January 26, 2012 by Lindsay Sharman
So, judging from the reactions to my blogs so far, SharFANS want much more ‘grown woman typing sexual grunting noises over fictional characters as depicted by attractive movie stars’ and much, much less ‘pap smears and petulance’ (a modern-day follow-up to Pride and Prejudice, perhaps.)*
See, the trouble is, blog-wise, I write about whatever is at the fore-front of my mind at the moment of writing. So if a medical type has recently been looking up my whoopsy-daisy (see last blog), chances are I’m going to mention it. (Fear not, non-existent lovers, I wouldn’t write about other scenarios in which my whoopsy-daisy had been involved.**)
However, I suspect that the last blog also sounded a bit unhinged. In my defense, it was written while on a vicious come-down from Cambodian tramadol. If that makes me sound like I’m trying to be rock and roll, then know that I only took them for terrible womb cramps.
Wombs again! I’m obsessed!
Let’s have a picture –
Maybe I should put more thought into my blogs. I had a note in my calendar to talk about ‘books and face’ (whatever the hell that means) so I might write another blog after this one that has nothing to do with my physical self, and I’ll plan it beforehand so it’s not stream-of-consciousness (clearly my consciousness is located in my pants.)
By the way, if you hadn’t guessed, the provocative title was purely to make you follow the link. I know you only read this for the haiku***. Pathetic.
* On a side note, coloscopies really should be undertaken in silence. During my last one, I had three people in the room asking me who my favourite comedians are. Polite conversation has no place if anyone in the vicinity is legs-akimbo, stirruped-up, with a screen depicting live-action pictures of their insides. Insert joke about answering the nurse’s question by naming a comedian everyone considers to be a bit of a fanny.(That was me not bothering to structure the joke, but giving you all the ingredients to do the hard slog yourself.)
** OR WOULD I? No, I’m very discreet. Now it sounds like I’m advertising for nookie – ‘discreet laydee looking for encounters’. That’s not what I’m doing. OR AM I? No, I’m not, I’m really not.
I’m very aware, by the way, that I sabotage my chances of meeting anyone nice by talking about coloscopies in public arenas. But I can’t stop now, can I? Because then I’d be censoring myself because of the fear of alienating people by talking about women’s issues. It’s political now. The personal made political. I’ll use that to comfort myself this Valentines when I’m hopped up on tramadol and ginger wine, hugging the dog too intensely / ranting and swaying on stage.
*** Alright then. This haiku is in reference to the lovely gig as run by Tyrone Atkins, Comedy Heat. I wasn’t that great, sadly. I know I’m now sounding a bit of a mess, but I was so bloody hungover that my reactions were like continental drift. In my defense, it was an utterly disproportionate hangover as I’d only had about 3 glasses of wine the night before, so in a way, it wasn’t self-inflicted at all…
Cupped himself, “scared of you”, he said.
“Grow a pair” thought I.
Yeah, have totally dispensed with haiku conventions.
But seriously, the man in the front row claimed to find me ‘scary,’ and cupped himself like I was going to attack his nads. And yet he looked like a man who wakes up in zoo enclosures covered in viscera.
I’m really not scary on stage, normally. However, I was swearing way more than normal, and maybe I did have the glazed look of the recently vomitous, so he probably meant ‘uncomfortable’, which is fair enough.