Bitch on the Blog

March 19, 2018



What to make of a man who makes a demand yet doesn’t act by his own code.


  • The Demand, nay the law as laid down by One John: namely that on his blog personal attacks are NOT allowed.

So far so fine. Reasonable, if only he were ABLE to distinguish what constitutes a questioning mind and what constitutes an attack.

Enter double standards. One for me. One for all his other readers.

Repeat: The question is what to make of a man who demands that no personal (perceived as) attacks are to be made in discussion among his readers; to then let stand the most astonishing personal attacks addressed at One Ursula as, and he excelled himself, this fine Monday morning. Every single reply of mine to those insults ranging from … to …, deleted. All personal attacks on me being let to stand. Enjoy.

To clarify once more and for the dense:  What I see as unfair and unjust is not so much that John deletes my comments. That’s by the by. The Sculptor and Rachel do so – out of an intense if somewhat irrational dislike for me. However, where John parts ways with both the Sculptor and Rachel that the two of them have the decency to strike me off as if I never commented. That’s ok.

However, One John, the Samaritan, does let my name stand in a rather empty wasteland stating “Deleted by blog administrator” giving the impression to all his other readers that I am a … please do choose choice words from a lavish selection this Monday morning and lunch time alone. These are mostly readers who don’t even know who I am, mud slingers, stirrers who take John’s word for what he tells them.

I am not interested in commentators/sheep blindly following the leader; I am questioning the ethics of a man who employs double standards. So, and sorry to hammer this home by way of repeat: He claims he doesn’t let personal attacks stand, yet lets personal attacks stand – as long as they are addressed at me.

What’s your take on what, to me, is incomprehensible, not to be justified, not anything other than a declaration of being morally bankrupt?



March 18, 2018

Writing on the Wall

I have just eaten an apple. It’s what I do in my spare time.

The apple was fairy tale red, crunchy to the point of hard. I am inconsolable to report that unlike Snow White no piece of apple lodged in my throat. I am alive and typing. I do appreciate the grief this will cause some inhabitants of blogland. Imagine I’d fallen asleep for one hundred years.  The good news that no prince is required to kiss me back into full bloom.

I eat my apples, always have, core and all, right down to the woody bit which even I find unappealing. In pensive moments one of my mother’s more dire warnings – about how best to avoid misfortune – pops into my mind. Namely, that if you eat and swallow an apple’s pips they either (depending on her mindset on the day) log into one of your organs and you’ll have to have your appendix out (don’t say my dear sweet mother didn’t approach her teachings in a scientific way) or, and this was and still is, more disconcerting, those pips will take root and you have apple tree shoots coming out of all your face’s orifices; your mouth and ears, she never mentioned my nose (she did have limits; I do need to breathe), for all the world to see that you have eaten, despite stern advice against the practice, apple pips. Who needs a vengeful all seeing god when all you need are pips?

Do my readers have their own little attempts at pulling the wool over our big eyes to share, not least those which left you feeling exposed to forces of nature you weren’t able to fight when a child – other than, obviously, NOT swallowing apple pips.

Sunday greetings,



March 16, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, Short Term – Consideration

John left me a comment to my last post yesterday and it reads “You are upsetting me Ursula, I don’t need this”.

I took note of it, did not – as promised – release the awfully long, and rather awful, post I had penned yesterday morning and referred to, left pending to ponder on. Just as, late in the day, I was returning to my desk, John’s comment stopped me in my tracks. I like to think things over when other people are hurting. So I slept on it.

Yes, when other people are hurting. Look at John’s sentiment again: I am upsetting HIM. HE doesn’t need IT.

What I find staggering that John does not address the fact that I too, maybe, made abundantly clear, am upset by his/the trio’s (in)action. For Pete’s sake, is everything just about you John, Joy and the Sculptor? Do you actually ever fucking (falling into Rachel speak) care about anyone else but you?

Last night, in wake of your plea, I nearly softened. Poor John, I thought to myself. Mustn’t upset him. Luckily, sleep tends to act like a windscreen wiper. All becomes clear in the morning – what has become clear that you don’t give a shit about me. Nothing of what I have said over the last two or so weeks (and before) has sunk in. All you see, all that counts, is that YOU are upset. That YOU don’t need “it”, whatever IT is.

Sorry, John, you should have thought about that before. Before you edited me even the Angel wouldn’t recognize his mother by the way the three of you have managed to depict me.

Actions do have consequences, John: You can’t spit at someone as the three of you did and then demand that I don’t wipe your spit off my face. 



March 15, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, The Long View – Congestion

John, miserable Joy and charmless Sculptor, do not fear: I haven’t forgotten you. If you were baked to my heart you couldn’t be closer to me during my waking moments. Once you’ll infiltrate my nightmares I will throw in the towel. Three, actually. Freshly washed.

It’s fun, isn’t it, Sweethearts, when the delete button isn’t yours to press. When you can’t edit your blogging life’s and comment boxes’ narrative. When someone can say anything they like about you to their heart’s content. Taking the piss. You do have my sympathy.

Please do bear with me. This morning’s missive the longest post ever. Not yet sent as life has a way of distracting me from the least important. Pity, since the post so awfully long, and so awful, twelve hours on I have to crank myself up to read it over, before pressing “publish”, the editor having clocked off early.

In further good news, I know I promised only thirteen (in words: 13) entries to The Alternative Comment Box. Alas, not all promises can be kept – being of a generous nature I dare say, rough guess, you can look forward to a few more before the finals.

Hugs, hisses, lots of fresh air, as ever,





March 14, 2018


Filed under: Amusement,Atmosphere,Environment,HumoUr — bitchontheblog @ 17:54
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How is this for light relief:

Here at the South Coast of England the weather is generally mild. However, when it’s windy not only do you get the chill factor gripping you between your shoulder blades but find yourself caught in the occasional wind tunnel. You know the type that has potential to pull an imaginary rug from underneath your pins landing you horizontal, catching you unawares. Umbrellas do not need to apply.

Yes, so just now, out on an errant, I ran into an acquaintance of mine working in a less than ideal spot. “Gosh, you must be freezing”, I said to her. “No”, she said, “I am too tired”.

Sometimes you find brilliance where you least expect it.


The Alternative Comment Box, 12 – Feedback

Filed under: Communication,Errors,Ethics — bitchontheblog @ 13:11
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The Alternative Comment Box is coming to an end – not quite there yet. Nearly.

Let me express my regret at my role in that which largely didn’t so much unfold as was allowed to avalanche.

That I am combative, sometimes even antagonistic, that I like to provoke, tease the substance out of people, is hardly a secret. It’s what I do. It’s what some people in my life appreciate, it’s what some people in my life are amused by, it’s what keeps me on some payrolls, it’s what some people in my life tolerate with a shrug of their shoulder and accept for what I am; and then there are the exceptions – certain bloggers and their sycophantic readers.

Remember, only repeating myself as I feel that so much social media encourages that scourge of our time, namely a short attention span – I do take and accept responsibility for my role in what went wrong in my communication within the circle to which John, Joy and the Sculptor belong.

Do any of you take responsibility for your own role in our communication gone so terribly wrong? You don’t truly believe it’s all my “fault”, do you?

What is so sad so sad so sad so sad that I gave and give you every chance to let rip. To tell me what angered you so much about me. What made you foul mouth me without giving me any chance of recourse (remember your delete button shutting me up?). Why can’t you stand up for yourselves and stand up to me by actually telling me how YOU see it? Instead you do the worst, and by golly haven’t you found my Achilles Heel, you just keep shtumm. Giving me the silent treatment.

Yeah. Giving me the silent treatment. If you or anyone else wants to reduce me to shreds give me the silent treatment. Nothing else is as effective in terms of attempts at breaking my spirit. So, full marks there for having found my Achilles Heel.

I ask you, and this is not an exercise in justifying yourself as I do not justify myself; I ask you, for pity’s sake, do tell me how you see it/me.  No barrels held. Just say it. No criticism you can lay at my door will be harsher than criticism that, over a lifetime, has been laid at my door already. Courage, Joy; Courage, Sculptor; Courage, John – no need to hide under cover of Mr Nice Guy.

I will take whatever you have to say with grace. My main mission in life is to learn; we can look in the mirror as much as we like, no one holds a mirror up to us more effectively than those who see us as we can’t see ourselves. That goes for me, that goes for you, it goes for all of us.

I’d be grateful if the three of you, each in their own way, would meet me in my quest somewhere on the way.

And, last but not least, those of you other than the addressed above, those who know me with few or none swords crossed, maybe just quiet observers, please do tell me what YOU think of my conduct in blogland.

Communication, open channels, they are everything to me.


The Alternative Comment Box, 11 – Regret

Filed under: Communication,Human condition,Intermittent despair — bitchontheblog @ 10:22
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Let me give some satisfaction to John the Samaritan, miserable Joy and charmless Sculptor. The last thirty six hours of my life have not been good. You managed the unthinkable: Reducing me to tears.

I am NOT crying because of all the shit you offload at me NOT at MY doorstep but your own blogs and comment boxes. Heavily edited. Every which way.

I am crying at my failure. My failure being that I so misjudged all of you. Crying at the idiot (Cro’s idea not mine) I truly am that I thought you worthy of my attention. That I actually liked all three of you. Well, John is easy to like; neither did he ever claim to be an intellectual. Joy I liked because she is a lost soul; the Sculptor I liked I don’t know why … maybe because he reminded my of Sisyphus.

Crying that I was fool enough to try again and again and again and again to mend bridges. To no avail. If you want to define “failure” try “to no avail”.

I am crying having allowed to be abused to an extent I didn’t think possible. Who am I kidding? “Allowed”, as if I were in control? I just was [abused].

I am crying at the shameful fact that (apart from John’s feeble attempts) none of you will address me on my blog, stand by your slander. You were so vocal (on your own blogs, so trigger happy) – Now? Now nothing.

Who are you people? Do you actually have any feelings other than for yourselves (this question mainly addressed at Joy and Sculptor)? Do you actually ever consider the impact your (in)actions have on others? Does your world center on your navels, your navels only? Are other people just dummies to furnish your self centered habitat?

Anyway, be happy at having achieved nothing more than a grown woman cry at her own foolishness. Congrats. Rejoice.


March 13, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, 10 – Consideration and the Looney Bin

Before you read on, please do keep reminding yourselves that, in the psychiatric nurse’s view, I am mentally ill. You will therefore, from now on, trusting in John’s opinion, take everything I say not only carefully but with a pinch. Pinch of what? Scepticism? (For the less than educated: Doubt). Let no one accuse John of giving me the benefit of the doubt. Indeed any benefit. No, he chooses some unknown Kate (another blogger of no blog) never heard of before, deriding me not once but twice, over a loyal and appreciative reader of his, namely my insane self. Once more deleting my replies to Kate of no blog.

Let’s liken blogging to a party. There are non starters of a party. Like, say, at Nick’s place and his giggly being introvert but OH such “a good listener” (his assessment not mine). Want the unvarnished truth? The guy has nothing to say. Other than regurgitate shit he garners from the Life Style pages of certain papers. Recently he has even mentioned teenagers when I bet you my last lottery ticket (numbers as yet unchecked and, yes, I know it’s been days since the draw – the suspense keeping me alive) that he has never changed so much as a nappy in his whole life. Still, some people will talk shit about which they know nothing.

I meant to keep this short but John’s (the psychiatric nurse) verdict of my being mentally ill is rather inspiring. I rejoice in illusion that I am Jack Nicholson’s long lost soul mate having fallen out of the Cuckoo’s Nest and on my head. Oh the freedom of insanity. It’s lovely. Social strictures, manners, consideration for others and their feelings: No need, Sweethearts. You are free. FREE. FREE. FREE. Just as free as a psychiatric nurse pronouncing you mentally ill; free to say anything.

Free to say anything. I wish. Such a pity that the Angel has introduced me to the joys of meditation. The main joy – going totally against my bred in the bone grain – that you let things just pass through you. It’s grand. Being the sponge I am – always open to anything – I am now pressed for time, before both Ramana’s and the Angel’s teachings get hold of me  and take root. Pressed for time to do my final reckoning with the fockers in my life before Tabula Rasa has a chance to take over.  As I am a fast learner I am pressed for time indeed.

Where were we? Party. What do you associate with “party” (other than the political kind)? Colour, Vibrancy, Joy, Fun, Variety,  Mental Stimulation, Music, Interesting People, any people. Not so according to the rules of, say, John the Samaritan, miserable Joy, demented Sculptor and spineless Nick. No, what they want (in the comment boxes of their blogs) is sameness, bland as bland can be. Before you are so much as greeted, shown where to hang your coat and being given a drink you’ll have to hand in your colour, your vibrancy, your joy, your fun, any expectation of variety and mental stimulation. In return you will meet the not so very interesting people. Brown. Unfortunately (for them) I do find even the uninteresting brown interesting. And that is my downfall. Call me a cab, Sweethearts. See you at my place.




The Alternative Comment Box, 9 – Warmed up

Filed under: Communication — bitchontheblog @ 13:43
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John, what are you trying to do? What are you trying to achieve?

REMEMBER: According to you I am mentally ill.

If you really believed that I am mentally ill you’d stop your feeble attempts at trying to cut me down to size.

What you do do instead, on yet another rampage on your blog, deleting my responses to those bloggers of no blog. You can delete me till your cows come home and your dogs have left you yet another mess, I will regurgitate every single comment of mine you delete on your blog. Giving everyone a chance of seeing what is being actually being said.  With, naturally, my apologies to those of my readers who are beginning to tire. But if you think you and Demented Sculptor can get away with continuous slander you are mistaken. The reason I don’t mention joyous Rachel in this because she has some decency. Not a lot. But some. Some which deserves recognition.

If you can’t see what you are doing, John, then look again. Since you have given me Carte Blanche by declaring me “mentally ill” I feel at liberty to let rip:

In my next post.

Trust me, John, you won’t live this down. Remember Magnus Magnusson and I paraphrase “I finish what I started”. But will you finish, with remnants of dignity, what you started, John? I doubt it very much.


The Alternative Comment Box, 8 – Warm Up

Filed under: Communication — bitchontheblog @ 10:55
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You know what I like in a person, John? Be they, in no particular order, man, woman, child, dog, cat, even a worm?

Being consistent, true to their word. Obviously, the odd lapse allowing. Worms in the scheme of things being most reliable in their consistent worming.

You? You most certainly aren’t a worm by my definition. You have said (to me) on many occasions, repeatedly, again and again, something along the lines of  “no personal attacks” allowed on your blog. What a marvellous intent. Laudable. Let’s leave aside that a lot of mine you delete aren’t “personal attacks”. Not even attacks. Reason, rhyme. But, hey, let not stand anything you don’t like in the way of calling it a “personal attack”.

How come that you let EVERY single personal attack (by others and you) on ME, some of them vicious and unfounded, stand? Every single one, John. It’s quite fantastic. You fancy yourself as just, fair, and many other do goodery qualities. To break news, John, you most certainly are NOT fair or JUST. You are … never mind. I am angry this minute. Very. And therefore better watch what I am saying. Lest I might feel need to apologize later. Apologize? That isn’t in YOUR vocabulary, not in Ms Miserable Joy’s, not the Sculptor’s; Nick of no spine we may as well forget.

To top it all you now give random space to bloggers with no blog, trying to put me through the wringer. Remember, John, this post is about YOU saying NO PERSONAL ATTACKS. As good as your word, are you, John?

I am incensed at you, John. Why don’t you consult with the Sculptor, the one with a patent on humoUr, on the meaning of the BIG BRITISH sense of FAIR PLAY.  He may be rude, occasionally crude, he may be a one trick pony with his never ending lament that I don’t have a sense of humour, but – on the whole – I do think that his years of chiselling many a rock hasn’t eroded his intelligence entirely. If the Sculptor fails to give you a leg up, why not let Cro, who occasionally thinks me stupid but at least has the good grace of remaining the gentleman that he is, gently guide you in the direction of what constitutes FAIR PLAY.

Yes, fair play. How “fairly” you played Joy aka Rachel and me against each other. Her being totally oblivious as to my genuine intention toward her wellbeing when I emailed you, you lapping up all the cream and praise she heaped upon you at a moment of crisis. More on which I will address in a separate post to her.

You have a choice, John, considering that YOU keep asking  me to stop my Alternative Comment Box. If you need to know what that choice is … do ask. After all, as your commentators of no blog, springing out of nowhere like daffodils and rabbits in spring, keep saying: I enjoy nothing more than administering my sanctimonious lectures.


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