thebird@thebell.com

Thebird@thebell.com

There were five men on the back of the number 57b and I’d shagged every one of them. For two of them it only happened in their heads. For one of  them it only happened in my head. The  fourth and fifth  class  snogging and a feel of my tits, sometime 5  Christmas’s ago, as constituting the full blown act.  However, even if  you had told me, or anyone of them to their faces, that most of  the memories of said snogging were all  fantasy and fiction you would've been met with gawped mouth disbelief. The proof of the delusional fantasies only has to be referenced   by pointing out  the  way they were jack assing around on the bus. Doing it like man dem, acting the dude, rubbing their jock bag and guffawing like baboons.

And…..They aint even DRUNK..not yet anyway.

 “Prats” I mutter and fiddle with my , I phone.

And their  tweeting aloud to each other begins

“standard geez..ya should have bin there blood”

“Braaap!”

“banging iiiiiiiit”

“yea but yours had a face like her minge…and I’ve sin her minge mate”

“claaas, geez” and on it goes.

More chuffing and guffawing,  dropping tweets  like they're hot.

If  you were  an outsider  you would have thought they actually had shagged me and that we were all in  one big gang bang on the same night!

They’re bleeding idiots. Fanciable ? yea, some of them but bleeding idiots all the same.

Yet, still  I’m  sat on the number 57b with the lot of them,  three nights a week since it happened…I’m still of to work at the 'Bell' , the dead end,  pub bar where I' ve worked since day.com. I’m still having to be the butt end of their willy wit and crass jokes three nights a week because the 'Bell' is also where that sorry lot of jokers are travelling to.

Still! and to add to  the injury and sheer injustice of this bus ride called  life its been seven years still and they still find it funny to crack jokes after what I shall refer you to as the ‘unfortunate incident’

“ Oy, Lizzie!"

Here it comes…act cool, draw circles on the window….

 I feign disinterest. "Lizzie!!!!!!!"  Beep beep …oh was that me phone???

 " how you dripping?” AND THERE IT IS!

Sometimes they let the joke  go for a few more "Lizzies" and a few more guffaws before the punch line but they know that   I know the punchline already  and as there is no one new on the bus tonight , except for  the coke head in the middle seat, they decided to go straight for the laugh!

Joe: “ Hmmmmm,” lick lips and rubs chest.

Ian and Rav “ Kiss me, Lizzie Kiss me ".  rubbing themselves up against each other.

Then in unison they all start singing: “ nice tights baby “ to the tune of vanilla ice classic ice ice baby. All except Connor who’s my mate from way back but I still saw him snigger and bob his head along in time to the tune!.

Me: “ha ha very funny. NOT” yawn and draw circles on the window and answer fictional texts.

I’m sick of the dripping jokes. Every bloody time without fail. This happens everytime it’s a full moon , the sun is out or its SNOWED! and this, this bloody  heckling is getting out of control.

  They once set up a Facebook page about the ' unfortunate incident.' However as said unfortunate incident   was  light years   before Blogging or You Tube was actually around and because they had no photographic evidence of  the incident, their page only attracted 8 members. Members included themselves and three pervert randoms with avatar faces for profiles.

Ok, im going to have to tell you about that damned day. Why I get this heckling and why a whole 5 lads and 3 avatars were interested enough to click the  ‘like’ button.

It all started when I was at college. I was in my second year and  and it was the last day of Christmas term.  Johnny Price, who was studying sports had been stalking me. In fact he had been stalking me since I registered a year before. I did inform him I would get an harassment order but the police said as he hadn’t hurt me or himself yet they couldn’t do anything about it.
I told him:  “Johnathon,  you will get an harassment order!”  but he just grinned under his hoodie  and carried on the stalking.

On the unfortunate incident day I had  caught the bus back as it had been snowing and  as I got of  I  noticed he was also following me of the bus.
( lying to himself that he was studying the cardiovascular benefits of bus catching and walking I expect) and we had reached the top of  the road when I turned round and said:

“Jonathan what the fuck are you doing? Stop bloody stalking me!”

He stopped dead in his tracks and with his head  down and hoodie dangling over his face he said:

 “ I thought you might want this” and he  held out a great big soggy sanitary towel with walloping  great blobs of blood on it!

 “what the hell you dirty bastard! “ I screamed at him. He fell back in shock and the sanitary towel  swirled like a leaden snowflake and slapped, squelching on to the fresh wet white snow. We both stood for a moment and stared at the thing glowing like Rudolph’s nose poking  out a virgins sheet  before he muttered :

“I saw it fall out of your knickers, well not your knickers but down through your skirt and thought well…she’s not going to want everyone to see that… so I followed you to give it  you back, to hide the evidence so to speak.”

Later of course the story  he had made up about 'the unfortunate'  incident  with me was too freaky to print….he was a weirdo so you can imagine the rest of  his story! The Freak.

I stared at him and  then at the sanitary towel and he was right, there was no denying that it was mine. I had to think quickly.  I could deny it? Hmmm...tap brain loud with fingers. No. No use lying, it was mine and he defiantly saw it drop n splodge and if I lied now he would never believe me or anyone else would never believe me,  for that matter,  that I hadn’t been fudged in the back yard of the chip shop at 15.

I could  Act dumb? Could do, but then it would just add to my thick as shit,  easy girl legend.

So I said: “ I have endometriosis!” and ran of leaving him staring at the back of  my skirt which to this day probably had big wet red patches on it.

BIRD RULE : RULE NUMBER 0NE

Whenever you are on the blob always make sure you are wearing your grans knickers with three layers of Velcro on the inside of the gusset.

To make matters worst, Connor had seen Robbie  who had seen  Turgoose who had seen Pricey who had seen Jonathon talking to me. In excitement they had all  run fast  to catch  up with him just as I was running fast to get  away from them.  I later found out that Connor had asked him why he was staring at a great big blobby sanitary towel and the whole sorry  FREAKY tale  of his came out.

Hence the name Lizzie dripping!!! I’m used to it by now and over the years, seven to be exact the name only crops up when all the lads are together. Like tonight.

The lads? Joe, Sean , Connor, Rav and Ian.

All five,  all there on the bus-acting like we have had one big universal gang bang with one huge cyber  orgasm.

Foot note and by thought :[ Lesson to be learnt about cyber sex :] its fictional!!!

There are a variety of  fictional facial contortions that a woman may now watch and learn from. They are seen , sounded out on radio, acted out in low rent movies or depicted in great art. Great art you ask me? Where is it depicted in great art? Answer: The Mona Lisa smile. Look again bright eyes, knowing look, post coital calm…can you see it? Yep and there it is.You can also watch you tube and shampoo adverts. 

Here are the top ordered in no rank of real preference.

1. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!!!!! YES! Crap porn downloads

2. MY God, I’m flying, I am dying ......French subtitled on shareware

3. Hmmmmmmmm. And Lick lips for dramatic effect.  Shampoo adverts

4. This is so beautiful. I love you. (Even if you’ve never seen that person before in your entire life.)  Rom coms

5. I’m on my way in and I aint coming out;   monotone voice… You Tube

I know, I’ve seen all of them wether I googled them, virus emails  or they were pop up windows!  I’ve seen them all and  my interest in facial contortions was awoken  when  the ‘when harry met sally’ re runs appeared on the free sky movie channels. Although those are my five favourite, fake it till you make it ones, they are in no order of preference. Number four has the edge as it is perfect for alleviating guilt on one night stands. Perfect, although not necessary because the woman of the cyber sex era can now use the:

 " Good God!  Someone must have spiked my in box with a Trojan virus " routine. That line can be used the following morning, hour or even minute after the snog; especially when you realise that the person you have never seen before in your entire life is the very same person that serves you your frozen veggie sausage at the local health store. As vegetarians are still in the minority (until mad cow really kicks in) it is the only health store in the district where you CAN get frozen veggie sausage. You either starve or go back to eating pork, the pig variety. One look at the man in bed next to you may put a real downer on that idea.

The hmmmmmmmmmmmm (lick your lips for dramatic effect) facial contortion is the  one that can always be used. It takes no effort, no physical exertion, you can learn how to do it without any previous experience (£2.50p top shelf, any local newsagents) and it is a perfect reserve for when you are snogging in backs of alleyways and really cack places like that. In short, it’s fake. I know what you are thinking, that the woman of the cyber era should no longer fake it. That the woman of the cyber era should be in total control of her hard drive and her facial contortions. That the woman of the cyber relationship period should be free from the bondage of the guilt that their fore mothers, wrapped in terry towelling nighties, on spring mattreses had to  endure?. You are wrong!

 A woman should not, like her fore mothers, sit back and think of  the washing, cooking and her fellas stinking feet to save  her from her contortions,  thus asserting his prejudice of her that she is some mutated form of frigid humanoid ( 1950s badly recorded movies…you tube). And I agree  but half a bottle of cheap sherry and five rum and blacks and the doings in the non cyber world of the business park, behind a rusty skip etched upon are the faded scratchings of Jerry was ‘ere 2006,  sometimes hinders the emotional hardrive,  just  a tad. 

Therefore :

 the Hmmmmmmmm.....( lick your lips for dramatic effect) grunt, contort your mouth, works every time.

Why? Because the man  doesn’t give a toss whether you enjoyed the shagging act  or not, only that your face contorted and that grunt with facial contortions looks if not sounds pretty near the real thing. Ref: ( you tube porn again )

BIRD RULE: RULE NUMBER TWO

AND DON'T LET ANYONE KID YA OTHERWISE

Have you remembered that?  well , I suggest you tweet  it for posterity.

I'm Still on the bloody bus and I tweet the word :" knob heads"

and three @ tweet  pings back :  “ rag joke again???!”

I tweet back:  “ erase my life!” but it ain't as simple as the delete button and the remove history and cookies  module.

To be brutally honest with you all , and I can be,  cant i ? because   it’s not like I’ll ever get to see your face and  you probably live miles away! To be honest, out of all the men  I have ever known and not in any biblical sense …  I love Sean.  But Sean  thinks I am a chip in the chip shop pan. Ok,  I made that saying up but that’s how I feel. When ever he looks at me its like I’m just another chip in the fish shop frying pan. It’s the best way to explain it. I’m left in the hot pan sizzling away and the scoop never picks me.

I’m number 272 on his friends list for gods sake…!!

Right,  down to the nitty gritty. Who have I actually shagged?

Rated from  3 to -2 with  -2  being the lowest,  crappiest shag.

-2  Connor.   No, I haven’t …..quite obvious really because we haven’t so much as kissed. Problem is Connor  don’t shag me cos he is my best mate. He works for Google in their Search Engine Optimisation deparment. He gets peoples websites online and stuff like that. He is good at it,  he went to college and learnt web design. He once designed a porn site for  feeders  y’know  and he never even laughed when he told us. He is good hearted like that. Also Connor is my mate and we have a good friendship and he always listens to me when I’m down.

-1 Joe  of course not! Joe  cant shag  because he has always got the shits. Don’t ask me how I know. Oh go on then you forced me to tell you didn’t you. You are a nosy lot. I know because once when I was 19 and hadn’t long started work at  'The Bell', and I  found out that’s how I know!

The  bell  is my uncle Sid’s pub bar,  by the way, Sid being my dads brother and who knows if I get my publicans license might be my  pub bar one day. Anyway, It was well passed closing time and I had just gone to check up on the toilets being clean and locked and all that. We have to lock the lavs  because coke heads get in the through the window and nick the stock. I was locking the lavs and I heard a stifled groan. It sounded a bit like this:

 “hmmmmph.” I stood and I listened again :

“ hmmmmphhhhh”

I thought:  what the sodding hell is that? I kicked open the door with a move that I had learnt at womens’ self defence for beginners class and I heard :

 “ aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagggggh ya bastard! And a thud!  and as I looked round the door there was Joe bent on the floor with his arse in the air and his trousers by  his ankles. I go: “what the hell are you still doing here?” but I needn’t have asked. You could smell it.

Then a year later when we were all at Glastonbury, (for the piss up), I copped Joe at  the 'hmphhhing' in the bushes again  and some girl with daisies painted on her face rushing away with her hand over her mouth. Then two years  after that he tried to get it on with me. It was after  the May Day,  fun day, bouncy castle and bbq event at the 'Bell'. It had been a really sunny hot day for May and we were all a bit merry on the  cider. Sid had bought the cider in to give the day that Olde English feel. It was about 1.30 am and he offered to walk me home. I said ok and we had got about a mile from the pub when he stood in front of  the skips on  Evenlode   pulled me to him and put both his hands on my arse to kiss me, when that familiar sound  of: “hmmmmmmph” came from his gut again

He says he has irritable bowel syndrome. Probably has but unless he gets a pill for it he is never going to get laid.

Joint 0  Ian and Rav. 

Shag them??? Get lost!!!  : these men are your typical Saturday night fumble. here's the scene:
Sunday ya  Scramble out of bed, grapple for and pull up ya pants and  there  they would be, a grin a mile long on their hungover faces. It happens, believe me, once,  to nearly every woman her life.  Friday or  Saturday night after half a bottle of cheap vodka and red bull in the house, five rum and blacks and kick out time. It happens,  sometimes on a Thursday  if there’s some money left in your  account, a lot on a Friday, always on a Saturday but  never on a Sunday night as Saturday night and the Sunday morning:

 “My God you look shit without three cans of hair lacquer” toxic shock syndrome has got the better of him.

“ I’d rather lick a horses arse than kiss your mouth this morning” I reply

“ How about a stallions knob?” they  Guffaw, belch and  fart. And for every woman   it is a different face but the same bloody routine. Sometimes they fart, belch, guffaw or belch, fart and guffaw. Sometimes, though it hasn’t happened to me yet, but  I have heard of the legend,  that a girl gets  really lucky and has their faith in men restored when one actually says:

“ I have always fancied a women who isn’t hung up on her looks in the morning.” 

That’s all I need to say about Ian and Rav.

1  Sean . No,   I haven’t…..He has had me loads of times in my dreams and in the odd secret blog ive had loads of his cyber shags  but in truthful material REALITY never. Snog Fest occurance =Zero,  Zilch, Never. Not so much as a fumble in the dark dos system. However  he did give me  a peck on the cheek once three new years eves ago. It was well after the clock struck and only because I served him last orders, half an hour after the pipes had shut.  I opened him a bottle of Budweiser and he leant over the bar and goes:

“ Elizabeth, you are a babe.”

And if you had to ask me that story a hundred times I would never tire of telling it you.

…...i wiiiishhhhh!  

: “ Elizabeth, you are a babe.”

just like that and he leant over the bar and kissed my cheek. He called me Elizabeth, not Lizzie, not Lizzie Dripping but Elizabeth and I will tell you now he might as well  have shagged me. :)

Sean is my dream, my fantasy.  I want him sooooooo  much. If you want to know what he looks like its like Josh Hartnett when he was in Pearl Harbour.

2  Josh Hartnett……..   :) 

  Here is A poem I once learnt at uni .

'Yes' the lady said last night;

'No' this morning sir, I say:

Colours seen by candle light

Will not look the same by day

Boy ! did that Elizabeth   know it and school teaches you the Victorians were puritanical.

BULL SHIT !

Never believe the boy you are shagging and never ever believe  your tutors ; they  lie!

The only reason  tutors get you to read half of them damned poems is because they turn them on, twist them up,  give them a stiffy.   The idea of a lady and a  sir screams DOMINATION ! Sado masochism of the educational establishment kind.

“Please sir , can I go for a wee?”

“ A WEE ! what do you think this place is? Tell you what, sit on my face you  hippie student bastard of a delinquent mother .” Then he snots over your essay for good measure as though  he is contorting over Barrett Brownings, lace panties.

Also, Never , I mean never agree to have a snog with a man who calls his facebook  @pecker.com.......!

...........And there they are, all five of them. Is it some kind of conspiracy ? Do they all happen to find themselves on the same bus ? Are they planning something  dangerous or sordid?  No. They’re  all mates and because I am too lazy to look else where I have been mates with them myself  for years and ive also been asked to be  shagged by  every one of them, but two,  in succession, over a period of five years.

 That's the thing with men, they have no sense of honour, no awareness of the concept of bffl ( best friends for life) or self pride.  I could never ask or shag one of my girlfriends fellas !

 "P.R.A.T.S"  I tweet again but this time with capital letters

  I laugh out loud so they think I don’t care

  I hate being called Lizzie. Elizabeth, yes,  even Liz after that  ex girlfriend of Hugh Grant. Some people say I've got her tits.  I can't see it myself, hers are much smaller now that I've had mine done. Well not done as in the old silicone boob job but done as in, WONDER TITS ! the sponge substitute for bog roll of the millennium plus 10. No one notices mine are not real. They look  great but I  have to  snog men with the lights off now. The men are pissed most of the time anyway so   they don't notice the natural saggy real pair.

They  love it, that, 'I've just popped out of a Jane Austin novel style’,  my boobs up to my chin unnaturally taut, pert and perky. Some men drool over them.  I've seen them in the pub drooling, salivating down their beer glass. There they are supping and salivating down their pint and it cracks me up, it really does. I look at them and smile and all the time I am thinking, " Ha! You bunch of  thickos  you are salivating over two sponge egg cups!".  They think they are being clever, laddish but the jokes on them

That’s another thing with  men, they can't take a joke. They can give one:
“Y,y lizzie!” they can give loads “Oy lizzie times a month”

but chuck one back at them and they go mad. They carry on shouting at me,

 "Lizzie Dripping, how's ya month going? Is it  piss piss?  or  plop plop  ? "

" How would you know  Rav ? You only have one  a leap year and the days so small it never reaches the calendar door let alone go knocking at it ! "

 And he goes " Stuff you slag ! "

" Who's the slag ?” I'm not the one that ….jam on the...." But I don't say anything else....Sean is there . Sean  is the one I do love.  Except for Connor my mate, the others I wouldn't give the drippings of the end of their knob for.

I don't think I am a slag,  I’ve never thought of myself as one. I love the idea of sex  but what man doesn't ?  Besides, the female organ has thousands more nerve endings and we are supposed to be able to have multiple enjoyment so it stands to reason that we were designed to enjoy IT more than men.

When I was at University I read a book…. What do you mean ?

“you were never at  uni?  Ofcourse I was. I studied English literature and sociology, Yes of course  they are REAL subjects!

I went to university and I studied them and i read a book!and ill tell you what i thought about that in a minute.

 I went to university but I wanted to study hair and beauty like my mom. I wanted to make her proud of me. Moms been dead 18 years now and I was going to get my city and guilds and place it on her grave and say:

“ Look mom I’m a hairdresser just like you was.” And I imagined her floating out of the grave all backcombed and moussed up and hugging me and saying:

 “ I’m so proud of you, now go and work for Vidal Sassoon on the cruise ships..”

Mom always wanted to work on the cruise ships but she met my dad and then she got breast cancer. Pauline, dads  partner convinced me to do something more academic. She said the world has changed now Elizabeth, not like in my day when girls still couldn’t play football and had to wear skirts to school and were taught how to  bake pineapple upside down cakes whilst boys got their hands on drills and chisels.

The careers advisory person said Sociology so I spent three years there and got a  2:1. I enjoyed the grad party and some of the lectures but the speakers, well, Germain Greer being a sell out and frankly the rest I just jotted down notes and stuffed them in my bag. Yet  It didn’t feel the same placing my certificate on moms grave.

Hang on a sec, i told you i would tell you about that book i read.
I will just go get it ....
Jesus how much crap have I got in my cupboard??

Voila! Right this is it, this is what it says.

Sexual Diamorphism.

It says that   there is a school of thought that claims that women, at least from an evolutionary point of view, have evolved their gender form specifically for the purpose of tantalizing men. As a species women are of a sexual dimorphism type . Sexual dimorphism is a term  used to describe a species that produces, not a carbon copy of itself, but one which reproduces the most variety of the same kind.   The fact that women may produce such a variety means that humans can adapt rapidly and easily into an ever  changing environment and  because of this dimorphism  humanity has a better chance at survival. Women's ability to reproduce with the greater chance of survival is supposed to secure the continuation of the species A womans’ ability to  Tantalize then is  therefore , as extremely important as her ability pull down her knickers.

What?????? What a pile of crap! If you ask me  tantalizing men is just one small  part of  a  five trillion piece jigsaw and one which, once sperm online is  common place, will not be noticed as missing when it gets sucked up by the sponge we forgot to take out because  we were all pissed at our sperm online and delivered to your door party!

However and I have to be fair…. . Until the sperm online is available they are trying to argue   that from an evolutionary point of view, men have the  upper hand. What a crock of crock!  A pile of  paper book waffle. I hope they don’t software this shit to kindle!

Let me tell you this  …..

it is the female which  carries the future of the world within her stomach and NOT the man! The fact that she carries this burden means  its her  that needs to be tantalised  and wooed . The males' contribution requires more effort. 

I know mom used to tell me when I was little…” if I had gone on the cruise ships to do hair luv, I wouldn’t be here now lashing up the largest portion of mash to ya dad…and she would sit, staring at the kitchen sink with a fag in her mouth and dreaming. That’s until she got the lumps then she would lie down, fag in her mouth and dream. I would sit by her and say: “don’t worry mom I’ll go on the ships” and she would lift up her hand, ruffle my hair and sigh deeply.

Men, who  philosophically pontificate and conjecture the question :

“ Hi babe do ya think I'm sexy, up the spurs and mines a pint of  beer” don't need to worry about who they have sex  with . With their mind clogged of issues that often skim through  a womans, many men will save time by  sperming  any  female in view, tantalizing or not.  Women with more theoretical and ethical abstractions on their mind :

“will this lipstick stay on all evening” have to be tantalised by men and  be a little more choosy .

Et al say that Men will sperm women   providing she is tantalizing of course!  As beauty is in the eye of the beholder,  that can mean for men, just about any bit of skirt to sperm up. So here we have, in this book  a , world full of women just waiting around looking tantalizing, eating vast amounts of chocolate to keep up her energies up just in case she is the chosen one.

If  the tantalizing theory is true then surely evolution has missed the point . It is the men that must tantalize the women and not vice verse. Sean definatly tantalises me.

And of they start again:

 Lizzie, You out on the sniff tonight...well sniff this ! " HARP ! BELCH! GUFFAW ! 

Joe, wiggles his crotch about a bit and rubs his hand up and down on it.

 "Ugh !"  I tweet …..What is that ? "

3 @ tweet replie…."The crotch dance again? “

" You had an op on your fanny Liz and had it bandaged ?

I look up to see the group  gawping in awe over  the fantasy  sanitary towel. They are pointing and gasping and shoving each other to take a closer look.

It’s all just  memory of course but seriously, when are they  going to make ones that actually stick to the lining of your pants ?

" What's a matter with you lot, never seen a bit of blood before ? "  I snap

" Shit liz ! " Gasps  Rav" I didn't mean to split ya for Christ's sake. "

Do I laugh ? I want to.  I think he's funny but the saddest thing is, he really believes it.

" Sure  Boys  !  P-E-R-I-O-D-S ! It is a grown up thing. Get your mom and dad to explain it to you. I’d  hate you  to wake up one day and think you’re bleeding to death."

" Guffaw. You're so funny. Ya dirty cow."

“ Hang on”  I gasp back," You piss up sides of shop regularly on Saturday nights and every Sunday morning you  puke up all over the playing fields after footie. Every day a thousand times, you belch and gob out a ton of fleghmn  and you think all of that is hilarious,  yet one time a sanitary towel inadvertently slips from inside of my pants and screams “ LOOK AT ME  I AM A SANITARY TOWEL” in the snow,  you call me a dirty cow.  Get counselling if  it bothers you that much."

They all hang around, staring at me as though i were an alien from planet woman, prodding each other, daring each other to say something back. Joe farts and faces the front of the bus.

" Yeah, funny Joe,  I can smell it from here and I’m three rows down."

He stinks anyway so I could be upstairs on the bus and still  get a whiff of that.

Actually I wasn't on the sniff, on the pull, prowl, whatever you call it. I was on my way to visit my  Nan before work.  The boys jeer on .

" You must’ve  been really humiliated by that Liz."  Laughs Joe.

" No. You are really humiliated by it " I answer " See you later guys, you're just too clever for me.".  Though I smile at Sean before I go and he smiles back at me and for a second the sanitary towel becomes my heart pulsing hot and vibrant in a cold, cold world.

The bus pulls up and I flick the V at them and  get off.

 My Nan only lives in the next postcode away but  I  don't want to walk because it has snowed and I am wearing a skirt and high heeled sandles. The sandles are  the chunky kind that look like those seventy's donut shoes but instead of  ribbons they have got buckles that tie up your legs. I’m crunching through the snow, thinking about Nan, how she is today. Has she eaten or smoked her way through five packs of twenty ? and I’m thinking about them jokers.

There are obviously acceptable and unacceptable types of blood.  A Man, blood dripping from his nose, preferably accompanied by a black eye is a hero...A MAN.  A woman,  with blood dripping from her crotch is a dirty cow. Maybe we ought to be as open about it as men. Walk into the pub, whip open our crotches and go "  Blood ! I'm dripping with blood !”  all the men will rush over and take a look at it and I go, " Yeah, but you should have seen the other girl. " and I’d have them buy me drinks all night whilst I recount the story to an ever  growing crowd.

" I woke up one day and there it was ! Yeah honest. I looked down and my sheets were covered in the stuff. Cool or what! "

" What ? No fights, scraps, scrapes. No black eye and split lips. Nothing ? "

" Yeah, cool right ! "

 " Huh. You don't deserve that blood. " and they all walk away, disgusted by the idea that my blood came for free, no medals for me. Blood that isn’t fought for is fake blood.

I turn the corner and hide behind the wall and watch them staring at me from the bus window as it drives past then I knock nans door.

Nan is having one of her off days. Wrong, all of Nans days are off days, this one is just more off than the others. I look through the window before I knock the door and see Nan in her chair by the fire with her arm in a bucket of ice. Nan is oblivious to it. She had a stroke three years before  and a heart attack and well she is a junkie now so she doesn't notice anything. Except the cobwebs and dust that is.

" Your idle sodding Grandad has not dusted the side board or shifted them cobwebs. "

I nod : " How are ya, Nan ? ".

" The pope is coming and  that man that pretends to be my husband won't take me to see him. ".

Grandad walks into the living room with a pot of tea. It is one of those silver type pots that burn your hands when you touch them.

" I told you that there is no way you would see the Pope. Your wheel chair just wouldn’t get through the crowds. Watch it on the telly instead. "

" Nan lifts her left arm out of the bucket with her working right hand and it falls onto the side of the chair with a thud and slips down over the fire. Nan hasn't noticed it just dangling  because she does not know she has a left arm anymore.

"  If  it was the second coming of  our Lord the Christ you would tell me to watch that on the bloody Telly too wouldn't you. ".

Grandad walks into the kitchen and pretends not to hear her, he hasn't the heart to tell her the Pope isn't coming, she must have dreamt it or it is just wishful thinking. Nan is having a really bad off day and he knows what that means.

 " ATHEIST ! " she shouts and as Grandad  sits to pour the tea, Nan picks up her walking stick and whacks him, hard on the arm, with it. Grandad falls back and the thud of the walking stick makes me feel sick. The tea splashes all over the carpet and stains the wooden table yellow as it steams away the lacquer.  The boiling water splashes on Nans’ floppy arm but she doesn’t notice that either. I  jump up from beside her and place her arm back in to the bucket of ice before it blisters. It would be the only part of her body that wasn't blistered. Nan has bed sores all up her legs that cause her to lose sleep at night and that aggravated her frustration even more.

Grandad carries our supper in on a tray.  It is home made tomato soup,  spiced with Worcestershire sauce. Nan slurps hers, all two tea spoon fulls of it then she pushes the bowel to one side and sparks up a fag.

" How many  of them have you had today, Nan ? "

" You’re my granddaughter not my mother, you would do well to remember that, bab. "

She adds the ' bab' part to let me know she is taking no notice of me but loves me anyway. 

" Your boobs are looking big, bab. "

I pull up my top to reveal the bra. Nan laughs.

" If  I had them in my day I would have walked straight past your Grandad and got a real man for myself.".  Grandad ignores her and slyly slips a spoonful of glucose into her tea whilst she isn’t looking.

Some days I  hate Nan, I love her, but really hate her. Nan’s got to bitch, bitch about every thing. I pull my top down and carry on eating my soup. Nan snubs out her cigarette into the soup bowel and watches it float to the surface then lights up another.  I look away as she bellows the yellow and grey smoke from her nose. She coughs and spits a lungful of flem into her handkerchief:

" And he won't take me to see the Pope, It's those Commi friends of his. He’s always been the same, he will give those friends of his the earth, to have, hold and share but ask him to show me a little bit of heaven and he just walks away. The Pope wouldn't walk away. And she sneers at him whilst she says it.

" What would he do then,  Love? Lay his hands on you and heal you ? "

Granddad’s  stressed and leaves the room. He walks back in with a long broom handle with a duster on the end of it and flicks cobwebs from out of the corner of the ceiling. Nan nods, satisfied that the cobwebs have gone, then snubs out her cigarette and lights her third.

" I can't stay long tonight Nan, I’ve got me a date. "

" Who is it? That lad what looks like a fart that could slip through a colinder ? "

I didn't really have a date, I lied. I just couldn’t bear to see Nan so frustrated and stressed out in that wheel chair. It really upset me. When Nan was young, she would get mom to set her hair and paint her nails and in the summer time she would ask me to put that fake tanning stuff on her and her mind was still as active as ever but she just could not move. She could not stand up or even roll over. I think Nan knew the Pope couldn’t heal her or any one for that matter so she was smoking herself to death. It was Nan that looked like a fart that could slip through a sieve not Sean. Not Sean,  he was all meat, best sirloin of beef if you eat that stuff which I don't. He was all nuts, that was it, he was a nut cutlet supreme and he tasted just as nice. I  would love it  if  he held me close to him and I could taste his neck and snuggle into it and suck on it. The others  I wouldn't have given you the flem from Nans lungs for.

" You watch the hands Bab, it is the hands that are the problem. "

" Tell him to knot it up. " Shouts Grandad. "

" I will " I shout back. " I Love you both. "

" Tara bab. " and I walk back into the snow but it is deeper and my feet begin to freeze.

I’m crunching along wishing to God, that I wasn’t such a fashion victim.

I tweet : “fashion victim …..”

3 @ tweet pings back : “ sandles or extensions?

  I would be a fashion victim if  I could afford to buy the sodding outfits in season. In summer I am  wearing the Christmas sale clothes, cut up, adapted here and there. In winter I am wearing the old summer  stock. My toes are wet through and what really pisses me off , what really makes me realise that at times I must be the most gullible person on this earth is that the BBC weather forecast said it wasn’t  going to snow.

I turn the corner to the main high street. The Christmas lights are twinkling.   I chuckle to my self when I imagine the sanitary towel all soggy and messy on the pavement. It’s Friday and I am deciding whether to catch a bus home and phone in sick to work  or just go into the pub act sick and  ring dad to fetch me. Dads  home on Fridays because his girlfriend, Pauline, has her  aromatherapy class. On the other hand if I go into the pub I’d get soggy fanny jokes for the duration of my shift. Taking it and handling it once is acceptable for a girl that is stupid enough not to super glue her sanitary towel to her pants but to go back for seconds helping  positively yells thick. Yet I really want to see Sean

I really want to…what is it the sexual diamorphism  book said ? That’s it : PAIR BOND I really want to pair bond with Sean . I laugh at the ludicrous idea of pair bonding. To get a hug would be fine to start.

I tweet : “pair bond”.

3@ tweet pings: “ Sean  ”

That damned crazy book!

 I believe that  Since the seventies and females emergence out of the closet, declaring their actual existence in the universe , shagging, within a male female relationship, is no longer a mans prerogative! For instance, a male having  a zipless grunt  seems no longer the norm and women seem to have  a role to play in the grunting now. Women can choose what happens as well and although that is a generalization I am referring to the majority of women who are looking for a  fella.  Mens  evolutionary purpose I’ve already told you  is  to tantalize women .   " Pair bonding " The more favorable environment for a child to be raised is in male female co-habitation  i.e. marriage  or some similar commitment .

Although my male - female tantalizing theory seems to hold up on the tantalising idea however,  where breasts are concerned it is debateable . The experts say that  for the man to be committed to a woman her breasts  must stay tantalizing. ( hence that’s why I wear the super deluxe wonder bra! ) If  my theory of female choosing the most tantalizing man  is right , the experts theory  must be a paradox or  the experts  have got it totally wrong.    Even so many  of these " pair bonding " et al.. insist they haven't so I shall continue  with their theory . A large bust is imperative and conducive to their theory . A woman's bust develops long before she has babies to feed , so for that reason, ' they' argue that a bust is a deliberate flirting tool for women . Her hips develop long before she carries a child and these are also seen as a flirting tool and a large round booty is a prerequisite  .If their theory is true and these aspects of a female form are prerogative to attract a male and the continuation of these bodily parts is essential in keeping a male  then why is it that when  I started my periods my bust  grew , my bottom  expanded, my belly rounded of  and my hips protruded out so far that they  could knock over a double decker bus as it drove by  , did men find me abhorrent on the blob ?   Whilst I am at my most  rounded of and did these so classed erotically enticing female features make me the butt of all jokes,  with the mens comments in the bus as the spotlight on my bearded lady ?  The  truth is that  I was made to look like a gargoyle  by the very cosmic phenomenon that was supposed to be guiding  humanity  towards this millennium? Or the theorists talk shit.

I tweet “ sandles”

3 @ tweet pings back “ouch”

I stand outside the pub looking into the doorway wandering whether I can make out Seans shape out of all the others in there. Yeah, I can make out Sean, he has the most well defined, firm shoulders that I have ever seen on any living thing and I have watched every David Attenborough show ever shown on BBC 2;  Nans influence. When you are stuck in the house all day you watch every show and after a while you kid your self you really like them. That or you believe you are learning something useful.  Pointless really, specially if you’re Nan. She wasn’t ever going to do anything with the information, half dead anyway. What  was she going to do, go on master soul in heaven?

“ And your chosen subject is any fucking Attenborough show that has ever been shown on BBC 2. Beeeeep. No, I have started so I’ll finish.”  Nice one... I think not. Instead of smoking her life away watching the ‘human genome project’ updates,  in stereo sound, she could have really done something with her own life.   I love her but  Nan is freaky and she stank. I don’t know how she slept with herself.

Come to think of it,  I have snogged with some freaks in my time. Don’t ask... you don’t want to know, it is too disgusting. Suffice to say some men’s hygiene leaves a lot to be desired. Sean though,  now he smells  sweet. He respects me better than the others. He plays it up for the crowd, guffawing and farting at all the right times but he never farts near me. I hear Sean  laugh and decide to walk in. There is a huge cheer from the crowd.

“It’s  Lizzie with the lurgy! Mate, Don’t go to close to her or you’ll catch it and bleed every month for the rest of your life.” Guffaw, sup at pint and belch.

“ Your outstanding wit never ceases to totally amaze me, Rav.”

I smile at Connor, he looked to the ground but smiled back.

“ Get her a bloody Mary Sid, will ya....”. shouted Joe,“.... And follow that up with a jam sandwich.”

Rav turns to face the dart board and I giggle to myself. I hadn’t told anyone about Rav and the jam sandwichs but now he thinks I have.

Come closer…a little closer.... I have to whisper this one…..I think Rav has a fetish for jam. For Jam! I know quite a turn of really. Two years ago we had a teddy bears picnic for adults in the pub. Jam sandwhiches jelly and whiskey and lashing and lashings of ginger ale. Anyway every time I went to spread the jam sandwhiches I caught Rav watching  me…I thought to myself : “ that’s odd, liz??” , so I tried it again and again throughout the day. Sure enough he had the biggesst stonker you would ever see on any man and it  rose to gigantum proportions.

I know its crazy. Not that crazy I s’pose because its been alleged that Peter Andre likes to lick chocolate oil of women and I’m sure food fetishes are quite common but Jam sandwhiches? Hmmmmm? I never told anyone and  obviously others don’t  know about this as well. Which is quite exciting really because I have a head start on a piece  damaging tweetable  knowledge. If I ever do catch him eating jam with a stonker on my i phone ill post it to you all on  facebook.

 I wasn’t bothered about Joes declaration  too much,  it meant Rav  would keep his mouth shut for the rest of the evening about me and the sanitary towel.

 Sid passed me my till fob and  a half a lager and lime and rustled his fingers through my hair. He is the closet person to me, next to my Nan and Granddad, my sister and my dad,  when he is at home, and Pauline. Like I said Mom died when I was younger. Breast cancer.  Sids my uncle and  he is my dads brother and best mate. He doesn’t tell dad half the things that happens but he sees to it that the lads don’t get out of hand with me , he likes Sean too.

Seans an engineer, qualified,  middle research position   at the jaguar plant. As an engineer  he works a lot  so he isn’t out with the lads so often,  that is probably why he is not as affected as them. He plays Sunday league  football with them though and so when they talk about football  I  pretend I know the rules and stuff like that.  Sean  thinks farting is funny to but he doesn’t treat me with disrespect, like sitting on my head and farting.  I sip at my lager and watch him throw a triple sixteen.

The lads close in around him, the sanitary towel jape forgotten as darts becomes intense. Conner sidles up to me and pats my knee.  Sometimes when I’m down he talks like he is my boyfriend and tries to  be nice, like he won’t belch in my face.  Another thing that he won’t do is talk about masturbation and stuff like that. Some of the other lads reckon he can’t do it, but if you ask me, and I know you will ask me, I think he can.  I have known  him forever,  remember. Like when we were  pissed at a party and in  bed,  he had a huge dick rising  in his jeans. Pissed with a huge one!! I turned over not to look and  he was very shy  and shoved his hand around inside his jeans  to  hide it.

 If you listend to the other   lads ,  they know how to do it like stallions. Though Joe once said he loved me,  he was trying to kiss me at the May Day bouncy castle and bbq. The onion smell and live music must have got him stoned.  It took me all my will  not to laugh and belch  in his face.  They ask me how good I think they  are in bed and ask me to rate them  and are they better than each other ? I reply :

 “ are ya on crack man?? in all ya dreams and coke fuelled mania!” and I think they all believe I do want them.

LOL Ha! Ha! Ha! You can’t see this but I am actually pissing myself laughing. PMSL … Really I am. The only one I want is the one that doesn’t ask me how good he is ‘cos he really doesn’t flirt with me EVER !   and to be honest it’s that confidence and arrogance that I find ultimately frustrating.

Sean  swigs his beer and walks straight past me. Joe scurries of to the toilet with some lame excuse about flogging his log but I know he has the runs. Once again I am reminded of him and those damned shits.

“ Here that, Liz, It sounds like I am peeing?”

“ Are you ?”

“ NO!   HA! HA! HA!”

Like he expected me to laugh as well. “ What are you doing then?

More laughter from the bog.......

That is the thing with men, they’re so lucky. I could eat three ring worms and not have the shits like that. I have to spend a fortune on laxatives and then I only look ill and not slim.  And there,  at the pub, I felt myself getting jealous of  Joe.

Question) What is the worst turn of  for a woman in bed?

ANSWER) a man with a better body than you. All washboards and six packs and your stomach looks like a wave machine down at Rhyl sun centre; rippling and flowing all over your  flabby shoreline.

Sean  has a body  like that...all hard and firm, it pisses me of.  He works out everyday before he goes to work and after he comes home. I bet even when he is  in bed he works out. Me? I can’t get out of bed before eleven, three fags and two pots of tea. I am a bag of nerves unless I follow that routine. Sean?  Never smokes and won’t touch caffeine.

Sometimes when I am snogging a man or just flirting   I chatter incessantly hoping the man  will hold  at my face  and not my flat arse!. Sean   looks me in the eyes and I breath deeply. Confidence see, that’s what it is. The others,  they waffle on,  chatter and say lots of stupid things too, like, “you are the only girl for me....”  and crap like that. Where are all the real men??? 

My friends, they see sex as some sort of reward for  their fella if he has behaved. The lads must think that too like, how long can they not insult me without the rest of the lads getting suspicious? Not me, I’m not like my girlfriends, sex is a reward for myself and not the men. Sex is not my  weapon neither is it my armour,  as some control or defence against men. I give it unconditionally because I give it to myself as well and not just  them. I enjoy it. I bet  Sean enjoys it too, he doesn’t use it as some sort of weapon either. He  doesn’t see his body as a tool to lay women with but as part of his enjoyment of himself.

I don’t feel guilty that I snog and have had the occasional near shag with  men. Why should I ? Why should I keep myself for just one man? I’ll tell you why many do, it’s because all the other guilty people tell them to. They say that I should remain faithful, keep my body pure. Pure !

define that word in one sentence without placing the word guilt into it. 

CHICK RULE: RULE NUMBER FOUR:  guilt is the tool of the reppressed minded male  masses.

I have no respect for people with guilt. DUMP THAT GUILT.

Do it now!

I don’t mean get rid of respect. Respect is all. We should respect the need for respect but guilt....take it by the neck and wring it hard. Squeeze, every sodding drop of  :

but you will do it if you love me,

but I did it for you, 

what about having  children !

and all the other bad trips you have ever had enforced upon you....CHUCK GUILT. OUT. Mark my words guilt is an  enforced sexual tool of control. Guilt is a social construction. Put it this way,  if there was no guilt imagine how much altruism there would be in the world. Mother Theresa?   on every fucking door step..... Bob Geldof ? Shit man, he’s my brother! If guilt didn’t exist people would do things because they really wanted to and not because they would feel guilty if they didn’t. Lay your cards out on the table and declare your intentions !

“ I want to be with you because you make me feel good” not because you want to see to that persons health and well being for eternity and wash every scraggy pair of pants they dribble piss in. By which time, if the:
“ who will wash those scraggy piss stained pants if I go? ”,  guilt hadn’t set in,  you would have left anyway.

Of course you could take my advice too far. Like if you want to rob your neighbours house and you knock their door and say. “ Hi, mate. Robbing your house tonight O.K?” 

There is also all those deviant sexual things that people do to others. I don’t need to tell you what they are because you can read the horrors daily on the MSN home page. Them people don’t feel guilt granted but for that type of psycho   guilt has nothing to do with that sick shit. Its utterly  disrespectful and sick! 

 Respect not Guilt see, that’s what it’s about. If  you respect someone you would think... I won’t feel guilty if I do that BUT I respect their need  to not have it done to them. There is too much guilt and not enough respect in this world. Guilt polices the state it should teach to respect.

Do I respect the men  I’ve snogged shagged and not married? Sure I do. They know who I am, I would not ask them to do what they didn’t want to do and I am actually fond of every one of them. I tell them right out that I like being with them,  I will not HURT them physically.......how can one use sex  with violence?

  Remember that.

                     Joe staggers out of the toilet looking like he has lost three stone and I contemplate popping in the pan myself, forcing myself to throw up my lager and lime. I then remember that bulimia causes acid bile, rots your teeth, your gullet, aids halitosis and  knackers your complexion, your hair and sunny disposition, in short, it screws up your looks.  I decide to have  fresh orange juice instead. Realise I have no money left and flirt outrageously with Rav, who foolishly digs deep into his pocket and supplies the drink on the false promise of my fake smile. And people say women are simple!

I catch Sean  peeking out of the corner of his eye at my open display of  affection for the benefactor of fresh juice and throw my arms around Ian as though we are perfect pals and just that little bit more. Sean  throws another triple and I gather by the high five’s that my actions to a man I wouldn’t normally give the contents of my bladder for makes not the slightest bit of difference to the horniest man in the world. He is confident see, I hate that! It makes a man arrogant and it sends me INSANE! Sean must KNOW he really must KNOW that I would walk a million miles in white stilettos and black tights wearing a glitter boob tube and electric blue eyeshadow if it would get him to love me so he ignores every pathetic attempt of mine that suggests the opposite. Joe walks past me and stinks of the shits and I really nearly do throw up without any conscious effort afterall.

Thinking his luck is really in, and high on Seans darts performance,  Rav offers me another drink. Sean throws the bulls eye and soon no one knows I am there at all. Joe  decides he hasn’t quite finished his crap  and disappears for another thirty minutes, and Sid shouts:

“ don’t you actually WORK here ELIZABETH?!”

 Sean moves to the lounge bar and   relates his darts success to the lads over a game of  dominoes and my  dad turns up to take me home, sees I’m not sick after all,  spots the darts on the triple 16s and subconsciously decides Sean must be only just less than a God.

 Joes ever shrinking stomach depresses me even more and the mystic tapping on the table of the dominoe,  runes  sends me into a  state of  manic depression and I go to collect the empties unable  to understand the complex codes  of a group of men meditating over a handful of scattered dot like symbols.

  To have a male friend with a figure eight standing next to your own figure six is enough to make you decide to walk home, wearing sandels in the snow but the huddled figures of six hunchback males with ivory fingers tapping without sense or obvious reason on a scratched, Guinness stained table, sends you scurrying into a blizzard, donut sandals and all. Even Rav, forgets the shag as he joins the: “ cult of the tapping hands”.  Guessing luck is in the fingers of the Messiah and has nothing what so ever to do with two fresh oranges, he pushes me to one side and chants, “ I’m knocking” and it wasn’t a double entendre.

I plonk three empties on the bar and tell Sid, I’m sick and walk into the frozen car park and on towards the bus stop. As fate is, as it does,   I actually spot  another  bloody sanitary towel on the floor but this one  has now faded to a rusty orange colour and seems to have been chewed at by a desperately hungry dog or a twilight pervert. I have seen both types and  you won’t be surprised to find out that they are both of the masculine variety. Females  rarely eat their own sanitary towels.