Just get the fuck on with it.

Just get the fuck on with it.

I’ve done it again. I abandoned the blog for months and expect you still to be here when I come slithering back, seeking your approval. I have 44 YES FORTY FOUR draft blog posts on the go, full of funny things and anecdotes and embellished stories that will sadly never see the light of day.

Here for your enjoyment, is a draft* I started at the end of January during my travels to the Trumpnited States of Trumpmerica. Boy oh boy did we have fun. A funny thing happened in New York, which at the time didn’t seem in the least bit funny.

So pull up a chair, light that crack pipe, and read on…

It’s written in present tense, for clarification, even though it’s now weeks later.


We’re in New York at the moment enjoying a few days much needed R & R. (Actually we’re not now – we’ve been home for about six weeks. See * above)

As an aside, let me just say I’ve never stayed in a hotel room which necessitates the wearing of a hat in bed. This is due to the bed’s proximity to a window. A window which appears to be secured in its frame with sellotape and has massive gaps which provide not so much ventilation as a hair drying facility. Seriously. It’s Baltic.

Haven’t complained, obviously. The last time I was in New York I asked the concierge for my bag which was being stored while I wandered round for a last ogle at the skyline. You know that thing where they say it’s not WHAT you say but more HOW you say it? Well I think that applies here. The concierge put both hands up towards me and stated “Ma’am I’m gonna have to ask you to calm down“. WHATTHEFUCK? This made me apoplectic with rage! Calm down? Since when did telling someone to calm down ever cause them to calm down? Not on my watch.

And that, my friends, is the reason why I’m not willing to complain about the shoogly window (Les gave it a poke with her finger last night and I swear to god if it hadn’t been for the fact that we’re on a high floor and the air pressure was different outside thereby creating a vacuum (not scientifically proven) it would’ve clattered down on to a hapless New York pedestrian’s head and I’d be banged up in the state penitentiary looking at a ten year stretch without my HRT patches instead of eating my way round the USA) I can only assume that to the everyday New Yorker I sound like I’m perpetually  angry, hence the frankly unwarranted “Ma’am i’m gonna have to ask you to calm down” Actually I am perpetually angry come to think of it.I’m full of righteous indignation now, but I can’t remember why. It’s just my default state.

I won’t divulge the name of aforementioned hotel but it’s named after a New York river. For argument’s sake let’s call it the Fudson…

To my story: we went to the cinema last night to escape the extreme weather. We landed in NYC just as a severe weather warning was in place. Typical. Deciding the cinema would be a good use of time we battled the macro cyclone to the nearest picture house. En route, and having eaten our way round lower Manhattan earlier that day we stopped by the supermarket for some juice. Stick with it; this is relevant information.

Feeling like native New Yorkers (twenty five, thirty five, hello baby New York City giiiiirl in the wise words of seventies singing scamps Odyssey) we fought the inclement weather, me in my two coats and weather inappropriate footwear, to the local cinema, to see Manchester by the Sea if you must know. I was thirsty as buggery having eaten my body weight in crisps earlier so was very much looking forward to the juice as mentioned above.

Divesting myself of my two sodden coats I sat my bottle of juice on my seat together with a chocolate muffin the size of my head. My side arses must’ve caught the bottle of juice and sent it skittering to the floor and thence rolling down the incline of the cinema floor towards the front where the screen lives.  In complete darkness. As the film was about to start, I whimpered and looked at Les like it was her fault. It didn’t look like Les wanted to attempt to retrieve it so I humphed out with my iPhone on torch mode looking for it. Two dollars fifty that juice cost me – I’ll be damned if I was giving it up, and anyway a Pavlovian response had kicked in and I was suddenly convinced I was going to DIE of thirst. My tongue stuck to the roof of my stupid mouth and my lips to my teeth.

About three rows down a couple were sitting right in the middle of the row, looking like they might have information about my bottle of juice. I accosted them, iPhone torch shining in their eyes:

“Excuse me this might sound like a funny question but my juice rolled down the aisle and I wondered if you’d maybe seen it. I was really looking forward to that juice too” I added, for effect, in case they had my juice and were planning on drinking it, the thieving bastards.

It’s a good job I’ve never been called for jury duty isn’t it? I’m a bit overzealous about finding someone guilty before they’ve been proved innocent. Being American, they probably didn’t understand a word I just said and the girl clung on a bit tighter to her handbag as if I was about to wrestle it from her. ‘Excuse me?” said the bloke, with a rising inflection at the end, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.  “My juice. My bottle of juice. It rolled down the aisle when I was taking my coats off. I just wondered if you’d seen it. It’s just that I’m really thirsty and was looking forward to it”. “Ummm no. Sorry. But if I see it I’ll let you know” and with that I was summarily dismissed. I thought it was a reasonable enough question, but don’t rely on me for rational thinking. Les had slunk (slank?) so far down her chair she’d practically rolled down the aisle after my runaway juice.

Anyway, happy ending! After a thorough search of the seven rows in front of us, my juice was found just two rows in front of us hahahahahaha. Ah. Funny story.

In other news, Les says I’m selfish and lazy or not blurting out a book and making us rich. I’ve been flirting with a few ideas. They say you should write about what you know, so I’m thinking procrastination. I’m currently procrastinating about my dissertation which is due on 21st April. I should be doing my literature review now, yet here I am, seeking your approval by oversharing. And we all know that procrastination doth butter no parsnips. (I learned that phrase this week and love it).

I’ve spent more time complaining and moaning about the dissertation than I have actually working on it. I’m sick of saying dissertation, and am pretty sure everybody who knows me is equally sick of hearing it. I need to call it something else. I’m working on my norkfangle.

So far, I have a title for my self-help, motivational book – Just Get The Fuck On With It. That’s all I have. I need to think about some kind of framework to hang it off. Some new age mumbo jumbo that I’ll be feted for like some kinda genius. A motivational guru if you will. I visualise myself bouncing on stage with a headset shouting “JUST GET THE FUCK ON WITH IT GUYS! AM I RIGHT?! GET. THE. FUCK. ON. WITH. IT!” and everyone will hoot and holler and generally get the fuck on with it.

Anyway, as I say, work in progress. I’m just running it up the flagpole to see who salutes it. Feel free to slide into my comments or PMs with your ideas for just getting the fuck on with it. I could use you as a case study eg:

“Here’s Joanna. Joanna was a woman going nowhere until she discovered the secret of just getting the fuck on with it! Here – look at Joanna in her active wear just getting the fuck on with it at the gym! And here she is with her fifty quid Moleskine notebook that she’s pimped the fuck out of and turned into a wanky bullet journal so she can sort the fuck out of her life and just get the fuck on with it! Go Joanna!”

Ha. Suddenly my laptop feels really hot with all this just getting the fuck on with it, so I’m off to just get the fuck on with that bar of chocolate in the fridge.

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