Character Profile 3

Ash Bandicoot/ Ash Ketchum/ Aladdin


Bandicoots are quirky creatures. Look them up on Google and I doubt you’ll disagree. They are small, have goofy ears and don’t look anything like that PlayStation character Crash Bandicoot fox thing. I mean they are kinda cute, they may have a pitiful smudge of stripes on their back and a tail that looks like a… a… a penis, BUT, they have this little snout that wiggles. Wiggles!

It is a modest and unassuming creature, which often goes unnoticed when stood against the might of attention thrown at the larger and more appealing animals of this varied planet.

But one such bandicoot managed to catch my attention. Not in the conventional sense of how a girl usually meets a boy for it was more of an accidental deviation.

I was actually in pursuit of a lanky lobster boy named Lauro one drunken evening when our tryst first began. That particular night had gone well up until… I lost him. Yes bloomin’ well lost him.

I stupidly made the mistake of going to the bar alone and when I came back he was gone. Great. Just perfect I thought. I marched through crowds of drunken students hoping he wouldn’t be too hard to find, he was really tall, but to no avail. That is until I rejoined his friendship group and was greeted with a devastating sight. Whether it was fate that intervened that evening or whether I went temporarily blind I’ll never know…. but I saw ‘him’ pressed up against the wall sucking face with a girl who had much bigger bosoms than me. Well, at least, that’s what I thought. Anyway like I said I was devastated, I looked at his friends like a wounded puppy… which looking back must’ve confused them a lot because Lauro was in fact stuck upstairs conversing with some bouncers while all this was happening… opps. So there I was confused and hurt when suddenly this smile appeared.

Ash Bandicoot was one of his friends and I had met him a few times before. He had noticed I was upset and decided it was his duty to cheer me up. What can I say? Rejection is a hard and massive pill to swallow, so having this cutie take my hands and dance with me like an idiot was extremely flattering and it wasn’t long before I was sucking face with him instead.

Yay me. Well yay me until the real Lauro finally found me… on Ash’s lap… think I may have run up to him and kissed him as well which must’ve confused them both… uggg I was a lip whore… no other way to put it, I was greedy and took advantage of both of them, such yummy morsels…

So… YEAH, it’s not the most romantic of beginnings, but it sure beats all the soppy stories most couples come out with and I’m glad I mistook that rampant face sucking Lauro-look-a-like for him. Four years on and I still see the goof-ball who was swinging my arms around like a crazy person, encouraging me to laugh. You know that scene in Harry Potter when he dances with Hermione in that tent? Well BINGO that’s him in a nutshell.

Ash, is MY bandicoot, a creature who doesn’t mind being overshadowed by his taller and more laddish friends. He’s a beast that doesn’t need to put on a macho bravado to compete with the other boys; he is at ease with himself. This is why he doesn’t get embarrassed or hurt when they tease him for being soppy with me; for buying me presents, thinking about our future together or giving in to our arguments – because he knows what rewards he will reap. Pretending to be one of them certainly won’t get me into bed, no sir, even if it does boost his precious man points.

He is a geek end of. A geek who still loves Pokemon as much as I do (hence the nickname; Ash Ketchum, just fits so perfectly) and still enjoys watching Thunderbirds and Thomas the Tank Engine in the same way as I still watch Sailor Moon and My Little Pony (80’s style). He buys jumpers and tops with cartoon characters on them and has only recently developed a sense of fashion that I actually approve of. He is obsessed with Nando’s, Tennis, Golf, Football… (I’ll just say Sports), writing lists, cream teas (yay… like I hadn’t made that clear already), BBC’s Merlin, his Mac and IPhone, Geography and David Attenborough… well who isn’t? Such a sexy man.

However, he does have one massive flaw; his downfall being that he has a tendency to force this obsessive trait upon others. No I do not want to play that game for the hundredth time. No I do not want to watch that show anymore. We always go to Nando’s can’t we go somewhere else?! I am fed up of cooking that. No shoo! Stop following me everywhere and writing ballads about me all the time… its creepy. Luckily, these are just phases and he does eventually lose interest, it’s just pretty intense when he’s in the thick of this enthralled period 24/7 for however long it lasts. AND as his girlfriend I MUST be supportive 24/7 for however long it lasts… uggg… so tiring I tell you.


Imagine, if you will, this sundry animal wearing an Aladdin outfit. Complete with the little hat, silk waistcoat and loose white harem pants and you might understand why I like him so much. He has a cupid bow mouth sandwiched between two dimples, eyes as dark as his fur and has one of those manly cleft chins I can’t seem to get enough of, Man I love prodding that cleft… and trying to shave the little hairs that grow out of it… weird I know, but I bet you’d do it to if you had one for your own! I could go on and on about this being, about his comical ears, his peculiar way of saying the words Museum, Music and Railway and of his annoyingly short attention span, but I won’t, because I’ve probably embarrassed him enough already.

I love him and that’s all that matters.

An Ode to Slippers


Hugs, marshmallows, clouds and feathers,

I step upon them

all in all


Hidden inside, afraid to spoil,

woollen woven hooves

snuggled safe from recoil.

Six pairs have I,

though one late dead

from heavy heels and,

thoughts; weighted down my treads.

So five remain, all waiting,

for my toes to enter

like eggs returning to nest

too delicate to wander.

And like a gander I waddle, cocksure,

in my slippers

sure never to feel rough ground or stone

just carpets and fur together are sewn.

Snobbery in Debates

I despise people who start debates just for argument sake; they find a tiny opening and use it to vent all their political views and frustrations. I was subject to such condescension yesterday when I shared an article on Facebook written by a cast member from Made in Chelsea.

It discussed how our society today is obsessed with branding people who are financially well endowed, well spoken and have had a proper education as lazy selfcentred snobs. She says bravely – “When did it become a crime to be well brought up?” When indeed?

She defended the show and her fellow cast members by confronting the prejudice and discrimination being thrown at them by critics and declared that judging people by where they are from and who their parents are IS narrow-minded. These critics always seem to play towards these class stereotypes and I too am fed up with it. This class feud is pathetic and has spawned from nothing more than jealousy and prejudice; this is not how individuals should be judged by. People who generalise and feed on these stereotypes should be branded for what they are; intolerant and bias.

I shared her article because I have been subject to such prejudice and understood her viewpoint NOT because I wanted to engage in a debate about this class feud.

This article touched me because throughout my years at school I was considered some kind of rich spoilt brat because I spoke English without an accent and lived in a nice house. My parents have worked hard all their lives and the fact that I was being belittled in such a way left me bewildered. We have a comfortable existence, yes, but it was because my parents were careful with their money and went without certain things. They bought our house when the housing market was good and why shouldn’t they spend their hard earned money on something as worthwhile as a house? I never understood why these people came out with things like “well your mummy and daddy pay for everything don’t they?” No…

NO THEY FUCKING DO NOT. Do you see me walking around in designer clothes? No. Do you see me with a new phone or new gadget every month? No. Do you see me jet setting off to a new country every five minutes? No, no, no, no, no.

YET they STILL have this perception of me.

Because my house is of a certain size it must mean that I am filthy rich – not that they noticed that it’s slightly falling apart and that my family can’t afford to redecorate or fix parts of our house – no it’s the size that counts. That’s all that counts; apparently. So yes I become very frustrated and hurt when these sorts of comments are thrown my way. Especially when I do work hard and save like a bitch to be able to afford the things I want. I am grateful for my life, I don’t crow over others about what I’ve got… so why am I being punished? Others are more culpable; like the people who strut around in nothing but Jack Wills or are able to have a new IPhone whenever they want. Why do normal people like me, who work hard and save hard, get treated with such contempt? Because, for some reason, people love to cling to these class prejudices and think it’s easier to stereotype people rather than get to know them.

So I shared the article and what I got back was exactly what she was talking about; someone who doesn’t watch the show giving a misinformed opinion about it. He spoke of the politics and the snobbery of it – when it was him who was being the snob, he who was being the chauvinistic critic she and others like her were condemning.

Now I have this problem. I am useless at debates. I hate them because I am incapable of portraying my argument in the same way. I am not pretentious and I don’t pretend to know anything about politics. So when someone does come along to blast these comments at me, for the pure enjoyment of showing off his own well-versed opinions, I freeze. I can’t fight back. I can’t say anything in retaliation because a) I don’t want to have a tiring debate where the person who started it won’t even consider another viewpoint making the whole endeavour pointless and b) because I am not eloquent when it comes to defending my point. I lose my voice, my mettle and cower away in frustration. This person didn’t know me, he didn’t know why I shared this article; he just made a presumption and went for it. It was as if he hadn’t read the article at all, he was just starting a debate for the fun of it; well he picked the wrong person.

He jumped to conclusions and just reaffirmed everything she had said in the article, the bastard proved her right and he doesn’t even know it.

Review Number Two

2) Dukes of Sidmouth – Devon


Now this is one place I can’t get enough of. Not because I think their cream teas are the best but because every time I have gone it’s consistently been an interesting experience. I usually frequent this establishment with a good friend of mine to catch up and chat about random crap.

Like how we both really should’ve gone swimming instead of gorging on fattening treats… or discussing how we both hate places which serve food in dim lighting… yeah we know it looks romantic but damn it! We like to see our food!

So we go here because its close but we always arrive with apprehensive expectations now….

Once we arrived and they had no plain scones… NO PLAIN SCONES. Can you actually believe it? Needless to say we took our custom elsewhere but we were still hurt by their betrayal. It didn’t matter how well Costa made its coffee or how sweet they made their muffins it was of little comfort to us when the holes in our stomachs were prepared for scones. So that was one strike against them.

The next time we journeyed to Sidmouth we decided to see if, this time, Dukes had made amends. And when we found out that they did have plain scones… well I only thought it just to give them another chance.

But alas, nothing ever runs smoothly. The lady who served us was obviously… in plain terms; stupid. If she had had it her way we would’ve ended up with three pots of tea, four scones and a latte. I admit some of the fault may have been mine, but, when one changes an order you would think that someone would recognise that two girls would not and should not manage three pots of tea to themselves… incredulous. Anyway, thankfully, we were saved by a most handsome man with one of those strange haircuts that have the side bits shaved off… and he fixed our order and in compensation gave us, not only the choice of raspberry jam but also the most gigantic pot of cream I have ever seen in all of my cream tea eating years.

I think I fell in love a little bit… just a smidge… or possibly had a mini orgasm… who knows….

So yes interesting and in technical terms the scones were, in my mind, damn fine. Plump buns, raspberry jam (and other varieties if you are in the mood to experiment) and lots and lots of cream… well only if you make sure you get the tasty morsel of a man with the military hairstyle…

I do have another anecdote from this place but it is only loosely related… my friend is incapable of carrying liquids. Not sure why but for some reason no matter how short the distance she will spill whatever it is she is carrying. One time she was misfortunate enough to discover that the lady at the till had not given her milk for her tea… so she had to go get it… well I wasn’t going to! I had a scone in front of me that couldn’t be ignored. So off she went. All she had to do was walk from the bar back to the table. She had nothing else to distract her, nothing else to hold, all she had to do was carry the smallest amount of milk back to the table without spilling it… did she do it? No. (lol) Inevitably most of it ended up on the floor… Did I laugh? Yes, easy answer, sometimes I can be cruel. But fear not karma paid me back in kind; I spent the rest of that particular outing with the evidence of a jam spillage stained on my leg for all to see. Pleasant I don’t think.

Finally, an actual review of a Cream Tea

1) The Three Crowns of Dartmoor

When I envisage a cream tea being served I tend to always expect round floral plates with orbiting pots of jam and cream scattered around the table. The jam would give some vibrancy to what would otherwise have been a pastel scene. This delightful pub however, has altered my expectations and has impressed me with their ability to change what is usually considered quaint and elderly into a decadent treat.

They served my cream tea on a silver tray. A SILVER TRAY. With thick luxurious napkins and lopsided fashionable pots for the cream and jam; it was a terribly fancy display. But, and this is a big but; once you get past the initial sense of awe and wonderment you soon see through the extravagant facade.

Let me put it this way – the average Joe’s in this world (me being one of them) likes to see some girth when it comes to their money and where they spend it. I like to see the value in the price that was paid and, what I had paid for was basically for all the washing up they’d have to do after the ‘show’. Their attention was obviously misplaced. The Jam was strawberry, (and no they did not give me a choice) it was lumpy and in my partner’s opinion there was not enough of it. Cream was local which was nice to see but again there was not enough of it. But the Scones, the Scones was where the real disappointment lay – yes they tasted amazing, yes they were the perfect fluffiness and texture and yes they were freshly warm but they were pitiful. It was a lucky thing we decided to have a sandwich there as well. They were so small… and I felt like I was wasting my money every time a tiny spattering of crumbs hit the table.

The price of feeling like a Princess cost us a filling and rewarding Scone. The only consolation is that they gave us plenty of tea and overdosed us with their smiles and camaraderie.

So, if you don’t want to feel like a complete and utter fatty and want to be treated like royalty then I definitely suggest you go here; because that is exactly what you’ll get… just mind your purse strings.

Character Profile 2


My hybrid hippo of a friend; is another one of my special comrades.

She, unlike her name suggests, is a most slender and provocative being. I have always envied the size of her thighs and of her energetic temperament. It was a godsend to have met her all those years ago at school (uggggg school… just thinking about it makes me shudder…) and the fact that she STILL manages to flabbergast (yes, such a splendid word… flabbergast…) me with her sexual exploits is a feat of majestic proportions. I am still unsure as to where her name originated from, my memory has always been an issue, but I am confident it was just a random glitch of invention. Hippos are usually cumbersome and stout creatures and the only way that she is even comparable to them, I guess, is when they become ferocious… and perhaps when she pulls funny faces.

Dear lord! How akin she becomes to this creature when she contorts her face into outrageous expressions; it’s a sight which belongs in a circus of some sort. I always wonder whether the muscles in her face will one day snap from the strain of being pulled hither and dither. I imagine her face all saggy and instantly think of that dog from the MGM cartoons… Droopy, Droopy the dog. I hope that flaccid end never befalls her because I doubt I’d be able to restrain myself from calling her Droopy… Who knows, maybe all this stretching is in fact strengthening these muscles and will therefore keep them taunt and wrinkle-free when she is old. If that happens, well then my envy will reach new boundaries…

Anyway, anyway let’s get back on track, shall we?

As I was saying; though portrayed in a different manner, Lottimus’s ferocity is not too dissimilar to that of the haughty hippo. Even if she’s not aggressive or vicious like one; she can still charge. Her intensity and confidence is apparent with every exhaled breath; like the flickering of cloud that escapes our lips in the cold days of winter. We can see it; only it’s golden. She doesn’t have to think twice when she rushes into a situation; her vibrancy can carry her through any venture.

She is more Happy Hippo than actual Hippo. No one can dislike a happy hippo… they taste sooo good. I only wish they made them multi-coloured… they’ve missed a trick here; definitely think I will send this suggestion to Kraft. If I could choose which colour happy hippo Lottimus would be I’d definitely make her fluorescent yellow. Her hide would glow brightest of them all and she would have a smile that looked as if it had been drawn on by Walt Disney himself… a genuine throw-back from the pink elephant brigade.

Did anyone else find those pink elephants terrifying? I remember watching Dumbo with Lottimus after a night out and we both sat their thinking ‘I do not remember it being like this when I was a kid!’… far too sinister for whatever AM it was that morning.

Lottimus is my golden girl. I can count on her to make me laugh and see sense through my insecurities. She has strong opinions on music, politics, vegetarianism, films and… men… but she doesn’t force these judgements on others. She is what you’d call the modern day eco-warrior who listens to hard-core rock AND hip hop, loves dinosaurs AND cooking, loves intergalactic sci-fi AND films with subtitles.

Back at school I had a pixie cut (a move I still regret to this day) but out of all the girls I knew who said they liked it she’s the only one who was brave and cut her hair short too. This made me certain that she wasn’t feeding me with false compliments and from then on I have never ever doubted anything she has told me. She was the one who stuck up for me even if I wasn’t brave enough to do it myself – and she still holds the grudges I wasn’t strong enough to cling to….

HEY! I guess that may be another reason as to why she is similar to a hippo… she has thick skin; an impenetrable hide which can take the sticks, the stones and the ugly words which harm most people.

She is a genuine defender of the weak…

A superhero.

My superhero.

I can imagine her outfit now…

Brown boots – Perfect for avoiding the dreaded high-heel ‘accidental’ treading and for prolonging time spent on the dance floor.

Thick trousers or jeans – for warmth and freedom to boogie like a freak.

A simple black top with a signature logo of a band she likes – so she can wave her arms about without risk of showing off giant sweat patches. Which I too suffer from, no matter what deodorant you use nothing works and it doesn’t matter what time of year it is it still attacks… why? Why?

A necklace of an AT-AT Walker from Starwars OR of a tyrannosaurus – shows she is a complete and utter geek and who doesn’t like a geek?

Hair must be down – a head-banging blonde is hard to ignore; an approved method of seduction.

Long jacket – to shield from rain and so that she can practice her flashing skills without risk of actual… flashing… hehehe I made that up… she doesn’t really flash people… only me.

She has always taken good care of me – from our experimental school days where we would strut around the playground listening to hip hop to dramatic nights out where she’d have to save me from strange lustful men by pretending to be my lesbian partner. She is a friend everyone must have and I hope you do because if I didn’t have my Lottimus I know for a fact I wouldn’t be the person I am now.

She is the girl who is the most unlikely hippopotamus ever created and it’s pretty lucky her nickname fits so so well.

Indulging in Melancholy


I have always been highly critical of myself.

If I ever did what I do to myself, relentlessly, to others I would be called a bully. I would. I can be so negative and hurtful… no that’s putting it too nicely… I can be a bitch. I can be the most vile and manipulative cow to have ever walked the earth, all because I know, exactly, which words will hurt the most. I know where my soft underbelly is and I can claw at it whenever I want. I can pick at my emotional seal like a scab until it leaks and then overflows. I never tire. I make myself bleed out with fear and self-loathing until all that is left is pity and shame. Sometimes I triumph and the seal stays strong and can bear the brunt of the nit-picking and the self-analytical interrogations it receives.
But this seal will give way at some point.

This seal’s strength will wane when I have a setback. It won’t matter how pointless or superfluous this setback is; it can be anything. When this does happen the bully in me doesn’t wait. It strikes and then this time the seal fails. So it leaks and until I can patch it up again and give it some TLC it continues to leak infecting the day with malicious thoughts and cynical suspicions.

My ability to blow things out of proportion is certainly an ally to my inner demon. It encourages this facet and feeds on it when it grows. I allow it to run rampant; like a fat child in a candy store who has an unlimited spending allowance. I go on gobbling away on these outrageous thoughts with no consideration of the damaging after-effect. It balloons out of control in my head and suddenly that’s when I can no longer sustain its gluttony. My inner thought‘s suddenly explode outwards and affects another. I’ve had enough of myself… now it needs more. So I lash out. I attack my nearest and dearest because I know where their weaknesses lie.

Makes sense now why I could never stand up to bullies in the past. I didn’t know where their wounds were… I hadn’t the time to investigate and prod and realise. I had to shut up and take it and then release my fury at home… at the people I could hit back with. It was an even playing field then… I just had the pent up anger as an advantage.

I became the bully at home.

I admit it to myself often enough when I am alone, reminiscing, but whenever family members remind me of how awful I was I try to brush it off, to deny it. It hurts me more that they remember I guess… that my beastly behaviour burdens them still… you never forget your bully.

Everyone has one.

So you’d think I’d be able to stop being so anti-me. If I didn’t like being that way to others why do I keep on doing it to myself? Will I ever be able to stop…? You know it’s bad when your friends notice that trait about you but it’s so, so much worse when a teacher acts like it plain to see. I don’t want it to be obvious to everyone. I don’t want everyone to know that I despise myself, sometimes. I know I need to change. Bad habits have a way of sticking around in an unnoticeable place… like a ‘kick me’ note stuck to your back – you are never quite sure if it’s really there or whether someone has been able to stick it back on after you managed to spot it the first time.

You only know with a kick… and I sure am fed up with these bruises.