I'm under the weather. And the weather's pretty shit.
Every so often I get this thing with my throat; it cakes up and gets sore and gives me the shivers and makes me croak. Not croak, croak. I'm not typing from beyond the grave. It just feels like I am; besides, being floaty light and mysterious and wafting about in grey chiffon sounds rather more glamorous than this - my sitting here with hooded eyes going Ack ack ack. I'm not actually ill enough to warrant doctors and sympathy, that's the thing. I can't get away with going back to bed and moaning for Lemsip. You know the way it is; I feel wretched but not so wretched that anyone will give one of the proverbial seven shades.
It's times like these I really wish I was a bloke.
I'm going ack ack ack because, you see, as a girl I'm not able to harump-splat out the phlegm in my throat. This is not down to any good manners on my part. I am, after all, that sweary wan. It's because as a girl I never quite got in the practice at rolling the thick stuff in my throat into a manageable gob that I could then target at something forty yards away. It's a skill. It's a talent. It's the quality in the males I most admire. Don't do it in front of me or anything; just knowing that, as a fella, you can expectorate at will, quickly and succinctly without your peers looking disdainfully at you, is quite enough for me. Oh, for that level of freedom! To be able to clear one's throat whenever the fuck it's needed! It makes me quite dizzy; like Jane Austen on a rollercoaster, I am.
Seriously, I'd love to be a fella. Maybe for a week.
I'd go a bit mad with the freedom of it all, I think. I'd spit. I'd snort. I'd scratch. I'd rearrange my dangly bits. I'd PLAY WITH my dangly bits. I'd get excited over exhaust pipes (same thing, when you think symbolism). I'd go for a wee standing up. I'd use my new appendages and have sex; all day long, if I could (I'd be a twenty-five-year-old fella, you see). I'd make girls fawn all over me like the pathetic giggly things we are - whenever a visiting fella comes to my town, the local ladies are all over him like a Pit Bull terrier on a burglar made of mutton. I'd talk about GAA. I'd make racist jokes in an attempt at camaraderie. I'd be comfortable sitting with my mates and not talking about feelings or how bloated I am. I'd go for another wee and look at other willies. I'd eat Mars bars. And most of all... most of all, I'd have the unconditional love of my Irish Mammy. Oh, the unconditional love of the Mammy! The possibility makes me dizzy! Like Jane Austen in a carriage full of Premiership footballers on a rollercoaster shaped like a knob, I am.
But for now I guess I'm going to keep sounding strangled, as nasal as a Corkonian adenoid with a cold. Flowers to the usual address. I like orchids made of chocolate.
Failing that, what would you do if you were the opposite sex for a week?
Every so often I get this thing with my throat; it cakes up and gets sore and gives me the shivers and makes me croak. Not croak, croak. I'm not typing from beyond the grave. It just feels like I am; besides, being floaty light and mysterious and wafting about in grey chiffon sounds rather more glamorous than this - my sitting here with hooded eyes going Ack ack ack. I'm not actually ill enough to warrant doctors and sympathy, that's the thing. I can't get away with going back to bed and moaning for Lemsip. You know the way it is; I feel wretched but not so wretched that anyone will give one of the proverbial seven shades.
It's times like these I really wish I was a bloke.
I'm going ack ack ack because, you see, as a girl I'm not able to harump-splat out the phlegm in my throat. This is not down to any good manners on my part. I am, after all, that sweary wan. It's because as a girl I never quite got in the practice at rolling the thick stuff in my throat into a manageable gob that I could then target at something forty yards away. It's a skill. It's a talent. It's the quality in the males I most admire. Don't do it in front of me or anything; just knowing that, as a fella, you can expectorate at will, quickly and succinctly without your peers looking disdainfully at you, is quite enough for me. Oh, for that level of freedom! To be able to clear one's throat whenever the fuck it's needed! It makes me quite dizzy; like Jane Austen on a rollercoaster, I am.
Seriously, I'd love to be a fella. Maybe for a week.
I'd go a bit mad with the freedom of it all, I think. I'd spit. I'd snort. I'd scratch. I'd rearrange my dangly bits. I'd PLAY WITH my dangly bits. I'd get excited over exhaust pipes (same thing, when you think symbolism). I'd go for a wee standing up. I'd use my new appendages and have sex; all day long, if I could (I'd be a twenty-five-year-old fella, you see). I'd make girls fawn all over me like the pathetic giggly things we are - whenever a visiting fella comes to my town, the local ladies are all over him like a Pit Bull terrier on a burglar made of mutton. I'd talk about GAA. I'd make racist jokes in an attempt at camaraderie. I'd be comfortable sitting with my mates and not talking about feelings or how bloated I am. I'd go for another wee and look at other willies. I'd eat Mars bars. And most of all... most of all, I'd have the unconditional love of my Irish Mammy. Oh, the unconditional love of the Mammy! The possibility makes me dizzy! Like Jane Austen in a carriage full of Premiership footballers on a rollercoaster shaped like a knob, I am.
But for now I guess I'm going to keep sounding strangled, as nasal as a Corkonian adenoid with a cold. Flowers to the usual address. I like orchids made of chocolate.
Failing that, what would you do if you were the opposite sex for a week?
38 comments:
I'd take it a bit easier on the aul' lemsips, Sweary
Since I'm a lesbian trapped in a man's body, I'd explore that aspect of my personality...
Oh, the paracetamol! You're no fun, Galwayweigan.
I presume you'd be a hot lesbian, pinklewicker?
"Like Jane Austen in a carriage full of Premiership footballers on a rollercoaster shaped like a knob"
Hilarious!
Get well soon but not soon as sickness seems to improve your already brillant blog.
I would do a bloody good clean. This place is filthy.
Hot, sweary?
Scotch Bonnets...!!
I can't add anything to that. That was brilliant.
That was one of the most revolting posts you've ever written.
You're right. Mars bars are disgusting.
What wouldn't I do! I would quite like to play with a female body for a week. I would have lots of fun. Just as long as those 'off' few days don't fall in that week.
No better buachaill/cailin to ask right here.
Now which one do I start off as?
I'd sit blankly staring at the television...not...thinking...
...about anything...
...nothing...
...just blank...and staring...
I admire men's ability to do that.
p.s. hilarious post
I'd explore why I didn't want to explore my feelings.
As a public service announcement to women, I'd send an open letter to the Gazette stating uneqivocally what it is that men really want, even if that is "We don't really know and neither do you ladies so lets quit fretting and see what happens."
But that would be so noble I'd have to counteract it with something ignobleish, for the balance of it.
I'd use my unique "insider" knowledge of the female anatomy and all its pleasure points to devastating local effect. There'll never be another lover like me - a stranger who came to town that day Sam was away - poor Sam missed right out - and rendered all the town's women unable to walk for a full 24 hours, but they'd be floating on misty bliss anyway so they'd still be able to get the bus home and stuff.
I'd take notes.
Jaysus, Hanger Queen, I forgot about you! Enlighten us with your experiences!
I could go on for days(and have done so) but the major points are
1.Urinating takes on the importance of disarming an atomic bomb and an appropiate reverential hush must be observed in Men's rooms.
Also the very existence of other penises is NOT to be acknowledged.There can be only one!
2.Sports and cars replace wives,gf's and children as priorities.Or it would if you did not THINK ABOUT SEX EVERY SIX SECONDS.
3.Salads,quiche et al become obstacles to real food instead of starters.
4.The Three Stooges are elevated to God status.
5.Irony makes a comeback..which is ironic or maybe it isn't...I can't tell anymore.
6.Lies about your shagging prowess cannot be less than "ludicrously exaggerated" or you're not even trying.
7.Scratching your bits,coughing,spitting,farting and boasting (See No.6) are talents that flow into you like an Automatic Update.
8.A miniature stroke like event in the male brain disables the "Asking for directions" centre but oddly enlarges the "Muttering darlky at car engine/computer/waste disposal whilst shaking the head and going I'll give it a lash when you may as well be looking up a duck's arse "centre.
9.You are only able to name seven colours.
10.Gay men go from being such a waste to "One less for me compete against for the affections of Angelina Jolie"
I've many many more but I'll stop now.
.Or it would if you did not THINK ABOUT SEX EVERY SIX SECONDS.
I am firmly convinced that EVERYONE thinks about sex way more than they'd like to admit. Discuss.
I have heard in the past that the essential difference between men and women is that while men think of sex every 6 seconds, women only think of sex every 9 seconds.
women only think of sex every 9 seconds
But only at certain times of day, certain days of the week and certainly not on certain days of the month. On aggregate?
Meh
Whereas a man is once every 6 seconds, all day, every day, 365 days a year, from (a bit before!) puberty to (a bit before!) the coffin lid is closed...
That explains a lot...!!!
There's probably a Ph.D. student working on a thesis which calculates the (un)likelihood of the man's once every 6 seconds co-inciding with a woman's once every 9 seconds (but with strings attached...!)
Spitting was the first thing someone told me I couldn't do because I was a girl. I didn't listen. I'm actually pretty good at spitting (it's disgusting, so I don't do it, but can).
Hope you feel better.
If you really want to try peeing standing up, I've heard that there's this contraption called the Whizzie that allows ladies to experience the thrill.
Feast or famine with me. Some days I tootle right through with nary a thought of the deed. Others, I'm consumed by thoughts of sex. Every tree and chimney suggests something to me, flowers look positively pornographic and God help me if I have to peel a banana.
I think overall women think about sex less than men, although how would I know, really. But, like anonymous says, we probably aggregate more.
I think too that, for men and women, if you're not getting any, you're thinking about it more. 'strue for me anyway.
Hangar Queen is the only one with enough insight to truly compare. Hormones have a lot to do with it. Is the sex drive less or just different for women than for men? Why don't men have as much cuddling-afterwards hormone?
I'd write my name in pee just about everywhere.
I think that whole every 6 seconds is utter horseshit. Maybe a few times a day, but definitely not every 6 seconds, you'd still be thinking about the last sex image by the time a new sex one cropped up thus it'd be 24/7 and we'd never be able to string to words together with fondlig our pants and swirling our hips. No one is that randy.
* without fondling ... sorry couldn't concentrate I was thinking about Girls Aloud in an orgy.
This sickness thing is everywhere by the look of it. Fuck it, I've been firing big oyster hockthooeys at every passing dog for the last fortnight.
Sweary, you should get a dog. It's great fun.
And a big wad of chewing tobacco.
Or maybe you already have a dog. Did I read somewhere that you have two Rock-biters?
Apparently JFK's old man gave him some advice...
He told him to make sure he got his leg over first thing every morning... That would allow him to concentrate on everything else during the day without any distractions...
I have two doggies, indeed; a Lab X and a Canadian Wolf X. Sadly, the X part means she's able to bark. I never spit at either of them, though.
I don't know about no one being that randy, Blarneyman. I've seen some horrendous cases in my time. Maybe it's just because I'm mind-bendingly sexy.
FMC - Maybe YOU should get yourself one of those Whizzie yokes. Imagine the fun you could have!
Hey, pinklewicker. It works for me!
Oh no, hold on. That wouldn't explain the countless Solitaire games when I'm supposed to be working.
Knowing the way things go for me, your Ladyship, if I were a member of the opposite sex for a week it would be then that I get the worst period pains ever.
That's just my luck. You know, I once fell into a barrel of tits and came out sucking my thumb.
ps. Remind me not to go the bookies during this holy week of St. Cheltenham.
JC Skinner's take on gambling should be enough to put you off, Sneezey.
If I was a man for a week, it'd probably be my week to have the most embarassing erections ever. Kinda like poor Kav, except hornier.
JC's piece is scary, your Ladyship. (I'll leave it up to the ladies to judge if Kav's piece is).
Seriously though. Don't worry about me gambling. I grew up with it. Everyone in my area follows the horses. Young and old. Many of us grew up with racehorses. We know the money is in training, riding and sometimes owning or breeding them. But never in backing them. Backing is fun when you set your limit. Expect to lose your limit. It's a bonus if you win.
Hold on. Why am I wasting this on your blog? This is worthy of a post on my own.
I'd be happy just to have the remote control one evening!
Re: Primal Sneeze: "That's just my luck. You know, I once fell into a barrel of tits and came out sucking my thumb."
That's one of the funniest sayings I've ever heard...laughing my tits off over here (more for the barrel I guess, although they'll hardly cause an overflow, sad to say).
Anyhow, who thinks up shit like that?
Answer: men.
Girls really can't spit. Tried to teach my wife to spit once. At her request. Seriously!
Now if any girl could hock some serious loogies, my wife could. Total tomboy, grew up with only brothers, total sporty girl etc. However despite quite an amount of effort expended, all she managed to do was hit herself on the foot.
Thinking about sex every 6 seconds is in directly correlation to how boring your job is, or if you be a student how much you have to study. The minute I have to work at or study something boring my brain goes, "fuck that lets think about you, Kylie Minogue, Paz Vega, and the fun you could have!"
If I were a man for a day....
I'd pee all over Bock's toilet seat so that when he sat down with the Limerick Leader, he'd have wet cheeks!!
I'd pinch Kav's bot painfully and often as revenge for all of his alleged pinching!
Only joking, I'd really get a promotion, a fast car and a wife to see to my every whim!
I love The Hanger Queen's comments!
I've never been able to understand the 'toilet seat down' thing though - surely blokes could equally whine about 'toilet seat not left up'?
Although I have been called an honorary bloke in the past ...
Well, the last time I looked (and I think that was this morning, but am not quite certain), I still was a girl, and I can spit....anything. Not, mind you, for great distances, but I can, ahem, hock one a good six to ten feet, if the prevailing winds are right. Not to be gross, but it has to do with sucking it down before violently exhaling/gaacking!
And "barrel of tits"...was hysterical. My cow-orkers are wondering what I'm chortling madly over.
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