Wednesday, 6 June 2012

Because sometimes a girl needs Samuel L. Jackson at bedtime

Don't get too excited by the title, folks. Mama hasn't suddenly embarked on a torrid affair with dear ol' Samuel L. (for the record, his snake has never been anywhere near my plane), she'd just like him to sit with The Monk awhile and read him a bedtime story. Since the boy-child has discovered walking and running, he's decided that sleep is for pussies. Well I'm sorry short-stuff, but mama loves her some sleep and she has no intention of letting a dinky punk like you spoil that for her. Whenever you're ready, Mr. L. Jackson.

Fortunately for His Royal Monkness, last week he had the good sense to nod off early and let me indulge in my yearly guilty passion: the Eurovision Song Contest. It's the best thing ever, I'll watch it from start to blood-stained finish wherever I happen to be in the world (what can I say? Mama knows how to rock out). I love it like I love puppies, and believe me, I fucking LOVE puppies.
See this? I fucking LOVE this.

I was also under massive duress to perform the role of Twitter commentator that night (for which I thank the lovely Claire), which I'm proud to say I fulfilled with enormous (and shamefully drunken) gusto. I was hashtagging like a motherfucker and unstoppable in my eloquence; I think I averaged one Tweet every 30 seconds or so, usually consisting of words like 'fuck', 'shit', 'what' and 'bitch'. I even had Notepad open at the same time on the laptop, so I could take notes about each contestant and inform you all in exquisitely fine detail about Eurovision in its entirety. So yeah, that kind of went to shit as the evening wore on and the wine ran out:

Mama tried her best.
Mama even got her some new Twitter followers, which is a huge achievement considering that proper Twitter etiquette dictates that any batshit crazy Eurovision babbler should be deleted post haste. Maybe they were all touched at the beauty and incisiveness of my words. Most probably, they were all drunk too and just liked all the swearing. I can't be sure, I had hiccups at that point and all the keys were starting to merge into a hazy fug before me. Wine is AWESOME.

Come to mama, sweetie.
Next morning, though, me and wine weren't on the best terms. We'd had a bit of a row during the night, and it punched me in the head repeatedly. There are times, people, when all a mama wants to do is collapse on the sofa, sob in self-pity and write her a little blog post about her poorly head. Of course, this is The Monk's cue to wake up yelling and complaining that he's hungry. Breakfast time is not Mama's favourite time with her son, with or without the room spinning.

The Monk hates his highchair with an absolute passion. As soon as he's slotted into it, he acts like the bastard thing's out to kill him. What makes it even worse is that we paid the best part of a hundred quid for that asshole chair, when it turns out he actually prefers to lord over us from the heights of a twenty quid piece of shit from Ikea, the ones you get in restaurants (this bitch LUNCHES, kids). As a result, myself and the boy have developed an alternative breakfasting style: in short, putting his plate on the pouffe and letting him circle it like a wary pony. It's not a good technique, it's actually a fucking awful technique (have you ever attempted to minimise Cheerio spillage, when the only way your kid allows himself to be fed is if he stops for a few seconds in front of you as he runs around screaming?), but sometimes food actually finds its way into his noisy trap and it's all good 'til lunchtime.

"Get that chair away from me, woman."

It's just dawned on me that I've said next to nothing about the quality of Eurovision itself this year (oh yeeeeah, I'm back on it!). In a nutshell, it was Eurovision; same glossy, hyper-camp, Baltic states-favouring shizz as every year, and I hope it never changes. I vaguely remember Sadako from "Ring" winning, and claiming to be Swedish. And now I leave you with my very favourite entry, from Austria - so good, it didn't even get through to the final. People, I give you... Trackshittaz. Yes, Trackshittaz.

Haha, Trackshittaz.

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