Saturday, 20 April 2013

Broom Bloody Broom

Given my mild manners and temperament *ahem*, it may surprise you to learn that I suffer from the odd bout of motorous furious. A.K.A. road rage.
It is very much at the milder end of the scale, I hasten to add, and the ginger temper is kept within the confines of the car. No axes have been wielded (that actually happened to a friend of mine once…) and no fingers have been extended (how uncouth!), but my tendency towards offensive language goes into overdrive, and it's not unknown for me to use the recognised sign-language for 'what the f… are you doing you utter moron?!' (hands aloft, palms up, tongue stuffed behind bottom lip).
It's my poor passengers who really bear the brunt of it, as I cut off them off mid-sentence, bellowing 'FOR F#*! SAKE!' at the top of my lungs at the eejit who's just cut in front of me (yes, I know, how uncouth…) My friends and family know me well enough to let this wash over them, but there have been times when I've given work colleagues (or ‘fellow corporate whores’) a lift. As you can imagine, I work hard to maintain a professional image *ahem* and professionalism and prodigious potty mouth don’t tend to go hand in hand. How on earth I manage to secure AND hold down jobs I’ll never know.
The first time a friend of mine was in the car with me she was in the middle of a story when my travel tourettes kicked in (the aforementioned hollering of 'FOR F#*! SAKE!', or similar). We worked together at the time but didn't know each other very well, and the poor girl thought I was having a slightly mental reaction to what she got up to at the weekend. Luckily she's made of stern stuff and our friendship has lived to laugh at the tale. (I can’t remember what she did get up to that weekend, but knowing her as I do now it probably involved pampas grass, a bowl and some car keys, the filthy mare.)
The one that really gets my goat is drivers that don’t say thank you when I have extended a motoring kindness to them. Hence my more frequent, but less foul-mouthed, outburst; screaming 'YOU'RE WELCOME' at these ignoramuses (or ignorami, if you will). A wave of the hand/flash of the lights costs nothing when I've let you out, you boorish *bleeeeeeep*s. Did your mother not teach you basic manners?!
…and breathe.
Anyone want a lift?
Liz doesn't suffer motoring morons gladly either...

Sunday, 7 April 2013

I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do

I've talked before of the wedding circus mafia and the arseholery that goes on, but there is also a very bright side to the nonsense. Being a guest. Sadly the wedding 'party' themselves often get too wrapped up in the photocalls, speech nerves and potential family feuds to actually remember to enjoy the day, but as a guest; no public speaking, no months (or years) of organising, no weeping wallet, just the bubbles and the dancing.
There is a little preparation involved, granted, but it never fails to amuse me how quickly the wedding visage crumbles. The hours, and sometimes days, we spend making sure we look as good as we possibly can (for some that's just about presentable, but all I can do is work with the ginger raw materials I was given) only for it all to be destroyed in a matter of hours.
We find ourselves on the dance floor in our bare feet, the shoes so carefully matched to the dress abandoned under a table, with a tie around our head and our dignity whimpering beneath an avalanche of Michael Jackson/Mick Jagger/Pigeon inspired dance 'moves'. Oh yes - we've got the moves like Jagger. The makeup, hair dos and manicures are long forgotten as we swing our sweaty mane in time with the 80s power ballads.
In addition to revisiting my rock star (*ahem*) youth, I tend to unearth a worrying passion for interpretive dance after a few dry sherries. My Kate Bush impressions are 'inspiring', so I've been told (look out for me on got to dance next year; I'll be the one who inspires the phrase 'would her family not tell her...?')
There is a delightfully unhinged quality that is unique to a wedding dance floor. Maybe it’s because it’s such a happy occasion, or that some of the guests don’t get out much, or perhaps it’s the unique mix of ‘performers’; where else do you get to share the floor with an 80 and an eight year old?
On a more serious note, I must issue a word of warning to wedding bands/DJs. If you will play Tiffany and Footloose back-to-back, be prepared with a crash cart/ambulance on standby. Some of us are not as young as we used to be, but we can’t seem to stop ourselves.
From this... this... Kiss.