Happy New Year, Pricks

31 Dec

As you welcome in the New Year, please take a moment to remember those less fortunate than yourself.

I don’t mean the poor, ill, lonely and/or disenfranchised as there will be plenty of time to think of them tomorrow when you’re already feeling like shit. I am referring to anyone who—through their own dumb ignorance, wretched luck or bad taste—does not share in life’s pleasures as you and I do. We too often forget that people like this do exist:

  • The men for whom “Wanted Dead or Alive” triggers important life-changing memories.
  • The women who think it’s okay to put decals on their fingernails.
  • The young people who think Lady Gaga gives an “intense performance.”
  • The old people who can’t wear skinny jeans.
  • Anyone who drinks Boone’s Farm out of choice, rather than necessity.
  • Robert Conrad who still has to live with the shame.

Raise a toast tonight to these sad fuckers. And then go about your usual New Year’s Eve shenanigans.

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A Christmas Surprise

25 Dec

Well, times sure have changed. When I was younger, a gentleman’s suggestion of a game of Truth or Dare usually ended up with a memorable five minutes of fumbling in a darkened cupboard. Not anymore, I’m afraid.

When Christopher arrived at mine, let’s just say it was obvious he had already been drinking in the beauty of the season. After pouring me my evening tipple, he asked if he could join me. I, of course, said of course. Once a few bottles were emptied, Christopher suggested a round of the Truth or Dare.

Now when I was a child, our Christmas Eve rituals often involved game-playing so I thought it a rather charming suggestion. Although my plan was to subtly increase the “danger” of the dares (a strategy successfully used against myself on many an occasion), I was a bit disappointed that Christopher continually opted for truth and extremely disappointed when he told me his first kiss was nothing like I had imagined (in minute detail, at least once a day) it to have been. Soon the mood turned:  the game itself was abandoned entirely and I ended up spending my Christmas Eve—a time when other women were being cherished and showered with gifts—listening to a long list of rather vicious admissions, sprayed across my person like graffiti on a bridge. These included the indictment of  my hats as “less than flattering,” the confession that not a single one of my books has been read cover to cover by Christopher or any member of his immediate family and perhaps most hurtful, despite every indication to the contrary, Christopher does not in fact enjoy brushing my hair before bed each night.

This holiday assault ended with a quick rush out of the room followed by a disturbing eruption (Malibu is just as unpleasant coming out as it is going in). Vomit is well known for snapping people out of their stupors; it worked its acidic charm on Christopher, and the apologies began to be begged. I laid him down on the sofa and placed a damp washrag on his brow. He was weeping and asking my forgiveness (in between dry heaves). He has only just now fallen to sleep. It’s no wonder old St Nick chose to bypass our address this Noel.

If there is one thing my family has taught me, it is that Christmas is not Christmas unless someone’s feelings are hurt (or someone blows chunks): the fact that both happened here tonight can only mean Christopher and I are indeed a real family. Tomorrow I shall give him his gifts and, once he’s cleaned up the messes, our December 25 will carry on as usual. This hasn’t really been my favourite Christmas Eve, but it certainly hasn’t been my most dramatic. A silly drunken boy hardly holds a candle to the night I became radioactive.

Many of you will be waking soon and I hope Santa Claus has left you everything on your lists. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

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Very Good Gentlemen

7 Dec

I was going to post a rather long and thought-provoking assessment of the imminent collapse of the euro. But fuck that, did you see what happened in Adelaide?

Don't you just melt when men embrace each other publicly?

A wise man once said, “Cricket civilizes people and creates good gentlemen.” Okay, it was Robert Mugabe, but on this account, he was right. Harold Pinter once said, “I tend to think that cricket is the greatest thing that God ever created on earth—certainly greater than sex, although sex isn’t too bad either,” and he too was spot on.

A Proud Man Celebrating

A Big Baby Crying

England have won the second test of the 2010 Ashes. They won. By an innings. At one point, three wickets were taken in four deliveries.

Never have eleven men made me so happy over such a short period of time (okay, once before, but we won’t go into that). I am very proud of the lads. I only wish I could have been there to show them just how proud (and by proud, I do mean aroused) I am. I shall fall to sleep now dreaming of each and every one of them, wood in hand, showing me their talents at the crease.

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An Unashamed Premature Ejaculation

3 Dec

Hurrah!

I try to keep my ejaculations appropriately timed—those who vociferate too early look over-eager and those who wait until others start cheering end up looking like sycophants.

But I’ve come over all excited by the opening of the Adelaide test!

When the first wicket fell, Christopher uttered a sudden loud cry and to be honest, I felt embarrassed for him. I’ve had experience with Australians going down quickly and they rarely bring satisfaction in the long run (which is why I no longer accept drinks from men at Walkabout). But when Ponting was out for a golden duck, I admit my face flushed and I could feel the dew on my forehead. Christopher poured me my second highball (I need the caffeine to help keep me awake), and, fuck me, if Clarke wasn’t out, caught in the slips.

Could this really be happening?

Today of all days, England needed a sporting boost. This could be it. I know it may be early  but thank you, my men in flannels, for an incredible start.

 

Christopher has now slipped into his jim-jams and curled up by the fire. But I can assure you: all night long, I’ll be awake—with bated breathe, racing pulse and slightly moistened thighs.

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Students—You Gotta Love And/Or Hate ‘Em

14 Nov

I always find myself in a bit of a sticky situation when discussing students and their financial woes, because I grew up in America, where they do everything bigger, including their student debt. This year there are more than 100 higher ed institutions in the US charging over $50,000 a year for tuition, fees and room and board (for those of you who failed your maths O-levels, that’s about £31,000). Fees vary, obviously, and also increase for out-of-state students. This total does not even factor in the required books and other supplies, VD treatment, bail money or legal fees for when students take professors to court for not giving them the grades they wanted. We’re talking big bucks here, people. Although financial aid and loans are available, the price is so high that a deal with the devil is often the only option. This explains why most US university students are soulless twats.

But English higher education has never been run in this way, so far be it from me to make a comment—as you know, I never speak on things on which I am not an expert on.

However, the protest raised one issue that affects all of us, and that is the issue of hypocrisy. Let’s take a hypothetical situation. Let’s say you have a country where three major political parties win most of the elections. Let’s say the third party, while admittedly holding far fewer seats than the other two, represents the possibility of change to much of the electorate: a belief that just maybe we could have a party in power whose policies were, I don’t know, let’s say, more “liberal” than the status quo of the two other parties, who seem to grow more and more like each other each year. Then through some odd twist of fate, the leader of that third party (just to keep the story simple I’ll give this character the name “Nick”), through some bizarre aligning of the stars, a global financial disaster and the scary smile of the incumbent, Nick somehow actually becomes Deputy Prime Minister. Hurrah! say the electorate, we are going to finally have a little bit of influence on the way things are run. This man, this Nick, he made promises—maybe even signed pledges—that if he were ever in power, he’d do right by us.

Then he didn’t.

Maybe we’d believe that this hypothetical Nick wanted to stop certain policies but just got outvoted. Maybe he would say, I have not abandoned my principles—I just don’t have enough power to overrule.

But imagine he didn’t say that. Imagine instead that he said, on reflection, he wasn’t being careful when he made the pledge, that now he knows he should have been promising the exact opposite of what he pledged. In fact, now that the older boys in the blue ties have explained everything to him, he actually reckons their ideas are more progressive than his party’s.

Now in my little story, I imagine quite a few of us would feel pretty cross at our Nick. Maybe cross enough even to, hypothetically of course, bust out a few windows and throw a few things around. It wouldn’t fix things and would probably lead to our arrests, but the anger itself would not be an inappropriate response.

Tens of thousands of students showing up at Millbank Tower Wednesday has had two important and hopefully long-lasting effects: 1. it proved that the younger generation is not apathetic and will speak up against hypocrisy and 2. because so many students were otherwise occupied, downloads of that lady’s gaga music dipped drastically. Both of these can only be good things.

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I’m Late, I’m Late, For A Very Important Date

13 Nov

Alice Wintergarden read me the riot act this morning, chiding me for arriving late to a drinks party she held last evening.

First off, yes, I was late last night, but at least I wasn’t wearing an inappropriately low neckline on an exceedingly unattractive blouse. Perhaps we should all look a bit closer to home for party faux pas before we start judging me, dear Alice.

Secondly, I did not come late to the party to be “fashionable.” Ignoring arrival guidelines is not a game I play. Unfortunately, a rather dramatic occurrence took place just as I was heading out to the car (the specifics of which I am afraid for both legal and moral reasons I cannot detail to any outside parties at the moment), and I was forced to immediately deal with this crisis. If anything, I’d have thought Alice would have been thanking me for giving her the gift of my presence at all, as god knows (and several other guests testified) that it was a dreadfully tired event before I showed up. But some people are just like that.

As we are nearing the holiday season, no doubt all of our calendars will soon be filling up with invites to parties and requests from the headmaster of the local boys’ school to dress as Mrs Claus (for the school’s Christmas pageant, I presume). Here are a few tips to help get you through this busy time:

  • It is important to be prompt for any engagement, for good manners are the backbone of any social occasion. But do keep this suggestion in perspective.
  • Take a gift, even if your hosts request no gifts. In fact, especially if they request no gifts. They only do this to look humble or “environmentally conscious,” but the cold, hard truth is that everyone likes prezzies, no matter how frivolous, wasteful or damaging to Mother Earth they may be. Hosts should be forced to acknowledge this fact.
  • Never be the first or last to leave the party.
  • Mingle with as many different people as you can tolerate but never ever allow yourself to be photographed with strangers. If you do, you can guarantee said photograph will be stuck into Round Robin letters and the thought of that is so upsetting that it still turns my stomach eight years later.
  • If more than two dozen ex-lovers are also at the party, keep your stay to under thirty minutes.

Finally, please let me advise that if you are the one hosting the get-together, it’s important to remember two things: be grateful I came in the first place and don’t dress like a whore.

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Once, Twice, Three Times A Loser, Lady

3 Nov

What’s the likelihood that we’ve finally seen the end of Christine O’Donnell? After losing the Delaware Senate race three times, I think even the Little Engine That Could would probably say fuck it, I give up. Fingers crossed, little Miss Not-A-Witch moves on to a more appropriate career (my advice: look into medical transcription, it’s steady pay, relatively easy to learn and requires no knowledge of the Constitution).

I am so grateful that I was able to travel to Washington, DC to participate in the Rally to Restore Sanity. Even though I wasn’t pleased with all the outcomes of this midterm election, the day I spent on the National Mall with sensible and (mostly) sexy Americans gives me hope that so many (over six billion, according to Stephen Colbert) of our citizens still believe that critical thinking, rather than ranting from the media and the nutters, should guide their decisions.

The message of the Rally was to take things down a notch–stop shouting and calling names and start listening and thinking (a message I was politely trying to pass onto those border police, but they were having none of it). The placards that many people carried were perfect: clever and funny, as you know, are two of my favourite characteristics.

This is partly why I find Jon Stewart so delicious. However, I do have a slight bone to pick with him. On the big screen, he showed cars merging as they entered the Lincoln Tunnel:

“These cars — that’s a school teacher who thinks taxes are too high…there’s a mom with two kids who can’t think about anything else…another car, the lady’s in the NRA. She loves Oprah…An investment banker, gay, also likes Oprah…a Latino carpenter…a fundamentalist vacuum salesman…a Mormon Jay Z fan…But this is us. Everyone of the cars that you see is filled with individuals of strong belief and principles they hold dear — often principles and beliefs in direct opposition to their fellow travelers.

And yet these millions of cars must somehow find a way to squeeze one by one into a mile-long, 30-foot wide tunnel carved underneath a mighty river…And they do it. Concession by concession. You go. Then I’ll go. You go, then I’ll go. You go, then I’ll go — oh my god, is that an NRA sticker on your car, an Obama sticker on your car? Well, that’s OK. You go and then I’ll go… Sure, at some point there will be a selfish jerk who zips up the shoulder and cuts in at the last minute. But that individual is rare and he is scorned, and he is not hired as an analyst.

Because we know instinctively as a people that if we are to get through the darkness and back into the light we have to work together and the truth is, there will always be darkness.  And sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t the promised land. Sometimes it’s just New Jersey.  But we do it anyway, together.”

New Jersey is not the promised land? Mr Stewart, use those sexy fingers to dial my number and I will personally escort you to the Shangri-La that lies within the borders of the Garden State.

But he’s right about that tunnel, it is a bitch. Especially when you’re in a hurry, it’s tempting to slide up that shoulder, wiggle your bumper and smile at the lonely businessman in the Beemer to push your way in. But it doesn’t work when drivers do that. Sometimes things take time. Sometimes you have to wait more than forty five minutes to get through that tunnel. Sometimes you have to wait more than two years to clean up the messes the previous administration and a global financial crisis left behind. America elected (kind of) George Dubya for eight years, yet so many have expected Obama to get it all sorted so quickly. I know he’s younger and ever so fit, but be realistic—he may not have accomplished everything yet, but he’s made a start.

The election is over and choices have been made. I beg all winners to remember the lessons the Rally taught us. Stop gerrymandering, filibustering and all those other five-syllable words that cause a bottleneck on the road to our recovery.  Reach across the aisle, stop shouting and calling names and start listening and thinking.

You go, then I’ll go, you go, then I’ll go. It’s what gets us through.

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Breaking News: Reports of My Arrest Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

31 Oct

As one of the key messages of Saturday’s Rally to Restore Sanity was about the press’s fear mongering, I thought I would clarify any mis-reporting that is happening in the UK regarding my arrest at the border. I was not charged with sex trafficking; the police just had a few questions about the nature of my relationship with Christopher and once I was given the chance to provide answers, I was allowed to continue my trip without incident. While I appreciate the immediate establishment of the “Free Agatha” fan page on Facebook, it is no longer necessary (though Alice Wintergarden is staying at my home and able to sign for any gift packages or flower bouquets if you still feel compelled to show some type of support).

 

Additionally, if you happened to catch me when I showed up on the Jumbotron, can I please clarify that it was a banana that I was eating. My high level of decorum and the fact that the police were “keeping an eye on me” mean that this is the only reasonable explanation for my rather unflattering pose.

I shall post more on my experience of the Rally shortly, as soon as I have regained feeling in my wrists (police handcuffs unfortunately are not covered in pink fur like normal restraints and are therefore nowhere near as comfortable).

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Miss Whitt-Wellington Goes to Washington

29 Oct

Advance apologies for my upcoming absence. I am traveling to Washington DC this weekend.

The first reason for my trip is to attend the Rally to Restore Sanity (or to Keep Fear Alive, depending on my mood). After reading about the crazies who have been gathering in our nation’s capital, like bloody snot after a blow to the nose, I wanted to check in with the saner Americans I know are the backbone of the country. (I forgive the rest of England for being unaware of this fact; it makes sense given the fact that in the UK, being anti-American is seen as both “big” and “clever.” After all, even our dear Auntie tolerates, nay celebrates, it.)

Jon Stewart’s rally is being held to help restore a little sanity to the country. It’s there to remind us that it’s not only those with big, fat mouths and stupid ideas who count; those of us who know how to use indoor voices and our critical thinking skills deserve to be heard as well. Thousands of Americans will be taking to the National Mall to make a point on a variety of issues—national, political as well as “other.”

Note: I’m impressed with the creativity and true commitment displayed in the signs many attendees have prepared for the event. However, I have a number of harsh words for the brainbox who made this one:

My second reason for visiting is to cast my vote in the November election. Just because it’s not about the presidency doesn’t mean this election isn’t important. Alas, I cannot be sure that my absentee ballot would be fairly counted after recent years’ debacles so I’m afraid I’ve got to make the trip over.  Attention all Americans living in Britain: do the morally right thing and catch a quick transatlantic flight so you too can participate—remember, voting in America is a privilege not a right, and if you’re privileged, your vote matters even more. Yes, doing so may add almost 300 tonnes of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, but if you care about our world, you’ll make the sacrifice. (Luckily, I’m flying by private jet which, according to Sting, actually helps the environment.)

Christopher has never been to Washington DC, so I’ll also be taking out a little time from my busy schedule of shaping America’s political landscape to show him a few of the sights. Actually, I’d love to stop by the DC Zoo to see the area where I first became a woman; I know Christopher would like to get some photos there.

Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone. And to any would-be burglars: don’t get smart. Although Christopher and I will be away, the house will not be empty. I’ve arranged for my dear friend Alice Wintergarden to stay here: she may be small but she does pack heat. (Her house, on the other hand, will be vacant, though keep in mind her taste in jewellery is appalling.)

Christopher informs me that this is our one hundredth post on Everyone Needs An Algonquin. Thank you to the fans who have been there since the beginning—while we cherish all of you, the truth is your first loves always hold a special place in your heart (sometimes lodging themselves dangerously near the aortic opening). Happy 100th to us all.

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