bon-er.

this my make me out to be a bit of a psycho, but Glasto this year now seems a little bit more more appealing...

http://www.myspace.com/bonomustdie

stagnant blogface.

**this post is being powered by a selection of bands which all sing in WELSH and ENGLISH. Good God, i am excited by their vocal variation...the words, the words, THE MIX OF WORDS!!**

ANYWAYS: The point of the post...Come 5pm today - whether i flunk it, fail it, sex it, rule it, jump it, or embrace it - i will no longer be a big exam freak.
so yey.
Crafts and words and walks ahoy.And my little blog will no longer be neglected or rejected!...joy!
BYE.

Baby Boom.

I smile to remember this;
the day numerical reasoning
was cast to the wind,
as we spent old money to see babies in jars.

And the human infatuation with blow-up-dolls
was discussed
at
length.

I giggled into your warm arm.

It was freezing and wet. But I could never have cared.
We took cover,
and I helped you buy a car.

Blue.
Like you, later that night.

Your chilli-sensations, my animal book,
a gift for a blind man, and taking the bus.

Buffalo will always be reading Dubliners in your room;
bare foot on your soft quilt and captivated by your Baby Boom.

bigot, much?

if you hit my knees, i'll bite your head...if you call me rubbish, i'll steal your shoes. etcetcetctec...tic for tac and scratch for scratch they are all pretty shameful at times...
but all that aside, calling the woman a bigot?? what an odd choice of word for her actions. is it really an apt lexical choice?! hm, erm DIM.
you do make me ponder, Brown.

dimdimdimdimdimdimdim,

vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house.vicky needs a house. vicky also needs a new football, rabbit food, and to stop thinking.

muddy tunnel.

Between two headrests, standing tall

Lies a tunnel.

Mercedes is smiling. Disney-pearly-white,

a bendy, busty, blonde.

Apparently.

Windows do not keep secrets –

you smile straight back.

“Tickets Please!! A slight flinch, maybe?

But the laptop still beams out a teasing glint.

My eyes fall upon your index finger,

as it circles around your cherry chin.

Lick your lips and crane in closer,

then tear away your eyes

for,

just,

maybe…

Three seconds

…of private possibilities.

But falsetto chirps and plastic trembles,

prick and screech.

Through corduroy trousers

Reality Intervenes.

“Baby, yeah, I will be back for seven,

and yeah, I’ll grab some bread.”

loser d'wi.

acrobatically dangling,
with a coat that is spangling
my ham makes me happy
(and so does Fluff)
i am pet-sappy
but now i will shush.

nos da xxx

latex gloves please.

Faye was in kitchen humming along to Radio Two when he came in, slamming the door with a little more force than what was necessary. Her short plump arms were wading through the sea of white and blue Tesco bags that covered the work top.

“Bleedin’ stupid they are. I mean, how hard is it? How hard can it actually be?”

The plastic rustled as her hands dipped in and out, putting away the various tins, vegetables, multi-coloured and multi-sized boxes with an air of swift grace. Her pace in her own kitchen however had come very much at the expense of all the other shoppers who had been waiting to pay behind her - she always organised her shopping with acute precision as she packed it up. Long-dates, short-dates, the savouries, the sweets. And, of course, she had to double check the receipt too. And her ClubCard points. Not much is free in this life, you’ve got to milk what you can.

“Would you like a cuppa, love? I bought some more teabags when I popped out before - we were running really low, you know” she said lightly, but Howard chose to ignore her as he continued to vent his frustration.

“…They must be colour-blind or something. But even if that was the case, surely they are capable of reading instructions. I’m sure it says what to do on the actual flippin’ box!”

“I thought we’d try those decaffeinated ones this week” she continued, “Dr Hodgson was telling Julie about them when she went to see him last week – apparently they are meant to be miles better for you… they’re even supposed to be good for getting your blood pressure down and helping you sleep properly – “

“It’s not exactly rocket science thought, is it?” Howard muttered in a low tone, seemingly oblivious to his wife.

“You can still have normal if you want though, sweetie. We’ve got a couple left at the back of the cupboard I’m sure”, Faye tried. If thirty years had taught her anything it was that responding to his grumbles, even with sympathy, would only fuel them further.“These were on offer you see, all those for £1.50” she continued, gesturing to the pale green box as she turned to face her husband. “And I picked some of those nice biscuits up too, the ones with the jam centres…”

Howard moved towards the pine dining table, thumbing through a pile of loose paper. “And to think, they come down here doing all them fancy degree things.…Studies of ology this and computer that…Waste of bloody time if you ask me. Don’t have any common sense though do they…Is any of this completely blank?” he snapped.

“That’s just scrap for Anna and Nina to doodle on when they come over. The writing paper is in the dresser”

“No, no. I don’t want the lined stuff, just plain white”

“Oh, that’s in there too I think. Why love?” she asked with a curious intonation.

As he put on his glasses clutching a thick black marker he met her eye for the first time since he had come in. “I’m writing them a note. And it will explain that paper goes in the blue, glass, tins and their infinite number of cans in the green, plastic in the red, and only domestic in the black.”

“I…see” replied his wife, sounding slightly cautious, “but make sure it’s polite Howie, after all, they’re only youn-

“And if they don’t start doing it they’ll have me to answer to.” His voice rose up as he cut his wife short.

“Now Howard listen, please be polite. I don’t want any trouble…not like, well, you know…

“Please Faye, don’t start. Those kids had no right trouncing onto my land, screaming like they were feral or God knows what –

“Oh for crying out loud, they were getting their ball back! She snapped. Her calm temperament was momentarily lost. “If anyone had spoken to the our girls like that when they were that young then I’m quite sure you wouldn’t have liked it”

“Our girls had more manners than to go sprinting through someone’s flowerbed…”

“But even so, that feud with Kevin when we lived on Orme Street was awful. Please, please, please don’t go starting another one here, especially over a bit of recycling.”

“ ‘A bit of recycling?’ A bit of recycling? You’re as bad as they are sometimes!”

“Stop being ridiculous, Howard. Do you want a tea, or not?”

“I’m not being ridiculous. Look at all them bags you brought back today, again.” He stated as he averted his gaze towards the pile of unpacked and smoothed out carrier bags.” What about using some of the old ones for a change, ey? I’m sick and tired of seeing them - there must be thousands under the sink! Like I said, they will have me to answer to.”

Irritation fizzed up through her arms and her face became flushed. “In fact, forgot it. I’m going out to walk Bobby.” He was tiresome to argue with, his stubbornness was so draining. She knew he wouldn’t respond to her now, after the storm he was always a silent sulker. She grabbed her coat and called out for the dog, her voice uptaking a faux-joy tone; he didn't have to know how much her husband could vex her.

Bobby. Bobby, Bobby. Bobby.

Bobby could be the perfect remedy.

They weren’t the only couple in the street who owned a dog. And it is fact all dogs shit, it could never definitely be traced back. Well it maybe it could, but they if they were too stupid to sort out their recycling then they were almost definitely too stupid to click that it was Bobby’s faeces smeared across the handles of the black bin. ‘That will stop them bunging everything under the sun into it every five minutes’ Howard mused to himself, screwing up his list ready for his own blue box. Maybe some would go through the letterbox too, at least that way they’ll stop being rowdy on the porch… ‘Pesky little brats, they’ll get what’s coming alright.”

word of advice....

Mr sheen you smell amazing...

Flippin go get some.
that's all i'm saying.

marw themed sadness.

‘Thanks for leaving the porch light on, Bri’ Helena mused to herself silently as she opened the gate, walking into the completely blackened driveway. He was a stickler for power saving, she presumed he must be asleep which was perhaps worth the thirty second dash through darkness as she walked down the long flag stoned path; a silent blessing really. She had got her key ready in the taxi, the fatigue of a long day kicking in making her eager for home comforts. Overall tonight had gone far better than expected, none of the speakers had over run, the photographers from The Post had made an appearance afterall - much to Richard’s delight - and the Bob Dylan tracks she had picked created a nice ambience, playing softly in background. She had felt good tonight. Postive press has been such a rarity of late – well done Helena, well done. Pyjamas, a cuppa, and an hour or so of trashy TV to wind down was the plan.

It was certainly not the outstretched arm grabbed her firmly by the collar.

“I’m going to punch you in the head. Hard”
“Oh god, I’m sorry…please…please, I’ve not done anything, I’m ju– “

“And do you know why?” He loosened his grip on her left arm and covered her mouth, interrupting the flow of the trembling and panic stricken words falling from her mouth. “Because I want your brain to bleed. Honey, you’re a stupid little fuck with stupid small brain, so I’m going to have to smack you hard to get at it.” He dragged her towards the house, his slippers dragging on theground as he paced forwards, his ability to pick up his feet as he walked was almost as bad as his posture.

In her head she was running away. She was kicking, shouting and screaming out loud, and it was light and bright and loud and safe. She shut her eyes to take herself away but his chubby warm fingers pressed down hard on her face; an unwanted and sweaty reminder of reality. Regret, fear, and dread swirled awkwardly together around her stomach. Why had she ever thought she could have the best of both worlds; a job, friends, and a marriage? It was such a maxed-out delusion. Why had she ever thought she could have it all?

“Force is the key, babe”, he chuckled to himself, “to get a bit of colour on that pretty, white blouse…a nice fat punch and ‘taa-daa’ some nice red dots straight from your piggy little nostrils. Show you for what you really are, dirty little whore.” She could feel the breezeblocks grazing her skin as her body was held rigid and tight against the garage of their detached home. A quiet, peaceful and private property for the two of you to grow old together - a good selling point at the time, maybe. But that was before. There was no redundancy then, nor boozing, and no iron burns on the thigh, or quick knuckle digs on her spine

The pace of her breathing picked up as he dragged her backwards around the side of the garage, still clutching her firmly. “I know you fucked him, I know it…I’m sick of you. Your head, your body. Your filthy stretched out pussy.” His stale breath lingered in her face as angry, cold whispers were spat put into her face. “Derek this, Derek that…You shit. You’re cheap, vile, digus-“
“Brian, I didn’t, I’ve not…I’d never. Not whilst we are married I prom-!
“You can’t even admit it. Lying bitch. That’s how weak you are, how fucking spineless…”
“I never…I never touched him. Brian please, you don’t want to do this. You love me, and I, I love you…I want this to work, I want us to be together.”

feign devotion and live to see tomorrow through?

“Don’t bullshit me Helena. And even if you did, I don’t. I love sex, yes. And I love the wage you bring home. But I don’t love you.” He bent down to pick something off the ground, easing the pressure on her shoulder for just a second.

mpulse, bravery and stupidity fizzed up in her arms and she swung round to hit him on the arm, but at eight stone and five foot two, she was no match for the 6ft ex-builder.“You stupid woman” he growled under his breath, turning to seize the back of her neck with real strength. “Ha, this is best off all round really” he said lightly, “your life insurance will cover this place. No one will ever know; the cheap little whore ran off – that’s what I’ll say. She never came home, went out partying for 'work', and just never came back. Someone else must have done this when she was walking home from shagging around… And everyone will believe me - because my wife is a mucky little slapper.”
“Brian, no, no…please, listen. I’ve never…”
“Stop lying Helena. Stop lying to me!” Poised with a hammer in his left hand it was now clear what he had leaned down for. There were two different men in front of her; his head and hand did not correspond; tears filled his once kind eyes, but callous, unfeeling words escaped his mouth.

“I just want to see you bleed, I must. I want to feel OK again...I need to see you die.”

petpetpet me uppp

Deep down I dream of nothing more than living on a boat (you don't play council tax and big blobs of unmeasured-water are fit.) Company is always good, and what better than a lovely marine pet...
OF A CRAB!
sourced from,
THE SEA!
(Really, crabs are pretty amazing creatures.)

*I will find you, i will find you,
pick you up, and take you into my boat...
I'd keep you happy, joyous and sweet too
and, make you a bed, a chair, and even a crab-coat.
...
And, if your claws got cold i'd sew you eight shoes,
red ones, or greens ones, oh! Whatever you choose...

I have bacon,
you love bacon.
I have bacon,
loads of bacon.

meaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat-treat!

so please don't scuttle away.

...i can always obtain bacon,
whole pigsworths of bacon.

Tup mawr...

'Jan moir: Are you thinking what she's thinking?'

Thankfully, HELL NO.

(egoistic-and-audacity-ridden-tag line for a fairly average/ bordering UTTER CRAP weekly column, much!?)

i will never be a man in a robe, BUT I CAN DAMN WELL TRY....

*Dim the lights please, and Pick.Up.Your.Bass...

It's time dress 'lax,
it's time to dress down,
it's time to put on your DRESSING GOWN!

((On Hanbury street they wear them sweet))

You can get them with hoods,
you can get them with zips,
you can get them resemble a fleecey blank(iiii)et

((On Hanbury street they look real neat))

Oh comfort and oh joy! what. a. mix:
certainly loose, and ever-so easing,
and defo-jefo aesthetically pleasing.

They will loyally reside, forever at your beck and call,
soakin' up that jamming sweat, yeahh-ahhh!
(or alternatively)
for any emotional fall's... :(

So pull on a robe,
pull on a robe,
PULL ON A ROBE...
((and get that Hanbury GrOoOoVe))

(((there really is nothing stopping you)))

Time is ticking on, so she shuffles for home

Out the outside she is floral, slow, and beige; a fan of CountryFile, church fetes and Viennese Whirls? She lugs her trolley, it is heavy on her arms; the pain pulls out the memories, little stabs on her nerves.

It's been almost a year now, but she still buys two pork chops. Double wrapped, of course. The butcher suspects nothing; his superficial concern lasts only a few moments- they talk about the weather, the litter on the high street and his niece's engagement: it's been so windy lately, the street's such a mess, and it's hard to believe the little girl is now so grown up. She says a polite goodbye, without the fretting. She managed to stop that months ago.

It's two potatoes in Marks and Spencers, and a bag of carrots too. Organic today, as she is feeling slightly under the weather - pesticides can surely only harm the fight against the common cold. Some English butter and a pint of milk; it's all so commonplace for her thin white curls. Who would ever probe normality for answers?

A polite exchange is even easier here, briefer and less personal. She is fine, thank-you madam. And no, she does not need a bag. The errand list is now depleted - the water bill has been paid, as has the gas, and the presents for the grandkids are bulging out from the tattered tartan trolley, drizzle seeping in and softening the cardboard packaging. It's a Lego set with an outer-space theme for Sam, and some Seamonkeys for Jamie. Creativity and homemade science respectively - that's what nine year olds like, right? She'll take them round on Monday, before they go to Cub scouts. They don't come to the house anymore, she told them not to. And she hates surprises.

She has also bought his favorite tea, some new slippers, and a copy of the The Racing Post. But there is no need for suspicion, panic or bother - these things could be for anyone; the elderly stick together, don't they? A Favor for a favor, an offer of a helping hand. She feels safe with this, it softens any hesitance about what she does.

They rush past her in the street and take no care, fresh-faced and hand in hand, giggling out of sync. He stops abruptly, pointing ahead with words flowing from his mouth explaining God-knows-what whilst she looks at him thoughtfully - half absorbing his words, half just wanting his body. Her patience for detail rewarded with a smile, topped off with a kiss on the nose.

Rooted to the spot, tired eyes watch on - the memories come flooding back...That pier in the distance? He never let go of her waist as they ran down there in the rain, taking cover in the old veranda. Friday night dancing and late night strolls; youthful skin upon youthful skin. Yes, age brought responsibility, routine and normality. But they way he touched her face? That never changed - he only meant it more.

The sun starts to get lazy in October, bringing evenings early. He always liked to eat as it was going dark and the time is ticking on so she shuffles for home.

Knives and forks always look better in twos, as do plates, mugs, table-mats, chairs, and pork-chops and potatoes. She eats in silence, looking away as she later puts his food into the bin, pushing it to bottom and smothering it with kitchen towel. Threerolls a week she gets through.

It is easier to pretend with your eyes shut.

The Post is left out on the side-board with a tea towel lightly drooped over the top. She buys them often, but never reads them herself – ‘odds and evens’ are a concept lost on her. The new slippers are placed by his side of the bed, but his withered body doesn't lie in there anymore, at least not on that mattress...

Blankets and a disused bedframe, a well ventilated cellar, and an iron face - that's all you need to keep him close. 'He's just nipped out for the Post, dear' she mutters to the slick young salesman at the door, 'He'll be back soon'. But there's not a chance in hell she'll open that door again.

The words fall out of her mouth with such conviction; she'll never ever tell.

Dirty-Saesneg-Train-Station-Working-Student-Residing-In-The-Land-Of-The-Cymraeg seeks Ink-Based-Joy-And-Organised-Thought.

...I have been nagged and poked by various people before now to create a 'blog' and so taa-daa, materialisation occurs! I've never blogged before and, (with the risk of sounding incredibly blog-frigid), I'm not quite sure how you do it, but I guess this is my attempt (to anyone in Bangor, this is just like the cocktails alright, alright!!)

It will probably be rubbish, but let’s hold out some hope…

I guess the intention is to use this as a place to put all the fjfgtbdognsebg's i write...stuff that may get thought about, drawn out on paper, and decorated with grammar-punctuation-love-and-fluff. I know i should do more with it than leave it fragmented on various notepads, but-a-but-but it always so happens that, well, I simply procrastinate, avoid, become distracted with fickle joy, and sometimes - talk about blobfish.

Soooo, the channel of thought of this was to put such stuff on here instead. Oh, and of course any other miscellaneous jazz encompassed along the way…popular culture based, media-warped, and ‘slow news day’ articles I heart you!!

So long, for now.