Bitch on the Blog

May 5, 2018

Debt to pleasure

Conceited bastard that I am I rarely quote anyone, preferring to make up my own “shit” (reference John’s assessment of my merits). There are exceptions to my rule and here is one, courtesy of Frederic Mistral:

“Aioli epitomises the heat, the power and the joy of Provencal sun, but it has another virtue – it drives away flies.”

Made me think of the limitations of communicating in the virtual world: How not so much DRIVE away flies as not to ATTRACT them in the first place. Or, worse, not to BECOME a pesky fly yourself.

On this happy note I am certain the aioli I am just about to make won’t curdle.




April 11, 2018


Just came across one of those marvels, nay, marbles: “Your logic is right”.

Let’s leave aside that the person who this accolade was bestowed upon didn’t employ logic. They stated an opinion. A variety of which you can find on many a blogger’s armchair wisdom of how to deal with world affairs. Why some of them aren’t ashamed of both stating the obvious or think that their three short paragraphs amateur assessment of how best to handle the Syrian conflict (for example) holds water in a balloon easily punctured, I don’t know. Actually, I do know. It’s called inflation. Of what? Don’t ask. I have more needles than time to prick balloons.

Yes, so, “Your logic is right”, the innocent sycophant tells their blogging icon. My question, and it’s a genuine one, not least one for Looney: Can logic ever be wrong? Or isn’t logic, by its definition* and when employed correctly, always right?


*”logic – reasoning conducted or assessed according to strict principles of validity”. Up to and including “strict principles” my world was in order. “… of validity”? It’s a bit like a slippery and very lively eel wriggling its way to freedom and confounds all I think logic stands for.

March 25, 2018

Alternative Comment Box – Concept(ion) and Implementation

Sometimes one falls so much in love with an idea you forget why it was conceived; what its purpose is.

To remind myself: I conceived, and fell in love with, “Alternative Comment Box” when I realized that whilst people can, and will, arbitrarily, shut you up on their turf [comment boxes] – not by putting up a valid point but taking the short cut of the delete button – I can be their fog horn.

My Alternative Comment Box initially concentrated on the Three Muscle Tears (Gray John, Joyous Rachel and Charmless Sculptor). However, the Alternative Comment Box’s magic that I can comment on anything any way I like.

So before my interest vanes in those whose comment boxes I no longer soil: Foam, put your view, foam, don’t put your view. Sulk instead. Sully my name further by weeping at each others’ shoulders. The latter, only yesterday, so weakly illustrated by Gray John, lost and without direction, throwing himself at Spineless Nick’s mercy with: “Speaking of arguing… U has now turned on me rather than you! How delightfully boring “. Let’s leave aside that I didn’t “turn” on anyone. Nick, ever ready to jump to the defense of damsels in distress, hands John a starched handkerchief with the immortal words of comfort: “Oh dear. She seems to be fixated on you for some reason. What can you do but delete?”

Indeed, what CAN you do? You ain’t exactly spoiled for choice, are you?

If only you knew how much amusement the two of you provide me with you’d go back to the drawing board and devise a new ball game. Not, of course, that balls is your game.

I won’t dissect Gray John’s comment. It smacks of despair and, as he said, it’s “boring”. So not “delightful”. And, hadn’t you made thundering announcements in recent days that you were finished with me? Never mind. You are only human. Let’s turn to Spineless Nick’s reply instead. Nick appears to not have grasped why I am “fixated” on Gray John. Do some revision, Nick. Leave “fixated” out and concentrate on matter in hand. Where poor Spineless Nick lets himself down is his inspired, if lacklustre, advice of “What can you do but delete?” Indeed, Nick, what can YOU do? One may suggest engaging in discussion but don’t test yourselves to the limit.

Other than that, Nick, and take it slowly as not to test your faculties of comprehension: There is nothing to “delete”. Why? As I don’t comment on your respective patches any longer there is nothing to delete; the matter being out of your hands. The ACTION, Nick, the ACTION is all here. Here, where no one can delete me as I will NOT delete YOU. Got anything to say? Say it. Here. On The Alternative Comment Box.

And before you start, Nick: Don’t push it by sniffling “yes, but I never deleted you”. No, you didn’t. You outsourced. If you wish me to go into detail I will – though I’d rather not as not to disillusion WWW who considers you a friend. Not, of course, that one can’t entertain vaguely questionable friends.


March 21, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, Finals – Weed control

Let’s do the twist, Sweethearts, and put a different spin on “trolling”.

Not yet widely recognized, largely unacknowledged, there are bloggers trolling their commentators … usually the very same bloggers who cry “troll” at anyone who displeases them in the comment box. 

Got that? Bloggers trolling their commentators …

Leaving aside that most true trolls are men, the same study goes into some detail, and it doesn’t make comfortable reading, WHY (some) male bloggers troll their female readers/commentators.


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 12, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, 6 – Priorities

Filed under: Communication,Ethics,Formalities,inexcusable,Integrity,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 23:05
Tags: , ,

As I named my last post Nick, I could have named this post JOHN. Not least because it is an open letter to John. But, as he is unable to get his priorities right, I named the post Priorities. So far so nothing.

Just as I thought the dust was settling despite spineless Nick’s intervention I left this comment on John’s blog. For readers to understand: John has had a bladder infection which I commented on, a comment which, jippee, was allowed to stand. He is now back among the living and I left him, subsequently under another of his posts, this little morsel of hope by way of ancedote:

“Such is your presence in blogland that I find it vaguely unsettling when there are longer than usual intervals as to updates of your daily travails. You doing a Hippo (three years) would be unthinkable, nay unbearable, to your loyal (make that addicted) readers.

My insight as follows of no useful interest to you; however, just like you, once upon a time I too knew, and was never further away than a sprint, all public loos in the vicinity. No, I didn’t have a bladder infection. I was pregnant (and deliriously happy because of it). During the first three months the as yet barely noticeable does press on your bladder; during the next three months bladder and baby find some accommodation so false sense of security will descend on you; then (and the Angel was growing big time) during the last trimester overpopulation, density and duress issues wrestling for limited space were battling it out. Not that you would ever guess looking at the Vanity Fair issue of Demi Moore on the cover (August 1991). We were gone as far as each other. Wonderful photo.

Good luck, John; wishing you speedy recovery and no repercussions.


Heartfelt comment. Personal comment. Giving an insight into  dear moments of my life. Not to be pissed on one would have thought. Pissed on it will.

What do I find a few hours later? Let no one be the judge but the judges

John’s Blog

Ursula5:30 pm

  1. This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.




    I have just read your comments about nick. I am therefore deleting your posts here


    For which spineless Nick duly did say “Thank you”. The way you look out for each other so touching.

Dear John, what the hell does my comment to YOU have to do with Nick? Spineless Nick who, from nowhere, has conjured up all sorts of commentators (in your blog’s comment boxes) supporting his whining about me – oddly none of them having a traceable blog of their own.

You then leave me a comment under my post “Nick” : “Like I said Ursula I am worried about your obsession with being crossed , it’s unhelpful and inappropriate.”

No need to worry about ME. Worry about YOUR priorities, John.

Nick comes first. You push me over the cliff. Fine. I make my mistakes, you make your mistakes, Nick made a mistake, and let’s hope that other people are wiser than the three of us.

Spineless Nick and I have been in correspondence for years. Suddenly it occurs to him that I am a pain. And uses your blog to tell all and sundry about the fact that he is a piece of jelly I never gave up trying to nail to his cross. His sudden grief over me helped not just by you but by untraceable commentators. Wow. What a man. Or is he?

Talking of men. Please do pass on to Nick (he won’t like it – or maybe he’ll thank you again) that you, John, are far more MAN than his spineless graceless Nickness. At least you keep communication open (let’s forget your trigger happy deleting my comments as if I were a kid sent to the naughty step), addressing me directly.

I am not sure what your expression “crossed” means. Crossed as in double crossed? Sure. You say MY “obsession” is “unhelpful and inappropriate”. I’d say Rachel’s, the Sculptor’s, yours and Nick’s obsession with me is, I don’t know, … something? An obsession? “Unhelpful and inappropriate”? Why do the four of you need a punching bag? United you stand, eh? Heroes. Safety in numbers. As punching bags go you should have chosen more wisely. But, yes, to give you some satisfaction and not let your combined efforts go in vain, you did manage to make me a little tearful. Just once. A little. Not much. No water was wasted. Salt of the Earth.

You, John, You John, you of all people making yourself a mouthpiece for shitters who can’t wipe their own arses. What a pity and a waste of energy and good will.

Well, in the words of someone dear to me, the most gorgeous gay guy of all time, who once feared I was writing him a “Dear John” letter (I wasn’t) …


March 6, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, 5 – Fishy

Filed under: blogging,Communication,Formalities,Psychology,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 17:53
Tags: ,

Earlier today, a blogger writes, in response to a post on a THIRD party blog: “You can’t beat Marks and Spencer’s food hall, much better than Waitrose. “

I remark:

“Depends what you are after, Rachel. Whilst M&S quality is excellent with prices to match, try Waitrose’s fresh fish counter. It’s paradise, equal to my local independent fish monger – unless you don’t eat fish in which case it’s probably your idea of hell. Hot tip of the day: Friday you’ll get 20 % off your catch.”

Can anyone explain to me why this, my, comment was taken down?


March 1, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box – Interval 2

On good news, this afternoon I was briefly reminded of the joys of my childhood’s snow: We haven’t had this much in one day, here at the South Coast of England, in years. It’s lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely. What is, obviously, not so lovely that the English tend to go into siege mentality, a type of hysteria. Cubic meters of the white stuff other countries conquer easily make some English go into melt(!)down.

Anyway, minimalists and all those of you lumbered with people difficult to give presents to because they have everything money can buy and afflicted by that certain ennui that comes with saturation, here is your perfect dinner party gift for the host with most except nothing:

Just before arrival at and on said host’s doorstep, you gather as much snow as possible, preferably the kind that sticks together to allow you to sculpt it into, say, a snowball. Make it round. Perfectly round. Hand it to your host/ess who, naturally, will shrink away from it but reconsider in a second since it’s impolite to refuse a gift. Fast forward to dessert, nay, after dinner coffee: Your present will have melted. Gently. Leaving little trace other than a tiny puddle of water. Genius or what?



February 26, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, 3 – Making Hay

Call me naive. If you call me “stupid”, several attempts of which have been made, I won’t take you seriously. If there is one thing I KNOW I am not it’s stupid. If you insist I suggest that you are too lazy to counter anything of mine you don’t agree with in well reasoned argument. Taking shortcuts with me rarely pays. Unless I think you beyond redemption.

You may remember my recent piece “Crash Landing” which, despite being lauded as “excellent”, I decided to take down, albeit briefly. It will be reinstalled; I need to edit the bit on the Samaritan quite heavily as he does deserve better. It’s not his fault that he has fallen for the lure of both the charmless Demented Sculptor and the even less charming Ms Misery. Blessed be those (the Samaritan) who know no better. As I said the other day, in the motherland’s forests of old “it’s mitgefangen, mitgehangen” – roughly translated as “if you are caught among thieves you’ll hang too”. Such are the realities of the world. Which is why, see above, you may call me naive. Naive is a good starting point in blogland; plenty of scope for my eyes to pop wide open in wonderment.

Far be it from me to elicit pity for either Demented Sculptor and Ms Misery who have no compunction to share their respective, though small, miseries with the world. Ms Misery’s misery rarely stretches beyond her local weather report, amply if not ably, supported by one of her photos taken in the middle of nowhere in Outer Siberia or equally miserable places. If all else fails she will tell you what she had or is going to have “for tea” (no foreign muck for her). That’s in between advocating hanging, deriding the EU, stroking Trump’s ego’s bald and bold spots and spouting off on conflict in lands far and beyond [her comprehension]. If you want to know where the world is at go to the Oracle aka Ms Misery. Leaving aside that the Bible’s Rachel was one of two wives and a mother (the latter surely a source of joy) neither of which applies to our Rachel, let’s consider the meaning of her name: “Ewe” – a female sheep. I like Feta, very much so – my most recent revelation the delights of frying it.

Where were we? The assorted miseries of Demented Sculptor and Ms Misery. Now, Demented Sculptor (who would make a most entertaining friend of mine if only he let himself) is more subtle than Ms Misery when displaying his miseries. He makes attempts, with varying results, to send himself up with a smidgen of what he prides himself on, namely “humoUr”. I do find that people who harp on about the abundance of their OWN humoUr, and lament lack of same in others, tend to be bores. To put it another way, if you need to point out props for others to appreciate you you may be better off without them [props that is].

The above will suffice for the moment. Gently does it. More instalments about my misadventures with Ms Misery and Demented Sculptor to look forward to. I hope Demented Sculptor will forgive me if I concentrate mostly, though not exclusively, on Ms Misery as her fountain of absent charm and attempts to bulldoze her readers into submission give me a lot of bone with plenty of meat to put my fangs into.

In the meantime let me drizzle a little sunshine on the miserable and a lot of sunshine on the less than miserable,


February 22, 2018

Audible sigh

Is there anything worse (outside that which is far worse) than being afflicted by a sense of “disenchantment”? There isn’t. Disenchantment has potential (if you let it) to suck the oxygen out of your blood.

To understand why disenchantment is the pits for me, do look no further than Ramana’s last comment: “If I remember right, many moons ago, I called you an effervescent person during one of our very intense exchanges. I still think of you as one.” That’s me. Effervescent. It comes natural. Until I come across some fuckers whose mission in life to dampen ardour, to extinguish fire, to stamp out passion, to trample over rhyme, to spit on reason, to prove themselves the arseholes my father taught me, and my son implores me, to avoid.

Since when do I learn but the hard way? Thousands of years and their history  may have gone before my mother didn’t abort me yet here I am trusting in the good of the world. And quite justifiably so. To pull a figure out of my magic hat I’d say 91 % of people are good (defined by their own demographic). And then there are the bigots. The know it all. The ones pointing fingers. Go and chop some wood instead. You might lose a finger for the greater good.

I am warming to the theme. No greater arsehole will you meet than the one who advocates chopping someone’s hand off for stealing a pot of fois gras (not because of the stealing, but because it’s the last jar that he himself had set his eyes on) .

Mustn’t lose my thread. Disenchantment. Yes, it’s mine. In the blogging world. Never mind. May the self righteous gorge on their blandness, their blinkers, their shutting down shutters before closing time. Tragedy being that despite their excesses they are unlikely to be sick.

I am not talking about my blog and its readers. My readers’ comments, intelligent, challenging, willing, open, thoughtful, witty, wistful, make my blog disenchantment free. If you can be judged by the company you keep I’d say I am most fortunate.

Venturing out in the big wide world of some bloggers so closed off they don’t know when they lock horns with their own horizon? I do so, joyfully, at both my peril and enjoyment. On my head disenchantment be.


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