Nikkipedia

When I was 4, I made friends with a girl called Jody at Playgroup. Jody and I were bestest friends when we were very small. We went to school together and grew up together. In our teens, she was exactly the sort of person you didn’t want as a friend, as a dancer, she had the most stunning figure, and grace (bloody ballerinas), kind and funny, just lovely. Really, when you’re hormonal and self conscious, you need a fat, stupid friend to make yourself feel better, not Jo, but you couldn’t help but love her. Bitch. Although we weren’t always in contact, and went to different schools for a bit, whenever we saw each other, it was fine that days, weeks, months, or a year had passed, she was so easy to be friends with, always a smile on her face and genuinely thrilled to see you. There’s really nothing like having that sort of friendship with someone. It’s the most comforting and warming feeling in the world. It’s safe. She’s been there all my life so far, she’ll always be there. She’s my oldest friend.

Today’s her birthday. Her death was reported on page 3 of the local paper. She’d have loved that – it would have tickled her wicked sense of humour. She’d have been 28 today if a stupid, drunken cunt hadn’t killed her in a car accident. Showing off in his Subaru, doing 70/80 in a 40 zone. If he hadn’t clipped the curb and flipped his stupid car, she’d still be here, and we’d be celebrating, wondering how we’ve got so old and joking about nearly being 30… I remember her 5th birthday, and how she wouldn’t let any of us touch her new toys. If only she’d realised he was drunk and not got in the car with him. I spend hours wondering what if, but it won’t change anything. Nearly 4 years on, she’s still dead, and the man responsible for her death is living his life after a mere few months in prison.

It’s no lie when I say I think about her almost every day. Usually I don’t venture to the crematorium to visit the headstone/memorial that’s there for her. She’s never far from my thoughts, so I’ve never felt I have to actually go back there to remember her. I am supposed to be going tomorrow with my friend, C, who was best friends with Jo and another girl, H, when she died, so I decided to go today to prepare myself for having to be strong and carry C tomorrow.

The best way to describe my friendship now with H is estranged. There was a group of us, all very close, but various factors have sent us in different directions, and I’ve not spoken to H in about 18 months now.

I arrived at the crematorium, and there was only one other car in the car park. ‘I’ve got away with it’ – I thought. I was dreading getting there and a funeral taking place, or there being other people there. I wanted to go there, say hi to Jo, and leave again without being spotted. I don’t have that sort of luck. The other car in the car park, apparently belonged to H, who was walking towards it as I got out of my car.

I might be a potty mouth, but I’m *mostly* not a rude person, so I said hello and gave her a hug. She’d clearly been crying, and I burst into tears. I’d worked myself up driving to the crematorium, it was inevitable, especially when faced with the prospect of talking to someone, knowing why we were both there, and remembering that we used to be good friends. We talked for a bit then she left.

As I walked over to Jo, I remembered how completely heartbroken H was at Jo not being at her wedding 2 years ago. Jo had introduced her to her now husband, and it absolutely destroyed her that she wasn’t there when they wed. The hen night had ended in floods of tears. It was so sad. Sat by her memorial, I remembered the last time I was there, with 2 girls who I called my best friends. It’s now been over a year since I’ve spoken to either of them. They both got married in August this year. I wasn’t invited to either of the weddings, had nothing to do with them at all. I was supposed to be bridesmaid at one of them. I didn’t even get an invite to the reception, and the one remaining friend from school I have, C, who was invited, was told that she didn’t have a ‘plus one’ with her invite. We joke that this was in case she tried to take me. H was devastated at Jo not being at her wedding, and my friends could have had me at theirs, yet chose not to.

I sat and wept alone for the loss of my friend, my oldest friend; for the friendships I’ve lost; at the fact that Jo’s Mum, who now lives miles away, had travelled down this morning to leave flowers for Jo. Flowers she’ll never see. I cried at all the little messages that were left for her, and the masses of flowers spilling from this tiny piece of Kent that’s devoted to her. I told her how I missed her, and how the girls had got married, and wondered if she was out there somewhere pissing herself at me crying my eyes out in the freezing cold, talking to myself, make up all over my face. If she could have seen me today, I know she’d have laughed. I looked a right state.

That’s Jo. I love dearly and I miss her. Time is a healer, it’s not as raw as it was, but it still fucking hurts.

So if I seem sad today, it’s because today’s been a bit sad. I’ll be my usual, ranty, sweary self again soon. If you managed to read this far, thank you. I think I needed to get it off my chest. Now pour me some wine!

The boy that I was besotted with at school had become a man. And there he was, stood in front of me, out of nowhere. I’ve not seen him in about 13 years, but it didn’t feel like half of our lives so far had passed since we last spoke. It was just lovely, and easy, a far cry from previous teenage, hormonal encounters – he was the class heartthrob, and I was his number one fan. There’s not a page from my teenage diary without his name on it, and I was a nervous wreck whenever I was near him.

Today I found myself sat with him, and his beautiful, almost 3 year old little girl. He’s married his sweetheart from school, they have a daughter, steady jobs and a home together. I can’t stop smiling at how happy I am for him – it’s such a lovely story. Very rarely do I bump into anyone from the past and I’m genuinely pleased to see them. In truth, I actively avoid almost everyone from the past, but bumping into Matt today has really made my day.

I closed my Facebook account around a year ago, sick of seeing everyone growing up around me, getting engaged, getting married, having babies. I felt left behind and left out, so I opted out. I wasn’t happy for any of them. I wasn’t jealous – I don’t want babies or marriage – I just felt that the amount I had in common with everyone was dwindling and decreasing daily, so I got out.

Incredibly, earlier, there were 2 other people we knew sat just down from us. James has a 7 week old baby, and his brother, another Matt, has a brand new, 2 day old baby, and is bursting with pride about it. Everyone has babies, and, I’m actually really happy for them. I’m happy that they’re happy and that they’re well. I’m also happy at the thought of having some friends again. Having gone so far out of my way to avoid everyone I’ve ever known for so long, the idea of having friends actually now seems quite nice.

The problem now, a real dilemma – do I reopen my old Facebook account? I’d quite like to have friends again, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to see all the old names and faces… Yet.

According to my chart, you are FAT.

If you’ve never considered visiting Kent, I feel quite sure that I can change your mind with this post. It’s an amazing place, and I’m sure you’ll agree that these local news stories support this completely.

Visit Herne Bay!

Local artist commissions Gary Glitter sticks of rock.

Glam rock. Suck it and see.

The local artist, who lives in Herne Bay, commissioned 1200 sticks of rock, with a picture of Herne Bay on the inside, and Gary Glitter’s name through the middle. The boxes containing the sticks of rock arrived graffitied with ‘wrong’ and ‘sicko’. Early indications would suggest that these weren’t going to be popular.

Sadie Hennessy continued regardless, distributing the sticks of rock to passers by, and, in that well known and revered marketing tactic, left piles of the sticks of rock outside public toilets and encouraged people to take them.

I might be alone in this, but I was brought up not to accept sweets from strangers, and not to eat things off the floor. To me, her choice of distributing the art was the start of a flawed from the start plan.

Sadie commissioned the rock after rumours last year that Gary Glitter was to set up home in the sleepy seaside town that is Herne Bay, which shocked local residents. Fearing that there wasn’t enough local outrage at this news, she decided to further incite and provoke, with the unholy image of Gary Glitter being at the centre of the town of Herne Bay, tainting the picturesque image from the outside, and him being represented a long, hard, tasty sweet, popular with children.

Visit Sittingbourne!

I live in Sittingbourne. It’s a marvellous place. This is a local representative, one of our Carnival Princesses, a local beauty and sweetheart, with an ASBO.

ASBO Princess is no dancing queen.

She’s representing this town, in the bits that she’s not banned from. Really, this needs no further comment, I’ll leave the final words with Fred’s comment on the original article.

Fred wrote: “Fantastic, an asbo princess, but why not just hand the crown to a 15 year old mum of 3 and show everyone what this towns really about”

Class. Really, come visit. It’s this year’s Carnival THIS WEEKEND why not come along to see which criminal is crowned Queen this time? I can’t wait. Just please take me with you when you leave.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a man in possession of a flag-bearing car, must be in want of a larger penis.” (Jane Austin, Pride and Prejudice)

Today I spotted these multi-flagged cock-mobiles.

Left wanker
Total flag count: 4

Right wanker
Total flag count: 4
2 window flags
1 aerial flag
1 side window sun shade

Today’s flag wanker winner!

It is best viewed from behind.

Total flag count: 7
4 window flags
2  side window sun shade flags
1 large flag displayed in the rear windscreen

WHY?!

The Job Centre today was ace, my favourite so far. I caught a glimpse of some of the sort of stuff I’d hoped (and sort of dreaded) seeing when I was there.

Hopefully, you’ll live your life without ever having to visit these god awful places, so you’ll have to make do with the second-hand experience of reading my adventures there.

My previous visits to JC have been really rather uneventful, first time, I was actually in and out of there within the space of 5 minutes. I was impressed.

The second visit, I was slightly late – and fuck do they moan about it, but nonetheless, the transaction was again smooth and speedy, in and out within 10 minutes, with only a brief accosting from security on the way in. I knew where I was going, what I was doing, but apparently THEY *have* to know too. I’m not a hoodie, I don’t wear baseball caps, I was dressed smartly, with shoes on, not the uniform prison-whites that most of them wear, not so much as a cigarette tucked behind my ear, or a packet in my hand. I don’t fit in there, but I’m treated as if I’m one of the scummers regardless.

Today, after the nagging I got for being late, I was there a few minutes early. The security guy today was younger than the Nazi from last time, and gave me a big smile as I pushed the door open, covered head to toe from the freak blizzard that happened the second I got out of my car. I told him I was there to sign, and showed him my Job Club pack, so he knew where I was going (that’s how it works, see, I’m getting it!) He pointed me to where I needed to go, and I thanked him, and headed over to the sofa to wait to sign.

Job Centres have a pitiful amount of seating in the areas where people have to wait to sign. There is a sofa-esque, soft chair by the people you see to sign, it will seat about 4 normal weight people, or 5 undernourished chavs/druggies. There were 2 chavs on the sofa today. They seemed to know each other, they were talking. As they’d parked themselves in an entirely selfish manner, I had no choice but to sit between them, despite their conversation. So I said ‘Hi’ in my cheeriest tone and plonked myself down. They looked baffled.

Flat capped chav, to my right, clearly had a chip on his shoulder. He was angry. He asked hoodie chav (on my left) what the time was. It had just passed 12:20.
“Fuckin’ell mate. I’ve been ‘ere since ten fuckin’ to. They fuckin’ moan when you’re late, but then fuckin’ keep you hanging around when it suits ‘em.”
Hoodie chav mumbled something in agreement. Flat capped chav continued his monologue, repeating the same thing to no-one in particular, complaining what a joke it was. In reply to this, the baseball cap chavs that were standing using the touch screen computer the other side of him joined in to agree what a “loada shit” it was.
“I’m gonna fucking start getting angry, and pointing at people. With my fists.” Flat capped chav said. Quite what that would achieve, I have no idea. He complained again about his wait then shut up.

Another chav, white tracksuit top chav, came over and sat next to flat capped chav.
“Mate, you still ‘ere?”
(I rolled my eyes. Obviously he was still there. Moron.)
“Yeah mate. Been ‘ere since ten to, an I?”
At which point, the security guard came over.
“You can’t sit down yet mate” he said to white tracksuit top chav.
“Why not?”
“Not time for you to sign yet.”
He got up and took 2 steps to his left.
“Alright, I’ll use this fuckin’ job machine” he says, aimlessly prodding at the screen in a ham-fisted manner, without looking at it.
“Jobsworth” said flat capped chav, as the security guard walked off. Classic insult that, coming from someone that’s unemployed. It took a lot for me not to laugh.

It fell silent.

Then my name was called. I stood up. The 5 chavs looked at me simultaneously. I felt sure they were going to murder me.

Less than 5 minutes later, I scurried out of the Job Centre, as quickly as I could. Done, dusted, free. They were all still there, waiting.

*Points* Chav!

“Miss Pywell is a fat chav who definitely does not have whiplash.” I wish I knew James, he sounds like an absolute legend.

I did tweet this one too, so apologies if you saw it there too, but it actually makes me laugh out loud.

Yesterday I went to a ‘back to work’ session at the Job Centre. It was completely dull and tedious, and an hour of my life wasted, that I’ll never get back.

The comment I got from a previously unemployed Twitter friend, @Brykins was ‘Good luck – if it’s the one I went to, it’s twelve people in a room learning that application forms shouldn’t be done in crayon.’

He wasn’t far off the mark.

There were 4 other people in the session. Ginger, Greasy Lady, Know-It-All and Moustache Man that can’t switch on a computer. They were all as equally unamused as I was. Know-It-All spent half of the session arguing with Job Centre Lady. I couldn’t watch, I was busy trying not to laugh.

We had clipboards with forms on them. I stole the copies from the empty seat next to me, in order to share them with you.

The first form had me tearing my hair out, such simple questions that I thought they might have been a trick. I actually struggled with them. The second, I didn’t quite have the heart to fill in saying that the session wasn’t helpful, Job Centre Lady was very nice and if I’d been interested in Health and Safety, childcare or forklift driver training, I’m sure it’d have been very helpful, but in my search for work as a PA, it wasn’t, in the slightest.

At the end of the session, we were given packs to take home – ‘How To Find A Job’, including this little gem:

This is an example of what the Job Centre believe to be an acceptable letter to approach a potential employer. They advise people to send this out to companies. Words absolutely fail me. No wonder there are so many people unemployed, if this is the standard of the advice we’re receiving.

Mind you, the standard of employers and their adverts is only marginally better. These are two adverts I stumbled upon today. I’ve highlighted my favourite bits.

The first. I realise this is just for a role as a receptionist, but the preview of the advert, which started ‘You’re brief’ – lured me in. ‘You’re brief’ – ‘Am I?’.
As for smiling and saying hello to colleagues and guests, surely that’s just common sense and common courtesy, especially if you want to work in hospitality. Could be a problem if you don’t like someone you work with though.
Flare, flair – no, you’re right, I’m nitpicking, they’re mostly the same thing. Just keep the former away from flammable items.
You don’t need a head for figures to handle cash. They hand out money to my fellow Job Centre scummers. I’m sure the Hoodies don’t have a head for figures, but they handle the cash, happily, and as for other payment methods – taking a card payment with a machine and till is hardly rocket science.

The second advert, to me, was a wonder to behold. This advert has been placed by a college. A place of education and scholarship. A pillar of the community. I can only assume that the first highlighted sentence should be read as ‘A-C GCSE English and Math is essential’ but I worry that’s not the case. THIS IS A SCHOOL ADVERTISING THIS. The ad was placed directly by the employer. They should be ashamed. Unless they don’t have an English Teacher among the staff. But surely it should have been proof read by someone.
As for the last highlighted sentence – I’m literally speechless. How is that a question? How can they have *that* poor a grip on the English Language? How am I so good at composing questions, and they be so awful at it?

‘I’m Ron Burgandy?’

When these are the adverts that are placed, the employers, and the level they work at, I am left wondering *why* I’m surprised by what the Job Centre offers us, clearly they’re just matching the market.

It’s been a while since I wrote anything, and on a Friday afternoon at work with no management in, it seems the perfect way to waste this last hour before the weekend dawns on us again.

I will write a proper love letter to Twitter one day soon, but today’s words are going to be about the people that I’ve met from Twitter.

I can say without doubt that everyone I’ve met through Twitter had been amazing, and without fail, it’s felt as if I’ve known them all my whole life.

@gellyfish – Jonathan – my first tweet-up. Rochester Sweeps Festival. It was fabulous. The man’s a scream. And he shouts ‘Ehhhh!’ a lot when drunk. Legend.

The same day, @methodphoto – Richard – arrived shortly after, an absolute diamond, a gentle giant, good natured and lovely. I’ve seen him a few times since and he’s a brilliant, genuine friend. Takes superb photographs, a very talented man.

In tow with @methodphoto was his small person @vincettenoir – a Mighty Boosh. A real little darling.

@damohopo – Damo – what can I say? This man is destined to be one of my best friends for life. He makes me cry with laughter when I see him. He has an endless list of OCD tendencies and oddities, but for this I love him. Get him to tell you the story about golf clubs. Not near me though. It makes me laugh too much.

@MandyPandy32 – Amanda. I am so lucky to have found her. I couldn’t ask for a better friend. Funny and beautiful, I adore her. Every time I see her, I wish I had her for longer. Another best friend for life.

@frak – Mikey – potty mouth. This man can swear. And he goes to work in clothes he’s slept in. He’s left us now and is living the high life in Australia with @TizBanana. Although I am sad we’ll never have a drinking session including him almost getting beaten up by pikeys again, I’m so happy for him that he’s happy, even if it’s on the other side of the world and we never see him again!

@geekgirl444 – Sara – understandably she was quiet when we met – it was an impromptu Kent Tweet up to meet @Belmsie before she started her year away in the Philipines. Beautiful, funny girls, we had such a fun night.

In Hyde Park I met @StaceyClarkin. Oh my God, the amount I laughed because of her rivalled Damo’s golf club story. The nipple saga is legendary, as was when her phone went off. Beautiful girl. I love her. We’re meeting again soon. I need hours and hours with her to talk about everything. We’d be inseparable if we lived closer. She’s my girl.

More fleeting moments that day included meeting @pilgrimfamilyuk, Helen, and @sheb57, Sheila – I didn’t see either of them for long enough, but they’re both ohsolovely!

Soon I will be meeting @luque89 – Luke and @crazycolours (whose real name is Crazy Colours) for a SingStar singoff and I can’t wait!

Honourary mentions must go to @Mangowe – Manda, whom I haven’t yet met, but have spoken with on the phone, and will be meeting soon – my Pun Princess, the wittiest, prettiest loveliest person ever. Far too clever for her own good. Lovely to talk with, articulate and funny.

I also hope to meet @Rogue_Leader soon too – you need him for a good hashtag pun game. A funny, lovely man and a good friend. Can’t wait to head up North and meet him.

I’ve spoken with @realmikesands on the phone. He’s another funny man, with his posh voice and lots of laughs. A real darling.

I’d love to meet as many people that I talk with on Twitter as possible. You’re all amazing and I can’t get enough of you all.

The concept of etiquette fascinates me endlessly. Of course, everyone’s opinions differs on all subjects, and comparing these ideas is intriguing to me.

Firstly, I’m not even sure of the etiquette of writing about the subject that I’m intending on writing about – how taboo is it? Is it something that no-one should know, or is it fine to laugh about it? I don’t know, but I will go ahead nevertheless.

Aged 16, I was told by a street-wise friend that a year after the first time you have sex, you should have a smear test. She’d just been for her first one. I was horrified at the idea. Not that she’d had hers, and had therefore had popped her cherry aged 15 – that was nothing amongst my friends of the time, one of them was a mere 13, which looking back now, seems awful. We’re all 26 now, to have been sexually active for half our lives already is hideous. What were we all thinking? I digress, it’s the subject of the smear test that horrified me – of course at that age, no detail of anything is left unsaid, so I heard *all* about it. It didn’t sound fun.

I began wondering when I was supposed to have one. Of course, I wasn’t going to ask my mother, and admit what I’d been up to, so I kept quiet. I did everything in my power to dodge the dreaded smear, and the Gods seemed to be on my side. The dates kept changing. It went from a year after losing it, to being 18, to being 21 – I kept somehow avoiding them – it got put up to 25 recently, and somehow I missed it again due to where my birthday fell. I was thrilled.

However, it seems that the time is now upon me. I’ve been caught. I’ve had several letters, which I pretended I didn’t get, but now, I want a repeat prescription of my contraceptive pill, for which I have to have six monthly checks anyway, so when I called to book my check, it was flagged that I had to come in for the smear-test-of-doom. Oh dear. It wasn’t even as easy as, come in tomorrow, or next week. ‘When are you mid-cycle, love?’ When am I what? I haven’t a clue. 10 minutes on the phone later and after lots of head-scratching and comparing diaries, we worked it out. And it’s tomorrow.

As I said, my problem with all of this now, is the etiquette of the situation. Having never had one before, I really don’t know what to expect, my friend’s horror story of 10 years ago is a distant memory. Most importantly, right now, the burning question is the etiquette of the situation. Am I expected to ‘tidy’ my ‘lady garden’? I don’t wish to appear rude and not do so if the answer to that question is yes, yet I don’t want whoever is going to be prodding me to think I’ve made a special effort for the ‘occasion’; Is it an occasion? It’s first thing tomorrow, so I’m not exactly expecting to be wined and dined, but might there be candles and soft music? I at least want the lights to be dimmed. I don’t usually allow people to poke me without any sort of effort on their part.

Now I’ve got into pondering such details, I’m now worrying what I should wear? I don’t want to look keen and go in my shortest skirt, but it feels like I should dress up somehow. Trousers, I’d imagine will be more problematic, and I’ll end up fully half naked. At least with a skirt, it can be more cartoonesque, I’ll hold it up as a barrier so I can’t see what they’re up to. And footwear – socks are a no-no for skirts and trousers – no one likes having their socks left on. This means I’ll have to wear some sort of strappy affair. Can I keep them on while I’m lying down for this hideous test, or do I have to take them off too? Will there be stirrups, my legs in the air? I just don’t know. I’m going to play the whole thing down for now and pretend it’s not happening. I’ll deal with it in the morning.