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Hands off my cash, Monty

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Hello there Monty, (if that IS your real name, I mean can I actually trust you?)

It’s that time of year again, when we hang up decorations and stockings and hope this year we’ll be lucky enough to receive the one thing we’ve always wanted…a blender.

But in all seriousness, no-one wants a blender! Stop buying them for people, the only people who want blenders are people who are lying about what they want to see if you really love them enough to know what they ACTUALLY want!

Anyway, back on topic. It is Christmas, everyone’s favourite time of year.

Except me…

Now I know what you’re thinking. “You must be the Grinch!” Well you’re right, Jim Carrey only wanted the job for the movie and then quit, so naturally, being the Christmas-hating person I am, I stepped in.

But I don’t necessarily “hate” Christmas, I just dislike what accompanies it. The screaming kids in shopping centres, crying because they really want that life-size inflatable castle. The inability to go shopping without an endless array of people shoving you to and fro like a garden flamingo. And most of all…the never-ending relentless cycle of Christmas carols. Everywhere you go, in shops, at work, on the radio, even your neighbours are singing them! (And not even the good ones either, it’s always bloody Jingle Bells).

And this amongst other things has created this Christmas-hating monster, the Grinch re-incarnated.

But although I tell myself every year that Christmas is a horrible, horrible time of year I still find myself putting up the tree (which always looks sublime), wearing the occasional Christmas hat and writing the annual Christmas cards. Because as Ron Sexsmith said “maybe this Christmas will mean something more…”

Maybe next year I won’t be a Grinch.

Maybe I’ll look like this:



Dear Monty,

It seems as though you’ve been neglected, like a hippy woman from the 60’s neglects her own needs for support and burns her bra as a political statement. However, to make a political statement was not our intention when we put you in the metaphorical cupboard under the stairs, away from harms way while we went on leading our lives. But just like another cupboard under the stairs dweller, you Monty are not destined for a cupboard. Like the great Harry Potter, you are destined for a magical school of witchcraft and wizardry. And as this begins to make no sense I will continue to ramble just so you feel as if you’re not a lonely old blog that hasn’t the will to exist anymore and may spontaneously combust as well as any blog without a brain can spontaneously combust on the internet without actually spontaneously combusting.

You see Monty, you and I are quite alike. Right now we do not serve a purpose. I, since having finished school do nothing but spend money on CD’s, clothes and things I simply do not need but have an insatiable urge to have, and watch youtube about things that are completely ridiculous, such as this:

And YOU are a blog that has become almost extinct. Vulnerable I guess.

So what else is happening with me you ask? Well I have recently turned my atrocious sock tan into an equally atrocious thong tan.

I also bought this album:

Jenny And Johnny - I'm Having Fun Now

Jenny Lewis and Johnathan Rice! You should get it.

Other than that though, I have done nothing, however a book club may have been created! How sophisticated, we’ll sip tea from a table under a tree and discuss Catch-22 and the complete illustrated edition of The Da Vinci Code and why it’s worth carrying it around for hours while it’s possibly doing your shoulder some damage. (It is worth it methinks).

Note to self: Methinks may be a word that is much too outdated to use, methinks.

And it is now about time I leave you once more Monty. Possibly for another lengthy amount of time. Apologies in advance if you never make it out of the cupboard under the stairs, I’m no Dumbledore.


Now that we’ve drawn you in with the title and our provocative boob moustaches. We’d like to inform you about the magnificence of lawn bowls.

As we sat down to enjoy a toasty jaffle and casually flicked through the plethora of TV channels, a firm buttocks captured our oestrogen fueled gazes.

A look of determination as she viciously drew back her moisturized, perfectly sculptured arm and swung it swiftly back releasing the sparkling purple balls of an angel.

‘Nuff said.

Gee & Lor


Today I hang up my Citzen Kane coat, take off my Julius Caesar hat and give away my Jane Austen and Fay Weldon replicas.

Metaphorically speaking of course.


It’s raining, I’m sick and I’m listening to The Everly Brothers.

Pathetic, but let me defend myself. I only like two of their songs. ‘Tell Laura I Love Her’ because I like to imagine it’s about me and ‘All I Have To Do Is Dream’ because it’s in that Drew Barrymore film. ‘Riding In Cars With Boys’. (Good movie, although I can’t really remember what happens).

It’s ok now, I have stopped listening to The Everly Brothers. Moved on to bigger and better things like Philly Jays.  I’m making a rain playlist:

1. Rainy Day Women #12 & 35 – Bob Dylan

2. And It Rained All Night – Thom Yorke

3. Raining In Baltimore – Counting Crows

4. Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head – B.J. Thomas (It’s a classic)

5. Rain City – Turin Brakes (One of my favourite songs)

6. The Rain – The Swell Season

7. Hey Mr. Rain – The Velvet Underground

8. High And Lonesome – Eels (It’s just rain)


9. Storms & Fevers – The Grates

10. Riders On The Storm – The Doors



This poem was bookmarked in a book of mine, from about a million years ago. I remember I use to read it all the time-I loved it so much, I’m sure you should read it too:

A Farewell To False Love

By Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618)

Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies,

A mortal foe and enemy to rest;

An envious boy, from who all cares arise,

A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed;

A way of error, a temple of treason,

In all effects contraru unto reason.

A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers,

Mother of sighs and murderer of repose,

A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers

As moisture lend to every grief that grows;

A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,

A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait.

A fortress foiled, which reason did defend,

A siren song, a fever of the mind,

A maze wherein affection finds no ends,

A raging cloud that runs before the wind,

A substance like the shadow of the sun,

A goal of grief for which the wisest run.

A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear,

A path that leads to peril and mishap;

A true retreat of sorrow and despair,

An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure’s lap,

A deep distrust of that which certain seems,

A hope of that which reason doubtful deems.

Sith then thy trains my younger years betrayed,

And for my faith ingratitude I find,

A sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed,

Whose course was ever contrary to kind-

False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu!

Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.

Happy holidays!