The worst birthday present ever.

I woke up from a dream this morning at 4:30am that I had shat my pants in my sleep. So I got up to check if I had indeed made a horror in my pants. 

As it turned out, there was no poos in pants. Huzzah I had only dreamt it!!. But thank god I was on the toilet because it was exactly at that time my gurgly unsettled stomach decided to explode like an angry volcano out my backend.

Yes too much information but I'm not apologising for that. The reason for sharing this information is because my body woke me up through my subconscious mind by making me dream about shitting in my own undergarments!! It was trying to warn me that I needed to get to a toilet stat!! This is friggin biological science in it's element yo! My own brain stopped me from shitting myself. The proof is right here for everyone to read.....still not sorry.

After sitting through a good hour & a half of aural torture courtesy of the Queens Jubilee concert last night, due to it being such utter shit, I'ma wondering if that was the cause of my cranky bowel this morning?

First of all, who in hell organises this event? Did the Queen specifically ask for a complete balls up shit fest concert for her birthday prize? I am thinking no. But dear lady, after watching it myself, that is indeed exactly what you got.

I was channel surfing, nothing on the box last night. I don't watch much TV as a general rule, I prefer to read. But last night I was so tired & exhausted from the raging Antarctic winds that pummelled my fair city all dam day yesterday, I just wanted to starfish on the couch & watch some crap TV. I somehow ended up on channel one just in time to see this....

Now I've heard of Gary Barlow, not sure who he is in relevance to anything, but I have heard his name mentioned before. To be fair, the man doesn't scrub up too badly, & he can sing. But what in the fuck was he doing singing with this tone deaf troll doll?

This could have been nice. But prom dress hooker ruined it all hopes of that. And thank god the queen wasn't even there yet because she would have cried. Sad angry tears. Because that right there is an aural assaulting of the highest order bullshit birthday present.

Get off the stage Cheryl whoever you are. And more importantly get the hell off my TV!!
I have it on good authority, thanks to my favourite UK liaison officer Carolyn, that this prostitute was in fact part of an all girl band in the UK called 'Girls Aloud'. Anyway, Simon Cowell wanted to bone her, but she said no thanks. And she gets reamed in the media for always lip syncing for live performances.

A handy tip Cheryl, please keep lip syncing. Otherwise it's quite possible the people of your nation may stone you. Including the Queen herself.

I don't feel bad about being mean to Cheryl. Singing for the Queen is a pretty big deal, next to singing the national anthem at an international All Blacks game (my dream), so I believe that it should at least be a prerequisite to be good.

Cheryl is not good. And I am proudly bitter about it because she is probably swimming in treasure & jewels, for being a way below par singer. I want treasure & jewels. Not because obviously I am awesome, but also because I have a whole shit tonne of really amazing singer friends that could have licked this girl easy.

FYI = 'licked this girl easy' meaning kicked her ass vocally. Not munching on her fanny bags.

Next up in the concert of doom was none other than the smooth crooner Cliff Richard himself.

When I was young, my sister & I used to dance together in the garage to Livin' Doll belting out of Dad's tape deck. My parents loved Cliff, we were young & not old enough to make up our own minds yet, so we loved Cliff hard too.

Many sunny Saturday afternoons were spent moshing like electrocuted river salmon round & round the concrete garage floor to Cliffs sultry voice. Luckily shin splints weren't an issue then, due to having pre-pubescent rubber band bones.

It seems the years have not been kind to Cliff. First of all he has a face on him like a wrinkly battered ballsac, & his hearing is obviously failing him. Because he spent the first part of his performance singing in Bb when the key of his song was in C. To the untrained ear you probably wouldn't notice, but I did. And it hurt me more than a well timed kick to the lady slats.

My eyes got misty as I watched Cliff gyrating around the stage in his beige hipster suit. I can't talk about him anymore.....it's just....(sob)...too hard.

Next we had Lang Lang the Asian (not sure of his country of origin) pianist. He was really something else. He smashed those piano keys like a BOSS with his freakishly speedy piano claws. Piano concertos really ain't my bag. Not unless performed by a naked Ryan Gosling from Crazy Stupid Love era.

And let the global fanny spasms begin......

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I once briefly dated a man who played the piano. It was because if his love for all things piano that my feelings for him never flourished. I just found it all a bit lady. And the fact that he was only ever actually good was when he was ripped off his tits. Even then the only song he could play was Bat out of Hell by Meatloaf. I can not stand Meatloaf or anything piano related now. Thanks to Mr Lady Fingers. Ick.

Tom Jones, dam that man still got some swagger. Out of all the performers I saw, keeping in mind that I missed Stevie Wonder, Paul McCartney & Elton, he was the by far the best. If I had of been in the front row, & 40 years older, I would've taken off my panties & biffed them at his face like decorating a christmas tree made entirely of Tom Jones. Mr Jones, you got it goin on!

Annie Lennox wore angel wings & performed There Must Be An Angel. But all I could think about was how she looked like she wanted to eat the faces of every single person in that audience. Or spit venom. It was terrifying. I've always questioned the possibility of her owning a rather large man fanny in her pantaloons. She just has a deep voice. That's what I chose to believe.

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When I was 10, my favourite female singer was Kylie Minogue. I remember walking around the back yard with Locomotion smokin' outta my small tape deck & thinking that everything was right in the world.

Along with my sister Hayley, & our neighbour Laura, we used to Locomote our way around the hospital grounds that backed onto our property. And once time, mid Loco, I was so deliriously happy that I pissed my own pants & buried them in the back yard because I was scared my mum would growl at me.

Last night, Kylie performed on stage for the Queen with some robot ladies & some fine dark skinned men in glitter pants. She was wearing ass hugging short shorts & a captains cap. It had buttons all over it. While initially I was impressed that Kylie could still indeed bring it, it was just really boring.

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In comparison to her back up dancers, Kylie looked like a little carnie. And if there is once thing in life that I am scared of more than tarantulas crawling on my face or being eaten by a shark because it smelt my menstruation, it's goddamn carnie folk.

And with that anti-climax I dragged myself off to bed to dream about shitting my pants.

Next year, I am thinking of actually going to England & streaming a live hate rage feed from Buckingham Palace. I am hoping my brother Kev aka The Social Assassin will accompany me? His tolerance of bullshit equally matches mine. And he's tall & can spew fire out his mouth like a dragon so he can also be my bodyguard.

Apologies for the non communicado of late. This bitch has been busy.

Peace & love