Monthly Archives: October 2006
I had a muy excellentay evening dahn tahn with Nitram and friends; I had two bottles of cider and was inexplicably worse-for-wear. I hadn’t seen him in aages so it was super good to drink and talk and chill(ax) to some reggae in the Iguana. The night culminated in me shrieking excitedly as MW#1 carried me purposely home across his broad shoulder…
Man had hunted and was returning to his lair with his prize… who happened to be dressed as a satanic schoolgirl and flashed a backside clad in gold lamé as she was bounced along on his shoulder. Awesome.
I was most concerned at preserving my modesty… MW#1 saw to that notion. Oh dear.
So still no conversing of things that we should converse about. I have been informed however that the world as we know it is not human kinds to share in, but is apparently MW#1’s, and I just happen live in it, baby. This came as a bit of a shock. Of course being a kind and generous dictator, sorry, Supreme Being, I have been granted a permit to exist and explore…
I asked him whether this permit came with a 00 specification, but alas I got no reply.
I want to be strong and able and tough and try and appear so to others because I do not wish to appear weak i.e. I feel (wrongly) that to be feminine is to be so inclined… but I like feeling small when I rest my head on his chest and am surrounded by his skin and calmness and warmth…
I can forget my innate dorkyness and incompentance for a while whilst he wends a trail of kisses along my collarbone, gently slides my hair out of my face to kiss my nose… I feel feminine… or when I try and press every square inch of my skin to his and I feel like i’m a human shield against harsh realities…
Reality needs to be faced though. I can’t fully give in, relax, be, whatever you want to call it until I feel i’m secure, until I feel that he won’t walk away and break me mid-thaw when i’m vulnerable. As much as I think people should not change whomever they’re with, I think you’ve got to give a part of yourself up for the other, otherwise you’ll just stay separate, isolated, alone.
‘Tis mighty perplexing.
Eugh, skool tomorrow. Fuck.
The Monster gets creative: make your own Sock Monkey
“nope.. he is amonkey.. monkeys don’t need clothes only hat”
Wikipedia: Sock Monkey
Thats monkey. Not monky. There is no instruction manual for me. Just ask The Monster or MW#1.
In this exceptionally long post comprised of oh-so-fabulous imagery courtesy of the artist known as monky, a tale is woven of what I got up to over the last two days I spent in Lahndahn tahn. The alternative text should provide extraneous information.
Day One. At the bus stop on the way into town I spied the following object:
I was unsure as to what it was; closer inspection narrowed the choices down to a) icing, b) tortilla, c) soggy card. I eventually decided on b.
Once I popped up at Charing Cross to meet Vegas for Wagamama and mucho conversing, I discovered that I was early. Shock. So I spent a short while staring at the flying rats and tourists milling around Trafalgar Square. I greatly enjoyed closing my eyes and listening to Oceania whilst spray from the fountains floated gently across my face.
As you can see from the following images an army of children were attempting to take the Square, systematically assaulting Nelsons Column in a horrific display of grubbyness. After a while adults joined their evil hordes too- I think because they had given up and given in.
After escaping from the scene of such horror, I spent an excellent couple of hours with Mr. Vegas talking of our lives, loves and works. I had not seen said gentleman in over a year (shame on me), so it was super to see him and talk about the random shite that passes for our life these days.
I bid him adieu and moved on to see Twilight: Photography in the Magic Hour at the V&A. My favourite three artists were Chrystel Lebas, Bill Henson (thank you Pokey!) and Gregory Crewdson; I would dearly love to own a 40 x 95” print by Lebas, but I think it’s just a little out of my budget.
Covert photographs from inside the exhibition:
Heading topside I perused the trash and beauty in the shop (sadly I lack the £3.5k needed) and purchased the following fine piece of bling:
The scar accessorises well I feel.
The “jewels” wobble about on tiny springs as my body moves; it’s a terrible piece of merchandise but awesome at the same time. I don’t even wear rings (bad circulation, no inclination) but I figure I can wear it when i’m attempting to look “classy yet sexy”. Heh.
On that subject- I dropped £30 on books to feed my brain- three poetry and one porn “Sweet Life 2” (edited by the delicious Violet) containing hot hot hot “unconventional sexual practices” (so says an Amazon reviewer- i’m like- Hello-o-o-o Nurse!)
Day Two. Lahndahn to meet my Mother. After lunch at The National Dining Rooms (tasty yet unsatisfying- and £3.50 for two slices of approx. 8cmx10cmx1cm thick cake?) we progressed on to the Hayward Gallery and How To Improve The World for some contemporary hijinx.
After the neon glory of the South Bank we bounced over the bridge back towards the National. We passed this particularly interesting piece of bridge furniture- I thought it was a giant flying rat discourager, but my Mother suggsted that it was a tagger/suicidal person discourager, and I am inclined to agree. It does look pleasingly medieval in it’s construction.
So, finally on to the much hallowed Velazquez exhibition. Well, I tend to power-walk through most exhibitions (although I lingered long at Twilight… maybe ‘cos of the pretty lighting) and due to the apparently “light” crowds I think we spent more time queing for the tickets than I did actually making my way through the rooms.
Don’t get me wrong, the work was gorgeous- I was not a particular fan of Senor V beforehand, but the quality of work was plain to see- however I could not put up with the inconsiderate people who stood in front of paintings to read the writing on the wall that was an exact copy of the stuff in the booklet they had in their hand. That they were also looking at. Whilst in their own bubble of non-comprehension courtesy of their stupid audioguide (never got one, never will).
Here are some fetching panoramic views of the glorious works on display:
I spent more time looking at people’s feet and taking covert photos. Some interesting sartorial decisions were on display:
Occasionally I did get a glimpse of some real beauty:
To finish off, some gallery randomness…
Well, at least it wasn’t an entire post either singing the praises or damning to hell MW#1… i’m sure I will be doing one or the other soon enough (more likely the latter). Be thankful for small mercies. Plus I enjoyed taking the photos and spending time with my Mother. Sigh.
I actually wrote a proper poem for the first time in years this evening. When I say “proper” I mean not involving Owen Wilson or Jimmy Shaker. Result.
I need to get it checked over by Bobby Convey first and see what a qualified writer of poetry thinks, then perhaps I will post it up.
Even though I post all sorts of personal shite here on nopoke, for some reason a poem seems more intimate and i’m a little unsure whether I should just keep it to myself. Of course this is probably down to embarassment.
Woo… 15% off the glitzy hotpants and bikini top at American Apparel… just in time for hallowe’en and me birthday (monky makes note)… I might just go try them on when i’m visiting Vegas in Lahndahn tahn tomorrow.
I heard Love Is The Drug today and was reminded what an amazing track it is. Not quite sure I understand the gals of the 80’s going weak at the knees for Mr Ferry, but he had style I guess… each to their own… unless it’s thinking skirts can be worn with trousers and leggings- WRONG FUCKWITS. Pick one or the other. NOT BOTH.
YouTube: Roxy Music – Love Is The Drug
Hype Machine: “Love Is The Drug”
For some unfathomable reason at 2am last night I found myself getting out from under my warm duvet and into a taxi and making my sleepy way over to MW#1’s. The escape from Caversham Princesses’ abode was conducted in complete darkness and was all highly covert. I felt like I was 15 and was sneaking out for a rendezvous and a quick smoke with my boyf under the bleachers. Heh. Not that I did that, but if I was wearing pixie boots and starring in a John Hughes film i would certainly be engaging in such behaviour.
After I complained that he hadn’t said a goram thing about my appearance after all my effort to look “classy and sexy” as requested, he pronounced that I looked better in my civillian clothing last Monday than I did in my cocktail gear on Friday; apparently I looked “tres hot” just in my kickboxing trousers and casual top according to Mister #1. Not to entirely defend the egomaniac, but I can understand how he feels. Unless it’s Pierce Brosnan we’re talking about, I often find that people look hotter in just their regular clothing as opposed to dinner wear (although I am a sucker for a good suit on a man).
I pointed out that I am not the sort of person who needs attention all the time but that it would have been nice for him to at least acknowledge my appearance rather than totally pass it by. Anyway, I dressed regular as I did for wrestling and he was most appreciative.
I should probably point out that MW#1 had consumed more than a little alcohol; thus conversations of a strange nature ensued. He asked me what all my friends thought of me and him- I was like “erm there is a you and me?” I said that everyone thought he was awesome and great to me *before* he broke my heart, and now people are more than a little wary. He replied that he was a man and that being a bastard was what men do.
I objected ever-so-slightly to this statement- I mean for fuck’s sake, I expect to be treated with kindness and consideration whether you’re male or female or undecided. The excuse that you’re one or t’other and thus you must behave in a certain way and thus heartbreaking is the norm is utter bullshit.
Anyway, he was inebriated and his ego was showing (how unpleasant) so I didn’t take too much of his commenting seriously. I did however tell him that we needed to discuss such *minor* issues as him breaking my heart and that it was vital we have a dialogue about things I feel are important if he’s going to get access to me as more than “just a friend”.
That whole “no intimacy until you decide” proclamation I made kinda went out the window…
He was as usual devoted, considerate and patient… I actually find his behaviour slightly distressing; on some level I cannot understand why he treats me so.
MW#1 also bestowed upon me some scarily lovely comments about myself (no child-bearing hips for me)… when I wrap myself in my blanket this week I shall think of the undiscovered country that is my skin, flesh, and bones. The notion that my corporality provides comfort is suddenly wildly important; the idea that I can just “be” and (for a short time at least) provide respite from the suckage of the world is strange yet lovely…
Of course, all of this means precisely fuck all if conversations are not had and things honestly set out. And hey, I could be just one of many individuals told these things and treated this way- but i’d like to think that’s not the case. What can I say- I can’t help being an icy cynic with a warm romantic core. I’m warped.
Word of the day: Massivity
Today I was told that I have “child-bearing hips”. In a totally unwarranted manner I was slightly shocked by this statement; i’ve always written off my flat arse and wide thighs to being weirdly proportioned and shaped. And down to too much food dispersing in an uneven manner.
I’m above average height for my age and sex and am below average weight for my age, sex and height; i’ve always considered myself oddly put together in that I have such long legs and such a short, waistless, small-breasted torso.
The news that i’m not the relatively straight up and down gal railing unconsciously against a feminine ideal that I always thought I was is a little suprising. Do these supposed “child-bearing hips” mean I am perhaps a little more feminine? Maybe I can write off my overhang to that too…
Whatever. I think i’m still the romantic tomboy at heart.
Essential reading from the ever-glorious Annie Sprinkle about Sex Addiction and the related Is Pornography Addictive? from WebMD.
Personally, I do not believe in sex addiction for all of the reasons outlined in the articles above. I think we all just vary in out desires be they how often we have sex or precisely how, just as one person’s teh hawt is another’s skank.
So i’ve said i’ll go back to the evil skool for at least another week after half term (it may continue on); I am however greatly looking forward to my week of lie-ins and intend to spend some quality time with Patrick and my blanket.
Don’t ask me why I decided to post about sex addiction. I think it’s just cos of the ever fabulous Violet Blue and a fair few inappropriate thoughts of late of filthy things involving a certain individual. Oh dear.
And God help us all, Tucker Max’s imaginary wingman MW#1 is apparently out on the trawl again… Run and hide ladies, run and hide…
Had to deal with my first bona fide punch up in a class today; after the punches had been thrown and one kid was down on his back I had to put myself between an incandescent Year 8 and a door to prevent him leaving the building and kicking the shit out of his attacker. Fun.
A gal who was on my PGCE course is an NQT there; I had to cover 10 mins of her class ‘cos she was on the point of snapping and telling them where to go- Kids were flipping entire tables over and hitting each other. She left the classroom in tears after dealing with her form- kids who are supposed to have a better relationship with her and who are supposed to get on. I have to ask- is it really worth it? Any of it? Every child is entitled to an education but surely every teacher is entitled to teach?
At the same time this means that whole sections of society will remain uneducated because they refuse to conform to the behaviour standards I consider acceptable and so I would not teach them. Maybe that would be the ultimate lesson- behave or you don’t get any education at all as no-one will teach you and you will not receive any support from the state. Mwhah mwhah mwhah.
MW#1’s after skool for TNA, junk food and much laughter courtesy of Senshi and his hi-larious accent. Things feel slightly weird at the mo. I need to try and forget that he’s (supposedly) interested; problem being it’s rather hard (I bet it is, baby) when all you want to do is curl up under a blanket with someone. As long as it’s my orange fleecy blanket of joy and not woollen blanket of itchy doom… me and my skin “so soft” have issues with wool…
I think it’s just because I’m tired and fed up with skool and am feeling slightly taken forgranted, but what can I do? I don’t want to be all “he’s not paying attention to me- I’m going to scweam and scweam until i’m sick!” and throw a strop because I feel slighted or ignored- I would like to think i’m not like that.
I just get pissed off when pertinent texts or emails go unreplied to or I get ignored because it’s plain and simple polite to reply or give a little attention. I’m just a friend after all… and as with anyone I expect common courtesy even if you do not have access to my skin, and even more so if you do. I hope I treat people with the same courtesy they bestow upon me; I mean between rants I am fairly easy going so I hope I do.
I honestly have no problem waiting for MW#1, but at the same time I don’t want to be left twisting in the wind not knowing what’s going on or getting passed over again ‘cos interest is lost…
I think hibernation may be the answer… just gotta find me some livers first.
Well, MW#1’s housemate thought I looked good… I have no idea what the man himself thought.
The morning after the night before:
(Dave I can send you a few more if requested)
I thought I probably looked rather fetching even with the hair and body art… my dress is awesome, and I accessorised with my black 30’s heels, fishnet stockings, pearl necklace (hardy har), no body hair whatsoever and protection in my purse. That’s right. Chaste.
I outdid myself by dropping my knife on the floor whilst trying my best to live up behaviourally to how I was dressed… it was my first excursion with MW#1 to a food outlet other than McDonalds… two gin and tonics (with lime for the scurvy), two glasses of wine in combination with nerves made me a Super Dork when I was trying hard to be soh-fist-ee-kayte-ed.
MW#1 appeared to be taking my request for no intimacy until we discuss to mean no compliments for efforts made, a disappointing amount of innuendo nor any of the usual small intimacies bestowed such as the kind passing touch. I don’t know if I fulfilled the requested brief of “classy yet sexy” but at least I dodged seeing Talladega Nights in my LBD…
He was understandably tired.
As you can see, I did at least gain a rather lovely souvenir on my arm… I will be watching (rather than taking part in) wrestling at MW#1’s Monday. Woo
“[MW#1] is by all accounts is still seeing the someone else, and that’s weird … part of me hopes he’s happy, or happier than he was with me – which he really does seem to be and thats a really good thing…”
Oh the intrigue.
My task for Friday is to dress “classy yet sexy”.
This could well prove to be the Monky’s most challenging task yet. Hi-larity could well ensue…
So anyway, although nowt has been posted here, things have been rather eventful in the Monky’s life this last week or two.
I’m still at the same school in Bracknell, and look to be there until the end of the month. I’ve officially got the job at my first placement school; it starts after February half term and although I have many issues with that place, I figure I might do better behaviourally being there than staying at a school similar to where I am right now.
So as I previously wrote, I wept upon the closing of my first day at skool; I have managed to stay excellently body fluid-free since then, and have just ramped up the anger instead of crumbling internally. I’ve covered art, english, geography and history; I’ve had to chuck out kids from half my art classes and in the rest of them I have let my expectations of decent behaviour seriously sliiiide. Oh and my scary teacher shout is lost at sea.
Take a seat please.
Take a seat.
Sit down please.
I’m not a dog, Miss…
SIT DOWN *RIGHT* NOW.
One day I was covering history classes where most of the year were out on a Jack the Ripper trip to Lahndahn tahn- They only booked a coach for x number of pupils, and y were the poor sods left behind I had to ‘teach’… So i’m faced with keeping two classes of Year 10’s occupied whilst the rest of their buddies are out galavanting, erm, sorry, learning outside of the school environment.
Class Number 1: I got fed up chasing the various bitches around the room (yeah, pushing each other out the fire door is *just* as hi-larious the sixth time as it was the first) so I just sat and listened to them slag off my attire and appearance (you’re the one wearing the blue eyeshadow, darlin’) whilst I tried to explain that women prostituted themselves because there was nothing else they could do to feed themselves and that it is your body, it’s an asset, so why not sell it…
Various kids thought that it was bad the “slags” got shredded, but that they shouldn’t have been “slags” in the first place, so they were essentially asking for it. The rest of the time the kids spent variously putting makeup on, running about, dancing, singing, listening to Gwen Stefani, assaulting their classmates and taking photos of each other on their phones. Some of them actually filled in a few boxes in the table of Ripper victims they’d been set. Jack the Ripper is now classed as worthy of classroom study…?
The second class had to watch an old Ripper film starring Michael Caine; from the off I could see that this already put upon class were not remotely interested, so we chatted as the film played on the IWB in the background. This proved to be most enlightening. I got to find out the genius fact that apparently there is lots of underage sex going on in the woods surrounding the skool (Year 10 = 14-15). “I hope you’re using protection young man” says I.
Blonde: Aw Miss, D’ya know what other school kids say EP stands for?
Me: Nope. Enlighten me.
Blonde: Easy Pussy.
Blonde: Awww, it’s *well* out of order, Miss. It’s rude. They’re sayin’ we’re slags.
Me: Every school is nasty about the other schools nearby; every school is in competition or says they’re stupid or tarts. I did it. Happens everywhere.
Blonde: Well what do you think, Miss? I mean what d’ya think about us?
Me: Well, I’ve just spent the last half hour listening to you talk about all the underage sex going on in the woods, so I’ve kinda come to my own conclusions on that one…
I got kudos ‘cos I knew what what Debbie Does Dallas was and what the correct rating was for porn- R18 (for the decent stuff anyway) and I amused them talking about what I thought of the kids at Easy Pussy (disrespectful, rude, mean to each other). “You’re cool Miss” Yeah, thanks, that’s ‘cos I’m letting you eat in the classroom and we’re talking about porn, and i’m not telling you off. We’re collectively on the watch for the teacher…
So in my daily cover I try and encourage kids to break off the headlocks they’re engaging in, to do a little work at some point this hour and to stop throwing rubbers at each other. At least if they’re brawling they’re occupied.
I told one little madam today that her work was “rubbish” and that she was a selfish young lady living in a bubble of her own making who doesn’t care about anyone else. This was after she had ignored what I had asked her to do, had fucked about the entire lesson and had stolen the crutches off a classmate with a broken leg and left the classroom without permission and gone on a crutch joyride so that the gal with the broken leg couldn’t actually move as her crutches were MIA.
It gets to a point where you simply cannot keep saying “well done, great work- you can make it even better by shading a little more here” etc. They take the piss. When you call them on it, they act mortally offended and throw a strop, and tell me that *I* cannot tell them that, that their piece of shit work is “excellent”, and that *I* should be telling them how to improve their work rather than calling it rubbish. All their mates join in, all sticking up for their friend and all trying to argue back. Sorry Ladies, it don’t work like that.
I want to make a gallery of piss-taking work, putting time wasting work up on the wall for all to see. I get the impression that no-one ever says NO to some of these kids; they are placated all the time and told they are fabulous no matter what. Well fuck you, brats.
I CALL SHENANIGANS.
Aanyway, hopefully I will be doing team teaching in art next week with the guy I’ve been covering for, so things might be made a little more bearable. Though this morning it took me just about two hours to get from Caversham Princesses abode to the wilds of Bracknell; on a good day it takes me 45mins… commuting is not something I wanted to do and especially when the destination is so unappealing.
INSET day tomorrow – party!!! – so I shall be spending my unemployed day sleeping, doing washing and running various errands. Maybe treat myself to some junk food. The usual.
MW#1’s on Friday…
Too much Jason Statham and cider (is there really such a thing) and too little sleep led to inappropriate texting over the weekend… I want to get warm and fuzzy and tactile… bad… things need to be discussed…
I seem to be using the word “awesome” faaar too much of late.
So i’ve got a job for two weeks at a school in a neighbouring town. I’m supposed to be teaching art and covering as required, and there’s the possibility of a longer placement. Hooray thinks I- pay at last… Then I looked at the goram league tables as I am wont to do… The school gets 45% A*-C GCSE. Apprehension sets in.
The God of your choice forgive me, but I am a snob when it comes to where I work; this is why I do not have a permanent position right now. So armed with the GCSE information alone I am immediately thinking I am going to be spending all my time running crowd control and not actually teaching.
Anyway, I only had two lessons to take all day- both Year 8’s, one from the “top set”- Out of a one hour lesson I spent approximately 45 minutes attempting to get them to SHUT THE FUCK UP so I could explain to them what they were supposed to be doing.
I had two lessons spaced a few hours apart. When the head of department came over at the end of the day as the kids finally left and asked me jokingly “so are you coming back tomorrow?” I started to cry. Eugh.
All the department members said I did really well and that I didn’t give an inch and made it clear I wasn’t going to put up with their crap, that the kids are just testing me, however as much as I need the money, I don’t think I want to stay there for over the two weeks.
It’s going to give me skills to deal with these complete fucks, but I kinda feel that I shouldn’t have to put up with such ridiculous behaviour in the first place. At the same time I feel like I am a teacher of lesser ability because I do not have control over them and because I do not wish to work there.
I know i’m not, and I know it was my first day, but I can’t help thinking it.
I’m just fucking tired and todays shenanigans and the prospect of the next couple of weeks is totally adding to the encroaching mean reds… I am attempting to push all thoughts of MW#1 into the no-man’s land in my mind… but all I want to do is throw my hands up in despair…