Category: humour

Violet goes to gym

So it’s like mercury is retrograding over here because apart from all my internet woes I got in the shower this morning and snap crackle boom, nearly got electrocuted. Well, kind of. I got a huge shock from the taps, not huge enough to kill me but huge enough for me to think oh my god what is going on and leap out the shower very quickly.

With shampoo and delicious smelling vanilla soap all over my body.

It happened to me once in Lima, many years ago, and that was kind of hairy, but I digress.

I called my emergency electrician.

I can only come tomorrow Ms Violet.  But it sounds dangerous, don’t switch on any taps and stay well away from the water.

What to do? My neighbours seemed to be away, or perhaps dead in their own showers. Either way, they couldn’t help me.

I needed to shower.

I had no choice but to go to the gym.

I hate the gym.

But you know there’s a silver line behind every cloud!

I skipped the gym part and headed straight to the sauna. Smelling a bit like a vanilla pod.

Let me tell you, men in saunas like the smell of vanilla.

And there were a lot of men in the sauna.

All of them, experts on electricity. All of them offering me advice. All of them offering me their showers.

None of them offering to fix it for me quickly which is kind of expected because MEN, but I did come home with four new contacts, a prospective date, and a very clean shiny and detoxed body.

Only problem is, a few hours is a long time to sit in a sauna and I’m home now and very bloody dehydrated and I can’t yet switch on my taps.

I may have to go back to the gym.

Where’s my shampoo?


N.B. If I do get electrocuted, blame one of these guys.

Trump is a cunt

This morning I wrote ‘Trump is a cunt’ and it felt so good writing it. And then I said it out loud and it just rolled off my tongue, like it was the best thing to say, so smooth, so perfect, TRUMP IS A CUNT TRUMP IS A CUNT TRUMP IS A CUNT.

Then I got a bit tongue twisted and it became one of those word things like TRUMP IS A CUNT CUNT IS A TRUMP TRUMP IS A CUNT CUNT IS A TRUMP TRUMP IS A CUNT and now I just can’t get it out of my head and that’s my ear worm for the day and I’m kinda hoping it becomes yours too.

Try it.

It feels good.

… … … … … … … … …

Of course when I googled a pic I realised millions have come before me in thinking, writing and saying it.

But still.

Trump is such a cunt.

We all know it to be true.


My poll on Anal Sex

In the name of research, I am conducting a poll on Anal Sex.


Because you like it?

Because your partner likes it?

Does it scare you?

Do you have a butt plug?
A what?

Used it more than once?

Would you share a butt plug?
Don’t be ridiculous.

Is it ever good?
1 – Always
2 – Never
3 – Hahahahahahahahahahaha

Would you tell your girlfriends you have Anal?

Are you a man?

Do you think we care what you think?

Should I stop this now?

Last one. Was it good with your bank manager?

Really? Really. You still dream of it? Oh. Okay then. Ooooh kaaaay.

According to the poll, it can be fantastic.

Which means I shall try again.

But shhhh, don’t tell anyone…


Which sex toy are you?

I’ve had a super productive weekend where I’ve binge watched House of Cards, read my horoscope and taken three Buzzfeed quizzes.

How much of a pizza lover are you?

Can you spot the ripe avocado?


Is this a sex toy or a dog toy?

I love pizza, got flying colours on the avocado, but failed dismally on the sex toys.


Impossible, I thought. This is my area of expertise.

A quiz that was meant to be funny had me unimpressed.

I did the test again. Failed. I found another sex toy dog toy one. Failed.

Four out of ten, goddammit.

First of all, how many stupid sex toy dog toy quizzes are there?

Why do so many sex toys look like dog toys?

And why do I care?

My horoscope told me why. Everything is going to be very slow, it said.  Mars is retrograde. You will waste a lot of time. Feel sensitive. Have anger. Mix ups. Confusion.

How much confusion?

Like, could I have used the dog toy instead of the sex toy?

It didn’t tell me what to do.

Should I find another horoscope? Do another quiz? Test an avocado? Or eat pizza?

Or  maybe even get off the couch and do something?

I think I’ll leave the couch.  Stop with this, wait oh wait, I’ve found one, oooh, the perfect quiz.

Are you snoozing or losing?

Hang on, I’m coming,  give me a minute.  Let me just give the dog his toy.

And now, question one.



I’d rushed like crazy and was a bit pissed that the yoga instructor was late. She breezed in, all beautiful in Lululemon white, no apologies.

This is a sacred space, she said, looking directly at me. Please keep your phone out of sight. Lay down, close your eyes, breathe.

I yawned into the sacred space. An hour and a half without my phone is a long time. But hey – yoga, inner peace, mindfulness – I tucked it under my towel, lay down on my mat and assumed the corpse pose.

Death. Shavasana.

Another yogi came in. I would’ve smiled at her but actually, she slammed her mat down on top of mine, crowding me out of my own sacred yogic space.

Christ, I thought.

But I never said that because yoga is just so quiet and peaceful.

Instead I shifted up a little and reassumed the death pose.

I focused on my breathing.

The room had that heady smell – incense, perfume, deodorant, feet.

The guy with the feet was on my left. Also a bit too close. Would it be terribly unyogic of me to move across the room?

I moved.

Without my towel. Or my phone.

The class began. Tree pose, sun salutations, downward dog.

Five minutes in downward dog is a very  long time. Especially when through my legs I could see the guy with the smelly feet’s penis. He wasn’t wearing Lululemon.  Or underwear.

I groaned. Everyone looked at me. You’re not meant to groan during yoga. That quiet sacred space, remember.

This was not turning into a mindful experience. Especially as across the room I could see the flickering light of my phone under the towel.

It took all my power not to leap up, grab my phone and run out of the class.

I started berating myself.

Focus, Violet. Breathe through your fucking nose, Violet. Concentrate on that third eye, Violet. Stop giving the man the death stare, Violet.

The torture ended.  The all-in-white super calm teacher dimmed the lights.

And chanted, in her sing song voice.

Feel the nothingness. Get into the nothingness.  Find yourself a mantra.

Ohm. Ohm.

I found myself a mantra.

Don’t think about killing her, I chanted. Don’t think about killing her, don’t think about killing her, don’t…

She droned on and on.

And somehow I fell asleep.

When I woke, it was really quiet. No-one on top of me. No smells. No penises. No-one in my sacred space.

I felt fantastic.

I got up slowly, stretched,  gathered my thoughts and walked home.

So calm, I thought. So calm.  I loved that class.

Except my phone battery was dead.

And there’s no way in hell I’m ever going back.


What’s in a name?

I had to go across to my neighbours today to ask them to turn their music down. They were blaring hip hop and as groovy as it was, I was struggling to work.

It would’ve been fine if the man who lived in the house was called Bob.

Bob, I would say. Would you mind turning your music down.

And Bob would say Sure Violet, and he would turn the music down.

But the man who lives there is not called Bob. His name is Desire. And Desire make me very bloody uncomfortable. Not for any other reason than he is exactly like his name.

Desirable. And very very young.

And so I avoid Desire at every opportunity.

He probably thinks I am mad. I see him mowing the lawn. He waves and I duck. He never wears a shirt and he has these eyes and anyway, I am sure you understand why I have to avoid Desire.

Today though the music was over the top insane.

Fuckit, I thought.  I don’t care about Desire, I’m going over.

I marched across the road, knocked on the door, ready for confrontation. Maybe confrontation with some sexual energy, but confrontation nevertheless.

A man opened the door. It was not Desire.

It was another man. A new man.

Desire’s tenant.

A tenant who clearly also digs hip hop.

Uh hi, I said tentatively.  I’m Violet, from across the road.

My name too is a little suggestive and I did think of giving myself a pseudonym, but it was all too quick.

Before I could say anything about the music he said –

That is one sexy name. Violet.

And he said it in the most charming, with a voice like honey, smooth kind of way.

V  I  O  L  E  T.

He looked at me with big dark deep eyes.  I was determined to stand my ground.

And you are?

I demanded to know.

I’m so sorry Violet. That was rude of me.

I’m Lovemore.

L  O  V  E  M  O  R  E.

He smiled and kissed me on the cheek.

Dear sweet god.

I have Desire and Lovemore living across the road from me.

They’ve told me Forgive is moving in next week.  And they’re still playing hip hop.

I’m either going to have to move in or move out.

Or love more.