Rebecca Riots

Forget-Me-Not

A gallant knight and his betroth’d bride,
Were walking one day by a river side,
They talk’d of love, and they talk’d of war,
And how very foolish lovers are.

At length the bride to the knight did say,
‘There have been many young ladies led astray
By believing in all their lovers said,
And you are false to me I am afraid.’

‘No, Ellen, I was never false to thee,
I never gave thee cause to doubt me;
I have always lov’d thee and do still,
And no other woman your place shall fill.’

‘Dear Edwin, it may be true, but I am in doubt,
But there’s some beautiful flowers here about,
Growing on the other side of the river,
But how to get one, I cannot discover.’

‘Dear Ellen, they seem beautiful indeed,
But of them, dear, take no heed;
Because they are on the other side,
Besides, the river is deep and wide.’

‘Dear Edwin, as I doubt your love to be untrue,
I ask one favour now from you:
Go! fetch me a flower from across the river,
Which will prove you love me more than ever.’

‘Dear Ellen! I will try and fetch you a flower
If it lies within my power
To prove that I am true to you,
And what more can your Edwin do?’

So he leap’d into the river wide,
And swam across to the other side,
To fetch a flower for his young bride,
Who watched him eagerly on the other side.

So he pluck’d a flower right merrily
Which seemed to fill his heart with glee,
That it would please his lovely bride;
But, alas! he never got to the other side.

For when he tried to swim across,
All power of his body he did loss,
But before he sank in the river wide,
He flung the flowers to his lovely bride.

And he cried, ‘Oh, heaven! hard is my lot,
My dearest Ellen! Forget me not:
For I was ever true to you,
My dearest Ellen! I bid thee adieu!’

Then she wrung her hands in wild despair,
Until her cries did rend the air;
And she cried, ‘Edwin, dear, hard is out lot,
But I’ll name this flower Forget-me-not.

‘And I’ll remember thee while I live,
And to no other man my hand I’ll give,
And I will place my affection on this little flower,
And it will solace me in a lonely hour.’

http://www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk/

Couples are, by definition, total and utter cunts. (I apologise, unreservedly to all the couples I know..maybe.)

So I had to deal with this couple in a casual/workish capacity recently and by GOD, for the love of all things holy, it was nauseating how one couldn’t so much as drop a fart without the approval and permission of the other.

“Excuse me, dear, I need to lay down a stinker, would that be okay with you?”

“Why of course Cassandra, it’s better out than in after all..”

What is worse though, is the constant reassurances that clearly need to be in place when you’re humping someone regularly (IE: in a relationship). “Oh I’m sorry dear, I didn’t mean to check out Rebecca Riot’s Rack (TM) and I really regret doing so.”

YES, YES YOU DID MEAN IT. Here, for the love of all things simple, is a list of things for which retrospective apologies are not worth that fart your husband lets you do;

1: Staring at the opposite sex with a longing intention- You KNEW FULL well what you were doing.

2: Commenting on someone’s attractiveness/your desire to throw it into them. How in God’s name can you expect anyone with reasonable intelligence to believe you when you say you “DIDN’T MEAN IT”?

3: Slagging off spouse. You meant it, many a true word spoken in jest m’lud.

So go ahead, reassuringly pat their knee, we all know you secretly want a bit of suhin suhin.

I’m off now to groom my cats.

I saw something very amusing on the weekend: An Asian band in the town centre playing Irish songs. It was a “something’s not quite right about this picture” moment..

When your new husband has Asperger’s.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/15/fashion/weddings/15vows.html?ref=weddings

This week’s NYT wedding section has reached new heights of amusement and vicariously indulgent scoffing.

“In the Washington group house where he and Mr. Ilano lived in spring 2002, Mr. Kass slept in a sleeping bag for a month because he feared a rash purchase might preclude a full analysis of whether and for how long he would settle there.”

OK, if baby has some commitment issues over a BED, imagine what shit is going on in his head regarding nupitals?

“Dating Jonathon requires patience,” said Kate Gordon, a close friend and one of his many devoted fans.

No…kidding…

“Over eight months the two met at each other’s apartments to watch “The West Wing” television series. Eventually, Ms. Lucas proposed a meal, leading to more Washington outings.

But were these dates? After walking Ms. Lucas home, Mr. Kass would leave her unkissed. Ms. Lucas wanted the relationship to develop; Mr. Kass said he needed “time.”

Uh…huh…

“Days later, after a chaste overnight, and despite having by then developed some patience, Ms. Lucas asked, “Is it normal for you to spend the night at women’s houses?”

“I was communicating a lot of ambiguity,” Mr. Kass, also 37, admits. “Something was going on, but as usual I had no idea what I wanted to do about it.”

“Hard,” “very hard” and “excruciating” are how Ms. Lucas’s friends describe this time for her. Finally, on Feb. 9, 2003, Mr. Kass made a decision: to “decisively” kiss her.

“Our lips fit together,” he said with good humor.”

Riiiiiiight

Sometimes my friends, words are superfluous.

As I casually studied her heavily veined hands, which led up to stick-thin arms that had a powderish hue, a strained and pinching voice interrupted my thoughts.

It speaks.

“You know that white roll you’re eating is just full of sodium, raising agents and fat?”

“No, I didn’t know that, but thanks. How’s your lentil salad?”

“Wonderful, thanks, it’s so nourishing.”

“I’m sure.”

“Is that ham? Oh I’m a vegetarian, have been for 12 years, I’m partially vegan I suppose but I like skim milk”

“Mmmm”

“Doesn’t it bother you, the amount of chemicals in your food?”

“Nah, I find they make me strong, like Hulk.”

“Well actually, they are very bad for your general health, do you know that some preservatives give you cancer?”

“For someone that eats fuck all, you seem to know a lot about it.”

 ”Oh, I do eat, I eat a lot of very healthy produce.”

“And…you never want a big lump of tiramisu?”

“Oh no, after a while you no longer crave junk food. Sugar is addictive you see, it…”

“Yes, yes, probably, what isn’t? But please, I just want to eat my roll. Actually I think you secretly want my roll.”

“Ha! Think of all that fat, straight to the thighs.”

“Actually I’m hoping it goes to my ass. I’m planning on space-hopping across Morocco next summer and I need a layer there to help me bounce.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, another thing about food, it helps your brain function.”

When is it no longer acceptable to get extremely inebriated? What is the cut-off age where falling around and waving a bottle in the air is not regarded with mild disapproval and bemusement, but horror and dare I say it…pity?

I used to think 25. But as I’m careering towards 30, the goalposts keep moving. However despite this, it’s becoming increasingly clear that I’m the one throwing disapproving, bemused looks at the 20 year old piss-heads who fake wrestle each other in the middle of a crowded bar.

Cast your mind back to that despicable ‘ladette’ culture which emerged, bleached and bleary eyed, in the mid-90s. Gobshite celebrities spread a dangerous and ill-informed message that girls could drink like men and it would be OK.

No it was NOT OK. There is no denying women, and this is physiological fact, cannot process alcohol like men can. Drinking heaps will do more damage to our livers, heart, bones and ultimately, our looks, than the same volumes would to a man.

But while a woman pumping shots and ohgodno, Barcardi Breezers in a low-rent bar with horrible furnishings, before being sick down herself and swapping vomitus spit with a rednecked male, is absolutely undesirable, it does get progressively more undesirable as you slide down the 20s scale.

In short: If you’re 30 and still puking around town, it’s time to reassess.

God, now I’ve remembered those fucking ladettes I’ve become really angry. Urgh, they used to leap out from tabloids, pint in hand, oh ‘look at me look at me, I’m drinking a pint, I’m just like a man, only I’m a chick, with a minge, ooooh arent I AMAZING’.

Fucking fucking BITCHES.

And that goes for men AND women. Although because men generally have a better hold on booze than chicks, they can hide those wobbly boots more effectively.

I light of this epiphany; I now get riotously drunk in my own home. Where no one can see me crawl to the bedroom.

Who should have a pint shoved up their holes:

1: Zoe Ball

2: Sarah Cox

3: Jade goody

4: Charlotte Church

5: Denise Van Outen

Using your MBA to get your hole is the theme of this week’s NYT Wedding section with Dr. Elena Wechsler snaring John Pierre Simpson using Harvard Business School coaching and buying a new coat.

What is essentially THE most disturbing element of this convulted tale is the following:

Mr. Simpson, 46, and Dr. Wechsler, 38, found each other online, but only after some coaching from Rachel Greenwald, author of “Find a Husband After 35: Using What I Learned at Harvard Business School.”

Three years ago a review of that book spurred Dr. Wechsler’s parents, now of Little Compton, R.I., to consult with Ms. Greenwald, who charges $2,000 to $5,000 a day, depending on what is needed.

The author recalled being told by David Wechsler that his daughter “had done everything right professionally, but he was worried that she wasn’t making dating a priority.”

That’s right. Her parents, PARENTS, thought their daughter’s love life so forlorn that they actively enlisted the expensive services of a dating coach. OK so it worked in this case, but Jesus Christ.

Ms Greenwald (is she married?) went on to advice Dr Wechsler to shrug off her icy professional demeanor.

“She needed a coat that made a statement, a coat that said, ‘I’ve got pizzazz,’ ” Ms. Greenwald said.

Um, of course, a coat. That’s where I’m going wrong. I need a new coat. Must head to Dunnes in my lunch hour so.

It gets better. John Pierre may have been dazzled by his date’s new coat, but he was no stranger to turning on the charm himself, referring, obviously to what is guaranteed to melt every woman’s heart like a poodle in the microwave..

“He told me a story about when he was canoeing and accidentally disrupted a mother duck and her babies,” she said. “One of the ducklings got separated, and John took it home with him. That night, the duckling cried so much that John took it into bed with him and kept it on his chest all night.”

Lady, your husband takes ducks to bed.

“Successful women are looking for someone to take care of them, too,” she continued. “I thought if he loved that duckling that much, he could love me too.” That night Dr. Wechsler said to herself, “I’m done.”

Jesus Christ.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/18/fashion/weddings/18vows.html

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/18/fashion/weddings/18vows.html

From the man with the sweaty palms and aggressive underbite, to the fat, bearded buffoon grasping unsuccessfully for social awareness, the caliber of men to ask me out of late has been depressingly subterranean.

The old metaphor of men and parking spaces, one I previously mocked, is, I concede, not a kick in the arse off the truth: good ones are taken, free ones are awkward or disabled. And can a parking space be gay? If so, then, that too.

As Saturn has returned to my astrological cycle armed with a lean cuisine for one, I thought perhaps it was time to become a little more open to various male specimens and to accept their varied flaws. However there does come a point where I point-blank refuse to pool my genetics with certain people. Mental illnesses, to some extent genetically influenced, are out. As are large disfiguring birth marks, facial tics, narcolepsy (in no small part because you’d always have to be the driver), gingers, the obese, dumb and vegetarians. (The latter because my love of leather smells and fuck-off steaks would be too conflicting to promote lasting love.)

But before you dismiss me as a total cunt, bear in mind I did attempt to offer an ear to the less facially blessed of the species, including a recent encounter with a badly dressed Australian with weirdly rimmed eyes, who, as it turned out, was just another twat who works in media sales.

Then there was the arsehole who insisted on repeating how his dad was a “top barrister” as if his pater’s gilded career somehow compensated for the son’s shortcomings, or the eastern European who scratched his balls incessantly as if he was crawling with termites. (And probably was).

It’s not as if I have sat back and waited for a decent human being of the opposite sex to sail happily into my life, I’ve been proactive, really. But everyone’s totally fucked up these days.

You think you’ve got a good man and then you catch him fingering his arse hole on the sofa, surfing the net for dwarf porn or screaming down the phone because you didn’t want to go see PS I Love You.

And if that doesn’t mess it all up then his small micky and jackhammer sexual technique will.

Don’t feel left out chaps, there are plenty of women out there with psychotic tendencies and spaniel ear tits, I know, and I sympathize.

Anyway, I’m using this forum to officially declare my search for a daycent fella over. I am going to pour my extra resources into sourcing sartorial bargains, waiting outside Tesco until they reduce the chicken and watching Boston Legal.

It’s finally safe to unlock your sons.

I consider myself somewhat of an expert on hangovers. I am familiar with, and empathic of, several variants of alcohol poisoning and its garden of effects.

But while the usually barbaric physical symptoms grab all the attention, less information is procured on the mental effects of a night on the sauce.

However, Kingsley Amis, in “On Drink” addressed not only the bone aching nausea, but the mental anguish experienced by the experienced boozer.

“That ineffable compound of depression, sadness, anxiety, self-hatred, sense of failure and fear for the future,” he said.

Among his remedies for such malaise: “hangover reading…rests on the principle that you must feel worse emotionally before you start to feel better. A good cry is the initial aim.”

Dealing with the Booze Blues and overcoming the physical horrors are all beautifully and wittily addressed in ‘Everyday Drinking’, a compilation of Amis’ boozy philosophising.

I feel better already.

http://www.amazon.com/Everyday-Drinking-Distilled-Kingsley-Amis/dp/1596915285

There are many reasons why people need support groups. Alcoholics or similar substance abusers, for example, often rely on solidarity and team spirit to get them through the long and dark days of withdrawal, cravings and misery that comes with the addiction package.

Indeed, support groups themselves have provided an outlet for many a distressed soul. The depressed, the suicidal, the bereaved, the overeaters, undereaters, gamblers, sluts, the shy, the confused, the stressed…everyone of these people will find a support group, somehow, somewhere to help them on their way to recovery.

I get that. I get how it works. People feel bad about something, they talk about it with other people experiencing similar, and somehow they feel less alone and stranded in this horrible and uncaring society.

But a support group for women with extra large labia?

What the fuck?

Go on, google it.