If I were a horse they'd put me down.

Damn, damn, DAMN!!!

Looks like Prestons' dodgy ligament worries are back. Bring on the zimmer.

Yep, felt a twinge in the knee about a week back but tried to ignore it. I guess I just wanted to believe that, like the rest of the population, I could walk around quite freely NOT resembling a war vet whose taken a hit of shrapnel to the leg.

So it's back to the smarmy consultant. He'll take one look at me, shake his head, reiterate that I am alas too young for a knee replacement, and then continue on to offer me a series of dire options.

My first consultant (not smarmy and actually treated me like I had some modicum of intelligence), suggested that I was in this predicament because I'm aussie. Yep, if I was english then I'd be a fat lazy git who never got their ass from the lounge. The type of person who would catch a bus and only travel 2 stops (why, why WHY?).

So I now realise the error of my ways. I should have just been a lazy git for the past 20 years. The type of person who, thinks back to the days before the remote control, and shudders at the thought of changing channels manually. The type who considers sport to be somethoing you look at but dont touch. The type who can multitask a beer AND a fag at the same time. The type who is looking forward to 'pegging out' at a young age via a huge vascular accident (as opposed to a huge white van accident - something I'm faced with every time I jump on Ruprect and cycle London).

The choice is easy.

Be a lazy git who although, can walk quite easy minus the limp, probably wont cos why walk when there's a perfectly good bus to catch....

or...


Be a sporty dynamo, who, although is a dab hand at most sports will be looking into wheelchair tennis as an option at the ripe old age of 45.

Crap (sob)

Let's call a spade a shovel and dig a nice deep hole for me!

Great news folks! I have recently met a lovely guy. We get on very well (translate: he laughs at my jokes).

Both he and I have been subject to a 'torture-style' line of questioning from friends. Alas, only the other day did I realise that my group of friends are in a class (ironically) of their own.
Let me explain.

My new 'friend', has been exposed to a few sessions of questions. These questions have gone along the lines of....lets say.....a modest interest. He has been subjected to such questions (I assume) as:

"What is she like?"

"What type of books does she read?"

"What music is she into?"

I, on the other hand have been subjected to the following:

"Did ya snog 'im?"

"Did ya do 'im?"

"What base have ya gotten to?"

Now I know what you're thinking. All legitimite questions right? But it has got me to thinking.............

When it comes to me introducing a new beau to my friends, it's not so much a case of 'introduce' as it is 'expose' him to them.

I can see it now. We walk in together, a couple, happy and content with each other's company. I 'expose' him to them. Then we leave........separately. He has developed a nervous twitch and a stock standard repetetive answer to the question that has been thrown at him all night. He spends the rest of the night, tossing and turning in bed saying "...no....no.....no more pints for me....I REALLY have drunk enough......".

I, on the other hand, am subjected to the ridicule of my friends....
....."he's a bit of a lightweight isn't he.....I mean...it was only the 12th round and he opted out....call him a man?"

So I am faced with a dilemma. Introduce him to my friends and hence lose him due to the harsh reality that both myself and my friends are a group of socially unacceptable misfit lushes....

or

Suggest that I have no friends which leaves me looking like a a misfit social outcast incapable of not only not making friends but not maintaining friends due to my inexcusable ability to call a spade a spade (yes you DO look like an ageing hooker in that outfit).

Hmmmmmmm


Maybe I could come up with a great and believable reason for not having friends. One that could see me maintaining my friends (that is, till they read this blog), and maintain a normal relationship (which reads as an oxymoron when pertaining to a Preston heterosexual relationship).

Possible reasons why I dont have friends:

The dog ate them

They're lost in the mail

My 'Preston is a like-able person' potion wore off.

It's against my religion

10 years ago, they went out to pick up some milk and never returned home

I'm a conservative supporter

And the list goes on. In the meantime, I will kick back with a bottle or ten of wine, think about the future, and .............cry.......tears of Shiraz since that is what's running through my veins (would be a 1992 Barolo if I had £ though).

Read This And Try Not To Laugh Till You Cry!!

This email was cc to me from my friend Scott (otherwise known as Beryl Motion). It was sent from Greg (otherwise known as Elizabeth Hitler).

Firstly some background.Quite some time ago, long enough that the remedial and cognitive therapies are seeming to help me forget, Scott donned a wig and frock, and became the worst female impressionist I have ever had the misfortune of being associated with.

Read on.......

Hi everyone,

By now i'm sure it's general knowledge that the
infamous original Beryl Ursula Motion wig is no more,
the red curly wonder that looked as if it had been
platted, threaded and knitted from Nicole Kidmans own
welcome mat has gone, vanished forever.

I'm sure a nest of rats scammpered up the outdoor
shitter and carried it down from the cistern, i have
visions of the rats using Beryls wig as a birthing
facility, and i'd like to think that the rat that will
be gnawing away at Beryls court heeled ankle when
she's collapsed in the gutter outside the shift* will
have sprung from the curls of Beryls original hair
piece .. call me old fashioned, but i find something
romantic, if not 'just' in that.

Of course Beryl is never one to let the grass grow
under her feet .. or worse, so she is on the hunt for
a new polyester comb over, she was beside herself with
glee when i showed her my latest purchase, an original
Eva Gabor wig! needless to say she had ripped open the
box and foisted the lice ridden piece onto her head
before i could say 'You are my wife, GOODBYYYYYE city
life'

If you see Beryl adorned with this anytime soon on
Oxford street .. hit her with a stick, chase her down
the street thrashing at her the whole way, swish at
her ankles! .. she is the reverse pied piper of
Hamlin, instead of leading the rats out of the city
she is bringing them in!!

Liz xoxo

* The Shift - An extremely nasty low down gay bar on Sydneys main 'pink parade' - the beloved Oxford St. When patrons arrive a requirement is to check their morals at the door.