Riot Wombles

To add to the melee of unnecessary drivel being written about the riots, here I am.

The Daily Mail are spitting bricks, Twitter and Facebook status updates appear to be variations of the same ‘Looter Scum, whatever next,’ hype machine that we can come to expect from ‘these days’.

Here’s an idea. These riots are bringing out the very best in some people. Comradeship, united fronts, new-found respect for a police force which, only a few weeks ago, were being ridiculed for their handling of the hacking scandal. Now, the Met Police are literally being applauded as they march London's streets.

The reaction to the riots makes me proud to be British. Yes, we have feral teenagers with nothing better to do than jump on a bandwagon, smash a window and run off with a packet of sweets, but we also have the Riot Wombles.

The Riot Wombles – an army of civilians wielding brooms, here to tidy up streets, boroughs, and cities. To tidy up a broken, shattered, burnt out Britain. With all it’s sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful Britain.






Sometimes, if I am going to be British I might as well feel proud. The Riot Wombles make me proud. So does the fact that there will be no Glastonbury festival next year because there will be the Olympics and we don’t have enough portaloos to cover both events. Isn’t that beautiful? A nation of 70 million people and we don’t have enough portaloos to cover two events at once. Who needs a well behaved society when you have a portaloo crisis to fall in love with instead.

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Brillo.

I find if I’m trying really hard not to do something, I’m all the more likely to do it. It’s like my brain likes to toy with me. My thoughts are saying ‘Don’t say she looks like Dawn French, don’t say she looks like Dawn French,’ and then my mouth says: ‘You look just like Dawn French!’

Ah, damage done. Well done brain, one to you.

And so it was when Nicola, my partner in crime and business, started abbreviating words. I didn’t like it. I’m a big fan of the English language. Text talk drives me crazy. The youth of today, they are pissing all over our beautiful words with their luv and their lol. Nic started with the occasional ‘obvs’ where she meant obviously, obviously. ‘Don’t join in, Kim, don’t join in.’ I bit my lip. I remembered what peace there may be in silence. I made a point of saying all my words right to the last syllable.

Then Nic started saying other words in the same way.

Lunch time arrived. ‘I’m hung,’ she’d say.

Fed and satisfied, she’d declare, ‘That was amaze.’

And then, as if from nowhere, I was joining in. I couldn’t help it. She had infiltrated my mind and, seeing as she was the only person I saw all day every day (we are a powerhouse of two) it wasn’t hard for her to wear me down.

‘Cup of coff?’ I asked, boiling the ket.

Yes, I sort of did hate myself. But it was also a lot of fun. Nic and I developed our own language. We out did each other with shorter and shorter abbreviations. Of course, it was funny for us, but it wasn’t something I was able to switch off at night, or at weekends, when talking to other human beings. They’d look at me strangely as I started off by abbreviating in the style Nic and I had become accustomed to, then, after a short pause mid-word in which I realised not all the world finds it as funny as we do, I’d finish my word. As if I got mid-word amnesia.

‘Glass of wine, Kim?’ weekend friends would ask.

“Yes please. Have you got any Sauv….(embarrassing pause…) ignon blanc?’

Mega embarro.

But, I soon let go of my embarrassment. Shortening words was funny and I realised other people were doing it, not just me and Nic. In fact just yesterday, my friend Hannah emailed me thus:

‘’I'm wearing sequined shorts this weekend whatever the weather. Whatevs the weaths.’’

And she works in London, where all the cool kids hang out.

Redeemed, I started shortening words willy nilly – will nill, dare I say.

But then came a really embarro situ, which caused me to think maybe it was time to reign in the old ‘cool speak’ and start talking like a normal person again.

Gareth and I had gone camping in Wales with friends. Beach bound, we’d arrived at a little shop, at which we were hiring body-boards and wetsuits. So already we weren’t as cool as the surfers.

‘Do you sell suncream?’ I asked the shopkeeper, in my usual too loud, too shrill, too posh voice.

‘Yes.’ He said.

‘Brillo!’ I replied. I hadn’t realised how loudly I had said it until I realised an entire shop’s worth of cool surfer types were all staring at me, and Gareth was backing away with a mortified look on his face, wondering how he could get out of this situation and relationship in tact. My middle class accented word wafting through the silence, ringing in my ears as only an embarrassing final sentence can. (If you can call ‘Brillo’ a sentence. I call it a death sentence.)

The shop keeper looked at me. Hannah in London may be shortening her words, but I’m not sure the trend has reached Pembrokeshire.

‘It’s, er, over there,’ he said, pointing at the suncream and hoping that I’d go back to Bristol and take my dismal excuse for conversation with me.

The girl in the queue behind me was the sort of person I’d like to punch in the face for being prettier, skinnier and now, better at English than me. She looked me up and down. I did not feel very brillo at all.

‘I’m really good at English!’ I wanted to shout. ‘I can spell definitely and necessary without spellchecker and I know the difference between their, they’re and there, god dammit.’ But of course, I just shuffled out of the shop with my tail between my legs instead.

‘You’re a dick,’ Gareth said as we walked to the beach.

I know, I know. You’d think I’d have learned a valuable lesson in letting other people do their funky thing with words while I stick to my resolute opinion that the English language is adequate, nay, beautiful, as it is and should not be tampered with.

Maybe skinny surf girl and stuffy shop keep man are the losers here. I should have turned the situation around on them.

‘Er, Wales, hello! I find it advantageous for sensible cerebrum space management to occasionally knock the last syllable of a word off, sometimes replacing it with an ‘O’, which you, surf girl, wannabe Auzzie, should appreciate, thus affording me commodious room in an otherwise overloaded brain, for thought and speculation about what’s really important in life – don’t for one minute presume that I did not get an A in English language, have not made a living out of words, or that I am of the generation scholars worry about for their inability to articulate their feelings or write proper sentences. Because I did, I do and I’m not.

Obvs.

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Girl Guide

I'm sorry. I dropped my pen. Where was I?

Gareth usually reels off a long list of reasons why he doesn’t want children. But after going to see Senna, the documentary about Formula One world champ Ayrton Senna, Gareth came home and declared that maybe we could have just one child, so that we could call him Ayrton.

It wasn’t enough to convince me that we’d suddenly become responsible and adequate parents, just because he had a cool name, so we instead lowered our expectations and raised the bar by deciding that perhaps Ayrton could be what we called the dog.

Which got me thinking. Maybe it was time we got a puppy. Puppies are so cute! Look, here is an example puppy, he's having a little sleep because he's tired from all the cuteness. Woof.

My friends Cesca and Mike have recently been looking after a guide dog in training. A very worthy cause. Basically the dog goes off to blind school every day and learns stuff, and you look after him at night until he’s graduated, at which point he leaves and goes to his new blind master. The Guide Dog people pay for all food and vet bills. So, you get the joy of having a dog, (a really intelligent, disciplined one) and you’re doing your bit for the blind.

I was very impressed with their venture. And as I like guide dogs and blind people, I decided to go one better than Cesca and Mike, whose dog was already in training when they got her, and get a puppy.

The Guide Dogs Association call it ‘puppy walking’ and what you do is you get a dog at eight weeks old (EIGHT WEEKS OLD!) and you look after it until it is old enough (a year) to go to school. Then you hand it over to some mugs like Mike and Cesca.

Well, that just sounds like the best idea in the world! A guide dog puppy, all cute and fluffy, who I can train to become really obedient and well behaved so that when he gets to school, he’s the best in the class.

I applied and seemed to tick most of the boxes. Work from home, tick. Willing to help the dog adjust to travelling in a car, on a bus, on a train, sure, no problem. I’d take Ayrton everywhere with me, he’d be my little shadow. Endless love, tick. Can’t remember what else was on the list. Oh, a garden. Minor problem. He can poo in the loo.

So the next step was to ask our landlady if we could get a puppy. Now, I’m quite good with words. I know she’ll say no if I just ask for a regular puppy. So I need to lay on the guilt.

'Please can I get a guide dog puppy?' I asked. (Who could say no… only a cold-hearted wench) 'I’d like to look after him for a year until he’s old enough to go to guide dog school, (noble) where he'll learn to look after a blind person (sympathy) who'd be lost without him.' (violins)

'No,' came the reply.

No?

How could you? Have you not met Ayrton? He probably looks a little bit like this. Wearing his little blind dog vest.

And you’re telling me I’m not allowed to help a blind lady cross the street?









She leaves me no choice but to instead get this dog. Goliath. Seen here on a walk with Gareth, myself and our pet horse.

Oh, I’m sorry Miss Landlady, did you say don’t get a dog? I thought you said do get a dog. Get the biggest dog you can find. And a horse.


N.B In the real life version of the events described above, my landlady was really nice about it and did give me permission to get a goldfish. But it just doesn't make for a good read.


The Guide Dogs for the Blind Association
www.guidedogs.org.uk

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Princess Kim

Dear Kate,

I’ve never met you but I’ve often thought that if things were different I’d have your life and maybe you’d have one that more closely resembles mine. You see, Prince William and I were born in the same month of the same year and so I naturally presumed we’d end up together. If only I’d gone to bloody St Andrews and not the crappy art college down south where I mostly blew my student loan on marijuana.

Ignoring the fact I thought a game of polo involved mints, not horses, and my parents are not millionaires, self made or otherwise, I did used to presume that I was just one chance meeting away from being the Chosen One.

However, I now realise that it’s a godsend that I am not you. I would not have your restraint when it came to becoming famous. I’d have given ten interviews to Grazia by now and probably would have accidentally slept with Harry. When the Daily Mail started looking into my past they would see that my dad owns a caravan and my brother was expelled from school for having someone else’s urine strapped to the inside of his leg, in a vain attempt to pass the piss test. Then they’d find photographs on Facebook of me snogging my female best friend and before you know it, I’d have given the Queen a heart attack.

I am happy to allow you the mantle of the new People’s Princess, which I know is very gracious of me. Besides, I’ve got my own prince and he can tuck his belly into his jeans and then make it pop out in a swift jolting movement that makes us both giggle.

I had a great time on your wedding day. My prince and I were up with the early birds queuing to get into your prince’s great great great great-grandmother’s holiday home, Osbourne House, on the Isle Of Wight. Osbourne House, which is huge and extraordinary, is not far from my dad’s caravan, which is small and full of spiders, so if you are ever on the island, do pop by for some lashings of ginger beer.

By the time Gareth (that’s my prince, by the way. Not exactly a good name for a future king, I know, but luckily he’s only prince of Warmley and I don’t think he’s going to get promoted) and I got to the big screen in the grounds of Osbourne House, the crowd had splayed out all over the lawn, the Pimms was on ice and the cupcakes had little flags in them.

Prince Gareth and I had not come so prepared. We had a 9% ABV bottle of cider each and a camping chair. I was quickly pissed as a newt and busy joining in conversations with strangers about how pretty your dress was and didn’t you look skinny.

Then the cider wore off and I needed cake. Whilst wondering how on earth you maintain such a skinny physique, I had cider for breakfast and cake for lunch. 

I suppose another reason I’m glad you ended up where you are and I ended up where I am is that I really couldn’t bear to call him Wills. It’s an awful abbreviation of a name. Don’t you hate it? Wills. If people called me Kims, I’d feel like I belonged to myself or that the next word was missing. Kims what? Resisting the urge to add an apostrophe to a posh toff's name would probably have resulted in divorce. 

I will let you have Prince William. I no longer harbour a longing to be his bride. It looks like far too much pressure never to drink cider for breakfast. I’ll stick with Gareth, who, as it turns out, is really quite lovely and far better suited to my pop-your-belly-out-and-make-me-laugh needs.

PS Just in case William ever wonders what could have been, I have superimposed my face onto yours and attach it to this letter. I look pretty happy but Wills looks like he's realised he's made a mistake marrying someone so pedantic about punctuation.

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Spidey Sense

Last night I got home from a night out with friends, looking forward to resting my head on my pillow in my bed as one does when it is night time and one wants to fall asleep.

But it was not to be. Gareth and I met up in the bathroom for a spot of teeth cleaning. Here, he told me the news that was to devastate my evening.

‘Oh,’ he says, with meaning. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

Thoughts flashed through my mind – what have I done wrong? Am I getting sued? Did the police call? Is someone I love ill? Have I been recorded slagging someone off? The usual.

‘I was in the bedroom earlier,’ he continues. ‘I knelt down to pick something up off the floor (a rarity, Gareth.) and there, under the bed, was the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life.’

It’s okay, I think to myself. This story is going to finish with Gareth finding a pint glass and a bit of card and setting the spider free outside. (not that I care for the spider’s welfare, I just don’t want him in my bed.)

‘We stared each other out for a bit,’ Gareth carried on. Oh god. This story isn’t going to end well is it?

‘I couldn’t go and get anything to put him in, because he’d have run away. He knew I knew that. I knew he knew I knew that. So we carried on staring at each other for a while.’

Then what, man, then what? I can feel him on me!

‘Then I grabbed my shoe and I was going to whack him with it, but I realised he’d have just clung on. He was that big. I’m talking tarantula size. My shoe would have just stubbed his toe.’

Oh god. He’s still there, isn’t he Gareth? We have a tarantula in our bed.

‘So I ran to get the hoover. He was still there when I got back, but as I poked the nozzle at him, he just walked off.’

A tarantula, so strong he didn’t get sucked up the vacuum nozzle, is under our bed.

‘What are we going to do?’ Gareth asked. ‘Shall we call pest control? Or the Natural History Museum?’

Well, first things first. We’re not sleeping in there.

That’s right people. A spider is under our bed, so we slept in the sitting room. I don’t know about Gareth, but I dreamed about that little bastard arachnid all night. Wandering out of the bedroom, down the hall, up the stairs and on to my face.

I’m not sure when we’ll start sleeping in the bedroom again. I don’t know how long he can live under our bed for. Surely there’s not much to eat there?

In the meantime, Gareth’s parents are coming to stay this weekend and we’re going to courageously and selflessly let them have our bedroom. I know, I know, we’re far too kind to them – we’ll take the sofas. It’s fine, really.

So then Gareth finished his little bedtime story, just in case I was going to have any trouble sleeping in my bed ever again.

‘He had such a big belly. Maybe it was actually a female.’ And then, plonking his toothbrush down on the sink and wandering out of the bathroom without considering that the consequences of his next sentence would be that we'd have to move house: ‘I reckon she was pregnant.’

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Road Outrageous

 Apparently, there are other drivers on the road. I wouldn’t know, because I drive a white van now. I was nervous to start with. The road intimidated me. But now, I intimidate it. The road don’t mess with me. Other cars don’t mess with me. I am Queen Vivaro of Warmley, surveyor of all motorways and A roads.

The thing is, in a van, you’re higher up. You’ve also got a noisy engine and a threatening size. Ka’s, Mini’s, Smart Cars, they don’t stand a chance.

I’d like to think I haven’t crashed yet, but I probably have, I just don’t know it. The rear window is blacked out so for all I know, all those silly little cars are being squashed and flattened in my wake and I don’t even know it.

I’m a white van (wo)man, don’t get in my way. I haven’t taken to honking at scantily clad women yet, but don’t put it past me. It’s not my fault I’ve got a honker and they’ve got nice legs.

My right arm is preparing to get browner than my left. I can never find first gear but who cares when you’re dominating the road. In my head, I’m driving this.





The lane from our home spits you out on a roundabout but because it’s not one of the official roads leading in and out of the roundabout, no one ever used to let me out. My Peugeot, Tiger, and I, we used to sit there for ages swearing at everyone, edging out until we were basically sitting in the middle of oncoming traffic, when finally someone would be forced to give way.

I don’t have that problem anymore, now I’m a white van (wo)man. People basically roll out the red carpet, traffic in all directions stop to let me out. That’s right, don’t mess with Eddie. He’ll trample all over you before you’ve even put your hazard lights on.

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Monkey See, Monkey Don't Do.

Dear Richard Branson,

How absolutely wonderful that you have pioneered and masterminded so many diverse and successful businesses. While I expect you are too busy flying into space to take the time to read my letter, I want you to know that the chief executive in charge of Virgin Media has employed a monkey who’s employed a monkey who’s employed a monkey, trickling all the way down to the monkey who is currently trying to fix my internet connection.

I’ve been a customer of yours for three years now and I think Virgin deserve a number of medals for their unwaivering devotion to public service.

I was thinking a silver for Most Terrible Customer Service, a gold for Most Likely Call Centre To Be In India, and a platinum medal with certificate for Most Likely To Send A Monkey To Do A Man’s Job. 

I remember the time I gave up my Virgin Media television after you kept charging me for pornography I was not watching. Oh, how funny that was, Richard! If I wanted to watch pornography, I’d do it for free on the internet, you silly billy. I wouldn’t pay £4.99 per film! But your monkey couldn’t quite understand that concept and continued to charge me for films I wasn’t watching. And when I cancelled my television subscription, your monkey couldn’t fathom that any human being would or could possibly want to be without a television. I was asked to seriously reconsider my decision, and advised to keep my set top box, just in case. Ah, good times.

It’s quite funny actually, Richard, what's happened. I’ve enjoyed three years of broadband with you without too much mishap.

And then we got some lovely new neighbours who, unbeknown to us, wanted to be with Virgin (more fool them). So they arranged for a monkey to come over and wire them up. But then, and here’s the funny part, the monkey decided to cut our line while installing theirs! Ha ha ha!

Left without internet, I could no longer run a business. But don’t you worry your pretty little beard about that, Richard, because your operator in the call centre in India assured me a monkey would be out to fix the problem two weeks later.

Two weeks. How very efficient! I explained that two weeks later wasn’t good enough, I’d lose thousands of pounds of business.

Oh I see, said your monkey. If that’s the case, we can refund you £10 a week until it’s fixed. Clever monkey. Seeing as Forbes rich list cite you as having an estimated net worth of approximately £2.97 billion, £10 a week compensation for my loss of earnings seems totally fair. Should be just about enough to buy the baked beans I’m going to have to live on for the foreseeable future.

Two weeks went by like the clock was wading through treacle. At last, the knock on the door came and two high-visibility vest wearing, white van driving monkeys arrived.

Virgin, they said. How can we help?

Seriously? You haven’t been briefed as to why you’ve been called out? Brilliant. I know absolutely nothing about how the lines are wired or how to fix the problem, but leave it to me to explain to your monkeys what job they’ve been called on, no problem.

Of course, they couldn’t fix the problem, could they? Because they’re only monkeys! A monkey might be able to bash out a Shakespeare play, but that’s only if you give it a typewriter and an infinite amount of time. Your monkeys had neither of these things, keen as they were to crack on with not fixing the next job they were due at.

So now they have gone and I still don’t have service provided. Monkey man tells me that he was sent on eight jobs of this ilk yesterday, and five of them were exactly the same problem as me. Namely, when a new customer wants Virgin, old customers have their signal cut. It’s a questionable business model, Richard, and not one I’d recommend.

I hope the view is nice from your hot air balloon as you soar over the world’s oceans. I’ll be over here, eating beans. While my business falls into disrepair, I can't even watch free porn. And it’s all your fault, you cheeky little monkey.

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