Tuesday, 23 June 2015

Would you like some Cream with that?

When I'm working at home I watch a lot of crap telly. Well, actually, I don't watch it but I do have it on. It means I have channels like Really on a lot. Yes, that is the name of an actual channel, for those who don't frequent the daytime airwaves. It has programmes on that include judges shouting at chavs, Jeremy Kyle shouting at chavs and chavs shouting at chavs.

In among these programmes there are many adverts, and in among those there are many, many, MANY charity adverts. It's as if the charity directors have decided that the people who are most likely to give money spend most of their day with the telly on, just waiting for an advert depicting starving children, orphan kittens or demented monkeys needing money.

My point is this. How do you choose? It's a fact that everywhere you turn people need stuff. They need money, they need help, they need medication, they need compassion. And then animals. They need food and they need shelter and they need protection (usually from humans). And then there's the rainforests and the orang utans. What are we meant to do? Us with our collective middle class middle England guilt?

Find one and stick to it is what I've decided. Even within my own small sphere of compassion (essentially animals) it becomes difficult to choose. I know so many people who work very hard to save animals in different ways. How do I choose who to give money to?

I don't, as it happens, have very much money. Since deciding that the corporate world is just not for me anymore, I've been eking a living using my skills to do all sorts of weird shit. This has meant I get by. I just barely get by. So this means I have to be careful when supporting charities. I have to make sure that my spare cash, such as it is, is going somewhere it's actually going to do some good, and in a way that pleases my blackened heart.

Dogs Trust gave me my Poppy dog in 1985 and have subsequently been the lucky recipient of a monthly donation from me ever since. It may not be much but it must have piled up by now. That's still ongoing. But my new one, the one I have selected is, perhaps unsurprisingly, the charity that gave me the love of my life.

Sushi has made me so happy and I can't quite believe how many things had to happen in order for me to meet her. Someone had to see her on the roadside, all smashed up, take her somewhere safe, keep her alive, make her better and get her details circulated so that someone else could take pity on her and advertise her. I had to see her and be in a position to send money to yet more people. Through a series of fortunate coincidences Sushi came to me.

But without Speranta Pentu Animale Sushi would be dead.

She would be another corpse in a country that has a sanctioned killing policy of strays. She would be another soul completely let down and uncared for by human beings.

But she's not. She's here. And I love these people half way across Europe for giving her love and hope and care when she needed it.

They have dogs in their shelter in Craiova who are so damaged and so fucked up by the treatment they have endured - the abject actual suffering they have undergone - that they can never be rehomed. Yet, in a place where the state actively encourages people to kill animals without compassion, there are people who are giving their lives to help them live.

They have fuck all money, they work all the time, they get nothing for it, and somehow they have to feed and help these dogs.

They need sponsorship - and I know everyone has their own cause and their own reasons. I know people who think I'm batshit mental for giving money to dogs in a different country, or to dogs at all. But I know the money that I'm giving these guys will go directly to help the dogs I see on their Facebook page every day.

It won't get swallowed in admin costs. It won't disappear into a black hole of donations. It will literally keep Cream alive. Oh, this is Cream. She's my sponsor dog now. She may never end up being spoiled within an inch of her life like Sushi but she is safe and loved and with people who understand her fear and pain.

If you want to sponsor a Speranta dog (and there are a lot worse things you can do with your cash), Paypal to sperantapentruanimale@yahoo.com. You don't know who you could save.

Tuesday, 16 June 2015

Deborah... 25% off Father's Day Cards!!!


Just the one slight problem with that isn't there Funky Pigeon? You shower of bastards. You insensitive dicknoses. You mean, mean card company.

Except they're not mean. No meaner than any other money grabbing corporate entity anyway.

It's just what happens this time of year.

Father's Day when your dad is dead is a bummer. It really is. For about six weeks before the Big Day, shops and websites goad you. The first few years after Dad died, I couldn't even walk around a supermarket at this time of year. It's amazing just how many products are sucked into the gaping maw of tat people are encouraged to buy their dads on Father's Day. Fucking everything.

And it's a little stab. Dad, Dad, Dad, Father, Father, Father, DAD, DAD, DAD.

I admit for the first year after he died it felt like the entire world was CROWING in my FACE about how wonderful it is to have a dad that's, you know, breathing. And how much I miss him. And god it hurts. It hurts enough just to breathe in and out every day without seeing I LOVE MY DADDY emblazoned on every cocking thing you look at.

But it is the way of our advertisement saturated world. It's something that you just don't even notice until someone dies. And then it's taunting you, with its weird nostalgia tinged regret that you'll never need to buy another Father's Day card ever again. Not as long as you live. Isn't that a weird thought? Weirder still is the fact that I still have the one that I made Dad when I was about five.

It's a crappy children's drawing of a heart and it says: I LOVE MY DADDY on it.

And it's true. I did love my daddy. I still love my daddy. And, as I am now into the 15th year of dealing with this shit, I can go shopping at this time of year. And I can receive emails into my inbox suggesting all the things I could and should buy for my father.

And it's sort of OK.

I guess that's progress.

Wednesday, 10 June 2015

Sorry Jawed

Hey bitches. It's been AGES. AGES AND AGES. I just had a look at my last post and it was back in April and was about acceptance.


I feel the time is right to start talking rubbish on the internet again. More than Facebook allows me to. I like it. I had a small break, partly because, well, I'm a lot happier at the moment and that restricts my ability to rant in quite the same way. And partly because I see a lot of people write a lot of shit on the internet and I was all like, do I want to be a part of that? That total shitstorm of banal nonsense filling up our brainboxes to the detriment of actual thinking?


So it was lucky that I made a new friend today.

Now that I have found myself in a stable relationship (I know, right? Insanity. He doesn't even want me to be thinner or ANYthing. Or change anything about myself. It's quite the unknown territory. And quite marvellous) I am obviously not on dating sites. First time since about 1871. So I don't get all the weird SHOW ME YOUR VAJAJAY messages I used to get.

But there is always Facebook.

Meet Jawed.

Don't engage. Don't feed the trolls. Don't encourage. But, but, but I'm working really hard and need a break and nothing's on telly and, look, I just did, OK? You wouldn't, I know. But I just wanted to see what Jawed wanted. What COULD JAWED WANT.

Well, he loves me. So there's that.

Jawed breaks my zen like calm here. I know it's pointless to get angry with jerkwads on the internet but I just can't seem to help it. I mean, this is a good 10 mins of my life I'm never getting back. But still it went on. I'm an imperfect human. Stop judging. 

Ohhhh, Jawed wanted pics of my pussy. It's all clear now. Maybe he doesn't love me after all. I am glad that they know about Fatty in India though. He deserves to be a worldwide megastar.  

Not that kind of pussy, apparently. Change of tack. 

I mean, he's a student. I don't really get the whole spelling vagina with an 'e'. It doesn't even sound right. Who calls it a veh-gine-ah. Weird. Time for dick talk. 

Always be polite when talking about your cock on the internet. Sorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry Jawed. 

Yay. I made a new friend. 

It's all you need. Oh wait. Yes, that too. 

I sang. I don't know whether Jawed did. I feel like maybe he didn't. But I blocked him at this point so I guess we'll never know. 

Internet = new friends.