Dear Mr Weather Controller

Dear Mr Weather Controller

I am writing to you in regards to the problems we have been experiencing with the weather from approx April 2012, to erm, now.

I am a fan of a big coat, my faux owl fur I was only able to wear once or twice this winter. I did not expect to be wearing my big thick coats and vintage Adidas rain macs into July.

Now, I don’t really know what this jet stream nonsense is, I’m not one for following the news… I’ll stick to Brass Eye thanks. But it sounds nice? Sounds fun? Is it a ride at Quay West? (Torquay, Devon) I’m presuming the situation might improve if it goes? Let’s make it happen. May I suggest a friendly nudge.

I am a lazy Plymouth mare and I am enjoying watching the entire series of The Sopranos, and I always enjoy an early venture in to my pyjamas and in to the bed… but I like that the summer sometimes prevents me from doing this. Even I have slovenly limits…. but there is serious danger of me advancing in to a serious FFF (fatty fuck face) if this weather doesn’t improve. Admittedly, when the sun does come out, I’ll probably just sit at the park, read a book and enjoy a cider, but still. It’s all about options. There is only so much of Tony Sopranos shirts my eyes can cope with.

The never ending FB status stream regarding the weather, followed by a picture of the rain, this sends me further to retreat. Yes, rain. More rain.

Fortunately, this weather means that the likelihood of my eyes bestowing upon the sight of men in wifebeaters (singlets, vests, whatever) is limited. Buff or not, there is no place for a vest in the city centre, a sweaty pit is a no no thanks. Of course, there is always the over enthusiastic student in his flip flops and board shorts, of course! Mehte; you look like a tosser.

On the flip side, in place of Plymouth ‘maids’ with their ass cheeks and cellulite on show, we still endure the trusty cheap leggin on 80-85% of the local population. Yes, the rules remain the same despite the temperature being 15 degrees; the top needs to cover the tuppence and ideally, be thicker than your average 20 denier tight.

It would be nice to enjoy a little bit of sunshine. I have missed sitting in the sun, with friends, enjoying each others company and some wine of course, let’s keep our fingers crossed for sunny skies and funky clouds.

I remain ever hopeful.

Maisie Snax

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A Strongly Worded Letter of Complaint

This is a letter I wrote to M&S customer services before Christmas.

Enjoy.

Option Selected: Not Applicable
Post code: XXXXXX
Store name: Plymouth
Product Description: Chai Latte
Comments: Dear Sir / Madam

I want to tell you a little story. I have recently met a man. He lives in Liverpool. I live in Plymouth. I have a habit of complicating things in my life, this is no different. Anyway, he is lovely, and after a chance encounter, and meeting in Liverpool, and an intense period of texts and phonecalls – where we recreate lots of wonderful scenarios that we will enjoy together, a visit is on the cards. Yessss!

He will visit on the 2 December.

Through this period of high intensity long distance texting, we discover a mutual love of a chai latte. Specifically an M&S chai latte (what other chai lattes are there, we chuckled to each other!) As a result of this mutual discovery, we pencilled in a visit to M&S as a Sunday activity, after the roast dinner in a pretty seaside village and a pleasant water taxi ride (all of which had also been pencilled in and discussed before the big visit) but BEFORE the mulled wine (cider and Buckfast) and cheese feast activities back at my abode.

The weekend was going really well, admittedly we had barely met previously, and we were both very nervous, but we needn’t have been. The laughs were coming thick and fast, I’ll tell you! Pleased? I hope you are.

We approached the cafe area outside, we were practically skipping hand in hand! We were literally beside ourselves with excitement, our palms clammy, teeming with joyous anticipation, only to be advised that you had no vanilla essense, so a chai latte was off the menu. Disappointed? Very much so.

The weekend had been going so well, this was the first hurdle. I panicked inside. What did this event signify? Downtrodden, we headed home, to the reliable, trusty mulled goods, which is mostly how I used to think of M&S; trusty and reliable.

I won’t lie, it put a dampner on our Sunday, the last day together before he headed back up North. We both agreed ‘I can’t believe Marks don’t have vanilla essense, I really wanted a chai latte, it was our fantasy.’ I cried a little bit inside, after the panic has subsided. Which it eventually did.

The man made a surprise visit the following week! What a result, I hear you cry! I was extra pleased as I thought this may allow M&S to redeem themselves from the previous week’s gargantuan faux pas. Another wonderful weekend was shared, more mulled wine, culinary delights prepared by my fair hands, zombie satire on the box, holding hands and spooning.

Monday, the inevitable comes round, and I have time for lunch in town before I start work. Instead of the outside cafe, we head upstairs, I can’t think straight for the prospect of another box ticked (we love to tick boxes) the chai latte! I have skinny, though I think he opts for normal, regardless, we both have a great affinity for them. ‘This is it, this is literally it!’, I think to myself. I look at him, and I know he is sharing my sentiment, he feels it too! I am trembling with anticpation and excitement – over a whole week later, they must have vanilla essense now…

NO.

Our parting lunch (2 x croque monsuir, scones and cinammon and honey lattes) was poorer for the lack of the said lattes. I am also £20 poorer.

We were both sad.

REALLY sad. We clung to each other, both teetering on the edge of an emotional breakdown.

This was attributed to M&S for failing us on TWO occasions in the same way over a week apart. The staff dealt with the blow really well, and said we might be able to get one from Starbucks. Andrew and I are united in our dislike of Starbucks. Fortunately, we have managed to come through this … and we still hope (and dream) that one day we will share a chai latte from M&S, although now we will not get to do so before Christmas. I would really appreciate your comments regarding this… thank you, I look forward to hearing from you.

This is the response I received:

Dear Ms Barnes

Your ref:

Thanks for your email. I’m sorry you were unable to get the Chai Latte in our Plymouth café as there was no vanilla essence. Obviously we try to maintain stock of all of the products in our cafés but it’s clear that on this occasion we have not been successful.

I have let the store managers of the Plymouth store know about this and I’m confident that they will take any action necessary and hope you will be able to enjoy the Chai Latte next time you visit the store.

Please be aware this email is from a ‘no reply’ email address. If you would like to respond, please contact us via our website https://www.marksandspencer.com/contactus and we will be happy to assist you further.

Thanks again for taking the time to get in touch.

Kind Regards

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Marks & Spencer Customer Services
Registered office: Waterside House, 35 North Wharf Road, London, W2 1 NW.
Registered Number: 214436 (England and Wales)

Pretty poor.

As a postscript to this, we finally got our chai latte from the M&S in Liverpool, just before New Year. We continue to search for better and more reliable vendors of our milk based hot beverage of choice.

How many Valentines cards would Rocky Dennis get?

Valentines Day. Here again. (Me) Cue copious vomiting, (You) smugness emanating all over your face(book)

I think people can fall into two categories (and obvs sub-divisions of this). You either buy into the Valentines crap, or you don’t. You can opt out because you are ugly, smell of pissed on pasties and you know deep down no-one loves you and you probably don’t deserve to be loved.

Alternatively it’s because you realise that is a made up, Hallmark created load of bollocks. Maybe you know that you don’t need this day to validate the love you have for another, and that you can do that by actually showing someone you love them, through normal methods, like respect, thoughtfulness and consideration, every day of the year? Imagine that!

It’s possible that you think it’s the latter option that you don’t buy in, but it could be the former. I don’t really buy in, but that could also be because i’ve never really been showered with presents and cards on this day. I think I have had one or two cards in my whole 30 years. I am not sure I would feel any differently if I had been given red roses and fluffy teddies. Yes… maybe I am secretly bitter…! A few years ago, me and my boyfriend at the time agreed to stay in and have one of those M&S meals. I remember him calling me from town, telling me he was browsing for a present for me (how exciting I thought). I had been in town earlier purchasing the tasty food. He returned home from a late three course lunch with his friends, drunk, sans presents. I was mildly perturbed to say the least, and went out to get drunk with my friends, returning at an ungodly hour, to discover that all the food (bar the veg side dish and starters) and wine had been consumed, apparently not in malice. Yes, eaten, devoured! Apparently, he sat on his own getting drunk, listening to She’s The One, by the Beta Band over and over again. Getting drunk, and eating. I enjoyed the goats cheese tartlets the next day.

This year, my new boy is not with me. He is in the North of England, watching Kes probably. We have sent cards.

I do not feel the need to post pictures of my card on Facebook, to show everyone that I am a smug twat, prove that someone loves me. I don’t get it, why does everyone have to know how amazing your ‘boyf’ (and I note a lack of updates from the boyfs out there) is.. it’s sickening, and I am not sure anyone cares, apart from you, and your boyf when you feel you have something to prove to by publicly declaring to your abundance of virtual friends, your ‘love’.

My friend Myron wrote on FB today, which I like;

You don’t show love; you don’t get love. Just smile at someone you pass today, it will go far

Simple, but it made me smile. I have yet to smile at anyone yet though…

Show the ones you love that you love them every day. Love is more than a blowjob and a crappy card.

20120214-161236.jpg

Bueller….?

‘How can I handle work on a day like today?’

There is gossip circulating that there is going to be a sequel to one of my favourite films, Ferris Buellers Day Off, after a short trailer has been released in aid of The Superbowl, across the parrrnd.

The Clip. Shame on them.

Please. No.

I mean, it just reminds us all of SJP’s existence, and her uncanny resemblance to a bony old’ foot, which raises bile in my pretty little mouth, which is never good. Aside from that, Buller is a brilliant, brilliant film, which should be left alone. I always had a soft spot for Cameron (which is odd or me, considering Alan Ruck was about 50 when it was filmed) and I obvs appreciated the shower scene with Broderick. He looked cute, but I don’t think he’ll be able to pull it off now.

Jeffrey Jones plays Edward Rooney; he sports a enviable moustache and has since been convicted of paying under age boys to pose in indecent photos. A convicted paedo. It’s safe to say from looking at Jeffrey Jones in this film that he’s a sex offender. He is also the dad in Beetlejuice, another 80’s classic. Edward Rooney is a wonderful character, a ginger at his best. This trivia regarding Jones adds value to an old classic (in my opinion), a deeper layer, a hint at something more sinister. A paedo in a school based film… Intriguing.

It’s understanding that makes it possible for us to tolerate a person like yourself

I love it.

Didn’t we all want a day like Ferris, Sloane and Cameron had? How good is the song? Oh Yeah? Charlie Sheen as the drug addict slipping Baby from Dirty Dancing a digit in the police waiting room? Yesss!

Eh badda badda badda badda, shewinggg badda!

John Hughes has passed, God rest his soul. I’m not sure how he would feel about the prospect of a sequel. Disgruntled I imagine. I mean, is it going to feature some of my other favourite ex-students of Shermer High School, Illinois? Is John Bender, my large trilled fave going to be a toilet attendant, spraying Bueller with some Cerrutti 1888? Who else? Will Rooney hunt down Buellers children in a bid to take revenge?

Great use of The Smiths, Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want.

Save Ferris. Exactly.

Please, say it isn’t so. Don’t ruin it. Let’s remember Ferris Buellers Day Off for Matthew Broderick being a fit schoolboy, remembering what it’s like to be skulduggerous at school, sunny days, teenage girlfriends and boyfriends, and loyal friendships. Shall we?

Girl Meets Boy, Girl Stalks Boy.

I met a boy.

Naturally, he lives hundreds of miles away. It’s how I roll. A preference for the complicated, and the different, this theme of a distant interest seems to be recurrent.

It started with an awareness of the boy, he is my friends brother, then a text exchange and a favour during a desperate BHM (bank holiday Monday) eve. Then, a meeting after a big weekend in Liverpool some months later, after he became friendly with the friends I was visiting in Liverpool, Joe and Lloyd.

If the boy is cleanly shaven and is wearing a tie, he could pass as a schoolboy. This pleases me, no end.

Like me, he has an enjoyment of inappropriate humour, an interest in the darker side of things. He makes me laugh a lot. A LOT. I think I make him laugh a lot too, so it’s a bit of a result. Anyway, it comes to light that neither of us are stalking anyone. Quite a rare occurrence for me, my digits are often busy tapping away, my crab eyes viciously darting around, seeking new information. We decide to stalk each other in the interim.

If I put my arm around the boy, I feel a little bit like a peadophile, this also pleases me.

So, we start exchanging post. I try and make it as sinister as possible, I am finding it fun to be creative. Thinking about the things I can send excites my brain. I send some scribblings about stalking, I did my research. I find a picture of his house on streetview, write something threatening. ‘I know where you live you c***’, you know, friendly banter. I compiled a stalker cd. Lovingly crafted by my fair janner hands. The track listing is as follows…

1. Around – Noir and Haze
2. Alone, Jealous and Stoned – Secret Machines
3. Cromwell Street – Wiseguys
4. Pull Off Your Arms and Legs and Let’s Play In Your Blood – Fight Like Apes
5. I Put A Spell On You – Creedence Clearwater Revival
6. Don’t You (Forget About Me)- Simple Minds
7. Take A Chance On Me – ABBA
8. Say You Love Me – Fleetwood Mac
9. Days Go By – Dirty Vegas
10. Close to Me – The Cure
11. Filthy Love – We Are Enfant Terrible
12. Hiding Tonight – Alex Turner
13. Happy Together – The Turtles
14. Angel Eyes – Roxy Music

I really like Filthy Love, there are some very sinister lyrics, my favourite being ‘I don’t care if you make a leather jacket out of my skin, I need you like Westwood needs a hairpin’. It’s a nice little French electric ditty, I recommend you listen to it. I actually first heard this first when I was on a beach in Goa in February – and I had access to wifi for the first time in over a month and I was loving a bit of 6 music. Listen, it’s good…

Filthy Love

Anyway. So the post is coming thick and fast, but it’s getting a bit nice, softer. I start to like this boy. He is what I commonly refer to as a good egg. We start sending things we might like to each other. Getting personal post is the best, living in the digital age, the age of the ipod and the email, the joy of a handwritten note is truly delightful, a treat not often experienced. I enjoy running down the stairs, checking the post… There is often something sinister including in the post, but the letters are slowly revealing bits of ourselves, it’s fun. We’ve been exchanging post for almost six weeks I think. I send a questionnaire. They are silly questions, mostly. I receive one back.

Every step I take, he takes two.

Its been a while since I last wrote anything, stalking is quite time consuming so I’m going to complete this questionnaire here

1. Where would you like to live?

This one is easy. I would love to live in Melbourne, Australia. I often dream about returning there. I spent a few months living there with the bird back in 2004. They were the hey day of my twenties, a peak. Fact. There was a definite European feel there. I like that the weather is so unpredictable, I find it boring when weather is so predictable, sunny sunny sunny blah blah… The shops are cool, the music scene is pretty cool too.

2. What are your favourite Velvet Underground and Gang of Four songs retrospectively?

My favourite Velvet Underground song is Pale Blue Eyes. I didn’t really know much Velvet Underground stuff (yes, shame on me) although I do love Lou Reed. My friend, the boys sister incidentally put that song on a mix cd for me and I was hooked. I absolutely love it, and it’s quite long too, so its value for money in a jukebox type scenario. I’m yet to decide my Gang of Four faves. I’ll update you.

3. Who are your hero’s/heroines of fiction?

Patrick Bateman from American Psycho. He’s a pretty cool guy isn’t he?
John Bender from The Breakfast Club. Quick witted and super cool.
Randal from Clerks. As above.

4. Who are your real life hero’s?

Simon Weston. He’s got a mean moustache.

My mum and dad. They’ve got it all going on, and I’m so proud to call them my mum and dad.

5. What is the quality you most admire in a man?

Ginger hair. Not really a quality, but I’m making it one. Oh, and good taste. A quote from one of my favourite films, and books, High Fidelity. Rob Gordon says ‘What really matters is what you like, not what you are like.’

6. As above, but in a woman?

Good taste and good humour, both equally.

7. What is your dream of happiness?

A big house with all my nearest and dearest, loads of food, premium cider, a juke box with unlimited credits, a fancy dress box and a full medicine cabinet. Maybe a fluffy fit ginger cat to stroke.

8. What do you value most in your friends?

Their thoughtfulness and tolerance. I believe I do require a certain level of tolerance. My friends are amazing… I love them very much.

9. What is your dream occupation?

Travel writer, or some sort of media whore.

10. What is your favourite name?

I really love the name James. I find the name Barbara quite humorous, and have often considered changing my name to Barbara Barnes. Babs to her mehtes. I’d also like to change my name to Labia Fernandernanderdez.

11. Your motto is:

‘There is always room for one more.’ This can be applied to a number of situations, not just food. It’s a winner.

‘Get a grip’ Simple but effective.

12. What traits in yourself do you find indulgent/selfish/distasteful?

How full of myself I am. My want for everything, now.

13. What is your favourite flower?

I love lilys, I don’t care that they are a funeral flower, I like their dirtyness and how rich and beautiful they are. I adore their smell and I love that they last for 10 days (as per the label) White ones are my favourite…

14. Why don’t you know just how amazing you are?

I think you’ll find I do Andrew.

Eggs is Eggs is Eggs is Eggs.

Eggs.

I love them. I mean, really love them. Ask any of my friends if you don’t believe me. Hopefully you have no reason to disbelieve me. I’d be a right tosser if I lied about loving eggs. So take it as it is, bona-fide fact. Maisie Snax loves eggs, or you would rather I wasn’t bollocking on in the first person… I love eggs. I am a repeataphile.

When I hear the words, love, and eggs next to each other I think of my dear brother Sean. ‘Love Eggs’. That might sound bit weird to you, that I think of my brother. However, it is true, I do. As an independent gay man he seems to have that funny thing about going on about baps, vadges, love eggs and the like. Actually, this is something he (we?) went on about when we were teenagers. I think it’s because of the ridiculous concept of them. It is not an egg format I am familiar with, but eggs an egg. We are over it now. We don’t talk about love eggs anymore, but Sean? Let’s talk soon…

My mum, always keen to feast her retinas on my scribblings was keen to remind me that I was allergic to eggs when I was a baby. Imagine that! Denied of eggs. I know a few babies, and I don’t think eggs feature too much in their diet, so it wasn’t too bad. I don’t remember it either. Lucky.

Eggs. They are just so bloody versatile!

Over egging. I’m a fan of over-egging. It’s a real tendency of mine. Over-egging, basically irritating people through repetition. Egg egg egg egg egg. I like to over-egg eggs. I am usually quite anti-pun, but with the egg, it only seems right. There are so many…! I can’t think of any now (I can’t be bothered, Monday is my most least productive day) Most people love a good pun, so please offer some in the way of a comment. I love them. Get it? I’m pro-egg, but not in any pro-life undertone way. Pro-choice, pro-egg.

For example, I have over-egged the maize thing. Also Partridge – although I am not sure you could ever really over-egg Partridge. I have over-egged a dance tune ‘On Off’ by Cirez D at parties, despite party protestations… If you like a dirty house tune, get amongst it, it’s the tune that keeps on giving and it makes me very happy. I can also over egg a paedo joke. Egg egg egg egg egg. Leggins. My mouth over-eggs going on about leggins.

I think Lady GaGa is over-egged. X Factor is massively over-egged. Negative egguity… let’s keep on the positive.

I once designed an ‘All You Can Eat Egg’ buffet menu. These chinese all you can eat buffets are dullish, and soulless establishments. Where is the ingenuity? A chocolate fountain doesn’t cut it anymore babes. I mean, I think I am speaking not only for myself, but for the masses, but what we want is more eggs! Yes yes! Please find below a sample of what you might find at the All You Can Eat Egg Buffet. Please note, this list is not exhaustive:

  • Egg nog on entry, all year round
  • Egg custard tarts
  • Eggy bread
  • Quiche ( pronounced quickie, as I thought it was when I read it, aged 13)
  • Egg fried rice
  • Omelette, cooked to order
  • Mug egg
  • Swedish eggs (scrambled, with hollowed out cherry toms, avocado, spring onion and spinach, with a bi of swedish cheese served on seeded bread. Recipe courtesy of the luscious Kate Quatermaine, my Leamington Spa now Stockholm lovely)
  • Custard
  • Eggs Benedict
  • Pickled eggs* (inc. egg and quail)
  • Poached (one of my faves, the egg in a pure form. I like to garnish with fresh basil, salt and pepper)
  • Scotch egg (to please the masses, I am not actually a big fan, though I prefer the ones with egg mayo in it)
  • That weird ham with the egg in it. Ideally, with an accompanying face, yes, a face. A down in the mouth, bad news, trout mouth face. Have I made up ‘egg ham’, and turned it in to face ham?
  • Potato salad with egg, and apple and bacon, like the one the bird makes
  • Pancakes slash crepes with an egg filling
  • Eggs mornay

(* I used to think pickled eggs looked like they could bounce. Incidentally, they don’t. I remember my first pickled egg, you know, like you remember your first time, your first Dr Pepper etc. I was with Dawney Frimbad in Deans Cross Park in the Stock, eating batter bits from the chippie at lunchtime. If you are interested, first Dr Pepper, outside John Menzies in Brecon, South Wales in the summer of 1996. I’ve never looked back from any of those trio of activities)

My friend Zee made eggs mornay for me and the girls once, in the depths of my egg obsession back in 2007/8. It was to try and find out if you ate too many eggs, you became egg bound. You know, not being able to do a poooo. She boiled about 20 eggs, no lie. I can see all those eggs, shiny and fresh from the pan… and those eggs looked sexy. Fit. Diirty. I know that might sound odd to you. But you can’t help the way you feel sometimes. It was my screensaver on my old Nokia for a long time. Always to hand, the picture of those eggs. Delightful. Some of my happiest times were in 2007/8. The picture played a big part at best, enhanced at worst, towards that peak of my twenties. The sexy eggs were peeled, it was inevitable, and dressed in a thick, very cheesy sauce, with overtures of mustard. It was a fine egg meal. She is good that Zee.

Good egg, bad egg. A wonderful way to catagorise almost anyone, without being too explicit. I am a good egg. Dappy from that cunty urban scenario is most definitely a bad egg.

I hope you’ll be kind enough to share any egg puns on the comment thing. I think it really is the most pun friendly word. Get involved. Eat an egg. Spoon a double yolker… Just embrace the egg.

Get Your Rat Out

Hallo.

I have pondered upon what to write my next blog about for some time. I’m not quite as full of verbal diarrhea as I originally thought. This is as much as a surprise to me, as it is to you.

I have had some suggestions from friends, including;

  • Maize snacks (soon… I promise)
  • Mullets, the hairstyle of the Gods. I created a Powerpoint presentation on mullets in a subtle yellow and brown colour scheme. Maybe one day you’ll see it. If I say so myself, it’s fantastic.
  • Gingers. It’s been known (and proven through the wonderful visual representation that is a pie chart) that I am a fan of a ginger. Great subject matter, I am sure you will agree.
  • 80’s style Mars bar parties
  • Buckfast

Although these are are valid threads on which to bang on about, none of them have grabbed me. A fit male colleague suggested ‘Female Genitalia’, and I thought YES. WORDS FOR THE FEMALE GENITALIA. I’m a fan of a word. I am here to entertain and educate, but primarily educate, so I am hoping to teach you some new words for the wonderment of the… VAGINA. Please do not read if you think you may be offended.

I obviously cannot take credit for the creation of many of these words and phrases. Some I created, along with friends.

So, here we go. I want to keep it simple. I exceeded myself on the leggins blog, I don’t wish to over egg it again.

Snatch, Gusset, Spam Purse, Ham Wallet, Cum Bucket, Rat Hole, Minge, Mound, (Piss) Flaps, Stab in a Gorilla’s Back, Smashed Crab, Wet Lettuce, Quim (Quivering or otherwise), Tuna Canoe, Clunge, Flange, Furry Cup, Tuppence, Tuppy, Minnie, Badly Packed Kebab, Gone Off Lettuce, Bucket, Hole, Gash, Mass, Beef Curtains, Box, Bush, My First Home, Fox Hole, Hanging Ham, Hanging Haddock, Twat, Yawning Donkey, Lady Garden, Muff. Oh, and C**T – obvs.

My personal favourites are:

Tuppence. However, mine was called a minnie when I was little. What was yours called? If you have one that is. If you don’t, what would you have called it? There is a sense of innocence to it, something I feel lacks in the rest of my list.

Beef Curtains. It’s not very nice is it. I like beef, don’t get me wrong. Nice and rare, fillet, peppercorn sauce, yummy. I understand the functionality of curtains, and I certainly appreciate them on a daily basis, mainly at night, and first thing in the morning. Combine the two very delights, and you are dealing with beef curtains. Curtains hanging too long takes on a whole new meaning. I asked my poor, harrassed mother if she knew what they were. I was probably 22, maybe younger, I would hope younger… She didn’t. I asked her what she thought it might mean, and it didn’t take long for the penny to drop. She thanked me for my enlightenment in to youth culteral references, and she remains forever grateful.

Tuna Canoe: Take a trip down the brine river, into the tuna canoe. That was a work creation.

Fox Hole: Not sure when it comes from, I think I made it up. I like it. I think there is a place called Fox Hole. I imagine it is in Cornwall. FOX HOLE.

Lady Garden: It sounds very pretty and I like it.

Smashed Crab: Again, this doesn’t conjure up a nice mental image, but it does make me chuckle…

The more I read this, the more of an idiot I think I am. Oh dear…

My least favourites: CLUNGE, TWAT (…or as the Aussies say weirdly enough, twarrrr)

I read a great book called ‘Talking Cock’ once by Richard Herring, one of my favourite comedians, where he researches all matters to do with the wand, dong, penis, schlong, Johnson, whatever you wish to call it, and I recommend it highly.

So, the vagina, I am not sure what else I can say about it really. Ooh, there is a beef skirt feature on a Morrisons advert on TV, funnily enough, on abreak for Embarrasing Bodies. I am hoping for some ‘Extreme Anus’ action as promised at the beginning. What a treat.

Aaaaanyway… I hope everyone reading this is happy and smily. I know it’s Monday… like Garfield, I hate Mondays (love lasagne). Autumn is here, the leaves are ready to crunch, and the winter coats are almost ready to come out of storage. I love it…!

Please let me know any new, exciting words for the tuppy, or any witty anecdotes you may have, and also any suggestions on what to write about next.

Stay safe x Maisie xx

Leggins – The Modern Day Petticoat

Now before I start I feel I should say that most girls, and some boys have all made a leggins faux pas at some point or another in their life. It might be in the 80’s, or it might be closer to the present day. But a faux pax is a faux pas, and there is no faux pas quite like a leggin faux pas.

This blog I think may be quite epic, and I feel, even if it is only for my own benefit (which it is), please find below an index of what will be covered. I didn’t go to uni (well, very briefly) so the structure may leave a lot to be desired.

  1. Leggins – Where did it all start in my world
  2. Leggins – A brief history
  3. Correct useage of the leggin
  4. INCORRECT useage of the leggin
  5. Male perception of leggins
  6. Jeggins
  7. Meggins
  8. Treggins

1. I remember my mum having a pair of burgundy leggins purchased from the New Look on Plymstock Broadway, our local shopping precinct, circa 1991 perhaps. I remember nothing more than that, I was merely aware of their existence. As you are aware, leggins are more than present in our modern-day, busy lives. However, at the beginning of the modern day leggins craze, my dear, and fellow inappropriately tendancied, and over egging friend, P we’ll call him, talked about leggins for some considerable time. Being a creative old soul, P (for paedo) drew some leggins. My favourite being the Calypso Leggins the Anorexic Leggins (coupled with a big buckled belt to make you look skinnier, as worn by Karen Carpenter) plus other super leggins.

Eventually there was a no leggins chat ban.

From this, it all started. The obsession. Soon leggins were everywhere again, and people were getting it all wrong. The shaking of the head as you saw people’s dotty pants, cellulite and fat spilling over their exposed leggins, was coupled with the joy of discovering a garment more versatile and experimental that the traditional hosiery, and that of a denier tight. This moves me nicely on to…

2. So… I checked out leggins (leggings) on wikipedia. It seems that they have been kicking about for some time, but really started as a fashion garment in the late 70’s. Anyway… there is one statement that really stuck out for me on the wikipedia article…

Leggin(g)s are sometimes worn fully exposed, and are more traditionally worn partially covered by a garment such as a skirt, a large t-shirt or shorts, or fully covered by an outer garment, such as a full length skirt.

Wow. Me, Maisie Snax, born of Mr & Mrs Snax is deemed as ‘traditional’ in the leggin world. Why is this? I have never seen myself as someone who is traditional. Is this because I am 30 now, I considered myself open minded, liberal – yet I do not condone this non-traditional approach to expose of the leggins, you know, round the tuppy and back door area. The leggin by their very nature is relatively thin and tight, dissimilar to, say, TROUSERS, or JEANS

3. This section ‘Correct usage of the leggin’ is, quite simple, and I refer back to tradition. The leggin should be worn as an undergarment, with an overgarment covering the lady garden. I personally am a fan of a plain leggin, black or grey. The wet look leggin has never appealed to me, but I don’t look down (too much) as long as it conforms to the aforementioned ‘do’s’.

4. Now here is where I come in to my own. Here is where my passion, or maybe anti-passion (?) lays. Incorrect wearing of the leggin. I don’t wish to get on my high horse (God forbid). I am certain I go around the place looking (and acting) like a fairly massive twat, quite a lot of the time. I wear specs if they match an outfit, I have sported several wanky hairstyles, all loved by myself, including ginger fringes.

I also spent a large amount of time at The Big Chill adorning a pair of black plastic frames with no lenses at all, I wear silly hats and big plastic beads. And yes… it has been known that I have worn a pair of leggins with a small hole in them. No, not near there, not like my friend Donna. That is her leggin weak spot. I tell her, if you will buy kiddies leggins from Zara babes. Hers need reinforcing I tell you. But yes, I digress, I have been known to have my own occasional leggin faux pax, and yes, I often am not a pillar of style and finesse, (and yes, I have also been known to overuse a comma) – so I do not wish to judge (that’s what I have been trying to say) and I agree that people should be able to wear and look like however they want. Lord knows I do…

BUT…

Leggins too small for you, with your wet lettuce all but exposed?

Cold days, with a thong on and your cellulite for all to see (and above)? The beauty of the leggin is it’s versatility and functionality and yes, it’s fashion status. But this defies logic. I’ve seen it with my own eyesies. For God’s sake, show some respect for your fellow man and the beloved leggin. Cover up your small pants, cover yourself up on this winter day and …

Purchase some good quality leggins. If you do this, then some other no-go’s may become more palatable and certainly more forgivable. Remember, leggins are NOT trousers. They should not be worn as such.

5. This is interesting. Boys and leggins. I have banged on and on about leggins for some time now, and for my Facebook friends, I can’t imagine this is news to you. So, from my incessent barking, it is inevitable that some boys (and that includes men too by the way) have expressed an opinion on the quintessential garment of the modern day. It varies. Some boys (and I will change the names to protect the innocent) and in particular my dear friend Nigella’s boyfriend, Liam is quite open in regard to his enjoyment of the exposed toe leggin. He see’s a pretty girl and enjoys an eyeful. Typically, his enjoyment is hindered if the girl is overweight. GOOD. I hope his eyes bleed, his leggins opinions are wrong. Sort your life out. Some say, how can it be wrong to state a preference? I disagree. Liam was perplexed at my disgruntlement. He likes old school rave, and leggins misuse. LOSER. Another friend, Terry, was on a similar line, he liked them, however knew he shouldn’t. A guilty pleasure, forbidden fruit. INTERESTING. Tony – he had his own ideas on leggins abuse. He has been sporting, at parties, for some years his own pair of silver leggins. To be fair to Tony, he can carry them off better than most girls, and has the decency to tuck himself neatly away in to a nice little mangina. Most of the time.

These leggins have had so much wear, they are starting to perish around the nether regions. Flash photography is dangerous. But Tony – I salute you and your leggins. They never leave the house, and they are shown the respect they deserve. My gay friends share similar sentiment to me. They know their rights. Our rights. We love our retinas.

Whistlers Mom

6. This is a tough section. Jeggins. This summer I have seen countless girls wearing jeggins AS JEANS. I have a pair of jeggins given to me by my dear friend Katey who works for H&M as a designer. She is kind enough to bestow many garments on me when I am lucky enough to go and see her in Stockholm. I have been given some jeggins. They are like black faded denim, with small zips round the ankle. I almost got rid of them, I have maybe worn them twice? I took them to the park on a warm summer evening this summer, along with a couple of other bags of clothes to try and palm them off to my friend Jenna. We drank warm cider, and smoked, then cowered under a rug as it got colder. We looked like vagrants, I won’t lie. But, Jenna convinced me, keep the jeggins. They remain unworn. I feel in a bit of a quandary with regards to jeggins… I want to like them, I want to wear them. I’ve been overloaded with my own bullshit, and I am scared to like them , to wear them. If anyone has some reassuring, wise words for me (please, only in regards to this leggin spectrum) please share them.

6. Meggins. Leggins – for men. I wish I had seen more of this. Apart from on Tony. Is this actually just a new name for long-johns? I thought P might have got involved with these, but no. He opts still for a skinny jean, a deck shoe and a full, paedo beard these days.

SUBPOST: Afte my recent brief trip to White Isle, I was fortunate enought to experience to fun loving guys embracing jeggins on their early morning flight BRI – IBZ. I arrived early, and fatigued. Imagine my delight when I saw these beauties donning, yes, our favourite lycra garments. Feast your eyes. Please, do not feel like a paedo. There is nothing wrong with looking at these photos and ENJOYING them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I saw these fella’s, I obviously had to comment, ‘Nice leggins boys’. They advised me that they had not had such a positive reaction from many people. I encouraged them, and I think they left with a lighter heart. What is the world coming to when young, strapping men can’t walk freely wearing leggins without fear of retribution, yet fat knackers and bony snatched woman of the world carry on, unberated. I would much rather see more of the above, rather than the specimens that wonder around like slugs.

7. I saw a big sign in the window display in H&M in delightful Plmouth, just last week. Treggins, now in! I pondered, what is this treggin, what avenue can this garment, the modern day petticoat explore now? The wonders of Wikipedia advised that is was a very thick leggin.

Now hang on a minute. Isn’t that what a leggin should be? I believe that even if it is very thick, it should not expose the front and back bottoms of women or children. (I am not sure if the treggin is designed in a meggin format…)

I want to conclude this now. I started this blog in late August, and I am going on my holidays tomorrow, so I want to go to bed. But please, think about where will the leggin go next? What is the future? It’s all so exciting, yet so terrifying.

Aaaaanyway… What I am trying to say is, please girls… cover up. The muffin top over a cheap pair of leggins is bad news. It makes me, and others die a little bit inside.

I do hope a good weekend is had by all, I go to London tomorrow to see my brother and some London friends whom I haven’t seen for far too long. One of them, my drag friend Joy, describes me as more of a gay man that any gay man he has ever . What an accolade! Then I am off to Brighton to see 2ManyDj’s and Jaymo and Andy George with my festifriend Lou, then to Ibiza for 4 days of sea, sun, carnage and moustaches. Life moves pretty fast… etc…

The opinions held within this are mine, I am a gobshite wanker, so they are probably best ignored.

Peace xx

An Ode To The Bird

Afternoon all… it’s stopped raining. It’s Bank Holiday weekend, not much in the social calendar for me this weekend, which is a pleasant change. I’ve kept it pretty empty…

Why?

The bird is coming home! The original bird. Best bird. Emma Oakes, now Tomkinson. Emma is my very good friend, who I have known since I worked at Royal Mail in my early twenties. We went to Orrrstraaalia in 2003 with another bird, Kelly, where we consumed ‘Abo’s handbags’ in abundance and ate lots of noodle sandwiches. Kelly parted company with us shortly to go and find her long haired lover from Plymouth, so it was just Emma, the bird, and me. We were the birds, united we flapped. We spent six glorious months together, touring the east coast of Oz, quoting The Office, generally shunning the company of others and seeking carnage opportunities. We met Mario in Sydney, the ginger, brace wearing, Potuguese, Private Investigator trained drug dealer. He was fun, he lived in a huge warehouse and we did party hard. He was one of our favourite people we met, he came to see us in Melbourne and he looked after us. We have lost touch with Mario, but I think of him fondly.

So, Sydney was the birds living with two Jordanians in a flat. Not a great expeience, they insisted on not wearing tops and excreting their excessive body hair everywhere. They watched Ice Age and another generic gash Disney film more often that I considered healthy. We went to Melbourne.

Melbourne was THE BEST. We started to speak to other people, and we worked in a great job making ‘heaps’ of dollar and making badges. We lived in St Kilda, and ate thai and drank lots of VB (Victoria Bitter). We frequented many cool bars, indulged at the casino and I discovered Krafty Kuts and we made friends with Neil. He was from the UK but was studying in Melbourne. He had an australian girlfriend, she must have hated us (I’m certain she did). We cared not, and the birds became a trio.

We had decided we definately wanted to sit on the dock of the bay listening to ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay’ and watch the sun come up. We did it. We were living the dream, me and the bird. Jealous? You should be. Melbourne highlight: Asking Dave Gorman after we had seen him at the Comedy Festival, if he would whack off a goat and a horse at the same time for £10,000 (which was my current favourite question, I’m much more grown up now, I promise). He looked at me like he wanted to gut me like a kipper, and we decided he was rubbish for not entertaining me. I was *inebriated* and egged on by the bird.

From Melbourne, we parted, I went to meet my then boyfriend, John who flew out to see me and we had three fun months together before we went home. The bird over-egged her stay and came home 9 months later, up the duff with her Ozzie boyfriend, Jonno. A few fun months and back the bird went to Perth and had the lovely Grace.

Since then the bird has been back a few times, and we always manage to have lots of fun, and an adventure. These are my favourite

*Newquay, just after Christmas. Newquay was very quiet. We drew Chelsea smiles on strangers (and a bin), gatecrashed a private party and threatened people with the fist of fun – which is boxing glove that smells very distinctly of chow-mein.

*Amsterdam. We stole an excellent wig from a basement we thought was a bar. The residents were quite rude, so we picked the wig up on the way out. We like to think that the wig adorned the head of a prostitute. We napped frequently, and went in to a peep show, and laughed at the man who looked like Rolf Harris and recoiled at the smell. We did what the birds do best, shopped, ate, got wrecked and harrased innocents.

Look at us, what a pair of twats by the massive clog.

The Greenhouse. Many a cultural experience shunned for a leisurely beer at this establishment.

The wig.

*New Year 2006. One of the most epic New Years, I think we partied late in to New Years Day at Glynn’s house (which is remisicent of a Nordic lodge), and Jonno shared with us the story of his mums ovarian cyst with teeth and hair. We named him Steve, the cyst. Steve had a right attitude problem. There was spooning, boys dressing up, issuing of receipts, chelsea smiles and the fist of fun.

She is always great to have home, and it feels geat to know she is in the country with her brood… Jon, Grace (who I am going to corrupt and teach her how to do trout mouth) and her new addition William, or Billy. She is loyal, and caring and fun. We compliment each other well and we love to make shapes to dirty beats. I could go on and on about the bird, and all the fun we have. I can’t wait to create some more memories with her in the next two months.

I am hoping to be a focused and hard working bird, and try and get to see her, and Kelly in Perth next year when I am I Vietnam. I figure I will be halfway there….

Aren’t friends great? I mean really great?

Off to the pub now, I hope you all have a great weekend.

Love you bird xx

Cup [khup]

Hello again, tis I, Maisie Snax. Writing this on board the 15:00 Plymouth to London Paddington train, where I will attempt to entertain you, with words, on the subject of the word ‘cup’. Banal, I know, but let me try. I may also touch on other subjects, also likely to be embracing banality like a Jew embraces a sheet.

I love the word cup. Pronounced ‘khup’. Isn’t it delightful? Say it to yourself, or better, out loud! It’s enjoyment can be enhanced by the motion. You know the one, hand out, palm facing upwards, fingers gently curled. Cup! Initially the love came from the mere sound that these three letters conjure, and also a basic respect for the function of the cup that is present in what I can only presume is in all of our lives, in some way or another. I don’t mean to state the obvious, but it’s an excellent receptacle.

I was fortunate enough to attend The Big Chill (aka The Big C, or TBC) two weeks ago, with my friend Lou, my festifriend, fast friend and valued friend. Oh, how we laugh, we both love to get amongst the delights of live music events, mock, and use complicated words wherever completely unnecessary. I told her of my love of the word cup, and she shared with me a story where she cupped Ricky from The Kaiser Chiefs at a gig in London. She saw her cupping opportunity, and literally cupped it. I like the cut of her gib, and the intention of her cup.

This raised the profile of the word cup in my weird little world.

I saw Craig Charles do his 6 music funk and soul show at TBC. As a 13 year old, and avid Red Dwarf fan, I was quite simply madly in love with Criag Charles, even though he was sporting one of the most ludicrous mullets of the 80’s. I didn’t care, I loved him. I remember exactly where I was when I learnt he had been accused of rape, and I was DISTRAUGHT (I cried). When I saw him from the back of the tent on that early Saturday eve, I realised I still actually loved him, and it took all of my willpower not to shout ‘I love you Craig!’. Fear not, I refrained, and retained a small amount of selfrecockingspect.

Lou and I battled our way to the front where I intended to stare at Craig intently, until he met my eyes and the love would become two ways. Regrettably, Craig was clearly out of his mind on *whatever* and any eye contact was minimal. I accepted eye contact was out of the question and considered a cupping to get my childhood loves attention. These events I now believe have measures specifically designed to be preventative of any cupping of the arrrteests. I considered cupping many of the artists I was lucky enough to be near at TBC. Barriers and security got in my way, measures I imagine will continue to plague my stalking attempts through my adult life.

So the association from my joyous time at TBC and cups slash cupping, assisted in my love of the word. I also purchased a wonderful cup and saucer on a chain from TBC. I’m wearing it now. (Please see below) This particular cup would not admittedly brag about it’s excellent retention skills. I think you could fit one bean (baked or otherwise, possibly a black eyed bean) in it, and today at work I discovered I could place a bic pen in it. It sure is pretty though.

I thought I’d struggle to write about cups. No way.

I googled cup yesterday. Nothing predictive offered by google. But some offerings…

Fungus Cup – hmm not sure. Leave fungus out of it please.

Cup Final – Yawn

Mooncup – A environmentally friendly device for woman during their menstrual cycle. My esteemed colleague stated today that ‘everyone should drink booze out of a moon cup once before they die’. He sports a full beard, so I’m not sure I trust him.

Loving Cup – Is this spooning? Spoonsies? Or possibly a cupping, of which Ricky received from Lou? Either way, this is my fave!

It leads me nicely on to spooning. I like spoons as much as, if not MORE than cups.

I’ve often thought of attempting a world record attempt at Worlds Biggest Spoon Off. Imagine it, a whole sphere of spoons. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a spoon of more than two people. The more people spooning, the better. My biggest achievement (spoon wise) is a 10 man spoon off. It made me feel warm. Inside and out. Imagine a massive spoonsies, outside in the sun, no reprobates allowed?

I once spooned a random girl New Years Day 2009 in Redruth train station waiting room at approximately 09:30. I clearly remember the ticket office staff looking at me, well us, like we were weird, and maybe a little bit mental. We didn’t remain friends, our interlude was very brief, but I’m glad we spooned.

Do you know what? I’m going to stop now and enjoy the scenery on my journey and finger my cup. Enjoy your weekend, cup, spoon, do whatever.

Oh…

Please feel free to share your favourite cup related stories…

Lush.

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