one message to people who tell me I can’t masturbate and you know what that is. They need to….”

“Go fuck themselves!” we immaturely shouted in unison.

I was thinking of a Wankers Of The World Unite campaign, but then I saw they already had united…

X- Lon -X

 

Obama’s In Shocking Breach of Protocol

On his recent visit to the UK for an international spending competition, right wing Obama obsessives were left smarting by yet another breach in protocol, sure to leave the ’special relationship’ irreparably damaged. After all the furore over Giftgate and the unforgivable sight of seeing our Queen molested by a black woman[!], it can now be exclusively revealed that Obama did not even make a detour north to sleep with me! And we thought Biden was prone to gaffes. Gordon Brown’s press poodle played down the incident:

“It is regrettable that the President could not leave the G20 summit to satisfy the carnal cravings of a woman that so clearly desires him, but it must be remembered we were in the process of saving the world, and against that backdrop I am sure people can understand that he felt it important to stay here in London…I mean, not that London, but the city of London.”

Behind the scenes though, British officials were said to be furious, one of them stating brusquely:

“One of the things we take the most pride in here in the UK is that we have the finest drunken wenches anywhere in the world, and, let me tell you, they are not fussy about putting out no matter who the visiting dignatory is. I feel President Obama is basically saying, “I prefer those hairy, sophisticated women off the continent, or more like those dirty Arabs.”

Lon was unavailable for comment, but did release a terse press statement through her agent:

“Fuck you Obama. Hugo Chavez never treat me like this!”

X- Lon -X

 

Shameless Stealing

Another day, another expenses scandal, another government minister blatantly shafting the taxpayers up the arse. This time it is Tony McNulty; the kind of minister so sicophantic that he can be be wheeled out regularly onto those hostile media sets to swera black is white and up is down for the government. That might describe most ministers who have climbed the greasy pole to a ministerial position, but I think McNulty actually enjoys being an egregious prick. He is, picking up a quote from the Coen Bros film Miller’s Crossing, “Mr Inside-Outsky just like some God-damned Bolshevik picking up his orders from Yegg Central”. McNulty is typical of New Labour ministers; arrogant, two-faced, unapologetic and shameless.

What really pisses me off about this entire expenses thing, after all there are bigger problems to talk about right, and McNulty’s indiscretion is a mere £60k, which compared to the bankers and hedge funds is small beer right? Perhaps so, but here is what really sticks in my craw about this latest one:

1. The McNumptyisation of politics: Public cyncism is corrosive. Most MPs do try to do a good job and are not shovelling taxpayer’s money into their bank account.
2. McNulty basically claimed for an allowance for a second property that was around 10 miles from Parliament and let his parents live in it, even though the house he was living in with his wife was only 3 miles from Parliament. What does he say in his defence? “I have not broken any rules”. Absolutely shameless. It’s like someone getting away with a crime on a legal technicality, whilst smirking that they got away with it. Where is any kind of independent common sense check on these claims? Do we not even ask for a postcode, or some reason why he would need to claim for a second house when on paper is appears unnecessary?
3. He said he had stopped claiming the allowance now after having £60k out of the taxpayers and then had the cheek to turn round and say that he could understand how people may see his allowance claim as ‘odd’, and that MP expense claims of that nature should be looked at. This kind of blaise attitude to being caught effectively stealing, and making it sound like WE should be grateful he has stopped his thieving ways, it is just completely disgraceful. And odd? What the hell is he talking about, it does not look odd, it looks fucking criminal? It looks like you are displaying all the ungrateful entitlement of a spoilt medieval monarch, you tosser.

In days of yore this wanker would have been metaphorically strung up my his bollocks by his Cabinet peers, admonished in private by the party leader ashamed to be associated with such a money grabbing chancer and would have the next day been tendering their resignation with full apologies to the country and an offer to pay the money back. What do we get? “It’s alright, I am not claiming it anymore anyway. I can appreciate it might look ‘odd’, but obviously my blatant abuse of the system merely flags up the need to review and revise the rules that have allowed me to be such a greedy bastard.”

Not good enough. Not by a long shot.

 

Hooverville

You know that film Disturbia? You know with Shia Desperation [cute, but clueless]? The one that was a remake of a film made by a fat silhouette? Well, for the uninformed and those too lazy to read the links, it is about this dude who gets to thinking that his neighbour is some psycho serial killer on account of some strange shit going down at his house. It later transpires that he isn’t, but then, in time honoured tradition he is; unless you were planning on seeing the film and don’t want the surprise ruining, in which case, I don’t know whether he is or not.

Phew! Glad we cleared that up. I live in a semi-detached house; the neighbours in the house we are attached to are complete loons. Not serial killers, just complete OCD freaks. I think they must have met at some support group, because they are always cleaning the windows and hoovering – always with the fucking hoovering. She is a bit madder than him. She has a lazy eye and wears a clear plastic headscarf all the time no matter what the weather.

I remember a couple of years back, when her husband was still working, I got to the bus stop and she was waiting there for a bus, her plastic headscarf like a resplendent crest in the bright spring sun. Of course, I ignored her, my iPOD cranked up, my look, casually aggressive to anyone over forty raised on a daily tabloid diet of ‘teenager terrors’. The bus was late and she kept pacing up to the timetable and shaking her head; eventually she stopped in front of me and mouthed something; I was forced to remove my headphones and ask what she had said, as she was stood in front of me looking impatient.

“Do you kow if the bus is coming?” she asked.

I turned and looked down the street, “Err. No. I am sure it will be here soon.”

“You that strange girl from next door aren’t you?”

Mad people have so little tact. “Yes. That’s me….strange girl.”

“You have our bin.” she said forcefully.

“I’m sorry?”

“You Dad mixed them up last week, you have our bin. What are you going to do about it?”

“Errr…ok. I’ll change them round I guess.”

“You do that!”

There was then a long pause, where she went back to looking up the street, before turning back to me and asking, “You know Tony L at number 45?”

I nodded slowly.

“He a tosser,” she continued matter of factly, and then noted the bus was coming, “Oh thank God. It’s here. See? See!”

“Yeah I see it.”

As the bus pulled up and the doors flapped open, she turned to me before getting on, and taking into account I was at my most punky on that particular day, she said to me, “You should consider less make up. You are a pretty girl.”

She got on the bus and since then I have not spoken to her. Mostly I just get annoyed at the prolonged hoovering on a Saturday and Sunday morning, which on more than one occasions as caused me to shout from my crib, “Stop fucking hoovering already!” My Mum always collars me about it, “Lon, please don’t shout at the neighbours ok?” Adding on of her favorite phrases, “It’s not very lady like y’know.” Lady like? What the hell is that? Absent from my vocabulary is what it is.

It’s the same with my Grandad, although he always employs such archaic phrases with a wicked twinkle in his eye, like he knows my Faustian trysts are the complete antithesis of the Austenite social niceities. Marry Mr Darcy? I don’t think so. Jump Mr Darcy’s bones? I am there, with a bottle of tequila, a pack of cigs and some condoms! My Grandad, the only grown up that I come close to divulging some glimpses of my tangled personal relationships, will say things like, “So you plan to woo this gentleman then?” or “Are you and him courting yet?” It is strange how when dressed up in the language of a 19th century novel, even the most sordid acts can be recast in a heroic and noble light. My Grandad makes me feel like I am on some grand quest, conquering foe after foe in the search for the perfect intimate moment. Finally into the lair of the the on who claims to be incorruptible; it shall take all your womanly charms to arouse his carnal desires fair maiden.

My Mum and I have just started talking again. When we have had a bad argument for a while we don’t talk and then we leave each other notes. The last one to me read

“Sandwiches in the fridge. REMEMBER we have a social engagement at the weekend and you still need to buy a nice dress. You CANNOT go in jeans or one of your skirts. Pick up Michael from Grans please. Mum xxx”

We are going to a wedding at the weekend. One of my Dad’s idiot brothers is marrying some chav from Doncaster. It’s his second marriage and fourth kid already. Sometimes when I look around my family and my estate, I get this kind of uncontrollable throwback support for some good old fashioned eugenics. By letting fuckwits breed we are adding to our carbon footprint and national debt, whilst simultaneously lowering the average intelligence. My Mum has to recast me for these weddings as Little Ms Jane Bennett; some family feud that started over who got some carriage clock as part of an inheritance, or some such shit, means I cannot give any hint of delinquency or rebellion. My Mum will tug me into these little pockets of well to do female relatives and introduce me, “Oh Lon you remember Aunty such and such and your second cousin…”. Oh, but here is the fly well and truly in the ointment this time; I am legally entitled to drink now.

Before we started communicating via post-sticks, my Mum dropped on me, out of the blue, that our neighbour, the husband that is, was suffering from Alzeheimers. She has been talking to the couples daughter seemingly, who had been on the verge of tears as she related this news to my Mum. I suddenly felt that deep cold pity for Mrs Hooverville; you know the kind of pity you get where you feel guilty afterwards because you judge it to be an inauthentic emotional spasm? It’s a projected pity. It made me feel sick because its the same feeling I get whenever I see an ex-friend of mine who was crippled in an accident. I was not responsible, but something makes me feel like I should be.

Now every small event is magnified. I see Mrs H struggling through her front door, burdened down with shopping from Lidl and I immediatly feel guilty, sad and pull of pity. I have been thinking of N quite a bit since my Mum told me this news and what happened to him. It is strange how completely unconnected things can stir up emotions. I have started wearing less make up, I check the bins to make sure my Dad has not mixed them up and I smile and nod at her when I see her. What else can I do?

 

Arts & Crafts by Red Light Company

I really have tried to expunge this song from my brain stem, but it is so fucking infectious: damn you Hugo!

X- Lon -X

 

Getting Hit On – Part Deux

Part of an ongoing series that reveals the many unusual search engine combinations that brings visitors to my blog doorstep. Here is the latest  collection.

A big bird on drugs?! I am not *that* big

I am thinking that these two people would have been just a little disappointed, especially the latter one. The ‘big bird drugs’ brough them here because of my Sesame Street related jibes in this post. If they were looking for new tranqulisers for their ostrich farm, or a chubby crack whore, then sadly they would have been misdirected.

The latter selection of search terms is even more intriguing; it brought them to my door because of my referring to Obama as “the sexiest, pimp-daddyiest politician of all time” in this now legendary post. But what were they searching for exactly? Does one detect the closeted homosexual homophobe of some rural American backwater here? Simultaneously hating Obama, but actually wanting him as their ‘gay fag pimp’? “Oh Barry Hussein…oh yeah, do me like a stuck pig..oh yeah” “Ma, Cletus is doing the Obama thing again in his room!”

I did a few weeks back have someone brought to the page via the search string “underclass family”; since when did search engines get so insightful?!

X- Lon -X

 

Voyeurism 2.0

Google Street View has been launched here this week. I thought I would take a look and see if I could spy any of my neighbours through their net curtains, dressed up as Nazis and spanking each other with paddles, but alas they do not seemed to have mapped the streets of this parochial ’small city’ yet, so I went and had a look around the streets of London. It is actually quite addictive. I did also notice this article on The Times website detailing some of the oddites you can see on the US version.Imagine my surprise then when, whilst browing the streets of Holborn in London and taking a look at the British Museum, I saw none other than Paddington Bear stood outside the place waving at the camera!

 

Saving The Nation: My Family & I

It makes me laugh when politicians like David Cameron, who incidentally looks like an advance copy of his own Tussauds wax work, talk about the importance of the family in fixing ‘broken Britain’. I am absolutely certain in the charts of evil pollsters my family unit appears statistically close to the median across a range of crucial indicators; on paper we are lumped in with the rest of the saviours of Britain following the next election, but really David Cameron should come and visit my family, for if we are supposed to be the cohesive, tax-incentivised remedy to societies ills, then I just don’t see it.

The thing is although I find my family stifling, embarrassing and sometimes downright vindictive, I do love them, wart, quirks, mental disorders, arguments and all. Shhh. Just don’t tell anyone OK?

Oh Hush Now Lon

Mostly bemused detachment works as the best defence against my families antics, which also has the fringe benefit of annoying the hell out of my mother. I do love her contradictions though, as the same traits of the contrarian hypocrite sometimes surface in me; perhaps that’s the reason we find ourselves arguing one day about something, and then a week later arguing with each other again, but from the polar opposite of the position we were arguing from previously.

She has been on at me since Christmas about my lack of commitment to my college course; she suspects I have not been attending all my lectures, and should would be right, yet last week she tells me that she needs me to stay in because she had arranged to have new tiles for the bathroom delivered and she could no longer be around to receive them; now this was a college day and her answer when I pointed this out? “You never go to your lectures anyway. Look Lon, I never ask you to do anything around here, just do it….. please.”

I can always tell when my parents have been arguing. It will always be about money – she spends it like it is going out of fashion, he invests in toxic assets at the turf accountants – as they simply don’t care that much about anything else enough to argue. Yesterday when I got back from college, or rather from bunking off college, all the hallmarks of a blowout were there.

1. My Dad always in the kitchen, always seemingly having lost the faculty to see things that are right in front of him. Cupboard open, cupboard slam,  cupboard open, cupboard slam. “Where are the fucking teabags? Why can I never find anything in this fucking place?” My Dad held out for along time, far beyond my Mum, in the not uttering expletives in front of me, but I think the futility and irony of this position eventually dawned on him; maybe her heard Lola and I talking about some of the complete bitches we know. He always has his music on in the kitchen too; loud lounge music, not sure why, after all is one not supposed to lounge to lounge music, not worry about ones ears starting to bleed? One day I have visions to walking in on a blood soaked kitchen with a hammon organ version of Moon River playing and tiny fragments of a shredded Racing Post floating in the air (Oh Lon – Melodrama much?)
2. Ahhh perhaps the answer is here. Mum is always in bed with the ‘mystical migraine’. Recovery always coincides with the start of the evening TV programmes she likes, by which times she feels ‘a bit better’, but still rubs her forehead with her eyes closed, and with furrowed brow normally continues for good measure, ‘Lon, do me a favour and fetch me some more codeine tablets”.
3. Michael, my brother, is alone in the lounge watching TV on his own, like some angelic force for calm and order amongst the chaos. Yesterday I go in and he is watching the History channel, specifically a World War II series called Britain At War or something. I love history and he has picked up my habit of channel surfing to the history channels, combined with his own love of the ‘animal channels’. After making my Dad a cuppa – the teabags had been left out on the worktop, peeking out cautiously from behind a box of Frosties – I went to check on Michael, rummaging through some of the unwatched DVDs as I sat down next to him, I asked, “Want to watch Horton Hears A Who?” He replied, “No thanks, this is good. It has tanks in it.” It was hard to argue: it did have tanks in it. Michael is six. I wanted to watch Horton.

I sometimes talk about ’surviving my family’, but actually I find my neurotic and dysfunctional family quite endearing. Saviours of the nation we ain’t, but like those particle thingies my exasperated science teacher was always trying to get me to understand, we may at times orbit one another at a greater distance, but we will never break free from that orbit entirely and we will always snap back into a vaguely family shaped atom…or …errr…well you get the picture anyway. In future dispatches then, which will inevitably find me bitching about my family, if it ever gets too much for you, just link me back to this post.

Here in honour of my Dad’s mood music is one of his favorites.

X- Lon -X

 

The Stimulus To Obama’s Package

During one of my more lucid moments this weekend I realised I wanted to have sex with Barack Obama. Actually, let me rephrase that, I don’t just want to have the usual tawdry, quick my wife is out I can spare five minutes, back seat of the Lexus kind of sex, I want to make love with Obama; you know, that merging of the souls kind of thing reserved for those where intercourse  is more than just bumping uglies for a quick thrill, but some kind of apex of human intimacy. Not had that before and I want Obama to be my first.

Say Lon, can we fit this in before I have to go off and save the American economy and reestablish our reputation around the world?

YES WE CAN!

You are going to have to stop that you know?

YES I WILL!

Well OK then, take your clothes off and prepare to receive the PoPOTUS

I am not sure where Michelle has been relegated to whilst we role across his Stars & Stripes duvet. I think I may have to vanquish her via some gladatorial arm wrestling competition at a later stage.

Of course the rest of the United States aside from a few cave dwellers and Sarah Palin have been making love to Obama for the past couple of years; some even go back longer than that in their masturbatory appreciation of the His Imperial Gorgeousness, harking back to some speech he made somewhere at some point that was inspiring. I can only imagine that everything he does his graced with angel dust, so the sex, I am imagining is going to be mind blowing. It would leave you basking in some a majestic golden hue, all those unfortunate sexual malfunctions banished for the 15 minute window between his meeting with Hilary Clinton and a speech on climate change. He is already in his suit by the time you have raised your head for your first post-coital cigarette. Uplifting dirty talk that sounds like Shakesperean prose – “he made me feel like the most important tramp in the world”. He is just the fittest, most fuckable politician here has ever been, and to it all the ore exotic and taboo, he is half-white.

It is kind of a shame he wants to pimp me out to all his banker and auto-industry friends, I mean, he is a God, but there is a limit to who even a girl of loose morals like myself will sleep with. I may have to draw the line at city bankers, besides, these days they grind away above you their eyes vacant and glancing out to the balcony: Bless, their heart is just not in it.

Now I know what you are thinking; aside from this post is unfunny and crass I mean; you are thinking, “Lon dear, you might just be setting your expectations a little high here. Perhaps you should settle for a Nicholas Sarkozy or some leader from one of those Arab countries.” American readers may also add a “Keep your hands off bitch, I saw him first,” just for good measure. Well, I do have a back up plan. If I can’t have Obama, I want his children. No, not in that sense sickos! It’s just if Obama is the sexiest, pimp-daddyiest politician of all time, his kids are the most adorable creatures ever. You know when you see a kitten or a puppy and you go, “Awwwwww… I so want one of those”, well, even this hard-bitten cynic in training feels that way about the Obamalings. They are that cute.

Malia and Sasha Obama

This is the kind of cuteness that can solve problems. I don’t know about dispatching Hilary Clinton to the Middle East to resolve the Israel Palestinian conflict they should just have a TV broadcast from the Obamalings imploring parties to get round the table and ‘just talk’: completely irresistible. I don’t want kids, but I do want my own Malia and Sasha. I feel like a broody Madonna or Angelina Jolie, in need of a visit to a (soon to be) third world country to adopt some beaming non-white child. Except these just happen to be the daughters of the incumbent president.

So yeah, as kidnap is out, indeed there is probably some FBI computer webcrawler signalling a red light having found the names of his children and the word kidnap in a blog post. Don’t panic and don’t dispatch the Bourne like assassin to dispatch me, I do not plan to kidnap Obama’s kids, I am going for the more realistic prospect of cloning. Anyone know where I can get Obamaling DNA at all?

X- Lon -X