Bitch on the Blog

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.


November 2, 2017


Brief annotation to my observations on bloggers.

There is a blogger. He doesn’t read my blog (literally and figuratively so his feelings are being spared, his dignity intact). He is interesting in many ways. Interesting in the way you put something under a microscope and marvel at its intricacies once they are visible through being magnified.

I have “known” and read him long enough to be able to predict which posts of his he will take down. Eventually. Consistently. That he takes them down is understandable. I wouldn’t have published them in the first place. What is less understandable that a man of a certain age and undoubted intelligence shows so little self restraint. Throw yourself on the page, only to retreat? Consistently?

When someone consistently takes themselves back, doesn’t stand by what they said earlier (lacking conviction?), I question their integrity. To put it another way: If that guy were a bridge I wouldn’t set foot on it. Too wobbly.



April 9, 2017

Not Trump – MY father

Filed under: Family — bitchontheblog @ 16:07
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This is pretty raw stuff since it only happened a few minutes ago.

Most of you, obviously, will have/had parents.  My father drives me to despair. I am trying, hard. The expenditure of energy when talking to him (on the phone) bears no relation to how terrible I feel afterwards. For ages.

The man doesn’t let me finish one thought, not even one sentence. If I make it to a comma I count myself lucky. Talking over me. Shouting down the line. Am I deaf? It’s awful.  

Bloody hell. It’s a Sunday afternoon, the sun is shining, I tried to phone my mother (she was out) served with my father answering the phone. Now I am sitting here, not exactly five years old any longer, crying. And yes, I did put the phone down on him, eventually. There are limits. And mine stretch far,

Leaving aside that he has always been overbearing, are we now entering that land of the lost old? The land where they are so obtuse they don’t know what they are doing? For heavens sake, I am the one of his children who loyally holds out. The one who is always at the end of the telephone line.  I can’t do this any more.

Anyway, any of you, please let me know what you think.

The odd thing is, my mother being four years older than my father (he will be eighty later this year) is who she always was (albeit physically wilting as roses do) – but fully compos mentis. My father? I hate to think of him like that but I think he becoming more of what he always was. And maybe – unlike his wife, my mother – not with it that much any longer. Or maybe, likely, he is just frustrated how his life has panned out.

I don’t know.

Pretty distraught,


August 13, 2016

Lady Chatterley

Filed under: Amusement,Observations — bitchontheblog @ 13:21
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Apart from the pleasure that communicating with others give me, my blogs and those of others have been and are an education.

An education not least how and when to keep my lips zipped, my keyboard locked and generally being “nice” [make the latter not say anything at all – which is the hardest].

I could (and, in due course, no doubt will) mention many an example where and when bloggers (including myself) could do with a lesson.

A lesson. Just now I happened onto a post (I think posted 12 August) of a blogger who is a harpy. And I mean a harpy. Her harpy always but always complains. Not least about her commentators. Mainly because they are American. In her eyes Americans have nothing to say. Other than “nice”. Which is fine. We all have a bone to bury and then dig up. In her case it’s Americans who are hooked on her. Gratitude? Don’t make me laugh. Disdain is her default mode. Does she lap up the adulation? Of course she does. Even if she spits on it.  So far so fine. Whatever sinks your boat.

What I don’t like – and maybe she’d like to think about it – that she allows comments yet never answers any of them. That’s not communication. That’s not discourse. Most certainly it’s not discussion. It’s “Come to my court”, and be dismissed.

As not to be misunderstood, I quite like her. Yet, truth be told, she is hard work as I have rarely encountered.

So, what got my wrath just now, reading her last post? She is a saint. A saint. Let’s leave it there before she recognizes herself as the saint she is.



May 14, 2013


Filed under: Future — bitchontheblog @ 16:13
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Don’t cry for me: Most my ‘social’ life is conducted on the phone. A bit hard on a person as tactile as I am. Doesn’t matter where I am. I am always HERE.

No, I am not wheelchair bound. I am as fast on my feet as what’s his name, the messenger whinging it. What I am is – always somewhere else. Mainly abroad. To top it all my passport has run out. I told longest standing friend (think sandpit) that I am now a prisoner of this island courtesy to my country’s laws and their London embassy’s mills turning slowly. Though they will give me an emergency passport should someone close and across the sea die. Die. What sort of difference does that make to the dead? Prisoner on this island. What friend said – he is very dry: “”You have been a prisoner on those isles for a long time.”

Fact is, passport not withstanding: In theory I can go where I want. But where do I want to go? If there is one thing I hate it is choice paralysis. And choice paralysis has set in. We need reason in life. Definition. And sometimes we realize that we have too much of a good thing. And too little of the other.


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