Bitch on the Blog

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 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
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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?


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 25, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, 2

Before I proceed to address the incomparable Rachel once more, note to myself: Why am I spending time  on someone who is so full of the disposable? Never mind, we all make our own amusement.

Sunday, 25 Feb 2018 – 0505 hrs GMT – not sent, to spare her deleting me.

“Dearest Rachel, following your recent and most admirable call to “compromise” on the political stage, my reply to which you, naturally (what a predictable creature you are), deleted, I note with interest that you are now calling for hanging.

In my mind’s eye I have no difficulty to imagine you right there, in the front line of the lynch mob. Think old, think film, think black and white, think law and own hands. How romantic. Trees come to mind. And you, being a farmer’s daughter, will have some rope (to take the cows up to the alm) always at the ready. That’s the props in place.

No one on a mission is without their supporters. Which you have found, so ably and so articulate, in the Anonymous Deb,xx. Your exchange so exhilarating, so intellectually stimulating – and I quote in Italics to put some mileage between you and me:

“Anonyomous 24 February 2018 at 20:29

Oh I so agree with you Rachel and I also think that bringing back hanging would cure alot of it instead of them spending chushy time in jail.There is no cure for these evil bastards so just get rid and dispose of them.The streets would be alot safer then for all of us,Debi,xx

Rachel 24 February 2018 at 21:12
It would do this country a favour if we hanged Levi Bellfield and Ian Huntley that’s for sure. What good are they to anybody. Murderers, liars, scum of the earth.

Anonymous24 February 2018 at 22:12
I could add a load more to that list as well Rachel!,Why keep them in prison…Just get rid..Oh,do we have to worry about their human rights??.As far as Im concerned,they dont have any.Debi,xx”

I particularly like those kisses. Signs of affection.

Yes, Debi,xx, ” … bringing back hanging would cure a lot of it instead of them spending chushy time in jail”. Your innocence is touching. It would “cure”? “A lot”? We are not talking ham. “Chushy time in jail”? I think you mean “cushy”. Sure, very cushy. Particularly child molesters/murderers. They have one hell of a “cushy” number among their inmates. Honour among thieves and all that. If they are young, pert in bottom, they might have an even cushier time by being given a taster straight up the arse.

Anyway, Rachel, let me not disturb your and the adorable Debixx’s reveries. Don’t count on winning Clint Eastwood’s favour. I can see the look of disgust and utter disdain for you two harpies in his, oh so squinting in the sun, blue eyes now.


February 24, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, 1

Filed under: Amusement,blogging,Communication,Pretentious Shit,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 12:48
Tags: ,


Saturday, 24 Feb 2018 – 1223 hrs GMT – not sent, to spare her deleting me.

“Rachel, as is your trigger happy wont, keep shooting the messenger. I am the bearer of bad news: You appear to have lost the plot.

I do stand in awe, nay, my mouth wide open, at how you make the leap from some Oxford educated scientist and family man grooming young girls and now condemned to many years in jail  – to  England not being such a bad country, your hatred of Corbyn notwithstanding. As non sequiturs go you have excelled yourself.

Try again. What is it that excites your all over the place wrath today?




February 6, 2018

Crash landing

Filed under: Amusement,Communication,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 16:08
Tags: , , , ,

Note to Readers – 1 March 2018

Amended version of the post I published originally on 6 Feb and decided to remove briefly from the public eye as I felt I was too harsh on the Samaritan. Remember this whole current exercise of mine serves, among other purposes, one of promoting fairness and justice among correspondents communicating within the medium of blogging; a fairness and justice peculiarly absent in the morass of some of blogland’s back water comment boxes.

My (slight) edit is entirely on account of the Samaritan who, at his request, I shall not any longer refer to as the “Samaritan”. As John is as good a name as any, and as common as Ms Misery’s preference over “foreign muck”, I’d like to call him Hans. As I don’t wish to confuse either him or my readers, I’ll stick with John. That way he’ll recognize himself, as will Demented Sculptor and Ms Misery (sometimes I wonder whether I shouldn’t have named her better Ms Miserable or “Joy” for short).

6 February – “Crash Landing” (amended 1 March)

Apropos of nothing, just to take my mind of some weirdos in blogland, not least the demented Sculptor and Ms Misery who currently, for all the world to know, is waiting for an engineer to fix her dishwasher. Ms Misery, may I congratulate you on your ability to spell bind your readers, riveting in your often lamented (by yourself) absence of any original thought worth publishing.

Demented Sculptor, John and Ms Misery feed off each other. Occasional fall outs and strong reprimands among themselves not withstanding, language that even soap would do battle with, never mind any Rorschach test screwing up its face, they are as thick as thieves.

“Thick as thieves”. My previous version elaborates on being “thick” but I overdid it, being quite unfair on John’s account. So this section has been shortened. Thick – Each in their own way. In absence of any other evidence I blame the demented Sculptor’s mother for the many hang-ups her son wrestles with. Being dense let’s put at his father’s door. John? Well, pound for pound he probably matches the demented Sculptor in terms of chips on shoulders.  However, not slow on the uptake, he did marry a Professor.  I too occasionally mkae up for my own shortcomings by purchasing stilts.

Ms Misery keeps four cats. Which may explain why she has insatiable need to be top god, sorry dog, to stabilize her fragile ego. Her ego, you may call it spine, is so frail that John has often felt need to remind me that Ms Misery is of a tender disposition. Never mind that she is the same Ms Misery who gives short shrift to anyone who displeases her, telling hem to fuck off – that is how far her reasoning stretches. A dog will bark. Not Ms Misery. To her credit she recently shared with her readership the tribulations of her “bad teeth” (her words, not my assessment – how could I assess her teeth considering that she never smiles in any selfie she publishes?), so, take heart anyone who has the misfortune of crossing Ms Misery’s path: Her bite won’t make a dent.

Back to John. His downfall (which he shares with demented Sculptor and Ms Misery) that he needs to be liked. At all costs. He counts his blog’s followers. He records any who may fall by the wayside. Followers possibly disgusted at yet another streak mark or worse. Ms Misery does the same. Obsessively following her blog’s “stats”. That’s how I learnt how often I actually annoy her. “Annoy her”? She hates me. John has confirmed this to me – more than once. John is perfectly capable of imploring me to treat Ms Misery with kid gloves whilst standing by, aiding and abetting my not so fragile self being water boarded on all three respective blogs and in their comment boxes. My comments often deleted (that’s blog lingo for “buried”), letting theirs stand, tearing my reputation, in the eyes of other readers, apart.  If you want “skewed” look no further than, mainly, demented Sculptor’s comment box – he does have it down to a fine art; Ms Misery is more devious in laying cow pats before they are dried out.

Before you nod in agreement that I deserve everything I get, please may I remind you of one fact, and it’s an important fact: Even if I haven’t said a word, nada, for days, because I am bored with the lot of them, they will bring up my name. No doubt to see whether I am still willing to give them some bait they can get their blunt teeth into.

To give him a free standing paragraph all to himself, the reason being that early on in our conversation I called him “vain”, a throw away remark he has not forgiven me for despite repeated, if half hearted, apologies of mine: Demented Sculptor so demented, his reasoning so scrambled he wouldn’t amount to an omelette. In his despair at some sort of recognition, he has now sculpted me as his very own desirable fashion accessory: Namely, the stalker.

I am warming to the theme but, him being an artist, even the demented Sculptor, the master of deleting even the friendliest and most reasoned comment of mine, will agree: Sometimes you need to know when to let your work fly the nest and find its own way in the world.


October 10, 2017


Filed under: Amusement,Culture,Ethics,Integrity,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 22:59
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

First you wait for a rose to blossom, the next moment three skunks turn up.

Yes, so stink is where it’s at. I’d live another life if mine didn’t throw up a conundrum when I am already working on another. Just now, the most pressing, that “something” (I can’t be more specific) needs to be aired in the public’s interest. Forget interest. … should be brought to wider attention. HA. My intention may be good, even honourable. Enter the dreaded “but”. If I did air it’d hurt many – particularly one. Now one may be a skunk but even skunks have feelings to be considered. So whilst all worthy, even amusing, is it permissible to air how clever you are at the expense of a skunk or three?

Please say no.


July 31, 2017


Who’d have thunk it? My blogging tyre is flat. Not because I can’t think of anything to say. Quite the opposite. I always fire on all cylinders – yet, the desire to press “publish” momentarily eludes me. “Delete” does me fine.

The joy has gone.

Why? Most certainly not on account of bloggers who cheerfully “follow” me even if they don’t comment. Most certainly not on account of those who comment here – with unfailing wit, perception, occasional mockery, always thoughtful.

However, and I don’t like admitting to what I perceive a weakness, there have been forces out in the blogging world which have achieved the unthinkable – namely, my, the unsinkable’s, reluctance to put myself into the public arena any further.

Looking back over my life, I have never been bullied. I am not the type. Yet there is one blogger, ably supported by a weak cast, who has shown me the vile side of life on the playground which constitutes blogging.

I am torn. I could name him and shame him. But then I’d be playing HIS game. Makes you think, doesn’t it, how someone else’s maliciousness tempts you to repay in kind. It is to my utter, total, most heartfelt regret that I have decided not to fall for that ruse – as much pleasure as it would give me to tear the guy and his accomplices apart. He hasn’t got a leg, or any other appendage, to stand on. Still, I’d rather not be a facilitator.

Yes, so my joy communicating on the page has momentarily been stifled. Please don’t send chocolate or other sweet condolences. A lime will suffice.


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