Skinny Hitches

Sweary

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve been too nice recently.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve been relatively cosy in my seat of late (read: arse got fat), and have lost the spark of righteous indignation that used to be so endearing to those with the clarity of mind and self-assurance to understand it (read: crankiness used to keep all manner of drab cunts at bay). Whatever it is, my posts of late have been all mouth and no trousers, and I plan to put it right.

It’s not me, you see. I’m a bitter wench, and loud where I don’t need to be, and repetitive enough to test the patience of a rock face. Is it that things haven’t been annoying me lately that’s lead to my being so anaemic on Coddle Pot? Fuck no! Things annoy me all the time! Right now I’m annoyed by a twinge in my shoulder and next door’s yappy hellhounds, whom I’d like to boil in wax and turn over to the Russians. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been all namby pamby recently, and it needs rectification. Vent, Rant and Snippy aren’t just good nicknames for bad bassists, you know.

So.

We got SkyPlus in recently, and I’ve been rewinding all sorts of beige twaddle that doesn’t warrant a second viewing, just coz it’s novel, and I can. But, bereft of television for a whole month, I suppose I’d lowered my tolerance for the visual shocks involved in day-to-day viewing; now that I have SkyPlus, I find myself rewinding and staring agape at something I must have forgotten existed. A fleeting evil, a horror of no substantial proportion … Holy mother of Gawd, when did female celebrities get so fucking skinny?

Now look. I’m no blue whale in stilettos, or anything. I’m a well-proportioned kind of chunky, like a gingerbread man with boobs. And I’m happy enough with it. I like to eat, you see. I do it a few times every day. So when I see these wisps of animated tissue on prime-time television, looking all drawn and in dire need of a plate of egg and chips, it’s not out of jealousy I call the wrath of Sithis down upon them. I don’t phone up my Weight Watchers amigas and bellow lustily like only a lardarse can about how the sleek shall inherit the earth and there’s not a sniff of equality about the whole thing. It seems, you see, that when you say a pretty, wide-eyed starlet (or, in Sweary-lingo, “a perfumed fucking corpse”) is too thin, you’re accused of being jealous, some embittered ogre who crawled into a packet of custard creams as soon as you got up and whose complaints can be explained away as the horrors of a sugar-comedown.

Female celebrities these days are too fucking thin.  I will not engage in debate on this.

It’s not as if I wouldn’t have plenty of takers to deliver the opposing argument. The prevailing attitude from the size zero brigade is that fatarses don’t understand that frailty is a sign of strength. You’re not thin when you’re a celebrity. You’re “working very hard”.

Working very hard. As if having your hair styled for an hour and then having someone put your fucking nails on for you is a regime that would cause a psychosomatic aversion to bread; what a load of utter, induced diarrhoea. I can’t feel my fucking ribs jangling when I walk; does that mean I don’t work hard enough? Are women of average waistline simply lazy bints who couldn’t dredge up motivation, let alone the slice of quiche they had for lunch? Wank. Working hard does not leave you looking like a hat-stand wrapped in tinfoil. Isn’t that right, Cheryl?

Needs.

More.

Sandwiches.

But, y’know, now that I think about it, perhaps what is meant by “working very hard” is “motivated by the snappiness of an empty tummy”. Meaning that perhaps if I were a few pounds lighter, I would be a little angrier, a little more inclined to the ranting I was once so gifted at. If my tummy was less full, my bones less warm, my gums less pink and my hair less glossy, I’d certainly be a prune-faced artiste on a mission to make everyone else as fucking miserable as I am! Which is surely the Sweary way. Oh my God, maybe it is because I got too cosy in my seat!

Food for thought. Ooh, and thoughts don’t get flabby! To the vomitorium!

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