Bitch on the Blog

January 28, 2011

Tonight Josephine

Filed under: Despair,Fairy Tales,Family — bitchontheblog @ 04:13
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Gay acquaintance of gay friend (son has had with me and my grief over gay friend big time – he refuses to enter that discussion) is given to doing ‘vignettes’ on his blog. This is what gays do after they have tiedied the place, cooked you dinner, wiped your brow and fallen asleep over their freshly shaken Martini (one olive): Write vignettes. Usually on a Friday which is convenient for me since it reminds me of the Consortium.

Vignettes are stylish. And gay guys – on the whole – are stylish. I had to delete some of what I just wrote after my last sentence. Gays are sensitive. As an aside: It’s awful – considering state of my hand – how much I write and then delete. Such a waste.  Anyway I can do vignettes too even when my credentials are not gay. Oddly, and I reflect on this rarely,  Lesbians never make a pass at me. Maybe I frighten them. Maybe they think I was a MAN in a previous life. Or maybe they are just kind and recognize that a Lesbian making a pass at me would startle me.

Odder, and this might be of interest to Jean and Ramana, I had my cards (Tarrot) read in the foolish days before concentrating on being a mother. On recommendation of whacky friend (what do you expect of someone called Fiona working in financial services BEFORE the whole pension disaster blew up) I visited this woman. She was old then. Probably dead now. According to her I was a MAN in my previous life. English. Living in London. Spending my nights writing.  Working in some dour job during the day (that’s Kafka), but enjoying ballet and the arts in general. (I guess I did not have a housekeeper).

The woman was amazing. She knew things about me no one could have known. She had me right there and then when she named the YEAR my grandmother (most important woman in my life) had died. No one knows when my grandmother died (other than me and her children). So, yes, spooky. No matter. I am not sceptical. I trust. Life comes in my stride. And if someone knows when my grandmother died I will take them by their word. But, and some of you who have pondered on the subject of REINCARNATION, what is it to me that I was once a man (for all I know with a starving cat) spending his spare cash on the theatre and going to see the ballet?

Nothing. Because I can’t remember.



January 27, 2011

Can’t wait

Filed under: Friends — bitchontheblog @ 13:43


Sweety Pies,

make that Cornish Pasties which I am fond of when done to perfection.

Awful truth, not to be disclosed to son and wider family if you please: I am done. No, I am NOT done, DONE. I am OVERDONE, fried to a cinder, burnt, and not fit for consumption. I only tell you because Jean told us that she is an Earth rabbit.  And human relations thrive on reciprocity and being open with each other. I cannot believe it myself but the slope is slippery: I don’t know how many hours in the last 48 I have laboured under impression it’s FRIDAY. Had good sense to verify this with son (yesterday lunchtime) who told me it’s Wednesday.

Am I losing the plot? Let’s be honest: I am losing the plot. Can you imagine me anticipating, with joy in my heart, three o’clock of a Friday afternoon on a WEDNESDAY. Don’t think I am joking. The joke is on me. This is what my life has come to: One of the higher points of my week being the consortium’s Friday offerings? Please do NOT send condolences at my current dishwater lest I think tomorrow is NEXT week’s Friday.

It’s awful.  Am disappointed with myself. And I truly hope that Con’s current assignment will keep his grey cells in good marching order, not least for him to still have faculty to visit the rest of us in a smelly care home not THAT close to him. Jean has accepted job as my assistant in all matters personal; you may find me either dumped out of my wheelchair somewhere in the bushes or on the slab – should she run out of patience. Which is unlikely;  but people will surprise you. If she does [run out of patience] I hope BHB will be waiting BEHIND the bushes and, her hip replacements not withstanding, pick up my remains waving to a reluctant GM to give her a hand.

Magpie I shall rely on for generous offerings of white grapes ( I prefer them to red and like them chilled) as long as I can still swallow, and him making considered choice on what bouquet would be most befitting at my demise. It’s what I find irritating at funerals: People will spend a fortune at sending flowers you can’t enjoy – make mine Sunflowers or Gardenias. (Magpie knows that I hate white lilies because they stink and leave a stain on your shirt should you brush against the stem). I will NOT, fancifully, ponder in wake of my last bracket who of you will spare no expense and turn up at my funeral with bunches of stinking white lilies.



Pass me the morphine

Filed under: Despair — bitchontheblog @ 01:29

I have said it the other day, and I say it again: My left wrist and I are in so much PAIN. Don’t know what do with myself.

I cannot accept, and refuse, that my life has come to this. Half a century I go happy and lucky. Then, and all of a sudden, all the breakages. If life wants to teach me something can life please find a different mode to do so.

Old hat now, Jean, and you might have read his books: Thorwald Dethlefsen. Am not convinced. What is so awful, and he has nothing to say on that score that I do not UNDERSTAND pain. Come to think of it I’d be a terrible doctor. My very good friend, Annette, decades ago, is very good at maths and I only played her at chess ONCE – I won, beginner’s luck –  which is why I never played her again. Annette went on to became a pathologist. During my recent Madame De Clutteur venture I came across a letter she wrote to me –  35 years ago. Something along the lines that I, Ursula, always need to get to the bottom of everything coming my way. Even if it means destroying myself. So very perceptive. I am falling ok. Will I ever get to bottoms of all the barrels I’d like to scrape? Doubt it. Not enough time.

The pain, the pain,


January 26, 2011

The three pees

Filed under: Family — bitchontheblog @ 03:40
Tags: , , , , ,

I don’t know what is going on my inbox but it’s different. Participants who shall remain unnamed appear to have gotten themselves and elastic of their knickers into knots on finer details of the English language. That’s why it pays to be French. The French don’t give a toss that the English language is the most widely spoken in the world. And the only prepositions they care about are their own. That is the reason you will end your evening starving if you can’t even cobble enough French together to order fish and chips and a warm beer. On precuring zee key sil vous plait at la reception you may count yourself lucky to find the name of a foreign language teacher underneath the pillow of your bed.

Come to think of it I wonder how it’s possible for the French and Italians to share a border without world war IIIhundred being fought on a permanent basis. The Spanish had presence of mind to make their country large AND have the Pyrenees installed and Franco in place before opening their borders. As an aside: Obviously no one, of sound mind in a German speaking country, will name their child Adolf ; my poor father was aghast and hyperventilating when one of my sisters announced birth of  her no 3 son as Benito (that’s Mussolini for those who slept through their European history lessons). Let’s just say that it caused some crisis in the family which is nothing unsual. We do crisis very well; though appear to have lost our touch recently. Telephone wires ran hot over Benito (I think his middle name is Battista) till my mother  pointed out ( see above) that few people in the world will remember Mussolini’s first name. You have to hand it to the woman: That was  a master stroke. Tempers died down. The issue was diffused. Benito is now nearly nineteen and, to my knowledge, no one does know that Benito was Mussolini’s first name. So our family can all go to our graves in peace knowing there is no one the wiser as to our shame.

It doesn’t end there – how did I get onto names? No 2 of her sons was  named Leone. Which, like in Sweden, causes problems at the place where you register a birth. Leone is deemed to be femine which my sister, rightly, argued as ridiculous since Italians do call their men Andrea and we even have our own Rainer MARIA Ruelke. Except she does not live in Italy and anyway one does not mess with bureaucracy or Bureau CRAZY will mess with you. So Leone needed a second name to identify him as the male he was and still is. Don’t say his parents don’t have sense of humour  (my sister doesn’t); so, under duress, they decided on Ike. I am so lucky that I wasn’t made godmother to Leone. IKE? Can you imagine me standing there in front of the priest at the font  “And I herewith christen you Leone Ike …”

By the way, BHB, like your first son, Leone too was born on a 11 September. That comes from your parents calling you Leone.

Am godmother to his brother Lorenzo. Was so hungover from night before – I prayed, literally, for my brain shrunken to size of a walnut to keep itself together long enough not to embarass friends, foe and family during the church service. It’s amazing: I looked at photos the other day and you would not believe – looking at me – that I was under duress. Neither does my memory stretch far enough to remember Lorenzo’s middle name. Who needs middle names anyway?

So by dint of one my sisters’ fancies four of her five children have distinctly Italian names. Which is tiring for them since, naturally, people will ask what the Italian connection is. None. That’s what. And there won’t be a Michelangelo. The days when I’d ask my mother on the phone, with trepidation: “Any news?” and she’d say “No, no one is pregnant” are over. Though I suppose various snips could be reversed.


January 25, 2011


Filed under: Despair — bitchontheblog @ 03:09

Can’t sleep. Have started watching a VERY long film with an actor whom my brother resembles and has emulated since he [my brother] was fifteen. My mother calls MY son after this particular role’s name – mainly on account of hair colour; though like his uncle he too shares certain attributes.  An actor I very much like but then who knows what he’s like once he steps out of his boots and goes home. I doubt that the actor in question is Magpie’s piece of cake, but wouldn’t be surprised if he guessed who I am talking about.

Yes, the ‘mystique’. I have thought through again  and again and again that which various of you lay at my doorstep. I am not Greta Garbo. Though wish I were – at least then people would accept me for who I am.

I cannot see what the problem is. I cannot see the problem. I cannot see anything. I can’t even see any of you. Soon I’ll lose sight of myself.

I do not know what you want of me, what is expected of me. Why can’t you accept me for who I am? I can’t see GM, Ramana, Con, BHB, , Magpie, Jean, gaelikaa, Ashok et al being kicked for NOT revealing whatever there might be to be discovered. And – take it from me – ALL of you reveal very little of your SELVES.

It came to me in the wake of that so very sad last exchange between BHB and me (I am gutted – mainly about my reaction to the sweet person she is; I should have just let it lie but then I can never let anything lie, can I? Big shortcoming if ever there was one. )

Shortcomings. I don’t know what is so mysterious about me. I have told you in both my blog and comments so much about myself that if my parents and siblings knew what I have given away they’d shoot me on the spot without a moment’s hesitation. Should I ever be found shot please do not deduce that either one of my parents or siblings did the deed. Have also deleted a sentence which took up about a third of one and a half lines. Can’t be too careful; mustn’t put ideas in people’s heads. Remember I do carry a key.

Seriously, Sweethearts, if I was sat down with a mission to write three A4 pages (my writing is big) on any of you I’d be pushed. Hard. You accuse me of not knowing anything about me. I know little about YOU. That’s ok – with me. Let’s take Jean as a particular case in point: She asks questions. Which is a great way of getting people to talk about themselves. But where is Jean? Ramana’s own version of that particular game is to hide behind the hedge of his endless quotations. It’s a good job he lives in India otherwise I’d go round his place and shake something original out of him. Then there is GM. I wish I could say: Let’s not go there. But, oddly, she is a person who reveals a lot about herself. Day after day after day. I hate her Thursdays as much as I hate my Sundays but GM is authentic (if irritating at times). Conrad, to his credit, has changed big time. I sometimes questioned my sanity why I’d even visit his site. But the guy is good, very good indeed. The last few weeks, possibly months (my timekeeping being atrocious I couldn’t say) I find him a different person. Or maybe my perception has changed. Doesn’t matter.

Magpie who says very little is my oasis when water runs low.

So, and whoever I haven’t mentioned count your blessings, do, please, tell me why I know so little about most of you yet some of you are so very demanding of me.

Mystified yours


January 24, 2011


Filed under: Despair — bitchontheblog @ 09:01

Currently nervous as to Conrad’s dark allusions. Where is the door?

It’s 0840 GMT. Have just realised that it’s 24 Jan which if memory serves right means I have bone density test today. If it is today they can stuff it. I am marooned on the sofa I have fashioned a most unfortunate attachment to. Why do you think I write so much to all of you? Because I am marooned. I hate it. Not the writing to you but the PAIN. I am in so much PAIN with this bloody left wrist of mine. Didn’t think it possible. Will never question anybody else’s pain ever again.

Though will phone my father shortly since I need to snap out of this – and if anyone can kick ass it’s him. How does one snap out of pain? If I don’t get that wrist back I’ll be fucked big time as to my livelyhood. Yes, I know, people better than me paint with their toes or their teeth.  I don’t.  Is it too much to ask to be able to type without every key kicking in as OUCH? Don’t answer. I have sat over too many meals, as a child without appetite and being reminded of children starving in Biafra, to follow that line of reasoning.

Makes you think. Not least of Mother Theresa.  More of whom later.


January 23, 2011

Freshly pressed

WordPress really does get on my nerves. They are wonderful in many ways – not least by allowing me to spout my stream of consciousness,  free of charge, amongst you. HOWEVER, in their dashboard section they’ll give you information I neither DESIRE nor NEED. Which is why I rarely check it except  I am forced to since I have found out that poor good old Magpie goes straight into spam; and I’d hate to miss any of his few utterings. Great isn’t it: To find Magpie I have to rummage through rubbish. The things you do for birds. Odd, and the thought had never occurred to me till this morning when I ventured out, living so close to the harbour all there seem to be about are seagulls. They are mainly white, huge – and they SHRIEK. Once you find yourself, as I did about half an hour ago, saying to a seagull “Oh, shut up, will you?” you know that you haven’t got long before the white van draws up in front of your house.

Songbirds. Where are they? My school girl wisdom reminds me that they fly somewhere during winter (which is why I so love robins: They stay put and stick it out). But down here, South of England, literally a two minute walk away from the coast (make that 30 seconds if you have my son’s long legs) and the climate being so very very VERY mild due to proximity of Golfstrom, it doesn’t make sense. The other day, and maybe I am now hearing things on top of going mad, there was the dawn chorus in a tree. I heard them but couldn’t SEE anything.

BHB, I am sure there is a pill a doctor could force feed me to stop hearing bird song where there isn’t any but would I cherrish the silence?

Yes, wordpress, one of these days I really will lose the plot and not get back to subject in hand: So there they [wordpress] are with their dashboard – Jean, here is a question for you: Why are people so bloody competitive? What’s a dashbord when it’s not in a car? Everything is made into some sort of race. I like to meander at my own – sedate –  pace and if that means that everyone else is overtaking me they’ll be the first to bump into a lamppost. Naturally MY job being to call an ambulance to pick up their pieces. Anyway, wordpress … Top searches on my blog and I have – after much deliberation – decided NOT to cry is, drumrolls please: “gay muscle blogs with comment section”. I do not even google gay since I am cured by the gay guy in my life who can count himself lucky that I will not name him. Neither do I need muscle. If, since breakage, I need anything leveraged I will ask son and not expect any movement till about five weeks later.  Now “comment section” that’s different. That’s where you’ll sort the men from the boys or the gays from the not so narcisstic. I know Jean condems resentment for the waste of time it is. However, I allow myself a lot of things in small doses: I therefore resent my dearest gay friend – at about 0.000000000000000005 g a day – that he is such a ninny that he will not publish comments. Naturally, he reads – and if he denies he does he REALLY is a ninny – my emails. Which I hope will cause him all the pain he is capable of feeling. Don’t say that I am not beyond something akin to REVENGE. Though still have problems with the concept as deliberated upon by members of the Consortium. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, another Mother Theresa in the making.


January 22, 2011

A few down, a lot more to go

Filed under: Communication,Despair — bitchontheblog @ 22:30
Tags: , , , , , ,


Before we go any further and I proceed, let me tell you two things: I have just met my match (no, not GM), am gutted and despise her  – NOT for being my match but for being a finely chiselled arsehole barely held together by the scaffolding of her brain and having reaffirmed what I have known all my life: Don’t be afraid of dogs, BEWARE of WOMEN. Naturally I haven’t let on, to this my wisdom, to son. It would be presumptious and unfair since I believe that you will only ever be fit to stare life into its evil eye and slay it [life] in a dragon-slayer-manly-type-of-way if you experience it [life] yourself, straight from the horse’s mouth not second hand.

From the above you may deduce that I,  Ursula, am shit at taking advice. Ignore it [advice],  suffer at leisure.

Blogging reminds me of knitting: Have lost my stitch; bear with me whilst I unravel.


January 19, 2011

Death row


Anyone who only thrives on fun, games and the world being the hilarious place you claim it to be please go away now and watch the news instead.

Earlier, as promised over at Con’s, I went out. I am, always have been, an ardent believer in the powers of “walking”. Walking clears you mind, helps you memorise facts, fiction and poetry. That wonderful time when you stride or slink or stop every two seconds to admire something on the way, or have your nose and eyes up in the sky till you find yourself falling into that little excuse of a river you had forgotten about? Take my word for it: It’s good. Even when it’s bad.

This afternoon was BAD in a bad way. Have realised something about myself which I will NOT “share” this minute with anyone until my son comes home. He knows good news when he sees them in my eyes. It’s so embarrassing I might have to take my findings to my grave. That’s why you should never trust autobiographies: They are heavily edited. And biographies are next to useless – even if I say so myself since I love reading them – because I know, for a fact, that should anyone ever attempt mine, they will know little of what really went on in my head. It’ll be pure fiction. Speculation. Psycho rubbish conjecture babble.

Veering off the original subject: Parks.

To cut to the chase: I managed to make a mega arse of myself. Don’t smirk. Think back to the last time you did  if you can remember it, and if you ever; the latter unlikely since most of you have managed to give me impression of being the upright wonderful human beings without a flaw to the every fibre you are (that does not include the guy who makes nuisance calls to Lady Con at 5 in the morning – maybe it’s Lord Con testing the waters. Worse ruses have been applied. Should you be interested I will re-tell a centuries old Italian novella in which a couple tested their being faithful to each other in a macabre and rather roundabout way. Let’s just say: Don’t. You’ll regret it; particularly if you are the man.)

Fresh air and movement – in the fancyful words of that detestable yet to be admired O’Hara woman as played by Vivien Leigh: Tomorrow is another day. Let’s hope it’s one during which I can mend my ways.


PS Have unearthed more material on punctuation. Magpie must have hung up his cloak since he is unexpectedly quiet on the subject. What I have found out is that in English “Doppelpunkt” (that’s Conrad) is ‘colon’. Which makes zero sense: It’s  points – two of them. Double. On top of each other. Like a high rise building. Anyway this will keep since, whilst the fork ran away with the spoon, an apostrophe is unlikely to leave this country and its language’s delightful intricacies. Mwah

January 17, 2011

Desire and the pursuit of the whole

If I had to sell the number one benefit of getting older it would be: You don’t care any longer what anyone thinks about you. My son considers this a pity; however, as long as I wear my leather jacket and my black and white gipsy skirt he  insists on taking me to some club somewhere in Southampton. Not that I can hear a word anyone is saying. A smile and a nod go a long way.

My parents too are less than convinced that this, my latest notion, is the way forward. Forward is not necessarily the direction best advised. You are more likely to bump into something by reversing. Sideways, like crabs, will also add to the sodding drama your life will be if only you’d let it. Most people – being control freaks – don’t let their life go up that Sisyphean slope. They nestle at the bottom of the mountain hoping that nothing – not even a tiny little rock – will dislodge itself and fall into their well maintained Schornstein. What’s Schornstein in English? Chimney. When did you last see a working chimney sweep? No wonder the world and its bride are falling apart. Should you get the chance please do watch “The Water Babies” (with the truly evil Alan Bates). The book is good; but for once the film is better. Sunday afternoon being the most suitable slot for such soppiness.

How did I get here? BHB sent me something about women. I couldn’t agree more apart from the whiskey – a bit of a lame end. Every man needs a woman. Particularly if he is gay. Someone to keep him on the strait and narrow.  A shoulder to soak. Tell that one of the more recent loves of my life. If he applied to be a loss leader he’d be in with a chance. Gays – by definition – have a narcisstic streak. They are good at keeping house and the kitchen clean and all that, and they smell good and are clean shaven; I dimly remember a black and white film in which a gay guy helps some hapless unmarried pregnant girl (back in the fifties) to keep her baby, but on the whole, and I have to include even my beloved Truman Capote and Tennessee Williams, many others, not least that so admired by me bastard Gore Vidal (Americans: No, not Vidal Gore), they do have capacity to get on your nerves – big time. Or they just won’t talk to you any more. First they make verbal love to you  then you utter the slightest  disapproving nothing and you are out on your ear. My very first gay friend (to my knowledge), with a sweet temper and an equilibrium unrivalled by any of his successors, was – performing to stereotype – a hairdresser. No joke. True. The guy was divine. Tall, blond and blue eyed, finely boned. He was gorgeousness personified, and a dress sense to match. Naturally, my then boyfriend who later became father of my son, had nothing but disdain for this creation out of God’s picture book. Oh, how I loved going out with him on a Saturday night. People would take us for a couple. So no one hit on me, though occasionally I had to let him trail off into the night. Once back home he’d knock at the one wall our flats were sharing. Peter, sweet Peter. Wonder what’s become of him. His main love interest at the time a policeman – bike, leather and all. Never be deceived by a macho exterior.

Well, wish I could tell you about the loss leader. Alas he is in the public eye – and whilst his vanity has let me down big time my upbringing has taught me the importance of being discreet. Hope he’ll remember that when he starts writing his memoirs.

High kinks,


Next Page »

Create a free website or blog at