Emerald Bile

I despise energy drinks with every lobe of my brain. Liquid idiot fuel, that makes boring cretins remain conscious and irritating, for more hours of the day than they already occupy with their tedious yawny chat. Drinks with fucking appalling names like "Relentless" and "Incessant" and "Aving It". They taste like the smell of Lynx deodorant and are utterly fucking horrible chav juice. If Osama bin Laden could organise his minions to fly planes from Ibiza, full of energy-shot-downing holiday makers, into the rooves of energy drink factories, I would put on a burqa, get my arse over to the Pakistan borders, and setting aside my fear of enclosed places, crawl through narrow tunnels until I got to his cave and then I would get down on my knees and suck his (probably rather long and thin) evil cock until my jaw went numb.

Worse than energy drinks are "herbal highs" - legal pills for idiot children who think that the word "herbal" makes the substance somehow alright to take. I have seen so many kids terrified out of their boxes after taking those awful things, and yet, through their sheer terror, these kids still manage to express confusion at how something "legal" can be so fucking appallingly dreadful. Of course, they are fucking thick for falling for that herbal/legal nonsense in the first place. Many, many legal and natural things exist, with which it is possible to intoxicate oneself, but most people with functioning cortices, choose not to eat hemlock, or lick toads or do other revoltingly weird things to alter their states of mind. That said, thickness, although fucking tiresome, should not be punished quite so hideously - and I loathe thick people, so that just shows how very fucking unfairly awful, herbal highs must be, to make me feel pity towards other human beings.

One could view herbal highs in a positive light, since taking them could be seen as a form of Darwinism that may help to free the world of ghastly tattooed Herberts. However, I think there are better ways for dreadful chav idiots to disappear, than by falling into a dark pit of terror and mental illness brought on by some fucking awful "herbal" pill.

People that peddle herbal highs should be put on IV drips full of "Relentless", laced mildly with arsenic and PCP, until they twitch and writhe, wracked with stabbing abdominal pains, their eyes assaulted by the most vivid hallucinations, their minds incredibly alert and incapable of drifting into sleep, to escape the dreadful multifaceted mental and physical assault, until goggle-eyed and gibbering they promise to spend the rest of their lives weeding old ladies' gardens and listening to people drone on and on, about England being awful and gay at football.
Noreen

"They're like crack" said the woman in the health food shop. "Don't blame me if you get addicted".

I actually wasn't surprised by this passing reference to Class A drugs used by the scummier classes, from a vegetable-dye-wearing vegan. Lots of junkies merely change horses in midstream, one addiction replaces another. Indeed the Health Food Scene is as didactic, inclusive and substance obsessed, as that of the Serious Drug User. And it's a short leap to transfer a previous devotion to things that have been up peoples backsides, into one for things which race through people's backsides.

Anyway - the addictive thing this woman with the itchy-looking jumper was talking about, was an uneven ball of green matter, stuck with nutty bits, in a not-very-vegan looking plastic wrapper.

The reason I go to this hippy shop in the first place, is because I am allergic to milk, and health food shops make disgusting cheese out of soap, or something, which I can then put on a pizza and pretend that I am normal. So before any of you fuckers start up "you are a vegan, you love health foods" I do not. I am ill and would like nothing more than to eat a dirty, stinking, runny brie whose creation involves the sacrifice of a million Charolais calves, but instead am reduced to some fucking appalling and overpriced crap called "Sheeze".

So, I buy my strange pretend cheese, and to liven things up, each visit, I take a Russian Roulette approach to the confectionery counter in the Health Food Shop. I have previously lost in the game to "carob" (grainy turd), "fruit leather" (what it says - leathery old shite) and "Licorice sticks" (a twig. Seriously - a fucking twig, I couldn't believe my eyes). This time I spotted a misshapen ball of snot stuff - spirulina it is called - and I decided to try it. Not only was I not surprised by the shop woman's reference to crack, but was also used to her excessive, but inaccurate, gushing about products. One time, she had described carob as "better than chocolate" - she is clearly mental as well as a junkie, the hairy old slag. So I was not holding out a great deal of hope for this sphere of snot, but I was looking forward to slagging it the fuck off later, to this one I know who actually is a vegan.

I paid the woman an obscene amount of money, which again did not surprise me. They had charged me over a pound for that fucking twig,last time, the thieving goat-milking cunts. And I ate the ball, and it was, remarkably good. I looked at the list of ingredients to see if it was one of those health food things that is actually the same as normal food, just a million times as expensive - that's it "organic", is the way they describe it, but it was not an "organic" item. It was a weird combination of brown rice and this thing, the spirulina, and some almonds, and grape juice (which is vegan for sugar) and some oil, and then I saw it, on the list of ingredients. "Fo-Ti". Fucking "Fo-Ti". I know what that is from China. It's boner medicine. The Chinese take it to treat erectile dysfunction (to get wood). So although your one in the shop HAD identified that the spirulina ball had medicinal properties, she had picked the wrong street name for what sort of drug it actually contained. Fo-Ti, boys. Get some lead in your pencils. Buy yourselves a health food snot ball. You heard it here first.

Noreen

Dr Seuss
Dr Seuss
I do not like you Dr Seuss

Do I like moronic rhymes?
I do not like them anytime
I do not like moronic rhymes

Do I know they’re meant for kids?
I know that but I care no whit
I still don’t like them, not one bit

Don’t I find them culty-cute?
No, in fact I want to puke
When faced with rhymes designed by fluke

What about the wackiness?
Well that just makes me want to shit
On Dr Seuss, you fucking tit




Noreen

A name is the first signal a place gives out about itself, and should give some sensible information, or even just an impression about the area, that is vaguely accurate. Like Hull. A hull, well it is an empty shell that has been discarded. The name Hull gives a sense of a place that once held something, but no longer does. A place that is a natural and useful housing for something, unlike, say, the unnecessary extra piece of polythene wrapping that goes around a box of tea.

A slightly flattering placename works fine as well. "Great Missenden". Well "Great" is pushing it slightly, but it is the best Missenden around, so that is fine by me. A bit of boasting is good for the esteem of the inhabitants of a place. They will be more likely to prune their trees and take the bins in, or refrain from leaving stained matresses in the streets. Great Missenden - another well named place.

Place names that really dig into the sides of my hole, though are diminutive country names, given to small, unremarkable areas within a town. "Little Italy", "China Town". These labels only describe the ethnicity of the people who live there, and signal to middle class people, the fact that you might be able to get your hands on some buffalo Mozzarella or a pot of bear bile for a "themed" dinner party. I hate those places. If I want to go to Italy, I'll fucking go - but I don't, because I have already been and it was grubby and full of wankers. As for China - well I lived there for ages and I am going off to live there again in a couple of months, so really, I am all fine for bear bile and chickens feet, thank you. But despite being irritating places full of annoying nationalities and fawning foreigners oohing and aahing over coloured pasta or mooncakes and despite being sickeningly irritating concepts, Little Italy and China Town are, nonetheless, relatively well named places. I would prefer "Italian district" and "China district" but not enough that I thought to bother studying town planning at university and then go out and get a job naming areas. I am not a completely boring cunt.

No, The worst named place in the world for me, worse than anything starting with "Democratic Republic" that clearly is not one at all, or even those ones with dumb names like "Fuckey's Hole", worse, far worse than that is the place called "Swiss Cottage". It just isn't either, is it? It is neither Swiss, nor a cottage. Well it isn't. Is it a diminutive swiss dwelling? No it is not. It is a grubby hole near St Johns Wood? How is it Swiss? Does it have Nazi gold underfoot, a clinic where you can take your own life and a machine that could reduce the universe to a heaving void of dark matter? Does it avoid wars, and whittle dark, endangered, wood into birds on springs, and then coil them into dark recessed boxes, that they may unfurl to mark the passing of time? Does it have a chocolate factory? Do they eat dog meat in the mountains of North London? I think they don't. And don't you fucking taxi driving cockneys start up: "Actually, Swiss Cottage is named after a pub", because I know that, but how is that suddenly ok? Will we rename Knightsbridge "Harvey Nicks Fifth Floor" or Kingston upon Thames might decide to be known as "Yates' Wine Bar"? God, there'd be a scrum on for which crappy district should take the name Wetherspoons, although my money is fairly firmly on Wimbledon for that one. And what about the many, many people in Britain now who pursue a dry religion? Would they be happy to know that their address is 16a Tessa Sanderson House, Pig and Whistle, London SW11. I don't fucking think they would like that. So there you have it, on technical and religious grounds, the name Swiss Cottage is not ok. Call it "Quite convenient Grey Hole" instead.
Noreen

I am sick to death with hearing about how Gordon Brown bullies his staff. Honestly, these lefties really do want to have their cake and eat it. Clearly, no one who works in Gordon Brown's office has ever been to public school, so all his staff have grown up, used to going home to Mummy at half past three, then having a little whine about how someone was mean to them during their twenty minute breaktime. Now that these characters are in the big boys' playground with Bruiser Brown, who keeps them after hours for a good, hard shoeing, it's all a bit much for their little, dayboy spirits.

But Gordon Brown should know better. He, of all people, should know that the way to talk to people who have been educated at comprehensive schools, is to get on their level. Try crouching in front of them, explaining why you are disappointed in their performance, using very simple words. It's best not to try to be "street", as that might offend them, and do remember to say "difficulty" instead of "problem". If that doesn't work, you may need to call their social workers in for a bit of a chat.

I bet that big toff David Cameron, has one of his staff warming up his loo seat every morning. And I would not be remotely surprised to hear that he entertains himself between make-up calls, by debagging his lackeys in the lifts. And that, that sort of caper, would just be larks on a normal day, before any of his poor, overworked, assistant bastards, have even had a chance to put a foot wrong. Christ knows what sort of penalties he dishes out to his team for bad handwriting, backchat and rude remarks about his wife's hairstyle. If those moaning minnies from Gordon Brown's side of the tracks had to spend even half an hour over in Millbank, with Slasher Cam, they'd all need a new set of trousers.

Noreen

People often give out to me about how predjudiced I am: "You are always stereotyping people, Noreen. You should open your mind and realise people cannot be put in pigeonholes. What insecurity is it exactly, that has you categorising people like some form of a human librarian? You are bitter and closed minded".

Fair play to them, as I am indeed very bitter. However, I am also very "now", with the categorising. Just yesterday, this one was talking about his executive coach, a sort of modern day school matron for the workplace, who offers guidance and training in how to behave like a human being at work. Executive Coaches are held up as a picture of wisdom, when in truth they are merely capable of displaying the occasional flash of lateral thought, amongst some long winded stating of the obvious, with a smattering of cod neuro scientific language: "limbic" this, "programme" that, to give their chat some gravitas.

In addition to generalised pontificating, to impart true wisdom and give a good service to his clients, the coach must wheel out some awful old categorising exercise, so the client can finish his coaching session, with a personality label, that is shared by other people and googlable on the internet. You've probably done these sorts of things too- I certainly have. The Belbin scale ( stereotypingand labelling people in a team). Myers Briggs (stereotyping and labelling individuals). And now there is some recent, trendy gayness, some ghastly coaching tool where people are alloted colours and shades, which reflect the way they behave at work.

Effectively these gesticulating, coaching charlatans, who adminster these tests and hold forth afterwards with their straightforward analysis of the results, are being paid decent sums, to make narrow minded statements about people based on a couple of hours of wittering and a questionnaire. Do people give out to them: "Bitter this,insecure that?". No, of course they do not, no. Rather they open up their wallets, or paypal accounts, and pour streams of coins (or virtual currency) into the polyester laps of anyone willing to inflict a cretinous, profiling exercise on a group of gullible executives.

Whereas I, I make generalised, prejudiced statements about all sorts of people, regardless of their means or occupation, based on limited observations, out of the goodness of my heart. And I don't make anyone fill in a gay questionnaire, nor do I talk in acronyms or neuro-babble. What is more, since I am keen to avoid the sin of pride, I won't even draw your attention further to the fact, that I do all this pro bono work alongside full time employment, motherhood and shouting at the telly. AND do you know what I am going to do about all the abuse I get for my generous-spirited anthropological research? I am going to offer it up for the starving children in Africa.



Noreen

My friend James got the worst present imaginable from his sister this Christmas. She bought him a unicycle. A fucking unicycle. He lives in a flat in London, and works in a bank, and he now has a unicycle. He can't ride the thing inside his flat, so he will have to go out in public on it. At best, he is going to look like a proper cunt, riding up and down his street, in his suit, balancing well on, and doing a good job of, riding a unicycle. At worst, he is going to look like a big arsehole, falling off the unicycle and going over the front of it, landing on his head and bleeding all over the pavement, with great rents in his trousers for his wife to darn.

"I will ride it at night" he said to me. "That is the only time I will be able to practise it".

I don't fucking think so. If I were a nutter, or a junkie, or some other kind of marginalised London street creature, and I saw a middle aged man, in a suit, on a unicycle in the dead of night, I just think it would nudge me up to the next level of offending. I mean the neck of it - Jesus, I am feeling violent just thinking about it, and I am incredibly sane, and James is one of my dearest friends, but imagine, a fucking grown man, riding on, or alternatively falling off a unicycle, in pitch darkness, in fucking London! My heart is beating like a Protestant drum. I must lie down.
Noreen

I just watched that new film called :"It's complicated". It really wasn't complicated at all. It was a film about this old one who was divorced, getting the ride off her ex husband, who had remarried, but his new wife did not understand him. Then the old woman decided that it was stupid to go back to shagging her ex husband, because he was an ex husband for a reason, that reason being that he had overlong, greasy hair and a great pot belly on him, and he was pretty much of a selfish cunt. So instead of shagging her ex husband, the old woman rode the man who was working on the extension of her house.
Noreen