Bitch on the Blog

May 7, 2018

In search of balance and fairness

I’ll break up this post not only into paragraphs as one does but, for ease and accommodating those whose brain doesn’t work in more than bite size, into snippets. Each with its own header. A sort of mix and match, pick and choose Bonanza.

Snippet One

John left me comments. Two of them to the effect that I shouldn’t “badmouth” other bloggers. It’s a good job that I am who I am. Calm and blessed with an inordinate sense and appreciation of the ridiculous.

Snippet Two – trigger warning: Character Assessment.

The Resting in France Artiste, being given John’s advice, would be foaming at the mouth, trashing the place, stomping around, declaring all and sundry, not least me, STUPID.

Snippet Three – trigger warning: Character Building.

The Sculptor? With him you never know. He is considerably more refined – if ill mannered – than The Resting in France Artiste. In absence of anything more original and not applying any [humour] himself he’d just accuse me of lacking sense of humour. It’s his default mode. Stuck on the same track as crackling LPs were back when he was young (the Sixties?). Considering that the Sculptor works with not easily beaten into shape materials one would have thought his scope to communicate broader. And it is [broader, his scope]. It’s just he can’t be arsed. Don’t say I don’t give people the benefit of the doubt.

Snippet Four – trigger warning: Descaling.

How would Joyful Rachel have reacted being reprimanded by John or anyone else? Probably by closing down her blog for five minutes, making a big play of it, to then regale us with her various and never to be doubted insights into the world’s machinations. I can’t wait till she has wrestled down Schopenhauer’s The World as Will and Representation (Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung). Shouldn’t take her more than two and half days max to tell us that Nietzsche’s household was run by his sister. And wait for the horse. In Turin.

Snippet Five – trigger warning: Reflection whilst sitting in A&E

Who knew that there is such joy in taking the piss? I never did till the clique, as I call RiFA, JR and the Sculptor took a shining to me – the three of them propped up by John. I promised to stop calling John The Samaritan so I won’t. A pity in many ways because John is a good guy. Within their clique he has been given, or possibly sought, the role of care giver. He is the one running around with band aids, bandaging Rachel at every corner. She must be a work in progress. I look forward to the day, John having run out of bandages, the Sculptor taking a chisel to her stone to find the real Rachel underneath all those plasters and tears turned to salt. Let’s hope him unmasking her will make her smile. Just the once.

Snippet Six – trigger warning: Summoning up

John, and I mean it, I am touched that you engage with me despite dire threats to the contrary. Alas, and it made me smile, you asking me to not “bad mouth” members of your innermost circle is like the milkman asking the cowherd to stop milking. Do you really want me to spell it out, in writing, what the lot of you have dished out towards me? It’s a long long long list of many memorable quotes (we are talking years) making both distressing and amusing reading.

Snippet Seven – trigger warning: Assessment

Unlike you, John, I don’t need to be liked. So your foreboding that my readership doesn’t like me for what I am doing here holds no incentive for me. Either people see me for the person I am, or they see me as your lot does. Your lot which keeps BAD, nay, FOUL mouthing me with gay abandon or, in absence of anything original or convincing to say, just deleting me.

Snippet Eight – trigger warning: Self Awareness

Reflecting on all that’s gone before I can see one shortcoming of mine, John: I do NOT know when a lost cause is a lost cause. I, literally, do see it as one of my potential and occasional downfalls that I appear unable to give up on anyone. I do see the good in everyone and I pursue it even if they’d rather I didn’t. Looking from the outside in, it’s a strange trait of mine considering how most people appear to be able to shed others like so much dandruff if they don’t toe the line. I don’t, I can’t. Sometimes I wish I could but then I wouldn’t be me. And I like being me. Being me largely joyous, sometimes painful – by which I mean shouldering stuff others shrug off.

Snippet Nine – trigger warning: The End

To summon up: I like you, John. I think you occasionally misguided but I don’t think there is a rotten to your core bone in your body. You mean well – albeit you occasionally going about it the wrong way. I won’t ask whether you’d like me to elaborate because I know you’d rather I didn’t. What you don’t appear to see, with regards to the conduct of your clique towards me, that I do have a point. Fact is, no one is all black, no one is all white. To slander me – not my views, MY PERSONA – as your lot has done is regrettable. It marks the lot of you as neither robust nor particularly original. At least you, John, don’t claim to have any artistic leanings whereas The Resting in France Artiste, Sketchy Rachel and Sisyphus are about as sensitive to others as a bull sorting their assorted china.

Snippet Ten – trigger warning: Dead End

If none of you can’t see why your attitude gives me reason to try and instill some [reason] into you then, I agree, I am on a fool’s errant.

I AM on a fool’s errant. Still, as FOS (father of son) used to say, as only an Englishman can: Ursula sees a joke where other people’s humour has lost its way in the dark.

His actual words were less poetic but I am sure you won’t get the gist. Anyway, it’s why I still haven’t given up on the Sculptor. I firmly believe that if he got over himself, regrouped and saw himself as I see him, which is in a favourable light, we could become friends. Maybe I give him too much slack. But I do see potential.

Rachel? After that last little interlude a few days ago – I left her a heartfelt note, she responded rather touchingly and full of feeling, only for her to, eventually, take down both my comment and her reply. Maybe, of course, the Sculptor, as he once asked you, John, and didn’t you jump to attention and followed through, told her to not give me “any oxygen”. I don’t wish to elevate the Sculptor to what he doesn’t amount to but he definitely has the makings of a Svengali in training.

Snippet Eleven – trigger warning: Rope

Dear John (and I mean the “dear”), I could go on recording my take on what’s happened in your clique’s stagnant pond but life beckons. And all of yours short too. Lives that is – I am sure your respective narratives are labyrinthine. If you need to take a short cut remember the Gordian Knot. Some take a sword to a tangled web; I, myself, prefer applying sailors’ knots. The intricate ones that unravel with little more than a yank of your hand. It’s an art



March 14, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, 11 – Regret

Filed under: Communication,Human condition,Intermittent despair — bitchontheblog @ 10:22
Tags: , ,

Let me give some satisfaction to John the Samaritan, miserable Joy and charmless Sculptor. The last thirty six hours of my life have not been good. You managed the unthinkable: Reducing me to tears.

I am NOT crying because of all the shit you offload at me NOT at MY doorstep but your own blogs and comment boxes. Heavily edited. Every which way.

I am crying at my failure. My failure being that I so misjudged all of you. Crying at the idiot (Cro’s idea not mine) I truly am that I thought you worthy of my attention. That I actually liked all three of you. Well, John is easy to like; neither did he ever claim to be an intellectual. Joy I liked because she is a lost soul; the Sculptor I liked I don’t know why … maybe because he reminded my of Sisyphus.

Crying that I was fool enough to try again and again and again and again to mend bridges. To no avail. If you want to define “failure” try “to no avail”.

I am crying having allowed to be abused to an extent I didn’t think possible. Who am I kidding? “Allowed”, as if I were in control? I just was [abused].

I am crying at the shameful fact that (apart from John’s feeble attempts) none of you will address me on my blog, stand by your slander. You were so vocal (on your own blogs, so trigger happy) – Now? Now nothing.

Who are you people? Do you actually have any feelings other than for yourselves (this question mainly addressed at Joy and Sculptor)? Do you actually ever consider the impact your (in)actions have on others? Does your world center on your navels, your navels only? Are other people just dummies to furnish your self centered habitat?

Anyway, be happy at having achieved nothing more than a grown woman cry at her own foolishness. Congrats. Rejoice.


June 24, 2016


You have to hand it to Britain: DIVIDED they stand.

This is personal, I make little claim on rhyme, reason or rationale. For that I am too upset. A snapshot in my time.

Having stocked up on an hour’s sleep before British voting closing at ten o’clock BST I turned on the TV (BBC1) at five minutes to ten.  Big Ben makes me quite emotional at the best of times. So when it chimed as voting booths closed I welled up a bit. Now? Now, my tears are rolling. Involuntarily. They just keep coming. They say there are five stages to grieving. Denial (in this case) was relatively short. Shock features majestically. Acceptance (the last stage)? I guess that will be a long time waiting.

After the future father of son proposed to me 26 March 1982 in Paris, I arrived in England 4 April 1982 for good. I have always been a foreigner – albeit a “well integrated” one. FOS saw to that. I couldn’t so much as open my mouth before he corrected any mistake my early shaky English made. And that includes apostrophes. Might sound harsh to some of you. It wasn’t. I am hugely grateful to him for his relentless pursuit of perfecting my English. Don’t laugh, and as an aside, it’s probably why I miss him most when – to this day – I have a question on where to insert a comma or what the plural of bonus is.

Where was I? Yes, a foreigner. Now? Now I am a true foreigner. An alien. For those of you musically inclined listen to Sting’s “An Englishman in New York”. A legal alien. The melody alone conveys all there is to know. And before any of you point this out to me: Yes, I am perfectly aware that here, in this post and in my heart, there is a soupcon of self pity. Not least because someone recommended to me (in a national newspaper), and as I don’t hold a British passport, to return to “whence you come from”. Sweet. Thirty four yours on.

Never mind. I will regain composure.

The result of this vote has opened a massive a can of worms too cramped to not spill. Whilst – to some extent – I do feel sorry for Cameron having to resign in such an undignified way, what he needs to ask himself why the hell he did authorize this referendum. So terribly terribly shortsighted.

Yes, I promised you a snapshot. And that why I’ll stop now. Otherwise this post will become an oversized oil painting. No, make that a bewildered Jackson Pollock. Not that I deaden any pain with whiskey.


September 24, 2012

Yes, it’s been a long three or four years

Filed under: Family — bitchontheblog @ 01:18
Tags: , ,

Never shall you learn more about people than when the shit hits the fan.

How you deal with a crisis is what divides the loin from the snout. Let’s rephrase this for the vegetarians among you, not least Lorna: What divides the potato from the peel. Please do remind me to buy a new peeler. My last one has bitten the dust.

One of the pig tails in my life has proven stupid. Not stupid as in the ‘village idiot’. Village idiots have an innate wisdom if only you take the time to sit next to them. Or walk with them. No, stupid as in ’emotional’ intelligence being at the lower end of the spectrum. Which, to my relief, has helped me to let go of someone.  Have come to conclusion that losing respect is the ultimate turn-off in any relationship. Even that with a sister.


Create a free website or blog at