I like to watch.

Forgive me Christmas Father, for I have sinned, it has been two months since my last blog entry and I am really....oh what the fuck.....I can't even fake it.
I've been busy.
You know how it gets.
Besides I am not even Catholic so the only beads I own are either bright and sparkly and designed to go around your neck and be worn with matching earrings or purple and rubberized and designed for play in the bedroom, and I'm not sure what sort of purgatory I would be invoking on myself if I started saying sorry poems to the Virgin Mary whilst counting off anal beads on the MTR.
Perhaps none.
I read the papers.
They like the twisted ones in the Catholic church.
But back to me.
The year is coming to a close, and I have started my annual " What have you done today to make you feel proud?" summation of my life to this point.
It's pathetic, and a bit heavy, but it's become the habit of my lifetime, and I'm at peace with it.
Those of you with access to either my haiku blog or my facebook page will have no doubt observed my tendency towards public documentation of my days.
If I can sum it up in 17 syllables and/or a photo, I'm good to go.
I think there are some who misunderstand the motivation behind such observances, believing it to be ego based and therefore ego driven, but this is not correct.
I document because I am forgetful, and the pace at which I live has forced me to accept that if I don't write it down or record it, it will be gone from my mind within days, if not moments.
I would like to lay the blame for this early onset 'out of sight out of mindedness' on the excellent years I spent harming my delicate brain cells with class A drugs, but it has, in fact, always been thus.
I have selective memory.
Often my mind makes arbitrary decisions about what is important and nothing is selected.
Therefore I write stuff down, usually in poetic form because it's shorter and it makes me look creative.
Plus , if I diarised the way others do it would reveal my secret fetish for exploring the lives of others.
Yes, I like to watch.
And do, of course,
But watching is my favourite.
I'm a Leo, we cats are naturally curious.
So this year, rather than list a bunch of things I have achieved and create a public wish list of improvements I should like to make to myself in 2011 ( HOLY FUCKING JESUS) I shall instead put down in writing some of the things I have come to observe and state them here without comment or judgement.
And about this I feel very strongly.
I have opinions, strong ones that I am not shy about, but the older I get the more I am certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that my opinions are only that.
Opinions.
My thoughts.
They are relevant only to me and MY lifestyle choices.
There are things I would never do, but if you want to do them, go ahead.
I shall continue to watch from a safe distance and be standing by with gauze and Vasoline should the need arise.
This list is about love.

Observation Number one:
No matter how intelligent a woman is, she can and will, make stupid choices about men.
This has something to do with the desire to be held at night and to be invited to dinner parties that require even numbers.
If the man is handsome and/or arrogant, this is even better.
If he has money that is a bonus, but most woman over a certain age accept that a functioning circulatory system and a cruel streak is just as rewarding as a bottle of Piper Hendrick brought to the table at 4 in the morning.
Younger women do not know this and place a full wallet at the top of the 'must have' list.
They fuss and flutter over his ability to sign credit card receipts whilst holding court in a crowded nightclub with a nose full of blow and permanent hard-on brought about by his own awesomeness.
Older women will love a man if he can make it home by 1am without actually vomiting on himself or her or pissing in his pants.
When that same man dumps her for a younger model, she will cry heartfelt sobs about his inability to appreciate her accepting manner.
She will question herself endlessly and try and rationalise his revolting behaviour by diminishing her own self worth.
She will find excuses and make allowances for treatment that she would never accept from herself.
His 'being male' will be enough for her to cut him so much slack that eventually they will both be killed by the rope.
Then she will snap out of it, and start the process again.

Observation Number two:
No matter how intelligent a man is, he can and will, make stupid choices about women.
This has something to do with a desire to be held at night and to be invited to dinner parties that require even numbers.
Men love to make goals and achieve them.
Men do not have vagina's or wombs.
These two facts seem cruel when placed side by side.
If I was designing a man I would defiantly give him both placed somewhere handy on his body.
I think that if men had built in vagina's the world would be a much nicer place for a whole bunch of reasons.
Men think flattery is real.
They think that a woman will hang off his every word because she has never heard words before.
Remarkably, the younger and more financially disadvantaged the woman is, the more amazing the words seem to be.
When he has run out of words, he can use his penis to express his feelings.
This is a great convenience indeed because his penis is an excellent judge of character and does an awful lot of the thinking for him that would otherwise require his brain, and that brain is busy thinking up words.
When his penis discovers an older woman it would like to meet it tell the man by taking over his whole brain.
He is then free to think, sound and behave like a dick.
When the young, financially disadvantaged woman his penis fell in love with becomes old, she will repay this prickish behaviour by removing his balls.
He will cry heartfelt sobs about the injustice of a life spent dedicated to warming her cockles with his remarkable blood flow and hard earned dollars.
Then he will snap out of it , and start the process again.

Observation Number three:
No matter how intelligent a gay person is, they can and will make stupid choices about love.
This has something to do with a desire to be held at night and to be invited to dinner parties that require even numbers.
I love the gays. I have children who have The Gay and I love them.
Being gay means you run the risk of falling in love with someone whose preferred genital position does not include bits that look like there own.
For woman gays- and this is a bit of a guess- I think this poses less of an issue.
The trendiness of lipstick lesbianism is such that most girls below a certain age will happily admit to a bit of drunken girl on girl action if the mood seems right, and most hetero men will pay money to watch same.
If a lesbian comes onto a straight woman in a bar, a straight woman will most likely be flattered, if not slightly aroused, and there's no harm there.
If a gay man comes onto a straight man at a bar..........well, you've no doubt seen the news reports.
As one of my gay sons said in a moment of massive understatement " it's a bit of a risk".
But when it comes to love, and not just lust, the same rules apply to homosexuals as they do heterosexuals.
Broken hearts an non-exclusive.
Whether you are a man or a woman, the man of your dreams can heal you and hurt you with equal force.
Everything written in parts 1 and 2 applies to you too.

Observation Number four- and my final observation about love this year :
People need love, they need kindness and they need someone to hold at night and sometimes in the day, and they need to feel included and to be invited to dinner parties, even when the numbers at the table don't add up.
The lesson that has been re-enforced to me time and time again by my voyeurism this year is that in order to be loved for who we are, we must learn to love ourselves first.
That means we must stand up for ourselves and demand decency, we must place a value on our feelings and not be prepared to sell them for any less than their worth, and we must not use our hearts as bargaining chips.
I have seen people I love be hurt by the selfishness of others, and punish themselves for being human enough to feel the pain.
I have also seen people I love be warmed by the glow of kindness and friendship and watched with joy as they open their arms to the hope that springs eternal.
What a wonder to watch people who matter fall in love and blossom :)
It gives us all something to hold onto on those cold winter nights eating dinner in front of the telly.
Wow, told you this reflection stuff can get heavy.
Meh, if it helps, I also learned this year that eighties fashion looks shit on everyone no matter how thin you are and that I love blue cheese- and I always thought I hated it, so there you go.
I hope this year has been as interesting and as thought provoking for you as it has for me, and that the new year brings us all lots more stuff to watch, wonder at and write about.
And at the risk of projectile vomiting blood exorcist style due to my complete atheism-
may the road rise up to greet you,
may the wind always be at your back,
may the sun shine warm on your face,
and rains fall soft on your fields,
and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of his hand.
Thank you for being with me in 2010, and Happy New Year,
Wendy.

If I pretend to be stupid, will you pretend to love me?

At my age, 41, I have seen a lot.

A great number of it more than once.

Sometimes that's a good thing. I will never tire of watching sunsets and soft serve ice creams being dipped into chocolate and Han Solo being a rascal in The Empire Strikes Back.

Then there are those other things that are unwelcome repeats.

I have been consciously donating money to children less fortunate than myself since I was 7. Surely 34 years on we have sorted that out? But no.

It's cool being over 40. I feel at ease. I know myself fairly well, I feel I have done stuff and I know stuff. I am a woman of substance, and if you are anywhere near my age, you are too.

But age, my darlings, does not mean jack shit when you insist, as some of my sisters do, in reverting to becoming a bubble headed portable snatch when it comes to men.

Age really is 'just a number' when you dumb yourself down to other women because you don't wish to be perceived as 'a threat'.

Years of experience pale into shadow when you stand there flapping your hands at the most obvious problems because taking a stand and taking control might appear to be too ' dominating' or 'intimidating' or 'masculine' or 'scary' to everyone else.

An idiot once said to me " better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool than to ask questions confirm it". What a retard. With all due respect to retarded people who would no doubt be insulted to have this man compared to them. That man- lets call him Jim ( although that's not his name but it's close enough) makes retarded people look bad.The concept of 'shutting up and playing dumb' as a lifestyle choice has to be considered one of the all time lows of human evolution.

But it happens.

And it happens all the time.

And I have to say, it happens to women 500,000 times more often than it happens to men.

Last week, I was working in a large middle class area in Hong Kong known for it's clean outdoor lifestyle, it's birth rate, it's drunken middle aged white population, and its key parties. I am certain you can see the links. Those of you from HK can no doubt guess where I am talking about.

Anyhoo. I was waiting for a bus. It was a pleasant night.

Beside me sat two women with babies in push chairs. As they were speaking in English I could not help but overhear.

" That's a lovely necklace"

"Thanks, yes, I don't often wear it this late in the year, It's more my summer jewelry, but it's still so warm I thought I could get away with it"

(Wendy now turns to look at this so called 'Summer Jewelry'. she observes a gold chain and pendant that COULD be considered summery.....she thinks........)

" Oh, yes, I think it's still warm enough to wear Summer Jewelry"

(Wendy now makes mental note to inspect her own jewelry to check she has not been wearing earrings out of season.)

"I saw your Paul the other day, he's got a little grey on his temples"

"Yes, he does, and a small patch on the back of his head, it's quite bizarre"

" I know what you mean, Jasper's got a small amount of grey at the top of his head, and a small amount of grey on the left side of his chest, just under his nipple- it's TOTALLY crazy"

( Wendy starts to feel as if she has entered the twilight zone)

"I told Paul about the grey patch on the back of his head and he said he hadn't noticed, how insane is that?"

" Men are so silly aren't they?"

"by the way, did Lily sew your stroller blanket?"

"Yes, how did you know, did she do yours too?"

"yes, but with mine she was able to sew it so that you can't see the seam, see, the pattern on my fabric repeats, whereas your doesn't"

"Oh yes, you're right, but it's because my fabric has Elephants and Giraffes, so the pattern is less consistent, your one has flowers so it's easier....."

I had to push my fingers into my ears to stop the blood from squirting out.

It was chronic. I know it's only small talk- excellent term btw- but imagine if that was ALL you EVER did.

For these women I suspect it is.

I know, I've been there. I turned to drugs.

Playing dumb is not just for housewives either.

I know of a woman who is soooooooo enamored of a talented but broken man, that she allows him to pretend she doesn't exist publicly whilst bonking her privately. She plays along in spite of her education, talent and beauty.

She could have anyone, but because this man wants to maintain some sort of independent image to the rest of the world she is a carefully guarded secret. Like having Herpes but shagging sans condom.

Of course eventually the truth will out, but perhaps not until she has become a little broken herself. This one is young, so I forgive her. One only hopes that if her plans and dreams all come to nothing, she will be able to forgive herself.

He is my age. She has my permission not to forgive him.

Over the years I talked at some length with hundreds of woman of substance about the proliferation of middle aged men wearing the latest seasons 20 somethings as accessories.

Unfortunately it starts to sound like sour grapes.

Perhaps.

But so fucking what? It isn't always. Sometimes it's the incredulity at the men and the equal incredulity at the women that makes it open for discussion.

As someone who is not prepared to limit myself to small words and lengthy silences to please a male I find it breath taking when I meet woman who will.

For what girls? For a PENIS????

How long can you smash at a glass ceiling with one of those things before giving up and going to lunch?

There is a woman of substance in my circle with a highly technical, senior management style job. Very much the sharp end of the stick.

And yet the minute a man enters the room she forgets how to open an envelope.

He could have his knuckles trawling the floor and breath that would kill a seal, and yet his presence alone means she can no longer perform simple maths.

"Oh I don't know how much the bill is, lets see, there are 3 of us and it's 300 dollars, you work it out Roderick, you have a hairy chest".

This woman is hot. Seriously hot.

And rich, and smart, and funny.

I like boys in bed and I'd do her.

Guys will do her too, but the only ones she seems to want are the ones who see past all her amazing qualities and are looking straight into her pants to see if childbirth has made her kitten parts stretchy.

"Stop looking at my substance, and treat me like I am nothing" She seems to say.

And they do.

Surprise, surprise, surprise.

I started this by saying I have seen things more than once.

I am putting out a call.

My sisters.

Stop this pattern of behaviour now.

You are worthy.

You have value.

You are worth more.

And the world will still like you even if you speak your mind, take a stand and have values and standards you wish to uphold.

It's OK to be smart.

It's OK to be you.

Men are OK with you being you too, at least, the good ones are.

I'm too old to get angry about this issue anymore, and my frustration is now directed at the women who perpetuate the myth rather than the men whom I used to accuse of creating it.

If women continue to treat themselves as objects then how can we accuse men of doing anything other than copying our example?

We have been through the period of the Female eunuch, we have tried emasculating men- to the point where THEY don't know who they are anymore either- now it's time to get back to nature and let the men have the dangly bits and the ability to fight mammoths without the need for a group hug and some counselling and for the woman to get on and do what they do best, which is pretty much everything else.

Ignorance is not bliss. Bliss is Bliss. Ignorance- even pretendy ignorance- is still just ignorance.

Hi, I'm looking for a Penis, and you look like a Dick.

I am about to open up about my sex life.
So if the mental image of me gettin' jiggy wid' it is likely to cause permanent retinal scaring, it's best you change the channel now.
Right, now that my kids are no longer reading this, lets talk.
I love sex. I truly do. Always have, and hopefully always will.
There have been times in my life when the 'on' button has been temporarily 'offed' as the ESLers say, but these were miserable times.
After the breakup of my marriage I took a voluntary vow of celibacy, which was lucky because it coincided with a drop in libido that could at best be described as an Arctic winter and at worst a nuclear decimation of all things physical.
My spiritual self was in desperate need of repair, my physical body was also a wreck having spent an amount of time in purgatory being punished for having the audacity to house my wounded soul.
My heart was barely beating, and there was nothing short of a small car battery and a set of nipple clamps that was going to make my clitoris thump in time to music.....which it did, but we will get to that part later......
Being celibate by choice is incredibly life enhancing, but only for short periods of time and not really if you are a man of the cloth.
What?
You don't read the papers?
Give me a break.
In fact, if I may just talk about something other than myself for a moment, can we all just admit now that asking people to give up all sexual desires and dedicating ones self to an organisation based on guilt and secrecy is NOT what any God- (if in fact there is a God which I personally believe there is not but back to the burning bush issue )- would have had in mind when he designed genitalia.
It's for reproduction, that sex organ in your hand gentlemen, and if God didn't want you to have sex, he'd have left it out of the blueprint.
He's like that.
He's a GOD.
Anyhoo, back to my sex life.
Back then, I was celibate because I was broken and I needed the energy to repair, which I did.
And then, I found a fuck buddy.
Well, actually, I didn't FIND him, I knew him- hence the term buddy, we'd just never had sex before.
Now, this town is small, so there will be no names, but I just want to acknowledge publicly that THAT sex was the best sex I had ever had in my life up to that point, and I know my way around the fleshy bits.
Perhaps it was the fact that it was just pure, unadulterated, no other agenda, hard core fucking.
Perhaps it was the fact that with no fear of judgement attached I could ask for, and receive any old kinky shit I wanted.
Hell, he was getting free sex, what did he care if I needed to be blindfolded and trussed up like a turkey just to get the engine ticking over?
His needs were somewhat secondary, no offense.
I was trying to raise the Titanic, his job was to provide the ropes, not lead the orchestra.
Anyway, it worked. I climbed down from my mountain hideaway and back up into that saddle and onto that horse.
And for that I shall love him always.
That was a while ago, and my buddy and I - having sorted out my shit- are back to being friends without the benefits.
Since that time, things in the bedroom department have veered from the pedestrian to the outlandish depending on a number of factors some of which have been spoken about here before.
Singledom for a White Woman in Hong Kong is a tremendously complicated emotional maze designed by blind architects and built by packs of rabid out of work circus performers lacking opposing thumbs.
If you wade your way to the centre of the minefield you will be met by marauding hoards of tone deaf musicians murdering love ballads whilst standing on mounds of broken hearts and piles of shattered dreams.
Then, if you can make your way over the tinder dry flammable bridges littering your path and out the other side with a sense of humour still attached to your lips, you may just meet someone almost worthy of sharing a taxi and an AIDS Test Appointment with.
If not, it's back into the maze you go for another round of shits and giggles.
However a bonk- as the British say- is not quite as complicated.
Getting laid, if one wishes to get laid, can happen rather more easily and without the need for a ball of string, a compass and an emergency matchbox filled with Mercury.
Now I know as I write this, that there are many ladies- some of whom I know will read my drivel- who will disagree.
Often I hear my sisters in arms complain of the lack of a hard man coming into their neighborhood or coming anywhere near ANY hood for that matter, but I think that this 'Donger Drought' needs some further investigation.
Because girls, it is out there.
You just have to know a) where to look and b) what it is you are ACTUALLY looking for.
Men do not multi task.
We know this.
Evolution has dictated that the male of the species, being generally bigger and slightly simpler, be used to carry out important tasks like hunt and kill.
You will note that these two things are not actually two things, but one thing with two different names.
Therefore, men can do one thing at a time. And they do that one thing with skill and high levels of concentration.
This was once useful because if they fucked up, they would die.
Woman do multi task.
Evolution has dictated that the female of the species handle every other bloody thing on the 'to do' list whilst men are busy concentrating on a task such as taking out the garbage or drinking beer.
And yet woman think- and for this they have only themselves to blame- that if they can get a man to have sex with her, he may be thinking of a way to form a partnership and maybe buy a house together.
Sweetheart. When a man is having sex with you, he is thinking about the sex he is having with you RIGHT THEN AND THERE.
When he has orgasmed, he falls asleep. He is no longer thinking AT ALL.
When he wakes up, he is thinking about either food, his full bladder or his next task.
He is NOT thinking about the 'love you just made', that's your job, along with finding out where the condom went so the maid doesn't find it and wiping the strawberry flavoured fun jelly off the mirror.
I know this is true because- remarkably for a woman so clearly marked by oestrogen overload- when it comes to sex, I am wired like a guy.
Which might also go some way to explaining how it is that no matter what my waist size, my beauty regime or the height of my heels, when it comes to 'Booty' I get what I want, when I want it.
It's mental.
And by this I don't mean "Oh my God Wendy, you are totally mental" I mean the sex you want to have is available to you if you adopt the right frame of mind.
But there is a MASSIVE clue as to what is real in the last statement.
THE SEX YOU WANT TO HAVE.
Many women I know tell themselves, and others, that at their age, the only sex they want is with a 26 year old Swedish back packer named Gustav who is working his way 'round the globe with little more than an beaten up old guitar and a 9 and a half inch prick.
Bullshit.
These are the same ladies- and girls, I love you, I do- who will weep into their skinny lattes when Gustav discovers that for less than the price of a happy meal he can hump a 19 year old named Wincy and stay in her families beach house for free.
Such is the way of things.
He was NEVER thinking about tomorrow, he was thinking about THEN and THERE and when you are not THEN and THERE his mind, and his lovely prick, will wander.
It's not because he's an arsehole, it's because YOU told the universe that all you wanted was mindless sex, when what you REALLY wanted was someone to hold, and there is NOTHING wrong with that, it just wasn't the truth.
Last night I heard the words Cougar Town being used within earshot of my good self.
I am not a cougar.
I do not hunt in so narrow a field.
Some days I do not hunt at all.
I am a busy girl.
I have a MAJOR 'To Do' list with me at all times.
I do have 'needs', but I do also have an alarming number of toys that buzz and whirl and I am excellent at wand work.
If time is short, and the urge arises, I will set my vibrator to 'Stun' and still make my lunch meeting, hair and make-up in place.
If time is less pressing, and there is no 'significant swordsman' filling my inbox , I will survey the landscape and send up the smoke signals.
If I decide I may want more than the fulfilling of my immediate needs, then I shall sit still and wait.
The Ox is slow, but the Earth is patient, little grasshopper.
It's about knowing what you TRULY, TRULY want, and then having the courage to ask for it, and the balls to grab it when you see it.
Sound like hunting?
I guess it is.
That's how guys do it, and if you want to get some-just like the guys always seem to, even the fat, bald, old ugly ones - then you will have to embrace that attitude or forevermore be at one with the power of the AA battery.
Tell yourself the type of sex you want, whisper it to the Sun, and then walk out the door and get it.
Simple as that.
Do not lie to yourself, or to the Wind, because your lie will sit there like a fart in a still room.
Do not shy away from being satisfied.
Why should you?
Have you done something that means you are no longer worthy of succumbing to pleasures of the flesh?
Are you dead?
I think not.
And if you should find yourself yearning only for true and deep love, DO NOT SETTLE for anything less.
You deserve that too, and no one will judge you- least of all me.
Once at a party, I sat next to a woman who was clad head to toe in Red Latex.
I never learned her name.
I was not supposed to.
She was in total submission which was, I was assured, her unbridled desire.
Her 'keeper' informed me that this behaviour was the very thing that had kept their 24 year strong marriage together, such are the exotic tastes out there in the marketplace.
I sat quietly beside her and ignored her as best I could.
Ever the talker, the list of questions I did NOT ask her nearly drove me to distraction.
Having endured the silence for as long as I could manage, and with the arrival of a man pierced through the cock ( a Prince Albert) with a chain linked to his dog collar being led around the room by his huge and hairy boyfriend to distract me, I stood to leave.
Without wishing to break The Rules, I turned away from Little Red Rubber Hood- the name I had given her- and started to leave.
She suddenly gave a shudder and a moan, looked up at me and whispered " Thank you".
We had just had sex and all the while, I had had no idea I was even playing.
Jesus wept.
If only it was that simple for everyone, think of how much money we'd save on booze.
Happy hunting Girls.

With Balls Like These, I Don't Need a Parachute.

"Sometimes the reason we go off the rails is because we are at the end of the line".

Ever heard someone say something so profound that the next 5 minutes are a total blur as your mind struggles to process a truth so significant all else becomes white noise?
That happened to me the other day over a chicken salad and a bowl of suspect pumpkin soup.
I was lunching with a friend whom I have known for a number of years.
This man is noteworthy for a number of reasons, namely his creativity, his intelligence, his accent and his startling blue eyes. Mostly his eyes. And perhaps his accent.......and the colour of his eyes.....anyhoo......I digress........

It got me thinking as one does, about the importance of sexy eyes, as well as the importance of courage.

I am a fan of people of all sexes having Great Big Balls.
I have the words "Fortune Favours the Brave" tattooed on my forearm so that when I'm dead, I will still be bear witness to the concept of being fearless.

Guts, intestinal fortitude, ticker,pluck, grit, call it what you will, being able to close your eyes and step off the ledge with a great big "Fuck You I'm doing this anyway" on your lips is the stuff legends are made of.
Sometimes, outright audacity is a silent kind of quality unrecognised to the untrained eye.

Here I am thinking about people with serious challenges just going about their daily lives.

Blind people cross roads every day. Ever closed your eyes and tried to go about YOUR day?

I wouldn't make it much past the getting dressed stage.

Autistic people sitting in shopping malls having lunch when every cell in their body is screaming ' get the fuck out of here, NOW'.

Quietly, calmly, these people climb insurmountable heaps of 'too bloody hard', without a single person witnessing their heroism.

And sometimes the approach to venturesomeness is so loud it attracts words like 'recklessness' and 'derring-do'.

When it works, when the leap into the abyss means you landing safely into a bed of success and happiness, everyone around you says " Wow, that was amazing , what cliff will you be jumping off next?"

But when it doesn't.....oh, ho ho ho.......as the fat man in the red suit says.

No matter.

Valor and tenacity are placed side by side in the Thesaurus.

If at first you don't succeed, build a better mouse trap and all that.

Well, that's the theory anyway.

Truthfully walking all the way up the hill just to jump off the bastard to land in the pile of shit that forms at the bottom time and time again can be wearing.

But then of course, there's the thrill of the jump.

The definition of courage is not 'winning', or 'being right'. The definition of courage is 'the quality of spirit to face danger without fear'.

That 'spirit' is a hungry little bugger, and it feeds on one thing, and one thing alone.....the rush that comes when you realize you may have seriously fucked up, so you had better stay and kill The Dragon or run away.

Good old fashioned adrenalin.

Such an overwhelmingly sensational drug that chemists and Bolivian farmers have been trying to replicate it for thousands of years.

And yet there is NOTHING on the market, and let me tell you I have researched the market THOROUGHLY, that comes anywhere near it.

So having big kahunas, and being prepared to whip them out and use them when required is the most potent form of sexiness available to man, and it's free and always on tap.

Then why the fuck are we living in a world afraid of its own shadow?

Fear of saying the wrong thing, of failing, of succeeding?

Fear of exposing ourselves as being human, and with faults.

Fear of speaking out our desires, expressing our needs, owning up to our anger, our disappointment, our hurts, our love, our passions.

Bland may be bland, but at least it's safe, and on that you may quote me, but only with lashings ginger beer and sarcasm smeared over the top.

Most of us at some point struggle with just being who we are.

And yet to express that struggle is seen as dangerous by those for whom hiding the truth seems somehow less twisted.

So what does this have to do with Old Blue Eyes?

Not much, except in that one statement he managed to free me from years of guilt about a dark

time in my life.

What a fucking liberation, let me tell you.

I kept completely still for a good 10 minutes after he said it- a record for my fidgety self- and breathed in the air of self forgiveness while my internal organs exploded, a carpet of peony's instantly bloomed inside my brain and my heart resumed a rhythm it had not played since I was a very small child.

You see, I once had to be very brave and hurt people in order to save myself.

I have laid blame squarely on my own shoulders for a long time.

But the truth is, I had just had enough, I was at the end of the line, and I faltered, and I came off the rails.

That's hard for me to say.

I have always believed myself to be strong enough to carry as much burden as was needed.

But lionheartedness -what an amazing word- is not always about standing on the precipice all by yourself preparing to leap into the great unknown.

Sometimes it's about looking around and asking for help.

Intellectually I know this.

And in fact I have done it, but never without the secret shame of believing myself to be weak at that moment.

So now you know.

I am strong only because I am afraid of being weak.

You see the irony in there?

Please tell me you see the irony in there because I'm shit at drawing diagrams on this computer.

After lunch I went home and had a little cry, but they were not sad tears, just wet ones.

Into every life, a little rain must fall, as they say.

This morning a horrible Faux European woman with cartoon sized watermelon breasts, a moustache and the unenviable skill of appearing even more stupid than she actually is, accused me of 'having a lot of gall'....which in her head appears to be considered some kind of insult.

I have never been more delighted in my life.

Perhaps for her gall implies bitterness and rancor,certainly that is one of it's meanings, but I prefer the Yiddish interpretation of the word.

For them, gall is audacity and audacity, as we know, is courage.

"You" she seemed to be saying " have a lot of courage".

Well, tie me to the Old Oak Tree and stick Peacock feathers in my VJJ.

Guilty as charged.

So back up the dung heap of human spinelessness I go, wings, wax and a ball of string in hand to once again leap into the cavernous spaces left open by the fainthearted, a renewed sense of self my torch to light the way.

I may land in the fire........or maybe even in a soothing pool just the right shade of blue.

Me doth protest, she thinks too much !!!

I am in a funny place.

Not in terms of location -although had you wandered into my street this week you would have observed a temporary bamboo theatre created to hold 8 or 9 monks in various stages of elaborate costume and stick on moustaches with Paper Mache dolls on chairs and bells, clangy things and joss sticks warding off hungry ghosts- no no, I mean mentally.

Don't say anything rude.

I am self aware.

And perhaps that is the problem.

There are times when I wish I knew myself less.

That way, when I behave in a certain manner, or think a certain way, it would all seem as if it had come out of the blue and before I could understand it, the behaviour and the thinking would be gone.

That 'Blissful ignorance' thing everyone always goes on about.

Trouble is, I have never held that to be true.

I know ignorant people and they are not blissful, they are ignorant.

Anyhow, back to me.......

I am currently at the pointy end of a play production.....not my first.....not my last....just another one.

Producing and Directing a play (and this time I am doing both, with assistance) is like creating a child that will be born an adult and will be made up of dozens of other adults who remain somehow frozen in their own childhoods.
I do not mean this to sound in anyway derogatory or defamatory.

It is simply a fact that in order to tap into our own creativity as adults we MUST remain open to the wonder of our childlike states.

The world is rough.

Real life is scary and confronting.

If we were to look at it with the dry disconnection of a scientist we would see that, on paper, there is little to be amused, inspired and delighted by.

But we DO find joy, and love and harmony, and beauty, and richness and laughter.

We DO reach out to embrace tomorrow.

We DO believe in the world.

We forgive, and we forget, and we try again.

And that hope, that belief, that desire to create magic where none exists is our inner child.

Our better self.

I am always confused by people who say that they don't like children.

What's not to like?

They are us.

Only smaller.

And less able to lie.

But back to me.........

This 'Process'- this 'Creation of a Play' works in three parts.

There is the Early Stuff-Auditions/Casting/ Booking things/Team building/Blocking-

There is the Middle Bit- Rehearsal/Production stuff/Emotional well being of the cast/characterization/ drinking too much/ exhaustion.

And then there is The Death- The Performance Itself.

You did not misread that, for this is the truth.

For the directer, and for the Producers, the play is finished before it ever hits the stage.

Don't get me wrong, in all my years I have never missed a performance and I will stand there patting backs and kissing foreheads until the last punter has left the theatre.

I give notes after performances, when things are quiet.

But I am in mourning.

My child has left me, and will soon be gone.

I think for people in my position, the fact that the Child is so happy to be free and walk on it's own- and by this I mean the enormous momentum of a cast and crew working in unison- is a kind of tortured double sworded joyous relief.

Yes, it is simply fantastic and totally rewarding to see it.

But I have never yet spoken to a directer who didn't utter the words " Well, that one's done" after Every. Single. Performance.

So,back to me and my funny place.

I recently went through a bout of melancholy.

Nothing major.

Frustration and a general desire for less bad news on the television and more forward motion on a personal level.

It lasted 4 days.

I kept working, kept talking to people, kept exercising and it passed.

I am ever vigilant for the shadow of The Black Dog.

Having been in it's company once before for a debilitatingly long period of time, and having learned from the past, I did what any self respecting insecure Obsessive Compulsive Egotist would do.

I wrote witty emails.

Not one, dozens.

To all sorts of people.

Most of them friends.

(Hopefully, they are still friends).

I wrote useful things like 'Tips for this and that'.

I wrote loving things like ' This is what this and that means to me'.

I wrote cross things like 'This is what I think of that'.

But all of them bursting with razor sharp observations and comic brilliance.

And sat back awaiting their over awed responses.

Silence can be so quiet sometimes.

Of course,people have lives of their own.

They have families, and jobs, and stuff to do after they have been with their families and at their jobs.

I do too.

I have all those things.

And I know- and here is where the self awareness thing really scores an own goal- I know that MY need to communicate my tumultuous 'look how fast I can tap dance to the tune of my own heart beating' has very little to do with all the things that makes THEM dance to THEIRS.

I know, and I knew then, that MY need to cut the air and fight the demons with the only weapons I have- my words- is more about me looking for the reassurance that it was going to be OK, than it was to show everyone how clever I am.

I know I'm clever, what I sometimes need is to know that I'm Still Here.

The book of that name by ABC journalist and mother Anne Deveson dealt with the heartbreakingly sad destruction and ultimate death of her son due to the horror that is Schizophrenia.

I am not schizophrenic, if I was, I would tell you.

But when I read that book many years ago, I was struck by that phrase.

Oprah calls it 'affirmation' and I have talked about it before.

It's when you look in the mirror and think..."is that what I really look like?"

It's when the child inside you calls out just to check that there is someone there when the lights go off.

And to check that you are still there too.

When someone says " I can hear you, I can see you", all the doubts, all the shadows, the shallow breathing, melts away.

Reply emails started appearing.

No one was worried about my mood.

Happy, buoyant and witty- that word again- I was clearly on top of things.

"Oh Wendy, you are so funny'- yeah tell me about it, I'm fucking dying here.

I wanted to send out follow up emails headlined.

AM BEING HILARIOUS-PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE

But even I knew that that sounded desperate and clingy.

Eventually my inbox filled up.

Frankly, I didn't need to read them.

I just needed to know I wasn't alone.

I am loved, I know that.

I have three children with whom I have a passionate mutual love affair, and always will.

I am blessed with the strength of friendships they make sitcoms out of.

But I am letting go of yet another creation that must take flight in order thrive, and it hurts.

I know another will come along and replace it, and I will fall as deeply in love with its process as I have the others, and I will grieve when it comes to life as I have done with all the rest.

And it's not ego.

It's not 'My Vision'.....for fucks sake, what is that in a collaboration...?

It's not even really about me.

You see, when I do my job properly, I am invisible.

And maybe it's about that.

Maybe it is.

Blink.....and you'll miss me.

You have a lot of potential, but if you have sex with me you will win

When did we start replacing proper words with their soft cock shadowy options?
When did 'Second Place' become 'Runner Up'?
When did 'being crap at something' become 'having room for improvement' ?
When did 'I am fucking stoked I've won, I've earned it and it's no surprise because the others were shite' become 'it's been an amazing opportunity and I am grateful for all the support of everyone in this competition' ?

Yes, yes.....political correctness.

I'm not new here.

I know.

We soften the blows because we want everyone to feel good about themselves.

Ugly girls have great personalities, insane people are creative, and small dick men know how to use them.

(Christ how I hope that that's true, Dear Baby Jebus PLEASE let that be true, I somehow feel that's not true)

Since the day that Janet Jackson ripped off her blouse to show us her star swaddled Boobie, Gen X's such as myself have lumbered under the weight of 'wardrobe malfunctions, imitation jewellery, pleather and faux fur'.

In my mothers day they would have called all that stuff 'attention seeking, cheap tat, vinyl and fake shit'.

It's the same number of words- go ahead and count them- it's just a LOT less letters.

The prefix that irritates me most, and yes, I know that sounds pedantic, is 'MAL'.

In Latin it means bad, badly, harsh, wrong, ill, evil, abnormal,or defective.

I have mentioned one here already 'Malfunction' which basically means 'busted' or 'broken'....but it appears we no longer wish to hurt the feelings of inanimate object as well, so instead of saying " This computer is BROKEN" we say " This computer is MALFUNCTIONING". Because 'broken' sound so harsh and final, whereas 'malfunctioning' has the word 'FUNCTION' in it, and therefore sounds like there might be some hope.

For that reason we use the word MALADJUSTED instead of PSYCHO, MALCONTENT instead of ARSEHOLE, MALINGERING instead of LYING, MALODOROUS instead of SMELLY and MALICIOUS instead of BITCH.

Note the 'licious' part of that word. Sounds yummy doesn't it?

"What's your new boss like?"

"Oh she's really mal........licious".

"Well, that's nice".

When we add the word 'lingering' to the prefix for 'bad' it sounds like we are hanging back a little, and not terribly well, just wasting time in a sort of romantic manner.

What it doesn't sound like is that we are being an irresponsible cheating twat.

I blame the state we are in on cheap and plentiful education of the white middle classes.

We think big words make us sound smarter.

Everyone knows it is human nature to complicate the simple for the sake of drama or a bit of sport.

When we all went looking for nuts and berries, no one was fat.

Now we can have entire cows delivered cooked to the door, we need gyms.

And weight loss pills, and personal trainers, and running shoes, and support groups, and nutritionists, and sports bras and hand held weights and nautilus machines, and organised fitness classes with excellent names like BODY COMBAT and PUMP UP THE MUSCLES SO YOU LOOK FREAKIN' AWESOME, ALRIGHT GOOD JOB !!!. ( that's not a real one).

We used to take the stairs to get up to the tops of buildings, now we take the lift and go to the Gym to spend an hour sweating with 2 dozen others as we go up and down on an extruded plastic stair.

Of course to do this, we need to take our water bottle, towel, shoes, gym clothes ( including sports bra), membership card and lip gloss- just in case we see someone nice.

It's complicated.

And it is a lot to remember.

And sometimes I forget things 'cause I'm getting old.

But I digress.

Lets bring language BACK to the point where it has meaning again.
Let's scratch of the slough that we have allowed to form over the scabs that are The Wounded Words.

I'm not suggesting cruelty.

I don't think telling the father of a new born that his precious bundle is neither better nor worse looking than any other newborn who has been squeezed from between the hips and out of the vaginal canal of it's mother and that it just looks like a baby.

Coo all you want.

But for Pete's sake, lets at least get back to a place where a kid failing Maths at school is told " You are failing Maths, it appears you are shit with numbers, so you had better find something that you are good at or you are FUCKED" .

'Cause that is a hell of a lot easier to say, and carries more meaning than" There certainly is some room for growth and development in areas such as numeracy and there appears to be some malalignment between expectation and output, although I can see you are defiantly making some inroads and with some more guidance and encouragement you may achieve a level of success, in the meantime you might consider your options and strengths in other areas or you may discover a reduction of options at a later date".

A Spade, A Spade.

It will hurt less than you think, and in the long run it will go a long way to healing the pain of a generation of men and women in their late 30's and early 40's who discovered too late that their androgynous pop stars were all actually closet homosexuals, their Ergonomic Chairs were a ploy to sell broken furnature to yuppies, and that Janet's Wardrobe Malfunction was a publicity stunt with a built in tear away patch and a stuck on nipple shield.

Everyone's a critic- all critics are cunts

Ah, the armchair critic.
Jack of all tirades, master of none.
Like a mosquito with a lisp, the armchair critic stands out as that creature for whom evolution seems superfluous.

In fact the world is full of species, concepts and trends that have reached the end of their natural potential and have simply not recognised the signs.

Pandas are worthy of mention.

They don't like to have sex, they can only eat one thing, they serve no purpose other than to look cute, and for that the earth has a goodly abundance.

Happy pants are another.

Those trousers that are puffy and loose with elastic at the waist and ankles, and that come in a variety of cheap materials painted in fake batik colours and patterns.

They suit no one.

They make thin people look fat and fat people look worse.

Pointless.

As for concepts, well, where do I start?

Many a war has been started over such non sensible arguments, that I am almost reluctant to open that can of worms for fear of being over whelmed by worms.

How about " My God is bigger/better/more loving/less forgiving/more real than yours because he spoke to me by entering my head/writing on stones/ talking in dreams/appearing on TV/taking the shape of an animal/jumping out from behind a burning bush and or car."

You see how wormy this gets.

But religion is not in my sights today, armchair critics are.

I meet them along the road at almost predictable interludes.

"Wendy, I have one suggestion for you..........."

"Wendy, the thing about what you are doing is......"

"Wendy, you are really terribly stupid and here is a list of all the things about you that suck and this is why.Get comfortable, this may take a while........."

Cheers big ears ( actually in that case 'Big Nose' would be more appropriate), and thanks for all your encouragement.

The thing is, I believe in being open to suggestion.

And there have been plenty of times in my life when I have asked for, and received excellent criticism and advice.

ASKED FOR and RECEIVED.

A subtle, but vital, difference.

Sometimes, we need someone to guide us even when we are not aware we have strayed from the path, and someone must intervene.

But in my experience, a true mentor does not start a guiding conversation with the phrase "Wendy, I know more than everyone about everything, especially you......

The major problem I have with the armchair critic is the level of mediocrity such people bring to the table.

The phrase 'Those who can not do, teach' is totally unfounded.

Many who can do, also teach.

And thank God they do.

However the phrase 'Those who can not do, nor can not teach, but think they can anyway' is highly underused.

Jane Austin fans like myself will recognise the attitude of Lady Catherine De Bourgh who said that although she had never played the piano herself, had she learned, she would have been a true proficient.

Armchair critics, people who only ever watch creation to tear it down, who never actually create anything themselves for fear of failure or success, should either get up out of the upholstery or shut the fuck up.

Because it's scary being the one out the front.

It's hard standing there with your soul exposed and your mind on the line waiting to see if anyone understands your crazy.

I'm not only talking about people with 'visions'- although I know a number of those.

I'm talking about people who have an idea about creating something, however small, that they would like to share with others.

I'm talking about people who get up and have a go.

The really strong ones learn to drown out the sound of droning mediocrity and pompous prognostications of the weak and feeble nay sayers whose measurement of excitement is a 10 minute rub and a squirt on the sheets at midnight.

But it's not easy, and it's not always the natural default of the artistic mind.

History is peppered with the bodies of bright lights whose self doubt, combined with the fierce scorn of others, saw them stumble into darkness.

And we all say....."What a shame....what a waste...if only they had known how good they were"
When what we should be saying is...."listen Mr/Ms armchair critic, you fucktard, if you don't like what I am doing here, then take your expendable genome and your graceless found less opinion and fuck off back to nothingness land, 'cause unless you have something to add you are stealing my oxygen".

Or something along those lines.

What ever works for you.

As for me, I am back at the coalface with my soul exposed and my mind on the line yet again.

Wish me luck.

Walk a mile in my Manolo's Biatch.

"Mental health check for the woman grocery shopping in her Louboutins Aisle 5 please".
Ladies, a word in your ear.
If you are going to persist in your endeavours to reach the glass ceiling by standing on your tip toes in sky scraping architecturally designed BDSM inspired footwear, you are going to topple on your arse as soon as the straps are loosened.
Trust me, I know a lot about loosened leather straps.
What I do not know a lot about is 'cutting edge fashion'.
But I know when to call bullshit when I see it, and the time has come for SOMEONE to call bullshit on what is happening in the world of female footwear.
Look, I love design, I love art.
And I understand the role of high heels, too.
The elevation of the back of a woman's foot shifts her axis of balance forward, thrusting out her bum- and we know boy's like bums- and elongating the leg- boy's like long legs too.
High heels are designed to make woman appear more 'ready for sex'.
I love sex.
I love feeling sexy, and I love wearing heels.
But I also love being able to stand on my feet for more than 10 minutes without the travelling numbness that starts in my big toe, and the unnerving sensation that I am standing a small puddle of molten lava embedded with knives.
Heels, yes.
Walking around all day in 5 inch stiletto's?
Only if you are paying me the big bucks-cash-and all upfront.
Victoria Beckham may think nothing of a couple of hours at the park playing footy with her lads in spindly bits of wood and lace constructs, but most woman want to look like they are 'ready for sex' in places other than the street or the playground.
Besides, word has it she has been on her toes so long, her tendons have shrunk.
How's she going to get her ankles behind her ears NOW huh?
No wonder David's eyes wander.
And it's not just the height of the heels that astounds me, it's the outright ugliness of 'the latest trend must haves' that blown my mind out and away.
Shoes that look like boots from the ankles up, and flip flops from the heel down.
WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?
Whose BRILLIANT idea was it to combine leg shortening suede winter wear with hideous toe wedgying beach clobber and call in fashion?
Pick a season people.
Wearing shoes that look 'fit for every climatic occasion' just shows a total lack of commitment on behalf of the wearer and an absolute bucket load of cynicism on behalf of the designers.
I can hear the shrill voices of the Fashion Guru's floating down from the fashion houses now, as they stir a gram of coke into their double shot espresso's and discuss their evil plans.
"Lets see, shaggy boots in winter and strappy sandals in summer- lets just combine the lot this year,I am L'tired. Now pass me a bucket, I just swallowed a whole grape and I'm TOTALLY bloated."
Read these words and remember them.
One should NOT TAKE fashion advice from people who hate people.
And most Fashion Designers- and yes, I realise it's a potentially explosive statement- but most Fashion Designers HATE people.
They love art.
They love fashion.
They love 'The Shock Of The New'.
They love money, and fame, and they love money.
BUT THEY DO NOT LOVE YOU and they DO NOT love your feet.
Feet are, for the most part, the bodily equivalent of the embarrassing spinster Aunt who smells vaguely of cigars and urine that one must invite over at Christmas.
But just as you wouldn't deliberately go out of your way to harm Auntie Arabella ( after all, she does a certain something to the event) we women must resist the temptation to torture and subjugate our tootsies simply because some twisted 25 year old Technical Collage Design Graduate wasn't breast fed enough as a child.
Look at any magazine in any language doing the rounds right now, and you will see what I mean.
Fugly.Fugly.Fugly.
I am trying not to take the whole thing personally.
But unfortunately I happen to live 20 yards away from an entire street of shops dedicated to Chinese Antiquities, a number of which proudly display tiny delicate envelopes of silk known to create the Lotus Gait.
I am talking about foot binding, a practice so cruel and sexist that it was outlawed by a cruel and sexist government for being 'too extreme' a torture.
And yet, 2010, here we women are, tottering around in bunion producing, back breaking footwear of nosebleed heights, throwing good money after bad on products such as 'Party Feet Cushions' and anti inflammatory knee creams whilst we pound on the door of equal opportunity shouting at anyone who will listen that not only can we do everything men can do, but that we can do it standing on our toes.
Style AND Substance?
Perhaps.
But a sexy one and a half inch stiletto heel brings just as many boys to the yard as a pair of 5 inch toe crushers.
They don't call them 'Come Fuck Me Pumps' for nothing.
Besides, what sort of boys do you want in your yard whilst you are work conquering the world anyway?
So for the sake of ALL our sanity, lets get this wagon back on track and send the message out there.
If you can't kill a Dragon in them without looking like you've forgotten how to dress, or without sending out the message " I'm ready for sex just as soon as this baby is slayed"- leave them in the wardrobe until it's time to party.
Then by all means jump into those beautifully crafted uber expensive boy magnets and work on getting numb from the neck down as quickly as you lose feeling from the toes up.
'Cause we all know, nothing says "take me seriously" like a woman who can't walk unassisted.

The Whites of their eyes.......

It takes a certain amount of life skill to be stupid.
It must.
After all, Darwin's theory would indicate that if something is too stupid to live, nature will take care of it.
But no.
Survive they do.
I am, and I know you are, surrounded by people who defy the very laws of evolution and manage to do it with a smile.
I have taken pot shots at stupid people before.
And to some, given that laughing at stupid people is akin to yelling at a new born to do something other than just lay there and grow, it must seem cruel.
Deriding dummies is the comedy equivalent of shooting fish in a barrel.
Blonde jokes exist because comedians needed a way to say 'stupid people' faster.
Try saying this out loud.
"Why shouldn't blonde's have coffee breaks?It takes too long to re-train them."
Now say this.
"Why shouldn't stupid people have coffee breaks?It takes too long to re-train them.
The second version a beat too long.
In comedy, timing is everything.
I know lots of blonde's, hell, until I was about 12 I was a blonde.
Hair colour doesn't define intelligence, look at the Swedes.
For the past fortnight I have struggled with computer problems. When I dropped my notebook earlier in the month ( yes, I know) I took it to the irritatingly smug fucks at the Wan Chi Computer Centre. There a snot nosed 22 year old spent 10 minutes rolling his eyes at me whilst he exaggeratedly turned the unit on and off ( gee whizz batman, something I hadn't thought of) and wondered aloud in Cantonese exactly how much he should charge this ho fai gweipo (fat foreign devil female) for taking up his time and dragging him away from playing Halo online.
When I replied to his musings, in Cantonese, that he should stop being a cunt and charge me the same price as he would charge any young Chinese boy who had walked into his shop with the same problem, he seemed genuinely shocked.
This was not the game as he knew it.
He went and got his boss.
His smarted move that day.
Anyway, they fixed it.
But they made me feel stupid because I just stood there dumbfounded and at their mercy.
It was......a humbling learning curve.......
OK, it was shit, but they knew they had me.
"Ricky" ( why are they all called "Ricky" ?) knew I needed him. I was a deer in headlights with a busted motherboard, and he was the geek with acne that still lives with his mother, and has never had sex without paying for it.
Scratch that, even the working girls wouldn't have him.
However about two weeks ago, a new problem arose......I will not bore you with the details other than to say that if one could actually kill people with ones thoughts, half the staff at PCCW-my "service" provider- would now be dead.
But then, they would all have been dead a long time ago. Killed in the rush of non-idiots who happen to need technical support.
It's just that for some reason, when it comes to the human race, nature kind of throws in the towel.
I know of a woman who feels that discipline or pressure of any kind may wound her child's aura. So she lets him run wild, to do as he feels, with no artificial restraints such as bedtimes, or meal times, bath times or quiet times.
He will not be taught to read until he feels ready to take that message on board.
He will not be taught the novel concepts of 'right' or 'wrong', because these are boundaries set by man, not mother earth.
He is 5.
Guess what kind of a kid he is. Guess what kind of a teenager he'll make.
Now, I don't blame the boy. You can not help it if your mother is a space cadet, and I know because I speak from experience.
But it raises the question that if a Whale- for example- said to it's calf ( assuming they chat like this) " Look, I'm not going to train you how to do things, live as you feel. If you want to play in the shipping lanes, play in the shipping lanes, eat when you feel, or don't, be free to breathe or not, I don't want you to feel burdened by MY breathing hangups. We will live as leaves in the wind ( water wind, work with me here) and be as one with all things as we feel. Perhaps we should visit Japan? The waters are nice around there".
Natural.Selection.
So why not us?
Why is it that so many apparently mentally deficient people maintain jobs, and drive cars and have babies?
People who walk in front of moving traffic and believe that staring at the driver will protect their bones from breaking.
I have a friend who calls them 'oxygen thieves'. It's an appropriate term.
Stupid peoples survival must come down to instinct.
People with low E.Q - and for the record that is the measure I use for stupidity, not I.Q- must have a gut feel somewhere for when to cut and run, as it were.
They manage to duck, bob and weave at just the right time.
Or they stand there looking like giant pillars of salt, and whatever is moving towards them- ie: danger, disaster or people with high EQ's- just ducks, bobs and weaves out of THEIR way in order to avoid calamity.
In the ultimate game of "chicken" the person who doesn't flinch wins.
Keeping still is a life skill, who knew?
Like being boring and being stubborn, being brain dead appears to be a misunderstood strategy used by those who do not have the wherewithal to die in childbirth.
Not so stupid now, huh?

Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies.

Ah honesty, you funny little failing.
Before we begin, it's worth remembering I am a born performer.
I live to entertain, even if only to entertain myself.
For me facts are important, but I have never let the facts get in the way of a good story.
I like the bells and whistles, the staircases and roof structure I leave to the engineers.
So it is not without a wry smile I can reflect on a lifetime being labeled as a 'direct and refreshingly honest, call it as you see it, truth speaking bullshit detector'.
Some may call it hypocrisy.
I say it takes one to know one.
Brutal honesty.
I love the 'BRUTAL' part of that phrase.
The following is all true, I am not even going to change the names.
I was online last night, in a singles dating website where I was asked by a desperate and dateless man-child of 30 - online name of 'jackinthebox, I kid you not- if I was interested in him coming around "right now" and having him do exciting things to me with his more wet and flexible muscles.
I had been speaking to this person for 6 minutes.
Here's the thing 'Jack'.
It's 10 pm Saturday night, I just got home from work. I've worked 60 hours this week, and I have my period.
I am online because I am too fucking lazy to get off my couch and be sociable with real human beings.
In fact today, I don't even LIKE human beings, let alone horny, lonely, young men who are also pathetically home on a Saturday night.
Whatever the fuck it is you think you can do with your tongue, I am certain, given my current mood and state, my Purple Buzzy Toy will do a better job faster, and quieter, and leave less mess.
On top of that, I may actually have to make conversation with you at some point, either before or after, and frankly I don't have the energy.
I just want a quiet night and a quiet life, and you seem noisy.
'Jack' mentioned he had a bottle of wine........that MAY have been a selling point. But I have beer in the fridge.
When a man makes offers I always have to overcome my instantaneous desire to make counter offers.
The following is also a true account that may explain that statement.
Friday night I dragged my arse out and met up with a girlfriend to have a drink and a girly chat.
She is coming out of a relationship.
Even though he behaved like a total tit, she feels responsible.
Woman are like that.
I met a man named Gary.
He bought me drinks.
I did not ask him to buy me drinks.
I have my own money, I can buy my own drinks.
But he insisted, and I did the 'girl thing' and let him be a hero.
He ' accidentally' touched my breasts three times.
I let him.
My breasts are people too, they need to be loved.
He told me about his 3rd wife.
She doesn't understand him.
It could be because he's fat and ugly and boring and old.
That's why I didn't understand him.
I always find it easier to understand attractive people.
Then he made me an offer I felt I could refuse.
He offered to have sex with me.
At my place, obviously.
His wife may be deaf, blind and stupid, but she's human after all.
He said " So, shall we walk back to your place and stop in at the 7/11 to grab supplies?"- meaning condoms I assumed, which I have at home anyway, unless he meant for a quick bowl of curried fish balls, in which case would have been prudent as I am all out.
I said " Sure, but lets stop off at the bank first so you can withdraw the money, I prefer cash up front".
OK, I didn't actually say that, but that WAS the counter offer that immediately came to mind.
When a man talks to me about sex within an hour of meeting them, I assume they must want to buy it from me, because why else would we be having that conversation?
Don't get me wrong, jelly belly and all, I know men like the idea of having sex with me.
I have big tits, and I laugh easily.
I am also fiercely independent and reasonably intelligent, but mostly I have big tits.
In Australia, my double D's would go unnoticed.
In Asia they are like a neon sign to breast fed men in search of a wet nurse.
But it's quid pro quo gents.
You offer me a bounce on your balls like it's a gift I have never unwrapped before, I feel the need to proffer a shopping list from Tiffany's.
You would like me to get up close and personal with your musky bits before you even know my middle name, I am going to need a new ring to admire while a busy myself with your old fella.
If you take the time to get to know me, you will discover I couldn't care less for jewellry, but if that seems like an effort lets just call a spade a shovel and get that plastic out of your wallet.
God knows, in HK, you are better off shopping in Wan Chai.
If I was a guy, that's what I would do.
For real.
So I said goodbye to Gary, and left him in the happy hunting grounds that are the bars and clubs of this fair city.
I am sure in the daylight hours he is less horrific.....no, that's a lie....even in daylight he would be another unfaithful, expatriate prick with an over inflated sense of his own worth.
That sounds bitter.
I'm not, actually, just disappointed that out there is a woman standing by her man while he stands beside other woman with his hand on his wallet as a mating call.
In my heart, I know that there are plenty of women out there who will hear that call, and fail to observe the wedding ring as he signs the bills.
It's just not for me.
Still, I drank his booze, and pissed off home.
Perhaps that's just as bad.
One of the tricky things about honesty is having the courage to be honest with yourself.
So here it is, my name is Wendy, and I am a part-time cock tease.
Well, maybe not 'part-time'.
I don't go out to bars much anymore, but 'casual cock-tease' doesn't sound right.
There is NOTHING 'casual' about it.
Virginia Woolf said "If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people."
And she was normal.
The bible says " to thine own self be true."
And that's a book written in forgotten languages on leaves and stored in caves by dead people thousands of years ago.
Who else do I need to quote to make my point?
Be truthful.
Be honest.
Be brutal when you need to, but not so brutal as to be unkind.
When that moment comes,when you really want to let rip and cut through the swathes of crap being fed your way, let it pass and just say nothing.
Then run away and write a book about all the things you had thought, but didn't say.
Remember to add your bells and whistles.
Then get a lawyer, and publish.
Oooooooh yes........
By the way, you know that guy who hangs around,the one who thinks he's all that ?
The one we all talk about?
He has a small penis.
And he NO idea how to use it.
:)

I exist on the Internet, therefore I am.

( This is Kate, you will meet her later)

Fame is the new black.
Ask any human aged 30 and below and guaranteed 99% of them will tell you that being famous is a job.
Ever since Paris Hilton popped a couple of E's and opened wide, being known for something, ANYTHING, is the ambition of an entire generation....or two.
Strung out and star struck these 'i-everything' hipsters, that together make up the collective spend of the average GDP of a small African nation, are a social phenomena of breath-taking speed and savvy.
They want you to know who they are, and they know how to do it, and they are NOT fucking shy about.
Now I have a friend, a man I privately call 'Mr 65%', who spends his life getting Brand Recognition into the marketplace.
It's a multi million dollar industry.
And in my time, I have written enough 30 second commercials to fill all the dead air on the planet.
But in both of these cases, what I am talking about here is the 'Advertisement and recognition of a product'.
Something to sell, something to buy.
A market force.
What the 'famous for being famous' guru's are all about carries none of that baggage.
It does not mean 'wealth creation' or ' creation of product', it means being talked about, recognised, popular and discarded for the mere purpose of being talked about, recognised, popular and discarded- often within the space 48 hours.
To this younger, faster generation, those 48 hours may be the ride of a lifetime, and they are happy to take the ride without pause.
Not so much " to be famous and beyond", and just the "to be famous" part.
This week on the Internet- specifically on facebook- there came the phenomenon of 'Kate's Party'.
If you did not see it, do not feel bad. I happen to be the proud producer of 3 very Internet active young adults, and it is only through them that I live vicariously in the etherworld.
Kate's Party- for those of you who missed it- was an event originally posted as a Birthday Party Invite for a small bunch of friends of Kate, a real girl who lives in the sleepy Australian city of Adelaide.
Kate's mates had decided to throw her a Birthday bash. In the invite, sent only to a small number of people, the organisers stated something to the effect of " please let us know if you are bringing someone as our flat is not so big, and we need to know how many we are catering for".
A reasonable request.
But then they made one fatal- and as it turned out hysterically funny- mistake.
They left the administration of the event open.
Anyone could invite people.
And so SOMEONE on the list, SOMEHOW send the invite to 400 of their closest friends, who sent it to 400 of their closest friends, who sent it to etc etc etc..........
By the time I was invited to RSVP to Kate's Party, some 300,000 people had agreed to come, and another 300,000 were awaiting reply.
Only a few said that they were not attending.After all, who doesn't like a party? And Kate looked friendly enough in her photo.
Unlike other facebook disasters where the police are called and it all ends up on a current affairs show, there was never any chance any harm would be done. The organisers had never disclosed the address.
It was all done, by stealth and with stealth, in the safety of the interworld.
But by now, both Kate and her party were famous.
Other groups sprung up.
Groups inviting people to 'Pre- Kate's Party Drinks', a group dedicated to buying her a card from everyone, a group suggesting how best to secure parking, a group suggesting that everyone will score at Kate's party except the Storm ( an Australian football reference) a group discussing what to wear to Kate's party, a group talking about what to do if you meet someone who wasn't invited -VERY awkward- and even a group discussing the fact that Kate's Party was the epitome of Internet power.
In all,within 4 DAYS some 300 groups had arisen with a total membership of well over 1.5 million people world wide all dedicated to a young girl from Adelaide, who never even sought fame in the first place.
Ask any salesman and they will tell you, those are good numbers.
The ACTUAL organisers of Kate's Party called for calm on facebook, they even cancelled the original event, but the cat was well and truly out of the bag, and Kate's Party will go down in Internet legend as what can be done to raise awareness of an object /an idea/a person in the blink of an eye, with the click of a mouse.
In commercial terms, it's what's known as the 'tipping point', and the book named as such went on to sell many millions of copies. If you haven't read it, read it.
I discussed the force behind Kate's Party with my 19 year old son Kip.
Kip is THE PERFECT example of the generation I am talking about.
He sees fame as a job, he is never without access to the internet, he has cash.
I suggested it was the words " our apartment is small" that made the difference.
I think it appealed to the ridiculous side of most peoples sense of humour.
"OK, your flat is small, lets see how many people we can squeeze in".
Kind of like the obsession with VW's and Uni students in the 60's, only in a virtual world.
He doesn't care.
He just thinks it's great.
He thinks Kate is great, and he thinks it's totally cool that now she is famous.
I suspect he would be over awed to meet her.
So what can you do?
The idea that you must achieve something to be someone is long gone.
And I sound, and feel, like an old person when I suggest that the creation of matter, matters.
Fame is it's own reward, and from here on in, the end truly justifies the means.
Ask Ms. Hilton.
Like millions of others I sat glued to the computer screen waiting to watch the sexual acrobatics of a lifetime such was the hype.
Instead I was confronted by a thin chick with a wonky eye moaning like a drunken fur seal speaking in a voice that sounded like a 3 year old sucking on helium.
And yet, to this day, she gets paid tens of thousands of US dollars to turn up to events and squint at the camera.
Excellent.
At least she knows how to 'work the angles'.
In Kate's case, her future is wide open.
She may go into politics, she may release an album, she may write a book about her experiences as a former celebrity.
And in here we find the painful truth, because next month, or indeed next week, Kate will be gone.
Replaced by another set of sweaty hands grabbing for the spotlight.
Forget 15 minutes Andy, these days it's 15 seconds.
Fame- all fame- is fleeting.
Blink......and you'll miss it.

Time on my hands is time on my hands.

Would it be rude to talk about masturbation here?
I only ask because it has been on my.....mind......today.
I work weekends, but as a small business owner I get to choose my hours.
A bit.
As a small business owner, I work for a tyrant.
But one of the advantages of sleeping with the boss, IE: me, is that if I need some time out, I can take it.
When I take some 'me time' the question always arises as to what to do with my hands.
Some days there is no choice.
With routine monotony, every month , bills must be paid and groceries must be bought.
Hideously boring, I attempt to do these things with Cheetah like stealth.
It is the only time I run.
Running is for people who are unaware that the planet is round, and that they are not actually going anywhere, only fast.
Outside of being avoiding being evicted, and feeding my cat, my 'down time' is totally mine to waste.
My children live overseas, I currently have no S.O....( although you may want to watch this space)....and my part-time hobby of hiking the hills is dependent of dozens of factors that make it less than routine.
Ispo facto, when the days I mark as 'OFF' in my diary eventuate, I often find myself standing there with my pants around my ankles, so to speak.
Now, I am going to have to tread carefully here, lest I scare the children, but I wonder, would it be considered wasteful to spend the day 'laying in'?
I mean.
The Day.
For years I have bleated on about a book I am currently writing called " Fuck yourself thin: a woman's guide to masturbation and weight loss" ( which is copyright so don't even fucking THINK about it).
I have been writing this book for almost 7 years.
Actually it's finished, I've just never shown it to anyone.
I wrote it when I was thin. I had been fatter- like now- and then I was thinner.
I was thinner because I stopped eating and was feeling wretched because I was unhappily married but didn't know what to do about it.
At that time, in order to make myself feel happier I practiced lots of very safe sex.
Lots and lots of it.
Lots and LOTS of practice.
By myself.
Chemically, 'self love'- as with all love- releases endorphins into the body.
Endorphins and Serotonin work together to make us feel good.
I was battling with very low levels of Serotonin, so I self medicated.
Sexual self medication.
Sounds like a defence for Tiger Woods- except he's just a twat.
Later I medicated myself with drugs and alcohol.
These things did not make me thin.
When I stopped all of that nonsense and sorted out my serotonin levels with the help of a doctor, I was left with what to do with my hands....again.
I grew up going to Sunday School, and I have talked here about the magnificent effect the 'Show Business Aspect' of The evangelical Church had on my disturbingly creative developing mind.
I never once believed a single word spoken over the pulpit, but I did like the costumes.
So sex has never been a taboo for me, I have no areas of squeamishness, nothing surprises me, or shocks me, or revolts me.....with the obvious exception to people who hurt children, or involve animals.......you, my friends, will have your day in hell and I will be there to supervise.......
But back to my rant, I have seen 'Two girls One cup'- I gagged, I did, I threw up a little in my mouth, but it didn't SHOCK me, I just thought it was yuck.
When you have seen as much porn as I have, you become completely anaesthetised to what some people are prepared to do with their orifices and bodily fluids.
Ever seen any Japanese porn?
Death defying.
Literally.
Thank God those fuckers didn't win the war is all I can say ( with love and respect to all my Japanese buddies).
My lack of prudishness in this area has given many the misconception that I am, indeed, vulgar when it comes to talking about sex.
This is a misunderstanding.
Vulgarity appals me, in fact rudeness and base behaviour of any kind is an anathema to me.
I just feel comfortable talking about sex and I enjoy sex.
I see sex as a natural part of being alive, and I know that just as there are a plethora of different genres of writing styles to be read and appreciated, there are hundreds of different ways to enjoy being sexual without shame or guilt.
So back to masturbation and whether or not a day spent 'relaxing in bed' is a waste of a day?
To give credit where it's due, the weather today WAS shit, and I managed to do all my grocery shopping on Monday. My bills have all been paid, and I am feeling very positive generally, so it's not 'self help'...( OK well it IS 'self help', but not the Chemical Need kind).
Plus, I have nothing to read, and my hiking partner is in OZ.
But is it selfish?
And am I spoiling it for others who come into my bedroom and mess up my sheets?
After all, I'm pretty good, even if I do say so myself.
And I should be.
I've had enough practice.
Perhaps I'm over thinking it.
Tomorrow I will be putting all my energies into saving the world from bad public speaking and under-confident leadership.
As I run through my mantras of 'eye contact, diaphragm breathing, projection, projection, projection' I shall allow my mind to wander, as it does regardless, to the lazy hazy days spent in happy self fulfillment.
Perhaps a bit more of that, and a bit less of me, is what most of my clients REALLY need.
I could always suggest it.
The only trouble is, what would I bill that as on the invoice, and how could I be sure they wouldn't try to fudge the hours on the time sheet?
There is nothing worse than being played.
Especially when you prefer playing with yourself.

You Are Whatever B.S You Eat.

Dear Peerless Deities,
I am writing on behalf of my Socio-economic demographic to complain about your handling of my happiness.
Normally I would not bother to take such action, however it has come to my attention of late that there has been a total lack of concern for the details that affect my life, and the lives of countless others.
Therefore, I feel the time has come to speak up on behalf of my group in the hope that you and your kind will sort out these discrepancies in fair practice as soon as possible.
I have listed below a number of the complaints that have come to my attention.
You will note that there appears in some places to be a theme, and I can only surmise, on your behalf, that the reason for this apparent " Sameness" is due to some enormous oversight in the planning and implementation of your so called 'Grand Plan'.
We are, after all, merely mortal.
Yours be the glory etc etc etc..........
Before I get to the list, however, might I just point out that it is not for lack of effort that we- the so called 'Top Ten Percent' - find ourselves in this predicament.
A straw poll conducted by myself and countless others over the past couple of decades has uncovered an almost unparallelled desire and motivation to sort out the question of 'happiness' ourselves.
Personally I have tried Yoga, Self-Help Books,Self Absorption Books, The Desilverer Method, Landing Marks, Sex, Drugs, Alcohol,Lymphatic Drainage,Extra-marital affairs, Having Sex with 24 Year Olds, Having Sex with 80 Year Olds,Meditation, Reiki, Re-Earthing, Re-Birthing and, for a brief period, the Church Of Later Day Late Comers.
All to no avail.
Amongst my friends there are those who have also tried such methods as Silent Retreating, Primordial Screaming, Star Gazing, Shopping, food, Plastic Surgery, Navel Gazing, Plastic Navel Gazing, Career Changing,Guru Worshipping, Bowel Flushing, House Buying, Really Big House Buying and Goat Sacrifice.
None of it seems to work.
It's as if our desire for happiness is kept deliberately out of reach, and for this, I am afraid, the blame must fall entirely on you.
Because it is not without a certain sense of cruel irony that we observe happiness in others, even amongst those not considered in the 'Top Ten Percent'.
Quite how, or even why, a poorer and less educated person would achieve this state is difficult to imagine, and must therefore be the work of some external force such as yourselves.
In my case, for example, having been born into a middle class family in a free and democratic society and having been blessed with good health, an amount of intelligence and being granted a well funded Tertiary Education, the fact that I must clutch at straws to feel fulfilled is both an anathema and an insult to me.
Why can't I just be happy?
Is it too much to ask?
Why does everyone else get to be happy and I don't?
It's not fair.
I pay my taxes.
I want to be happy like everyone else.
When is it going to be MY turn?
I'm ALWAYS the last one to get ANYTHING nice.
All my life, everyone else has had it easier than me.
I was NEVER the favourite.
It's because my mother never REALLY wanted me, she wanted someone else to be me.
When I was growing up I was NEVER picked first, and when I was, it was only because everyone felt sorry for me.
Everyone else gets everything they want all of the time, they just get it given to them, and they don't even care.
I want more things, and I want more things that make me happy.
I want you to make me happy.
I want you to give me happiness.
I want you to fix it.
I want you to fix ME.
I want you to fix me NOW!!!
And if you don't, I'm going to hold my breath until I turn 60.
And then you will be sorry.
All of you.
I will be away from my desk for a week as I am spending some quality time with my new life partner ( 4th attempt at commitment, wish me luck).
We will be backpacking through Touristastan with a group of Vegetarian Namibian Buddhist Jesuits. The days will involve walking through villages and giving pens to poor children. Nighttime will be centered around marvelling at the lack of facilities in a 3 star hotel, and buying rip off DVD's in street markets.
It's all terribly bohem.
Therefore, when you reply to this message you can either send me an email- I have my Satellite Blackberry and i-phone, or you can just leave your number with my P.A and I will call you on my return.
Cheers,
Robust W. Anker.

P.S- It appears I have not included a 'LIST' per se, but I will do that later today as I am running late for my Pyramid Scheme Shareholders Meeting.
R.W.A.

Suck on these.

What is it about breasts?
This is not a trick question, it is an honest desire to understand why certain men obsess about fatty chest tissue.
I have large breasts.
I have had large breasts since I was 10.
At ten, it's not sexy, it's humiliating.
My first bra buying experience was painful enough for me to not wish to share it here, and for the next couple of years, the bra strap snapping, the sports day dilemma, and the swimming carnival Crucifixion were enough to set me up for a lifetime of negotiation with my mammories.
Basically it works like this, we can be friends so long as I get to decide exactly how they will be dressed on any given occasion.
I talk to my breasts. Our lines of communication are open and clear. We understand each other.
And if I put them away, it's for a reason.
There are thousands of photo's of me on the web flashing parts of my chesticles, and just as many with me dressed like a nun.
Good boob day/bad boob day.....and only I know the difference.
For all of my teens, and most of my twenties I remained slim and Dolly Partonlike in proportion.
At five foot two, guess where most men are looking when they are chatting with you.
For all those years I felt like I was standing there with my legs wide open and my knickers pulled down. After all, breasts make up one of three parts of sexual organs on a woman, where as men have only two, their balls and their penises (woman also get a brain).
In my serious years I took very real offense to being objectified by my tits. Then I gave up, and spent a few years getting them out- a kind of beat them/join them attitude.
These days I alternate, but I have blossomed into a more well rounded figure, which oddly enough means that my breasts are no longer the focus, and frankly, I am more comfortable this way.
Funny isn't it?
And you all thought it was because I was lazy.
When I was feeding my babies with milk- the surprisingly forgotten and much maligned reason for nature giving us funbags in the first place- I could have taken out and entire armoured division simply by entering the room, so large and hard were the mounds of milk maker attached to my chest.
I shall bore you now with a true story about me and making milk.
3 days post delivery of my first precious child, and with the milk 'in' as the maternity staff like to call it, I wandered down the corridor of my small community hospital, naked other than underwear.
My milk had been pouring- and I use this term in the literal sense- out of my plate sized nipples since lunch time. My bed was wet, all my clothes were sodden with curds and whey and the room I was in smelled like a yogurt factory.
Plus my tits now came up under my neck and were rock hard, and it fucking well hurt.
Convinced I would never be dry again, and that my baby would never love me and that I was a hopeless mother - the third day baby blues, so hysterically funny- I wandered into the nurses station bawling my eyes out and dripping milk like a badly routed Rubenesque Italianate statue.
A kindly midwife sat me down, stroked my arm, fed me Anzac biscuits and attached me to a pump.
I fed the premi babies in that ward for a week in one sitting.
The weirdest thing about the whole experience was that breast pumps only go on one boobie at a time, but my 'new-to-the-whole-feeding-process' boobies didn't know that, so as one breast released milk into the milking machine ( you see how charming motherhood is, it's just like on the farm), the other one took the hint and released the rest. It literally sprayed out at a hundred miles an hour in a kind of demented shower-head pattern, and covered the uniform of the now lactated matron sitting beside me.
Nursing is the saints profession.
There are other grosser stories about the eternal leaking of the spotty minefield of motherhood, but I shall spare you those for now.
And so, back to men and breasts, because I have a friend- and he knows who he is- who said to me the other day that he would love to get a 'titty wank' off another mutual friend of ours.
This lady is totally racked up. And totally barking.
This appears not to be a problem for our friend. He is not looking to move in and assemble Ikea bookcases with her, he just wants to use her breasts as friction posts and her cleavage as a penile water park.
"Yeah", I said, because what else could I say?
"What's wrong with your hand?" came to mind, but then I thought better of it. After all, he is not The first man I have met who thinks this way, and he will not be the last.
Men have come out and said the same thing to me. And not just single men, but married men, and more than a few gay men have all expressed the desire to use my tit's as adventure playgrounds for their genitals.
I guess I should be flattered.
Strangely in 40 years, I have never heard a of a woman approaching a man and saying the same thing about his soft fleshy round bits.
" Jesus, I would LOVE to rub my clitoris in between your balls" is not a term commonly heard in either good or bad company.
Of course this does have something to do with the physical practicalities involved, but to be honest, man bits- though useful- are not always beautiful.
Whereas breasts- apparently- are.
And worth obsessing about, and not just that, but worthy of an array of industries of their own.
Enhancement- in the form of surgery/pills/creams/teas/exercises/diets/hydraulic clothing.
Reduction - in the form of surgery/pills/creams/teas/exercises/diets/hydraulic clothing.
Plus there's porn, even the stuff that's so soft it's barely there, which focuses on breasts far more than any other part of the body.
Like they are some kind of exciting secret.
Which leaves me bamboozled.
I spent 2 hours in Marks and Spencer's the other day trying on bras.
Not that there was a lot of choice.
In Hong Kong having a chest my size is like being blessed with an extra head.
"WOW- your boobs are SOOOOOOOOOO big".
Why thank you helpful Young size 4 Chinese shop assistant, I hadn't noticed.
"We don't have anything in your size, Hey Wingki, come and check out this Gweipo's huge tit's".
Um, Wingki, lets not.
Or maybe I should have invited Wingki in, and charged a dollar.
After all, if these puppies aren't going anywhere other than south, they may as well earn their keep.
The free ride is over boys ( my boobs are boys- I don't know why- ask my therapist) and from here on in, if you want to continue to live swaddled in imported silk and lace, you had better start paying your way.
Either that, or get ready for a whole new career involving tubs of Vaseline and family packs of tissues.
Strap in lads, this could get messy.