Aberystwyth Mon Amour

Instead Of A Bum - Which Is What I Am

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Thu, 06 Sep 2007 17:58:00 +0000

Today Puck was suprisingly nice to me.

After the boss called us into a meeting and informed us we should all start looking for new jobs, he took the opportunity to inform me about his involvement in the local am dram society.

Apparently their autumn production is a classic with a twist and would I be interested in coming to see it. No, I would not. I'd rather stick forks in my eyes than be witness to the desperate flailings of a flock of secondary school drama teachers, four accountants and the vicar's wife as they try to bring "Dickens to life!", whilst giving off a slight stench of self-pity with that look in their eyes of, "I coulda been a contender, I coulda been somebody". But, I allowed Puck to continue and faked my enthusiasm, as I like to fake most things at work.

"Classic with a twist?" I ask.
"Yeah, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang set in the future."
"Oh..."
"Chitty Chitty Bang Bang will be played by a Vauxhall Corsa."
"Er..."
"But don't tell everyone 'cos I'm not sure we've got all the legal side sorted yet."
"Oh, don't worry, I won't be telling anyone."

And there was me thinking his contant talk of "the players" was somehow in reference to his male sexual prowess.

Special Needs: Your Departmental Description Proceeds You...

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Mon, 03 Sep 2007 19:24:00 +0000

This weekend I had to attend an infamous "staff night out". I wouldn't have minded but it wasn't even with my colleagues, it was with the special needs team from next door. One of them, whom I've nicknamed Vlad the Impaler due to his enthusiastic use of the stapler, had spotted the iceberg and was abandoning ship so, as is tradition, a bender was organised. I don't know how I managed to get myself invited but I guess a few chats with him in the kitchen about how the microwave stinks of fish constitutes a relationship.

Now I've had my mind made up about the special needs team ever since one of them got their tie stuck in the fax machine last year so the idea of spending a night in their company seemed foolhardy at best. But I was willing to push all preconceived notions to one side (with the help of my good friends Jack and Gordon) and just be all care free and shit. Yes, the evening would be a success and I would build bridges with this notorious gaggle of work shy bastards.

We met at 7 and most of them were already more drunk than I could hope to get in an entire weekend. The evening started to look gloomy. They explained how they manage to charge most of their stationary orders to our account; I laughed politely. They told me how they always use our teams milk, sugar and teabags because they forget to buy their own and find it hilarious when I blow my top about our vanishing supplies; I smiled weakly. The evening started to cry into it's beer. They told me how they were three months behind on producing their new booklets for school admissions, which impacts on my job in ways I don't dare imagine; I stared at them blankly. The evening contemplated taking a suicidal leap from Beachy Head.

Then Rohyponol Ray showed up.

Rohyponol Ray is one of their senior managers who makes my all-time top ten list of 'men who make my skin crawl like a maggot orgy'. He looks like a second hand cars salesman who sawdusts the mileage, not someone with a social care degree. I've heard him say the following things (fortunately not to me):

"I want to worship your body."
"She's protecting that small boy. It's despicable."
"These aspergers kids aren't meeting my targets. Tell them to get their act together."
"It's not my problem if you live next door to a paedophile, love."
"I wish Jeffrey Archer would get back into politics. At least he was honest about lying."

He entered the pub like one might enter an ITV quiz show and proclaimed he was here to "get traumatised", but first he had to chat up the "pod-pod ding-dong" behind the bar. The evening slit it's wrists and overdosed on paracetamol. The coroner was called.

You Brought This On Yourself

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Sat, 01 Sep 2007 11:00:00 +0000

As previously mentioned I'm exposed to stupid children's names on a daily basis. It brings me great joy but then great sadness instantaneously. But something happened yesterday that I'd be hoping, nay PRAYING, for. I've waited a whole year and it finally came...brace yourselves...yes, yesterday I entered a child into our system called HARRY POTTER. I had tears in my eyes. God bless you, Mr and Mrs Potter, although I will be reporting you to social services.

Yes, I've Tried Turning It Off and Back On Again...

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Tue, 28 Aug 2007 20:10:00 +0000

My broadband providers have given me the finger. Apparently they are "migrating my service" and it won't be fully active again until Friday. Bar stewards. I pretended I had an online business and their shitty service was costing me but they officially could not give a fuck.

I would be angry but being internet-less is strangely liberating. I've started speaking to people in the flesh again and read some fiction out of an actual book. It's novel. I've also started to make my own Christmas cards. Maybe the cheese has slid off my cracker and I haven't noticed.

I've also got very into Channel 4 sitcom The IT Crowd, which I seemed to ignore when it first came round. It's hilarious, mainly because it's steeply based in reality.

Now I bet you're wondering how I'm making this post without internet access? I'll let you ponder that. It's called "building suspense" which is a writing technique I learnt in University....

Good Morning, How Can I Help?

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Fri, 24 Aug 2007 15:54:00 +0000

I have worked for the council for a year now. It took me the first two weeks to completely lose my faith in all humanity. Nothing has happened since to raise the standing but occassionally you get a phone call that at least makes you break a rib with laughter.

Me: Good morning. How can I help?
Man: I've lost my dog.
Me: Sorry, I think you're through to the wrong number. This is the Education department.
Man: But you are the council?
Me: Yes, but we don't handle such....enquiries.
Man: Right. Can you send someone out to find my dog?
Me: Not really...because we're Education.
Man: Do you have a department that can help?
Me: Um...probably not...it's not something the council would usually deal with.
Man: Oh...but it's a spaniel.
Me: How long has the dog been missing?
Man: Half an hour.
Me: Riiiiiight.
Man: Should I ring the police instead?
Me: Yeah, why not.

Turns out I'm not alone in the world...

Recent Complaints Received By The Council

My bush is really overgrown round the front and my back passage has fungus growing in it.

He's got this huge tool that vibrates the whole house and I just can't take it anymore.

It's the dog's mess that I find hard to swallow.

I want some repairs done to my cooker as it has backfired and burnt my knob off.

I wish to complain that my father hurt his ankle very badly when he put his foot in the hole in his back passage.

And their 18 year old son is continually banging his balls against my fence.

I wish to report that tiles are missing from the outside toilet roof. I think it was bad wind the other night that blew them off.

My lavatory seat is cracked, where do I stand?

I am writing on behalf of my sink, which is coming away from the wall.

Will you please send someone to mend the garden path. My wife tripped and fell on it yesterday and now she is pregnant.

I request permission to remove my drawers in the kitchen.

50% of the walls are damp, 50% have crumbling plaster and 50% are plain filthy.

The toilet is blocked and we cannot bath the children until it is cleared.

Our lavatory seat is broken in half and is now in three pieces.

The man next door has a large erection in the back garden, which is unsightly and dangerous.

Our kitchen floor is damp. We have two children and would like a third so please send someone round to do something about it.

I am a single woman living in a downstairs flat and would you please do something about the noise made by the man on top of me every night.

Please send a man with the right tool to finish the job and satisfy my wife.

This is to let you know that our lavatory seat is broke and we can't get BBC2.

An Open Letter To Love

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Thu, 23 Aug 2007 17:07:00 +0000

Dear God/Buddha/Allah/Zeus/Noel Edmonds/Jimmy Saville,

I've been a moderately good girl for the past year so I was thinking, as a reward, you might consider dropping some male-shaped interest into my withering love life. I'm looking for someone aged 24 to 35, 5ft 11+, employed, in the inoffensive to attractive looking range, with his own car who lives in or around the UK or associated islands (not Guernsey).

Yours sincerely,

Muffy

.............................................

Dear Muffy,

Thank you for your letter. I have now processed your request and can offer you the following:

A patronising pervert who is old enough to be your dad but still lives with his mother, who as your work superior likes to offload all his assignments onto you and then complains, to you, that he has too much work, whilst complimenting you on your slimness.

The 18-year-old photocopier repair boy who thinks his Sat Nav will impress you.

The office supplies lesbian that thinks her multi-coloured post-its will impress you.

An attractive man who shares your sense of humour, music and film taste and philosophical beliefs, aged 28, 6ft 2, who lives locally and drives an Alfa Romeo . You will start to get quite carried away with him and then you find out, from someone else, he has a wife.

Kind Regards,
God/Buddha/Allah/Zeus/Noel Edmonds/Jimmy Saville

.............................................

Dear God/Buddha/Allah/Zeus/Noel Edmonds/Jimmy Saville,

Oh. Can you at least make the rest of August a bit warm and sunny so I can wear my nice skirts in the hope of attracting some better prospects?

Regards,
Muffy

.............................................

Dear Muffy,

No.

Love,
Noel Edmonds.

I Broke It...Near Me Arse

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Tue, 21 Aug 2007 18:15:00 +0000

After a brief passionate fumble with umpteen American studio films featuring one Mr Jacob Gyllenhaal, I've returned to my first love: British independent cinema. Is there any other kind of British cinema? Yes, but we won't mention it here.

Unfortunately this reignited flame has led to me pissing off almost everyone I know by forcing Shane Meadows films upon them and also reminding people to "watch the director's commentary! It's the funniest thing ever...if you've got two hours to spare", which is envitably greeted with a nervous smile and a quick change of subject.

But just to prove I am jusitifed and my crusade will eventually prosper watch this clip from A Room For Romeo Brass. If you don't laugh, just a little bit, then you are dead inside.

Why Not Jellylorum?

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Sun, 19 Aug 2007 10:00:00 +0000

My kitten is at a very impressionable age. I'm trying to be a good yet strict mother, mainly because my two other pets turned out to be little motherfuckers and that was most definitely my fault. I always ensure she is fed at the same times and is in bed by 10pm, because as SuperNanny taught me, routine is essential.

We've had a few problems with sock stealing, moss collecting, plastic bag hoarding and eating Pedigree Chum when the dog's back was turned, but all in all it was going well. But now, I fear, she has fallen into bad company.

A new cat showed up on the street a few weeks back. This caused quite a stir amongst the neighbourhood as most of us have cats and they stick to their own patch, meeting up occassionally to share, I dunno, cat gossip? But this cat clearly flouted the unspoken lore and swaggered willynilly all over the damn shop. Upon seeing him taking a piss in our raspberry stalks, Dad quickly deemed him to be villainous and named him Macavity. I gave him a second chance and decided he was more pirate-like, christening him Captain Jack.

Well, Captain Jack looks like he's lived some lives. He has one ear, half a tail and a limp. He gives off the vibe of having been in 'Nam. Like he was captured and tortured by the Vietcong, made his escape using only wit, cunning and the corpse of a fallen comrade and has never spoken of his ordeal to a living soul since - only to the ghosts of the Song Thrushes he's killed that plague his every waking moment. That, or he got hit by a car. Either way, he's fucking hardcore. He also looks like he might drink...and smoke. Crack.

And this is whom my precious has decided to admire. She watches him in awe as he slinks along the back fence, marvels as he pelts up the plum tree. What can I do? I suppose at some point you just have to stand back and let your kids make their own mistakes. But that's exactly where it went wrong with the Shih Tzu.

Ratatouille

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Thu, 16 Aug 2007 18:38:00 +0000

My mother is militant. My mother is organised. My mother does not do spontaneous. My mother does not like surprises. My father on the other hand is as whacked as a goose in a tumble dryer. I take after him. So when we are left to our own devices, free from the shackles of my overbearing mother, we go a little "freelance". Last Friday was one such example.

I decided to skive of work because I hate everyone at the moment and Dad was on annual leave. We sat at the kitchen table as I tried to work out how to most productively spend my day whilst Dad fed Sugar Puffs to the kitten. Then I remembered I had free tickets to the FREAKIN' ZOO. Brilliant.

Off we went. Imagine my excitement when upon arriving at the zoo there were notice boards informing us, "There will be a TV crew filming inside the zoo today. We apologise for any inconvenience." Were we going to try and get on TV? Yes. Yes we were. It would be the only reasonable thing to do. Once past the ticket office, where Dad got us into a debacle with a gentleman who seemed far too elderly and confused to be working still when he tried to get me in as a student even though we had free tickets, we stalked off in search of the camera crew.

Thankfully we took a moment to stop and look at some of my favourite animals including the below pictured Monkey Dog and the Goaty-Giraffe-Zebra-Cow (I'm not sure of the actual Latin):

After three tours of the zoo which involved bitching about the new 'Gorillas In The Mist' multi-million pound Monkey House where you couldn't actually see any of the monkeys, laughing at a fat girl that got stuck in Marmot Mania and shitting ourselves in The Twilight Zone when a bat flew between my legs, we eventually spotted the TV crew loitering by the practically disused Aquarium. We didn't recognise the presenter but hell, that wasn't going to stop us.

They seemed to be doing a factual piece on the zoo's popularity so Dad and I decided to play the background roles of 'Satisfied Customer 1' and 'Satisfied Customer 2' with perhaps enough range to move through to 'Mildly Disgruntled Customer Because I Didn't See No Monkey'. We subtlety positioned ourselves on a bench directly behind the main action and got out our pre-packed lunches, because even when your being spontaneous there's no need to get ripped off by Zoo restaurants. Then the following conversation happened in forced whispers:

Dad: Oh god...
Me: What?
Dad: Don't look but there's a giant rat under this bench.
Me: Shut up.
Dad: Seriously, it's the biggest rat I've ever seen.
Me: Shoo it away!
Dad: Shoo it? It's a city rat! They're rock hard.
Me: I see it! It's coming near me; it's coming near me!
Dad: Don't startle it...it might bite.
Me: Oh god, oh god, oh god, it's sniffing ME.
Dad: Don't make a scene!
Me: What do I do?! What do I do?!
Dad: Don't panic until it mounts your foot....

SQUEAL.

Me on bench flapping about like a Martini shaker with a seizure. TV Crew and unidentifible presenter, pissed.

Not That I Mean to Bitch but...

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Wed, 15 Aug 2007 18:12:00 +0000

I like to let the major things in life wash over me, carrying me along on the surface and then turf me out at the next available shore; much like the migratory pattern of the disowned condom, found on Blackpool beach. But the small things, the insignificant annoyances of daily existance make me want to puncture my veins with a biro.

Having to ring the Post Office customer service helpline
I spent twenty minutes being passed from on automated lady to the next and being reminded I could track my mail online. I was so excited when I did finally connect to a human that I shrieked a little bit and they hung up on me.

The DVD of In America being impossible to buy on the high street
In America is one of those films that I SWEAR was always hanging around in places like Woolworths and Morrisons for about £2.99. When I finally decide I wanna watch it no fucker has it. Even the large Virgin store in town didn't have it and they have films like Death Munch 12. I braved scally ASDA as my determination mounted. The woman on the till was busy chatting to her colleague about Ryan on bread who was shagging Dawn from meat and was not pleased when I interupted to ask if they had the film. She immediately snapped "No". Bitch. You're surounded by thousands of DVDs - how do you know?

Having to ring the BT Helpline
As above. Kill me. Please come over from India and kill me. And this was work related. Vishnu help anyone who actually needs your help with their personal phone line.

The Dentist
I don't particularly like him and he always unnerves me when I enter the room and he asks me what I'm there for. But on Monday he broke his drill in my mouth...and then laughed about it.

One of my bosses, correction, line managers, returning from her holiday
This is a long one but just know she is the most aggravating person currently in my life and I didn't even invite her in. Today she spent an hour telling me how unsecure my job is and how I'm probably not viewed as a valuable employee by higher management...not that she thinks that of course but she feels obliged to relay these things to me because she really sees me as a friend.

It's Not Me, It's You

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Fri, 10 Aug 2007 17:23:00 +0000

God, I didn't want to have to do this but you leave me little choice. I'm just not the sort of girl to sit around and be played*. You were such a good catch too - handsome, witty, great job, sharp suits, part Italian, delightful hair, best mates with Gary Sinise, only moderately emotionally damaged; I wanted it to work out so badly. You even used to show up on time for our dates. Week after week, you never let me down, loyal like a labrador...until now. Where the fuck are you? Don't be giving me all that "series ended" crap; if you loved me, you'd find a way to be back in my bedroom once a week. And no, don't think you can just show up again like last time and expect me to take you back. Actually, thinking about it; it hasn't always been a bed of roses, has it? I always turned a blind eye to those other women and you're unwillingness to process crime scenes in the nude. It's is over. Farewell, TV boyfriend, farewell.

P.S Tell Gary Sinise I send my love.

P.P.S I'm even going to stop calling myself Mrs Detective Danny Messer in the CSI Forums. Seriously. That's how much you've pissed me off.

P.P.P.S I may consider taking you back as long as you a) promise to stop fooling around with that Lindsay whore from Montana and b) take your shirt off every week. MAY.

A Fack Off

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Wed, 08 Aug 2007 18:10:00 +0000

I used to be a TV whore. There was very little we wouldn't watch at Uni, in fact, our days were pretty much structured around TV scheduling. If we forgot to buy a TV guide on a Saturday I hyperventilated. As you can imagine we watched some serious crap (Try Before You Buy!) but every now again we'd stumble across a gem. A new series of one such gem has just started on Channel 4 this week: TV Heaven, Telly Hell. It's all pretty straight-foward but it's presented by a stand-up comedian and every guest is a comedian too so the riffing that goes back and forth is just killer - it's like being in their living room. Enjoy a clip from last series:

Text: A History

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Tue, 07 Aug 2007 17:53:00 +0000

Some text messages sent from my phone on 12th July 2006:

1. Your text woke me up. Inconsiderate. Out tonight?
sent at 2.30 pm

2. We should meet up at Varsity Bar, neck Corky's and then hit The Pier Club.
sent at 9.30 pm

3. Where the fuck are you? Drinks for £1. Slaughtered!
sent at 11.30 pm

4. GOONER. Now on beach. Lost shoe. Lost money. Lost Anneka. Will prob lose phone..
sent at 3.04 am

Some text messages sent from my phone today:

1. Office is dead. Might have nap on desk.
sent at 11.30 am

2. Too tired for cinema. Need to be in bed at ten.
sent at 1.30 pm

3. Transformers? As long as it starts before 8.
sent at 3.30 pm

4. I think I'm dead, so if I don't show up tonight, it's because I'm dead.
sent at 4.15 pm

Great Aunt Gert & The Fab Four

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Mon, 06 Aug 2007 18:06:00 +0000

One of my more traumatic childhood memories is visiting my Great Aunt Gert on a Sunday afternoon and spending the entire time ducking to avoid budgies. She had four in total; John, Paul, George and Ringo. As you can guess, we had a whole list of nicknames for this band of dive-bombing, ear-pecking bandits including - The Birdtles, Strawbudgie Fields Forever (mine!) and The Dambudgies. My Dad also often referred to them as The Four Birdmen of The Apocalypse due to their "ungainly appearance."

Well, believe it or believe it not, Budgie John was the first to flap off to little housebird heaven. He died (apparently) on the 8th November 1999, which as Great Aunt Gert likes to point out is exactly 19 years and 11 months to the day that Mr Lennon himself was murdered. Budgie John was not murdered however, he miscalculated the shutting of a window.

Next to die was Ringo, whom (according to Aunt Gert) managed to time his departure to coincide neatly with George Harrison's; 29th November 2001. Aunt Gert said Budgie Ringo had passed away quietly in his sleep but a rumour spread that he had been found crushed beneath his own cuttlefish.

Then Budgie George died some weeks later. Aunt Gert said it was depression from losing Ringo. Dad said it was mange and then added, "Who cared about Ringo anyway? He was the least talented of The Birdtles."

Well, we visited Aunt Gert yesterday and were greeted with the terrible news that Budgie Paul had suffered a fatal incident. It later transpired that this fatal incident was Aunt Gert sitting on him and suffocating his wee birdy form. Dad said the mange probably didn't help. He will be missed... but not by us.

Now, I'm not saying The Fabudgie Four are in some way cosmically linked with the real Beatles and that their fates are in someway entwined BUT, if Paul McCartney drops dead some time between now and the next fourty years just don't be surprised.

Superficial? Moi?

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Fri, 03 Aug 2007 17:52:00 +0000

Today Puck called me superficial.

He arrived in the office 40 minutes late wearing an odd hat. I just watched him sit down, baffled, and tried to work out where I'd seen his hat before. I didn't say 'Good morning' or 'Why the fuck are you 40 minutes late?', because we have an understanding that we don't acknowledge each other until a cup of tea is needed at around 11.00am. I would have to wait before enquiring about the hat because if I asked now it would be too obvious that I found the hat peculiar.

As the hour ticked on, I repeatedly glanced over at Puck and my mind began to place the hat at various scenes from my very own past. By the time all the pieces had clicked together and I'd arrived at an absolutely stunning joke for it, Puck had noticed I was staring at him in 10 minute intervals.

"What?" he asked.
"Nothing." I replied. I needed to wait for an opportune moment for my big reveal.

It soon came when Mohammed from IT called for Puck on my phone by mistake.

"There's a phone call for you, Puck."
"Yeah, who is it?"
"It's 1992. It wants it's hat back."
"Oh, ha. ha. ha."
"Wait, there's more..."
"Just give me the phone, dickhead."
"They're opening the National Boy Band Museum..."
"...just give me the fucking call..."
"They need your hat for The New Kids on The Block wing..."
"...you're so childish..."
"They wanna know if you have Jordan Knight's dog tags too?"

Later Puck explained the hat had "significant personal value" and that I was a shallow bitch. He added "superifical" moments after, just to reiterate his point. I asked him why he thought it was appropiate to come to work dressed as Samuel.L.Jackson on one of the hottest days of the week.

We spent the rest of the day ignoring each other. Cock.

Best. Website. Ever.

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Thu, 02 Aug 2007 18:36:00 +0000

Simpsonize yourself! HELL YEAH.

This is me as a Simpson. They've captured me just perfectly - my hair is that large.

wwww.simpsonizeme.com

Retentive? Moi?

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Wed, 01 Aug 2007 18:02:00 +0000

Today Puck called me anal.

Puck is the offensive twat that sits opposite me at work. I call him Puck because he continually fucks things up and then maliciously manages to heap the blame onto someone else, which is a miracle in itself because he has the IQ of a post-it. There is a five-month history of animosity between us.

All I asked of him was that he try to whole punch documents in the right place so that when they go into the lever arch file they actually fit, instead of sticking out two inches at the bottom or top. That way, perhaps they won't resemble hamster bedding when we come to use them again. I mean, it's not asking much, is it? The whole punch even has a slide rule so you can measure up paperwork properly before fully committing to a punch.

He just smirked and said, "No need to get stressed. They're only holes." Noob.

About an hour later I was pulling some more of his handy work from a file when I noticed that he manages to drill about twenty staples into each document that passes by his desk. I coughed lightly;
"Puck, do you own a staple extracter?"
"Yeah."
"Then would you mind exercising it occassionally?"
"Woh?"
"Just so when we need to foward this paperwork to legal, it doesn't resemble an extra from Transformers."
"God, you're so anal."

Pen-Chewing Philosophy

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 17:52:00 +0000

I had an interesting thought this morning whilst I was faux-listening to a presentation entitled 'Is White Right? The Racial and Ethical Problems Facing Our Multi-Cultural Schools Today'.

You should never get into a car with someone more famous than you...let that sink in a second...because if you crash and die you'll be listed in all related news reports as 'and passenger'. And that's no way to be remembered.

Oh, and it turns out white is not always right.

Not That I'm About Preventing Liberties But...

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Fri, 27 Jul 2007 10:45:00 +0000

I was reading news from a newspaper today, which I admit was medieval of me, when I came across an article about baby names. It had been inspired by "celebrity couple" Jordan and Peter Andre's latest urchin and future crack addict, that they had chosen to name Princess Tiaamii. Special. The article consisted of an interview with Pamela Redmond Satran, author of The Brilliant Book of Baby Names. It was the usual stuff;

Do you think the pretense and predetermined ridicule these names force upon children will ultimately lead to their gin-addled demise?
Most definately.

But then I read something that made my very heart cheer!

Is it true some countries have rules on what you can name your child?
Yes. The trend for unusual names is only in America and the UK where you are free to pick whatever name you like. In France the law prevents you choosing a name that will make your child "a subject of ridicule". It's a law introduced by Napoleon, perhaps because he was touchy about his own name. Recently a couple wanted to call their child Prune but the local mayor ruled it couldn't be allowed.

Common sense prevails! In France of all places? I say this because ridiculous baby names is a subject that plagues my everyday existence. I work in school admissions for the council, which means approximately 20,000 children's names pass by my eyes per annum and I can guarantee finding one total fucktard of a name each and every day, and I have to take a moment to contemplate that unfortunate child's miserable morrow. Today's name was Jerry Berry.

My Problem Is More Immediate

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 11:43:00 +0000

Michael Moore has made a new film about the US health care system called Sicko. Clever. My American shaped friend emailed me after viewing this movie in her native Tennessee and enquired, "Do you guys SERIOUSLY get your health care free?"

I know Big M has a tendency to gloss over some finer points of his arguements when dramatically trying to get his message across, so my interest was piqued in regard to how he had portrayed the glorious socialist beacon that is the NHS. I mean, speaking as an employee of the government, we don't want the brilliantly efficient welfare state advertised on any scale. We're struggling enough with the influx from the Eastern block without them loading up the Mayflower and sending all the pilgrims back for discount beta blockers.

But can I find out when this film is released in the UK? Can I buggery. I've had to email Michael Moore himself to find out. I should think he'll get back to me as a matter of urgency.

My Triumphant Return

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Wed, 25 Jul 2007 19:00:00 +0000

I returned to work today for the first time since my week long adventure in the New World. It was good to see my cup of tea was where I left it.

I'd prepared my verbal travelouge for them all. I was all ready to Michael Palin the shit out of them. I planned to walk through my experience of the Big Apple, dropping in interesting facts and little first-hand cultural observations like, "Aah, yes, the subway. Many tourists fear it, expecting to be mugged, shivved or infected by the locals. None of this happened to me and it was extremely good value for money considering [insert relevant cynicism about the price of British public transport here]. At one point I was screamed at by a herion addict in a lycra jumpsuit for 'holding back the black man', but that was about it. I did apologise."

Then perhaps keep them hooked with a little Ellis Island history, "Do you know they sent back the mentally ill and people who were a bit squiffy-eyed? Fascinating. We got in that museum for only £6 and that included the Statue and the ferry ride! And considering [insert relevant cynicism about how The National Trust screw you the fuck over at every opportunity]." And Central Park! "That gentle, nuturing oasis so captivatingly clinging to nature and calm in the buzzing metropolitian abyss that imprisons it. We spent an afternoon playing chess with the old gents. Thanks to my Brownie Chess Level 3 accolade's I was able to annihilate the competition. Do you know they let you rent the chess sets for free?"

But after I'd dished out my imported, undeclared Oreos and flashed my Empire State Building keyring all I got out was, "Oh my god, right, you won't believe this! They have an M&M World. Yeah, not just a shop, a WORLD. Anything you could ever want with M&M's on it! Like, M&M golf balls! M&M pyjamas! An M&M pillow! And, oh, seriously, they had a wall of M&M's that were all different colours. A WALL, from like, here through to the Special Needs office. Not different flavours mind, just colours. What else did I do? Apart from M&M World? Oh, they have the biggest Toys 'R' Us! I spent two hours in there..."

This is why they don't trust me with the shredder.

Shopping with Mother

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Tue, 24 Jul 2007 17:42:00 +0000

My companion was obviously rattled. The throng of Reebok Classics, Fred Perry tshirts. We'd been here before but this time seemed so much worse. "It'll be the rain", she said, body pressed, threatened, against the wall of the kiddie ball pool.

How could we blame them? We seeked the same thing afterall; the Swedish self-assembly answer to all our storage problems. But where did it hide? And how long would it be before my companion started her usual tricks. The vastness of this blue and yellow soul-sucker brings out the worst in people! I could feel the Reaper of the Allen Key bearing down upon us already.

We picked our way carefully through the 'living solutions'. Did I want a Faktum kitchen? No. No I did not. How about a Rattan Gunghult rocking-chair? Argh! Stay away from me, I do not live in a conservatory. My companion became more and more agitated, stopping often to shake bookshelves and prod sofa beds, pronouncing everything, "shoddy". I, meanwhile, was colliding with ill-placed nests of tables and scowling at small children who took more than their fair share of miniture pencils from dispensers. Was there no order? My companion knocked over a selection of faux-books and tutted loudly at the person next to her. My bubbling anger that had before been exuding in many directions, suddenly focused in on her.

I turned and fled from 'lighting solutions', screaming wildly through the children's section and flailing my way past 'floor coverings' until I reached my destination - 'window decorations'. My companion soon caught up with me and promptly scolded, "There is no need to storm off, especially not in....this place." Then it truly began; "Voile? Are you insane? You want people to watch you get undressed? Why not just stick a red light in the window and be done with it, Roxanne? (brief pause as I considered this career path) Venetian blinds? Are you insane? Why not just throw a party for the dust? Do you like your allergies being set off? (brief pause as I contemplated what sort of party one might throw for dust) ROMAN BLINDS? Oh, just kill me now."

The fury boiled up so far inside me I felt the desperate need to make a purchase of something I couldn't pronounce, just to cause umbrage in the ranks. Two hours of complaining about everything whilst I patiently picked my way through the hoardes. I needed either my alcohol or my revenge! I grabbed a product off the nearest shelf. Vacker. What was it? Who cared. It was to be mine.

Then I got it home. It was a shoe rack. A shoe rack I do not need. A shoe rack that does not fit in my room. A SHOE RACK OF PURE SPITE.

Where Angels Dare Purchase Hotdogs

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Sun, 22 Jul 2007 19:40:00 +0000

This post is a warning to anyone planning a trip to Coney Island. Beware The Cyclone.

Pictured below is the satanic structure that I think, has actually fractured my back. You think you'd know for sure if your spine was at all afflicted but I once listened to a police presentation about road accidents and was told of a man who broke his neck after rolling his Volvo down an embankment but he didn't realise for two weeks. So based on that questionable information alone, my back must be fractured...I think.

It looks romantic doesn't it? Brimming with nostalgia. A gentle ride awaits you, whilst in the distance children paddle in the sea's edge, giggling and elderly couples promenade slowly up and down the boardwalk. NAIVE FOOLS. In real life it is held together with masking tape and tramp spittle. Cyclone made Oblivion feel like a speedbump. As it tore round it's rickerty tracks, I could feel my lungs banging together. It probably went as fast as the Oblivion, which considering it was built in 1927, is horrifying. It was as charming as cat AIDS.

To recover, I boarded The Pirate Ship. I think Pirate Ships are like childbirth; as soon as it's over your body must release a hormone that makes you forget how terrible it was and so next time you spot one it's all, "Awesome! Pirate Ship! Let's ride that fibreglass bitch!". My friend kept asking me if it went upside down. I was pretty sure it didn't but as my brain was still vibrating from the Cyclone I couldn't give a simple answer. As soon as we got on though, I remembered Pirate Ships almost go upside down which is somehow worse than a fully committed 180 degree turn. This particular ship was also being operated by an actual pirate who was laughing to himself and swaying a lot. I closed my eyes for the entire ride as I was certain all the momentum we were building was simply to slingshot us into the Atlantic where we would forever ride the seas as his damned crew.

What? I am not a pussy!

Images of the spine-doomer: www.richiefahey.com

About Me

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Sun, 22 Jul 2007 12:00:00 +0000

I grow and deal raspberries for profit with a sideline in compost. I like the kind of gypsys that sell pegs but dislike the kind that steal lead from your roof. I one day hope to make my own christmas cards. The ratio of people that irritate me to the people who don't is 50:1. My greatest achievement to date is tax fraud. Deathclock says I'll die when I'm 103. Shit. I have an autistic cat.

If my words touch you, please don't touch them back.

About the Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Aber Muffy) — Sun, 22 Jul 2007 10:29:00 +0000

I left the University of Aberystwyth last year, graduating with a degree in dalliance. Whilst I didn't have a concrete statergy for life after Uni I was determined to be marvelous and maintain the loafer ways I had perfected previously. But apparently, it doesn't work like that...

One year later and I have a shit job at the shit council, shit all money, shit prospects and I have to get out of bed at 6 o'clock in the shitting morning. Whatever abstract ambtition I did have twelve months ago has been ground out of me by Mircosoft Excel and complaint letters. The only excitement left in my days is when someone brings in Jaffa Cakes.

So, I thought I'd blog about my demise into gin-addled, pigeon-heckling bitterness to pass the time. And sit and mourn Aberystwyth and all that it represented: sleeping for 48 hours, eating tomato soup for breakfast, missing 3pm lectures, feigning an interest in Virginia Woolf, debating which Professor to sexually proposition for better marks, wandering off with strangers, forgetting where I lived, grilling my own mail in a George Foreman and obviously skipping all those seminars on career advice.