Friday, 30 December 2011

Keep Calm And Expecto Patronum

My friend Wetsoks and I were watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix a couple of days ago. I'd refer to her as New Fleetch (tm) but I cannot bring myself to use the nickname for anyone other than the original Fleetchsta. You know what they say - a Fleetch by any other name won't smell exactly like couch and Oreos (I do enjoy old proverbs).

Wetsoks: I can't get the playstation to choose English as a region. Shall we go with Australia?

Me: Wouldn't it be great if the entire film was dubbed in Australian accents?

Wetsoks: Ha! "These Hogwarts sheilas are crazy!"

Me: I love it.  "You're a wizard, mate." "I'm a what?" I'm not sure I could take Voldemort seriously as a villain if he had an Australian accent though.

Halfway through the film, Wetsoks turned to me again.

Wetsoks: See, this is the problem with Harry Potter. And don't get me wrong, I love it, but when you think about it...

Me: What?

Wetsoks: It's like - Film One: "It's a trap!" "Nah...Oh. It was." Film Two: "It's a trap!" "Nah... Oh. It was." Film Three: "Seriously, it's a fucking trap!" "Nah... Oh. It was." By the time you get to the Goblet of Fire, you're wondering how Harry has managed to stay alive whilst being so stupid.

Me: Well, he's had help a lot of the time.

Wetsoks: That's the other thing - have you noticed that Hermione gets things done? Harry will sit around uselessly for a while 'figuring stuff out', and then Hermione will Make. Shit. Happen.

Me: It would have been interesting if the books were written from her point of view. I'd have liked to see Hermione take on the Dark Lord. "It's not Avada KEdavra, it's Avada KeDAVra. Honestly, Tom. How many OWLs did you get?"

Wetsoks: Look at Sirius now - "I'll just wander a bit closer to this Mysterious Archway of Death, shall I?"

Me: "I'm not sure that's a good-"

Wetsoks: "No, it's fine! There's absolutely nothing sinister at all about the Mysterious Archway of Death, hanging in the middle of the room for no reason. Why don't I just stand next to it, in a precarious sort of position, while this dangerous battle rages on around me?"

Me: You speak truth, bro.

There was a brief pause.

Wetsoks: I also wish there was more McGonagall.

Me: Oh, totally.

We spent the remainder of  the film shrieking every line in faux Maggie Smith impersonations (despite the fact that both of us are Scottish anyway, we hammed it up quite a bit). This activity improves other films too, so I recommend it highly, but possibly only for private screenings.

Thursday, 29 December 2011

Let's Get Chickenlust

Merry Christmas to you all, my lovely otterminions, and a Happy New Year!

As we all know, New Year is a time for many things. It is a time for loving and sharing and caring and giving, but mostly it is a reason to drink a lot and make promises to yourself that you don't really intend to keep (naturally, this makes it one of my favourite occasions). Since I've been on holiday, I have missed my colleagues a lot. We spend so much time together on a daily basis that they feel like my extended family (also possibly because some of them feed me like a mother hen tending to one runty chick and in my simple book, food = love) and the shock of spending my mornings alone with my PS3 has caused me to reminisce more than I normally would.

There were a couple of different moments during the past month which I'd like to talk about here, because they amused me greatly. The first took me quite by surprise, one cold Wednesday morning.

Colleague: Do you have a moment?

Me: Sure, what's up?

Colleague: I can't find my Blu Tack.

Me: Um...

Colleague: On my phone.

Me: Your what?

Colleague: My Blu Tack.

Me: Do you mean your Bluetooth?

Colleague: Yes, that.

I honestly couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. Keeping a straight face was incredibly difficult and required a superhuman amount of precision and willpower, so I gave up and simply laughed hysterically at her for ten minutes or so. Which leads me to to the next anecdote, featuring the unfortunate but delicious power of Chickenlust. Please let me explain, before you begin to edge away, that this has nothing to do with a lust for live chickens. Stop edging! You were edging!

The Chickenlust is something that happens to me once I have reached a particular stage of drunknness. Now, those of you who know me well (and since I write about my life here, I assume that's pretty much all of you - with the possible exception of my parents who managed to buy me something I am allergic to for Christmas, bless their hearts) will know that once I hit drinks 6 through 8 I start to think about chicken. Any meat will suffice, really, but for some reason chicken will be the main focus of my obsession. I will talk incessantly about chicken, make every effort to obtain some chicken - often through elaborate plans better suited to an episode of Pinky and the Brain. My desire for chicken at this point is so strong that Laura Dern could walk through the room naked and I probably wouldn't notice unless she was covered in grilled fillets. My friends have learned to anticipate and dread the Chickenlust with all the nervousness of watching a grenade bounce into the room and roll under a couch.

Me: So, in essence, that is the Chickenlust. I don't even really remember it, but apparently it happens a lot.

Colleague: Interesting. But tell me, have you ever eaten an Easter Egg while in the bath?

Me: Um... I can't say that I have.


Me: Ooh! Challenge accepted.

I'm making a note of this now and in a few months, if I remember, I will carry out the above experiment and report back. New Years' Resolution 1 - Do More Science. It's for the good of all of us, except the ones who are dead.

Saturday, 17 December 2011

A True Wizard On The Inside

Since the Fleetch's departure is drawing near, I found myself reminiscing about all the good times we have shared together. I wanted to compile a post which summarised all the strange things we yell at each other on a daily basis (and things that have happened but aren't enough to make an entire blog post themselves, and things that are just so damn weird I almost worry about writing them down in case they develop legs and crawl back into Reality as fully-fledged creatures) so here they are:

- "Heads up!" (as I threw half a loaf at the back of the Fleetch's head)

- If we are online talking over MSN, we say "On-Lion! We are On-Lions!" as a reference to the Thundercats fan video (mentioned a few posts ago)

- our running joke about putting a sock on the door handle if one of us is ever entertaining a lady in our bedroom ("Hey Fleetch, you left your sock on the door handle! Fleetch! Did you know? FLEETCH! I'll bring it in. Let me just switch on the light and loudly crash in, yelling your name. Oh, you're in here with someone? Sorry. Let me just put this sock on my own foot, slowly, and I'll leave.")

- Because we spend so long yelling 'fleetch' at each other, it developed into a game of words that sounds like 'fleetch', such as 'steve', 'peach', 'cheese' and so forth. We assume the neighbours hate us and our games. ("They're doing it again!"  "Carol, really, you have to let this go."  "No! It's 8 in the morning and they are yelling one syllable words at each other. WHY?"  "...I'm beginning to wonder if we got married too fast.")

Although these are all completely genius, I think the best example that sums up our time together happened last week. I went to the bathroom, not expecting anything out of the ordinary. As I walked in, I caught sight of my facewash, and then I began to laugh hysterically, because this is what I saw.

Me: Fleetch?

Fleetch: FLEETCH!

Me: I... love what you've done with my products.

Fleetch: I'm expressing my artistic side.

Me: Uh huh.

Fleetch: And spreading the message of Yo Momma. And by message, I mean her legs.

Me: Dude. You're the best. Around. Nothing's gonna ever keep you down.

Fleetch: I know.

Me: If I'd been asked, I would have assumed you'd have gone for the 'Blueberry Cream Pie' first. It's the most obvious joke.

Fleetch: I'll get to that in time. This is just the beginning. Say, you haven't been in your sock drawer yet, have you?

Me: ....No?

Fleetch: Oh, good.

To cap this off, I want to show you an amazing video which one of my Twitter friends recommended earlier this week. Since the Fleetch's favourite Harry Potter character is Snape, I feel it is an apt way to end this post.

So, otterminions, please raise your glasses to my Fleetch, who is indeed a true wizard on the inside (even if she is a Slytherin), and the best friend a girl could ever have.
I'll miss you so much, dude.

Wednesday, 14 December 2011

The Birds And The Butterflies

In order to explain this post's conversations, I have to give a little information to get you up to speed. The Fleetch finished up work about a month ago and since then has apparently done her best to fuse her body to the fibres of our couch by spending as much time as humanly possible on it. I was beginning to question whether she'd ever had legs at all, since it was so long since I'd seen them.

In any case, she'd been reading a lot of fanfiction, sometimes repeating the best/worst (these terms are interchangable where fanfiction is concerned) parts out loud to me as I play video games. These nights have been possibly the most hilarious nights of my life. I have heard eyes described as "orbs" and boobs described as "globes" more times than I care to remember. I have heard many ridiculous euphemisms for sex, and many farcical situations have been described to me ("Okay, so in this one, Luna is Hermione's psychologist-"  "No. Stop right there.") in which everyone is equally satisfied with the performance (rarely true), people orgasm simultaneously with multiple other characters (a level of personal time management and organisation that impresses me more than anything), and occasionally people frolic with animals (hey, whatever floats your otter-shaped boat *wink*).

Fleetch: (giggling) Listen to this one- "In Hermione's stomach, the butterflies were wailing."

Me: Ha!

Fleetch: "Wailing", dude. The butterflies were "wailing".

Me: (button mashing) Do butterflies have throats?

Fleetch: I'm pretty sure they aren't capable of howling.

Me: That's such a weird choice of word.

Fleetch: It would have been better if the author had meant "whaling".

Me: (pausing my game) I'm sorry, but "the butterflies in Hermione's stomach were whaling" is not a less confusing sentence.

Fleetch: Just imagine it. "Stupid whales, taking up all the mass. We weigh like a gram! Do you know how that makes us feel? UNDERAPPRECIATED! Die, large sea mammals, die! Man the harpoons, butterfly brethren!"

Me: Huh. I guess no one expects the butterflies. Do they wail while they whale?

Fleetch: Of course they do.

Me: (unpausing) Glad we sorted that out. Oh, hey, you know what we should read? My Immortal, the worst fanfic ever written.

Fleetch: I think I tried to read that once.

We found an audio version on YouTube (link here for those of you brave enough to take this titan on) and listened to the first ten chapters in hysterics.

Fleetch: Dark-apostrophe-ness! That's what I'm calling my first child. "Dark'ness Enoby Fleetcherella".

Me: He or she may have a hard time writing that on his or her nursery school paintings.

Fleetch: I can't believe this story. Seriously. "It was snowing and raining at the same time". Bullshit! That doesn't happen.

Me: It does in Emo Angst Land. Snowing AND raining! When one weather condition isn't gothic enough!

Fleetch: You know what my favourite part was?

Me: When Dumbledore, totally in character, yelled "what are you doing, you motherfuckers?"

Fleetch: You know me so well.

That might have been the end of it (since we stopped listening in order to preserve what sanity we had left) except for one thing. As you probably know from the news, the weather here in Scotland has been appalling over the past few days (hashtag #hurricanebawbag in case anyone is interested). Last night, while the Fleetch and I were watching tv, the streetlight outside our window flickered. I glanced up just in time to see what was unmistakably both snow and rain falling at the same time.

Me: (in horror) Fleetch! No!

Fleetch: I saw it too! Oh god, what have we done?!

Me: I feel so ashamed. We mocked that for ages and it turns out we are meterologically ignorant.

Fleetch:. ... Screw it. That story was stupid. We're still smart. Right?

Me: ...Um. Sure.

Tuesday, 13 December 2011

The Electric Kool-Aid Blanket Test

I recently bought an electric blanket for myself, because the windows in my flat appear to be made of rice paper and let in a draft that could power a windmill. It's nice to crank the blanket up before bed and then slide into a mass of hot, steamy blanket soup. I find it soothing, like a mug of warm milk, or the sight of Laura Dern's beautiful face. The Fleetch, however, reacted quite differently on her first meeting with the blanket. In hindsight, given all that I know of her, I really should have seen this coming.

Me: Go on, try it.

Fleetch: I'm a little afraid.

Me: Don't be. It's a beautiful thing. Modern technology is awesome.

Fleetch: (putting her hand under the duvet) Oh. Oh my GOD.

Me: I know.

Fleetch: Sweet lord of all that is warm and comforting!

Me: I know.

Fleetch: (in wonder) It's like slipping your hand into an angel's vagina!

Me: (staring in appalled fascination)....Um.

Fleetch: (getting into my bed) It's like being inside a Tauntaun! Sexually! With your momma!

Me: ....Are you aware that the things you say often turn aggressively sexual, quite quickly?

Fleetch: Shut your beautiful mouth. This is between me and the blanket.

Me: Please step away from the bed.

Fleetch: (crooning and turtling inside the duvet) I love you, blanket. I'll never leave you.

Me: I'm going out for a while. Don't do anything to, with, on or around the blanket while I'm gone.

Fleetch: (turtling further) I can't make any promises.

Me: .....Dammit, fleetch.

Sunday, 4 December 2011

That's The Power Of Scarves

Today has been an awesome day in many respects. I went shopping with my parents and my cousin, which led to many amusing conversations. It turns out my mother has discovered a new hobby - making scarfs. She's using special wool, which means that they are not really knitted, but more like parted gently into a sea of strings. They do look very pretty, I admit.

Mum: (proudly showing me a green scarf) So, what do you think?

Me: (squinting) It... kind of looks like seaweed.

Mum: (indignantly) Oh, thanks!

Me: In a good way.

Mum: I made a red one too. Your dad got a bit too enthusiastic about the colour.

Dad: (enthusiastically) It was just so warm! I told her it would go incredibly well with a smart black blazer.

Me: That's very metrosexual of you. Well done.

Mum: Yes, and then he came downstairs later that evening with not a stitch on apart from the scarf and a black blazer.

Dad: And didn't it look fabulous?

Mum: Well... yes, I suppose it did.

Me: Ha!

Cousin: I don't know why you ever moved out. This is hilarious.

Me: Exactly this reason.

When I got home, the Fleetch was in her usual place on the couch, surrounded by cats, but before long she came bounding into my room.

Fleetch: Dude. I saw the best video ever on YouTube today.

Me: Oh really?

Fleetch: It's about scarves.

Me: You have my attention.

We watched this video through once without stopping, and spent the entire time squeeing in rapturous delight.

Me: Oh my god. This is the best video ever.

Fleetch: Isn't it? ISN'T IT?

Me: I can't believe I was limiting myself to so few ways to wear my scarf. The European Loop and the Modern One Loop were my staple scarf-moves.

Fleetch: I know, fleetch. I know.

Me: I was so blind and now I can see.

Fleetch: Let's watch again and do them all.

Me: Best. Idea. Ever.

And so we did. We mastered the Double Infinity, the Magic Trick and many more. Even the Mens Tie, which has given me problems in the past (due to my complete inability to follow instructions - see previous mentions of being unable to successfully put together Lego), was my bitch. Afterwards, we performed a small impromptu hugging joyful dance in celebration of the fact that we now have the ability to wear our accessories in different ways (in my case, my collection of 18 scarves, which I firmly believe is a reasonable number) which was possibly the gayest thing to happen in our flat for some time. We scarfed so good, otterminions. We scarfed all over the place. Now go forth and scarf others. I believe in you. And the power of scarves.

Saturday, 26 November 2011

Otter In A Strange Land

It's that most dreaded time of the year in Scotland - winter. I can already hear the jokes "isn't that every day for you people, ha ha" and so forth - well, in short, yes. Please refrain from mocking our climate between November - February, it only makes me feel worse about the impending Snow of Doom. This will inevitably arrive in the next few weeks and barricade us into our homes. I've stocked up on the essentials already; rum, cheese, crackers (although the rum source seems to be depleting at an alarming rate. Personally I blame mice. Pirate mice. Damn them all), new DVDs, extra blankets, etc. In a way, it's a lot like preparing for a zombie apocalypse, just minus the artillery, so I'm well versed in what to do.

The Fleetch has gone to London this week, on a whim. As yet nothing in the flat has unexpectedly broken, nothing requires a manly presence to hammer/screw/replace, so I'm okay. If it does, you'll be the first to know. I can see it now - "While writing this blog post, everything caught fire and exploded! Otterminions! Check out the utter lolz! Now look at these pictures of kittens wearing clothes! Aaaaaand publish. Hmm. The acrid smoke and flying debris has injured me somewhat. I should exit the building, but then I'll lose my WiFi signal.... I'll flip a coin."

I have actually recently tried to make important life decisions while flipping a coin. This invariably fails to work, because I can't accept either answer and insist on doing it repeatedly until I eventually wail and rend my garments in despair at my own horrible indecisiveness. I have to say, I'm not naturally indecisive by nature. I'll admit I am cautious, certainly, but once I've made up my mind about something I hurtle in with all the speed of a cheetah and the grace of a drunken badger. It's just that 2011 has been such a bitchass year. I am older and wiser and more battle-scarred for it, and of course that is otterly sexy, but I'm looking forward to 2012 with all the delightful anticipation of a first date with someone who has no immediate flaws that you can see. This is a dangerous trap which I know well, because no matter how many dates I go on, and how many times I am disappointed, I still traipse off to the next one thinking "perhaps this will be different".

Me: Why do women act like this?

Fleetch: Do you really want to know why?

Me: Um...

Fleetch: (speaking to me as if I am a small child) Because they have vaginas, fleetch.

Me: You are ...wise beyond your years.

Fleetch: (smugly) I know.

I shall leave you with a ripoff from a Gary Larson joke adapted to my own purposes. Don't say I don't give credit where it is due.

Mustelidophobia - the fear that somewhere, somehow, an otter is watching you.

This is happening. Right now.

Monday, 21 November 2011

All I Want For Christmas Is Yo Momma

I mentioned Fake Christmas a couple of weeks ago and yesterday we held this amazing annual event in my flat. In honour of this occasion, my friend Wetsoks wrote a festive poem that will in all likelihood make no sense unless you've been following this blog religiously (memo to self: found Church of Otter and write the Holy Book of Fish Tales shortly after):

'Twas 2 weeks before Fake Christmas and all through Fairytale Land,
Nothing was stirring (except yo mamma's hand),
Fleetches were planning with not even a care,
Soon all the lesbian friends would be there!

An Otter was nestled all snug in her bed,
While Fleetch was there watching, playfully stroking her head.
As Wetsoks and Tanya kit took care of the 'kittens',

Sarahnator was putting on some cosy new mittens.
When out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter,
Otter sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
She flew to the kitchen quick as a flash,
Where D$ha was drinking just a dash.

"Hey gurl! you ready for turducken?"
Otter looked for some buckets to do some fuckin...
With a buzz at the door and a suggestion of strippers,
The lesbians appear in star pants and slippers.

Food cooking in the kitchen, the smell is amazing
Food all through the day, get ready for grazing
"Fake Christmas is here!" Wetsoks cried out with joy
"Peaches and BOOBS and all sorts of new toys!"

I shed a tear of happiness when I read this for the first time. It so delightfully encapsulates everything about this particular group of friends that I love. (Also, it mentions boobs)

Anyway, back to the story. Yesterday afternoon we exchanged gifts. I bought Wetsoks the Harry Potter Cluedo game but of course the Fleetch and I spent hours bastardizing it appropriately and turning it into the mother of all drinking (board) games, complete with an extra card set that we titled The Questions of Doom (which featured both regular questions and special cards we subtitled 'Veritaserum or False' - clearly the Fleetch and I are the coolest people you know) and extra rules for the DA (Dumbledore's Alcoholics) which were specially constructed to get every player drunk in a short amount of time. My favourite rule was "every time any player makes a Yo Momma joke, all players must sip their drink".

Good lord, the carnage.

Fleetch: Okay. Was it...Bellatrix Lestrange... in the Shrieking Shack... with the Jinxed Broomstick?

Wetsoks: Yo momma jinxed my broomstick last night.


Sarahnator: I feel sick.

Tanyakit: That's what yo momma said.


Sarahnator: Oh god.

Fleetch: Can you prove or disprove my theory?

Tanyakit: My cards are all useless.

Me: Just like yo momma!

Wetsoks: DRINK!

Me: (sniggering) I'm sorry. That wasn't fair. Your mother tries really hard. In bed.

Sarahnator: I need to stop.

Fleetch: Buckle up, it's not over yet.

There was a heartbreakingly lovely moment when the Fleetch turned to me and I could see the sweet yearning in her eyes, the beautiful desperation that signals that you have only moments before the Yo Momma joke erupts out of you. It is a tide of hilarity that cannot be contained by a single human form. We shared a silent, gleeful look, before turning back to the group. Everyone else exchanged a glance and raised their glasses wearily without a word.

God bless us. Every one. But especially yo momma.

Friday, 18 November 2011

Year Of The Apottercalypse

I do love the people I work with and their blessed, beloved, utterly inspirational lunacy. On any given day I can be sure to overhear some amazing comments, such as "Wonderful. I'm overcome with emulsion" or "Where are you calling from? You sound like you're in a tin bath or something... Oh, you are?" (Both of these are 100% true, by the way. I don't think I could have made that up if I'd tried)

Therefore when my colleague from Finance leaned over our dividing desk partition and conducted the following conversation, I was already mentally prepared.

Him: Hey.

Me: What?

Him: Did you ever listen to the band 'Busted'?

Me: (suspiciously) I heard them around, but I never really sought after their music. It was a bit too happy for me. Why?

Him: They have this song called "Year 3000". It came on while I was driving to the Borders, and I actually listened to the lyrics for the first time. They're appalling!

Me: I'm not sure that Busted's appeal was their emotive mastery of the English language, but sure, go on.

Him: Okay - the chorus goes "I've been to the year 3000, not much has changed but they live underwater". Um. That's quite a big change, actually. Humans have been living on land for hundreds of thousands of years according to fossil records, so moving to an entirely submerged way of life actually takes some doing. Do we have gills in the year 3000? Are we living in special oxygenated pods under the sea?

Me: I see what you mean. And if that was indeed the case - that we had somehow physiologically adapted to suit our new underwater environment - how did the evolution occur in only 1000 years?

Him: Exactly:

Me: It was probably the government tampering with our DNA. This is a sci-fi film waiting to happen.

Him: It gets worse. The next line is "and your great great great granddaughter is pretty fine." So either science has managed to increase the longevity of human life to such an extent that people have an average lifespan of about 300 years, or the great great great granddaughter in question is about 800 years old herself and has just happened to somehow magically survive all this time passing.

Me: (digesting this with a grave expression) Hmm.

There was a brief pause.

Him: Also, that makes her a G-G-G-GILF. Or GILF 3X, if you will.

Me: GILF 3X sounds much more futuristic. And sexy.

Sunday, 13 November 2011

Harry Potter and the Draught Of Intoxication

The Fleetch and I were cooking casserole earlier. I do so enjoy cooking with her, partly because it's fun and partly because she insists we drink while we cook. I opened the alcohol cupboard and peered inside.

Me: So what do you want?

Fleetch: Gin. Give me gin.

Me: With what?

Fleetch: Whatever we have. GIVE. ME. GIN.

I poured the Fleetch a cocktail of gin, apple juice and some random pink mixers, hoping that the outcome would not be a horrific blend of flavour. I added extra gin just to be on the safe side.

Me: Taste this.

She tasted it cautiously.

Me: Is it... ginny enough?

Fleetch: It's perfectly Ginny! Ginny Weasley!

Me: Ha! That's awesome!

Fleetch: Makes me wish I could have a Ginny and Tonkic.

Me: Maybe I'll have Peach Snapes.

Fleetch: We have just found my new favourite game.

Me: Fancy a Vodka Krum?

Fleetch: Perhaps a Longbottom Iced Tea? Or a Harvey Wallgranger?

Me: Where will the Sorting Hat put you? Griffinschlager!

Fleetch: Bitch please. You know I'd be a Slytherin.

Me: Ugh, dude. Ravenclaw is clearly the superior house.

Fleetch: Shut your beautiful mouth.

And I did. But mainly because it was full of Peach Snapes. I shall leave you with that imagery.


Thursday, 10 November 2011

The Half Life Of Sarcasm

I was working steadily through my pile of tasks at work, when I got an email from one of my friends. It escalated, as these things often do, into an entire conversation built on surrealism and in-jokes. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed living it.

Tanyakit: JAEGERBOMB. Want. Need.

Me: Like Jesus turned water into wine, I shall turn Red Bull and Jaegermeister into a JAEGERBOMB! Admittedly it requires less effort but it will get you properly smashed. What brought this on? Before noon? On a Tuesday?

Tanyakit: Just telling a colleague about the last time we had good Jaegerbomb times.

Me: Is there such a thing as a bad Jaegerbomb time? It's my new Goldschlager. It's preferable because it hasn't led me into mischief. Yet.

Tanyakit: It hasn't led you into mischief as I came attached with it.

Me: That's a good point. Usually the Fleetch is present whenever I do something stupid, or the Sarahnator - admittedly she is often an unwilling participant of my chaos - but not you. Hmm.

Tanyakit: I think therefore I am (anti-mischief).

Me: I drink therefore I am (an idiot).

Tanyakit: So, when are we on for Glee this week?

Me: I'm busy Friday, but Saturday works. Let's invite Lord Tubbington round, but only if he's stopped smoking.

Tanyakit: You know what doesn't have an expiration date? Jaegerbombs!

Me: Speaking of expiration dates, you left some of your rage in the fridge last time you were here. Um. It's kind of lumpy now. Do you want me to keep it, or what?

Tanyakit: It's gestating into something more impressive, leave it be. By the way, I heard that people who read the spoilers for this week's episode are pissed.

Me: Why?

Tanyakit: I don't know, I caught something about Kurt wearing a tshirt, while Blaine gets to wear a tank.


Tanyakit: I know. I really don't want to see either of them in a tank. Plus, Kurt isn't really a tank kind of guy.

Me: I'm hoping that's a vehicle rather than a vest - like it's a scene where Blaine drives an actual tank through the side of the Hummels' house and starts shouting odd military euphemisms about his love for Kurt, before the Warblers pop out dressed in khakis and camouflage paint, singing something apt like "Love Is A Battlefield". Oh, Glee, why won't you do the things I wish you would? You make kitty sad.

Tanyakit: I'm almost surprised that the writers haven't thought of that.

Me: We can but hope, cublet. We can but hope.

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

I'm Dreaming Of A Fake Christmas

I was talking to my friend Wetsoks yesterday about various different things, but mostly about how excited I am that this will be the first year I am involved in Fake Christmas.

Don't get me wrong, I am also looking forward to real Christmas, but since the Fleetch leaves midway through December, I am afraid I may descend into an unyielding despair and spend the remainder of the year padding about the flat wearing only my polar bear onesie and an expression of grief. Anyway, our group of friends has a get-together every year that they have entitled Fake Christmas - given that some of them visit parents/relatives in different countries and often different continents for Real Christmas, it's not always easy to ensure that everyone is together at least once. Fake Christmas apparently has all the trappings of Real Christmas - presents, crappy Christmas films (including an atrocity called 'Peach' starring Lucy Lawless, which I am simultaneously dreading and looking forward to) and plenty of delicious festive food, delivered over one single joyous day.

Wetsoks: We exchange gifts and all the usual stuff. But the best part is the food.

Me: I love Christmas food.

Wetsoks: There are important details that must not be left out. After all, it's not Fake Christmas without pigs in blankets.

Me: Naturally.

Wetsoks: Or Brussel Sprouts.

Me: I'm not quite as keen on those, but sure. Who am I to alter any detail of Fake Christmas?

Wetsoks: One year, we had 'toducken'.

Me: You had....what now?

Wetsoks: 'Toducken'.

Me: ....Um.

Wetsoks: It was a chicken inside a duck inside a turkey.

Me: (gaping) I think my brain just exploded in happiness. OH MY GOD. Seriously? So much meat!

Wetsoks: You know the best part?

Me: (drooling) What?

Wetsoks: We wrapped it in bacon.

Me: (twitching) Stop. Stop. You're killing me. I've never wanted anything so badly before, unless you count that Lionel Richie teapot which says "Is It Tea You're Looking For?"

Wetsoks: And...

Me: There's more?!

Wetsoks: (whispering) Last year we also had.... sausage stuffing.

Me: (squealing like a toddler full of Smarties) This isn't just any Christmas! This is M&S Fake Christmas! This is like if Carlsberg did Fake Christmas! I don't even know what I'm saying anymore!

Wetsoks: Maybe I've overexcited you. You should take off your shirt.

Me: You almost had me. Nice try. Also, we're on the phone. How would that even benefit you?

Wetsoks: You'll do it sooner or later. I just need to wear you down.

Me: Well, this sounds like every relationship I've ever had. What are your thoughts on moving in after the Fleetch leaves?

Wetsoks: I like it but I'm afraid of commitment.

Me: Again, this conversation is familiar. "I fancy you but I don't like making decisions. Take off your shirt."

Wetsoks: Ha! Love is harder than crime. When's your next blog post?

Me: It might just be a crudely-drawn picture of a 'toducken', with hearts around it.

Wetsoks:.... I could live with that.

Me: Sweet.

Saturday, 5 November 2011

Otter Upon A Time

My friends and I were watching a new TV show last night, called Once Upon A Time. The gist of the plot is that fairytale characters were once real, and people in the modern day world don't remember being in their respective roles (the teacher was actually Snow White, the little boy was Pinocchio, the therapist was, slightly oddly, Jiminy Cricket). As we watched, mostly yelling criticisms of different things at the screen (the plot, the fashion, the abominable haircuts) something occurred to me.

Me: (slowly, thinking it over) Has anyone ever realised how odd it was that Gippetto was so excited about Pinocchio becoming a real boy?

Fleetch: (considering) Huh. Actually, you may have a point there.

Me: I mean, it's kind know. Dodgy.

Wetsoks: Dude! He made a son. He wanted a SON.

Me: Well, sure, that's what he told people. I'm just saying, if he wanted company he could have built a wooden lady puppet. Something about the whole thing just seems off.

Wetsoks: You wouldn't be saying that it if Gippetto had been a woman who wanted a child.

Fleetch: We can discuss the double standard of child rearing biological impulses in our society later. Stay on topic, bro.

Me: (narrowing my eyes) I don't trust puppet-makers or puppets. It's unnatural.

Tanyakit: So, what's happening now?

We all looked at the screen, aware that every time we had one of these conversations we missed massive chunks of dialogue and middling acting.

Sarahnator: How ironic - in the modern world, Prince Charming is the one in a coma.

Tanyakit: He's not that charming. He threw a sword at a woman.

Fleeetch: To be fair, she was the Wicked Queen who had just threatened to curse them and ruin the happiness of everyone in the land. I'd probably throw a sword at her.

There was a brief silence.

Tanyakit: (thoughtfully) What was their last name?

Sarahnator: Whose?

Tanyakit: Snow White and Prince Charming. Their kid is called Emma Swan. So their last name was Swan? How did that happen?

Wetsoks: She grew up in foster care.

Me: (not listening) Does that mean Snow White was Snow Swan after they got married? Or Snow White Swan?

Tanyakit: Prince Swan sounds odd.

Me: Presumably he has a first name. Like, 'Jeremy' or something.

Tanyakit: (cracking up) Jeremy Swan!

Fleetch: This show is confusing. Wait, what's happening now?

Wetsoks: (sighing) You know, if you paid attention you'd know what was happening.

Me: Where's the fun in that? Ooh, who's he?

In summary, I still don't have much idea what happened during the two episodes we watched, but I do know that I had a great time. And really, that's all the fairytale ending I need.

Thursday, 3 November 2011

Do It Like An Otterdude

Before I begin my madcap ramblings for the day, I want to say thanks to all my awesome friends on Twitter, who really took the Yo Momma thing yesterday and ran with it over the Inappropriate Horizon. I especially enjoyed the science-related Yo Momma jokes, because I am a massive nerd, and find particle physics hilarious. Humour is an individual thing, so I'm told. Anyway, let us saunter boldly into the sunset of Fleetchdom, while I relay the most recent conversation between me and my flatmate.

Me: Hey, Fleetch, check out  my horoscope for today. It's so amazing, I might actually pay attention to it for once.

Fleetch: Why, what does it say?

Me: "Rather than setting yourself up for disappointment, consider declaring the day a personal holiday instead. Anything you can do to stir up excitement is a good idea. Remember, you can always fulfill your responsibilities tomorrow." 

Fleetch: Did you write that yourself?

Me: Huzzah! The universe has spoken! Let the otter chaos commence!

Fleetch: That is pretty awesome.

Me: That's what yo momma said. Last night.

Fleetch: Uh huh.

Me:  In bed.

Fleetch: ...Uh huh.

Me: While I was touching her.

Fleetch: ... Yep.

Me: In a sexual manner.

Fleetch: .....Um.

Me: Do you see where I'm going with this?

Fleetch: I do, yes.

Me: Good.

There was a brief silence.

Me: (exiting the room) By the way, she says hello.

Fleetch: Mmm. Wait... what?!

Tuesday, 1 November 2011

By The (Will)Power Of Greyskull

Before the Fleetch left to visit her family in the States for a week, we'd spent some time discussing a particular issue of mine. I won't go into detail now, except to say that it is terribly exciting, juicy and the most interesting thing ever. I'm kidding. It really wasn't that juicy. Anyway, at the end of the conversation I got up and started to pile our dinner plates into a wobbling, dangerous column so I could carry them to the kitchen.

Fleetch: I think I'm going to go to bed soon, dude, I'm up early tomorrow.

Me: Yeah me too.

I looked at the Fleetch. She was already focused on doing something pointless with her new iPad.

Me: So. Any wise words of advice before you leave?

She looked up from her iPad and gave me a slow, considering once-over.

Fleetch: Don't be a dick.

I opened my mouth to respond, closed it, opened it again, thought better of it and settled for just standing there, amazed that the exact advice I needed to hear was expressed in merely four words.

Me: ..... Huh. Thanks.

Fleetch: Anytime.

When the Fleetch returned after a hard week of partying with her family (including an amazing Harry Potter themed Halloween party that her sister threw, which honestly looks like the actual film set - at one point when she was showing me the photos, I asked how they managed to get the door to look like the entrance door to the Great Hall at Hogwarts, and she replied that that was already part of the house. It just happens to be a kickass massive wooden double door. You could have hidden a family of four behind it comfortably) I realised that I still hadn't paid her for my half of the Malta trip. I messaged the Fleetch.

Me: Brah. I still haven't paid you for Malta, so remember to give me your bank details later tonight.


Me: Is it also Sparta?

Fleetch: Yes. Now imagine me facekicking people in the office.

Me: Um... I'm trying...

Fleetch: Feel free to read that as either me kicking people in the face, or kicking people with my face.

Me: I prefer the idea of you using your face to kick people.

Fleetch: Yeah, it's more my style.

Me: I can just imagine your appraisal - "Fleetch, while we value your skills and believe that you make a great addition to the team, we're not sure that it is...appropriate for you to facekick your colleagues every time you experience extreme emotion."

Fleetch: Goddamn Health and Safety.

Me: Tch. I know, right?

Wednesday, 26 October 2011

A Gentle Ribbing

You know when you wake up, and you feel like your ribs are broken on one side of your chest? No? Well neither did I, until two days ago. It was, shall we say, a distinctly uncomfortable experience, especially since I hadn't really done any exercise since the archery, and I was certain that enough time had elapsed for the archery itself to be cleared of any rib-assault. I was still keeping archery in for questioning, but it was obvious that it wasn't my main suspect. (I feel like these police metaphors might not be going anywhere but they're amusing me for the time being)

I have a theory. Actually, I have many theories, but the one I'm focusing on now is of vital importance. I think we could all agree that the world is full of different kinds of people. That's pretty much a given, when you consider all the countries, languages and cultures there are. But I'm talking specifically - one giant divisive line which separates everyone into one camp or another. To find out which you side you're on, please answer the following question - are you:

A) the kind of person who, upon waking to extreme pain on a part of your body that houses quite a lot of your important organs, immediately and sensibly arranges for medical treatment or at the very least tells someone?


B) the kind of person who, upon waking to extreme pain on a part of your body that houses quite a lot of your important organs, chooses to not only ignore this pain and hope that it will go away but refuses to even acknowledge it by telling a family member or close friend, all the while assuming it will actually kill you at any point in the next twenty minutes, for as long as said pain lasts?

You've probably figured out by now that I am the latter. In fact, my friends know full well that for any ailment up to and including Bubonic Plague, my answer is always going to be "a good night's sleep will fix that." I was proved right when a good night's sleep did fix the rib issue (pretty much) except for a slight soreness when I laugh. Once my friends and colleagues discovered this, they seemed to really get aboard the comedy train, upping the ratio of laughs-per-minute by a zillion percent (and yes, I calculated that). Consider the following conversation between myself and one of my colleagues from Finance:

Him: Sent to Seafield during lunch. Woman standing outside the Range Rover garage with Power Suit, Power Hair and Power Sunglasses – Obviously never looked in the mirror at her Power Camel-toe!!!...Business Attire FAIL!!!

Me: HA. Oh dear. That should really have been the first thing she checked…

Him: Yup. It should go:

  1. Is fanny on display?
  2. Handbag?
  3. Car keys?

Me: Those whimpering noises you can hear are me trying not to implode with laughter. I mean that in a horribly literal sense.

For those of you reading this in the land of Americana, and in case the cameltoe reference wasn't obvious enough, over here "fanny" does not refer to your ass. Do not google the term "british fanny" at work. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. DO NOT FROLIC. These are the rules.

Casting my mind back, the rib thing could perhaps have been caused by a mammoth guitar session, when I somehow slipped into The Zone and played for so long that all the skin on my already toughened fingertips started to flake off gently, like a gross kind of skin snow. 

Mmm. Festive.

Saturday, 22 October 2011

Even Rocky Had A Montage

As you'll know if you read the previous post, my friends and I had planned a day of excitement for Wetsok's birthday. As a rule, the Fleetch and I tend to be on time if arriving at a party individually but if we try to go together we are invariably late. I'm not quite sure why (although there is far more potential for dicking about if both of us are in the flat at the same time and alcohol has been consumed) but in the past we have averaged about a 30 minute delay when trying to get somewhere together, so it was with some surprise that we arrived early at the carvery this morning. Our other friends turned up shortly after, and we tried to catch the eye of a passing waitress so we could start ordering. She ignored us. We tried again with another waitress, who also strode past. It wasn't too busy, but there seemed to be a lot of bustle, so we didn't fuss. Eventually a waitress appeared at our table.

Wetsoks: We have vouchers for the 2 for 1 breakfast.

She pushes forwards the vouchers.

Waitress: Ah, but there's only five of you.

The waitress glances around the table, and her gaze settles on me.

Waitress: Are you...a little one?

Me: (speechless with indignation) .....?!

My friends descended into fits of rapturous delight.

Tanyakit: (giggling) Yes, she is. Do we get some kind of extra discount for her?

Me: (choking) Mffrrrmgh!?!

Waitress: I'm so sorry, I just... I thought you were...younger than the rest....

I sulked. My friends laughed. The waitress looked apologetic.

Fleetch: Do you have, like, a children's special?

Wetsoks: Do you want some crayons, honey?

Me: I hate you guys.

The waitress took our order as fast as she could and scurried off looking slightly ashamed. My friends continued to laugh heartily at my discomfort.

Me: You know what? Laugh it up. Because she must have thought I was your child. Which means one of you looks old.

Wetsoks: (shrugging) I could look old enough to be your mother.

Me: No. No, you couldn't.

Tanyakit: Speaking of children, I was thinking about this the other day - when the zombie apocalypse happens, you should probably be the one to start repopulating.

Me: (in horror) What?

Tanyakit: Well let's face it, you're the youngest and you're quite healthy. Chances are you'd probably survive.

Me: Probably?!

Sarahnator: I can assist with the birth.

Tanyakit: Do you have medical experience?

Sarahnator: I've seen every episode of ER.

Fleetch: Excellent.

Me: (panicked) I'm not birthing children. Now or after the apocalypse. Have you seen my hips? They're narrow. I'm not built for it.

Tanyakit: Pfff, thin women have babies all the time.

Me: It would end up coming out of my stomach, like in Alien. I am not having post-apocalypse children. I'm putting my foot down on that dream right now.

The group sighed in mournful unison for a few moments (trying to guilt me into planning my future offspring after civilisation as we know it comes to an end) and then the restaurant door opened. A family came in, with four children of varying ages.

Wetsoks: Oh, look Otternator, it's your little playdates!

Me: I really hate you guys.

We had much hilarity on our archery/air rifle/paintball/axe-throwing course, and while I am happy (and surprised) to note that we all came back with our limbs, we did sustain a few bruises along the way. I won't bore you with the details, but I drew a picture that will hopefully capture the mood (yes, they actually got me crayons at dinner, much to the confusion of the staff, because I'm friends with the kind of people who think it is the height of hilarity to do things like that, and I absolutely love them for it).

Here is my artistic interpretation of the day's events, in crayon

 And here is the Fleetch's artistic representation of the day's events, dedicated to me:

We may have differing views on what the day was supposed to be about.

Thursday, 20 October 2011

The Empire Needs You

My lovely friend Wetsoks has a birthday coming up on Saturday, so I decided to write this post in her honour. Our group of friends have planned an entire day of fun, which naturally caters to her tastes - these tend to towards Mexican food and dangerous activities, so I'm looking forward to this with quite a lot of excitement. We had an email conversation during the week which was as follows:

Sarahnator: So we're meeting for breakfast, then going for the archery/axe-throwing lesson, then to the hospital to bandage up the wounds one or more of us will have managed to obtain, then dinner, then drinks at Tanyakit and Otternator's flat. Is everyone OK with this?

Me: Dontcha mean Fleetch and Otternator's flat? Unless they switched without me knowing. Also, don't you wish your otter was hot like me? Don't you wish your otter was a freak like me? DONTCHA?

Wetsoks: And at some point, one of you will take your shirt off for my entertainment, right? It is my birthday after all.

There was a long, pressing silence, devoid of emails.

Me: Everyone quit looking at me. Teamwork, people. Teamwork.

Tanyakit: I'm fairly certain that Wetsoks lost her take-your-shirt-off privileges when she suggested some Yo Momma comment you made was too far.

Me: That is an excellent point. And one I fear you may pay for dearly at home, when your bedroom is suddenly and inexplicably infested with "kittens".

Tanyakit: Speaking of those buggers, there's a little "kitten" on my ceiling. I noticed it before I left on Friday, but I couldn't reach it.

Fleetch: You need the hoover, dude. Just suck those "kittens" up next time they wander into your house. No need to gather them up in a cup and toss them out of the window, or flush their remains after you mash them against the wall.

Me: I really hope no one from IT is reading these emails. Out of context we sound terrifying.

Fleetch: Yo momma sounds terrifying.

Wetsoks: Sociopathic, indeed.

Fleetch: Or just bizarrely angry at "kittens".

Me: This needs to go into our script, Fleetch. I can see it now - we'll need one conversation to explain it, and then later while someone is on the phone, in say a restaurant, or waiting in line for a sandwich, they'll have a whispered conversation; "Margaret, I don't... No, I can't come over. I told you why...Listen, I don't care if the "kitten" is looking at you! Just kill it with your shoe or something."

Fleetch: Totally. "Just try not to get its guts all over the wall like last time".

Me: And then the camera zooms out and the entire line of people are staring in horror at the person on the phone.

Wetsoks: Disturbing.

Me: Yo momma is disturbing. In bed.

And on that note - Happy Birthday, dude. We love you.

Monday, 17 October 2011

Thundercats: Ho's

The Fleetch and I were talking about a friend of a friend recently, who happens to be one of the most beautiful women I've ever had the fortune to meet in real  life. It helps that she is exceedingly nice, intelligent and funny, but mostly it's about her perfect face. My god, her perfect face. The conversation was as follows:

Fleetch: She is so PERFECT.

Me: Isn't she?

There was a dreamy, happy silence as we both contemplated this idea.

Fleetch: I feel like nothing next to her. In a kind of "you are a goddess made flesh, and I am a mere mortal unworthy to look upon you."

Me: Agreed. She's quite close to being the actual perfect woman.

Fleetch: Totally. Except... I don't know. I'd want the perfect woman to be a bit more...violent.

Me: Violent?!

Fleetch: Well no. I mean, I want her to be able to kill dinner for me.

Me: I guess I see the appeal. As long as she was also super girly. Sort of like Buffy, except actually like Faith.

Fleetch: Right? Just something a little more aggressive, animalistic. That would be my perfect woman.

Me: Body of a woman, mind of...of....a CHEETAH!

Fleetch: A fucking what?

I am now giggling too hard to be able to converse like a normal, sane person.

Fleetch: (in amazement) Did you really just say 'mind of a cheetah'?

Me: (wheezing) It just came to me!

Fleetch: Dude. That's genius.

We spent the next few minutes in complete hysterics, imagining a cheetah-woman hybrid roaming at will around the flat, stealing from the fridge, growling from her perch on the top of the door and generally mangling our soft, unprotected human flesh (the Fleetch has this theory that humans are nature's marshmallows, and I must say it's a convincing argument).

Fleetch: No, seriously. I see what you mean. Huh. Mind of a cheetah. Who'd have thought?

Me: It's actually an obvious choice, when you think about it. After all, the Thundercats had Cheetara.

Fleetch: Excellent point.

Sunday, 16 October 2011

The Teaches of Fleetches

The Fleetch and I journeyed a long distance yesterday evening, all the way to the fair city of Glasgow, to meet my friend Hot Emma (her official title, and it is well deserved). We'd all bought tickets to see the fantastic Peaches DJing at a local club, and it was an excellent night. For those of you who don't know Peaches, this is a little taster of her music and is in fact my favourite song of hers.

We decided that the teaches of Fleetches are like also very much like sex on the beaches. Huh. What? On a slightly related note, the Fleetch and I had the following conversation earlier in the week:

Me: You know what I really like? Rum.

Fleetch: That's very pirate-y of you.

Me: I know, right?

There is a brief silence.

Me: By the way, we're out of rum.

Fleetch: (eyeing me suspiciously) Are the two things related?

Me: I refuse to address such accusations. Much like I imagine a pirate would.

Fleetch: You know, we should really start making Fleetch-related cocktails at home.

Me: That is a genius idea. Like a "Fleetch On the Beach", or a "Fleetchito".

Fleetch: A "Strawberry Daiqufleetch". Oh, wait - a "Fleetchmopolitan"!

Peaches performed a brilliant set which had the entire crowd dancing and throwing themselves around like toddlers on a sugar high. She wore what I can only really describe as a 'boob dress' - literally, a dress with enormous breasticles sown on - as seen here:

Peaches also ensured that the crowd remained sticky throughout the night by spraying us with champagne and beer, held between her legs in a rather suggestive manner. After the bus dropped us back in Edinburgh, we walked home. On the way I saw a constructive digger, looming all shiny and alone in the darkness, so I dared the Fleetch to ride it, which she did without a moment's hesitation.

Young man! There's no need to feel down!

Wednesday, 12 October 2011

Found Down The Back Of The Internet

I adore modern technology. I love the convenience my smartphone affords me; when I'm lost, I can instantly check my location on Google Maps, when I need to know the real-time bus timetable for the stop I'm standing at, and when I want to find out what song is playing in the pub, I can use an app which will not only tell me the artist and song title, but also allows me to look up lyrics and immediately purchase the song if I should wish to do so.

A large part of this infatuation I have with technology boils down to the fact that I love the internet. I'm not ashamed to say it. The internet has brought me so much joy in the form of blogs, pictures, videos of anything and everything (including, in a couple of cases, some videos I wish I'd never laid eyes on and which may haunt me for the rest of my life, but every relationship has its flaws). So with this in mind, I decided to make this post in the form of an offering to the Internet Lord, may he live forever.

Firstly, I'd like to present this video of the Angry Birds Peace Negotiations, which is a sketch from an Israeli comedy show I'd never heard of before. It is incredibly funny even if you haven't actually played Angry Birds - and if you haven't, all you really need to know is that the pigs stole the birds' eggs, and in revenge the birds now hurtle themselves (using catapults) at the pigs' fortress, guided by the player. It really is as weird as that, and yet I find it curiously addicting. This video contains phrases you may repeat for months afterwards.

There is also this little gem, in the form of a video I have watched many times over, which is the introductory song to the Disney classic 'Beauty and the Beast' if it was sung by a West Hollywood Gay. Again, this one has a catchphrase which my friends have seized upon, much to my amusement, and several cleverly parodied lyrics (my current favourite is "fat bitch, with kids, she can't afford them"). Feast your ears upon on it.

My friends and I have recently decided to go to Malta for a short holiday before the Fleetch leaves forever and returns to her homeland (possibly to settle down, mate and raise young Fleetches) which has spawned the 300 joke reference "This. Is. MALTA!" I'm going to make it a hashtag now, because any prolonged period of time with my friends inevitably has mild side effects - chaos, drunkenness and an urge to blog about every hilarious conversation.


Monday, 10 October 2011

The League of Extraordinary Shark Knights

I mentioned the Shark Knight joke in a previous post, but for those of you who didn't read that (shame on you, it was a pretty good one) I'll explain. My friends and I went to see a film called Shark Night 3D at the cinema a couple of weeks ago, and the general consensus was that it was awful. It's not like we expected it to be great, after all it was essentially a B-movie plot ramped up to suit the summer blockbuster needs of the masses, but it had been described as a combination of 'Saw' and 'Jaws' which sounded good but in fact was a great big pants-on-fire lie. The Fleetch decided that Shark Knights would have been a better title, and went off for some time on a tangent about how sharks would ride elephants in jousting tournaments (the physical handicaps sharks face in having fins and not hands with which to hold the lances was breezily brushed over and ignored). So when one of my friends spotted a local job advertisement for a position as Panda Team Leader at Edinburgh Zoo, the following email conversation occurred. I have put it in conversational form because it is easier on the eye this way, and dare I say, snappier.

The Sarahnator:I want to have a team of giant pandas. With this team I will rule the world.

Me: Ah but remember your arch-enemies, the villainous league of Shark Knights who ride their death elephants o'er the lands of man. 

Fleetch: Yeah, I would ride through with my great white sharks on elephants and trample your giant panda team. Sorry.

The Sarahnator: Ah but you forget, my giant pandas are riding on giant rhinos and are quite unbeatable.

Fleetch:  My elephants wear crocodiles like slippers on their front stumpy legs, and have manes of various poisonous snakes. Your rhinos are about to get SERVED.

The Sarahnator: My rhinos are steampunk zombies and have no fear of crocodiles or snakes. 

Me: Are the rhinos wearing Victorian period garb? Wait, no, that would only hinder them in battle.

Fleetch: I also have a Trogdor.

Me: Trogdor!


Me: Trogdor was a man.

Fleetch: He was a dragon man.

Me: Actually, he was just a dragon. But he was still TROGDOR!

If you've never heard of Trogdor, I urge you to watch this video now. It is a hilarious clip from the cartoon Strongbad, and a genius song.

Sunday, 9 October 2011

Blending Into The Background

I mentioned the vegetable box in the last post (the one where the Fleetch and I put zombie makeup on just for fun, much to the bewilderment of our neighbours, especially when we had to take the trash out) - it was fantastic because there was so much of it, but at the same time there was SO MUCH OF IT. I bought a blender on Monday after convincing myself that by liquifying the fruit and vegetables, I would be able to reduce the physical mass and there would be the added bonus of tricking my body into accepting more vitamins than it has had since I was about 7. I made a delicious smoothie from grapes, apple, banana and orange/mango juice, and then in typical otter fashion, I counteracted a lot of the healthy goodness by adding alcohol. Mischief knows no bounds. Funnily enough when I called my mother for our weekly chat, we had the following conversation:

Me: So, I bought a blender.

Mum: Oh, good. So you'll make smoothies and things?

Me: Yes, the Fleetch and I made some already.

(There is a brief pause)

Mum: You should probably add something to that.

Me: Way ahead of you, Mum.

Mum: Vodka?

Me: Peach schnapps.

Mum: That's my girl.

However, a problem arose when the Fleetch and I decided to invite our friends round yesterday evening. We expected the second vegetable box to arrive in the afternoon, so we had offered to cook a nice homemade healthy meal for all six of us, plus special ice cream smoothies. While I was waiting for the vegetable box to arrive, I wandered into the kitchen and considered making a breakfast smoothie for myself, but as I looked around, I noticed a crucial part of the blender was missing. I could see the two blending cups and two lids, but not the attached spinny thing (I'm using the technical terms straight from the manual, obviously). I figured the Fleetch must have absent mindedly tidied it away, so I looked for it. It wasn't in the drawers, or the cupboards, or the sink, or the dishwasher. I searched the kitchen for over an hour, muttering in confusion to myself, and couldn't find the spinny thing. Even the discovery of a banana note didn't help my mood (the Fleetch had drawn what I later discovered were jellyfish on it for some reason known only to her, but what I first assumed to be coconuts on fire). Eventually, the Fleetch came home.

Me: Dude. I can't find the attached spinny thing for the blender.

Fleetch: You're kidding! I looked for it yesterday and couldn't find it either

Me: The other problem is, the vegetable box never arrived.

Fleetch: So what you're saying is, we have four people coming over for dinner and we promised them two things, neither of which are happening now?

Me:.... Pretty much.

Fleetch. ......Dayum.

Me:..... Yeah.

Fleetch: Well, look. It must be  here somewhere, right? It's not like we'd have taken it out of the flat.

Me: Or out of the kitchen. That doesn't even make sense.

We searched for the spinny thing for the next hour, while our guests arrived and sat around growing hungrier and drunker. We moved the washing machine. The Fleetch took a knife to the back of the kitchen sink cabinet to see if anything had fallen down there. We checked the hall, our bedrooms, the living room, even followed the cats around accusing them of stealing the spinny thing. Eventually, wearied by the search, I met the Fleetch in the kitchen.

Me: Dude. I think we have to give up.

Fleetch: No! We will NEVER give up!

Me: I think you've gone blender-crazy. You have to let it go.

Fleetch: (poking at the blender) It's just that it must be here somewh-........Oh. Oh, crap.

Me: What?

There is a long, horrible silence, while she holds up the spinny thing, which has been attached to the blender the entire time and we make desperate, we-are-such-idiots eyes at each other.

Me: (whispering) Let's just say we found it.

Fleetch: (whispering) Okay.

Me: We'll be heroes. No one has to know.

Fleetch: Yeah right, like you're not going to blog about this.

Me: True dat.

Monday, 3 October 2011

Night Of The Fleetching Dead

I really love Halloween. It's probably my favourite holiday - don't get me wrong, Christmas is fun but doesn't involve dressing up in the same way, and don't even get me started on how Easter makes no sense whatsoever. Luckily the Fleetch does too, and is happy to indulge my odd habits. A couple of weeks ago, I bought some facepaints, studied some of the zombie images Google provided and set to work on some of my friends during our 'zombie party' (which involved zombie video games, related food and  for some reason, the Formula One qualifiers, because zombies and racecars go hand in hand)

I staggered out of my bedroom on Saturday morning. The Fleetch was waiting.

Fleetch: Hey.

Me: (makes a moan that only vaguely resembles a greeting)

Fleetch: Uh huh. Hey, have you been in the kitchen yet?

Me: (fighting the retching instinct at the thought of going near any kind of food) No, why?

Fleetch: The vegetable box arrived. It's huge.

What she possibly should have said was "the vegetable crate", because good lord, the mass of produce we have amount to possibly more fruit and vegetables than I've ever eaten in my life. We stood around for a while, hungover, staring at the crate.

Fleetch: There's also meat in the fridge. The pack of beef we have is almost the size of my head.

Me: What the hell are we going to do with all of this?

There was a brief pause.

Fleetch: Let's put on zombie makeup tomorrow and get drunk and cook it.

Me: Naturally.

And so we did.

As an ode to My Drunk Kitchen (if you've never seen it on YouTube, I recommend it highly - essentially the clue is in the name), we've named this night My Dead Drunk Kitchen. Long may it continue.

Saturday, 1 October 2011

Uninvited Houseguests

My friends and I had planned a lovely evening on Friday - we'd booked a table at a local Chinese restaurant, we'd got tickets to see Shark Night at the cinema (which spawned a whole hilarious email thread in itself when the Fleetch started insisting that Shark Knight would have been a better title, and the plot would have involved sharks riding elephants in a jousting tournament) and then we were planning to head out to the local bars/clubs and paint the town otterstyle. During dinner, the following conversation happened, and it was a perfect blogging moment, despite the fact that it ruined my appetite completely.

Tanyakit: So, we have a third flatmate.

Wetsoks: Yeah, and I hate it.

Fleetch: Oh, really? Another one?

Me: (bewildered) What? You have another flatmate?

Tanyakit: It's a big one.

Me: A big what?

Wetsoks: Spider.

Me: (horrified) Oh.

Wetsoks: It's living in our bathroom.

Tanyakit: (to the Fleetch) So, could you possibly come round and dispose of it?

Fleetch: How bad is it? Can't you do it yourself?

Tanyakit: Let's just say that it's such a big spider, if I wanted to take a bath I wouldn't need a plug.

Me: (turning slightly green) Guys-

Tanyakit; No, seriously, I've been showering at the gym. We're afraid of it.

Me: (putting my fork down) Could you at least substitute the word 'spider' for something that won't put me off my food?

Wetsoks: What, like 'kitten'?

Me: Um...

Wetsoks: So, Fleetch, I tried to drown the 'kitten' in the bathtub, but it was too big to fit down the plughole. The 'kitten' just won't die.

Me: This is oddly not helping as much as I thought it would.

Fleetch: (heaving a sigh) Fine, fine, I'll come round and kill the 'kitten'.

Tanyakit: It's just awful. It sits there, looking at you with its horrible, big (she catches my eye)... um, 'kitten' eyes, and it has these really long (she catches my eye again) ... adorable fuzzy legs?

Me: Can't you trap it under a cup or something?

Wetsoks: (darkly) It's too big for a cup.

Me: Okay. I'm done eating. and I'm not coming round again til that 'kitten' is gone.

Wednesday, 28 September 2011

The Continuation Of The Human Race

This is a guest post I wrote for Taming Insanity (found here yesterday, but I figured I should also include it on my own site. Otters like things to be kept in small neat bundles, where we can keep an eye on them. Imagine the horror if one of my posts was caught fondling one of her posts. The scandal! We'd never hear the end of it. And with that in mind, please enjoy....

Oh, babies. If they were being marketed, the tag would say something like "People, made by people" or perhaps "Too much time on your hands? Oversleeping? Try our new BABY range!" Perhaps that's just how I've seen them for most of my life - as a wailing, screaming, weeing-in-the-supermarket-aisle majority, rather than the adorable burbling minority who undoubtedly never throw soft foods and instead settle for grinning happily at old ladies on the bus - but as I get older, my views are changing somewhat.

My internetfriend Taming Insanity asked (begged, really, and you know I can't resist anyone who makes sad puppy eyes) her fellow bloggers to help her out as she's going to be too busy to post much, what with being heavily pregnant and all. I'm personally grateful - she's populating the planet so I don't have to. Thanks for taking one for the team, bro.

It's not that I don't want to have kids, necessarily - I do like children and am surprisingly good with them (possibly because they think I am one of them and are, in a manner similar to wolves, more inclined to accept me as part of the pack) but I feel like I need a couple of things to happen first. I need to find a woman with child-bearing hips (because I'm shaped like Justin Bieber, if Justin Bieber had an awesome rack and slightly more feminine eyebrows) to birth my litter. I need to give up most of the fun but dangerous stuff I like doing now. And I need to have an actual career instead of a job, preferably involving blogging, otter-related banter or being Laura Dern's wardrobe fitter.

This brings me very briefly to something I saw recently in the local newspaper about Sarah Jessica Parker's new film, probably called I Can't Act But I'm Inexplicably Cast In These Roles Anyway, but I digress. Her character in this film is touted as being a "hard working mother who juggles her lovable kids, her architect husband and her own well-paid investment job". I'll be honest. I was confused. Firstly, quite a lot of people manage to have kids, a partner and a job. Surely there is more to the plot than that? Of course, I'm not fool enough to try to answer that question by actually parting with my money or giving up two precious hours of my life for such drivel, but all the same I'd like to know what happens. Secondly, why is SHE the only one juggling these things? Presumably her husband is also juggling the same amount of pressure - although I hear being an architect is an super easy job, with minimum effort required - unless he's a mostly absent father figure (in which case, she won't need to juggle any part of him, which should at least cut down on her stressful schedule).

In any case, the mention of this Future Baby made me wonder how different its life will be from mine, with a grand total of 26 years between us. He or she will grow up with the internet an as accepted tool of communciation. I didn't start using the internet until I was at high school, which means that I grew up in a time where you generally had to go to a library if you wanted to educate yourself on a specific topic. He or she will grow up with completely different childhood television - missing out on such classics as 'Rainbow', 'Button Moon', 'Fraggle Rock', 'Count Duckula' and so much more. God, how I love Count Duckula. In a platonic way, you know. He's not, like, the Count from 'Sesame Street' or anything, who I've always maintained has a slightly sexy edge to him. It might be the cape, the accent or the casual OCD he displays. Memo to those attempting to date an otter - owning a cape will assist you greatly in the wooing process.

This is all serving to make me feel rather old, and has the odd twin effect of reminding me I haven't done anything stupid lately. (Hmm. I have a pack of napkins, a tub of Golden Syrup and a box of matches in my cupboard. Let's see how inventive I can be) It's a toast to you, Future Baby. Hopefully by the time you're my age, science will have stopped dicking about with medicine and started working on better hoverboards. We can but hope.

Monday, 19 September 2011

Drinking Is Fun But Maybe There Should Be Rules

This may be a shorter post than normal (possibly a blessing in a false beard and moustache) but I feel like people deserve to hear this particular story. A few weeks ago, the Fleetch, her ex-girlfriend (normally and lovingly referred to as 'Tanyakit', 'Cublet' or 'Shut Your Pretty Mouth') and I were all out at a local gay bar. This was in fact the night I was (I suppose the only appropriate word is "accosted", although in my mind I'm leaning more towards "emotionally molested") by a young lady who was very drunk and horribly, terrifyingly, seemed more than a little obsessed with my teeth. Now, my teeth are fairly normal. They're not perfect, sure, but I don't think there is much you could criticise. I rarely think about them in detail, given that I only use them for crushing stuff in my mouth, and occasionally for tearing open a packet of something if I can't find scissors and the Fleetch isn't around. But this girl looked at me like she wanted to tear my mouth apart and make trophies out of me. My breaking point came when she had me backed into a corner and the Fleetch started humming the tune for Deliverance. We got out of Dodge pretty quickly, let me tell you.

In any case, we ended up sitting on a sofa next to a lesbian couple. They were not, to put it politely, aesthetically suited to each other. I'd be the first to point out that physical looks only  get you so far in a relationship, so don't be hatin'. The problem is that my friends, particularly when under the influence of alcohol, have  a tendency to speak their minds directly. I rather like this about them. It's why we're friends.
Now, it's not that Tanyakit is particularly loud when drunk. When sharing a room, I have never been tempted to edge away to ease the auditory pressure, although I have several times noted that her voice seems to carry ridiculously well (the Fleetch and I once sat in our living room, a good ten feet or so from the firmly closed window - bear in mind we live on the first floor - and could clearly hear every word of her conversation with the takeaway guy from across the street). However on this occasion, the couple in question were about three feet away. I saw my friends eye them. I considered throwing myself over them in slow motion, but decided that it would't help. This was going to happen anyway, and it was better just to batten down the hatches and wait out the storm.

Tanyakit: Look at that! Mismatch of the CENTURY! Wow! Seriously!

Me: Dude-

Tanyakit: I'm not even kidding! Look at them!

The couple pretended, very nicely, not to hear.

Me: (pinching my nose) Oh sweet merciful-

Fleetch: (leaning over) Hey. Hey. Towncrier. Why don't you pipe down for a bit?

Tanyakit: What? I wasn't even being-

Fleetch: Oh, but you were. Ten o'clock and all is not well.

Tanyakit: I didn't-

Me: Now that you have delivered the news to the populace, go forth and tell the king!

Tanyakit: You guys are dicks.

Tuesday, 13 September 2011

Meet Me At The Clocktower

Some amusing things have been happening this week, my pretty little reader-minions. I'm not even sure where to start - I feel like a kid in a candy store, or perhaps an otter in a river full of juicy trout. Perhaps I should mention that I'm due for a hair cut later today, and thus will inevitably be found complaining about it on Twitter later (I promise that unless something really out of the ordinary happens, I won't blog about my complaints.. this time) so I may as well enjoy my good mood while it lasts. In the spirit of goodnatured joking, I hope you enjoy the following video by the Biebershop Quartet. Incidentally, on a music-related note, I suggested the other day on Twitter that I would be up for forming a gay tribute band called Bi Jovi, if anyone is interested.

One of my colleagues approached me yesterday with the opening sentence "I overheard something really weird and I knew you'd appreciate it". She wasn't wrong. Here the following conversation is between two young adult males of European descent, and was, I'm assured, held with completely serious tones.

Guy 1: Mate. Mate. I just don't get it.

Guy 2: What?

Guy 1: Why do gay people have so many friends?

Guy 2: (without missing a beat) Because they're spies.

Picking this tangled mess of thoughts apart is a task far beyond my mental endurance, much like a politically-incorrect Krypton Factor. The points I could make are all immediately obvious so I won't patronise you by pointing them out, and will instead settle for spluttering in indignation and amusement. In addition, the thought did occur to me that if some of my friends were in fact spies, firstly they've been hiding that damn well, and secondly, I've not been utilising them in the most effective way. Clearly, 2012 is going to be a very different kind of year.

The other amusing thing, which I am loathe to admit (for it makes me and my friend look like complete dillholes) but of course will, for the entertainment of those on the interwebz. I was supposed to meet my friend Sam for dinner last night. We arranged a time, we vaguely had restaurant ideas in mind, and then she text me with instructions to meet her at the clock in Tollcross. Now, for those of you who don't know Edinburgh, there is a large clock outside the Sheraton hotel in the Tollcross area. It is immediately visible as you walk up the hill, and as far as I knew, there was no way of mistaking it for anything else. I arrived a couple of minutes early despite the hurricane winds that threatened to float me Mary-Poppins style into the oncoming traffic and stood around awkwardly under the clock, waiting for Sam to arrive. A few minutes past our arranged meeting time, she rang me. Again, because of the wind, it was hard to hear her but I just about managed to make her words out.

Sam: Where are you?

Me: I'm here.

Sam: am I. Are you at the clock?

Me: Yes?

Sam: Are you invisible?

Me: I don't think so....Okay, hang on, I'll walk around the clock.

I walked around the clock. There was no sign of her.

Me: Huh. Weird.

Sam: Wait, which clock are you at?

Me: The one in Tollcross, like you said.

Sam: Oh, I'm at the other one.

Me: What other one? The one on Princes Street?

The clock on Princes Street, I hasten to add, is only a 5 minute walk away, but is clearly on Princes Street itself and could not possibly have been mistaken for the Tollcross clock, especially not by someone who'd lived in the city for years like Sam has. I sighed, rolled my eyes and told her to walk towards me and to stay on the right side of the road. I began to trot towards Princes Street. About half way down, I started to get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I hadn't seen Sam yet and by my calculations she should have been visible walking up the hill. I'd been keeping an eye on both sides of the road, so I was sure I hadn't missed her. I rang her back:

Me: Dude. Where are you?

Sam: (giggling) I'm at the clock in Tollcross now. Did we miss each other?

Me: Okay, this is ridiculous. Where are you?

Sam: Okay, walk back and I'll meet you halfway.

I dutifully returned to the clock at Tollcross, only to find that Sam was nowhere to be seen. I rang her again.

Me: DUDE. SERIOUSLY. We are two adult women and we have now missed each other twice in an area about 600 yards long. How is this happening?

Sam: (now in complete giggling hysterics) I don't know! Let's try again, you walk towards me and I'll walk towards you.

We tried a third time and likewise failed. I called her back.

Me: (mystified and suspicious) Am I on Candid Camera?

Sam: Okay, I will come and get you. Stay where you are.

After another couple of minutes she turned up, still giggling. As if the whole debacle hadn't been bad enough already, we realised that in fact she had been talking about another clock in the Tollcross area entirely. We agreed that next time we'd just meet at the restaurant to save ourselves the 20 minutes of unnecessary exercise.

In conclusion, I am a complete idiot, there are too many damn clocks in Edinburgh, and if I had to guess which of my friends were spies, Sam would not be my first choice.

Monday, 5 September 2011

One Coat To Rule Them All

I bought myself a new jacket a couple of weeks ago. I am aware that the number of coats I already own could probably clothe a significant number of people (not necessarily the clichéd 'small country', just a medium-sized office, possibly including support staff) but I decide to splash out a little. It's a sort of khaki-coloured parka from ASOS, one of my favourite online stores which is - depending on the financial time of the month for me - either a heavenly eden of fashionable yet affordable delights or a hellishly unattainable assortment of beautiful garments which I crave but cannot afford even in my wildest dreams (which incidentally can be pretty wild - I had one recently about a group of elves who kept trying to put me and a friend in prison and then set fire to us, which I'm still not 100% sure is the traditional elvish way of killing people but then my knowledge of folklore is admittedly a little rusty).

The problem with the parka, or at least, what my friends see as the problem (I personally see this as a slightly creepy bonus) is that it is quite large, and long, and if I'm going to be perfectly honest it looks a lot like something a flasher would wear. Once I discovered this, I began to pretend to flash my friends, which they did not seem to appreciate as much as I thought they might. One particular friend was particularly uncomfortable with this, and so of course I zoned in on her and insisted on doing it over and over, to the entertainment of everyone else.

Sarah: (pinching her nose) Could you please stop that?

Me: (more pretend flashing) Stop what? This utterly erotic and seductive behaviour?

Sarah: (recoiling and covering her face) Yes! That! Seriously, no more flashing, for the love of god!

Me: But I'm fully clothed. It's not technically wrong.

Sarah: It's still creepy.

Me: I don't understand. (still doing the flashing motion, but slowly and tenderly, like a lover would) Look, I'm unfurling for you. See? Unfurling. Like a gift. Like a GIFT.

Sarah: Go. Away. If I have to tell you again, I will set you on fire.

It probably didn't help that the Fleetch was helpless with laughter in the background and was therefore to blame for encouraging my behaviour. As you have seen from the banana notes, things are often her fault, even things that happen when she is not there.

Speaking of Fleetch behaviour - on one of the crazy weekends we've had recently, as we were heading into a club, without breaking her stride, she flashed a nearby policewoman. I am still not over this traumatic ordeal.

Me: (springing away in horror and self-preservation) What the bloody hell are you doing?! I don't know what kind of odd cultural greetings you have in America, but that's not legal here!

Fleetch: (unfazed) Oh, it's fine. I know her.

Me: (gobsmacked).... I ..... I ....still don't think you're allowed to do that.

The poor policewoman was in the middle of trying to arrest a drunk girl but had time to grin briefly at the Fleetch and I before the club swallowed us up. I'm still reeling from this particular event, but I'm glad to know that I have enough sense (even when drunk) to step away from someone visually molesting the police. Hey, somebody's got to pay the bail, right?