Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin…

Something a little brighter than the last post. This week we’ve been emailing each other about people you feel comfortable and relaxed around. Then we talked about spilling soup and Aldi own-brand monster munch and farting. Get comfy…

CRUMPET:

You hit a point with people – boys, girls, cats… where your shoulders fall back in to place a bit and you unclench your jaw and let out a sign and feel properly comfortable.

On the most part, it never seems to take me long to get to that point with a lot of people. In fact, generally speaking, I should just re-read this when I’m finished and apply the crap I’m about to come out with to things in my own life and LEARN from it or something.

Pretty sure I’ve explained previously that my brain seems to be wired to assume every situation and relationship ever will always work out for the best somehow. Not in a carefree ‘what will be will be’ way, no no. More like no matter how bad things are or how rotten something has turned, somehow I’ll get the magical super-happy ending where everything is dreamy and easy and however my imagination thinks it should be. This blissful deluded attitude to life is probably what makes me find it easy to feel so open and comfortable with people so quickly. It should also be some sort of early warning system to remind me that when I don’t feel like that, there’s probably a reason for it.

This isn’t about letting your guard down. I’m talking about physical, actual, obvious things here rather than messy emotional fluff.

Hitting that point where you feel like you can just be properly comfortable around someone. Not even just “be yourself” but be this almost new super-you that relaxes in a completely different way to how you are when you’re alone – like you take on new SuperRelaxoPowers that only come in to play depending on who you’re with.

Sitting comfortably?

Sitting comfortably?

The boyfriend I had during university – as odd and dysfunctional as a lot of our relationship seems in hindsight – is possibly the only person I’ve had that hyper-relaxed thing with. Sure, some of that may have come from the fact that our bathroom didn’t have a door, and that he would have baths for hours so I was left with no choice but to have him as my audience if I needed to use the toilet, but he’s also the person I think I probably relaxed with in a sexy way the most because we were young, and because we didn’t much care what each other thought, it was easy for us to, errr, yknow… try lots of things. No barriers. At all.

I wasn’t intending to think about the sexy bits actually but there you go. It doesn’t necessarily eradicate any of the uncomfortable stiff shoulder bits, being naked. You can spend hours in bed doing all sorts of unspeakable nonsense to each other and still want to grab a t-shirt to hide in as soon as you step up from the mattress and spend the night getting a stomach ache from not wanting to fart within a 2 mile radius of his house. So maybe feeling comfortable around someone is about how they make you feel about yourself…?

And not just boys. A few things recently have made me realise how instant comfortableness can dictate the path a relationship is likely to take. The amount you tell someone about yourself or your personal life before you’ve even met, for example. This (I find) seems to pave the way for being instantly fine and slouchy-of-shoulder with someone in real life, because they probably already know how mental you are. Nothing to hide, just be you, instantly comfortable. AND it doesn’t always lead to wanting to fart in front of someone or sleep with them. Different levels of comfort.

When I went to visit my brilliant pal who I had never met before in LA last year, I got The Comfies pretty much right away. Which was handy as we had to spend most of the trip in her car together or sharing a bathroom and bedroom. Last week a lovely lady I had only met a few hours earlier decided it was fine to remove my bra from outside of my dress (amazing skill, by the way). Not even horrifying just lovely because it makes you think AWWWW. COMFIES. Similarly, I’ve just reminded myself of the time Panda, politely, with a gob full of half-chewed burger, asked me to quickly QUICKLY (she was very urgent and demanding about it) undo her bra in the middle of the pub so that she’d have the breathing space to shovel more food in. Things like this don’t happen when you stay sat up straight with your arms crossed feeling anxious. Right?

Some people you can just happily lay all over on a couch like a cat. Some people you’re just best off staying neatly positioned opposite at a tall clean table.

PANDA:

I’ll get this off my chest to start with – I’ll NEVER poo in front of anyone male or female. Ok? Good. Being comfortable around someone for me means a lot of different things. Or it seems that I have different levels of comfort with different people in my life.

Starting with the outside, the physical stuff, I’ve a few disfigurements going on – Big scar on my back, missing toes and misshapen feet. Out of my closest friends and family I’m only truly comfortable walking around bare foot in front of my friend Sarah (actually I think she’s my only friend who has seen them ) and that’s because she’s got Spinabifida just like me. I know the others would be totally cool with it, they’ve never made me feel like they wouldn’t but it’s just not something I’m comfortable with.

Boyfriends have varied, I’ve had some that never saw them (I had very sexy socks OK) Others who pretty much wrenched my socks off my feet and were all like ‘Oh is that it?’ and some who I’ve taken ages to show but when I eventually did they were fine.

I had one beach holiday pre having children where I walked around bare feet. My boyfriend at the time made me feel comfortable enough with them that I developed a ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude. Of course back then I had a lovely flat stomach and decent beach body to compensate. Nowadays they stay firmly under-wrap from the public eye and for fear of scaring small children.

I guess that comfort in a relationship is about being yourself 100% completely, I’ve had boyfriends who in the bedroom I was completely myself with them, no embarrassment, not afraid to say what I want and all that stuff but in normal life had to hide away certain parts of myself (and my Ricky Martin ‘She Bangs’ CD Single) for fear they wouldn’t accept me. Then of course it goes the other way too where I’ve been able to be as silly and daft as I like in the relationship but in the bedroom I’ve not been able to show completely who I am and what I want.

I’m not comfortable with wind. I obviously never do it but if I did I would of course be mortified and pretend it didn’t happen. Also if I’ve got a boyfriend who farts it really grosses me out and if it happens when I’m eating I won’t be able to finish my dinner. Toilet wise I quite like watching a man wee, that sounds weirder than I meant it to. I don’t mean in a kinky way, it just amuses me. Ok I’ll stop but yeah wee fine, poo NEVER. NEVER EVER. I’m not sure how you could be sexy with someone after seeing that.

Shaving legs/plucking eyebrows –  fine.

Shaving bush/plucking nipples – Do it behind closed doors.

I never want to see you picking or even clipping your toe nails.

I am however fine with squeezing your spots.

Then there’s that comfort that only comes from family. My Mum and Sister are the only two ladies I know who I’ll cuddle up with on the sofa, I like it when my sister plays with my hair, and I once had my period all over my sisters sofa and she was dead sweet and gave me some of her period knickers and cleaned it up for me. I wouldn’t get naked around either of them though, that would be weird.

Skanky HO!

Skanky HO!

So I still have certain boundaries with most people, some people I’d get naked around, some I wouldn’t. A few would get to see my feet, most wouldn’t. Some of them I’ll be cuddly with, others not. That doesn’t mean I’m not comfortable around them though because I am. Just not as comfortable as when I’m home alone, eating anchovies straight out of the jar, wearing nothing but two day old knickers and an over sized T-shirt with egg stains on it. NOW THAT’S BLOODY COMFORT.

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Posted in Actual Stuff About Boys | 2 Comments

A parting gesture…

CRUMPET:

I had this idea a while ago, but it seemed a little morbid for a blog who’s foundations lie in tales of clumsy teenage misadventures in fingering and text message induced anxiety. But c’mon. We’ve written about all kinds of crap since talking about actual boys started landing us in various degrees of ‘trouble’ with whomever we may or may not have been referring to in our tales of comedy boy-induced woe. But, as they say, if not now, when…

(Incidentally, I just remembered that that quote formed part of my school motto…)

Some people are sort of ok with or used to people dying. They lose a grandparent or even a parent when they’re young. Or a pet. I was pretty fortunate really that I got to keep people like that until I was 17. My brilliant grandma Betty died when I was in the middle of sitting my A Level exams. She had been ill for a long time and in the end, despite how devastatingly sad it was and how I pretty much held everything in to look after my mum and get through my exams, it was one of those deaths that you know is a relief. My grandma left a whole world of brilliant things behind. Funny stories; like how she told her soon-to-be in-laws on their first meeting that their cat was being so friendly to her because it could, “probably smell her pussy”. Or the time she tried to pull a handkerchief from her handbag in the theatre but ended up wiping her tears on a pair of tights that she had in there for some reason. A legacy of great recipes, an inherited fear of hair brushes, and beautiful mirror I now have in my own home. Long time ago, now. 12 years. But you know what? It’s still sad. No one can think or talk about her for long before it just feels too sad. I find it funny to think that she was such a big part of so much of my life, but I was only in a really short time of hers, in the grand scheme of things.

A boy I went to primary and secondary school with died in a terrible car accident about six years ago. I’ve written about him and his brilliant bright trainers before. And he’s in this wonderful picture of us in a school play. It was so completely horrific and shocking. I had to tell another friend over the phone – she was his best girly friend and she hadn’t heard. I had been at a meeting in central London and I sat bent over double on a street in soho wanting to cry or fall apart but just crouched there, clutching my phone. It felt surreal. Like a confusing dream. People my age don’t die. They don’t get in to accidents and just die like that.

When my mum phoned to tell me that my cat – the sweet, quirky, strange little kitten I had been given for my tenth birthday – needed to be put down, I was at a knitting class in the middle of the Royal Festival Hall. I felt completely sick and sad but that same confusing disorienting surreal feeling consumed me, and I kept on knitting. When we took her to the vet, I ended up tweeting what was going on the whole time. I keep on wishing I hadn’t done that. I had posted this photo to my mum on facebook too. And it’s still there. Just like my grandma, the cat had been a part of my life, my history, for a really long time. I was part of her entire life. She was very old, and very ill. It was just her time to die.

I woke up at 3am this morning. I’d been having a nightmare – a recurring one actually which now may or may not be leading me to a really great opportunity, in a bizarre yet somewhat irrelevant twist. For whatever reason, I was awake. I wrote a tweet about being awake, nightmare, etc etc… deleted it due to not wanting to sound needy, and being quite aware about how pathetic I sound when I use twitter in that misery-crutch way when I feel rubbish. So instead I scrolled down, read what was going on with who was awake, and saw an odd message from one friend to another, who happen to be neighbours, something about the police… I was tired… it seemed like a DM that had gone astray. When I woke up, I saw a string of messages that left me feeling like I was stuck to my chair with lead weights. I felt cold. Hot. Pale. Flushed. Sick. Confused. Wondered if it was some sort of strange twitter joke. How could someone – a funny, intelligent, talented and creative person I had spoken to on twitter for over a year – someone I debated with about everything from pre-raphaelite typographical styles to the best way to sneak cameras in to museums – one of a (gladly, increasing) handful of OnlyKnowFromTwitter chums I had met in Real Actual Life – how could these cold administrative tweets full of dates and times and arrangements be real? James was no big part of my life. A tiny (impeccably well dressed) face in a tiny box on a tiny screen who would pop up every now and then. But no one has ever died from my twitter stream before. Twitter plays this little game with us where it turns strangers in to friends. The feelings we get from the connections we make aren’t really like anything we’ve had in other parts of our lives before. It’s new. Everything is a bit unmapped. We don’t know where we’re going. Take the ridiculous Twitter Joke Trial for example. The lack of understanding of the medium is because this is all new to everyone. The way we read tone of voice; The jokes we’re allowed to make; And, what happens when someone dies. I find myself incredibly sad, shaken, confused. Twitter is full of people trying to outsmart or out-funny one another but it’s full of a lot of bitching and moaning. People pouring their hearts out. Whinging about a bad day at work. Spilling intimate private details of their sex lives or their mental health or their physical ailments. I do it. (A lot, yeah). And you know what? I’m glad. I’m glad that people share everything and I hope that they carry on doing that. Because these connections aren’t made by being family. Or school friends. Or pets. If this is how we make connections now, then this is how we deal with death now. A grandparent dies, you spend time with your family. A pet dies – you keep their bowl for a little while, maybe bury them in their favourite spot in the garden. A school friend dies – you share photos and stories and hold memorial events in their honour. But a friend you made on the internet? What then? Is it less real? Is it less sad or more sad that you didn’t realise anything was wrong? How do you cope with this sort of death when there are so few rules with how to cope with the bits you do whilst you’re alive?

 

Posted in Textual healing, Tissues required | 2 Comments

RANTYPANTS

Oh hello. In a cunning twist to our usual approach to listing things about things about things, these are the things that WE DON’T LIKE. Pet hates. Bug bares. Bears? Bares? Who cares. NOT US. Basically, a handy beginners guide to How To Piss Us Off. As ever, it’s hypocritical ranty nonsense. Happy new year!

PANDA:

Men who baby Talk

‘I have a tummy ache’ Are you three? No? Right then you’ve got a stomach ache. Your Mother is your Mother, Ma, Mum, Old dear, but NEVER your Mummy. You’re not poorly you’re ill, unwell, sick at best, Don’t ever talk in a little boy voice, you don’t wuv me you love me, despite the fact that I’m a hard-nosed cow.

Grown Ups

Contrary to what I just said I’m a big kid most of the time. I’m always up for adventures and playing, I bought myself LEGO for Christmas. I love Harry Potter and Dr Who more than my children do. You’re a grown up though, you don’t understand why adults watch things that are made for kids. You would NEVER go to the park and get on a swing, the idea of a fancy dress party horrifies you and if forced to go you’ll turn up wearing your normal clothes and look thoroughly miserable all night. You don’t dance, play or do anything that risks you looking the slightest bit silly and uncool. What’s even worse are the judgements you cast on all the people who do. For you the world is serious, play time is over, you’re like George Banks before Mary Poppins teaches him the joy of kite flying.

LOLTYBRB

The internet abbreviation bloody irks me up good and proper. Let’s start with LOL, I realise I’m not alone on this and it’s certainly not an original thought to have but god I HATE it. I hate it more because 70% of the time it’s not even used in context ‘Hello lol’ ‘Just got back from the shops lol’ WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?? Did you go the shops with a clown, did hilarity ensue? Even when it’s said after something humorous I bet the person didn’t actually laugh out loud, I bet they did a snort at best. Obviously PMSL and ROTFPMSL are equally ridiculous…Imagine finding something so hilarious that you rolled around on the floor urinating, would you then get back up and type what had happened? You couldn’t sit on the chair for a start. Would you go get cleaned up first?Surely the moment would be gone by the time you got back. I can handle a OMG, I like the way it looks, BRB slips through my net because I like the noise I make in my head when I see it. Anything else though is just lazy, C for see, U for you, TY for thank you UUURRRGHHHHHHH and don’t add Z’s where no Z’s are needed, Laterz Twat.

Manners

I was driving today and I saw someone waiting to turn in, so I kindly slowed down and let them go. They did not thank me, NOTHING no wave, nod of the head or my favourite the little flash of the back lights. This winds me up so much SAY BLOODY THANK YOU, I let you go, I gave you 6 seconds of my life SAY THANK YOU! Same as Zebra crossings, I have stopped, I’m waiting for you, oh look you’re lollygagging in the middle fiddling with your phone, still I wait, I could have drove on but I don’t, I’m nice, thank me, any small acknowledgement will do. Thank. Me.

Food

Don’t steal my food. Why are you taking my food? Stop eating all my food! I don’t like sharing food. It’s rubbish. I’m a nice person, I’ll buy you loads of food if you want. What really gets me is when I ask if you’re hungry and you say ‘Ohhh No thanks I’m definitely not hungry, I couldn’t eat a thing’ then proceed to eat half my dinner. This is not on. Also if I’ve got crisps don’t stick your entire hand in the bag trying to grab as many as you can, don’t be greedy, get your own. You may however place your finger and thumb inside the bag and carefully and gently take one ONE crisp out. Next, don’t drink cold drinks from a mug ESPECIALLY fizzy drinks. I don’t care how thirsty you are, I’d rather you sup it from your own cupped hands than drink it out of a mug. Don’t eat egg sandwiches in front of me.

CRUMPET:

I’d like to start by pointing out how hard this was to write. I mean, how hard it was to write so little. THERE IS TOO MUCH that makes me cross. Too much. I know I know. Let it go, no point getting wound up etc. I have tried my best to stick to a few big ones. As they say. *ahem*

People who start/end tweets with “Twitter, …”

I hate hate HATE those stupid preachy blog posts about “how to do Twitter right”, or Twitter ‘rules’. Do what you bloody well like. Write how you like. Reply to who you want to. Play it your own way. But this has been really irritating me of late. (Despite occasionally being guilty of myself and, well, yes I DO cringe at myself when I do it, too, but sometimes you gotta, but hear me out…) – Twitter is a WEBSITE. Obviously people will answer when you write something, whether you politely address ‘them’ or not. My friend @kibkibs highlighted this nicely in this one very concise tweet:

Dear Twitter...

SEE? He gets it. If you must, why not say “dear friends”. Or “PEOPLE OF THE INTERNET”. or “OI YOU SLAGS”. Why start with “Twitter….”? TWITTER ISNT WHO YOU’RE TALKING TO. It’s the people USING Twitter. You don’t need to be polite. You don’t need to start everything with any sort of address. Just say it! You’re already limited by how much you can fit in as it is. It’s not like Siri. Or that weird family in the advert who say “EGGZBOX… I command thee to put that shit film on” and you’re not the bloke in space on the telly who has to say “COMPUTER” at the start of every command. If you are typing a tweet, you are typing to people. Twitter is providing the service. Blablablabla – you know, though?

Boys with long fingernails.

Or any fingernails worth noticing really. Chewed, short, even well-looked after is FINE but my word please keep them below finger-tip level and for the love of all that is polite and sanitary, don’t talk about them because that just draws attention to them. Bleurgh. (see also: feet, although the older I get the less repulsed I am by SOME of them. Also don’t “see also” because I haven’t written about feet because I don’t want to and I’ve already said “feet” more than I care to.)

People who are unwell in some way but refuse to do anything about it.

Despite my endless Tramadol-laced evenings, I am not a fan of popping a pill for every little ailment. WATER fixes most things. Or magical tea. Lemon & ginger tea especially. OOH or peppermint. Most simple things are fixed with rehydration. Headache. Confusion. Rage. Hating your job. Not knowing what to eat next. Being angry at your brother. And so on. My lovely friend Meg’s mum gives the standard advice for anyone moaning about anything – GO AND SIT ON THE TOILET. But she’s American. Being somewhat Englisher about everything, MY mum, who was the school nurse at my high school – all 7 years of it (eurgh), was known (and mocked) for her sage, wise, caring response to any moaning child who dared enter her office. “Go and get a drink of water.” She was bloody right, though.

But if you’ve got the flu, or a cold, or like, a migraine – you know what’s really good supplement to the spicy chillies, fruit & OJ? MODERN MEDICINE. Don’t sit there wishing you’ll get better if you won’t try to fix yourself in a very easy way. Even whilst I was writing this one of you moany (lovely) bastards was telling me how you were worried you were full of germs but it’s ok because you’ve got some ginger in the kitchen. Bloody hell.

Boys obsessing over fitness/gym/diet

Specifically, in a verbal way. More so if it’s in a preachy or showing off way. I DONT CARE HOW LONG YOUR GYM SESSION WAS. I reeeeeeally don’t care why you won’t eat potatoes. Do it, don’t do it, whatever. Don’t bore me with it though because yeah I like swimming, yeah I hate the way I look, no I can’t really be arsed to be as saintly as you about fixing it, because I fucking love cheese. AND MY SOFA. Bikes are ok though. You can have bikes.

FORGETFULNESS

I have a completely ridiculous memory. For detail. Fine, insignificant detail. The date we met. What you said when we went to that place that time. What I ate when you bought that thing. Why this happened on that day. Bits of script. Lyrics. I like solving mysteries and puzzles (YES I COMPLETED THE TINTIN MYSTERY APP GAME TOO WHICH MEANS IM ALLOWED TO BUY IT FOR THE seXBOX NOW WOO) which I think is why my brain keeps track of all these clues – so that I can solve mysteries further down the line. Maybe. The other month over a very fancyposh breakfast, I claimed I’d remember weeks and weeks in the future what the ladies to my left were eating. WELL LET ME TELL YOU NOW that the one next to me had mushrooms on granary toast and her companion had fresh berries on porridge. Anyway, my lack of acceptance of other people’s imperfections (aren’t I lovely?) means that I find it aggrivating if someone doesn’t remember the things I do, or remembers it incorrectly. Especially because I KNOW I’M RIGHT. It’s not that it makes me think it meant less to you. No no. It’s just that the incredible power of my WonderMemory is unable to grasp that yours doesn’t have the same capacity. Sweet jesus I’m going to be single forever aren’t I?

UNADVENTUROUSSESNESS

How do you KNOW you don’t like that whateveritis on your plate if you haven’t tried it, you foooool. My lack of compassion towards The Unadventurous leads to my constant bullying of dear friend @LuckyLuque, which so far in 2012 has resulted in him not only eating AN EDAMAME BEAN (yes an ENTIRE one!) but also trying A BLACK OLIVE. These are incredible steps. Anyway adventure doesn’t end with an empty plate. How can you not want to see the world? Or leave London? Or go on a massive long train ride like Portillo? Look round the corner. Always.

Posted in Actual Stuff About Boys | 6 Comments

Foooooood glorious foooood…

We like food. We fucking LOVE food. If you follow either or both of us on twitter then you’ve already been subjected to thousands of photographed restaurant offerings, cooking failures and triumphs, classy tales of Panda eating in her car seemingly non-stop, and Crumpet reciting “food won’t fix the mood” over and over again.

CRUMPET:

It’s totally rare, you know, for anyone to not have one single issue with food. Even if you have the best metabolism, figure, and the most ‘normal’ or  ‘healthy’ attitude to eating in the world, you might still find yourself scoffing raw potatoes or lemon slices, or disguising your love of pickled onions for fear of offence, like my old flatmate. A selection of my nearest and dearest reveals a diabetic mother, a father who is never ever full, a brother who force-feeds his girlfriend his Man vs Food-inspired creations, friends with varying degrees of eating disorders in one form or another, and those who just bloody love food.

Just keep swimming just keep swimming

Just keep swimming just keep swimming

I’m pretty wobbly. I’ve never been toned, but it’s quite easy for me to control how I look by cutting down on certain things and upping my exercise, like the week I went mental by cycling everywhere and swimming 4billion lengths in 2 days. MAN I was hungry.

I find food massively comforting. Food DOES fix the mood. When I was little, I hated hated hated having my hair washed. HATED it. Possibly because it inevitably led to hair being BRUSHED. Nightmare. If I was very brave and didn’t cry, I was allowed a Daddy Gokgok (a chocolate from my dad – those mini dairy milks which used to come in cardboard envelopes before those tubs of HEROES came along). On a Friday, after a long week of school and sucking at maths and kids laughing at my hair and glasses and freckles and bogies, my grandma would feed me a delicious afternoon tea of fresh hot jam tarts and we’d all have a big family dinner of Proper Jewish Chicken Soup and a roast and it was my absolute favourite bit of the whole week.

Daddy gokgok

Daddy gokgok

When I go and visit my parents now, before I’ve even taken off my coat I get “you want something to eat?”

When I get in from a night out, my head instinctively decides it’s time for toast, or crumpets, or snacks, even though my belly rarely needs it.

If I’m anxious or nervous, upset or stressed out, the first thoughts I have are about what food might make me feel better. It’s rarely chocolate, by the way. Or cake for that matter. My most comforty comfort foods involve eggs, or smoked salmon, or potatoes or coronation chicken or soup or humus.

We’ve written about food before, where I detailed my terror over eating in front of boys. That was pretty much a year ago I think. In the past year I’ve got way more used to it, including having a ladle of soup force-fed to me shortly after writing that piece, to happily scoffing the messiest meals in front of all manner of men and hiding behind napkins less and less.

I bloody love food. I love cooking it. I love reading about it. I love shopping for it and experimenting with it and I LOVE feeding it to other people. But most of all I just bloody love stuffing my gob. It calms me down. It makes me feel happy. It excites me and even when I go absolutely mental and have a week of mad crack-like full on food addiction and end up feeling horrific and full and spotty and completely repulsively unlovable, I’m still going to always choose a hot toasty cream cheese bagel over a swim.

So there.

PANDA:

I’m much like Crumpet in a OH MY GOD I BLOODY LOVE FOOD way. Actually last time I went to see Crumpet I had to undo my bra in the middle of a pub to make way for some more food. Right now I’m chomping down on a family sized pack of Salt and Vinegar crunchy sticks, I’m not even that keen but I’m sure I’ll keep going.

I’ve no self control when it comes to food. One day I’m gonna wake up obese and diabetic and I’ll be totally screwed. It’s like the other night for instance I started into a pack of Marks and Sparks Chocolate Viennese  biscuits. Now these are the Queen of the biscuit world, buttery and melt in the mouth and just bloody wonderful. So there I was tea in one hand biscuit in the other, like some sort of orgasmic robot, dipping and sucking, dipping and sucking. When suddenly I felt full, really full, a bit sick full, but when I looked down there was only two biscuits left. I couldn’t leave those two lonely biscuits while the rest of their family were churning round in my belly. They had to be reunited, I had to fulfil their little biscuit destiny. GOD DAM IT I had to finish them all, so I did. I felt like yacking but I was also proud, what a bloody achievement.

Whenever I can get away with it I like to eat food with my hands. The feel of cutlery in my mouth does not please me at all. I’d much rather feel the food then taste it, get more of my senses working, a fork is just a barrier, a rubbish metal barrier. Sometimes I’ll treat myself and cook a chicken and just sit there like Henry the eighth ripping it apart with my hands whilst the grease dribbles down my fingers. Steak as well, oh god yeah, fuck cutting it up, I like to hold it and tear into it like a wolf then sit and feel all meat drunk after.

Sausage fingers

Sausage fingers

Sausages, eight in a row once, standing in my kitchen dipping them into a jar of mayo nom nom nom. Today I dipped my fingers into cream cheese then wrapped smoked salmon round them then popped each delicately wrapped finger into my mouth (I blame Hula Hoops for this anti social behaviour, I remember being five years old and opening a pack. They were hoops! They’re designed to be popped onto your fingers!)

This might all sound quite sexy/repulsive but let me make it clear I do not mix food with the bedroom.

No Mathew NO

No Mathew NO

I mean yeah I’ll eat Trifle in bed but I do not want to smear it all over you then lick it off. How absolutely ridiculous, tainting my lovely custard with man juice. I’m also not great at sharing food, don’t get me wrong I’m not tight I’ll buy you all the dinners you want. But if you say you’re not hungry then THEN EAT SOME OF MY FOOD I WILL WANT TO RIP YOUR FACE OFF. I also get quite cross if I’m not fed, I’m like the opposite of a Gremlin. But like a kitten I’ll keep coming back for more if you do.

My big sisters a brilliant feeder, I think she takes after our Nan who used to be Jewish. I went round there last week and before I’d even taken my coat off there was a cup of tea and a plate of toast and pate sat in front of me. Crumpets a good feeder as well, she always buys the food I like and last time I got to eat it all with my fingers so I was dead happy.

I guess apart from the willingness to inhale entire packets of biscuits at a time my only problem with food is I only eat when I’m happy. Luckily I’m happy 80% of the time but the first thing to go when life’s being a bit shit to me is my appetite. I also (as you’ll know if you follow me on Twitter) really like eating in my car. I’m not sure why or when this started but I’ll go park up and eat, alone. Sometimes it’s a lovely experience and I’ll be parked up along the seafront watching the boats or sometimes it’s bleak, like when I’m in the Tescos garage forecourt and it’s dark and raining. Sometimes it’s just a bit weird like the time I made food in the house then went out and ate it in the car.

I genuinely get quite excited about food. I’m like a six year old when I get to go to Bodeans, they serve up plates of meat and it’s totally fine to eat it with your hands and they put several different animals on your plate at the same time,. It’s my best thing EVER.

One of the main things I liked about being pregnant was the fact I got to walk down the street, sausage roll in one hand and chocolate éclair in the other and no one could say a bloody word to me. Unsurprisingly I was a big ol bird when I was expecting.

I like the tradition of food as well, it’s comforting. I love sitting round as a family and eating a Sunday roast with a big apple pie after. I like the fact we always have a buffet on Christmas eve or a special breakfast for Easter. Watching the boys eat something I’ve made (and sometimes enjoy it) is an absolute joy for me. Actually I don’t do it as much as I used to but making food for someone and seeing them like it is a brilliant buzz.

So yeah I’d say I’m definitely team food, yeah go food! I’m pro food, gotta lot of time for it.  Maybe it’s not the healthiest relationship but I’d always rather be the girl who eats with absolute gusto than the one who classes having one chocolate out of the selection box as a naughty little treat.

Posted in Actual Stuff About Boys | 3 Comments

Girls On Film

This week sees the release of Jon Spira’s awesome ROCKUMENTARY (sorry) about the rise of the Oxford music scene, Anyone Can Play Guitar. Full of interviews, tunes and untold tales of the highs and lows of the past 30-odd years, Radiohead, Supergrass, Foals, Talulah Gosh and chums will be gracing screens across the country on a tour of rockin’ little cinemas throughout November.

Anyone Can Play Guitar

Anyone Can Play Guitar

You absolutely MUST catch it (also showing at the brilliant Prince Charles Cinema in London on Dec 1st ) – not least because Crumpet’s real life human name will flash before your very eyes in the credits (WOO, btw). Anyway all of this glamourous Hollywood excitement made us think about films, and cinemas, and, of course, boys.

BUT WAIT! We’re a whole year old now. So we get to do things in a more exciting way round here.

Have a read. Share YOUR cinematic stories of love, regretful movie-dates, the tale of the time you met That Guy From That Film,  or your best popcorn-in-bra moment below in the comments, and the director of Anyone Can Play Guitar will pick his favourite – AND AWARD YOU AN AMAZING CINEMA POSTER (If we’re very nice to him, he might even sign it for you too.

WIN THIS PLECTRUM! And a POSTER! Ooh

WIN THIS PLECTRUM! And a POSTER! Ooh

He’ll ALSO chuck in a very cool Anyone Can Play Guitar branded plectrum.

IMAGINE THAT! Get busy.

CRUMPET:

I bloody love films. My heaving bookshelves are rammed with pretentious French surrealist cinema, David Lynch classics, 60’s mod-ish gems, and Cool Runnings (well OBVIOUSLY). I love the ceremonial nature of going to the cinema. The purchasing of a paper ticket to keep in your purse to remember the occasion by. The absolutely impossible choice of what snacks to consume. Choosing seats. Swathes of red curtains. The way you have to carefully consider in advance what you will have with you because there is never ever an adequate way to deal with storing your coat, scarf, handbag, eBay package you had delivered to your office for ‘convenience’ and the shopping you forgot you needed to take home from the fridge at work.

The cinema is the classic date scenario, isn’t it. Back row smooches. Fumbling to find hands to hold. Cock in the popcorn. Aah. I get totally sucked in to the cinema experience. All film-watching, really. I have a totally overactive imagination. When I saw Tintin last week I was the epitome of the 😀 emoticon smiley face throughout. When Tintin was in danger I scrunched my face up with my heart in my throat despite knowing the story inside and out since the age of 7. If I watch an older film, I end up confused about it not actually being 1960’s London when the credits roll, or that I don’t actually live in some strange American backwater town.

I actually find cinema dates a bit naff, socially and practically, despite loving the classic romance of the idea. You can’t chitchat, can’t press pause, if you stop for a smooch you miss approximately £1.25’s worth of viewing pleasure you’ve paid for, Orange Wednesday or not. Watching films at home though. Oh boy. I bloody love that. SNACKS. Endless snacking potential. PYJAMAS. Cosy blankets. Controllable lighting situations. Adjusting the volume. The fact that the film probably only cost you £3 from Amazon and it fills a space on your shelf. And when you’re done – WHY NOT WATCH ANOTHER ONE? Until you fall asleep, even! Brilliant. All of these things make home-date-film-time superior to cramped, separated-by-arm-rest-and-cup-holder cinema dates.

Film taste is quite a specific thing though, innit. Some people call my taste in films wanky. I just love having my brains stimulated by what I watch. An intellectual investment. I’ve got 5 years of art school education that I rarely get to excercise and will never finish paying for, so I bloody LOVE watching something that I want to talk about after, or tear apart with my mind coggs, or compare to a painting I’ve figured out it’s inspired by. Yes yes I’m a film twat. I’d rather have my eyeballs sparked with inspiration than sit mindlessly chuckling at slapstick and fart jokes.

I’m actually a bit rubbish to watch films with, I think, if you’re a boy. I vocalise my “oooooh”s and “eeeeps” and “OH thats like that bit in that OTHER film” and whatnot. I like a good discussion at the end. I like arguing about how brilliant or crap or contrived the story was.

I had a cinema date once to see a very popular film, not so long ago, that everybody was bloody raving about. Total hollywoodarama. Not my usual cup of tea but, you know, dates are sometimes about compromise or doing stuff you wouldn’t do usually. By the end, when it transpired that (predictably) I had hated it and my date had loved it, I ranted for a good 20 minutes about all of the old surrealist films – and more modern films – that it seemed to rip off. The flaws. The bits that gave me motion sickness. The books it had borrowed themes from. I properly went to town without gasping for breath, hoping this would be the start of a brilliant great lengthy discussion. My date responded with “well I suppose you’ve got a point, yeah”. Meh.

PANDA:

I’ve been sitting trying to write this for bloody ages…I thought it would be easy I LOVE films…I guess that’s the problem didn’t realise still I started writing what a big part of my life they are. I know people who just aren’t that into films, they might watch the occasional thing but they’re just not fussed. That confuses my tiny brain…My Mum says they are far-fetched nonsense. ‘BUT THAT’S THE POINT!!’ I wail at her. My Dad takes it to the other extreme and will happily stay up till three in the morning simultaneously watching two films at once.

When I was five three films had a major impact on me – Mary Poppins, D.A.R.Y.L and A Nightmare on Elm Street. The first I watched every single day after school, till I knew every word off by heart. The second I fell madly in love with the boy/robot and the third I watched unknown to my big sister as I was hiding behind the sofa and it pretty much scarred me for life.

For me I’m not just watching a film. I’m right there in it…For those 90 minutes or so they are completely real to me (Which is why I NEVER watch the special features on a DVD) I’m like one of those mentals that if I saw Daniel Radcliffe in the street I’d be all ‘Harry! Harry! How’s Ginny and the kids?!’ and I’d hug him really tight and he’d have to call the police. BUT HE IS A REAL WIZARD HE IS HE IS!!!

For me films are like a diary of my life, I remember when I was about 12 I got my own bedroom and with it my own TV. When I wasn’t watching Euro Trash with the sound down I was sitting wide-eyed watching films like Beetlejuice, The Dark Crystal, The Lost boys, Weird Science and some really dodgy late night Channel 4 ones. Then from 14 – 16 it was all about Johnny Depp and Brad Pitt. I remember in the height of my Johnny Depp phase I went to Malta to stay with family. My Uncle owned a video store and he let me take home to keep FOR REALS Benny and June, I was bloody ecstatic.

Then boys came along and watching films with boys and learning all about films from boys. There was the mod boy who introduced me to the delights of If, and A Clockwork Orange, Alfie (Caine not Law I walked out of that shit) Belle De Jour and Buxton and the Blue Cat. Or the strange boy who I’d haul up with all day watching Hell raiser (Like putting your fingers in a warm bowl of meat) Deliverance, Last House on the Left, loads of serial Killer biopics and Japanese nasties. We’d wander into the ‘World Cinema’ section of the library and grab what we could (The tit and the moon was brilliant)

Films bought us together, both friends and boyfriends…We’d watch and share the experience and quote them to death afterwards. Exciting first dates at the cinema or the excitement/annoyance of seeing another couple on a first date (fingering in the back row). The time me and my big sister went to see a film and I was in a wheelchair, she pushed me into the lift head first into an old mans crotch. The big OH MY GOD moment watching Sixth Sense before it got totally ruined.

I delight in swapping films with people like I used to delight in swapping Garbage Pail kid stickers…We’ll all haul round when we get together ‘Have you seen this??”Oh god you’ve got to see this!’ ‘You didn’t like it?? You’re a twat.’

What’s amazing for me now is getting to show my kids all the films I loved…I was overjoyed when they went through their Labyrinth phase and they’re just starting to understand the Goonies now. I delight in seeing their little eyes grow massive in a darkened cinema because I can see them making their own memories through film.

The first time I met Crumpet we went to see Jaws, it was the first time I met my Jason as well. Actually my favourite Cinema date was with Jason…We’d been doing a bit of flirting and had arranged a date but were both completely hapless…We met outside The Prince Charles Cinema in London (Which was dead exciting in itself as I’m not a London girl) It was three days before Christmas and we were off to see Home Alone. It was all cold and Christmasy and we sat down, I don’t remember watching the film at all, I just remember ‘Ooooh his leg just touched mine’ and ‘I wonder if he’ll hold my hand’ ‘Should I hold his hand??’ It was wonderful and exciting and I felt like I was 15 again. Now whenever I watch that film I’ll be reminded of this perfect first date.

Reading this post back it has no real flow, I’ve jumped from one thing to another and even as I’m sitting here I’m thinking about giggling with my big Sister whilst watching Wish you were here or watching the Green Mile with one of my besties and being utterly shocked when she burst into tears (She was normally such a cold fish) My favourite thing to do ever ever EVER is dinner and a film…I’m at my happiest now snuggled up with my boys watching something while we stuff our faces…Total contentment.

They’ve been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, book marking the chapters as I go along much the same as music does..Evoking emotions, making me think or letting me switch off completely. Teaching me life lessons, educating and inspiring me or making me laugh when I’ve had the shittiest day ever. Part of what makes Christmas so magical for me is the films I associate with it…It just wouldn’t be Christmas without Elf or It’s a Wonderful Life. My idea of indulgence is sneaking off to the cinema by myself and immersing myself in another world for 90 minutes. Story telling, it’s part of the wonder of life…I love having my brain filled up with stuff I could have only imagined and now I get to see it on a massive big screen with surround sound.

I saw an old couple at the cinema the other day, thoroughly enjoying themselves and I thought I have years and years of stories that I’m going to see and people I’m going to associate with them and I’m also sure there’s an OAP discount right? This makes me very very happy.

NOW all you have to do is comment below with your funny, sweet, sad or embarrassing film-related story for a chance to win a SIGNED FILM POSTER and super rockin’ PLECTRUM…

Posted in Most popular, Music | 12 Comments

No place like home

Homes. A funny old thing to think about because I (Crumpet) spend my working life teaching people how to look after theirs. But I moved house and spent most of this year boring Pandapants to death about it so now I’ve done it so there and here’s this:

PANDA:

Dear Flat,

I’m gonna level with you, I never used to like you very much at all. When me, my EX Husband and young Master C moved in it was quite exciting at first. I was all ‘Ooooh new flat’ but then that wore off and I started to notice the things I didn’t like about you. You’ve no Fireplace…Why do you have no fireplace I HATE that and what was with all the blown Vinyl IN EVERY ROOM (We’re not in the 70’s anymore mate) Your bathroom was mouldy and our bedroom was cold. Really cold, like the bed feels wet because it’s so cold. Oh god your drains…Did you have to wait till we had company round to let off the smell that can only be described as EGGY DEATH. Nope we were not friends I wasn’t happy, you were a temporary stop-gap till we could move into a house.

Then my relationship with my EX finally came to an end and he moved out. It was cold and snowy flat but something strange happened. I felt like you were supporting me. I felt like you were taking care of the three of us. You suddenly felt cozy and the dampness went away even my Ice box of a bedroom was less well Icy. I covered your blown vinyl walls with pictures and pretty things. Friends and family rallied round and bought and made you stuff, little things to show we were being thought of. You made us feel safe and protected…Here I was a single Mum living alone for the first time in years yet I felt secure.

You embraced me through the hard early months, provided me with a place to cry and yell and feel sorry for myself. Remember the nights when I’d get a bit drunk and try to break-dance on your kitchen floor? Or put those dreadful Karaoke videos on You Tube on and sing my head off. I was therapizing myself and you were there to support me.

I’d never bothered planting bulbs the previous year, to preoccupied with going through a break up. Yet spring rolled around and you managed to magically produce daffodils and tulips and bluebells in abundance.

The summer you filled with light, me and the boys would spend our days dressing up as Super Heroes and running round the garden the evenings I would sit out drinking tea pondering what the future held. I was happy and I was beginning to appreciate you a bit more.

Even our first Christmas together when we all got ill and the turkey didn’t get cooked, is a happy memory for me. Because there we were just me and the boys snuggled up on the sofa together watching Elf and it was perfect.

I once saw only fault in you, at one time I was so desperate to move out of you yet you have supported me through so much. You’ve watched me struggle at times to be a single Mum then blossom into a darn good one. you’ve watched me pour over Essays then welcome in an actual client. You’ve seen my crying over silly boys and laughing with good friends till wee nearly comes out. I’ve made more happy memories in the last two years than I ever have. I realised I wasn’t running from you before, I was trying desperately to escape the situation I was in.

Six years I’ve been here now, almost two of those just me and the boys. You were once a temporary situation, I was waiting for something better to come along. Now though you have become my home and I love you very much. You’ve been a proper nest for me to bring up my not so small humans in and for that I’m eternally grateful.  Of course one day we will have to part, see the small people they just keep on growing as does our ever-expanding LEGO collection. We’ll need to move on but it will be with a heavy heart that I do.

I also know that you’re a much better home since we’ve been here, you only have to walk through the door to feel how much love there is (Unless it’s I’M COOKING DINNER WILL YOU PICK THOSE BLOODY TOYS UP time) I know when our time does come to part that you’ll welcome in another family and protect them just like you’ve done us.

Until that time comes though let’s continue to have ALL the fun and make even more memories and I promise to dust you a bit more if you lay off the eggy death drains.

CRUMPET:

I moved house. This is the 10th time I’ve moved in as many years, and pretty much every single time it’s felt like home. I’m good at doing Home. I’m as happy staying put as I am a victim of itchy feet. Sometimes it’s just time for a change and sometimes I feel like I’d gladly stay somewhere forever. I have a lot of stuff, as previously discussed. I am a hoarder and having my Stuff all around me makes me feel cosy and homely wherever I am. Wherever I lay my 412 hats, that’s my home.

When I first left home and packed myself off to art college, my parents moved house. They massively downsized, and I know now that aside from other issues this was largely to help pay for me to go to university, for which I am more than eternally grateful. So much so that I somehow ended up studying for 5 years at 4 different institutions. Ahem. But when I went ‘home’ that summer, the place they moved to didn’t feel like my home. They moved from a 5 bedroom house with a gigantic garden, to a 2 and a half bedroom cottage. It is beautiful and quaint and the front is covered in rambling roses. There’s a pond where my mum studies the movements of the resident frogs each year and teaches it to her science class. There’s a funny little pretend fireplace and just about room for the piano, which was the first Big Grown Up Thing my mum ever bought when she entered the World Of Work (at WH Smiths’ head office, in the late 1970s). But there’s never been space for my things. And I just didn’t have any Moments there. I have no history with that house. I’d been a naughty child and a grumpy teenager in their old house. I’d done my Growing Up there. My room had been built especially for me, as an extension, and I’d even written a ‘certificate’ on the plaster declaring that “this wall was once outside but now it’s inside” so future generations would know that room was built all for me. We haven’t lived there for 11 years but I still get a lightning-fast glimmer in my brain where if I am heading to see my parents, or if I dream of ‘home’, that it’s that house I see, and not their little rose-covered cottage.

When my ex and I were deciding on where we would live – chosing between Brighton, Melbourne and London, I threw around that ridiculous cliché, that “home is with you” and it doesn’t matter where we are as long as we are together. How disgustingly soppy. However I took myself by surprise by being terrified of feeling at home in Melbourne, because it really is terribly far away from the Thames. Went to great lengths to make sure I was just miserable enough to always feel like I wanted to get back to London at some point. Even bought myself some ruby slippers. (which have ended up coming to everywhere I’ve visited since, incidentally. I even hear I left a few of their little red sequins scattered around LA last month).

Home is where you make it, and for whatever reason, I find it pretty easy to feel at home almost anywhere. Pretty much any place I visit on holiday, I’ll say at least once “yeah I could see myself living here” – Thailand, France, Swindon…. ok not Swindon. That bit was a joke. And I know it’s terribly materialistic of me to think that as long as I have all of my shit around me – my antique floral desk lamp, records, books and books and books, letters from lost lovers, postcards from friends, handmade gifts from sweet baby cousins, then anywhere will feel like home – but I do feel like those things help me feel settled somewhere.

My recent move has been so fluid and easy and calm, apart from the moment where I had to choose between sawing the legs off of my handmade antique desk, or sawing the legs off of my brother, that it’s not surprising that I feel totally at home after just over a week. I’d hardly been quiet about my living situation these past 2 years. Despite being a Londoner born n bred (shutup it’s only Essex a BIT), it was my first time renting in this glorious city. 150a was the perfect home at the perfect time – the dots all joined up so that I fell in to the right place at the right time. Living there with close friends gave me the strength and the opportunity to move on from a lot of things that had been tied to my ankles the previous year. A lot of my life in that house was like therapy. It worked. And my new home is just up the road, but is a little calmer, and a little neater, with more room to relax and have my things in order. Which is perfect, because it’s just like how I feel inside my brain, now

Posted in Textual healing | 3 Comments

A YEAR. New things.

Hello. We’ve been here for a year now. Well, over a year, but someone’s been on holiday so we had to wait an itty bitty bit before posting this. If you’ve commented, tweeted, recommended, laughed, cried, loved or hated anything here in the past year, then thank you for at least reading. You might notice this post looks a little different – thanks to the wonderful offer of a COLLABORATION with one of the internet’s finest doodlers and humans, Dotmund. His long-term adoration of these pages was becoming quite frankly a little more than embarrassing, so we thought we’d mark our blogaversary by letting him illustrate this post for us. Maybe YOU want to collaborate in some way too? Well it’s a whole new year… anything might happen now.

CRUMPET:

“The seconds pass slowly and years go flying by”.

Ben Folds, that. WISE, eh? It’s funny coz it’s true. Etc.

A year. A WHOLE YEAR since we first took a deep breath and said – no one’s going to read this crap but we’ll just do it for US and see what happens.

On 22nd July 2010, @mixmasterfestus decided that he would give a stack of comics in return for #FF’s presented on video. I made this one, she made that one. We’d chit-chatted a little bit on twitter via other people – but that was the day we first followed each other. And won a stack of comics, each, by the way. YEAH.

We’ve been through how this blog came about before – but in summary, it was, as you’d imagine, the product of having to briskly move from a couple of vaguely melodramatic tweets by each of us about boys,

BOYS

BOYS

to DMs where Panda DEMANDED to add me on Facebook – the stalker – in the hope that I’d elaborate and send her hilarious juicy details in emailish form. Whizz forward a few months, a few massively lengthy GettingToKnowYouAndAllYourBaggage type emails and IM sessions… and here we are.

It’d be an understatement to say that having this Pandafaced fool as a friend has changed my life a little bit. Her ears and brain have provided me with a bit of a cosy padded cell if ever I’ve been sad or confused or upset about any number of things. Her words and understanding and insight generally calms me down on the most part (even when it’s the HERE’S A BIG MIRROR AND A SLAP IN THE FACE NOW PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER style), and has changed the way I understand a lot of things in my life. My family, my relationships, my cake-icing skills and my love of coronation chicken.

We met in real human form (it was a POWERFUL moment) after about the first 3 times we published anything on here. We went to go see Jaws at the PCC.

An Actual Photo from my disposable camera

An Actual Photo from my disposable camera

We had some underlying boy-based themes/plans to our day but the main magical thing was that I took a photo of us on a bus on a disposable camera and also bought this really cool red and white striped cardigan. Such a special day. I bloody love that ridiculously over-ruffled cardigan. It was also the day I chucked a load of chips on the floor and got burger in my hair, and the day that I left Panda alone, abandoned in big ol’ Laaandan to be looked after by her now love. Aaaww. We had a wicked time and it was that thing you always get with internoodle pals, generally, that they’re just as ace and fun as you thought they would be, and that you really DO end up spending the whole day talking about boys.

Lots of things have happened to me this year. Lots and nothing. She’s listened to all of it and you know who else has? You. Having a place to combine thoughts and worries and stories and quotes and share them has become so valuable to me. I’ve gone through worrying about not getting the family diamond and going on billions of panic-dates a week, to meeting a few boys I quite liked and going through the various typical Crumpet scenario of making it just complicated enough to go spectacularly wrong, every. single. time; through varying degrees of friend-based dramas; through a Christmas that fell apart because of airport closures; through mentally and emotionally processing holding a man by the wrists over the well of a flight of stairs; through hating my job to changing what I do there to loving it again but having to work a bit harder (eurgh); through falling out spectacularly with my mum and little brother, and a number of teenage-dream musician-related encounters… every single bit of each of these things has been made lighter by being able to write it down.

CCTV footage from every time we have hung out ever

CCTV footage from every time we have hung out ever

To talk about it on Skype with Pandapants, to be able to take a day off work and go play with her at the seaside or have a ‘meeting’ where we plan to write down blog ideas but end up eating cakes and chips instead – all of this is brilliant and valuable to me.

No Oscar-style speech needed. Totally aware that it’s Just A Blog. And it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.

I don’t care. We only ever did this because we made each other laugh. Now other people laugh at us too which is… yknow. A bit rad. My favourite thing about that is that this is exactly what still happens. Although we’ve gone a bit soppy now after a year and end up a bit teary most of the time. We’ve only ever half fallen out like one tiny bit of a time too.

AND NOW we’ve got this awesome chap who sends us quite frankly a very flirtatious bit of fan mail declaring his desperate need to illustrate one of our posts. We’d been deciding how to ‘celebrate’ our anniversary.

We wanted to try something new. We had talked about some kind of collaboration, or cross-over, or changing SOMETHING. We got a bit stuck though and ended up talking about… well… boys. S’what we do, innit. x

PANDA:

I remember first seeing Crumpet lovingly caressing the loo roll in that video and I remember thinking she was all sophisticated with an amazing fringe and the straightest of straight hair.

Confusey-haired loo-roll Crumpet

Confusey-haired loo-roll Crumpet

Then later when SHE friend requested ME on Facespaz and I stalked through all her pictures I saw she had in fact the most magical mental curly hair I had ever seen. I didn’t quite understand how someones hair could be so different…

It still confuses me on an almost daily basis.

To attempt to sum up Crumpet would be difficult, when I think of her I think of our first meeting. I knew she was a bit O posh as I’d stalked through her you tube videos and I by then knew of ‘The Hair’ but I still wasn’t prepared. I was a bit nervous, what if she didn’t like me in person? What if the conversation didn’t flow as well in real life as it did in emails? So I got off the tube and walked into a busy Liverpool Street station and there she stood all red stripes and sparkly trainers and she skipped towards me and engulfed me in a massive hug. Apart from thinking ‘Wow nice bloody arse’ I was instantly struck by how warm and sunny and just well bloomin lovely she was. She grabbed my arm starting talking ten to the dozen and whizzed me off round London for one of the best days ever.

After that meeting we became proper friends not just internet friends and over the last year we’ve seen our friendship change and flourish. Neither of us have ever been the sort of friends who only tell each other what we want to hear. We’ve always told it how it is, or even just the blunt how we think it is (I think that’s the Jew in us) At times this has caused us to bristle and get cross with each other (truth hurts don’t it) but we’ve always come back and always will do.

We’ve both grown and changed so much in the past year. Crumpet has been there for me through heart-break as well as shoving me towards my wonderful Mr Panda. She has been a constant listening ear and her warmth and compassion not just for me but for everyone in her life never fails to amaze me.

I still get excited when she DM’s me to tell me there is an email on the way and I still delight in reading her tales of boys and gin. She is a beautiful person both inside and out although at times I’ve wanted to strangle her because she just didn’t see that. Now thanks to a brand new magic sexy bra and several other things she’s finally starting to.

"Hello. I'm Johnny Chicken"

"Hello. I'm Johnny Chicken"

So here we are one year on, bought together because of our love for boys and stuck together because of our love for cold curried chicken, Johnny Cash, each other and of course our lovely little blog.

What started as a silly thing, something we genuinely didn’t think anyone would read apart from us. Has turned into something we both cherish and also something I’m incredibly proud of. So many times when we’ve had stuff going on, to be able to get it down and write about it has been the best therapy there is. To have YOU read it is truly wonderful, the feedback we get and listening to your stories is exactly what we hoped the blog would become. For that I say a massive thank you, the fact you bother to read our often silly words means the absolute world.

So Happy Anniversary to us!!!! Here’s to another year of sharing boy stories and fingering anecdotes, and drawings, and shoving flowers in our hair and me trying to get fresh with Crumpet whenever I possibly can. And here’s to you, you absolute lovely bunch of sexbeasts! We ruddy bloddy LOVE you! xx

Posted in Doodles, Most popular, Textual healing | 7 Comments