A response to the guest post. And also, my last will and testament

We had a deal: she wouldn’t tell you about my invisible pet dinosaur, and I wouldn’t tell you she was born a man.

I guess that deal’s blown out of the water, so anything goes now. Not that I’m upset about her guest blog! I laughed, I wept, I hurled, but most of all I was just impressed that she managed to stick to the English language.

Because speech is a thing that my beloved has trouble with. God knows, she tries. You can’t say she’s not giving it her best effort. She’s a sensitive soul, and I suspect she feels deeply for those poor people who are struck dumb, so she’s doing her utmost to say all the things they want to say. All of them. All of the time. Thankfully she’s got a special way to stop my ears from melting in the onslaught, which is to give me regular “wet willies”, interspersed with loving smacks around the head.

Even performing the wet willy doesn’t silence her. In fact I think her record for being quiet is about as long as it takes her to take a breath, and even sleep isn’t enough to stop her completely. Her nighttime blabbering would keep me awake if it wasn’t for the fact I’m usually already awake because of her mattress fascism.

What, you may ask, is mattress fascism? I’ll tell you. When I first moved out of my parents’ home I got a double bed, thinking that I might lure women into it (I didn’t). But when I eventually did get somebody drunk enough to get in my bed, I realised a double bed isn’t big enough: I’m a stocky fella, and it’s hard to fit a normal-sized woman into my bed with me. So a year or two later I got a king sized, and that seemed to solve the problem. The lucky lady had enough room to sleep off her shame, and I had enough room to sleep off my smugness, and everybody was happy apart from the poor girl who’d just experienced me in the nude.

But the size of bed makes no difference to my little angel, because my little angel is a mattress fascist. She’s determined to invade and take over every inch of the bed, regardless of who it belongs to, and is quite prepared to employ magic to ensure it happens.

Within 30 seconds of lights-out she does something I thought was impossible: she rolls clockwise to wrap herself in the entire duvet, leaving none at all for me; and she simultaneously rolls anticlockwise across the bed, shoving me into a 4-inch wide strip down the edge of the mattress. How can she rotate in both directions at once? Clearly she’s a witch.

Burn the witch!

Her sex face. You can see why I prefer doggy style.

(I could take her into the back garden and burn her with the leaves, although with her skin colour – slightly paler than an albino polo mint –  just sending her outside on a sunny day would do the trick, and nobody has to tell the police. Deal?)

So I can look over the body of my beautiful, comely, sweetly-sleeping mattress fascist, and see acres of empty bed, inviting and cool and spacious… and utterly unavailable to me. I’m trapped in the nocturnal equivalent of Gaza, and she’s blockading my sleep. Can’t Kofi Annan do anything about this?

And then the gibbering begins. I’ll be lying there, wide awake, being baked by her hot body (in both senses) squeezing me off the edge of the mattress, and feeling utterly oppressed in my own bed; and she’ll suddenly announce, “motorbike underfelt carnival handbag”, like it’s the beginning of a lecture, and then fart, hit me with her hair, and snore loudly.

I just ignore it now, but the first few times I thought the gibberish meant something. It’s understandable that I would: she’s almost as nonsensical when she’s awake, and half of our time together is taken up by me wrestling with the mangled syntax she hurls at me. (The other half is spent simply wrestling).

You see, she does terrible, terrible things to the English language. Perhaps it’s because she’s a Celt. She was born over here, in leafy, moneyed Cheshire, where she learned to kill foxes, shoot guns and speak in a nice, if highly creative way. But she could barely be more Irish if you found her eating mud in a bog in Donegal with a pig under her arm.

She has that lovely Irish skin too: it’s the colour of the stuff that peels of the bottom of my feet after I’ve spent too long in the bath. And there’s the Irish hair, which responds pretty well to a severe industrial ironing every couple of hours, but left to its own devices manages to look like it was dragged through a hedge and look like the hedge it was dragged through. Clever trick that.

So English might be her mother tongue, but I doubt it’s her grandmother tongue, and in her case her ancestry is taking over her glottis. Throwing caution to the wind, she’s running (with scissors) through the dictionary, cutting-and-pasting as she goes. As a result, she manages to inventerise wordments at every juncticle, like Stanley Unwin after a few too many sherrys, deepjoy.


I may be painting her in a bad light, and I realise this might all sound a bit mean-spirited. But it’s not: she’s actually rather lovely, but in ways that it’s very hard to make any sense of. Examples:

  • She recently spent half an hour loudly performing whale-song to my scrotum, in the belief it might make it go smooth. It didn’t, I just laughed so much I wet the bed.
  • She lured me into a long confusing discussion about whether it’s possible to smash two ducks together in a vast underground accelerator, at close to the speed of light, in the hope that the collision will produce a high-energy chaffinch.
  • She has an odd habit of licking the inside my nostril or, for variety, putting my whole nose in her mouth and blowing until I emit a strangled parp like a tuba being raped. That’s normal, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
  • Alarmingly, this future primary-school teacher, who is sensitive to the needs and concerns of our nation’s young, responded to my taunt that she was born a man by shouting “Yeah, and my dick’s bigger than yours too” in front of several 8 year olds.

I believe her about her dick, but my tits are bigger than hers, so it’s swings and roundabouts.

Lots of things about her are quite male, actually. She’s got quite a blokey brain, and surprises me with her knowledge of carburetors, her sense of direction, her hairy back, and her charming habit of lifting one cheek and gurning when she farts, which is often. And then she laughs like a drain, and smells like one too.

Don’t get me wrong: it’s a lovely bottom. It’s got the kind of tiny, imperceptible bouncy wobble that makes my mouth dry up and my nether-regions spasm, and she oscillates it beautifully every time she walks away to commit chemical atrocities in my spare bathroom. It wasn’t a spare bathroom until she started using it, but now I dursn’t go in there for any money. I call the hallway leading to that bathroom “Chemical Alley”.

So there’s a permanent “no naked flames” rule near her, in case you ignite something noxious and burn off her… I was going to say “her eyebrows”, but that’s not quite right. “Her unibrow” is a better expression. Because the other thing about her which makes me think she’s a man – specifically Liam Gallagher – is her solitary eyebrow. It’s like Groucho Marx’s moustache has taken residence on her forehead. She’s getting a strimmer for Christmas.

I’m aware that some people who read this blog are my friends, and are probably concerned for my wellbeing at this stage. I’ve just described a possibly mental, definitely violent, crypto-transvestite fascist furball, who is in control of deadly recto-biological weaponry and knows where I sleep (because she’s the border guard). Not only that, she’s half my age, half my size, twice my speed and twice my kidneys; and as a resident of one of the wealthiest towns in Britain she’s got ample experience of shooting peasants and hunting foxes (and ladies, I’m one foxy peasant, ding-dong). So there’s very little chance of me getting away from her if she chooses to attack.

Me, on date night.

But rest easy, friends: she chooses to attack almost hourly, and so far I’ve survived. Even when she’s being loving and gentle, it somehow often leads to a painful knee to the dangleberries, a bite on the face, a blizzard of tickling and being flicked on the head, or a thorough test of whether it hurts more to be punched in the kidney or in the place where my other kidney used to be. I put it down to her having an enquiring mind, and a penchant for bloodthirsty experimentation.

Example: during a recent motorway trip, she decided to show her affection by squeezing my head as I drove, and in doing so managed to shove her thumb under my eyelid, leaving me blind at 70mph in heavy traffic. This is normal for us. This is every day.

Any trip with her in a car is a risky enterprise, because when she’s not blinding me she  subjects me to a torrent of pokes, kicks, tickles, bites to the shoulder and head, and drooling tongues shoved in my ear. Not in a sexual way either: just to annoy me.

So I’m wondering if we’re in love, or in a war. It could be either, but it’s probably both. I’m only telling you this stuff in case I’m found dead one morning: the chances are, it was an accident, but no coroner would come to that conclusion if they found me battered and blinded, with my head covered in bites, freezing in my own bed, and possibly with a thing inserted in my bum and abusive notes left on my bedside table. For the record: all of that is perfectly normal and above-board.

Consider this a legal statement, because when she reads this I suspect I’ll need one.

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Guest post – Living with Dick: a survivor’s guide

The light of my life has decided she wants to explain what the hell she’s doing with me. I’m kind of interested in that myself, so here’s her guest post. Enjoy.

First of all: I exist. Honest.

There’s good reason to assume I don’t exist. I wouldn’t blame you, especially since Dick revealed his history of having an invisible pet dinosaur. His mum even told me that he left it tied to the railings outside nursery, and they had to go back to collect “Hubert”.

OK, he was 3 at the time, but he hasn’t developed a great deal since. He’s just chosen a better name that “Hubert” now, and his invisible friend is a Mole Rat.

I’ve been mentioned a couple of times in this blog, and as I follow Dick on Twitter I’ve noticed a few sniffy people who seem offended to discover he’s no longer single. Frankly, if you felt any distress at Dick being unavailable you need to take a long hard look at yourself in the mirror… something I can barely do any more. The shame, the shame.

Calling you “sniffy” is a bit strong, to be honest. A few of you seem to have the impression that Dick is charming and funny and attractive, but I’ve seen him up-close, and I can assure you that his unavailability should make you about as “sniffy” as going to Aldi and discovering the strange tins of Polish something-or-other have suddenly been moved. You didn’t know what they were, they were cheap and disappointing… and now they’ve gone. Somehow I think you’ll get over it.

I, however, probably won’t. You see, I’m his girlfriend. It’s taken me some time to come to terms with the fact that I am romantically connected to this man, although I think “romance” might be a strong word too.

What do you imagine when you think of Romance? Maybe some of you will visualise a Hugh Grant character calling round with a bouquet of red roses, champagne and chocolates. He stands there gazing lovingly into your soul as he declares his adulation for you in rhyming couplets, and explains that he’s decided to whisk you away to be wined, dined and soixante-neufed in a Parisian hotel, while a bevy of penguin-suited violinists play Hearts and Flowers.

Or maybe you have in mind some of those small personal gestures of intimacy that make you know – absolutely know – that he’s thinking about you. I could describe some examples, but they’re all personal to me or to you. If you’ve experienced it, you’ll know what I mean.

But that’s not us. Oh no.

It’s not that our relationship is bereft of romance, it’s just that we measure it by different standards. His equivalent of handing me a dozen red roses is passing me the bog-roll when he’s “finished”. Well, he thinks it’s finished. It’s usually around the time I’m getting started.

I don’t want to make anybody chunder, so I won’t talk about our bedroom times in any great detail. But I want to assure you’re practicing safe sex. Not in the sense you think, not with condoms or (God forbid) femidoms – it’s not really necessary to check for infection when he’s being investigated by vast teams of doctors every couple of weeks. And at his age we don’t have to worry about pregnancy, because his little soldiers have all turned to dust, or retired to the Dunswimmin Retirement Village. His ejaculate reminds me of a lizard having a coughing fit in a talc factory.

No, what I mean by safe sex is that we take everything very, very… very… veeeery slowly. His dicky hip and sciatica mean we do things at a glacial pace, so there’s little danger of cardiac arrest. And just in case it all gets too much for him, I’ve got 999 on speed-dial, and we keep a gallon of Lucozade and a tin-foil blanket nearby in case he’s overwhelmed by the pressures of inhaling and moving at the same time.

Afterwards, if I’m not too traumatised by what just happened to me (the thing that he – but nobody else – refers to as “sex”), I entertain myself by counting his grey pubes. Actually, that’s a fib: I keep my eyes well and truly shut when I’m close to his gentleman’s area. Fortunately he can’t see over his belly, so he still assumes he’s getting a wet blowjob. It’s actually my tears, and sometimes a little bit of sick.

(He suggested that some dirty sex talk might spice things up, but now he’s complaining about it. Apparently “think of a happy place, think of a happy place” isn’t what he had in mind).

In his own special way, I guess he shows affection. It’s similar to how a gibbon would show affection to its keeper: a selection of grunts, snorts and hand-gestures (often of the two-fingered variety). And if he’s feeling particularly loving, or is just light-headed and forgetful, he’ll let me have a Hobnob.

My lovely car cake, complete with crushed front-end, dead pedestrian, and bloody aftermath. Nice.

Actually he did, thoughtfully, present me with a cake to celebrate me buying my first car. This is a photo of it. He’s a twat.

And here’s another example of what all you lucky ladies are missing. Once, in one of the rare post-coital moments when he wasn’t too sweaty to stay in the same room as, he did a little pillow talk. You might think he was whispering sweet nothings, but in actual fact he just bluntly asked how many of my fingers I could fit into one of his nostrils. The answer is two. Easily. His nose is huge. It’s got an echo. I think I heard somebody in there recently, calling for help.

All of this is very entertaining, and probably the only reason I’m still around. Because most of the time, he’s just annoying, and barely house-trained. If a dog repeatedly piddles on your lino, you’re supposed to rub its nose it it. But nobody did this with Dick, which is why he still dribbles on the tiles when he goes to the loo. I’ve banned him from having a stand-up wee, although surely it shouldn’t be necessary: he’s got a piss-tube (it’s not much good for anything else), so why doesn’t he just use it? I’m tempted to rub his nose in his mess so hard that the marble tiles break, but they’re such nice tiles.

His bodily functions are irritating, but his personality is downright infuriating. If you’ve read his blogs, you’ll have a pretty good idea of what he’s like: a filthy, dry sense of humour, good with words, and constantly argumentative.

A diagram of Dick’s brain, inside Dick’s head. I didn’t say “dickhead”. I didn’t need to.

And he knows everything, which is really annoying. I like to wind him up because I have a degree and he doesn’t: but then he watches University Challenge and casually gets 97% of the questions right, then sits there looking smug and waiting to be punched. There’s literally no end to the amount of pointless trivia he can store in his vast head.

And that, I think is the only reason I’m with him: he’s pretty much guaranteed to win a £30 drinks voucher every time we go to the pub quiz. Hey, something’s gotta pay my way through teacher training, and I’m not doing it sober!