Profile for surlygirl:
Grumpy cow. Approach with caution. Pink dreadlocks. Loves beer, tattoos and piercings.
surlygirl may cause digestive problems. If this occurs, drink plenty of bleach and discontinue use.
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Grumpy cow. Approach with caution. Pink dreadlocks. Loves beer, tattoos and piercings.
surlygirl may cause digestive problems. If this occurs, drink plenty of bleach and discontinue use.
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» Food sex
Honest..
...my best friend was having some sexytiem with her then boyfriend and they decided to spice things up a bit. Since there were no carrots in the house her boyfriend decided the next best thing would be a potato*.
Cue twenty minutes of panicky attempts at extraction. He went after it with two forks in the end.
* No, I don't see what erotic appeal a spud in the mimsy holds either.
(Thu 6th Aug 2009, 16:17, More)
Honest..
...my best friend was having some sexytiem with her then boyfriend and they decided to spice things up a bit. Since there were no carrots in the house her boyfriend decided the next best thing would be a potato*.
Cue twenty minutes of panicky attempts at extraction. He went after it with two forks in the end.
* No, I don't see what erotic appeal a spud in the mimsy holds either.
(Thu 6th Aug 2009, 16:17, More)
» Hypocrisy
Leg to stand on? Me?
My almost nine-year old was wondering when she might be allowed to get her ears pierced.
She was understandably miffed to learn that she has to wait until she's twelve. She can have her nose pierced when she's sixteen and if she wants any tattoos I'll take her to a reputable studio when she's eighteen and not a minute sooner. No child of mine is going to be wandering the streets looking like a refugee from a 1992 illegal rave. Not on my watch.
I have fifteen piercings, seven tattoos and pink dreadlocks. If I do the school run the other mothers look at me like I'm King Herod come for their first born.
Hypocrite? Nah - I'm a grown up. Makes it alright, innit?
Ahem.
(Fri 20th Feb 2009, 10:27, More)
Leg to stand on? Me?
My almost nine-year old was wondering when she might be allowed to get her ears pierced.
She was understandably miffed to learn that she has to wait until she's twelve. She can have her nose pierced when she's sixteen and if she wants any tattoos I'll take her to a reputable studio when she's eighteen and not a minute sooner. No child of mine is going to be wandering the streets looking like a refugee from a 1992 illegal rave. Not on my watch.
I have fifteen piercings, seven tattoos and pink dreadlocks. If I do the school run the other mothers look at me like I'm King Herod come for their first born.
Hypocrite? Nah - I'm a grown up. Makes it alright, innit?
Ahem.
(Fri 20th Feb 2009, 10:27, More)
» Pubs
Look! Underwear!
Yes, I have had a profile for that long and no, I haven't said much. I'm the shy type, you see. Be gentle.
I once worked cash in hand in a pub that had the hardest reputation in town. It was aces - full of drunks, bikers, drunk bikers in ballgowns, dogs on strings - all the fun of the early nineties.
Like every town pub with a reputation it had a resident nutter or five. Terry the potman, for example, was one hundred and twelvety years old; a four-foot nothing ex-boxer who would think nothing of squaring up and punching large men full in the throat a propos of nothing.
But my story doesn't concern Terry. No, this tale relates the oddity of someone I'll refer to as "Michard Rottie" on order to save his reputation in whichever institution is currently reaping the benefits of his myriad charms.
Michard Rottie was an affable loon, given to sneaking up to the bar on hands and knees on Friday nights, all the better to pop up like a demented sock puppet in a grubby t-shirt and bellow "I love you!!" at the barmaid he fancied. Hmm. Yup. Good one.
He wasn't a man to take lightly though. Oh, no.
The people who lived in the third floor flat next to his were in the habit of making too much noise late at night. This angered our lunatic friend and after weeks of skirmishing in the lobby and shouting swears through the party wall, Michard finally snapped. Howling with inarticulate rage, he took the only sensible course of action open to him given such trying circumstances.
Which would explain why, when the police arrived, they found our dubious hero in the car park, at the business end of a very long extension lead snaking from his third floor window. Drilling holes in his neighbours car. Wearing only his pants.
They don't make 'em like that any more. I remember when this was all fields.
Etc.
Length? Your mum loves it.
(Tue 10th Feb 2009, 19:09, More)
Look! Underwear!
Yes, I have had a profile for that long and no, I haven't said much. I'm the shy type, you see. Be gentle.
I once worked cash in hand in a pub that had the hardest reputation in town. It was aces - full of drunks, bikers, drunk bikers in ballgowns, dogs on strings - all the fun of the early nineties.
Like every town pub with a reputation it had a resident nutter or five. Terry the potman, for example, was one hundred and twelvety years old; a four-foot nothing ex-boxer who would think nothing of squaring up and punching large men full in the throat a propos of nothing.
But my story doesn't concern Terry. No, this tale relates the oddity of someone I'll refer to as "Michard Rottie" on order to save his reputation in whichever institution is currently reaping the benefits of his myriad charms.
Michard Rottie was an affable loon, given to sneaking up to the bar on hands and knees on Friday nights, all the better to pop up like a demented sock puppet in a grubby t-shirt and bellow "I love you!!" at the barmaid he fancied. Hmm. Yup. Good one.
He wasn't a man to take lightly though. Oh, no.
The people who lived in the third floor flat next to his were in the habit of making too much noise late at night. This angered our lunatic friend and after weeks of skirmishing in the lobby and shouting swears through the party wall, Michard finally snapped. Howling with inarticulate rage, he took the only sensible course of action open to him given such trying circumstances.
Which would explain why, when the police arrived, they found our dubious hero in the car park, at the business end of a very long extension lead snaking from his third floor window. Drilling holes in his neighbours car. Wearing only his pants.
They don't make 'em like that any more. I remember when this was all fields.
Etc.
Length? Your mum loves it.
(Tue 10th Feb 2009, 19:09, More)
» Festivals
Beautiful Days 2007...
...and it fucked it down the whole weekend. Come Sunday night, the entire site was knee-deep in claggy, slidey mud. The view from the top of the main stage field looked like a zombie movie filmed in a cesspit, as a few thousand pissed, stoned and bedraggled festy-goers schlopped their way round the site.
It was aces though. I'm pretty sure everyone had a good time. Well, except for the girl I spotted late on Sunday evening.
The Levellers were closing the festival, in traditional style. Halfway through their set the umpty-three pints of Suicider I'd ingested throughout the day were clamouring for some space of their own, so off I slid to the bogs. In the light of strobes and fireworks, I noticed a small crowd gathered round one of the shitboxes. So, naturally, I wanted to get myself a better look. I mean, it could have been anything.
In the dim glow, I could make out the slumped figure of a girl, her friends gathered round attempting to rouse her. A horrified-looking paramedic looked on, hurriedly snapping on an industrial grade pair of elbow-length rubber gloves.
Poor poorly girl, I thought, as I skipped off to the other end of the queue to wait patiently for a slash. I wonder if they'll have to hose her off or something?
Bearing in mind the cumulative effect of rain, mud, beer and festival food, I'm pretty sure that kneeling in one of the turdis cubicles with head gently resting on the mounded contents of the pot wouldn't have been top of her 'preferred places to be' list.
Still. At least it wasn't me.
(Fri 5th Jun 2009, 13:33, More)
Beautiful Days 2007...
...and it fucked it down the whole weekend. Come Sunday night, the entire site was knee-deep in claggy, slidey mud. The view from the top of the main stage field looked like a zombie movie filmed in a cesspit, as a few thousand pissed, stoned and bedraggled festy-goers schlopped their way round the site.
It was aces though. I'm pretty sure everyone had a good time. Well, except for the girl I spotted late on Sunday evening.
The Levellers were closing the festival, in traditional style. Halfway through their set the umpty-three pints of Suicider I'd ingested throughout the day were clamouring for some space of their own, so off I slid to the bogs. In the light of strobes and fireworks, I noticed a small crowd gathered round one of the shitboxes. So, naturally, I wanted to get myself a better look. I mean, it could have been anything.
In the dim glow, I could make out the slumped figure of a girl, her friends gathered round attempting to rouse her. A horrified-looking paramedic looked on, hurriedly snapping on an industrial grade pair of elbow-length rubber gloves.
Poor poorly girl, I thought, as I skipped off to the other end of the queue to wait patiently for a slash. I wonder if they'll have to hose her off or something?
Bearing in mind the cumulative effect of rain, mud, beer and festival food, I'm pretty sure that kneeling in one of the turdis cubicles with head gently resting on the mounded contents of the pot wouldn't have been top of her 'preferred places to be' list.
Still. At least it wasn't me.
(Fri 5th Jun 2009, 13:33, More)