Bitch on the Blog

June 20, 2018


Filed under: Amusement,Pretentious Shit,Psychology — bitchontheblog @ 12:57
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There are some truly idiotic sayings worming their existence into the communal psyche. Why do you think I rarely quote anyone? At this point I shall refrain from rolling my eyes at one particular blogger who repeats herself over and over and over, using the same quote. Albeit her quoting herself. Which is something. Nevertheless, I have come to avoid her and her staple like the plague. Yes, so bitching out of the way, here is a fake pearl:

“The way you do anything is the way you do everything.” I shall spare the author blushes by not naming him.

Is that true for you, dear readers? Certainly not for me. I am a pretty thorough and meticulous person which doesn’t stop me from being slapdash to the point of negligence where and when I feel the end result, and how I get there, doesn’t matter. Don’t press me for an example. Which in itself is an illustration.

Eerie. Had strange deja vu: Have I touched on this subject before? The moment I start repeating myself (without good cause) will be the moment I retire from life. Keep me on my toes.



June 17, 2018

Rachel, the Exterminator

“Annihilate” the Germans? I’d watch my language, Rachel, if I were you.

Deleted yours,


June 13, 2018


Filed under: Adults,Amusement,Children,Family,Fun — bitchontheblog @ 12:09
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Just came across an article (not in the English press) about that sweet pain you feel when, as an adult, you tread, barefoot and in the dark, on a piece of Lego – or some such. A pain that I have never encountered despite being a devoted mother.

The article then goes on about how to make a child’s room tidy. Tidy? What is it with adults and TIDY? Strange when you think about it: An artist is excused for paint and canvas flying all over the place, professors are expected to be scatter brained putting the goose into the fridge instead of the oven, writers if pressed won’t know what time of the day it is never mind the day, yet children have to be tidy. I will expand on the outrageous demands being made on children another time.

In the meantime I remember my father once walking into the room my sister and I deemed our empire (in today’s prat lingo – private space). If my sister were five then I was eleven. So he came into our room. Nothing untoward till he opened our cupboard. I remember the moment. The cupboard was painted baby blue and was about the height of a man slightly taller than my father.

Yes. Dreamy … Sunday afternoons are designed for fathers to find something to do.

It was one of the more astonishing moments of my childhood when he turned over the cupboard, decanting all our precious belongings into the middle of the room, amounting to a heap of epic height, putting the (now empty) cupboard back upright and told us to TIDY up (in the motherland’s lingo it sounds more frightening).

I don’t think either of us cried. More like, we thought “What a ….” Not of course that either of us spoke English at the time or had the vocabulary to put what seemed a little OUT of ORDER into words.

Inspection two hours later most satisfactory.  For him.



June 7, 2018

Nerve Centre

Sometimes I wish I were given to headaches. They are a marvellous excuse to retreat from life when it gets heavy. You just lie in a darkened room. Come to think of it that’s probably why I don’t have headaches. The thought of lying in a darkened room with nothing to do not appealing to me.

My first mother’s-in-law choice of weapon to shut up her brood and her husband were sudden, if predictable, onsets of migraine. Not that I doubted her migraines. I didn’t. I have seen migraines in action, not least one of my colleagues (I was her sidekick) working in her darkened office, tears involuntarily streaming down her face with the pain of it.

Alas I am not [given to headaches]. I remember two; what’s called tension headaches, in my early twenties, in quick succession. They were amazing. My head in some sort of crushing my skull vice grip. Nearly pushing me over the edge. I’d have killed (a fly) for some morphine.

What brought on this sudden thought of headaches? Maybe my quest for eighty days in the desert. After serving life in blogland. If only I weren’t such a people person I’d love a silent retreat. But then, I suppose, being self employed, leading a nine to five solitary life, solitude which I have cherished from my earliest childhood, I engage with people more than people who are drowned in people.

Tell me about your headaches. Real, imagined, metaphorical ones. In absence of any of the above, toothache will do. Backache. Pain in the neck. Stubbed toe.  Pulled muscle. Which reminds me: Last night, bloody hell, one of my calves took it upon itself to remind me of its existence. What a cramp!



June 6, 2018


Early this evening I cut off seven heads. I then gutted the bodies. Butterflied them by gently pressing my hand down the back of their spine and removing same, namely their backbone. And, no, I did’t call any of them Nick by the time they were spineless. I doused them with hot smoked pepper and fried them in olive oil. Served with Padron peppers and other full in your face delicacies.

Yes, sometimes you need to bloody your hands before stuffing your face. Admittedly I only do this with fish. Possibly because, when very very very young (between the age of five and later) I went fishing with my grandfather. First we dug dewy earth and caught the early morning’s worm. Then we set out. On a rowing boat.  In the middle of the (small) lake he’d cast the line. And we’d wait. Quietly. Smiling at each other in conspiracy. I think watching my grandfather reeling in fish of some size – giving a little slack, reeling in, giving a little slack, reeling in, slack, patience and calm – is how I learned to conduct my relationships.

Back at the shore, bucket with fish unloaded, poured onto the grass, my grandfather showed me how to kill. Tool being a piece of fairly substantial wood. Essentially, a bit like Agatha Christie and the butler in the library, a wack at a precise spot just below the back of the head the most benign way to be dispatched if you are a fish. After the gutting, it was over to my grandmother to fry them into a feast. Happy memories.

Six of tonight’s fish heads looked resigned to their fate, Zen like. Number seven looked astonished (mouth wide open). Know how he felt. Whilst I tend to keep my mouth shut other than when smiling (default mode) I too am astonished at times what life has in store for you.


June 5, 2018

794 words

The last few days haven’t been good. I shouldn’t admit to it since those who are less than well disposed towards me will make good use of it.

Still, shame is mine, so admitting to having made a mega mistake serves me right.

The Angel thinks blogging isn’t good for me, isn’t my medium. He was pretty pissed off seeing me under the weather because of some blogging fockers making me into something I am not. What the Angel doesn’t understand is that I don’t mind the fockers. Let them gorge themselves on my innards. What’s it to me? I can go without. The prospect of forty days in the desert amounting to bliss. Make it eighty.

No, what pisses me off big time and put me out of sorts the last few days that people in blogland can make up any old story about you. Well, I suppose even that is digestible. What upset me the most how one Rachel turned on me, again, just as I thought she and I had turned a corner. It was good while it lasted.

Over the years I got to know her, via her blog and comments she left on others, I often thought her vaguely unhinged; so are many people. Doesn’t make them lepers to be avoided. But to actually, on the strength of one post of mine nothing to do with her (now deleted), to get her claws out again, her throwing my offer of friendship aside,  is unsettling. And yes, upsetting. I replied something to the effect that she isn’t the center of my universe and that that post was actually addressing someone else. Didn’t wash. It’s incredible that someone thinks all revolves around them. I suppose a psychologist would have field day. Which reminds me … oh dear, now I am laughing. Why I am laughing is for that circle to never find out (I am sworn to silence) and for me … well, laugh, I suppose. Yes, Circle Sweethearts, you don’t know the half of it. In the meantime stick to Chloe.

Yes, Chloe. She is an interesting character. I am not saying that because John and Rachel have decreed that I am Chloe.

Chloe is a character in her own right. She is a thorn in some sides. To the tune that some call her a troll. As we all know any self respecting blogger does have to have a troll. A bit like the Sculptor who – beast that he is – grabbed me, in despair and absence of anyone else, to be able to claim that he has a stalker. Stalkers (ask Nick – he reads all the right papers and magazines) are the latest fashion accessory. If you can’t claim you are being stalked you amount to nothing, nada, zilch. In absence of a real life stalker just make one up, a bit like what sculptors do. Making it up. With their chisel.

Back to Chloe. Whilst often I don’t get her point (say, when she mentions that Rachel, Cro and John are old – what’s that got to do with the price of cheese?), she also delivers some absolute pearls. Laugh out loud pearls. And she appears to be well read, intelligent. Yesterday, she recommended Rosa von Praunheim to John. John who doesn’t know whether he or his bulldog Winnie has farted, can’t differentiate one bit of snot from another, immediately dismissed her suggestion to google RvP. That’s what he does. Dismiss. Think again, John. Rosa (not his real name, his assumed name) did make films. Acclaimed films. Maybe that is what brought him to Chloe’s mind considering that your blog is called “Disasterfilm”. Or maybe the fact that Rosa is gay.  Which influenced material matter of his films. What the hell am I doing? Next I know Chloe will berate me for second guessing her intentions. Never mind. I am getting it from all sides. One more won’t matter.

Lost my thread there. Yes, Rachel. I am upset that dinghy overturned. Wonder what would have happened, as has many times in my life on account of my father’s career us moving every five minutes, if I had come up to her, on my first break in my new school, never shy being forward: “Would you like to be my friend?” She’d probably spat at me.  Her being full of fear, suspicion. Always seeing the bad instead of giving the good a chance. Fast forward a few decades and something that never happened to me has happened to me. Rejected outright. Maybe Chloe will have me.

I’ll shed one more tear on behalf of Rachel gone wrong and then put her – between John and Nick – into my hall of shame. The key is under the mat.

Hugs, hisses and general disenchantment,


June 4, 2018

When it’s good it’s good when it’s bad it’s worse

Filed under: blogging — bitchontheblog @ 22:47
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You know what’s great about blogging? Neither do I. Some of the time.

John has finally lost the plot. I tried (I actually typed “tired” at first attempt) and that is what I am. Tired. Tired. Tired. Tired. Of being accused of being Chloe.

Chloe is a bit of a mischief maker. Bloggers leaning towards hysteria, excited by the dullness of their own lives, call her a troll. Define troll.

So far so fine. For some time (a couple of years or so) a rumour has been peddled in the same circle, that I am Chloe. There also was a P character who serves no purpose. She/he (P) once called all my commentators arseholes. But anyway, a certain circle deemed me to be Ursula, Chloe and P rolled into one. And then there was Clive.

Please don’t call that circle big headed, them imagining that one Ursula spends her time on different personas to make their lives more interesting.

As rumours go you have to hand it to this one. It persists. Like dandelion. Not easily rooted out. At least dandelion is yellow (my favourite colour) first – before you enjoy blowing its seeds in the wind.

Back to John and his pal Rachel. Rachel and I nearly made it, in the last few days, in the first tentative steps towards something akin to friendship. I was happy. I like peace.

Naturally it all fell apart because Rachel appears to suffer from mild paranoia. No sooner is there light on the horizon no sooner does she think I am the devil. Or Chloe.

John? John, the Samaritan, previous psychiatric nurse, retired, needs his head examined. Some months ago he emails me, telling me that he KNOWS I am not Chloe. Today? Today he leaves (on Rachel’s blog) this charming comment: “Three bloggers only two people.” Let’s leave aside that Chloe doesn’t have a blog. It was only Rachel, Chloe and myself commenting. Until John came along.

Yes, three bloggers only two people.

You know something, John? You are deranged. I know you are having problems with the Prof. No need to take it out on the innocent.

If you want me to destroy YOUR reputation keep going. And no, I wouldn’t touch you with a barge or any other pole, despite you, out of your head, promising “Come near me and your boney arse will be whipped into a police cell quicker than lightening.” Come again? Lightning, as Magpie pointed out to you – to ill effect.

Come to think about it what do you know about my behind? But yes, I am slim. So, I suppose, bonny, not boney, will do.

None of the above shit matters, other than that I can’t believe I engaged with someone like you, John. As I said before: You (and Nick) are one of the few, and lonely, entries into my life’s hall of shame.

Going for a walk because that’s what I do when I need to walk something off.

Having got back from my walk the above still stands – publish button here you come …

Hours later … my publish button on hold as life called … good old Sculptor chimes in on Rachel’s blog with “Well, if I ever get the grief that you have had from either [he is referring to the mystical Chloe and me], I pledge to rip the shit out of both of them. I am very good at that.”

You are good at that, Tom, are you? Ripping the shit out of people?

What grief, Tom? The grief Rachel has given ME? If you like I send you a copy of our email exchange of the last few days. There was a friendship in the making. Then Rachel goes off her trolley. As she does, periodically, with both John and you.

But, yes, I know, I know, it’s all good fun among, it’s banter, it’s humoUr I don’t understand since I am not British. According to John I am “not invited”. Which reminds me, John: Blogs are an open market place. If you want an invitation only then make your blog private.

I can’t believe what a bunch of as yet to be named wildlife I have let myself be led astray by. Five and a half hours to go and I’ll find refuge once more among the most sane of your circle, good old Cro. He may be as mad as a hatter when it comes to politics, think me stupid in return, but at least he knows his onions, mushrooms and all else that is worth some attention. An oasis of calm.

In the meantime, whilst I haven’t found God, I have found Yorkshire Pudding. And what a find he is.


PS Please do remember, should you never hear from me again, the almighty Sculptor will have “ripped the shit out of me”. Come to think of it, Tom: My digestion is excellent. There will be little if any shit to be ripped out of me. Thanks for the offer all the same. I like light relief.

June 3, 2018


Filed under: Amusement,Beauty,Earth,Nature — bitchontheblog @ 12:11
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Once a month we have a Farmer’s Market here, right at my doorstep. Prices are eye watering if you don’t have money. If you do [have money] it seems perfectly priced considering the amount of love, time and effort that goes into a jar of honey, the making of a loaf of bread, catching fish, growing a big fat pot of basil, making a hand raised pie.

Yesterday, there was a new addition among the stalls. Meadow flowers. I took one look, fled back upstairs and cried. Just a little. Meadow flowers. Some of you may have noticed that occasionally I refer back to my being four/five years old. That’s how it was yesterday morning. The memory of the meadows of my happy earliest childhood.

Once I’d composed myself I went back to the stall and picked a few stems, as one does in a meadow.

Happiness lies in the tiniest, most modest of small things. And sometimes happiness brings many a tear in its wake. The window sill along my desk now being my meadow. Little heads nodding in the slight summer breeze coming from the sea.

Sea: When I phoned my mother yesterday afternoon she indulged in her love of water, oceans in particular. She does paint such a picture of water, swimming in it, the smell of water. That we didn’t drown in the process only due to fact that she now lives close to a river. Then, in return, I painted her a picture of my beloved meadows.  It was only afterwards, and it made me laugh, that I realized that she was born under a water sign, and my feet are firmly rooted on earth. Indulge me.



June 1, 2018


Filed under: death,Ethics,Food — bitchontheblog @ 13:39
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You can’t help but feel for a guy whose mother was dying on Wednesday, her still hanging on on Friday, reflecting on his blog about his dietary aberrations in the meantime. I dearly hope she left him some chicken soup in the freezer to heat up when she has finally snuffed it. They say chicken soup is good for the soul.



May 31, 2018

Disappointed and angry

For the benefit of those readers who have the patience and interest to engage with me I will stop recording my ongoing exasperation in blogland soon. I don’t wish to bore you. But the remnants of what is left of a recent saga I will play out. If it costs me. After all, what is blogging if not playing out in public?

In the wake of my last post John has nothing to say other than (left on Nick’s blog):

“Ursula , it’s time to grow up. You’ve been told to leave. You were not invited.
Grow up and stop this persecution complex.” John is great on telling people what to do, what not to do. His kids are lucky that he didn’t have them.

I’ll come back to you, John. It won’t make pleasant reading.

So, I have “a persecution complex”, do I, (among all my other mental health issues prescribed to me by some of John’s circle)?  And you, NICK, have the fucking nerve to let that stand underneath a post in which you lament people in blogland being “psychologized”? Are you actually with it? You THANK him??????????????

Anyway, I take it, in good news, your mother hasn’t died yet. Which is great. Not least because you’ll be able to use that same punchline you used on me AGAIN – on someone else.

If I weren’t such a forgiving person I could kick myself, from here to the next water cooler, that I didn’t stop when I knew I was connecting with a couple of losers. Yes, Nick, as you say, whilst I wouldn’t call myself obtuse, you are right (“Some people are obtuse to the point of idiocy”), I certainly have proven myself to be an idiot by engaging with you (and John). Bloody hell. Never mind. We all have a hall of shame. Mine is pretty empty. So thanks, Nick and John for filling a void.

You, John, you’ll have something to look forward to. In another post. You know, the one when I bow to your command. Who “the fuck (John lingo)” do you think you are, John, to talk to me like that?





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