Monthly Archives: February 2012

How To Earn More Money And Get Out Of Debt

We are a nation in debt. I don’t know about you, but I find it hard to cut down on the things I like for the purpose of saving money, because I’m a greedy, materialistic non-entity whose ‘stuff’ defines my existence. Only joking…

Wonderful human being, Martin Lewis has long been flying the flag for Joe Public, in the fight against corporate crime, greed and the age of consumer manipulation. His goal in life is to get us all out of debt and back to a simpler time when money market instruments weren’t designed to extort money from confused individuals, stealing the livelihood of African farmers was not an ‘investment opportunity’ and when buying a house meant you weren’t paying it it off until retirement the sweet release of death. He is a great man.

But unfortunately, his tips to get us saving money and out of debt are all a bit grim. Do I really want to stop buying the same Primark top over and over again? No I don’t, Martin Lewis, because confidence can be bought! Do I really want to cut down on my grocery shopping? No I don’t, Martin Lewis, for I like eating until I vomit! Do I really want to ring the bank to reclaim the PPI they fraudulently added to my loan? No I don’t Martin Lewis, because I can’t be arsed and Geordie Shore is on!

What we need is to be enthusiastic about saving money and getting out of debt- to make the art of frugality a bit more amusing, sociable and fun.

So here are my own non-boring tips to make some extra money and get yourself out of debt:

1. Commit credit card fraud

If you can’t afford to spend on your own credit cards, applying for them fraudulently in someone’s else name not only stimulates our economy, but saves you a fortune. Step one- Open an Excel spreadsheet and title it ‘People I’m Robbing’. Step Two- Rummage through the same bins for months, gathering important and private information about the owner. Step Three- Once enough information has been gathered, apply online like the cowardly thief you are for all sorts of finance. Step Four- Go on a spending spree with your stolen money. Step Five- Get caught. Step Six- Get a friend to cement your arse-crack for your stint in prison.

2. Fake your own death

And say goodbye to debt repayments forever. In addition to being a hilarious prank to play on loved ones, faking your own death cuts down a lot of other everyday expenses too- such as phone bills (because you’ll be dead) and rent (because you’ll be dead). Prior to faking your own death, pick a hereditary illness to later die of, so that your siblings will be shitting themselves and lying awake at night, waiting for the grim reaper- titter! Entertain yourself at your funeral by rolling out of the coffin when someone accidentally gets too close in grief, making your family hoist your lifeless body back in whilst weeping with horror. Then use your coffin as a raft to sail the whole way to Panama. Hello, new life in the sun!

3. Steal from friends and family

If you choose not to fake your own death as you’d miss your loved ones too much, then why not steal from them instead? Stealing from friends and family is an easy and effective way to up your income, mostly because they trust you enough to let you into their homes where you can spend all day deciding what to pawn to Cash Converters in exchange for material items that are more important than your relationships. Heads up: sentimental value means nothing in Cash Converters, so if you’re going to say, steal your Grandmother’s locket, remember to throw out the picture of her with her beloved deceased dog, Tricksy, first.

4. Start playing slot machines

Gambling via slot machines, is a low-risk, high-return way to nurse your pockets back to financial health. And you don’t even need any money to get started. Simply enter any depressing pub, and take your start-up capital right out of the charity box. The children of Africa don’t mind- you need it more than them. Then spend every waking hour of the rest of your life playing Poker with a teletext-style computer. Insider secret: ploughing your meagre winnings back into the machine is a brilliant idea as this maximises your chances of winning even more money. You’ll be rich on your next go, I can feel it.

5. Sell a baby

Self explanatory really. Sell a baby.

6. Become clinically depressed

Being depressed to the extent you cannot get out of bed in the morning is an excellent way to avoid the shops and save some cash. In addition, because you aren’t paying money off your mountain of bills, you’ll be too depressed to answer the door to the balliffs who have come round to kick your fuck in and take your plasma screen. Bingo!

7. Blackmail someone

Besides being an excellent money-maker, blackmail has endless benefits- it helps to develop your interpersonal skills, you can hone your arts and crafts skills by making ransom notes, and you might even make a few friends in the process! Simply stalk someone until you uncover a dirty secret, and then threaten to tout on them. Remember, the art of blackmail is like dancing, you move and your partner reacts for as long as you choose to keep it up. Blackmail- like Zumba, but for cunts.

8. Participate in clinical trials

Clinical trials have long been an effective way for the emotionally damaged to earn some extra money, but us ‘normals’ have never really subscribed because we prefer to have all of our fingers intact, rather than obtain the money to buy a big bag of crack. But, in all honesty, do we really need all those fingers? I, for one, would be glad to cut down the time I take to manicure my nails.

9. Create your own spam e-mail

May I suggest, ‘Greeting frend. I am writing not for donation, but seeking companionship in time difficult to me. You see, my father, Prince Henrik the Second of Pretchovakia, is ill and soon to die. I am heir to throne and estate- you see, I need not the donation and am how your people say ‘heavy of pocket’. I seek lady frendship to talk and have the elbow to cry on. In my country, men talk not of feeling but I am twentyeth century male for new millenium and wish to meet lady to walk long on beach, listen to the Michael Buble and govern nation like Princess. I even pay air travel costs. All I ask is pleasure of getting to know you, such as name, first line of address, postcode, mother’s maiden name, first pet’s name, bank account number, sort code and characters 1 and 5 of your secret answer. Please enclose these details as reply so we can get to know each other. Many hug and more, Steve Henrik the Third’.

Obviously, you can write whatever you want, just made sure you ask the recipient for their private information in a conspicuous and savvy way, as above.

10. Prostitution

Prostitution is an excellent second job. Not only is it a tax-efficient way to make some extra cash, but you can also save on petrol by getting your ‘John’ to drop you off at your next destination, be it your pimp’s hovel, neighbourhood meth clinic or local shop that sells feather boas, ripped tights and other prostitute attire.

So there you have it, folks- ten ways in which you can finally get yourself out of debt and back to the good life. Anyways, I have to cut this one short, the internet is really expensive in Panama and my pimp keeps tapping his watch.

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Four Beauty Tips Guaranteed To Make You More Beautiful

I like to take care of myself. People constantly say ,’Oh my god, you’re so beautiful.’ ‘How do you get your hair so shiny?’ ‘What skin regime keeps your face so youthful?’ ‘How do you stay in such great shape?’ to Kim Kardashian. Which is why I can’t stand her- bitch.

As I have mentioned several times previously, I ”have a great personality”. Not one of you bastards left me a comment to say, ‘ach, you’re not as ugly as you think’. Well, FUCK YOU ALL.

And it isn’t just me. Us gals and guys are never satisfied with our looks, which is why the beauty industry has grown during the last few years when most other industries are doing the business equivalent of Martin Lewis’s Drop A Brand Challenge- which incidentally, seeing as I haven’t got a pot to piss in, I’m doing the ‘Drop a Brand Challenge’ myself and I’ve discover that Tesco ‘own brand’ peanut butter isn’t half bad. Mother, I hope you’re reading this- pat yourself on the back, you’ve raised a savage.

Anyway, being the modern day Little Match Girl has forced me to get creative when it comes to beauty, and I am going to share my four beauty tips with you so that you can, one day, be as beautiful as Kim Kardashian Laura Linney.

1. Change up your routine

It is a widely known fact that you should change up your beauty regime with the aim of ‘shocking’ your skin/hair/body with new products. I like to achieve this by shocking myself at how depressing my life is. Much like Madonna, who is known to source her skincare products from a place where the sun doesn’t shine in Japan (something to do with the mud, my internet source gushes), I operate a strict policy in order to ensure I am in tip-top condition. I source my products from Tesco Metro aisle-ends, known for their ‘cheap as fuck’ and ‘grim’ properties. My skin is always shocked at how poor I am, and always radiates a rosy glow by being embarrassed by how paltry and few my achievements are.

2. Pick an icon and ‘pay tribute’ to their style

I have often been praised for my unique style, but I must confess that I have actually based my look on an icon from yesteryear. Death row hottie, Aileen Wuornos had the ability to put her own style stamp on any generic look, whether it was 80’s prostitute, 80’s lesbian or 80’s serial killer. Inventor of the fullet (female mullet)? Aileen Wuornos. First person to rock crotchless dungarees? Aileen Wuornos. Slutifier of the orange prison jumpsuit? Aileen Wuornos. I have long been an avid student of fashion-icon Aileen Wuornos, and regularly leave my locks unwashed for days on end to achieve her ‘unwashed mullet of a homeless prostitute’ look. On occasion, I have been known to go out in a top covered in stains a la Aileen ‘drinking for free at a Floridian watering hole in exchange for sexual favours’. But it isn’t all glamour. At home, I adhere to a dressy/casual code, much like Aileen ‘on the straight and narrow by attending an interview for a lawyer job, not realising you need qualifications and more on your CV than ‘Prostitute for teen/adult life’. Aileen Wuornos- Style Icon, and Queen of our Hearts.

3. Be comfortable

Beauty literature does not have the luxury of seeing me au naturelle, which is why it is always spouting absolute bollocks that women look best when they are comfortable and freshed face. And by best, they mean an army of hairless, rashy panda babies. Yes, that’s right, male reader- she wasn’t born with it, it was fucking Maybelline. Therefore, you may as well throw on things that make you comfortable, seeing as life is futile anyhow. For me, this means pyjamas. I love pyjamas. Flannel ones, mis-matched ones, holey-crotch and armpit ones, aspiring silk but really 5% sateen Primark ones- by Christ, I love them like the Amish love humility. There is currently a bit of a movement in which wearing your pyjamas out in public has become a societal norm. I support this movement, because I am a secret tramp. I shoehorn my obesity into jeans and jackets, but in truth, I want to let it all hang out in pyjamas, Crocs and a packet of cigarettes for a handbag. I envy women who have the confidence to carry off this look, as I, too, would love to buy more scratchcards, get into a brawl on Mother’s Day that started over a dirty look and possess a palette delicate enough to truly appreciate ‘kebab on chips’. Colour me fucking gutted, I can but dream.

4. Less is more

For all you sceptics out there who don’t agree that ‘Less is more’- two words- ‘Jodie Marsh’. Jodie Marsh has lower self-esteem than the entire audience of Loose Women combined. So what does she do? She trawls around sex shops to find plastic attire with the aim of attracting muscular simpleton males with whom reality TV ‘gold’ is made. Yes, he beats her when he’s trying to come off the steroids, but then she drags her battered carcass to Heat magazine to sell her story. She wears the sort of make-up that a drag queen would describe as ‘too drag-queeny’, but she probably keeps Superdrug’s ‘Miss Sporty’ range in business- thank you for stimulating our economy, Jodie Marsh . She is solely responsibly for the slutification of today’s youth, which is arguably linked to increased promiscuity and higher teen-pregnancy and abortion rates- like a fucking icon. Jodie Marsh- Icon of our time. So what I am saying is, less self-esteem really is more.

Well, I hope these tips are of some help to you in your quest for aesthetic perfection. It’s a hard slog, but well worth it to find a man who loves you for your looks and then leaves you when you start to decay. Gravy train!

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Come Fly With Me, Let’s Cry, Let’s Die Away

This week I had the misfortune to fly with Easyjet. I’m poor as fuck, and should be accustomed to their hospitality by now- but I’m not. I swear to God, the bastards in the Easyjet Quality Standards department must sit around all day asking themselves, ‘How can we set the bar even lower?’ whilst wetting themselves laughing. I’m surprised they aren’t called Limbo, as this would be much more apt given their quality control maintenance and ability to greet any queries you have at their airport desk by just staring at you blankly until you fuck off.

Anyway, the misery starts before you’ve even booked the trip via navigating around their website- a feat based on popular 90’s boardgame ‘Hungry Hippos’, in which you are the ball, wandering helplessly around whilst trying not to get eaten. From Easyjet’s perspective, all users want skiing insurance regardless of destination. If you’re off to Magaluf, you want skiing insurance, you just don’t know you want skiing insurance. The kind people at Easyjet know this and attach it for you anyway, then distract you with other needless expenses in the hope that you don’t notice. Thank you.

I am very much in tune with Easyjet’s tricks and took my skiing insurance off my booking prior to purchase. Now, as punishment for not taking skiing insurance, Easyjet issued me with their ‘secret barcode’ on my boarding pass. For those of you who have never heard of this, the ‘secret barcode’ alerts all airport personnel of your cheapskatery, to ensure that you avail of the worst possible treatment they can dish up during your time in the airport terminal- random arse-crack drug searches, the wrong type of teabag in your overpriced Starbucks order, the accidental planting of a gun on your person- just the usual. Basically, you’re fucked.

If you manage to make it through the inspection area without being thrown in a Peruvian jail, Easyjet have plenty more obstacles to overcome before you recieve the honour of flying in a tupperware dish that stinks of vomit. The airline likes to save money on fuel by slimming their passengers down prior to take-off by sending the hapless cunts on a wild goose chase round the airport because they keep changing the departure gate.

Easyjet are a meritocracy and dole out customer service in direct proportion to how much money you have. For the rich, this means they get to board first, having purchased the privilege in advance- Easyjet employees are also much more curteous and pleasant to ‘Speedy Boarder’ bastards, because of the whole £6 they paid. I bet they bought skiing insurance, too. The poor are relegated to ‘Boarding Group Two’. Just to make you aware, Boarding Group One does not exist, but Easyjet just wants to re-iterate that those who only paid for their travel sans extras are lower than second class citizens, basically ensuring that the poor know their place on board- much like the Titanic, in which all the rich cunts had a lifeboat each just incase they wanted to stretch out, and the poor fuckers could just go and drown.

The worst bit is that Boarding Group Two should be like a band of brothers- united we stand, divided we fall. We’re all poor, but at least we have our dignity. Let’s show some humanity by forming an orderly queue, letting the old go to the front and generally be civil to other Boarding Group Two victims. But in reality, its a fucking free-for-all and everyone musters every ounce of cunt they can, in order to make it wholly unpleasant for everyone involved. The concept of personal space is void- I’ve had some of my life’s most intimate moments in Boarding Group Two’s line of casual rapery. You’d think people would realise that they are pushing and shoving to board a metal tin with limited oxygen and an abundance of lingering farts. Yeah, not so pushy now.

If you did have the audacity to pack any more than a molecule of personal belongings, be warned- Easyjet is going to make a cunt out of you by measuring your case while Boarding Group Two makes a mental note to throw you out of the plane first to test the parachutes if you run out of fuel, which you probably will. For those who did not take skiing insurance, this is where Easyjet makes their money back by scanning the ‘secret barcode’  on your boarding pass, and employing a tactic known in the industry as ‘Acting the Contrary Cunt’. You must check your bag on regardless of size due to ‘procedure’. Should you protest, you’ll be filmed and featured on Airline cursing and generally looking like an stingy bastard. You pay.

Now, as far as disasterous flying experiences go, Thinkinggal has had her fair share. Once, I boarded a flight in Taiwan to find that my allocated seat was next to a man with one eye, positioned right in the middle of his face. Yes, he was a cyclops. Another time, I forgot to book a meal pre-flight and spent the 14 hour journey gnawing around a banana to make a fork, which I subsequently used to eat a jar of Nutella. I haven’t eaten one since. So if you’re wondering if my life is usually plain flying (this joke goes out to the people who find puns funny- if any of you exist), it fucking well hasn’t been- I’m an unlucky, long-suffering bastard. I bet I was one of the people who thought Jesus was a con-artist in biblical times, and this is my punishment.

So, with my ever-present expectation that things will always be a fucking nightmare, I never board an Easyjet flight with high hopes. I always sit near a screaming child whose mother never gives him a sly wallop no matter how much the little darling screams his head off, like I probably would. There will always be fart or B.O. in the vicinty. My bag will get looted. I’ve made my peace with all of that.

Easyjet are somewhat more disillusioned than their humble beginnings as the company who takes pleasure in the misfortune of their passengers. Much like a mentally damaged X Factor auditionee whose presence on the show serves as comical relief as they can’t sing and live in a care home where they are most certainly sexually abused (ah, the British humour), Easyjet offer ‘Bistro and Boutique’ services in their shoddy little box on wheels, which largely consists of sellotape sandwiches and bottles of Eau de Easyjet- a subtle blend of tears of frustration, dehydrated piss and soiled dreams. Why not purchase one today for the drunk football hooligan or hen weekend whore in your life?

But all of this is still ok. You still have the Queue of Shame to wait in while they ‘bring round an airbus’ to transport you the five steps to the terminal cunting building. At this stage, you have two choices- stand in the Queue of Shame and have your arse felt by the person behind’s groin, or sit for one moment longer than necessary. You queue.

Kill two birds with one stone by queuing behind 14 old women in the bogs while waiting for your luggage. Old people still dress up for air travel, so you have to wait patiently while they fiddle with the buttons on ivory slacks and get their elephant brooch tangled in their knicks. Delightfully, many patrons lose their snotty-hanky-up-sleeve during this process, which airport workers scoop up, smooth out and reuse. Hashtag recession. But try to hurry up in the toilet, because it’s so much fun watching a middle-aged man try to guess where the conveyor belt starts, to reserve the optimum space at the Baggage Claim. Once this has been established, other middle-aged men congregate round him- he has been given the role of ‘Baggage Claim Alpha-Male’, and these are his subjects. Much hilarity ensues when he gets it wrong and they are all standing at the end of the conveyor belt. But they don’t move- that would be admitting their mistake.

Anyone who has ever travelled before can agree than waiting on your luggage on an already moving conveyor belt is the most nerve-racking experience ever invented. I like to call this ‘The Hoop of Horror’, because everyone on the flight waits around the belt in absolute terror, certain that their case is lost and that they are going to have to wear their current underwear inside out tomorrow while waiting for it to be returned, if it ever is.

Thankfully, you can see you case rumbling round the tired conveyor- is it yours? Yeah, it definately is, there’s the stretchy rainbow belt you put on it to alleviate the panic of this very moment- thank you, past me. You dare not take your eyes off it. Adele wrote ‘Chasing Pavements’ for this very moment. You can hear a collective ‘tut’ from fellow Baggage Claimees when you heave your case of the conveyor belt. You are the luckiest goddamn son of a bitch in the hoop.

On the way out of the terminal, I am always tempted to queue for at the Declarations desk and declare that Easyjet are a shower of shit. Unfortunately, that would almost certainly result in my arrest. But it always makes me chuckle at how original that joke is.

Now on to the City Centre-bound Airport bus. But that’s a whole other blog, so maybe some other day.

I’m off to remove the packages of cocaine I have strapped to my body.

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Ten Dos For The New Facebook Etiquette

As it turns out, my article ‘Ten Facebook Don’ts For The New Facebook Etiquette’ was a big hit. At least I think it was, but my mother has a cruel streak and the 200 hits it got last week could have just been her clicking the link and laughing maniacally. Oh well, I’ll get her back when I pick her nursing home.

Anyway, I thought I should write this article to address the need festering out there for list of suggested ‘Dos’ for all us Facebookers kept awake with the fear that saying the wrong thing will somehow result in the words ‘Die, Bitch’ being sprayed across your house. The succesful strategic management of your Facebook can brilliantly stick it to all the bastards you felt belittled by throughout life when they see how ballin’ you are as an adult. In hindsight, the word ‘ballin’ must only be funny when I say it in person because I’m a white woman, so scrap that.

To be fair, beyond a means of social interaction, Facebook is mostly used as a vehicle for bragging that you aren’t the failure you were predicted to be. It is the online equivalent of going to your high school reunion and hoping to Christ someone asks you what time it is so you can swipe your fake Rolex in front of their big wanker face. Ha ha ha ha (maybe if I keep laughing, people will think I’m happy).

Ok, so here are my Ten Facebook Dos For The New Facebook Etiquette.


Having a wonderful relationship implies that another human being wants to interact with you. It implies you are predominately happy, and do not crying your big loner self to sleep every night. It implies that someone finds you beautiful. It makes you fit in, and by fuck, you need to fit in.


And I promise you, every one of your mutual friends will be dying to know what is contained in that little oracle of truth. They’ll wonder what scandalous gossip you’ve overheard, probably whilst at the Ambassador’s reception, eating Ferrero Rocher and drinking champagne, laughing like a big posho and wearing an expensive dress. PMing your friends adds allure to your scrawny little life, and in your own demented mind, you’ve got some sort of secret worth knowing. It doesn’t matter that you’ve PMed your friend to tell her that your arse-rash cleared up- people will think you’ve got some sort of secret glamourous life that they know nothing about. Evil laugh.


Embellish the fuck out of the truth like a Rhinestone Cowboy, until the truth is a tiny speck in a mass of bells, whistles, lights and general tack. We all get a new job now and again, so merely saying ‘Yay, I just got a new job’ on Facebook will not make others feel bad enough about their own lives to envy you and wish you were dead (the ultimate achievement). Instead, say ‘OMGGGGGGGGGG Just got the job of my dreeeems, Sooooooooo happy!!!!! Loving life #yayme’. Going on holiday? ‘LOL Sooooooooo excited to be on hollllllllllsssssss wohoooooooo bring on da sunshine’ (incidentally, a daily countdown from a reasonable time such as fifty days prior to your holidays is so much fun for the rest of us, and don’t forget to check yourself in on Facebook at the airport, you gormless cunt).


If you are going to lie on Facebook, you must consider that people who know the truth can see your lies and can expose you at any time. For most, the ‘Train of Exposure’ runs through close friends and family, who see through your charade of happiness right through to your weary, downtrodden soul. My solution is to throw them a bone now and again in the form of a ‘Like’ for all of their stupid bastard statuses and write ‘Gorgizzz’ under pictures of their ugly faces. That’ll shut them up.


Hey you. Are you the sort of person who has ‘a great personality’? If so, you are not alone. Like you, I am a ‘funny gal’, I also get told I’m ‘beautiful inside (awkward silence)’. I try to minimise my collosal bingo wings in the ‘hand on hips’ pose and hide my teeth to de-serialkillerify my creepy smile. But I am still one ugly bitch. Therefore, I need Photoshop. I need a camera feature that blurs out the ugliness on my face. Photoshop yourself to within an inch of your hideous life, until the fusion of your mother and father milk-turning ugliness (here’s to you, Rumer Willis) is nothing more than Heidi Montag post-eleven surgical procedures in one day. In fact, you might be best just photoshopping her face onto your body, and her body over your body.


And watch while they try and take it on the chin. It’s hilarious, and a lose/lose situation for the unfortunate ugly bastard because if they de-tag, they look like a shallow fucker, incapable of taking a joke. If they don’t, people can see them at their lowest ebb and have something to sneer at behind the safety of an anonymous computer screen, like the big boys they are. Hashtag goodtimes.


If you’re the type of parent who allows their underage child to have a Facebook in order to gain access to a world of online rapists and child molesters, then pat yourself on the back- you are an excellent guardian. Ok, so most online predators are actually police investigators posing as paedophiles posing as teenagers, but even still, it could get you in trouble and you might have to go to court. And could you really be arsed going the whole way to court in your pyjamas? Set and match, my negligent friend, set and match.


These are incredibly informative and I appreciate those who take the time to enlighten others of on-going struggles in the wider world. For those of you who have no idea what I’m taking about, here’s an example: ‘Did you know that every year, four and a half people are killed by snake on a plane related injuries? Snakes are a wily predator, so when added to a plane they are extra dangerous. The next time you open your overhead bin, spare a thought for others who haven’t been lucky enough to open their overhead bin and enjoyed the time to spare a thought because they were eaten by a snake. This epidemic must end. This week is National Day of Snake on a Plane Awareness Hour. Please re-post or I’m not your friend.’ How useful. Thank you re-posters.


Having your page set as ‘private’ is great because it suggests to other that you are one classy bastard who needs not shout their life (albeit with modifications to make it unshit-friendly) from the virtual rooftop. Oh and when job hunting, its best to keep your crazy bastard exposure to a minimum. But Facebook now has a new feature in which you can make some posts private, and others public. As a general rule: your shit statuses about your actual life and ugly photos that show your ”natural beauty”- keep them private. Statuses about your made up fantasy life in which you have a great, well paid job you love, a partner you still find attractive and children you don’t want to leave on the steps of your local orphange, and the photos with your ugliness photoshopped to reveal beautiful, fake Heidi Montag you- stick them on ‘Public’. And by ‘Public’. The people who hate you enough not to add you as a friend but still visit your page to occasionally sneer at your existence will thank you.


Sometimes we all need to let off a bit of steam and have a bit of a scathing bitching session through Facebook. The key is to refer to the person who has annoyed you as ‘SOME PEOPLE’. Then in addition to being a passive aggressive human being, you also look like a Billy No-Balls. And because others who scour your wall for any sign of anything interesting can’t empathise with you, you also look like a big over-reacting psychopath. However, I would like to point out that Facebook is an incredibly appropriate place to air your grievances because a) it’s very private and b) the world and his wife can’t see your page, and judge you accordingly.Oh and while you’re at it, you might as well adorn your Facebook wall with cheeky cunt-isms in the form of non-rhyming poetry, a la Bebo, such as ‘dA pIcTuReS nEvA cHaNgE bUt Da PpL iN dEm Do’. That’ll show ’em.

And so another one of my sanctimonious rambles draws to a close. However, I would like to point out that I am living proof that adhering to these rules ensures people only call you a cunt behind your back and rarely to your face- hello, Easy Street. You are welcome.


Paranoid Thought Number 4- Is My Boyfriend Afraid Of Me?

During the last six months, Thinkinggal and her lucky boyfriend have manned the fuck up like two fully functioning adults and moved in together. Alone. I say alone because we spent a large proportion of the last few years living with my parents while saving up to go travelling- how that did not result in the death of anyone, I do not know, but I will happily dance on their graves later on in life. Cunts.

Anyway, things are going well considering the transition from I-look-ok-in-the-mornings-and-I’m-mostly-chirpy-and-normal to I’m-a-fucking-monster. Our co-habitation is strictly optional, not because of an accidental pregnancy, marriage of convenience (I think) or the terror of being alone, which is pretty remarkable considering our beginnings. We even got ourselves a plant that we love like a child. Things are looking great. Positive statements.

Except for one thing. It’s nothing really. I don’t even know why I’m mentioning it, but I will anyway because it has got nothing to do with me.

My boyfriend has started screaming in his sleep.

See- nothing to worry about. I mean, does his scream disregard societal expectations of masculinity to the extent that it sounds like a little girl being tortured? Somewhat. Does it terrify me? Sure. Do our neighbours think we have a dungeon where we chop people up? Probably. But nothing to worry about. Stop looking at me strangely.

Anyway, I know it’s not my fault that he periodically terrorises himself awake, because I’m a relationship genius and a swell gal to have around the house, like some sort of modern day Trevor from Trevor and Little Mo. I cook, I clean, I work out, I (sort of) haven’t (really) let myself go (yet), I’m a catch for people with low to mid standards. I have no idea why that selfish bastard keeps screaming in his sleep.

Yet I’m still trying to get to the bottom of it- call me crazy but I care too much, I’m that sort of selfless being. It started when we moved in together, so that doesn’t really tell me much. I’m the last person he talks to before he goes to sleep- but that could mean anything. I even asked him was I the reason for his night terrors, and he said, ‘Yes’. That jokester. So I still have no idea.

To re-iterate, I’m a relationship genius. The secret to a successful relationship is to have a sense of humour, and as many in-jokes as possible. For me and my man-friend, we have a few crackers- such as him flinching and crying when I give him a hug, his desperate pleas for me to ”put the knife down” and the hilarious hours upon hours he spends packing up his belongings and pretending to leave me while I tell him I’ll kill myself if he does and frame him for my murder, after which he goes back in the house and unpacks his stuff. Side-splitting! Well, this ain’t the rehearsal, kids.

I pride myself in my ability to always push my partner to achieve more, in the hope that later on in life, he feels that he did an adequate job. To achieve this, I tell him he’s inadequate on every level and poke holes in everything he achieves until he feels like a massive failure. I do it because I care.

Now, I’m not going to deny that we have our scraps. Yes, like any other couple, we fight. We get annoyed. We throw things and frequently end up in A&E. Occasionally, they have to separate us, and sometimes people say ‘Miss, stop throwing petrol around and put your matches away’. Yes, things happen. Fire spreads. But its important to remember that airing your grievances is healthy and sustains the relationship, and to ensure that all cameras have been bashed in with a baseball bat when you start burning that motherfucker down. Don’t seeth silently on opposite ends of the sofa because your boyfriend ‘stole’ your twenties- tell him you hate him and demand your life back. Tell him you wish he died in the taxi on the way to the bar on the night you met. And then start having an affair with someone you wouldn’t usually dream of associating with for a bit of attention. After all, making time for others when you are in a serious relationship is important.

In addition, the physical side of your relationship is important too. Try to put aside some time weekly to beat your partner. I like to throw shoes and accuse him of ‘wanting to be hit because he should have moved out of the way’. Although women beating men is becoming more recognised as a legitimite form of domestic violence, it is likely that your male partner will feel emasculated and as such, will not tell anyone.

Anyway, with such a healthy union I am still no closer to figuring out why my boyfriend has night terrors. But he should think himself lucky that I care so much, the ungrateful bastard.

Ten Don’ts For The New Facebook Etiquette

Interacting via the medium of social networking is a relatively new concept for most of us, and as such, common ‘Facebook etiquette’ has yet to be established. However, considering that (ideally) we know the people that we interact with, we have a vague idea of how to behave online. But for all of you big fucking maniacs out there who have no idea how to conduct yourselves, here are my 10 Facebook Don’ts:


For the love of God, please stop talking about your sex life. It’s making me get vomit all over my top. Think about it: would you stand up in front of everyone you know and snorty laugh while spluttering through all of the unsavoury details of your own private relationship. No? Well then, don’t do it in a place where your mother can read it. She pretends she can’t see it but she probably can and it haunts her. And don’t kid yourself that you’re just being a ‘bit cheeky’ (eurgh) and just having a bit of a laugh- no one wants to know. NO ONE.


This might come as a shock to you, but you’re not a model. You’re kind of pasty, and need better lighting. And your bedroom needs decorated as though it isn’t 1992 with your jazzy curtains and shitty boarder- hang on, is this even your house or are you in some sort of sex dungeon? You need not feel the need to satisfy societal demands of asthetic perfection. Or if you do, at least invest some of that time in the gym stealing yourself a new towel, because the one you’ve draped your ‘nads in could do with a wash. You’ve put me off my cottage cheese, you inconsiderate bastard.


There is absolutely no need for you to check yourself in at ‘Bed’, unless you like alerting burglars that your house is now easy pickings. Funnily enough, I kind of guessed that when it gets dark, humans sleep. I know, it’s like a sixth sense. Hashtag Mystic Meg.


The only thing you achieve by deluding yourself and indulging in anything that promises to tell you if your old boyfriend/girlfriend is weeping over your photos, ‘Look at what you could’ve won’ style, is looking a total cunt. Spoiler alert- the only people who can be arsed sifting through your sticky wall are the people who hate you, the people that like you and your mother (in my experience anyway). That’s it. No one else gives a fuck.


How many times do you have to give me a run down of your day? The only use I have for the details of where you are going all day, is as a warning for where to avoid. The truth is that we don’t know what counts as newsworthy in the world of Facebook- but if it’s too boring to say out loud without being swallowed by a yawn, it’s too boring to state on Facebook. I have little use for a fucking play-by-play of leaving your bin out every Wednesday or when you are doing your ironing. Keep this shit to yourself.


And if they pretend that they aren’t, they’re fucking liars. Unfortunately, as we get older, the realisation that life is a depressing, meaningless load of bollocks where we all repeat the same mistakes our parents did, have children who resent us, work in a soul destroying job and look forward to death hits us like a ton of bricks. We try to lie on Facebook- jazz up our lives with the odd holiday snap with our ugly faces photoshopped so people can’t see that our eyes are red raw from crying, document our lives with a series of ‘Check Ins’, and update our statuses’ with shit like ‘I’m happy :)’ (Acting Happy, Feeling Crappy). But the truth is, we are all miserable bastards. Look at my Facebook for example- looks normal, doesn’t it? But am I happy? Of course I’m not happy. I hate everything. I complain constantly. I wish I was never born.


This is my Facebook pet hate. I don’t mind if I’ve just made some sort of universal statement- it’s fine to ‘like’ my comment then because there is really nothing else to say. But don’t ‘like’ my comment when I’ve asked ‘How are you?’ or some other attempt at conversation. If I asked you this in real life, would you stand in silence just patting me on the head like a dog? No? Because ‘liking’ my comment is the mother fucking equivalent, you cheeky cunt.


People who use their drunkeness to excuse their anti-social behaviour are fucking pricks, and just like the eyes are the window to the soul, drunk ramblings hold some sort of truth for the unhappy individual so devoid of friends that they spend their ‘party time’ online. Think about it like this: your Facebook audience is your family, friends, aquaintances, work colleagues, school friends and the bastards who added you even though you never really liked each other. Would you stand in a room and drunkenly ramble on while they all stared at you in silence, aghast while you ugly-cry, laugh demonically and state cryptically that SOME people can go fuck themselves… you know who you are… big bastards… I hate you. *sad face, winky face, open mouthed face. No, you would not, because in real life, this would be an intervention for your impending nervous breakdown.


If you don’t like me or I ‘did something to you’ years ago, don’t worry about seeing how miserable my life is up close. Move the fuck on. Get over it. There’s nothing to see here. Don’t make me think you’re a class act who extends the hand of friendship when I didn’t, and then take it away. Prove to me that you’re not the petty dickhead I thought you were, or leave me alone. Don’t hover around my virtual door like a fucking stalker- man the fuck up, you silly bastard.


Take your fucking virtual farm and shove it right up your joyless rectum.

So there you have it, folks- 10 Facebook Don’ts aiming to minimise drama and general chaos in your life- to your face and behind your back.

I bet my Facebook friend numbers will reduce quicker than the lights on Take Me Out when Josef Fritzl comes down the Love Lift.

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Reasons Why I Hate Lady Gaga

I hate Lady Gaga. There, I said it.

For those of you fortunate enough to have died/fucked off to a deserted island for the last few years, thus not having been made aware of her existence, she’s somewhat of a superstar, and has a international gaggle of fans who gasp in shock and look horrified when you seem indifferent to what they think is ‘brilliance‘, and therefore I have always retreated back into the closet at the first sign of letting slip that I actually think she’s an untalented bastard. Here’s why:

Primarily, wearing fucking edible clothing does not make you ‘deep‘. It makes you WASTEFUL and ignorant to the fact that there are starving people all over the world who could have barbecued your dress and had a very nice lunch, you absolute arrogant tosser. This also goes for her other, stupid choices of outfit, such as the big silky tea-cosy dress (why?), net face covers (now seriously, what the fuck? Are you a beekeeper?) and big glittery triangle boob-representers stuck on to tops (general fuck.). The worst part is that those dedicated to fucking together a few scraps of twat-garbage and making it into a dress have now been renamed ‘House of Gaga’ when really all they are is a few homeless people doing an honest 20 minutes of work in exchange for crack.

See, that’s the thing about Lady Gaga- there’s a fine line between art and just some random shit sellotaped to a canvas, but if you say its art so many times with absolute conviction and no trace of a smirk whatsoever, fucking dumb fuckbags are going to echo your bullshit and also say its art while secretly not understanding what in sweet fuck you are talking about. I call this ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes Effect’, as much like all of the villagers not wanting to appear stupid by saying the Emperor was naked, members of the public wholeheartedly celebrate Lady Gaga for being a ‘genius‘, when in fact she’s just your average Slut McAttentionSeeker. Nothing she does hasn’t already been done by a whore out on Hallowe’en night in an outfit from Ann Summers. Because consider this, Little Monsters, if her outfits were art, why are they always conveniently cut to just below arse-crack level?? Is art secretly celebrating the female form of closeted anorexics? Well, um, yes, but… NO- she’s just a fucking twat.

Which leads me to my next point- calling your fans ‘Little Monsters’. Oh my god, this takes my dislike to a whole new level. Better not sleep with a pick-axe in my bed, incase I start sleep-walking to Lady Gaga’s house and hit her in the face with it. Why must you label your fans? Why can you not just call them fans? Is it some sort of patronising record company ploy to create a sense of community within your fans, thus encouraging them to buy more of your gormless face-adorned concert shit? To be fair, if I HAD to pick which set of fans had to die first, I would happily and wholeheartedly pick Beliebers (I would actually lend a hand and just start shooting them myself). For those of you in a coma after being in an accident that deafened you and also stopped your brain from receiving thought, Beliebers are Justin Bieber fans- the scariest and most likely to kill for sport of all fans of shit kiddy ‘artists’ (!) of today- they dominated my Twitter feed for the whole of Valentine’s Day with posts such as ‘Your boyfriend gets you flowers for Valentine’s Day, mine is writing me an album #justinismyvalentine’. Like, holy fuck. No, my boyfriend bought me flowers because HE’S REAL, WE’VE MET BEFORE, HE KNOWS I EXIST and I’M NOT LIKELY TO HAVE A LOCKET FILLED WITH HIS OLD HAIRS. Yeah, I said NOT LIKELY, so fuck off.

I’ve just realised that I have yet to comment on Lady Gaga’s actual music, but then again, no-one ever does. I rarely hear anyone say that her songs are good, but constantly hear remarks on her various attention seeking ploys packaged up and marketed as ‘eccentricity’. Can I just point out that the definition of ‘eccentric‘ is ‘Unconventional or slightly strange behaviour’, not ‘Trying far too hard to be weird because being weird gets you more attention’. If everybody’s weird, then nobody is weird- ever thought of that, Gaga? What are you going to do then- walk about in jeans and a cardigan with a… PLAIN BAG?!? Even then, I suspect that the vapid, soulless dicks running today’s popular cliques, sorry, fashion magazines would call it ‘revolutionary’.

To be fair, some of her songs are alright. Ish.

But even still, its hilarious watching the glittery face net masking Gaga’s facial rage of Adele’s whooping the shit clean out of her at the Grammys. Adele is the antithesis of Lady Gaga- unpretentious, down-to-earth and genuine, with neither a bell nor whistle in sight to spruce up her artistry.

I bet Lady Gaga is shitting herself. Oh, not because of Adele- she’s just making another dress.

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How To Be A Good Sport

As we make our way through life, it is inevitable that sometimes, no matter how hard we try, some bastard is going to eclipse the effort we made by being better. Whether this is in our professional lives, academically, socially or personally, we all know someone who we outwardly applaud for their flawless performance and excellent example, yet wouldn’t think twice about murdering them if we could evade imprisonment and resultant shower gang rape. However, mastering the art of being a good sport when someone beats you (because life IS a competition, and people who say it isn’t are too scared to compete- chumps) is an incredibly valuable resources because it makes you look graceful while also sticking two fingers up to the overachieving fucker who did better than you, which is kind of like winning in itself. Ha.

Anyway- here are some ways in which you can achieve the appearance that you don’t care that someone’s doing/ has done a bit better than you, when you would rather just get a pair of scissors and cut them out of your life entirely:


Named after the Fleetwood Mac song ‘Songbird’, this easy and satisfyingly bitchy and callous move involves suffixing every congratulatory statement made to your frenemy with the words ‘FOR YOU’ (because these words are used frequently throughout, and every time I hear the song I want to slay Fleetwood Mac in the street for disrespecting me- wankers). The Songbird implies to the achiever that their achievements are only good for them because they are seriously damaged. Zing.


Achieving Belittler status is a tricky, yet incredibly satisfying act when wanting someone to feel that, despite doing incredibly well, they just aren’t a good enough human being and should commit suicide immediately to do the whole world a favour. For example- when someone does better in an exam than you, a Belittler would say, ‘What result did you get? 98%? Yeah, that’s good FOR YOU. That’s great how you can just regurgitate all of someone else’s original thoughts like that, you must have one empty brain to be able to take in all that information. My problem is that I struggle to concentrate because I’m always thinking about my various commitments to my busy life- you’re so lucky to have so much free time.’


A guaranteed way to negate other people’s achievements, thus making the fact that you failed while they succeeded smaller in your own deranged, petty mind is to train yourself to prefix their achievements with the word ‘wee’, or even better ‘ach, your wee’. To put this into context- I have spent the last few years travelling to some of the world’s most epic places, and nothing makes me feel worse about the fact I have spent my 20s doing this rather than engaging in a cycle of producing endless horrible, smaller, more damaged versions of myself and getting married to a man who has said he (quote) ‘does not want to marry me’ (the fact that he uses the word ‘yet‘ in their somewhere is irrelevant- the callous bastard has stole the best years of my life and does he want to put a ring on it? Does he fuck.) is when people ask me ‘Ach how’s your wee travelling going? Your wee travelling is great, good FOR YOU for doing the wee travelling before you get old and decrepid and die. It’s not for me personally, I have better things to do and people who want me around, but its good FOR YOU and your wee life. Achh.’


A great way to be a good sport in your own mind is to ignore the achievements of others because you simply cannot deal with the fact that others move on and progress while you spend every night crying into your tin of cold baked beans and wondering if your neighbours will loot your house before alerting anyone to your death 7 weeks ago that they only discovered because of the stink your rotting corpse was giving off. Of course, in the Ignorer’s mind this scenario is translated as ‘a commitment to getting some of your five-a-day and being an independant woman’. The art of being an Ignorer is to ensure that you NEVER acknowledge other peoples’ successes- when they talk about them, turn the TV volume up and drown the bastard out, leave the room or stick your fingers in your ears and sing loudly until they stop talking. Bastard.


Constantly reminding those who have just done better than you of other, bigger achievements that they have yet to master is an excellent way to say ‘Your life is still a fucking failure’, and in the case of the Next Stepper, the more outlandish, random and unjustifiable the comment, the better. For example, when someone has a baby and you are childless and alone, congratulate them by saying, ‘Well done FOR YOU, personally, I don’t know how one could settle down without a swimming pool. But then again, I suppose you can’t afford it what with being poor.’ In doing this, you can actually justify your own shortcomings as being a ‘good friend’. That person will definately attribute their successes in life to you pushing them to achieve better. Yes.

And finally…


The Saboteur is the only proactive way to be a good sport when you are really a cold, unfeeling cunt, because it involves actively ensuring your rivals never achieve their goals by sabotaging their efforts. On the sly. For example, if your friend is trying to get pregnant, lace her tea with crushed up contraceptives. The Saboteur also has the added bonus that, in secretly mentally abusing someone, you can also be their knight in shining armour when you swoop in and accompany her to resulting fertility treatment or be her shoulder to cry on (remember to justify this in your own mind that she would be a bad mother anyway). Hey, maybe she’ll even choose you as her ‘plus one’ when she goes on Jeremy Kyle to relay her plight to the public. You fucking star!

Well, there you have it- six ways in which you can start your journey on the road to being a good sport.

In hindsight, I should have called this ‘How to Cut Down Your Lifestyle Costs By Living In Prison.’

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TOWIE- The Only Way Is… Execution??

Last night’s TV line-up was particularly paltry, so I was forced to look through the depressing pile of piss I had stored in my Sky Plus planner, much like a weary and disillusioned eagle picking through a turd-carcass.

Through lack of anything better to choose, I opted for Bouncers, a TV programme made BY Sun Bingo enthusiasts, FOR Sun Bingo enthusiasts. The premise of the programme follows the lives of nightclub bouncers working in the town of Newport, Wales (a bit like Guantanamo Bay meets Butlins, but shitter and more violent), highlighting the difficulties they face daily working in a town that holds the world record for ‘most Jeremy Kyle guests to come from a single shithole’. The concept bypassed the behaviour expected by drunk, inebriated, toothless morons, but not before mooning it and calling it a ‘fucking slag’, settling straight into a place where using the pub toilets to multi-task in the art of similtanaeously excreating while fellating a fellow nightclub attendee (true story) is socially acceptable.

After one nightclub goer got too drunk to exist in the realm of normality, she was lifted by a bouncer, slung over his shoulder and placed outside in the care of her burly lesbian partner- after which, the bouncer discovered that she had pissed all over his uniform mid-removal. The burly lesbian was greatly amused by this and asked to smell his hands after he tried to wipe himself clean of, let’s face it, urine soaked chylamidia juice. And these are the people who actually get in to the nightclubs of Newport- one unlucky scumbag was refused entry due to not being a member… of the human race.

So you can imagine that after watching this, I was mildly happy to escape to the throes of irony-incomprehenders TOWIE. Unbelievably, the programme has managed to deteriorate from previous series of mild giggling, awkward bromances and shameless self-promotion to become 45 minutes of watching the most undeserving bunch of wankers sit on corner sofas from the DFS sale, play with mini-dogs and generally whine about very little. Oh and opening the same shop over and fucking well over again.

Last night’s episode chronicled the aftermath of Gemma’s fake party in which the whole cast got together to congratulate themselves for being the largest bunch of unlikable wankers known to man, which was a perfect opportunity for the rest of the world to set fire to the building, killing the cast and re-inventing the show as a more entertaining concept of staring at a blank screen. At least the acting would be better. Gemma, a younger, less vivacious Pat Butcher is the only person that I can summon up the empathy to vaguely like of the whole cast- and even then I would happily shoot her point blank in the face and use her ample body for firewood- but unfortunately, she was not-very-believably hungover and spent the entire episode behind a sea of poor excuses for fishwives listening to a clairvoyant tell them about their lives when no-one had the fucking wit to realise that the clairvoyant could have just watched the show prior to showing up- the fact that Lydia is going out with someone who like pies is common fucking knowledge- you pack of moronic dickheads. Hilariously though, the clairvoyant failed miserably to conjour up any accurancy in her reading, proving that people won’t watch the show even when you pay them. Thankfully, Alan-Carr-in-drag bastard tramp Debbie wasn’t invited, which is great news for my TV as I have the overwhelming urge to fuck it out the window every time her whiny tones dampen my ears.

The rest of the show was peppered with scenes of Lauren Pope and Michael Jackson re-incarnation Chloe Sims, who decide that an appropriate response to the prospect of the potential health risks posed by their current silicone implants is to get new, bigger implants. Thankfully, human Ken doll Joey Essex, complete with plastic nub where genetalia should be, dominated the rest of the programme with his ongoing quest to make the phrase ‘salty potato’ happen. Give it up Joey, your popularity is fading quicker than the thigh material of Arg’s jeans, you fucking twatty man-child bastard.

Right, I’m off to Newport with my burly lesbian partner and a full bladder. See you on Monday.

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My Diet Tips For A Brand New You

There is no denying that the diet industry is incredibly lucrative. Even during a time when economic resources are scarce, you couldn’t swing a cat in the Red Herring concession in any given Debenhams without hitting several women rifling through the sale section to find clothes that are notoriously made a size too big. I even sat through a 3 minute advertisement on prime time television for Weightwatchers the other day, in which lots of sparkly shoe-clad women dance up and down the streets of London in celebration of their transition from ‘complaining about weight and doing fuck all’ to ‘complaining about weight and doing fuck all in 24 Weightwatcher points or under’.

Ahhhh Weightwatchers- a diet so cult-like that those on it spend their whole day talking about how great it is, only to get pissed too quickly on your ‘small glass of wine’ at the weekend and forcefeed yourself 4 kebabs with shots of house sauce, regain your 3 and a half stone and drag your lifeless corpse to Slimming World, where you do the same thing all over again, with the slight difference that you get more points on red days. Or something.

Thinkinggal is, for once, ahead of the game when it comes to diets, having devised my own diet- sorry, “lifestyle choice” a few years ago that I stick to religiously, and for a limited time only, I am going to share my diet secrets with the readers of this blog- which I suspect consists of my mother, the police department who deals with murders in the greater Liverpool area and aspiring serial killers.

My diet is called ‘The Self-Depreciation Diet” and, like the Dukan diet, is built in stages. I follow the same plan over the course of a month, and repeat again every month thereafter. Each stage is different and contributes to sustaining an overall balance of lifestyle, based on a mixture of self-loathing, irrational thoughts and general eating disorders. Now admittedly, Thinkinggal could be in better shape (after a few tins of Ambrosia Creamed Rice clubbed together and wrapped itself in a bit of red string and won first price in a ‘Thinkinggal in a Bikini’ lookalike contest- hint taken), but ”lifestyle choices” aren’t to be rushed. Now fuck off and stop making me feel bad about it.

Here’s how it works:


Hit the gym like fucking Rambo, giving it ninety on the treadmill and pumping your arms to the beat of ‘Maniac 2000’. Make sure to make it a competition with the ‘non-specials’ who surround you on the treadmill, out running every last one of the bastards and giving them an aul sneaky fingers as they drop off like flies. Go home every night and have your dinner on a tea saucer, portioned as though it was to feed a tiny squirrel who wasn’t very hungry. Feel amazing and tell yourself that from now on, things are going to change. You’re nobody’s bitch anymore. Keep repeating dillusional phrases and song lyrics about triumph over adversity to yourself.


Hit a brick wall on Friday and have a small alcoholic beverage with dinner. Get pissed due to lack of food in system and start drinking wine straight from the box and then use the silver bag within as a tramp pillow. Go to Tesco and buy all junk food placed on the ends of each aisle, as this is the cheapest way to be a greedy bastard with absolutely no shame, eat it all on the way home ensuring your boyfriend doesn’t get a single sweet and then shout at him for being disappointed, because he called you ‘fat’ but not in so many words, with his eyes. Bastard.

Sit on the wall outside the gym and drunkenly shout abuse at the stupid bastard gym wankers taunting you with their presence.

Order yourself a chinese every night, making sure to note that all meals with noodles or rice in them are A SIDE ORDER and therefore count as a low calorie snack. Yes, this includes main meals. Oh and things that are battered too- they’re sides as well.

Always ensure you leave the tiniest bite of everything you eat back on your plate because then it means you haven’t ate it, e.g. leaving a nut from a King Size Snickers bar uneaten will negate all calories consumed prior because you didn’t eat it all, thus practically meaning you only had a bite, which is nothing really.

STAGE  3: DETOX (Days 15 9.00am to 9.30 am)

Even though the Replenishment stage of the diet helps you to fill your digestive system full of great, healthy food for the soul, detox is necessary in order to rid your system of nasty oxidents that even lurk in the best of foods. This might come as a shock, but its true.

Detox by not eating anything. Swear you don’t need to eat anything. All you need is nature- look at the beautiful world we live in. Everything is wonderful, calm and relaxing. Your system thanks you.


Crash like a bastard and start raiding the cupboards for anything you can eat before you faint or die of the untreated diabetes that is festering in your system. Find a cola ice-pop right at the back of your freezer and shove it down your gullet before realising that it is actually a sachet of gravy from an old box of Limited Edition Microchips. Eat the bastard anyway. Eat flour, that mixes with your tears of distress and becomes floury-cry paste. Crumble a beef stock cube on a packet of dried noodles and eat them like Twiglets. Eat the sort of things an ravenous dog would turn his nose up at, lie on the kitchen floor and berate yourself for being a sorry excuse for a human being.

Have an ephiphany while lying on the floor that things could not get much worse and get on iTunes and download the Greatest Hits of Pink- who you slag off in front of everyone but secretly think her lyrics are like poetry that she stole from your head, the thieving bitch. Cry your big fat eyes out and sing along to ‘Just Like a Pill’ on repeat.

Don’t move from the house for days. You had a wee bit of a realisation and you need to heal, so everyone else can go fuck themselves. When your mother tries to pull you out from under what she describes as ‘clinical depression’, call a spade a spade and accuse her of being a jealous bastard that you’re doing well on your diet and she’s out running round the park like a fucking chump. The only time you get out of bed is to make yourself calming foods like Kebab Soup and Chip sandwiches made on soy bread because you’ve changed- from the inside out.


Rationalise your procrastination by saying that the month is nearly over. Ack fuck it, there’s no point in starting now. Might as well head down to the shop and buy a few doughnuts (which symbolise your new mantra to ‘focus on the doughnut, not the hole) and a King Size Mars Bar and a King Size Mars Ice Cream to ensure you are adequately fueled for the journey ahead of you next month. Have an extra large box of wine every night to celebrate the letting go of the old you, and the new you that is about to emerge, like a big bastarding butterfly from a cocoon of utter and complete fuckwhittery.

And then it all begins again. And this time, I’m keeping it off.

You’re welcome 🙂

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