» That's me on TV!

Impersonating a woman
This could have gone in the Festivals question if I'd gotten there quick enough. My mum's sister Valerie was supposed to be going to Glastonbury last year, but in the end she couldn't make it, and asked if I wanted her ticket.

I jumped at the chance. Massive Attack, Jay-Z, Leonard Cohen, Jimmy Cliff, Seasick Steve? Fuck yeah. However, if you've been to Glastonbury in the last couple of years, you'll realise the problem I had at this point.

Photo ID.

Each ticket now has a photo of yourself on it. You can't really substitute tickets between people, to stop touting. And it's unfortunately very effective. So to get into the festival, I was going to have to pose as a 48-year-old woman. But I fucking well did it. It's a good thing I have lovely legs, am a hairless wonder with a surprisingly androgynous face and am fairly short (some people might say I was destined for a moment like this). Doing the classic Moss-chic thing of wellies, a miniskirt (yes, obviously borrowed from a friend) and a hoodie, the family likeness got me past the initial ticket checks, got my wristband and festival bags, and in!

Upon which I was immediately confronted by a BBC TV crew.

"Hi, we're doing some interviews for our coverage this year - what's your name?"

No "do you mind doing an interview". Bastards. I was still in earshot of the security, who were looking on in amusement. Oh crap. Okay, high voice but not too high....

"Valerie!"
"Hi Valerie! Is this your first Glastonbury?"
"Er... no!"
(at this point I realised I was speaking in a Scottish accent. Oh well, too late, plough on)
"So how many have you been to then?"
"...four!"
"Oh wow, a bit of a veteran then! So what's been your best Glastonbury moment?"
"...Radiohead!"
"And the worst?"
"...rain last year!"
"...okay, well thanks Valerie! Have a good festival!"

I'd gotten away with it, thanks to my lilting, breathy Scottish accent (I was almost turning myself on by the end of it) and my monosyllabic answers. But by the end, I was truly able to say that...

...I've been Auntie V.
(Fri 12th Jun 2009, 23:46, More)

» Nightclubs

Only just remembered
Holy fuck, how did I not recall this before? This needs to be in here.

Just over a year ago I was in Cardiff's premier student spot, Solus nightclub in the student union. I was out with my newly agreed housemates on a pre-living-together outing when I spotted a girl being strangled.

Seriously, some dickhead had a belt round her neck on the dancefloor. I went over and with my customary good grace told him to "fuck off and stop being such a fucking knob".

(in another bravado-related incident a couple of months beforehand I had told a group of lairy chavs to "CALM THE FUCK DOWN" at the top of my voice. Surprisingly, they did)

Well, the girl was very grateful. And her friend was very appreciative. Her friend also had something about her that I found extremely attractive, and to wit, I spent a few minutes working my frankly resistable charm. And lo and behold, it worked, and vigorous tongueplay took place for much of the rest of the night.

I'd forgotten her name, of course. So when her friend came to the bar while we were buying drinks later and said "So.. you and Nicola blah blah blah whocaresimnotlisteninganymoreyoujustgotmeoutofahole" I was very happy. Still, I fancied more.

Now this is where it gets interesting. Anyone ever read a book called the Dice Man? If you haven't, it's about a guy who governs his life by rolling dice for every decision he makes and then does what the dice command.

Now while I wasn't going to go as far as he did (I'm not into rape and murder) I had thought it would be a good way to decide things I don't care about - which drink do I want? Which club do we go to? etc - and maybe inject a bit of spontaneity into my life, which had become rather stale and shit since a bad break-up the previous year.

So at this point, I had two dice in my pocket.

A plan formed. A few minutes later, with a mischievous smile, I laid my trap.

"So... tell me, have you ever wanted to be more spontaneous?"
"Well, of course, why?"
"I'm going to roll these two dice. Less than five, we go and have sex now. Less than ten, we wait until later. More than ten, we don't have sex tonight. Deal?"
"...yeah, okay."

In like Flynn! I am a golden God! I am the Prince Of Punani! I am flying by the pre-emptive feeling of my balls ridding themselves of 10cc of unnecessary semen. The more mathematically-minded of you may also notice that I had strategically put the odds utterly in my favour, insofar as there was a mere 1 in 12 chance of failure to get myself well and truly laid that night.

...rolled a fucking 11.
(Wed 15th Apr 2009, 17:22, More)

» Prejudice

Not my story
A guy I knew from Bradford went to university in Swansea. He's asian (I think Pakistani but not sure), and was a little wary of the public there, having heard tales of racist attacks and the small-mindedness of the local Welsh. I met him during my second year there. I have no idea when or why the conversation turned towards racism, but it did somehow. I asked him how he'd found it in Swansea. He told me the story of his first Freshers' Week, when he went out to Jumpin' Jaks.

He'd gone up to the bar, got a couple of drinks and his change back. He thanked the barmaid with "Cheers pet, that's lovely" in his broad Yorkshire accent, when one of the dregs of society next to him turned round and hissed in his face "...WHAT did you say?"

Petrified and fearing a massive kicking, he stammered "Er.. er... that's lovely?"

The Welshman shook his head righteously. "No, no, no. Round yere, we say... 'luvleee' ".

"Yeah..sor - wait, what?!" asked my now incredibly confused friend.
"Luvleee! Try it with me!"
"Er... luvleee?"
"Tha's it! Luvleee! See, you're Welsh now mun!"
"Oh, er, right, thanks!"
"No problem butt, enjoy yer night now, y'hear?"

...and his prejudice of Swansea evaporated.
(Fri 2nd Apr 2010, 14:11, More)

» My Arch-nemesis

Warning: serious problems ahead.
My arch-nemesis is this fucker here. For those who cannot be bothered to click the link a shortened version is: he is a fucking scumbag of a fucking footballer by the name of Archie Thompson.

I can't talk about this easily, but the basics are these. After two years of what I thought was a happy marriage, my wife became pregnant with twins. It was the happiest day of my life, but everything became very strained from then on. My wife became distant with what I thought was stress and understandable worry about the future, but that's not it. Eight months in she tells me, instead, they might not be mine. I nearly die of a number of things but manage to ask whose could they be, if not mine? ARCHIE FUCKING THOMPSON'S. They met while she was at a fucking convention in Belgium where she was out for a night and he was playing football in that city at the time. They had then begun an affair whenever she went over there for business.

I spent a month trying to digest this situation after she left to stay at her mother's, saying she didn't know what she was going to do but couldn't be with me right now. I didn't argue, I had no idea what was going on in the world. I couldn't function. I couldn't eat, work, sleep, do anything.

Then she went into labour.

Even in those circumstances, those incredibly difficult circumstances, there was no way I was going to miss the potential birth of my children. I went to the hospital... and HE WAS THERE.

The reasons I hate him would seem painfully clear by now. But it's not what you think.

It was when she told me whatever the result of the birth was, she was going to be living with Archie from now on. It was when she said the kids were going to call him Daddy. It was when she said they were moving to Australia as he'd gotten a deal with a new club there. And it was when, oh, it was so especially when, after the birth (what turned out to be) MY TWO DAUGHTERS, and naming the first one after her mother, she turned to him and said...




"Arch... name 'er sis."






(disclaimer for legal reasons: this is NOT TRUE IN ANY WAY)
(disclaimer for other reasons: I'm sorry, please don't hit me)
(Mon 3rd May 2010, 21:26, More)

» Asking people out

Blunt and to the point
My first attempt at asking someone out was to pine after them for months, eventually get their phone number from the order form they put in where I worked and call them with a desperate "Go out with me."

"What..? Er... why?"
"Because I'm fed up with thinking about it."
"Er... I can't."

That's about all I remember, my brain skipped over the rest of it. She might remember the rest (she's a member here so you may be in luck) but I doubt it. At least I was forthright, is all I can say.

Now have a slightly more successful pearoast.

I was in Cardiff's premier student spot, Solus nightclub in the student union. I was out with my newly agreed housemates on a pre-living-together outing when I spotted a girl being strangled. Seriously, some dickhead had a belt round her neck on the dancefloor. I went over and with my customary good grace told him to "fuck off and stop being such a fucking knob".

(in another bravado-related incident a couple of months beforehand I had told a group of lairy chavs to "CALM THE FUCK DOWN" at the top of my voice. Surprisingly, they did)

Well, the girl was very grateful. And her friend was very appreciative. Her friend also had something about her that I found extremely attractive, and to wit, I spent a few minutes working my frankly resistable charm. And lo and behold, it worked, and vigorous tongueplay took place for much of the rest of the night. I'd forgotten her name, of course. So when her friend came to the bar while we were buying drinks later and said "So.. you and Nicola blah blah blah whocaresimnotlisteninganymoreyoujustgotmeoutofahole" I was very happy. Still, I fancied more.

Now this is where it gets interesting. Anyone ever read a book called the Dice Man? If you haven't, it's about a guy who governs his life by rolling dice for every decision he makes and then does what the dice command.

Now while I wasn't going to go as far as he did (I'm not into rape and murder) I had thought it would be a good way to decide things I don't care about - which drink do I want? Which club do we go to? etc - and maybe inject a bit of spontaneity into my life, which had become rather stale and shit since a bad break-up the previous year.

So at this point, I had two dice in my pocket. A plan formed. A few minutes later, with a mischievous smile, I laid my trap.

"So... tell me, have you ever wanted to be more spontaneous?"
"Well, of course, why?"
"I'm going to roll these two dice. Less than five, we go and have sex now. Less than ten, we wait until later. More than ten, we don't have sex tonight. Deal?"
"...yeah, okay."

In like Flynn! I am a golden God! I am the Prince Of Punani! I am flying by the pre-emptive feeling of my balls ridding themselves of 10cc of unnecessary semen. The more mathematically-minded of you may also notice that I had strategically put the odds utterly in my favour, insofar as there was a mere 1 in 12 chance of failure to get myself well and truly laid that night.

...rolled a fucking 11.
(Thu 10th Dec 2009, 14:38, More)