Monday, November 05, 2007

From Horror to Terror

All is clearly not well with Donna Da Lodga and her tempestuous love-life. Readers of my little blog will know she lurches from car-crash to crisis with such alacrity one even begins to think she enjoys the adrenalin she clearly gets.

She returned from yet an other sortie into clubland Saturday morning whilst I was on my way out to sweat out the body-beautiful. She clucked and fussed while I left. So far so good.

All was not well when I returned.

She was moping around the place. A short cross examination revealed that the latest conquest was failing to come up to the grade in a number of areas, and despite denying having got her hopes up (which she clearly had) when things failed to measure up, she crashed to earth like a soviet era satellite hellbent on leaving a radioactive crater across the steppes.

It was when I went about completing my ablutive duties that the final terror reached me.

Merrily sudding myself down with the wire brush and extra dettol I could hear the ghastly strains of a certain type music emanating from below.

Think 'Power ballad'.

Think 'Leather and Lace'

Think 'Everything I do,' on karaoke. Followed closely by 'All by myself'.

I had to act quick lest my lower intestine leap out and strangle me in self preservation.

Dripping and betowelled I ran into the lounge, and there she was, karaoke machine in full swing belting them out tunelessly to the very worst 'romantic heartache songs ever'.

'Donna - this device uses more electricity than we have accounted for in the bill. I shall raise you rent immediately to £10,000 to cover the cost.'

She looked crestfallen.

'Look I know you are feeling a tad blue over this chap - but singing this sort of music is a cliché which you have bought into. Go out and occupy yourself instead of acting out this Bridget Jonesesque response.'

More crestfallen looks.

'OK - if you have to do this - at least wear some big pants. (Fig. 1), then you can wallow in the whole sad and lonely stereotype. Eat chocolate, get spots, complain then go out and pick up someone new for more meaningless sex. the Pants won't help, of course, but they do amuse me.'

Apparently she bumped into another old flame on the Saturday night. I have contacted kimberly clark and Cadbury just in case.

You will be 'all by yourself' in these.

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