A right royal knee's up

This blog is about Amy Rowland. It’s long overdue and I can only apologise to the lovely, big bosomed lady who sits three doors to my right, her chirpy northern chatter like a lullaby to my right ear, her peroxide blonde hair a twinkle in the peripheral vision of my right eye, her smile, wit and warmth a wonder to behold.

Ever since I started this blog-fest, this marathon of writing (and it’s more than one a month Gareth Jones) Amy has been a fan. I’d even boldly go so far as to say she loves it. But as she read each entry – one about Hannah and I buying shoes, one about Gareth and I camping, one about Skinner and I eating lunch – she had but one question. When, Kim Willis, will I be featured?

Amy began to question her merits. Was she not as fun as Hannah? Did our nights on the town mean nothing?

But the more she pined, the drier the sponge that is my brain became. Yes, she is – you are – incredibly fun. I love it when Amy gets the giggles, I don’t think anything makes me laugh more than when Amy gets the giggles. I love it when she inappropriately grabs her boobs in front of men and says ‘I’m good at chatting up men’. I love that she hates it when people cry in front of her, doesn’t know how to react, and yet reacts as any perfect friend would when I cry. I love that she has a sense of humour comparable only with a man – and that’s why I love men. Because to them, everything is funny, nothing is offensive. Men and Amy Rowland.

So what to write my Amy tribute blog about? There can only be one night to recount.

I love it when friends from different social groups get on. Remember that scene in Spaced when Tyres takes everyone to a club and they all have a jolly time and he assess the situation from the smoke-filled doorway and, palms together, says ‘my work here is done’ ? That’s how I feel. Bring the brilliant people together, that’s my job.

And so I invited Nicola Apples Appleton and Amy Lysette Rowland for dinner at my house, along with Michael Henry Wiper and Olly Big Eyes Not Sure What Your Surname Is.

Sun shining, we gathered in the garden for pre-dinner drinks. Everyone was getting on just dandy. Olly’s a funny old man. He was in a relationship for seven years or some ridiculous amount of time, and has just broken free. He appears to be rather taken aback by how the world has changed since he was 15. His eyes are always wide, none more so than if you say something shocking. I’m sure he just has big eyes, but his constant look of rabbit-in-the-headlines shocked leaves me wishing I was a librarian.

We’re all outside, wine flowing, guacamole gone. I feel like Tyres - everyone is bonding well.

Dinner done, we sat about eating cheese. I think. I forget what was eating because all I can remember is what happened next. There was a lull in conversation. Shock! Horror! These people don’t know each other, there can’t be a lull! Don’t you worry, Amy Rowland to the rescue.

‘Shall we see how many of my mates will send me a picture of their cocks?’ she asks, as calmly as if she’s asking the time.

Olly’s eyes widen.

Amy whips out her phone and sends a message to all the men out there – hey you, long time no speak, could you please send me a picture of your cock – or words to that effect.

We all have a good laugh about how wild our Amy is. There were probably a few dick jokes and the banter was certainly restored. Within a minute her text message was all but forgotten.

And then… beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep. Not one, not two, but DOZENS of Amy’s male friends are apparently willing (and able – as in, in a place or situation where they CAN get their dicks out and take a picture) to send Amy a picture without question.

Olly’s eyes widen.

Amy gets the giggles.

We all gather round to judge the offerings.

And then – from one –the ultimate. Without even being asked, he sends more than just a picture. He sends a video, of him bringing himself to orgasm.

I think Olly slipped into a state of shock. I don’t think he knew girls like Amy existed.

Mike then proceeded to make a vagina out of his knee so that Amy had something to send back to the poor men. Most of them thought they were in, quickly texting back to find out if Amy was free and fancied a drink.

A lesson, to anyone lucky enough to be a man and in Amy’s phonebook, is never ever send her a picture of your penis upon request, because you never know what kind of lull she is trying to fill, how many of her friends she is going to show and how many of Mike’s knees she’ll borrow to make you think she thinks your penis is worth a picture of her fake knee-vagina.

I think you think she’ll think it’s your lucky day, but I know she knows you don’t know it’s just a hairy knee.

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On a wing and a prayer

People are always surprised when I say I’m not one for adrenalin.

I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I charge around a lot and make noise when drunk. It makes people think I want to jump out of a plane. Maybe it’s because of my assertive nature. It makes people think I want to risk my life on some white water rapids.

Whatever the assumption, it’s wrong. I don’t want to jump out of a plane and I certainly don’t want to rapid any water, white or otherwise. I like my water serene, blue, with tropical fish swimming in it while I sunbathe nearby. I like my planes to take me to hot countries, not high into the sky only for me to plummet back down to earth. I’m sure my heart would think I was trying to kill myself and would have an attack before I got to the bottom anyway.

When I (rarely) go on rollercoaster rides I am too scared to scream. I just shut my eyes and pray to survive. Tammi and I once took our darling sister Pip, blind and epileptic, on a rollercoaster. I still shudder at the memory. It was at Legoland, and there were kids knee high to a grass hopper queing up, how scary could it be? But for Tammi and I, with sight, it was the scariest thing we’d ever done. Poor Pip was in tears in seconds, I thought she was going to have a seizure. The picture they take of you ‘having fun’ on the down bit just shows the three of us cowering in each other’s armpits while my then boyfriend cheered and whooped alone. Horrible.

This job doesn’t really help my confidence for adrenalin. Off the top of my head I can think of a dozen stories I have chased to fuel my fear: a girl on a rollercoaster who got flung off. Died. A guy who jumped out of a plane and his parachute didn’t open. Died. A couple who got lost on a mountain side and spent days battling the elements. Survived. Earned me £3000. Nice.

The point is, when my best friends present me with a birthday present of a gliding trip, I have to wonder how well they actually know me. One of the friends, Michael Henry Wiper, suffers a lot for his cause (of being my best friend). He once got me a bar of soap for Christmas. He hasn’t forgotten it because I remind him pretty much every day. ‘My distant relatives get me toiletries for Christmas, it’s because they don’t know me,’ I told him at the time, just before I ripped off the wrapping to find not a brand new coconut and lime soap (would at least have shown he knows what I like the smell of) but a used, still frothing bar, complete with a pube.

I think he thought he was being funny. I think that was the last year I spend £25 on him.

So as I tried to sound enthusiastic and grateful, my inner demons were drunk on the fear. Was I expected to fly a plane? Land the plane? Parachute out of the plane? Am I even in a plane or being dragged behind it?

The day neared and Mike and Cords (present givers) and Cesca (home for high jinks) and I set off for a beautiful summer’s day in Devizes.

Thank goodness Cesca was leading the driving convoy and got us lost in Bath for an hour. Stalling, stalling, I like it… Then she got stressed out and demanded we go to a pub first. Dutch courage, yes please, make mine a double.

Lunch was lovely and the last time I’ll see Cesca for probably two years. But it wasn’t as sad as last time she left, for some reason. Maybe because I’ve got used to the idea of her leaving. Maybe because I had other things on my mind, like my impending death.

We arrived at the airfield and a man with a big belly and a stupid hat proceeded to tell us that gliding is a sport (is that how he keeps so trim) and that not even a sip of alcohol is permitted in your system. My chance to opt out? Nah, the vodka sitting inside me gave me a new found confidence. Screw him and his rules! Hand me the plane, I’ll be fine.

As it was, I had nothing to worry about. It was a two man glider and my instructor, Dave, or Ben, or something, I don’t know, I wasn’t concentrating on his name, I was concentrating on the girth of his plane… was a lovely man who was clearly used to wimps like me. Off we went to snoop around the stately homes and swimming pools of the many gardens of the many little villages in Devizes. I think I even saw Cesca’s manor house. I definetly saw one of her horses. I think it was the little beauty who threw me off not so long ago.

At one point Dave Ben let me be in charge of the joy stick thing. I think he immediately regretted it as I didn’t have a tender enough touch for so delicate a manoeuvre as a nose dive and we probably almost died.

Once I’d got used to it, I could enjoy the view and the sunshine and the looking at houses from on top. I would even go so far, now I’m back on safe ground, as to say it was over too quickly. It was certainly better than soap.

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Bestival Festival

What really annoys me about muddy festivals is there is always one ‘crazy loon’ (twat) who thinks it’s really funny to slide around in the mud, laughing manically while smearing mud on their face, in their hair, over their tops. They are usually not one, actually, but a group of equally annoying ‘mad’ people all throwing mud at each other and having a really fun time.

As I watch them from the sanity, sanctity and sanctuary of my waterproofs, I can’t help thinking that they haven’t thought through their little game.

I mean, what are the practicalities of mud swimming? You get muddy, wet and cold very quickly. Then what? You go back to your tent where you don’t have a shower and you get changed into cold wet clothes that haven’t been hanging over a warm radiator.

Do they sleep like that? Doesn’t the mud dry on their faces?

Another thing that annoys me about festivals is the eternal question when you get back – what bands did you see. I didn’t see any bloody bands. Screw the bands!

Festivals are about getting drunk and talking to strangers. Festivals are about meeting people called Strider and drinking cider for breakfast. They are about realising your friends are so brilliant they could be in that Carling advert where all the great friends play cricket on the beach and DO NOT play in the mud. Something in the festival air made me love my friends very much indeed.

Ok, I think I did see the Bees, or at least was in ear shot of them. Apparently I was at Hot Chip. The one guy I did want to see, Scroobious Pip, changed his slot and played before his allocated time so we missed him. His loss.

The music guides were £6 which really annoyed me too as I’d already forked out £150 to bloody walk through the muddy gate. Surely that should be included in the price?

But I didn’t need a guide. I just needed to know where Cesca was at all times to ensure I was having optimum fun. And fun I did have. So much so that I think I have slipped into depression now.

I cried last night and even went so far as to doubt myself as a person which is ridiculous as I’m pretty bloody brilliant. If I remember correctly I cried because I asked Gareth to talk to me about some twaddle and he suggested we play table tennis. Tear-worthy stuff.

I think this Bestival was my third favourite festival. I don’t like to moan about the mud, much, but it is a challenge. But one that this year I think we conquered.

Last year at Glastonbury, the mud definitely won. But this year, we won. We didn’t talk to nearly enough strangers but without grass to run around on or sunshine to run around in, I think people were less inclined to entwine. I’ll never forget Strider and Guy but there should have been 400 of them, each night. Most of the time, I'd even go so far as to describe Laurence as quiet. Unheard of.

Next year, it’s going to be sunny. The Isle of Wight has it’s own weather system, you see. It’s not like the mainland. Doesn't generate clouds, I tell you.

Last weekend was just a hiccup in the ever sunny realm of summer that is the Isle of Wight, and next year we will return almighty and hearts will be touched once more. Even just thinking about it is bringing me out of my depression and into a much sunnier disposition. Anyone for table tennis?

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It's a cat's life

Having dumped all my Bestival stuff in my room and headed back out into my hectic social life last night, I returned this evening to the fragrant pong of drying mud, musty caravan and wet clothes. Nice. As I set about tidying up, Chairman Meow, our beloved cat, came to sit with me.

Two things you need to know about Chairman are: when he first arrived he singled my bed out as the only bed in the house to wee on. All the time. And the other is that Gareth is allergic to him and so I’ve promised him that I never let him in my room.

Chairman! How lovely of you to join me. Come, take a seat on my bed why don’t you. May I say how lovely it is that you no longer pee on my bed? And my, what a fine coat you have.

We chatted as I continued to throw everything I’d ever owned into the ‘wash’ pile, for it had all been contaminated with the smell of mud.

Then, as cats do, Chairman had had enough of my charm and was off. I looked back at where he had been, and rage slowly surged through me. CHAIRMAN! You’ve pissed on my bed again!

A wet patch just where he’d been. Why you little !!!!

I chased after him, he now having a morsel of food from his bowl downstairs. I know what to do when a cat pees on your bed. I'm an expert. You put their face in it and hit their nose. That learns them. So I did this, him whimpering and trying to get away. As I held him, I realised he was rather wet and it had been raining when I got home…

Oh no. Someone arrest me for cruelty to animals. I smelt the wet patch. I’d know if it was cat wee. It’s the most horrible smell in the world.

The duvet was odourless. I hugged Chairman tightly, apologising profusely.

You don’t understand what I’m saying but I’m so sorry Chairman, I thought you’d weed, you hadn’t….I’m forever sorry, I pleaded, nuzzling up to him. He wriggled from my grip and sauntered out, our friendship gone. Our secret bedroom meetings behind Gareth’s back, over.

Just as he left me, Gareth called. I was too upset to hide my emotions and told him everything.

Reminds me of that story your Grandma (always) tells us, Gareth laughs. You know, the one about the Welsh dog, Bedd Gelert, who was just trying to do a good thing and protect the baby. But his owner came in, saw him covered in blood and jumped to the conclusion that he’d tried to maul the baby, and shot him. Only later did he see the dead fox and realise the dog had protected the baby from the fox.

Great. So Chairman is likened to a hero baby saving dog by the very man who originally didn’t even like the bloody animal, and I feel even worse.

Think I’ll go open some tuna and buy back his love.

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Eye'll start a fight

My Telegraph Magazine (stolen from work) horoscope (read religiously) tells me change is afoot for Gemini's. ‘Do what you want for change,’ it reads. Hmm. I’m pretty sure I always do what I want and get in a strop if made to do otherwise. But I’ll take the advice and continue to do what I want, but with added vigor because now I know I am meant to do it, it’s in my signs.

Grimsby Telegraph, one of the local paper delights I sample on a daily basis, has another view. Their Russell Grant tells me to postpone chores, which I liked. Whatever you say Russell. But the Wolverhampton Express and Star told me Mars was taking charge of me and that I should dismiss doubts.

You might think these weird and varying takes on being a Gemini would put me off believing in all this stuff, but nope, it just makes me love it more. I don’t have to do chores, I can do whatever I want and take charge of my doubts. Or something. I’m not really reading it properly, just skim reading while I search for the complimentary bits and ignore the bits where it tells me I am sometimes neglectful of my loved ones. Pipe down Russel Grant! What do you know! If you haven't got anything constructive to say, don’t say it.

I do like being a Gemini though, it’s always worked well for me. We have two personalities, you see. That’s two people for the price of one. Bargain. We also have the gift of the gab, I was told once by a hippy with a joss stick. Went to school with a girl called Joss Stick. Nice girl, smelt a bit funny though.

In a nightclub around the time I wrote this entry in my beautiful notebook which my pesky nephew has since vandalised with his yobbish scrawlings, that is to say, a long time ago, (it takes me a long time to get the words from my notebook to the computer. It’s because I’m so busy with my dual personality. It’s tough being two people) Laurence managed to twat my eyeball with his dirty fingernail mid gesticulation. My contact lens flew out and my eye stung like a bee had bummed it. Or, I was to find out a month later, a flea had crawled inside it and biten me from under the lid. But that’s a story for another time. Right now, I was bleeding from my eye and running to the grotty loos with my contact lens on my tongue.

Evaluating the damage in the club loo, I was surprised to see Laurence had actually managed to draw blood from my eye ball. But even more shocking was the reaction I got from my new ‘homies’ in the loo. I think they were homies. Is there a new word for them since I left London and got a bit less street? My bitches. They were my bitches.

WHO HIT YOU? One screamed, puffing out her chest protectively, salivating at the thought of a good fight.

It all got a bit primeval then as the other girls, drawn by her shouts, gathered around me to assess the damage, plan revenge and offer me make up and tissues, for I may have been crying.

For extra attention.

No, it really did hurt.

A bit. I was drunk. I was getting a lot of attention.

Who was it? I’ll fucking have him! One shouts. She may have even punched her fist into her waiting, cupped hand, in anticipation.

You’re bleeding! I’ll deck him! She says.

Realising I was in the sort of nightclub where girls often ran into the loo in tears, blood dripping down their faces after another fight with a violent boyfriend, I realised I now had the power to get Laurence beaten up by a bunch of girls.

Now that would be funny.

It took a lot to resist describing him to my harem.

I would have done it, if Laurence wasn’t a fellow Gemini. That’s where my allegiance lies. With the Geminis. Sorry ladies.

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Running through my mind

If I was paid to write a column, which is my Number One Dream Job ever ever ever in the whole world, surpassing being paid to shop, being paid to eat Thai food or even being paid to sunbathe (okay, maybe not. But it’s my number one dream job out of all the things that are actually jobs. Although I suppose someone somewhere is paid to do those things? Mystery shoppers – paid to shop. Those people in palaces that check the food before it’s served to royalty – paid to eat. Paris Hilton – paid to sunbathe. But I digress. I think I’ll close this bracket and get on with my original point.)

Then… (if you are still with me) Then I would have been fired.

When I was given this blog, I saw it as an excellent training ground for my eventual landing of said dream job. All I have to do is find something to talk about once a week, at the least, and post it up here for all to comment on.

But of late I’ve been slack, so slack I don’t deserve a column, the only thing I really want. But fret not, my loyal army of readers (my sister has subscribed and I know my mum reads it) for I am back with a vengeance. I am here today to talk about running.

Never been much of a fan. Think it’s stupid, actually. But then Apples, my new friend at work, not christened by that Coldplay knobber, but actually called Nicola Appleton, I call her Apples to differentiate her from the other Nicola in my life and also because I like Apples and I like Apples… Er…I’ve done it again. My digressions go on for so long I have to put a full stop and start the old sentence again.

But then Apples, my new friend at work, asked me if I wanted to go for a run with her.

Hell yeah! Bonding with new friend, sweating, new type of exercise.

Before I knew it, I’d paid £30 to sign up to the Bristol half marathon and was ‘in training’ three times a week. My five year old Nikes were beginning to look a little sorry for themselves so Hannah and I took a little diversion on our way to Wagamamas, finding ourselves in the most exciting experience of buying shoes either of us have ever had. And one of us was Hannah Doyle, the Sun Newspaper Shoe Horder of the Year.

Moti Running Shop (Whiteladies Road, Bristol, for those who want to experience this pleasure) lured us in with the scent of rubber soles, trendy running clothes and novel ‘you need this’ running equipment. £10 for a water bottle with a clever space for your key? Sold! £15 for (one pair of) socks with Achilles Heel protectors and extra padding for where your shoelaces apparently constantly rub? Sold!

But what really impressed us, more than the key holding water bottle and mini sachets of glucose for when you ‘hit the wall’ (running term, yar, running banter) was the fact they had a treadmill and each assistant was trained in telling you exactly what was right or wrong with your step and therefore what kind of insole you required.

So I hopped on the treadmill and did a little run, which the lady filmed.

Hannah had the very important role of protecting the screen from the early evening sunshine. Couldn’t have done it without her.

Then we watched the film of my run.

Do I step off to the left? Lean on the right? Land weird? No I bloody do not. According to the assistant, who Hannah was convinced was a lesbian, I had a perfect step. No insoles required.

Geed on by her compliments, it was at this stage that I splashed out on the water bottle, socks and sugar. I couldn’t help myself, my perfect step made me do it. Hannah and I both had our feet measured and Hannah had perfect size three feet. Not many people have identically sized feet, but Hannah did, because she is also perfect, we were told.

When I mentioned that my boyfriend was a bit cynical about the treadmill and the ‘diagnostic imaging’ of my step, the woman shot me a look of disgust, and it was at this stage that Hannah’s wonderment at her sexuality was secured. I’m sure she’s just protective of a job she loves and belivees in, I tell Hannah outside. No, she’s a lezzer, Hannah retorts.

High from the adrenalin of buying new shoes, we headed to Wags too giddy to even need a drink. I think we might have had carrot juice or something equally wholesome.

Four weeks later, and my back has packed in. I’ve given up running. Always thought it was rubbish anyway, just needed to spend £100 on shoes and gizmos to affirm this. Now I’m a swimmer. Bought a new swimming costume and goggles to reiterate to myself that I am now a swimmer.

Never did like swimming. Don’t like smelling of chlorine. I like coconuts. Coconuts and apples.

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Grin and bear it

One of my favourite parts of the holiday was the hiring of a log cabin in the woods for a weekend. Rhianon and Christian left both their daughter and their dog with sitters and came for a weekend of drinking. I’m not one to rant and rave about my drinking exploits, but this was a hilarious weekend and one worth reciting.

Christian keenly packed a huge cool box for the weekend. What would one need for a weekend in the woods? Food? Water? Don’t be absurd. Beer and rum, that’s what.

Gareth and I went up to the mountains a day early to go mountain biking and tobogganing. To summarize, the biking was amazing: serene lakes, blissful sunshine and a lesson in bunny hopping (I was a natural. After that I wasn’t even scared to scale some bumps in the road that were AT LEAST a few inches big). The tobogganing was painfully slow, mosquito ridden, it rained on us and I was stuck within ear shot of the world’s worst family, painfully utilizing the world’s worst parenting skills, parenting the world’s most annoying brats. And it was expensive.

Nevermind, we got to the bottom and decided to make our way to the cabin before dinner so we knew where it was while we still had daylight on our side.

So we drove to the road in question without much ado. As we arrived at Covered Bridge Road, Gareth realised he’d left the instructions behind and we had no phone to contact the woman.

I think it was number 100 and something, he says confidently as we drive along. No, he says as we draw nearer, 400 and something. Definitely. As we approach the 400s, Gareth turns into every – single – driveway and declares that he has found our lodge.

It’s this one, it’s definitely this one, he says, jumping out of the car to go and find the key. The woman had told him she’d left the key under a chair on the porch. Every house in America has a chair on it’s porch, so you can imagine my despair as, in a country full of red necks with guns and a willingness to shoot, Gareth ran up to a dozen different houses and had a good nose about on their front porch.

Even if he found a key it wouldn’t mean we’d found our lodge and I can just picture us settling down to a nice hot cocoa as a surprised Jim Bob and his shotgun return home from a day of killing bears and eating beef jerky.

Luckily, the house we eventually settled upon did not seem to be occupied by a Jim Bob and the next day we were joined by Rhianon and Christian. Christian's got really big guns so I knew that once we were with him he could wrestle Jim Bob to the floor and we'd be declared victors of the lodge.

All too aware of the amount of booze Christian planned to consume, we set about playing an intrinsic drinking game commonly known as Cheat.

Each time you failed, you had to have a shot of Ameretto, until that ran out and we moved on to rum. I’d like to point out at this stage that Gareth and Christian were drinking Michelob LITE on the side of the shots, while Rhianon and I were on the rum.

Cheat came to an end and we tried 21 – a game where you go round in a circle counting up to 21. Sounds simple, until you add a torrent of ridiculous rules and a litre of rum.

Pretty soon, Christian was leaving a little something for the bears by throwing up everything he’d eaten for the last month in the back garden, Gareth was beating his sister up with a shoe and we were planning a walk in the woods to see if we could make the evening a little more memorable by having an encounter with some bears.

Gareth spent all the next day throwing up while Rhianon and I remained triumphant – not only did we drink more than the boys but we kept it down.

The next day we went for a walk in another strange town and found ourselves on a tour of a themed hotel. I desperately wanted to stay in the cinema suite (50ft plasma screen, watchable from a hot tub, private bar, giant bed, private bar, private bar, private bar) until Christian witnessed a guest complaining of getting tics in her neck while staying in the Camping suite and we realised a cheesy themed hotel probably wasn’t the most hygienic place to lay our heads. To be able to actually see all the seamen stains would be, as Gareth put it, a DNA inspector’s field day.

So we took a rain check, as they say over there, and drove home, via, just to make my weekend complete, a thai restaurant. Heaven. Heaven in a thai curry bowl.

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