Aunt Antics

Ahh, Christmas.

The one time of year where you see the bits of your family you haven’t seen since the last one.
In my family, this can be quite a joyous occasion since, as I imagine I’ve mentioned previously, my family are all batshit mad. This afternoon we had the pleasure of my mother’s sister, Tori*, stop by the Smith household to regale us with her ever-amusing tales of 2012.

Allow me to share a select few anecdotes that caused me to laugh myself silly this afternoon.

*Disclaimer: all the names in these stories have been changed to protect my aunt’s privacy/myself when she finds out about this blog. Only kidding about the last part. I think.

The Coffin in The Kitchen

Tori and her friend Sara arrange to get together at her house. When she arrives, Sara suggests they get Chinese. Now, although the most logical option on a cold winter’s night would be to order a takeaway, Sara is keen to go and pick it up instead, so she and Tori wander off into the night to collect their delicious Oriental feast.
30 minutes (or thereabouts) later, Tori and Sara return back to the house. Neither spot anything unusual until Tori enters the kitchen.

Where there is a fucking coffin.

Apologies for the language. But this is basically how Tori relayed the story to us. Quote unquote – “I shit you not, there is a fucking coffin in my kitchen”.

Like everyone else in the family, Tori is mental. So instead of screaming or immediately calling the police, she goes to investigate it further, Sara and their tasty bags of deep-fried  morsels in tow (Tori’s initial reaction was apparently “for god’s sake, keep the Chinese away from it!”). As they approach, she sees a pair of FEET at the end of it, where the coffin is cracked slightly open.

Tori, being an avid watcher of all programs supernatural with a wild imagination, immediately jumps to the logical conclusion that a vampire has entered her home. I quote, “My first thought was that it was a vampire that had arrived in a puff of smoke while we were out”. Her cat, Twig (ironic – he’s a huge ginger monster) is sat outside the kitchen going absolutely crazy, which is proof enough for Tori that this creature in the coffin is not from this world. And then she realises how stupid that sounds – it MUST just be a homeless person who usually sleeps rough inside a coffin, but tonight has treated himself to a night at chez Tori without disturbing any of the locks somehow. Right?
She turns to Sara, who looks terrified. “Have you set this up?!” demands Tori, but Sara denies all knowledge.
The fear is beginning to set in, so Tori suggests that they call the police. “And say what? That there’s a coffin in your kitchen?” says Sara. So instead, Tori then suggests that she knocks on her neighbours door. Again, Sara is doubtful as to whether she should.
(I do believe the conversation went along the lines of
Sara: Well what are they going to do?!
Tori: I don’t know… He’s a man!)

Sara tries to kick the lid off the coffin while Tori paces around the kitchen, trying to think of a solution. Then Sara really starts freaking out, which then sets Tori (and Twig) off. At this point, all that can be heard from the house is a chorus of screams and screeches, before Tori picks up the phone and dials 999 while yelling “I’M CALLING THE POLICE” at Sara. “NO, DON’T CALL THE POLICE, DON’T CALL THE POLICE”, Sara shouts back – at the same moment a man with a werewolf’s head jumps out of the coffin, causing Tori to scream in terror.

Until she notices Sara laughing.

And werewolf head man removes his furry disguise in true Scooby Doo fashion.

And Tori realises it has all been a prank.

However, the emergency services have now picked up the phone. Tori hurriedly puts down the phone, but two minutes later there is a loud thumping at the door.

The police have come to join the party. Apparently, upon hearing screaming and “DON’T CALL THE POLICE” shouted repeatedly, they’re obligated to intervene.

At which point, a very humiliated Tori has to explain that her idiot friend has played a prank on her, and werewolf man is actually just Sara’s boyfriend who had been doing work on her house earlier that week and had had an extra key cut in order to pull off this elaborate prank. The best part was, he had earlier set up cameras in her house to catch her reaction on camera. The police were absolutely delighted to have the footage, and promised to tell all their colleagues in Gravesend and Maidstone departments.

Stuck in Greenwich Park, from the perspective of Tori via her facebook status

“OMG! Could this afternoon have gone any worse if I tried??? Went to Greenwich and actually managed to find a parking space just OUTSIDE the park (that’s a first). When we walked into the park saw the car park was virtually empty and being the lazy bitch I am, decided to go back and get the car and move it to INSIDE the park, so it wouldn’t be too far to walk back ….. Didn’t realise they locked the bloody gates at 6pm and we arrived back at the bottom gate at 6.03pm to find a locked gate. Hot footed it up the hill outside of park (nearly killed me), only to find the main gate locked too, with my car INSIDE!!!! Eventually managed to climb over the huge ‘kin gates at the front (more like clawed my way over, not a pretty sight), then drove around the park, in bits you aren’t meant to, – that was actually quite fun :))) – looking for someone who might actually be able to let us out, but NO. In the end called the police to come and rescue us from the park. Only had to wait 2 hours for them to drive back from winter wonderland – as you do – for them to come out with the key. When they eventually arrived and unlocked the gates for us, my ‘kin car battery had died cause I had the heating on. Police then had to jump start my car, they couldn’t find the battery (no point asking me, I didn’t even know where the hazard lights were kept). Then [boyfriend, won’t mention name] was helping them with the light from his phone, until that battery died and then my phone died. Then in my daze, got lost leaving Blackheath (how the hell do you do that???) only to find the petrol light had come on”.

The Boyfriend

Tori, who was 42 this month, has got herself a 26 year old Turkish toyboy. He is married. I know… What. The. Hell.
For obvious reasons, they have been keeping their relationship a secret. But it’s fine, as she has diagnosed his wife as a sadistic narcissist with bipolar disorder. (In fairness, from some of the other stories re the boyfriend, she does sound pretty nasty).
For Christmas, she bought the boyfriend an expensive aftershave. When he expressed concerns about the possibility of being rumbled by his wife, she instructed him to tell her that “he had found it on the train, all wrapped up nicely in it’s bag. Well… that’s possible?”

Ladies and gentlemen, a round of applause for my aunt Tori.
I’m largely looking forward to seeing the rest of my mum’s sisters and my lovely, offensive granddad over the remainder of the festive period. I imagine I’ll be back with more family stories soon.

Hope everyone had a nice Christmas! If not, then I hope whatever went wrong is worth telling stories about. (And if so, then PLEASE feel free to share your stories in a comment/give me a link to your blog!)

Z. x

Advertisements

Happy Armageddon!

So here we are, the day before the day a lot of people have been silently (or not so silently) freaking out about for a while. Ladies and gents, judgement day is almost upon us.

First things first, I don’t personally believe that the world is going to end tomorrow. Maybe that’s cause I quite like the idea that, thousands of years ago, the Mayans sat around their calendar giggling and saying “here, guys, I’ll tell you what will really shit some poor sods up one day – let’s tell them the world’s ending”.

Meanwhile in 2012, chaos ensues. 

For the sake of this blog, let’s not completely rule out the idea of the world ending. If it does, I imagine it to be a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy – the human race will unintentionally destroy the earth in their panic and confusion.

It’ll be like the riots in London last year. Most people weren’t actually rioting, they just took an opportunity to trash things and steal stuff. It’ll be like that all over again, the streets overrun with scallies who have jumped on the bangwagon of destroying everything in sight.

I’d actually rather we were all wiped out by a massive comet than have to watch morons set fire to buildings again. 

I do predict that a few people will be getting up to some crazy stuff tonight, just in case we don’t live to see another day. Ever since the term “YOLO” was coined (for nice, normal people, that means ‘you only live once’), people have been taking it to mean “I’m going to do something I know is really stupid and ridiculous but I shall justify it by saying YOLO afterwards, shrugging it off and ignoring the potential long term effects it may cause”. I imagine that even with the slightest chance of the world ending, we will see some extreme YOLOing tonight. It’s the perfect excuse. 

As I sat in front of the TV looking scruffy in man-sized tracksuit bottoms (how’s THAT for partying like it’s the end of the world, Jay Sean?!) I started to wonder if the ruckus had begun anywhere. Then I started brainstorming what havoc I’d wreak if I a) could be bothered, b) had the minerals and c) truly believed that my death was imminent. 

It turns out that I’m VERY boring. I couldn’t come up with anything particularly meaningful or creative. My best idea was probably acquiring a jet pack and flying through the skies of London naked while eating a red velvet cupcake, scattering crumbs like they were confetti and singing I’m Like A Bird by Nelly Furtado in between mouthfuls. Random..?

Bored, I asked my family the same question. The first person to think of an answer was my mum. And with these few sentences, she made my entire day. In fact, I can probably die happy now. 

Conversation went as follows:

Me: If there was absolutely no doubt that the world was ending, what would you do?
Mum: *ponders question for a moment* Well, I suppose I would cry and want to be with my family. Wait, no. I’d make a cake and then NOT wash the bowl up.

She is WILD. I genuinely think my mum’s plan of action is potentially the best thing I’ve heard all day. 

But it seems that instead of flying around spreading goodwill and cake to all men, I’ll be at home enjoying the increasingly sandpapery feeling in my throat. Getting ill just before Christmas is basically a talent of mine. 

I hope to post again soon, you know, if we’re not all perishing in a fiery cesspit that was once planet earth. If we are, I’ll see you all in hell. I imagine. Unless you’re good. Which I sincerely doubt you are since you’re reading my blog… 

Z. x

 

A less than gleeful return to the blogosphere

*puts on overly feminine, diary-writing-in voice*
Deeeear diary,
 
I am bedridden with a severe case of teenage angst. 
All I’m capable of doing is sitting in bed in my own filth watching various episodes of Peep Show, pausing only to have a momentary sob or update my facebook status to a relevant yet vague song lyric. It’s tragic.
 
This is my woeful tale of self-pity.
 
I met a boy in August. To protect the ‘innocent’ (hmm), we shall refer to him as Boy.
 
I reckon August was probably the best month of my entire life. For obvious reasons. Boy and I met maybe less than a week after I competed. We met through a friend I met in the village, who shall also remain anonymous. 
It was still sunny (well, what passes for sunny in lovely England) then, so we did lots of sun based activities, i.e. things that can be done inside, outside. I.e… went for dinner a lot, but sat in the outside part of the restaurant. Glory. 
 
The first time we met, Boy took my number while we were slightly boozed. I thought nothing of it. Yes, he was attractive. Yes, he was funny. Would we get in touch? I didn’t know. At this point, I had a sort of ridiculous crush on somebody else so I wasn’t too bothered either way. (For the record, nothing came of that either. What is wrong with me?)
But Boy texted me the next day, and we began chatting. We arranged to go for dinner. Why not, I thought. Harmless fun. 
 
It was during dinner that I decided that actually, I rather liked Boy. 
So for roughly three glorious months, we continued to galavant around London happily. We didn’t do anything particularly spectacular, I was just happy to be in the company of somebody I gelled with so well. I liked his dark sense of humour and I guess he must have found my initial social awkwardness endearing. 
 
But then one day, Boy realised that I am, in fact, an idiot. 
 
Ok, so he didn’t put it quite like that. He was actually very nice about it. But the message was clear: we were going to have to stop seeing each other.
In hindsight, it was inevitable that it couldn’t last. Heck, nothing lasts forever. Not even [insert appropriate celebrity couple that we though were solid but have actually split – I can’t actually think of one myself]. Boy is a bit older than me, and we have different interests. But all things considered, we got on well. So I was pretty gutted. We kept in touch though, and continued to meet up occasionally (which probably drove my hormonal, teenage mind a bit bonkers). 
 
So, the months continue to go by and Boy and I stay good friends. But there’s still an underlying element of “something-used-to-be-here-which-isn’t-anymore-and nobody-feels-completely-comfortable-with-this-current-situation-considering-the-former-one”. This didn’t help things at all.
 
In between my good days (“I am queen and ruler of the universe and nobody can stop me because I am happy and independent.”) and bad days (“shit. Maybe I should get a cat and prepare for spinsterhood”), i generally tried to get on with my life.  I start chatting to a new guy. New Guy is nice but I still find it hard to completely get over Boy. 
 
Boy and I are now occasionally bickering with each other. It wasn’t nice. It all came to a head the other day, when Boy says he’s seeing somebody else. And suggests that maybe it’s wise that we don’t chat anymore. Ouch. 
I’m not sure what’s worse. The fact that I’m probably going to lose somebody I now consider to be a good friend, or the fact that I’ve already bought their Christmas present. Or that if I do indeed give them their present, I have to see them again for what could possibly be the last time. Unpleasant.
 
So, Internet. That’s the story of how I came to be sitting in bed on a Saturday night, sadly blogging away all my troubles with Peep Show minimised on Safari. It was either that or go full psycho and have a complete kitchen floor reset. (For those who aren’t familiar with the kitchen floor reset, allow my pal Russell Kane to educate you on the matter: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQccbDwQlMQ. In fact, everything he says in this clip is brilliant).
 
Not my most entertaining post ever, but quite potentially the most personal. And my first one in several months. 
I’ll attempt to post something more joyful before/around/after Christmas. 
 
If I fail to do so, hope everyone reading has a bloody brilliant Christmas and a splendid New Year! Make sure to drink lots. 
 
Z. x