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Friday 5 October 2012

G is for Goats... The Bad Boyfriend A-Z

G is for ..... Goats

Ok, just to clarify things, I have never dated a goat. For those who don't know, goats are a kind of small horse with antlers. I'd never date a horse or any type of animal, its illegal and messy. Although some might say, judging on my poor romantic history, that I would have been better off dating a honey badger, natterjack toad or sperm whale... you see, having a relationship with an animal would eliminate several problems, for instance it would never annoy the fuck out of me by playing world of warcraft for hours on end, smoking joints and drinking super tenants from a brown paper bag whilst farting and wanking off to gilf porn...

Back to goats...

I am terrified of goats. Probably a bit more than dogs (see D is for dogs for the full story). I really don't understand why, but many people think they are lovely and cute and stroke-able - when in actual fact they are evil and horrid creatures desperate to munch on your internal organs as soon as your back is turned.

You only need to look back in the history to find factual evidence that they are the children of the devil himself, disguised as tame farm animals, ready to chomp on your spleens as soon as they get the chance.

How does this relate to bad boyfriends you may ask yourself?

Well... I'm coming to this bit... You see... This boyfriend was not so bad, but he did make one BIG mistake... Yes...

'HE TOOK ME TO CHEDDAR GORGE'

Cheddar Gorge my friends is a place where you can buy lovely cheeses, it's the actual home of cheddar cheese, there is a museum there where kind workers offer you free, yes FREE samples of a variety of cheeses, how wonderful!

Cheese has several health benefits, including the enducement of trippy dreams; Personally after a heavy session I'm prone to finding myself in blissful REM - that's rapid eye movement which one will experience when dreaming and not Michael Stipe (the ambassador for Suicide) crooning away to Everybody Hurts. Was you aware that Michael Stipe has a holiday home at Beachy Head?

Anyway... Cheese... Health benefits.. Yes trippy dreams.., there was the night I was being chased by flying tea bags... They had teeth! Dear lord, teeth!!!!

Cheese also makes you have better orgasms, especially if you tie it to your bed knobs in October, so they say.

Cheese also burns calories, especially if you eat it whilst on a treadmill.

SO! We were at Cheddar (mmm cheese) eating cheese before he instructed me in a deeply sexual way that we were going to drive down the Gorge itself, now me being me thought this was a kind of euphemism, before we got in his car (his car was shitty but I've done C already... Perhaps I'll do R is for Renault)... And actually drove down the gorge... No shenanigans for me... Just gorge driving, and munching on the tiny squares of cheese I had previously sampled/stolen in blissfull happiness. Anyway, we parked up and got out for a wander and to tale some photos as you do, and it was all very lovely until I heard a noise....

MAAAAAAAAAA

MAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

And then I spot them the satanic evil creatures, charging in a pack towards my spleen aarrrghhhhjh.... I screamed... Weeee'rreeee ggoooiiinnggg toooo dieeeeeeeeeeeee

I couldn't get to the car fast enough, as I sprinted down the road, gripping onto my stolen cheese for dear life, and I could hear them on my heels, their teeth grinding and snarly hot breath maaaaaaa'ing at me in anticipation of the human flesh they so desire....

"OPEN THE FUCKINGGGGG DOORSSSSS YOU BASTARDDDDDD" I scream at this stupid man...

As i turn to see him... 'why is he laughing at me I'm going to kill his ridiculous face with my nails until he bleeds out of his ear holes...' (I was pretty mad)...

And just as they were inches away from chomping on my ankles, the doors popped open.

What a cunt I thought to myself.

The end... ish...

Luv El xxx

Wednesday 3 October 2012

F is for 'Fucking Everything' - The Bad Boyfriend A-Z

F is for 'Fucking Everything'

I composed this one mainly on the bus. I can't drive a car... well... I can drive a car... Just not safely. I'm a massive daydreamer you see, I have a habit of just 'zoning out', not in an epileptic way, but in a kind of dragonflies, rainbows and unicorns kinda way that can be problematic when doing sixty on a single carriageway in the countryside when suddenly a horse... look I'm doing it now for fucks sake, anyway....

Whilst pondering on F's and trying to avoid the word 'fucking' - I came to the conclusion that there is a lot of F's that one (that's the posh me) can blog about.

I shall write a little about each and call this 'fucking everything'

They are arranged in falthabetical order for those of you who are organised or have lisps.

Feeders - I met this guy, I quite liked him and he seemed fairly straightforward and normal, until this one day when he came over and said...

"I really like you but you're a bit skinny, I prefer my women over a size 14 at least"

Me... "erm well I'm not really comfortable with gaining weight for you"

Him.. "well, you don't have to, I was just saying I prefer it"

Me... "hmmm"

So we continue as we were, apart from he starts bringing me copious foodstuffs everytime he sees me, chocolate, pizza, wine.... I do my best to continue to eat in moderation, before he's suggesting we bake cakes together, sounds a bit romantic don't it... Let's just say it didn't work out... He just couldn't get past my size 10-12 frame and I couldn't get past his controlling shallowness - and dandruff (that's a D and we are well past that now)
Fellatio - I'm struggling with this ever since I found out that more senior members of my family have been reading my blog... You know who you are. Anyway I'm keeping this one brief... There's nothing like finding yourself in the midst of a sexual encounter, blocking out the fact that there are two spherical conjoined wrinkly sacks repeatedly bashing you on the forehead, to go on to look up and see fuzzy bum crack pubes that contain... Hang on what is that???

Tiny little turds.

Clinging on for dear life.

You see, one of my exes had a problem with hygiene and I found out the hard way. Let's just say he was transferring his belongings into the back of a transit, 3 weeks later, when I could only gag at the site of him. I won't even elaborate on the time I found him singing along to Tots TV...


Football manager - What the Fuck is it with this game? Oh hang on I'm sorry, forgive me... It's not a game is it, it's a fucking way of life, managing your own football team is majorly serious business, like, it demands you staying up til 5am drinking several carlsbergs to keep you alert, screaming when you lose against Shefield fucking Wednesday for the 12th time and you are so mad you throw that can across the lounge and run after it with your arms flailing about like a 6 year old who just broke his favourite robot.

Anyway, that particular CD-ROM one day went missing.... It acidentally went missing under the rails of the 0936 Dover Priory to Ramsgate service.

Choo-Choo!!!

Foreigners - by this I mean the Welsh.

Jokes!!!!

I did put up with a Welsh guy for a couple of weeks, until I realised what a cock he was.

That's all for now fans,

See you next time where we will fully explore, G is for... G is for...

I'll let you know!

Luv El xxx

Sunday 2 September 2012

The Bad Boyfriend A-Z - E is for Egotism

The Egotistical Acrostic

As with all my posts this is about a man, not previously discussed, but incredibly deserving of a place in the A-Z, I hope you enjoy this little poem. No pics today, as I'm posting from a train, enjoy!

THE EGOTISTICAL ACROSTIC

Every Friday night, was nothing short of a nightmare...

Going out was such a drama, he spent hours on his hair

Or his tan, it wasn't streaky (and)

To the world he looked so buff, (but)

Inside his head was empty, like a bubble full of fluff

Shit... What was I doing with this guy?

The girls thought he was perfect, and he believed it too

I marvelled at his veet routine, his armpits were so smooth (and orange, seriously who tans their armpits?)

Casually I mentioned, his narcissist traits

And that he might need help, because it's not too late (to become a normal bloke)

Like a rocket he exploded in a firework of anger and told
me I'd been cheating with the guy from Pret a Manger, And with that he tried to leave the room but on his arm I grabbed
and made him bleed, (it's not my fault I screamed),
but it was too late (as I had already maimed his perfect skin) the wounded man he fled.
(after he went into the bedroom to collect his straightners and Touché Éclat).

The End.

Tuesday 10 July 2012

Bad Boyfriend A-Z... 'D is for DOGS'


                                                                      D is for DOGS
Anyway I have a story about dogs for you.  It was horrendous at the time and it made me cry. But now it's just pretty funny.

I was dating 'Mike'.  (named in loving memory after Mike Delfino, the fittest man to ever grace Wisteria Lane, I balled my eyes out when that horrible gangster shot him right there on his own doorstep... Poor Susan).

For those of you that have no idea about the tragic loss of Mike Delfino, please google and look on in mystical awe.  I miss Desperate Housewives, I miss it so much *tears well up in eyes*


                                                       RIP fine specimen of man



*oh yeh the dog blog*

My Mike lived up north and was more Mike Reed than Mike Delfino.



                                                                                 Sexy


He would often visit his mother whom he was clearly devoted to.  Eventually the day came when he invited me to meet the lovely lady.

Now I was very concerned about this, because I used to have quite a severe phobia of dogs, and Mikes mother had in the region of 11 cocker spaniels.  She was infact...

A BREEDER *shivers with fear*

Breeders *shivers with fear* are a lot like FEEDERS (thats one for 'F') - however instead of force feeding you lard through a gastric tube, they force male and female dogs have sex with each other until they produce tiny little baby dogs that they can sell or make coats out of.

Right... Now I dislike dogs. But I have, though working in community social care for many years, encountered lots of the four legged beasts, and I've become more comfortable with the attention seeking snarly barky fuckers, infact some of them I have liked (I use that term loosely).  The type of canine I have come to tolerate, tends to be the larger of the beasts, like alsatians, boxers and other big hairy mutts.  The small yappy, ankle bitey vicious growly jumpy creatures still scare the shit out of me.
"You're an ankle biter"

Anyway, back to Mike's mother and her pack of wild dogs, well 'cockers' as she called them *shivers with fear*.

Let's call her Joan.

Joan lived in a very small 2 bed semi on a council estate that was pretty much surrounded by motorways and trees.  She was a nice enough woman I guess.  She doted on her 'cockers', they were evidently her whole life, everything she did revolved around those 4 legged licky beasts, she even worked as a groomer *shivers with fear*

The first time Mike brought me round, I stayed over, and I quickly realised it was going to be nothing short of living nightmare.

Before I had even entered her house I could smell the stench of licky wet dog and hear and see the barky excitable hairy monsters trying to lick her frosted double glazed front door down.  I could see fangs and big red tongues and hear snarls and it sent panic into every pore of my being. I kept walking towards the garden gate that looked noway near secure enough and wanted desperately to turn back, until we reached the door of evil and doom. 

                                                          Well the postman's dead

As he opened it, I was set upon by this pack of crazy animals.  It was my worst nightmare.  My heart raced faster than last years terrifying incident when I decided to run on a treadmill.  I screamed!  "Get off me you little bastards!!!!"

What did Joan say?

"Ahhh look at my babies!!! Don't worry love they like you!"

"FUUUUUCK OFFFFF GET THEM THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME IMMEDIATELY"

"Don't worry they'll settle soon, they're just excited to see you!"

(if I had a harpoon for every time I've heard this)

Anyway the evening was awkward, as I tried to be polite and courteous whilst trying not to commit acts of animal cruelty and swear a lot.  What made it worse was that poor Joan was quite disabled, and obviously the pressure of caring for all these dogs and working meant she somewhat had sacrificed her home maintenance, in a nutshell, there was creepy smelly hair covering just about everything. I was pretty sure she had mohair socks on until I realised they were 'cocker' coloured.  Rank.

We ate there.  Yes I had cocker hair in my dinner, which I somehow pushed around my plate until  convinced myself it looked like I had eaten at least half. I kindly offered to take my own plate into the furry kitchen, where I disposed of my leftovers/complete meal, in a furry bin and plonked my plate into a sink full of rancid furry cold, grey, slightly greasy, furry dishwater.

We chatted for a while (ages) and mostly watched videos of Mike's early showjumping career (quite a turnoff)
Cock Jockey

(I hate horses too, perhaps that's a blog for H).

I was also schooled on dog breeding *shivers* and why they call a dog blue, when it is infact black... which I failed to give a shit about on several levels.

That night as I tentatively lay my head down on a furry pillow, I prayed that morning could come really fucking quickly. Before I dropped off I told Mike,

"next time we come here and your doing 80mph to get to your beloved mother in time for dinner, remind me to pull your handbrake"

Subsequently, I tolerated a long night of wild dog zombie related nightmares.

Anyway you get the picture, it's a bit grim, like those popular prints featuring the blonde Victorian girl in the white dress, with the huge collie, you know the ones, they usually had some sort of fake clock in them... I think... we had one in the 80's.
I'd be fucking miserable if I lived with that big old hairy sheep herding wonky pawed monster!!!!

Ok no fake clock.... maybe the bottom of a fake clock? We love google images, which has provided me with this handy information...

'This vintage dog painting,"A Special Pleader," is by the Victorian genre painter Charles Burton Barber. (1845-1894). He specialised in oil paintings of dogs with children.'

Hmmmm.... what sort of man seriously specialises in paintings of dogs and children... a dubious one and potential serial internet rapist, that is who!  Look at that poor girl, what might have happened to her, she has thrown away dolly... perhaps that evil mutt licked his own bumhole and then dolly, and now dolly smells like bums?  Perhaps something more sinister has happened?  Thank god the internet did not exist back then.

Jesus, I'm totally off topic again, back to my dog story...

So... As i walked out of that house, away from those 4-legged freaks and that furry lady, I vowed never to return...

Somehow Mike convinced me return a month later.  Fiddlesticks.
Mike told me his mum had resolved the issue and would keep the dogs out of my way, as they obviously terrified me.

I decided to bring my own bedding and towels and insisted we eat out prior to our arrival.

After an indian, 2 diazepam and a gin I was well up for it.  Sort of.

The walk up the garden path was bark free, I felt fine, almost relaxed, with an air of 'I wonder if she had them executed'.

I entered the house, not a cocker in sight, I greeted the fine lady for she had done good work (despite the fluffy coat hiding every surface).

She proudly lead me into her front room.  That's when I saw it... It was a 'pen', like a playpen.  She had fixed together at least 4-5 metal fireguards, and made a small cage, newspaper laid down on the floor and a...

What the actual fuck?

A DINING CHAIR IN THE MIDDLE.

I casually enquired?  "where are the dogs?"

Excited she raised an arm to gesture towards the garden at the back of the house "they're in the garden! It's getting chilly, I'll need to let them in soon!"

(what the fuck)

"Erm... And you made them a pen? It's not very big?" I almost sounded concerned for their welfare.

"DON'T BE RIDICULOUS!!! ITS FOR YOU!  I know how scared you are so I made you a pen to sit in so they cant lick you! Are you impressed"

Thrilled with his mothers cunning plan Mike exclaimed "We wanted to surprise you! Problem solved!"

Joan opened the little metal gate and ushered me in, she was a pro, I was bemused and a little mortified all at the same time, it's not a nice place to be.

PETA (People Eating Tasty Animals) Publicity Stunt.  Sort of resembling my predicament here.

She locked me in as I thought to myself...

Are these people insane?

Why does this feel a little Texas Chainsaw Massacre?

How do I pee?

Omg there's newspaper on the ground, why did she do that?

Is she expecting me to piss on her living room carpet?

Why did we not crash on the M6?

... And with all of this I burst into tears, left from my cage and fled to the car.

Mike tried to comfort me but he just didn't get it, and he had cocker spit on his sleeve so I wouldn't let him touch me.

We left that evening and I never returned to her house.

She once sent him a cocker clock for a birthday. It was a portrait of his two favourite mutts, printed in black and white on a square melamine clock.  It was the most hideous thing I had seen in my life.  He screwed it to our lounge wall and my friends took the piss out of it.  I 'accidentally' wrote a diary entry about it and how if it stayed up there I would surely have to dump him, and then I accidentally forgot to lock said diary and accidentally left it on his side of the bed.  When I got home from work that night the cocker clock was gone, gone forever. *mission accomplished*

Needless to say the relationship didn't pan out the way I'd hoped it to, and I left him for a inbred train guard I quite fancied.  I didn't leave him over the dogs, it was actually the fact that he failed to wash on a regular basis and he liked to sleep on my sofa all day, eating cheerios and watching cbeebies.

Here's a few more pics that outline why men who love dogs are freaks.

I bid you goodnight blogfollowers :)






Thursday 5 July 2012

Bad Boyfriend A-Z.... 'C is for Cannabis'



                                                            'C is for Cannabis'

I won't lie, I used to smoke weed. I started when I was a student, heavily influenced by my peers and living alone for the first time at 18 in London. I had a flat mate, we shall call her Alesha. Alesha was the perfect muslim daughter, face and body covered, regular prayers, no pork, no booze, no drugs, studious, elegant... Well at least she was when Daddy came to visit from Dubai, with gifts from his Cartier shop. She was the model muslim daughter; it was a thing of beauty. And she would see him off a Heathrow, before commencing her lengthy tube ride home to our flat on Holloway Road, were she would rip off that burka, and set about rolling herself a big fat joint in preparation for our night out to some big, dodgy, dark, sinister, crack filled 'nightclub'.



We often got ready together, she was a genuinely lovely girl, she was full of life, bold and streetwise, and she hated living a double life. I'll never forget the morning I found her Cartier lighter in our toilet,

"Alesha? You light your fags with Cartier?!"

"No I light my joints with Cartier! I must have passed out"

Anyway this was my first experience with cannabis and at the time I saw nothing wrong in chuffing it down my lungs til my head went spinny and I greened out. I vastly gave it up when I returned back to Kent, i just didn't live that lifestyle anymore, and i didn't miss it either. On the odd occasions I would save it for social gatherings, a few puffs when offered by friends and when I couldn't sleep after night shifts.

I'm getting to the 'bad boyfriend' bit, as this one will take some explaining.

You see I wanted to make it very clear that I, for many many years, did not have one little problem with this drug, apart from the fact I worked in mental health and knew there is strong evidence to suggest that smoking weed can bring on/ trigger psychosis, depression and anxiety. I guess it had never affected me directly, actually it had only ever been a nice, happy chilled thing to do...

Until around three years ago when I met Steve.

Steve used to smoke weed too, infact we met several years ago, and would socially have a smoke together, nothing happened between us back then, we both felt something for each other, but never let on, and we both had partners, so nothing ever happened... Until the latter part of the noughties that is.

When we met up via Facebook (yeh lame I know). We went for a drink, he told me he'd always liked me, and I confessed I once wished he was mine. One thing lead to another, as it does, and we ended up in a relationship. It felt like it was meant to be, like we were made for each other, I was thrilled to finally be with the man I once desperately wanted but couldn't have, and I think I mistook this for love. At least right now, I don't remember ever being in love with him.

HOW APT


When we started going out Steve told me he had given up weed, he smoked, we both did, but I didn't ever see him roll a joint until our first Valentines day together :(

It was pretty disheartening. He was out of work and was staying with me, pretty much rent free. The arrangement was that he bought some food and tried to find work. Anyway I needed a break and booked us a 4* hotel in central London, and theatre tickets for valentines weekend. He had been depressed for a while and I wanted to make him happy. He was really pleased I did it and told me he would make it up to me, but he didn't need to because a relationship is a partnership right? It's not about owing favours or paying each other back it's just about mutual care and respect, at least this is my take on things.

We awoke on Valentines morning in a beautiful hotel room, and it was all very romantic, until he sat up in bed, pulled out a bag of green and started fixing Rizlas together and I was a bit taken back. I asked him what the fuck he was doing? His reply...

"I'm on holiday"

If it makes it any better, he spent his whole JSA on a bottle of champers and a bunch of flowers for me. Who said romance is dead huh?!


                                    This also means something else, but we won't go there....


It all went downhill after that. He continued to smoke that shit whilst I continued to pay for everything. I started working two jobs to survive, evenings in a pub and days at my day job.

Sometimes I asked him to walk me home from the pub, but he couldn't because he had a WOW battle to attend.

He never ever seemed stoned and I rarely saw him smoking weed after that weekend. I was pretty convinced for a while that he had just smoked 'on holiday'

Our relationship turned bad, we rowed about silly things almost daily, I tried and tried to make things work, I was so desperate not to fail again, it was vital to me that things got better.

Anyway, it didn't get any better... In fact... It got so much worse...

A couple of weeks before we broke up, Steve began accusing me of cheating on him. This made me angry. It's something I've never done, it's just not in me, I can't deal with guilt, I can lie, it makes me sick with anxiety.

Ok there was one time I snogged a boy in Images in 1998, behind my boyfriends back when I was high on 90's trance and Tia Maria. I had a breakdown the next day and confessed all to him and he forgave me (I was so lucky, because he was a good one).
 
                                                                The scene of the crime


Anyway, Steve knew of a previous boyfriend I had, whom I was still friends with on my Facebook. Now this previous one was a liability too, not towards me but probably to the public in general. Anyway let's call him Phil.

One day Phil made the mistake of commenting on one of my many Facebook statuses.

Why is it as soon as you mention Facebook it all sounds a bit 'Jeremy Kyle'?

Anyway Steve saw this and immediately felt the need to tell me I must be shagging him.

"he hasn't commented for 7 months, your shagging him!"

Like it wasn't even a question. Steve's mind was made up. I was shagging Phil.

So we had lots of rows and in the end Steve said...

"I'm going to kill that Phil, I know people round here, I'll find him and smash his fucking face in"

Now this actually did concern me, as a few months prior to this I had discovered my bad boyfriend had some particularly bad connections with some particularly bad people and I knew that finding Phil might be particularly easy. I text Phil one of the strangest texts I've ever sent.

Dear Phil. Long time no see! It's me btw, you might have deleted my number. Erm... My bf Steve wants to kill you, he things you are shagging me. I think he's serious. Erm... Just watch your back. Sorry!

He replied,

Don't worry, I'm not bothered, hope your ok, do you need protection?

Ok... So Phil knows and he's not bothered.

And so we plodded on for a few days until Steve comes home late one night with a black eye.

"What the fuck happened" I was concerned.

"Don't pretend you don't know???!!!"

"I don't know"

"He hasn't called you today has he?"

"Who?"

"Phil?" with a smug glint in his eyes.

"What did you do?!"

"Lets just say he won't be walking for a very long time!"

"Who did you hurt?" Me pretty frightened.

"Phil"

"No you didn't, you couldn't, I don't believe you"

"It was him, tattoo on his left forearm, blonde hair, 6ft, can fucking walk" He laughs and stares at me like a stupid possessed person.

"Phil is bald"

"Oh"

"YOU FUCKING IDIOT"

He lunges towards me, holding both my shoulders in his big hands.

"WHAT?!!" His forehead pressed against mine.

He spits in my face, and I wait for the pain to hit me. And then I lose it, like properly lose it.

"DO IT, FUCKING DO IT, I DON'T FUCKING CARE ANYMORE"

Tears in my eyes, he backs off.

He says...

"If you go to sleep tonight you won't wake up"

And after endless rows, endless accusations, guilt trips, verbal abuse and manipulation, I went to bed.

In the morning I was disappointed to wake up alive.

And then he started again, he had been up all night, smoking weed, working out crazy theories about me and Phil and had decided Phil and I want him dead.

"I know I won't be alive by the end of today, I know Phil and you are going to kill me. I'm going out today, I'll get him this time, and I'll kill you both before you get me. I'll kill him first, slowly whilst you watch, that'll teach you for fucking around"

And then he lost it... He completely lost it. All I remember is screaming and shouting and roaring and the sound of things breaking, and I ran.

I ran to the police station.

Thats the last time I saw him in my home.

He was charged with threats to kill and bailed and I sought advice from a domestic violence charity. I then spent every last penny to pay for a non molestation order, so he couldn't come near me or my home for a year.

The CPS dropped the charges through lack of evidence, but I had what I needed. Freedom.

When clearing up his stuff, what did I find? About £40 worth of green, and some scales, turns out he was dealing the whole time. He also left with a kitchen knife... Unless I find it hidden away one day I'm pretty sure he had it on his person when he was arrested. I liked that knife. But the scariest thing was the paranoia, and what it cost me, emotionally, it was devastating.

You know I always wonder if there was a poor innocent guy who ended up hurt because my boyfriend couldn't stop getting high.  If there was, then I would like to apologise to that man.

So that's my cannabis story. It's not as funny, but I wanted to share it. Let the fun resume with something beginning with D!
 

Wednesday 4 July 2012

'B is for BEER' and THE BAD BOYFRIEND BEER POEM

Well.  I spent a long time toying with the letter B and what I could possibly discuss relating to it in terms of the bad boyfriend.  After 3 agonising minutes, I decided there is really only one 'B word' that I could blog about and that word is BEER.



                                                                  'B is for BEER'

Do you know what, I like beer. Actually it's one of my favourite things to drink.  Most recently at a barbeque with friends I created and drank a pint of chocolate ale with a scoop of salted caramel ice cream in it... like a beer float, and it was yummy, nobody else really agreed, well, one chap did, but his theory was that any alcoholic drink consumed in quantity can become pleasing, even if you think it tastes fucking awful at first sip.  I get this, I once thought gin tasted horrible, how ridiculous!  'Gin' the cure of all bad in the world!  Crazy!

I didn't really date a serious beer drinker until around the 2006 mark, when I was 25.  I was kind of naive to the world of alcoholism, well just naive to the damage alcohol can do to a person and a relationship....

I have too many beer stories to tell, and I will probably come to each and every one of them throughout the course of this blog, so I have written a Bad Boyfriend Beer poem....




THE BAD BOYFRIEND BEER POEM

It hadn't been a long time
but that night when he was pissed (again)
he took her by the hand
and on her finger he laid a kiss

He said, I love you pretty darling
and, I love you all the time
and, I want to make you happy
and, then he fell asleep on the sofa....

So she plucked the stella from his fingers
and kissed him on the head
she really should be angry
but she dragged him up to bed

(he was really fucking heavy)

And they lay together
whilst she dreamed of what could be
and he lay on his back snoring
until she slept (eventually)

Morning came and he awoke her
with some flowers and a kiss
and everything was perfect
"happy birthday Elmonalis"

It's elmonalissa's birthday
she's really super pleased,
her boyfriend has a suprise for her,
he's gonna get down on one knee

And so it was they parted
as she spent the day with friends
and he went off to work
to earn her birthday spends ;)

(well probably enought to put a bluey on the electric)

That evening when she saw her cake
and candles all aglow
she made a secret wish
that he would show (her what he had in his jacket pocket so hurry up already)

And so they ate together
and munched on chocolae cake
and she gazed into his (bleary) eyes
and wondered if she's made a (terrible) mistake

He'd only had 6 carling cans
he usually handled more
he seemed a little swayey
as he stumbled into the kitchen door (and bumped his stupid head, and fell over)

(so he had one glass of her wine to ease the pain)

...

And there it was, it happened
in the kitchen, on the floor
he told her that he loved her
and to get his jacket from the door

As she fumbled in his pockets
she felt dispairingly
as she saw her future husband
shitfaced... totally

And there it was he asked her
if she would ...
He said
"you wanna make a go of this then bird"

"Erm.... this is not how I pictured it to be honest, can you ask me tomorrow when you're sober"


TO BE CONTINUED.........






Monday 2 July 2012

Bad Boyfriend A-Z.... 'A is for Absenteeism'

Elmonalissabeth's bad boyfriend A-Z

The following is a handy in-depth guide to bad boyfriend behaviour. It is entirely based my lived experiences. In writing this I discovered A-Z doesn't cover everything, for example... B has been tricky (beer, barmaids, bums, bellybutton fluff, bitching, beastiality). 

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer - if you happen to notice any of these traits in your own bad boyfriend, I would advise you start planning a handy escape fund, perhaps 50 quid a week or so, so when you finally come to your senses and realise his lack of full potential, or the fact that you will never change him, or you find that photo of a minge on his blackberry, or he admits he'd like to kill you... You can easily escape with enough cash to rent a secret hotel until the coast is clear!  Saying that, if cash is tight, get down to the council on the next Monday morning, they can set you up a nice safe house... With a crime reference number of course.

Disclaimer 2.... I am blogging about real men... real experiences, and even though most of these guys deserve a name and shame, that's not what this is about, so I have changed everyones names, some particular boyfriends have several new names... (I have suffered a tragic love life, but have not had 26 boyfriends).  I must add that 'A' discusses the behaviour of 'Rick'... now... I have a mate called Rick...


Dear Rick...

Although we all know you like a cider... and there are many occassions where you have no relocollection of what you did the night before... we have never dated and this is not about you, I love you to bits, but due to your continued comsumption of ale and pork scatchins we will never be compatible.



'Absenteeism'


You are at home, Eastenders is on and you are nursing a glass of Pinot, in the smug knowledge you have the whole sofa to yourself. His dinner is in the oven because he had to rush to his poorly mums, she was out of painkillers and needed a hug from her best son. He said he'll be home by 9, and that's cool, all he does is hog the tele and fart anyway.

It's 10pm, you call him. He doesn't answer.


                              Some years ago he would have seen this on his mobile telephone.

It's 10.45pm, you call his mum to make sure he hasn't died on the way home.

"Alright Brenda, where's Rick, he said he was popping up with your painkillers and he's not home yet", you casually enquire.

"what are you talking about, I've been at Doris's Ann Summers party all evening I just got home" says Brenda.

(GILFS IN LATEX.... WHERE IS HE.... GILFS PLAYING PASS THE DILDO.... WHERE IS HE.... REALISATION THAT YOU ARE MILF AGE... IF HE'S IN THAT PUB.... vomit enters mouth.... )

                                                  Never let me get a perm like this.

*calmly hang up the phone.... put pinot down on side... take deep breath...*

FUCKING PRICK!

So where is he?! Is he actually dead... 

"I hope he's dead...."

11.45pm you call again and he answers...

"Alright Rick, hows your Mum?!"

"Oh yeh she's alright so I popped out for a pint on the way home" - He says without one single frickin ounce of guiltyness.

                                                          But I don't even drink?

"You are so fucking dead"

".....'ere love could you leave a tenner out for my lunch tomorrow"

"Why?"

"Ahhh well, I kinda owed a mate a few quid and I can't find my bank card"

"Are you playing poker???"

"nah.., I'm done with all that, it's for mugs"

"Oh right because Kates out and she saw you" (obvious bluff)

"Oh right... well yeh I did have a few games yeh"

"Screw your tenner". Hang up phone. 

 *kick washing machine*
                                          He's rolling doubles again....

4am

VERY LOUD DOOR KNOCKING

... You open door, you shouldn't but your too eager to knock his stupid face off.
 
"Alright darlin, want some kebab it's extra garlicy".  Said with a big stupid grin and rolly eyes whilst swaying like a erm... Massive dickhead.

He proceeds towards the toilet where he spends the next 15 minutes trying to piss and eat kebab at the same time, some might call this multi-tasking but I just call it, being a humongous cockjockey.

You make him sleep on the sofa, which in turn smells 'extra garlicy' and of fart for the next 10 days. You hate his guts. You wish you had taken that smelly sofa with said pissed boyfriend still comatosed on it and dropped it in a giant 3-piece-suite sized grave in the back garden...  You get the picture....

Look at this idiot I found on google images... why the hell didn't I ever do this?  The opportunities were abundant.


                                            Wrap 'em in plastic and drop 'em in a hole.

It doesn't get better. You end up going out one night to find him leering over a dirty barmaid whom everyone knows has syphillis.

                                          Head in vice anyone?

Trust me it never gets better.

Let's move on... It gets better than this... trust me I'm still in therapy :/

Muchos Lovos from EL xxxx