Things I have been doing whilst procrastinating:

- Sleeping until noon.

- Making myself a bedroom door.

- Plotting a great escape.

- Pretending I don't know that seven of my friends' birthdays are happening over the weekend so I can put off having to spend money I really don't have.

- Flying around the countryside on the back of a motorbike.

- Inhaling insects left, right and centre.

- Randomly speaking in an American accent.

- Drooling over True Blood.

- Watching repeats of True Blood.

- Dodging the weird people down Walmgate who pretend they know you, take you down an alley and steal all your damn money. Assholes.

- Suspecting everyone of being said assholes.

- Deciding that standing under a tree in a storm was risky and so sat under a metal bridge instead.

- Getting very wet.

- Going to a surprise party and took lots of pictures.

- Finding tons of pictures of boobs on my camera and spent the night guessing whose they were.

- Cooking for half of the kids on the estate because my mum's friend couldn't afford to feed her kids this week and then my sister invited all her friends around.

- Going slightly mad and barricaded myself in my room.

- Drinking a peculiar Polish drink that made me hyper and dopey at the same time.

- Writhing in agony over the thought of waiting for another seven days for True Blood. Yeah, I'm hooked.

What have you been up to? (if anyone still reads this thing)

Rhiley's Christening: The Saga

This past Sunday was my nephew's christening. And before I go any further I'll just point out that none of my family are religious. At all. Ever. It just so happens that my brother's mother-in-law was still talking to us when their first kid was christened, and another two kids later my sister in law is trying to be democratic by keeping them all equal. But now her lizard of a mother isn't talking to any of us because we're common and rough apparently. Charming woman.

Part I: Shopping for presents

Me and my mum had gone out in search of a decent present and a card that didn't have some gawky "Our prayers are with you" crap inside it yesterday and split up to search for a normal-ish card.

We met up ten minutes later to see what we'd found. I held up a "Deepest Sympathy" card.

"Nicky! That's awful." My mum said.

"Well what have you got that's better?" I said, pointing at a card she was holding.

"Just this one. Look, it says 'Get well soon' in it."

Part II: Finding an outfit for my sister

My sister is one of those REALLY hot-headed people who will blow a fuse at almost anything and is also absolutely infuriating to spend time with. So imagine my horror when we had to take her shopping.

Imagine Pearl Harbour with a hint of Hannah Montana.

Bleurgh.

My mum was trying to dress her up like a seven-year-old but my sister wasn't having it at all so I took over and all hell broke loose.

"Cleo... No. Cleo! Those shoes are vile, you look like an effing prostitute."

"Just let me try them on..." She said, holding them behind her back.

"I'm telling you, they're disgusting. They are the pinnacle of ugly."

"JUST let me TRY them ON!" She starts yelling. Marching towards a mirror.

"Well at least get the right size!" I shout after her.

"SHUT UP YOU IDIOT AND LET ME TRY ON THE SHOES!" She screams just as I shriek "THEY'RE THREE SIZES TOO SMALL FOR YOU, ASSHOLE."

Happy families.

Part III: The ceremony

It had already got off to a shaky start with my sister-in-law's family blatantly ignoring my family, sitting on the other side of the church from us, parking on the other side of the car park from us etc. etc. when the vicar asked for Rhiley.

There was a pause...

"He's in the car." My brother mutters before running out.

Then the actual ceremony started, baby and all, when my sisters-of-sorts' kids started SCREAMING. The vicar carried on anyway, talking very loudly. We were given these sheets to read off but we all kept missing our cues and got shown up by my sister-in-law's family who are all devout-ish Roman Catholics and so knew every prayer off by heart while my side of the church was muttering "Where are they reading that from?" and "Fuck! Were we meant to say something?"

And because the after-party was being held in a pub, as soon as the vicar said the last words on the sheet of paper we were given, my great-uncle Chris clapped his hands together and shouted "Right lads, pub!" which carried around the room pretty swiftly.

Part IV: YOUR BOOBS!

My grandma has had breast cancer twice and as a result now has no boobs at all, but has these weird things that she can shove down her bra and I mentioned yesterday that she should wear them, and so she did, but I hadn't noticed...

My brother: "You're looking great grandma." Suck-up...

Grandma: "Well yes... *whispers something* but Nicky hasn't noticed yet..."

Me: "What?" I ponder for a moment, and the church went a little quiet. "YOUR BOOBS!"

The vicar was kind enough to show me the exit.

Part V: The pub

My SIL's parents/family didn't stay around because apparently pubs are below them so it was just my family, my brother's army mates, my sister-in-law's friends and all their kids. Rowdy. As. Fuck.

There was awesome food courtesy of my SIL, awesome Rhiley-cake and awesome drinks, courtesy of the bar but not my mother or brother who refused to buy me any because of a supposed £2500 fine.

Huh. Yeah right.

Whatever.

Part VI: The verdict

Awesome day. Rhiley smelt of religion afterwards though which was slightly alarming. But then he pooped and it was normal again. I also got the first ever picture of me and my dad together EVER which is just amazing.



You could hear the psycho themetune playing at this point.



Rhiley Awesome Face with his sisters Eboni and Kelsi. Don't be fooled by their innocent good looks. They are actually the epitome of evil.



Awesome Face starred on the cake as well.



Me and my bro invented the spazzy snazzy photo.

---

The one thing, the one tiny thing, that I could not stomach was Awesome Face's outfit. Cute as he was... bleh. Because honestly?



I've seen it before. And that scares the shit out of me.

R.I.P. Zebbie EPIC Gaines

Meet Zebbie.



Zebbie is the same age as me (16.5) give or take a few days, and he's always been around. He's the best dog in the world and has been with me through all the times, and everyone in the family loves him. My brother jumped between Zebbie and a gun a few years back - we love him that much. Last week he had to be put down and we only found out from my aunt today. It's been a really tough day.

And because I think Zebbie was an insanely clever dog who probably would read my blog if he felt so inclined, I'm going to recycle a post a wrote about him last year in his honour.

And he had A LOT of honour, he was one of those holier-than-thou dogs.

A BIG one of those, in fact. But it never stopped him from standing under the dinner table at my grandma's on Boxing Day with his head on my lap so I could sneak him food.

Awesome dog.

Anyway...

My Furry Best Friend

No, I don't mean Matt.

I refer you to Zebbie, the family dog. He lives with my auntie and I've grown up with him, we are the same age.

I'm going to give you as many reasons as I can think of why this dog is the best dog in the world.

He's warm.

My brother - Paul - refers to Zebbie as 'the hot water bottle' because he will (usually unwillingly) get in bed with you and keep you warm whilst growling because you've trapped him there. It's oddly soothing.

He's cranky.

He's fifteen now, so he's old in dog years. His back legs don't work so well, he's half deaf and half blind. He's a grumpy old man with a bad temper, and will growl at anything. This is kind of endearing as he never growls at me. He knows me.

He's childish.

He's juvenile and despite being a miserable old bugger he loves running around playing fetch, and then when he catches whatever you throw him, he utterly decimates it. He has us all on edge with his antics. It's similar to when my eighty-year-old great-uncle Ernest was racing up and down a field on a quad bike at seventy miles per hour at my uncle's wedding and we were all shrieking at him to slow down and take it easy.

He's a snob.

He acts like he owns EVERYTHING. He has breakfast cooked for him every morning, we all feel morally obliged to feed him under the table at family functions, he buries everybody's underwear, he poos wherever he sees fit and he'll shove past you if you aren't going somewhere fast enough.

Oh, and he'll drag you around for miles if you take him for a walk and there's not a damned thing you can do about it.

He's romantic.

He's not a shameless doggy lothario. He's a proper gentlemanly dog.

He's a toddler.

He still has a blanket which he sleeps with every night and woe betide anyone who dares to steal it.

He's a softy.

Especially with me. When my parents went to America and I had to shack up on my grandma's couch for two weeks, I was pretty upset and Zebbie picked up on that. He slept beside me on the sofa (very squished...) and kept me company all night long. He then had a hissy fit when my grandma hit me with a walking stick to wake me up the next morning.

(The flipside to this is that he actually held me hostage on the sofa. Every time I moved he growled and then if I stopped stroking his head he nudged me awake.)

He's crap with children.

He hates it when Kelsi or Eboni swarm around him. He's become such a grumpy bastard. When we were young he was very protective over me. He'd sit with me in my grandma's garden and keep watch whilst I played, and he'd whine if I cried. He also let me sit on his back sometimes.

We're a couple of losers.

We've been known to sit in the drive at my grandma's house and complain about the world. Well, I do the complaining, he just barks at things.

He's a sheepdog.

I've never seen him around sheep but when we used to go for walks in the fields near my grandma's place, he used to run around in the hay and go ape-shit crazy. Unfortunately this got up the arse of a very grouchy farmer who pulled out his shotgun on him. My bro was pretty quick to jump in the way.

And finally, he makes an awesome fairy.

When he was a puppy (ish...) I dressed him up in my fairy costume. He looked awesome. I have it on video somewhere...

---

So three cheers for the Zeb-meister, for he is the most fantastical old bastard I've ever come across for sure.

---

R.I.P. Zebbie EPIC Gaines
May 1993 - 15th July 2009

Lurky McStalkerson - like Santa only not terrifying.

[This was meant to be posted last Thursday but my pig-sister got in the way]

Let me start by saying that I haven't even remotely been flipping out over what to write here for the last week or so.

Not even a tiny bit.

Shut up.

No.

Instead, I spent today having a "strategic meeting" with Lemon and Denny about our upcoming endeavours in VAMPIRE TOWN Whitby (Ed. note: It was awesome) because Denny has an awesome house there.

Pretty soon we ended up on the York City Walls (alternative picture: When has the weather ever been that good here?) in a corner that we claimed on Christmas Eve which has a gorgeous view of the Minster and so we were sat around and on the gaps in the wall which Denny likes to push me through so that I FALL TO MY DEATH but I don't and it's just lucky she's so adorable or else I'd just have to kill her and I've forgotten what I was typing about.

Oh yes.

We were sat talking about everything and anything when a weird-ass, balding, Lurker-looking man strolls up and sits down opposite us. I'm sat on the far edge of the walls so I can see him and Lemon and Denny are talking. Now, I know this guy is listening in because he started laughing at the idea of Haddock (WHO HE DOES NOT KNOW) running around naked with a chainsaw, and so after about an hour we took off to walk around the walls (they surround Old York) and on the way we lost Lemon. We went full-circle and an hour and a half later we arrive back at square one and thought the man was gone...

It turned out that he was lurking behind the wall, scaring the shit out of me and leaving us greeting him rather hysterically, and then we ignored him.

Two minutes later: "Where's your mate?" meaning Lemon. I explained that she'd left and carried on talking to Denny, and eventually he left, leaving me and Denny guessing what he wanted, other than Lemon's marvelous tits, obviously.

And then! And then!

He came lumbering back, at which point Denny and I took off like a shot.

Stupid lurker-man.

Tonight I'd sleep with one eye open but I fear that it'd get all dry and shrivel up like a raisin.

Huh. Connundrum.

Anyway, in happier, less lurky news, the Red Arrows were flying today, which means we'll be seeing some gorgey displays soon.

Here's a teaser:





Trivia: On top of being a black rapper, Jude Law's nanny and Eminem's bitch, I also want to enter the Red Bull Air Race.

Awesome sauce.

My Bad.

Forgot to say I'm on holiday. I'll be back on Friday.

I live with a deaf swine.

I was going to post about being stalked to death today but something far more pressing has caught my attention.

My sister is a slob.

A messy, smelly slob.

Whose carbon footprint is bigger than that of a T-Rex caught in a fire.

A deaf T-Rex at that.

I do not know how many times I have told her today - or any other day - not to be such an arsehole, but no. She still won't listen.

The last twenty four hours have been very painful.

Cleo! Can you not leave your goddamn crocs in the middle of the hallway? Why do you even wear those things?

CLEO! Stop leaving your clothes on the bathroom floor.

Cleo? Stop putting your crap in my room. It's MY room.

Oh for God's sake! Stop pissing on the toilet seat.

TURN THE FUCKING LIGHT OFF, IT'S THREE IN THE AFTERNOON.

Am I being unfair? Am I nagging? Am I screaming at her too quietly for her to hear?

Or is my sister just a complete arse, head and hole?

Normal service will resume on the weekend when Cleo's funeral is done with.

The WicKeD side.

For some awful reason I drank way too much last night, blowing past the recommended weekly limit for alcohol in the space of 7 hours.

WHY? Why did I do that?

Now there is evidence all over the internet of just how amazing I am when plastered.

I'd BLOW YOUR MIND.

And also I'm pretty sure labour itself feels better than my head does right now. You know, if you gave birth through your ears and it was a liquid baby.

But this is not what concerns me.

This is:



Let me translate:

Can draws have sex?
What happens then?
Buttcake.

I want answers.

Disclaimer: Angelina Jolie is not a Nazi

Feast your eyes upon this:



Terrifying, I know, but this just happens to be her appearance in the oh-so-cheesy 'Sky Captain And The World Of Tomorrow' and is also the face of what tried to kill me in a dream I had recently.

It was truly a one-of-a-kind experience.

It all started off with me suddenly and, let's face it, horrifically becoming a surrogate mum for BFF Main Gay.5 and his girlfriend, when we were captured by Nazis. I started yelling about how I was pregnant and BFF Main Gay.5 was all "Excuuuuse me!" and his GF was all "WE PAID FOR A WOMB WITH A VIEW!" (!) and then loads of people from school arrived and I noticed that Angelina Jolie a la Sky Captain And The World Of Tomorrow was there with a wheelbarrow full of gluesticks and she was making Jordan from my year at school eat them and then he died because EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT PRITT STICKS ARE LETHAL KILLING MACHINES and then I realised that we were actually at school and OhMyFuckingGodTheNazisHaveTakenOverFulford so we escaped out of a window into a desert where we got caught and the Mummy himself invited us in to his pyramid, but after he found out I was allergic to cats he was all "BITCH!" and we had to leave.

THEN we were 'saved' by these Soviets who took us back to school and it turns out they were the Nazis' cousins and they all tried to turn us into boulders using that spray-on sealer stuff that's orange and expands when you squirt at people and/or spiders (vile little bastards...)

And that's when I woke up.

Phew. Game over.

I was of course traumatised for several days but was disappointed to see the lack of concern when I told BFF Main Gay.5 who, after I stressed that Angelina Jolie had tried to kill us, told me that it was just a dream.

JUST a dream!?

Ha. Hardly. It's the thought that fucking counts.