Nothing (much) To Report

We met a very nice man on Saturday night – called Dave.

He said that he actually *built* some of Cafe Rene (or it could just have been my hearing) Well, who am I to argue with anyone after a few relaxing beers. He was in quite a few of the photos inside on the wall of Rene (that’s proof enough for me).

He also let us draw a cock on his arm. For a while I think he thought we were going to draw a cod…but given that Gloucester is quite a way from any fishing-related conections, cod was not the first thing on our minds. Anyway, here’s a photo:

Man with cock on arm

The first cock was actually slightly better drawn, with less violent jizzing and certainly less pubic hair - but it got sweated off, unfortunately.

Having just bought a smashing new phone, I have and will be taking lots more photos and have already uploaded them to a secret place. (no, it’s not Flickr Gareth) Anyway, Bea is also accidently getting the same phone (Sony Ericsson K810i) and no doubt will be just as excited with it as I am, for it is the bestest thing ever and will take lots of pictures of people doing silly things in pubs too.

We were very brave on Saturday night and ventured out into not one, but 2 other pubs! Poets Bar is a really smashing pub and is THE only place to serve Staropramen on tap in town – so it’s worth going just for that. Bea also managed to procure a pint of buttcome *snigger* in a funny shaped glass. She also then caused a massive queue for the loo by needing to put a plaster on her big toe. There was much nashing of teeth.

Being so close to The Fountain, we thought we’d pop in. This was also smashing, as Boris the barman makes for very good eye candy – and god knows, we need more of that in Gloucester. Inside, there were discussions of blonde hair and incest aswell as me reading our horoscopes. It’s fair to say, I was more than a little disapointed to find that mine was all about my anus, and ‘ers was all about love. Meh.

I must commend the DJ in Rene on Saturday for his jumping beats, but I also want to chastise him for making me dance so much I wore my shoes out. This keeps happening to me for some reason. The dancing was somewhat spoilt by the group of about 10 Polish lads who were out on the pull and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Handbags were used to bat them away. I am currently learning some choice phrases to say in Polish from Krzys should we find ourselves in Rene again with aforementioned Poles.

And that kinda brings me back to where I started, with the man with a cock on his arm.

Moosh

Tags: Cafe Rene, Poets Bar, The Fountain, man with cock on arm

Geordies. They’re everywhere up in Newcastle (rather unsurprisingly), which is where I happened to be last week. It was soooooo different to how I remembered it! OK, so I hadn’t ventured up there for about 8 years, but I was pleasantly surprised by all the leafy green open spaces that were clean and without lardy-smelling chip wrappers.

So, well done there northeners. Coming back to Chav town after that was a bit of a let down (knee deep in vomit and beer cans)

Good old Easyjet actually kept me waiting this time. In fact Easyjet kept everyone waiting in Newcastle airport – all the flights up at the top of the screen that should have left hours ago bore the distinctive orange logo. Grrrrr. Naturally, they blamed Paris for the hold up (I don’t think anyone would begrudge angry mobs a reason to hate the French) but surely all 6 planes couldn’t have been through Paris…surely?!

Friday saw me going to a BBQ tarot party (yes, certainly a strange combination) where I was told that I’ll be working in America *shudder*. Never say never and all that, but fooking hell I’d have to be a real gluton for punishment after my current dealings with the yank office (don’t get me started on what they’ve just done). Also at the BBQ tarot party was a very interesting chap, whose brother had a rather lucrative business involving hydroponics *cough*. The evening took on a soft and shiny element to it after sitting with him for a couple of hours *splutter*

My woes about the long-haired-crackers-smelling Pole were unfounded; he actually has the same twisted sense of humour as myself  I like a man who can laugh about me suggesting that his job actually involves giving hand-jobs to lorry drivers in laybays (he had blisters on his hands from such vigorus activity) So, I can stop worrying now and find something else to fret about.

Toby has now started crawling – yay! And I’ve been able to capture this on my shiny new phone. He’s ace he is – I can’t wait to take him to the park and have a run around with him. I now realise I don’t like babies (far too breakable), but when they’re a bit older – they’re not too bad.

And today, I’m only in the office to catch up on a few emails before jetting off (!) to Cambridge to run more training. Yay! The only downside is that Mrs Posh has hijacked my session, and so therefore I have to make polite conversation with her in the car for 3 hours. Baaaah. And I will have to play sensible music at a sensible volume. D’oh.

All in all, not a bad week so far.

Moosh

Tags: Geordies, Lardy chips, Easyjet, tarot cards, hand-jobs to lorry drivers, Babies

Connoisseurs of Nothing (much) to report, will already be aware that I am but a mere slave to my rather unruly nose. This time it has well and truly outdone itself. CK be? Good god.

Yes. CK Be and sweat. It doesn’t really sound like a bouquet for the senses when I write it down in black and white…but put them together and it’s like an explosion in the old olfactory nerves.

Gaaaah! I’m now (supposed to be *cough*) a sensible 28 year old – coming into the peak of my career, and here I am going gah-gah over a sweaty Polish guy. Yes, it’s *that* Polish guy – described to Bea as “long hair, smells of Crackers”.

Whilst his English is quite good, you can tell that he lives mainly in the Polish community rather than with other Brits (the give away is the non-commital nods I get when I’m talking to him sometimes…as in, “I haven’t got a fooking clue what yer going on about missus!” A look I perfected very well during my time over in Mockba)

I’m not even sure we have that much in common, to be fair. I’m scared that I’m turning into one of those professional women you read about in Mills & Boon who like to have a bit of rough. Arrrrghhhh! I feel like I should be wearing shoulder pads or something.

Equally as scary is my other theory; that it’s all down to pheromones and breeding. Am I secretly sniffing out strong alpha males to have lots of babies with? At 28 I didn’t expect to hear the words “tick tock” from people just yet….but it’s beginning to happen. [insert your own two fingered salute here]

I think 28 must be some kind of magical age – not quite 30 and past it (sorry!), but slightly too old when out clubbing amongst 18 year olds. It’s like the teenage angst all over again!

Anyway, no doubt I will muse over these things during the 8 hour meeting that awakes me today. *shudder*

Moosh

Tags: Polish guys, Pheromones, Biological clocks

I have, fairly recently, uncovered a bit of an interest in dogging. Not in actually taking part (well, I don’t think so anyway) but in actually watching the doggers, dogging.

It’s a very good job that Bea is of the open minded variety, as when I suggested calling in at a famous dogging spot in Gloucestershire (the look out point at Birdlip, if you’re interested) at close to 1.30am she was keen to go. Well, I say keen…she just didn’t say no

As we pulled into the look out point from the main road, my heart was actually already starting to pump a little faster than normal. (this could have been all the highly caffinated drinks though) During the day, this car park is full of people walking dogs, and old people bringing tupperware out for a lovely picnic. However…during the night it’s completely different. (and I should add that I actually used to go to this carpark with my stoner mates late at night to smoke pot…I used to wonder why cars kept driving up and down. How silly was I?)

I thought that 1.30 am ish was going to be too late for dogging. I was wrong. I started driving really slowly into the car park, as I wanted to just get a feel for what was going on (and look at the other cars, if I’m honest)

It would seem that driving slowly around a dogging car park actually attracts more attention rather than detracts from it. *ahem*. Parked up in one of the bays was 3 cars, all next to each other. This was it I thought, wow - dogging! (a bit too excitedly) I was really trying to get a good look at what was going on, but I couldn’t see a damn thing.

I was expecting the middle car to be all steamed up, with legs and arms (and other parts of the human anatomy) everywhere, and for the doggers to be actually stood outside the car, doing, errrr, whatever doggers do. I’m far too new at this to even begin to understand the ettiqutte involved in this type of thing.

Anyway, driving on to another bay – we decide to park up and have a bit of a look at the view of all the twinkly lights of Gloucester below. Not more than about 5 minutes later, 2 cars head in our direction…heart pounding again…one car parks up next to us. I can’t see anything of who might be inside. The second car goes and turns around in another bay and is making a slow turn towards us…heart about to jump out of throat…it was at this point, I had a mad crazy notion that they were in fact, serial killers/rapists and the other car was trying to block us in so that we couldn’t get away. (yes, I know this isn’t what dogging is about – but you try being 2 naive girlies in a dark car park at nearly 2am)

So I did what I thought best: quickly start the car and almost wheel spin off.

I didn’t start to calm down until we reached the familiar sight of the Air Ballon pub…I think by then, I’d calmed down enough and suggested going back! She was quick to respond to say that “how fucking dodgy is it going to look if we go back *again*? They’re gonna think we’re up for some serious dogging!”

*ahem*

And that, was my first experience of dogging the doggers. I’m very tempted to go back this Friday…

Moosh

Tags: dogging, doggers, birdlip

I’m going to write about the antics of last Friday before it all gets mashed up in my brain and I get told off for getting everything wrong

Anyway, for some reason the zombie hour wasn’t particularly zombie-ish, although we worked out that we were leaving at roughly the same time as when we took our jaunt over to Brugge. This was probably for the best – it means that loads of people wandering through Gloucester quietly minding their own business didn’t get poked fun at for the misfortune of having to start work incredibly early.

I was very impressed that upon arriving at her house, she actually had  A LIST and ticked things off very sensibly, thus ensuring that she really did have her passport and more importantly, the freezer block thingies.

By the time we hit the M4, we’d already had a deep discussion about poo, the universe and everything – so much so that we missed the turning for my sneaky short cut by about 7 junctions. *ahem* This was OK though, as it meant we could watch the BA planes landing literally over our heads into Terminal 4 at Heathrow. It was smashing. I had to be constantly reminded that I was, infact the driver and that I was to stop gawping out of the window. We didn’t make the sneaky short cut on the way back either – so their was no visits to cumshot* at all this year, sadly.

We were plagued the whole trip by service stations constantly being 27 miles away. 27 miles is a long way when you need the loo (or your cheese pasty) and it was a great relief to finally get to Clacket Lane Service Area and do the traditionally English thing of having a picnic by the side of a motorway. Smashing. I had possibly the wankiest cup of tea ever, all because I didn’t realise that the little man serving it was waiting for me to say “stop” whilst he was pouring the milk in. For the record, I really dislike milky tea. *humpf*

The first queue of the morning was actually caused by ourselves trying to leave Clacket Lane Service Area…or more specifically by ‘er trying to take of her hoody in an enclosed space. I pulled over, for fear of getting bitch slapped by a stray arm – but the other cars thought I’d stopped for a reason and just blindly queued up behind us. After much faffing, we got going again and I looked in the rear view mirror to see about 5 or 6 cars politely waiting. Oh the shame!

This shame didn’t last long, because no more than about 5 miles later we stumbled upon a convoy of army vehicles. Oh yesly. There was much slowing down to drool look at the array of uniformed personnel. This, of course in turn caused more tailbacks behind us, because for myself to have a good letch get a good look I really had to lean over quite far. Damn my right hand drive car. Of course, I didn’t bother looking at every vehicle – I just had to look at ones that had passed the “worth a look” test, as given by her good self.

The bit of road just before you get to Dover, controversially, creates totally different feelings in us; for me it’s the utmost excitement and for her it’s the utmost drabness. Oh well. But there was no hiding the excitement of when we *actually* got into the docks and were well and truly there.

For some reason, they wanted to check my car leaving the UK (I’ve only had that happen once before) and I’ve reasoned with myself to take this as a “well, we keep checking your car coming back into Blighty and it’s empty. You *must* be smuggling stuff/people out”. Disappointingly, all they found were: spare pants, Pringles and a half eaten bag of Haribo squishy sweets (luckily I’d taken the chip pan out of the boot that I’d been carrying around for the last 2 months…that would have been harder to explain)

The ferry journey itself was one of the worst for me. I felt reeeeeeally rough and had to keep holding on to the walls to stop myself feeling, well, all at sea. Even the rhythmic tinkling of the bottles in the “duty free” failed to cheer me up. Thankfully, the beer we then purchased in the bar settled my stomach and I felt much better. Unfortunately, it was also at this time that I discovered that my phone had stopped working. Damn you Motorola Razr! I’ve since googled the problem of all the keys not working except on and off button and found out that it’s quite common. Grrrr. I even opened up the phone yesterday to mash about with the inner workings…but to no effect

Anyway, that’s the journey going over covered…I’ll leave the rest of the trip up to ‘er.

I have only one more thing to write about: an angry french man with a small penis (well, he probably had a small penis – I didn’t actually see)

I was quietly pushing my trolley back to Auchan’s trolley park when this trumped up power car wanted to reverse out. I carried on walking (I wasn’t in his way in the slightest…maybe all the wanking he’d done in his life had actually had a detrimental effect on his eyesight) and he beeped his horn at me! At me! Naturally, I then showed him the finger. This didn’t go down well at all and he got out of the car to shout at me in French. I just gave him one of my bestest sneering looks and carried on walking. Tosser. Perhaps that’s just how they drive in France – always on the horn? Anyway – I successfully pissed a short wanky French guy off.

A good day was had by all

Moosh

Tags: Dover – Calais ferry, Men in uniform, Broken Motorla Razr, wanky french men

*actually, the place is really called Bagshot. I prefer cumshot myself.