What A Fecking Year! 2010 - Time For You To Bog Off!

So, this last year has pretty much been a bit pants.

My divorce finally came through in April - there was me thinking I would get it in 2009 but no way.  It had to take 15 months to sort out cos I married a tit of gigantic proportions who had to ask God or his mum and dad before he did anything.

Won't make that mistake again, not the marrying part, the gigantic tit part.

I decided it was time to meet an actual man in 2010, so I signed up to a few dating sites (the free ones of course).  No-one warned me that Plenty of Fish was a stalkers paradise.  After day 2, I renamed it Plenty of Pish.

I had all sorts contacting me - even before I'd put up a photo.

My first email came from Bob:

"I like having sex in tents.  Would you like to go camping?"

He hadn't even seen my face.  I'm not Elle McPherson by any stretch of the imagination but I ain't a minger, however, he didn't know that.  I could have been a wart ridden dwarf with alopecia for all he knew.  I'm not sure I could ever be so desperate for a shag that I would email a random bloke without even seeing a pic (even then you can't be sure the picture is ACTUALLY him).  Having said that, I am getting a bit dusty down there.  But no, I still couldn't do it.

Don't get me wrong, a good personality and sense of humour is a must.  However, if you look like  Fred West and John McCririck's love child, all the jokes in the world ain't gonna get my pants moving.

I've had a few dates after chatting to folks online.  I'm still in touch with most of them cos they are funny and decent blokes but we just didn't have that 'thing', whatever the feck that is - apparently I'll know when it happens, so say my Yoda-like pals.

You'd think I would know it already having been married to 'the one'.  Alas, no.  Hindsight is a wonderful thing and the fluttering in my stomach I felt with him turned out to be gasteroenteritis, so I'm no more wise re the whole 'love at first sight' thing.

Does that even exist?  Love at first sight?  I've really only ever had that fluttery feeling when in Greggs and the freshly baked steak bakes come out of the oven (but you still ask for one near the back cos if it's too hot you can't eat it, too cold and it's like eating lard).

I digress.

Love at first sight.  What a load of pish.  That's what I have decided.  You can totally fancy someone in the queue in Boots the Chemist, but that doesn't mean to say that once you get to know them you wouldn't want to smash their face in with a wok.

In the words of Princess Diana "It's a minefield out there"*

So what do you do?  You have a laugh and don't take things so seriously - that's what you do.

I've had a first date with a bloke where I helped him move house and hang his pictures - we're still Facebook buddies.

I arranged to meet another bloke at midnight in the Monster Munch aisle in ASDA** - we're still Facebook buddies.

Here are my new rules.

a) If a bloke asks you out for a drink, say yes - how bad can it be?  It'll be a funny Facebook status if nothing else.

b) If your mate(s) set you up on a blind date, say yes.

However:

i) If you find out the bloke is already married, tell him he's an arse and move on to the next one.
ii) If you find out the bloke is actually gay, make him your new best friend and order another round.
iii) If you find out the bloke has a girlfriend, see i) above
iv) If he talks about his parents like they are mini gods, see i) above
v) If he says 'I like cosy nights in and also nights out', see i) above
vi) If he is politically incorrect, swears, calls you a fanny, eats his pint glass when finished his drink and is a bit hairy, order another round and arrange date 2.

Those are my new standards and I will not deviate.

As for everything else, well 2010 has brought a load of shite but has also brought a lot of laughter.

I've made some fab new pals; I got broody over my pals amazingly gorgeous baby girl (I'm pleased to say the broodiness has now passed so there is no need for anyone to be lining up outside my flat with their peni*** on stand by); I made some brill work connections which will hopefully see Raw Talent grow in 2011 now I've got my head out of my arse; I bought Bridget (my wee car); I defriended a couple of complete and utter twats and I found out I'm going to Kenya on safari with my mum and wee sis next year.

So actually, 2010 wasn't that bad really.  After all, I'm not dead and I haven't gone bald.  Yet.

As for 2011, bring it on - I'll take whatever you throw at me.  I'm starting it off by having a sauna, drinking wine and waiting for my pals to arrive at the lodge we are staying in for a couple of nights.  We are having 'pot luck' dinners.  No-one knows what anyone else is bringing so our New Years Day feast is likely to consist of Haribo, Smarties, scones, potatoes, flumps and Carolanns (fake Baileys which tastes like shit but mixed with vodka it's not half bad).  Do I care?  Nope.  As long as they turn up, it's all good.  I know there will be a lot of laughing.  I know this because they are all mental - not in the medicated way - in the straight jacket way and I love them all.

Then it's back home to Audrey (my flat) on the 2nd to prepare for a drunken evening on the 3rd with my new single pal from Glasgow - who incidentally has set me up with a bloke called Trevor.  He better like my fake Tesco Uggs and trackie bottoms cos I ain't getting dressed up - I might put some mascara on if he's lucky but I probably won't brush my hair.  If he likes me in that state, there is potential.  But he IS called Trevor.  I'm not sure I could shout that out in the throes of passion without pissing myself laughing.  If we start going out, I may have to change his name.  I hope he doesn't mind.  Of course, he may decide that I'm a minger and not want to go on another date with me.  Oh well, his loss, the twat.

One of my resolutions is to stop analysing situations before I've been in them.  Sorry Trevor.

I will get fit and stop resembling a sack of potatoes wrapped in lard and I will ride my bike more (still need to buy gel pants for the chafing - someone remind me.)

Other than that, I ain't really planning anything except work stuff.  Let's just play 2011 by ear and see what happens.

Let's hope it's a good one folks and when me and Trev get married, you're all invited (but you have to bring good presents).

Happy New Year everyone xx

* she didn't really say that, to my knowledge.
** we both fell asleep on our respective couches and missed this date.
*** I think peni is plural for penis, but I could be wrong.

Asian Man in a Gimp Mask and A Sparkly Mermaid Dress

Well, I think this dream is definitely up there at the top of the 'weird shit in my head' list.

I started off being 8.  I was being chased by a killer in a black outfit (not unlike the Milk Tray Man) carrying a massive knife trying to kill me.  I was on a train.  I kept hiding in different compartments (it was an old fashioned train from back in the day).  No-one believed that this man was chasing me and killing everyone in his way - anytime I saw him, he would hide and no-one else could see him.  How he managed to blend in wearing a gimp mask I'll never know.

I finally escaped off the train and ran to where I heard people.  It was a village fete.  It had a 'wickerman' feel to it.  I tried to hide from this guy but he kept chasing me.  I got with a group of people and tried to tell them about my 'mad killer stalker' but they didn't believe me until they saw him for themselves.  This meant that he started chasing them down too.

In all the confusion, I got invited to a formal dinner dance and of course I didn't have anything to wear.  I must point out that I have gone from age 8 to my actual age in the space of that train journey.

Having been on a train for about 29 years, I had no clothes for the do so went to a charity shop and bought a lovely mermaid sparkly type thing for 8 pence.  It was only after I'd arrived at the party on my bike that I realised my arse was hanging out of the back of it.  It had really bad stitching.  I spent the night at the do holding the back of my dress together.

I got back on the train to go home and lo and behold, the man in black was in the carriage I was booked in to.  I started to run but then couldn't be arsed so I stopped and turned round and said, 'fine, stab me in the face, I couldn't give a fishes tit'.  He took off his mask as I had broken the spell and I now had to kill him.  He was a little Asian man with spikey hair but before I could kill him, in a very eaborate way, I had to change out of my shit mermaid dress.  I spent ages putting my trackies back on and lacing up my shoes.  The people in the carriage told me I shouldn't kill him and that even though he had killed about 7 thousand people, I should let him live.

I laughed quite loudly in their faces and then stabbed him in the gums.  Yes, in the gums.

Dear oh dear, I wonder if they make straight jackets in my size...

Cantankerous Christmas C**ts and Fat Women in Motobility Wheelchairs

I cracked nearly all of my Christmas shopping today.  It wasn't panic buying, I pretty much knew what I was getting, I just hadn't gotten round to leaving the flat to go and get it. 

Did I have fun?  Erm, I would rather have been wearing a suit of barbed wire, spooning my own eyes out singing along to Jedward's new single whilst having their biography read aloud to me by Pee Wee Herman.

In a nutshell, I hate Christmas shopping.  Well, I hate the people you encounter when out Christmas shopping.  I love buying things for people.  I just hate the wankers that people turn into when they are running around like twats cos they are not organised - IT HAPPENS EVERY YEAR PEOPLE, WRITE A FUCKING LIST IN JUNE!

I never want to hear another Christmas song, see another Santa hat or hear another child screaming 'but mummy I want' for the rest of the month.  Feck sake, teach your children some manners and don't allow them to holler in the shop and make you look like the turdiest parent in the world for giving into their demands for a cheap shiny thing on a string.  

The reason for this blog?  Nothing really other than to bitch about the rudeness I encountered on my outing today.

First of all wench features, in a mahoosive car, tried to run me and Bridget (my wee smart car) off the road cos, heavens above, we were sitting behind a 'wide load' and couldn't get past.  She screamed up beside me on the outside lane near Crewe Toll (Edinburgh) and started wafting her arms about like she was having some sort of fit.  Then she started screaming 'move over and let me in, for fuck sake move over'.  What, did I miss a memo?  How the fuck could she not see the twatarse of a truck in front of me yet it was my fault that she found herself in the wrong lane.  I put my hands up and said 'what do you want me to do?'.  She started moving her stupid 10 tonne truck over to my lane WITHOUT THERE BEING SPACE FOR HER...

I had no choice but to let her in.  I then spent the next 2 miles sitting behind her shaking my head and saying things like 'you're gonna have a heart attack and die before your children, who are sitting in the back of your monster truck listening to your shite, turn 12'.  She probably didn't hear me.  What a cow.  Seriously, there is no need for that behaviour.  She should have realised she'd been a c**t and done the hand movement that lets the other driver know that you have acknowledged you have been a c**t and I'd have let her in no problem!  Stupid bint from hell.

I got to The Gyle about 6 hours after setting off from the flat.

I was telling the Turkish man that I wasn't interested in having my nails buffed, when Boots had a power cut!  Bollocks - they were next on my hit list!

I navigated my way through miserable looking mothers with hideous whining children and old grannies tagging along behind them.  They all looked like they would give up their life for 10 minutes of peace and quiet and a Rich Tea.  I'm not judging, just observing.

I went into Claire Accesories to feel trendy and one 'kid' was screaming at the till 'but mummy I want one, I really want one'.  The mother, clearly deranged by this point, just gave in and the kid got the much needed shiny thing on a string.  Personally I wanted to take the little shit to one side, kick her in the vag and explain that her behaviour was heinous and that children in the world are starving and she's bitching about a shiny thing on a string.  I decided against it, cos no matter how shit your kids are, you don't want anyone else pointing it out and I thought the mother would probably rip me a new arsehole.

I stood quietly gazing at the shiny things on strings until they left the shop.

I didn't buy a shiny thing.

I went to New Look to kill half an hour and have a look at the clothes that the young folks are wearing and headed back to Mecca (Boots) as the power had come on.  The Advantage Card machine was working and I had about 7,000 Boots pounds to spend on smellies and shit. 

Bear in mind, I'd been in this fecking holding paddock for mentalists and special people for about 6 hours already.  I'd had enough of the shit children, the annoying parents in shops ramming you out of the way, shit drivers being shit and the CD in the 'centre' was on repeat.  Fuck off Live Aid.  I get it, children in Africa won't see any twatting snow.  I KNOW.  THEY LIVE IN AFRICA.  I'M NOT STUPID.

Anyway.

I was minding my own business in the Aussie Mist aisle, when I heard a voice asking, nay demanding, that I move.

Was this someone from the emergency services who needed to tend to a casualty?  Was this someone who had a choking child in their arms?  Was this someone who was needing to stick more 3for2 labels on?  NO.

This was a woman in a wheelchair.  A woman who was only in a wheelchair because she was so fat, she couldn't walk (don't even start with your thyroid chat).

Not only was she taking up THE ENTIRE AISLE.  But it was MY fault that she couldn't get past.  I may not be Thumbelina but fuck sake, I don't fill a fucking ailse in Boots.

FB (fat bint): "Ahem" (in a very annoyed tone)

R (Raw): "Oh I'm sorry, if I'd heard you say 'excuse me' I would have moved.  I have no peripheral vision, so I didn't see you".  

FB: "Just move, can't you see I'm disabled?"

R:"Oh please, let me manouvere ALL of my bags and move out of the aisle so that YOU can get past without knocking everything off the shelves with your fat sides, because it's MY fault you are both disabled AND rude.  By the way did you not hear me say that I have no peripheral vision - an actual disability?"

FB: "I have a disabled badge"

R: "Whoop de doo, I have a Jim'll Fix It badge (I don't but she doesn't know that) do you have an "I'm the rudest disabled person in the world badge in your collection?"

FB: "It's not my fault I'm in a wheelchair" (in a nasty tone)

R: "DO NOT blame me for your situation.  You clearly are an ugly person with or without the wheelchair and that has nothing to do with me.  Now if you would like me to move, ask me nicely and pretend for just one second that you are a human being."

She barged past me at full speed.

What is it with rudeness?  I just don't get it.  A simple 'please and thank you' or an 'excuse me' is all it takes to separate you from the fecking apes!

I got the last laugh later when I saw that she was trying to get something off a bottom shelf and her stomach was in the way so she couldn't reach and had to pick something else...think it was the Slimfast ailse.

Why do people have to be so rude for no reason?

Maybe I won't get into heaven cos I had the balls to say what everyone else was thinking to this woman, but fuck it, I'd rather go to hell for who I am than heaven for who I am not!

Seasons of goodwill and all that other good shit, I'm off for another mince pie...

Why Weren't Social Services Called?

Having just had a Facebook chat with my pal about having heard a bunch of primary school kids murdering a Christmas carol, she started getting all sentimental about primary school.

I on the other hand appear to have had a very different experience at Primary School.

Kirsten had lovely school dinners with pakora, baked potatoes and macaroni.

I had packed lunches with pate sandwiches.  PATE.  Fuck sake, any need?  I was 7.  What 7 year old likes pate?  To be fair, my mate flagged up that it may not have been pate but those sandwich pastes you got in wee jars.  EITHER WAY = VOM!  What was wrong with cheese and jam?

Not only did I have to eat sandwiches that no-one would do swapsies with, but I got lumbered with Fine Fare's Yellow Label crisps.  That would be akin to Tesco Value nowadays, but more shit.

It's not really a wonder that there were many beatings!

Someone should have reported my mum!

PS it should be pointed out that Kirsten is 10 years younger than me...yes I know, salt in the wounds!

George Clooney, Robot Students and That Woman From The Omen

So the only night in about 3,000 years there was a lunar eclipse and THIS was the night I actually slept for more than 3 hours and missed the bloody thing!  Any need?

I did have a ridiculously random dream though and, lucky you, I'm gonna share it...

I was going out with George Clooney and we were in the queue for the Back to the Future ride and he was annoying me cos he didn't like my new haircut.  He was flirting with everyone in the queue and they were asking him 'OMG why are you going out with HER' and other nice stuff like that.  I told them it was because I was amazing and hilarious but that did not cut the mustard.

I told George that he was becoming a mill stone round my neck (who even uses that phrase??) and that I was leaving him and that I wanted my money back for the ride as I was not going to go on it with him (typical Fifer!).  George started crying and begging me to come back and that annoyed me cos he got all whiney.

I then found myself substitute teaching in a class full of ex-drama students of mine.  I felt there was something a bit weird about the whole school and found out that they were all clones of my actual students.  There were 3 lads who were normal and hadn't 'turned' yet so I kept trying to protect them.  My ex-students found out that I had worked out that they were clones and demanded a meeting with me.

We sat round in a circle and they all told me what they didn't like about me and one of them accused me of hacking her Facebook email even though she had blocked me.  It was all very childish and I just said they only had an issue with me because I went out of my way to ensure they didn't turn into robots in my acting class and use their own natural (RAW) talent and now the actual robot thing had happened to them they were pissed off.  They told me they were going to have to crucify me to stop me telling the world and I just laughed and said 'any need? I'm so not scared. Bugger off'.

I found myself in Bridget (my wee smart car) and drove to my mate Hannahs penthouse apartment as she'd asked me to meet her there to retreive her ruby jewel from the safe.  We got the lift and as we got out we heard people in the apartment.  It was being robbed so we ran in and caught the burglars red handed and phoned the police.  We saved the jewel.

We had to go and made a statement but I had to park Bridget.  I drove up past the St James Centre (which it wasn't really in my dream!) and had to drive through a bunch of market stalls - one of them was manned by that woman from The Omen (Billie Whitelaw) and that freaked me out a bit but she was lovely. 

I finally found Hannah and she laughed at me cos my pants were digging in and giving me a wedgie and a muffin top.

Then I woke up pissed off that I'd missed the eclipse thingy.  Harumph!

Kittens, Old Men, Stanley Tucci and Blood Stained Toilets

So I woke up after hearing the workmen knocking down the scaffolding outside and went into the kitchen to make some coffee (after playing with the kitten who was sleeping on my pillow).  The West End musical stars that had been staying in my flat for a few days had moved around my magic whiteboards and I was none too happy about it.  My mate Matt was also staying and he told me not to be such a girl about it.

There was an old man hovering around my kitchen so I told him to sit down whilst I made him a cuppa.  It turned out he had been living in my cupboard for the last 3 years but had always managed to avoid being seen.  The West End singers sang a song about it and I wanted to thump them.

I decided that I needed to find the old man a place to live, but before I did, I would need a holiday in Florida.  I tried to find my passport as it had just been returned after getting my name changed on it (from my married name *shudder*).

I found a note where my passport should be which told me to 'go to the hotel of horrors and work my way through the clues to get my passport back'.

Fine.  Off I went.  I knew where this hotel was, apparently.

I got there and headed to the bar and found my mate Tim.  He was on lager but asked me to buy him a half pint of ale.  I had to help change the barrel.  After I bought Tim his drink, I saw a shadow and knew he had my passport.  I followed him but instead of walking like a normal person, I roly polyed over the chairs and banisters like a knobhead (it was totally normal in the dream though).

I ended up in the toilets.  It was clear there had been a massacre as there was blood dripping from everywhere.  I felt the need to change clothes but as I was standing in my pants, Stanley Tucci poked his head over the top of the cubicle and told me he'd been following me and that he liked my pants and could he please shag me after I'd had a poo.  Sure, I said, thinking this would get my passport back quicker.  He took ages and I told him that he should practice more and then come back and see me cos I had things to do and didn't have time to show him what to do!

I ran outside in my pants and then back inside to put my jeans back on.  I then roly polyed my way round the hotel, through the blood stained corridors and away from the mad axemen, hell bent on finding my passport.

I found my passport in the safe, which is where I'd put it when I'd stayed at the hotel the week before.

A Chinese kung fu man tried to climb through the skylight to take my passport but I told him that I was going to Florida if it killed me and that I really couldn't be arsed with his stick chucking routine (he had those numbchuck things).  He ran away crying.

I woke up, in my own bed, with no kitten and with workmen shouting outside...

Delia Smith is an Evil Cow

It's night time, it's been snowing like a bastard and it's freezing.  The shops are like war torn Russia and have had all of their stock dessimated by starving Leithers (people from Leith, the area of Edinburgh where I don't live*) thinking that Armageddon is coming and the only thing to ward it off will be a fridge full of milk and a cupboard full of bread and cake.

The whole of Edinburgh resembled a zombie invasion today with people staring at their feet walking as though they had shit themselves, although trying desperately to stay upright and look cool.

I, on the other hand, slipped and skidded my way down Leith Walk like Bambi on acid saying 'bollocks', 'shit' and 'any need?' most of the way home.  Did I care that I looked like a complete trog cos my hair resembled Catweasels under my hat (which incidentally matched my handbag and nail polish - a happy accident I can assure you) no, I did not.  I just wanted to get home after what had turned out to be a fairly mammoth day with a big decision made.

Anyway, back to the point of the blog.  I fancied a bit of cake for tea and, having started my detox and been without sugar or Haribo all day, I thought I should reward myself.  Of course, the aforementioned shops were shut but even if they were open I am sure none of them would have had cake.  Decent cake.

So, I decided I would just bake one.  Fuck it, that's what Delia would do.

In fact, when I was married, I often would don a pinny and bake a cake for the teachers at hubby's school - I quite liked doing it and I thought it's what wives were supposed to do.  I'd make soup from scratch (as I'm sure I've mentioned in an earlier blog) in fact, this one time (at band camp) his family turned up 2 hours early for the rugby and a) I wasn't dressed yet (in the figure hugging lycra tops my husband used to make me wear with my jeans - the kind of tops that you can't sit down in cos your REAL shape will be revealed) b) my hair was still wet and c) horror of horrors, I hadn't bothered to make them a pot of soup and they had come ALL the way from St Andrews. Whoop de fucking doo!

I ended up standing in the kitchen peeling carrots, in a lycra abomination, with frizzy hair and half a face of make up, making soup and sandwiches for his family and pals whilst listening to choruses of 'you knew we were coming, you should have been organised', 'I can't BELIEVE you haven't started the soup yet'.  The pressure to be a domestic goddess was so great that I am amazed I did not plunge into heroin heaven.

Anyway, I digress.  

Tonight, I decided I fancied a bit of cake and with all the streets resembling the aftermath of a disaster of apocalyptic proportions (no headless horsemen yet so, phew!) I decided that baking one myself would be the sure fire way of getting what I wanted this evening.

I went to 'Delia Online' and typed in 'Victoria Sponge Cake'.  For the astute readers, you will already have appreciated my error.

I thought there was something odd about the recipe.  I didn't recognise it but Delia can't be wrong and I'd already mixed the butter and sugar wondering why it felt weird not just chucking it all in with the eggs and flour and just whisking the shit out of it.  It didn't dawn on me that I had printed out the wrong thing and that I should really have searched for 'sponge cake that any knob head with half an ounce of common sense can make with their eyes closed and one arm tied behind their back whilst riding a unicycle'.  Apparently Victoria Sponge is the hardest thing to 'get right'.  I hate you Delia.

Alas.  A proper Victoria Sponge it was to be...I'd started so I was bloody well gonna finish.

The butter and sugar had to be mixed in one bowl.  The eggs had to be beaten together in a separate bowl (not medium ones, large ones - the eggs, not the bowl).  The flour had to be placed in a sieve then placed on a plate.  Fuck sake - think of the washing up Deels, we don't all have minions you know.

Apparently, you have to add the beaten egg to the butter and sugar mixture a TEASPOON AT A TIME! Fuck off. Who has that amount of spare time?

I whacked in the egg and whisked the shit out of it.

I then had to 'sieve the flour from a great height to let the air in'.  Fuck sake, there is more flour on the kitchen floor than in the sodding bowl and it doesn't matter how small your sieve is, the bowl is never big enough to catch all the flour!  Not only that but you can only do a quarter at a time.  Then you have to 'fold' the flour in. Not stir, not beat, not whisk, fold!  What the fuck is that?  You fold paper.  You fold washing.  How do you fold a fucking liquid mix.  I did what I thought 'folding' was. 4 times.

I placed the lotion in the basket...sorry brainfart - Haribo prize if you guess the film though!

I placed the mixture into 2 individual cake tins (the size of which turned out to be wrong) - surely a cake tin is a cake tin?  A tin for cake?  Fuck a duck, the whole cake tin arena is a mine field, apparently.

It is clear now, as I have 'turned out my cakes' onto a 'cooling rack' (my trivet** cos my grill pan rack still has pork chop remnants on it from last week) I had the wrong size tin.  My oven has also incorrectly cooked the cakes and my electric whisk is shit.  These are the only reasons I can think of as to why my Victoria Sponge is more like Fiona Flapjack.

Now my 'cake' has cooled, it actually has the consistency of a biscuit.  I whipped the cream and slathered on the jam, but at the end of the day all I've really done is make a giant custard cream/jammy dodger hybrid.

Fuck sake.  No wonder my husband divorced me.

Delia Smith, yer a cow!

* in case you're a stalker

** metal thing with slats you put pans on so you don't burn the worktop

 Delias link if you want to try fart arsing about.

CSI, Law & Order, Bones and Criminal Minds...Get Tae Fuck!

OMG

I love all of the aforementioned programmes but holy shit they are based on bollock all actual information.

It turns out, you can't ascertain time of death just by looking at the body in a scholarly manner.  You can't tell that the person died from asphyxia just by looking at them and you most certainly can not tell that they hated their husband just cos their wedding ring was a bit squint.

WOW!  Everything I thought I knew has been thrown into confusion.  I was told I had to write an essay on 

"In what circumstances is it essential to determine as accurately and precisely as possible the post mortem interval?  Discuss the limitations of such determinations." 

For fuck sake.  You actually have to talk about shit you think you know.  I have no idea if I will pass the exam.  I have no idea if mentioning CSI, Bones and Law & Order will help or hinder my case:

• However, due to TV shows such as CSI, Law & Order, Bones and many others of a similar vein, the common myth is that a detective and/or forensic pathologist can turn up at a crime scene, look at the body and then magically determine, sometimes to within a few minutes, the time (and also cause) of death.  

The above is clearly not the case which is made clear in my paper... I just know I am the only one in my class who has mentioned these programmes!

I need to make it clear now, I couldn't give a fishes tit what killed someone.  I don't care that a larvae filled green leaf holds the key to the murder.  I don't give a toss that the mucus found on the body is only prevalent in one part of the whole world.

For me, it's about why the killer killed in the first place.

The psychology of killing, serial murder and how they can do it for so long without detection.

That's what I'm aiming towards and if being a dunce in the forensic science class means that that happens, then crack on...

I for one am excited to be learning again :-)

Tom Cruise, The Council and Forensics Essays

It was only a dream, calm down...:

So, I was temping with Laura and we were best pals with Tom Cruise, in fact she married him.  I wasn't bitter even though I'd known of his existence about 1,000,000 years before her...

Anyway, I went to the HR department and they refused to sort out my tax query so I told them all to 'fuck off' and I would 'sort it masel'.

I found out that there were 'bad' men temping for the council (who I was working for) and I made  it my mission to root them out.  I tried to tell people that they were employing people for free and blatantly flouting the Working Time Directive and National Minumum Wage Acts but noone cared about what I was saying.

I was killed to keep me silent.

Tom Cruise, en route to my funeral, found the pen drive I'd stored all my stuff on and vowed to expose the council and government for the crooks they were.

Tom Cruise was assasinated (spell check?) and his pen drive remains 'unrecovered'.

In the midst of all this, I realised I was late submitting my forensics essay and I failed the first part of the course. 

Thanks Tom Cruise, ya twat!