Fucking Update!



Jesus, these updates are becoming yearly. This is the last in the kitten journal trilogy, the next one will probably be about the grandkids. And my degenerative osteoarthritis, and how they don't make stairlifts like they used to. Thora Hird never knew she was born.

Well, first things first. Frosty postumously made it onto StuffOnMyCat.com. Woot! Take a note of the bittersweet title, the prophetic bastards.



Bless. Still, things have to go on, and we agreed to get Pudge a replacement playmate. Boy, did we fuck up. The gorgeous, playful and relentlessly cute Frosty has been replaced a kitten from the deepest bowels of hell, a scratchy, bitey, nightmare kitten. Meet Vegas.



















Deep down, she is a cutey, the problem is that she's all claws, and doesn't have an 'off' setting. My arms, legs and neck look like they've survived an explosion in a glass factory. You never know when you're going to be attacked - it's a bit like Inspector Clouseau living with Kato. Except Kato didn't claw his way up Clouseau's whole body starting with digging his claws into Clouseau's bollocks. Or something. Either way, life in this house is a lot more painful. Especially for Pudge too - she has had a terrible eye infection which culminated in her eye being removed last week! Gah! She's been swanning round the house in a scratch collar trying not to get attacked. Fat chance. I'll edit a pic in here at some point. Lets face it, I have all year.

edit #1: Here she is...



Um, what else? Oh, I have a new tattoo. A complimentary piece to Spinky's foot tattoos. Done by Marko at Bloody Blue Tattoo in Prague.



And I'm definitely off to Coachella. And on monday, I'm getting a full forearm tattoo from Hannah Aitchison. And then I have abject poverty to look forward to. Awesome.

edit #2: I got that forearm piece. The bunny is from a painting by Luke Chueh, which you may recognise as my old profile pic on here. Hannah has done a terrific job, no?

Thanks for all the nice things everyone said about Frosty the kitten. Since the last journal we have even got Pudge a new smaller, clawing nightmare of a kitten playmate (Vegas), although I'll save that for the next journal, the last in the kitten trilogy.

Thats because, as of today, I have something rather awesome to look forward to:



I have ruined three pairs of pants already through over-excitement. I'm broke, but you better beleive I'm finding a way to get there, even if it means pimping my ass. All offers greatfully received, Paypal and all major credit cards accepted. Yikes!

I'm only updating because I don't want to look at the last journal anymore. Unfortunately, since writing it, things took a turn for the worst kitten-wise. While we feared for Pudge, who could have a potentially serious condition, we only considered that Frosty was the comic aside, the shitting kitten that would provide some toilet humour comic relief when considered against Pudge. Sadly, her condition was a lot more serious that we had thought. We took her to the vet, who noticed that there was a mass in her intestines that was preventing her from pooing properly, and surgery was the only option. When the vet operated he discovered that the mass was actually a tumour, and that Frosty was ridden with cancer.The cancer was at an advanced stage and inoperable. Spinky and I had to take the regretable decision to have her put down yesterday, and we are still devasted about her. She was so adorable, and so loved, yet It seems like only yesterday that we went to the shelter to pick her up. Of all the kittens there she was the first to assault us with her purring cuteness, and I knew instantly that we were definitely going to take her home. She got more love than any kitten who pooed everywhere has any right to receive, and now she's gone. RIP.

That does it, I'm putting our kittens on eBay.

Everything started so well, too. We basically bought the two cutest kittens in the universe, and I know everyone says this, but everyone is wrong, and I'm right. Frosty and Pudge are beautiful, adorable critters. Look at them:







Couldn't you just steal them? (I would be okay with this, potential theives) Not only are they ludicrously cute, they are perfect lapcats, they will jump on us at any given opportunity, begging for attention. They purr constantly. They love to sleep on us, play friendly, and so far, our four hamsters are still alive. We have totally fallen in love with these kittens; even my black devil heart has been melted, making me turn into some effete bitch every time I'm with one of them.What's not to love?


Well, quite a lot as it goes. For behind that cute exterior, Frosty and Pudge are the duffest kittens ever. On the first day of owning them I got a glimpse of the gastronomic nightmare that was to await us, when I looked in their room to find that a rhino had shat in their litter tray. One of the kittens had managed to force out a turd four times its body size. And the smell! Jesus! You could weaponise it and invade Asia. Things were not looking good. Still, despite the fact that I spent most all my free time clearing monster shits from the litter tray, one look at the beautiful things and my heart melted. They really are the most adorable things ever.





How could I stay mad at that? Lunacy.

But then came more problems, most of which involving the fucktards at the RSPCA. The kittens weren't vaccinated despite promises, they both had colds, Frosty had a heart murmur which could cause her problems in later life, and then Pudge got a gammy eye. We spent more time at the vets than the vet. And the costs are bloody astronomical - our food budget is now shot, so it looks like squirrel for tea every night til payday. Gah!

Unfortunately, we've had to take Pudge to a specialist about her eye, which it turns out is possibly something far more sinister than just a gammy eye, and will require months of continuous treatment, with no guarantee of her general health improving. The prognosis isn't good, and it looks like the emotional heartache she's already put us through is going to continue.

With all the trouble the we've been through with Pudge, you'd think Frosty would try her very best to be a bit healthy and not be a complete fucking nightmare. Fat chance. She's decided to stop licking her bits clean after going for one of her Rhino shits, which has just been a barrel of fun. There's nothing like a Friday night in with your loved one spent wiping a kitten's arse for cling-on poo. Fucking GAH!!!! And to top it off, she's developed a nasty case of diarrhea recently, so after she bum-wees into the litter tray, she will wander off leaving poo dripping from her bum following her all the way, usually into my arms. Its shit-ville in this house at the minute. We've tried bathing her, which she hates, or wiping her with wet-wipes, which she hates. So guess what? Tomorrow its off to the vets again. Whoopdee fucking do.


Frosty in happier, less pooey times

God knows why she has stopping grooming her arse (the rest of her she cleans so much I feel she's mocking me). However, the other day she did get into bum-licking position, but just as the foot went up in the air and the head went to the anus, she positively recoiled! Can't blame her really, its not something I'm into either.

Still, things came to a head this morning. She likes sleeping on my bag, on top of which I'd chucked a LoveFilm dvd envelope last night to stick in the post in the morning. I woke up, threw the envelope in the bag without noticing anything amiss. Only when I got to the post box this morning did I notice the big brown stain across the envelope and across the hand that was now holding it. Guess who'd been sleeping on my bag last night? The little bastard.


So, there's nothing else for it.
Ebay.

ps. And what's worse, StuffOnMyCat.com haven't accepted any of my submissions.





Fuckers.

Have a holly jolly Christmas, y'all!

Dear Dita Von Teese and the management of the Koko Club, Camden,

You cunts. Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu cunts. You utter utter cunts.

That was the worst 'show' I've ever been to. And I've been made to see Taking Back Sunday at least twice AND seen The Waterboys in Coruna (unhappy accident), so that's no mean achievement. What was so bad? Lets start at the beginning. Spinky bought us tickets to see the Dita Von Teese burlesque show in London - her idea, I should point out, I just tagged along like the good boyfriend, but underheavy duress you understand….*ahem* - anyway after trekking half way across the country, to the arsehole capital of England, we were all like and then four moons later when it was all over, we were all like .

The first cunt was whichever YTS smackhead mongoloid Ticketmaster employee (who I accept could have been acting on the wrongful information of some YTS smackhead mongoloid Koko Club employee) put the door opening time at 7pm on the tickets. When we got there for seven, there were some very pissed off looking people at the start of the queue already. Heavan only knows how miserable they looked when the doors finally opened, a mere two hours later. Still, we went drinking during the two hour wait - no big deal, so someone screwed up the start time? That wasn't going to ruin our night, something so trivial. Well, that was just the start.

I didn't know what the show would entail (hindsight is a cruel mistress), but I figured there would be support of some kind, as Dita couldn't perform for an entire night on her own. Boy was I right about that second part. I was right about the first too: Yes, there was a support act, but one that inexplicably started an hour and a half after the doors opened. This is because it took the workshy cunts at the Koko Club this long to light a four foot sign bearing the band's name: The Puppini Sisters, a trio of ironic lounge singers. That was the extent of their stage props - maybe with such a minimal set the act would more than make up for it? Hahahaha, fuck that noise. The Puppini Sisters resembled three alcoholic mothers fulfilling a community service order. The set was mercifully short, as at least two of them needed to nip off to get the fix of whatever substance was keeping them awake (amphetamines for one, windolene for another). The elder one, 78, had the scariest case of hyperthyroidism I've ever seen.

Still, we remained excited. After all, the support act were out of the way, so now were expecting non-stop Dita, Dita, Dita. We expected and expected and expected. And expected some more. Minutes passed. Minutes turned into hours, hours into days, seasons changed, and we slowly became delusional through hunger and fatigue. I fantasised not of the scantily clad main attraction, but of eating the hair of the people infront of me for sustinence. Just when I was losing the will to live, the curtain went up. Well, it was pulled apart tby two retired plumbers. So much for "Mistress of the Teese". Some famous bird prosaically shook her bits for five minutes, then the plumbers pulled the curtain back. Five fucking minutes, and we could barely see - she was at ground level, meaning some genius at the Koko Club didn't consider that perhaps putting an elevated stage there might make a visual show watchable. Cunt. After such an interminable wait and non-event, I was so livid I could've punched a kitten (more of that later). To cut a long story short, the wait to the next show was fucking worse. More alcoholic mothers, including a filler striptease from a geriatric ginger, 86, which could well have been a stage-crashing crowd member after too much valium given the reception she got.

Then five more minutes of Dita. It involved a martini glass and lots of view of the backs of people's heads. Shite. We left.



For that amount of money, and for an event that dragged on through the best part of October while the actual act couldn't scale the heady hights of a quarter of an hour, I would have expected a stage show that involved 1000 chrous girls, fireworks, velvet cushions for the audience, and a performance that included elfin girls throwing wedges of free money into the crowd, culminating with Dita felating a unicorn. Call me crazy, but spending four hours stood up infront of a closed curtain waiting and waiting and waiting and, oh boy, waiting for Marilyn Manson's wife to shake her be-tassled tit-ays for five minutes does not constitute a brilliant night out.

Cunts.



In other news though, I've been a shit friend on here. I hardly comment anymore, and for that I'm sorry. I miss my friends on here, but life is too hectic to keep up at the minute. We get kittens next week, which will probably make it even worse. Still…

My enthusiasm for MySuicideGirls.com has almost upped and gone.



(It can still throw up the odd nugget of comedy gold though: As seen in Fatality's set tags... "complains a lot". That was a real belly laugh moment. Thank you, whoever you are.)

Warning! - Ridiculously picture-heavy update ahead, to cover the time I've been away from SG and because after getting another year older, I'm losing my perspicacity, and am quite literally at a loss for words. Mostly.

Now, if my photobucket account excedes its bandwidth or something equally gay like that, then this thing is going to look utterly shit. Although because I'm not a hot girl showing off my tits, it probably won't. My tits are lovely though.

Anyway…

Download Festival


Fun, but altogether too hot. Don't they know its England for God's sake? A lot of the bands were exactly what you don't need when there's a cloudless sky, baking heat, and when a can of coke costs about a week's rent. And whoever put Funeral For A Friend on the main stage (fans: 12, including their mums) and Prodigy in a tent (fans: 60,000) should be shot. Out of a cannon. Into a wall.


And who the hell put it so close to the bleedin' airport? Here's me looking totally confident that the plane wasn't going to errupt into a huge fireball and jacknife into the crowd, killing tens of thousands. Although it would've given me a better view I suppose.


Will Smith's wife freaks me the fuck out. Her nu-metal band is a travesty. Here she is warbling something about the eternal pain of being a multi-millionaire, while the drummer wonders where his integrity went. Will was there too - 'Boom Shake The Room' requests duly ignored.


m/


My view of England v Paraguay. Gay.


What you lookin' at?


Spinky




Supremely inedible.


I'm not sure what my camera did here, but this is a good approximation of the absolute best split-second view I got of The Prodigy.


Totally gay. The Simon Pegg lookalike in the background is disdainfully ignoring us.




Rome


On the first night Spinky and I had our meal at a restaurant in the shadow of the Pantheon. Sure beats cornish pasties from Greggs. Not the chicken slices though, they're lovely.




Spinky's fear of statues notwithstanding, here's one for the folks, taken at the Trevi fountain.










Debonnaire or scared shitless? Its hard to tell. My birthday dinner.






All the buildings of Rome seemed so beautiful, even the insignificant ones. Apart from the every-man-for-himself driving ethos, and the beggars and overabundance of souvenir shops, I absolutely loved this city.


These Demi Moore billboards at the Termini train station rivalled Mrs Will Smith in terms of freakiness. Demi = Big Brother.






Spinky loved the Vatican. She hugged all of the statues individually.

Especially St. P.





Cirque Du Soleil on the last night. Great times ♥


Waterloo station, Liverpool

After a woman was battered by five scallies earlier in the night at glorious Waterloo station, some others graciously waited until the last train to randomly lamp me. Long story short - after visiting some friends at home, me and two friends were attacked by some pricks who has been terrorising commuters all the way on the train from Liverpool, apparently. We were getting on the train as they were getting off; chaos ensued.



They ran off, but police have the whole incident on cctv and they know who the attackers were, so I'm told. Hopefully when they catch them they'll throw the book at them. A book with nails in it. And smeared in poo.



Coming next journal - an entirely unnecessary rant about how frustratingly garbage this new site design is, providing I can click the correct sequence of fifteen links to actually get to the page that lets me submit a new journal. User-unfriendly controls haven't hit this much of a low since Raid Over Moscow was released for the Commodore 64.