17 December 2006


Recently extending my intimate little circle of online acquaintance to New Zealand makes me realise just how much M & F, despite their different ‘cultural’ backgrounds, have in common.

Shorter than average, hairier than average, frequently howling at the moon, with a preference for doing most things on all fours, not to mention running around in public and drooling unpleasantly… yes, it sounds like they might have been twins separated at birth, doesn’t it?

However, M is not a canine brought home from an animal refuge; she is a single female Australian in her mid-thirties… no, that is not the same thing.

A dark star twinkled on the night that our paths first crossed, on that much we both agree, although we refuse to see eye to eye on anything else, on principle. She will probably contradict everything I am about to tell you about our first meeting, but let me assure you that my version is the factual one, and anything she tries posting should be regarded as fictional.

It was back in 1993, when we both camped around East Africa on an overland truck… Yes, gentle readers, I do mean ‘camp’ as in tents with little pegs to hold them in place and cooking on an open flame; as you may already have guessed, I like sleeping with a little rough… I mean sleeping rough.

Perhaps you all imagine Ms Quisp spends all of one’s time mingling with the best society at charity functions over afternoon tea, and it comes a shock to learn that in real life one has a past and present that you cannot begin to imagine. Entertain little fantasies, if you please, of a rugged and sweaty male who swaggers around a campsite in East Africa label ‘butch’ if you will!

But I digress!

Believe it or not- technically speaking- I was still a virgin back in the days when I first met M. On our first night, someone proposed sharing a tent with her, and for an awkward moment I considered it, before noticing that steely and determined glint in her eye which betokened that no man who spent a night in her company was ever quite the same again.

Hastily pitching my own tent at a safe distance, I lay awake that first night listening to her snore, worried that despite all of the precautions I’d taken with me (anti-malaria tablets, insect repellent) and my fearless nature when it came to facing lions that tear from limb to limb, or snakes like the black mamba that attack unprovoked, whose poison works quickly through the veins, there was really nothing in my rucksack to defend me against a single female Australian.

Suffice to say that the first exchange of blows began the following morning, and it is probably true that I started it; really, it was inevitable from the moment she emerged in garments decorated with little fluffy sheep motifs. It was a bit like seeing Joan Collins dressed up to look like Mother Teresa... and without make-up. Informed of my considered opinion, she retaliated with a barrage of abusive expressions that made absolutely no sense to anyone who spoke English, although the forked-tongued lizards scuttling on the ground seemed to understand what she was saying.

Before our six weeks together ended, I had learned to respond to M’s baiting like an aucker aussie: I knew it was no compliment to be told you weren’t worth shagging with beer-goggles on, or that you resembled a cane toad, for let me assure you that the Irish practically invented swearing, and so -despite humble origins- I did my country proud and defended the honour that I still had, back in those days.

I have seen more than enough of M since then, let me assure you. On one occasion, she arrived in a camper van on the doorstep of my family home with a couple of other mad female Australians, even managing to charm my easily-deluded mother. She hasn’t been to Europe in some time, which leads me to believe that she must be on Interpol’s most wanted list… she’s always wanted to be wanted, you see, and goes about getting attention whatever way she can.

Occasionally, my nemesis makes contact with me, and I duly ignore this… especially when she appears to be nice, acting ‘normal’, for I immediately suspect that she is up to something untoward. Normally, our contact is limited to a string of inarticulate abuse on a Christmas card, although I received an email just the other day which said “hey are you still alive and what are you up to” which is no doubt the longest sentence she’s ever put together. After all, she is native of a country where culture is something found in yogurt, to which convicts and social rejects were once exiled, her own character living proof that lunacy, malevolence and social deviance are genetically transmitted.

For obvious reasons, I hesitated before informing her about my bloguette, fearing she would lower the tone of proceedings: however, I reckon it will take her several months to discover what the internet actually is, and several more to link to my bloguette and open an account in order to comment… and even if she does manage to do all of that (she will need assistance, of course, but the rest of her family can’t be bright either… otherwise they’d have left her under a bush somewhere) she will still have to type messages. Swilling a beer-bottle in one sweaty hand, tapping at a keyboard with a single finger of the other, chances are that she won’t be able to concentrate long enough to manage anything coherent: she has no concept of punctuation, and besides, she speaks Australian, which means that even if she does express herself in a comment, you won’t understand what she’s really trying to say.

Please do not be shocked if I use offensive and abusive terms if/when I respond to her comments: let me assure you this is the only language she understands… as I keep saying, she’s Australian.

So without further ado, please step away from the monitor- no sudden movements in her presence, tread carefully and slowly, remembering to take cover especially if you are a red-blooded heterosexual male (not necessarily single; limbs optional)

Whatever happens in future, never open comment boxes without due caution… because M is about to be informed of the existence of my humble bloguette.


M said...

WELL if you were closer your ears would have been twisted by now!!

I have just reread that rubbish you would probably try to say was superior journalism - I cant beleive you still believe your mum when she tells you that. I just quieltly am what nearly dragged you back over to the good side - that being chasing girls rather than boring dim witted boys, but even with your shallow dim brain you recognised that I would be always more than you bargained for and well beyond your reach. Lucky I have an ego the size of a rhino and recognise these ramblings for what they really are a sonnet about feelings you really have for me!!!

Have forwarded that address on to quite a few boys who have fallen victim to my charms or lack of!!!!, so the question still remains are you still a virgin!!

Ms C Qrisp said...

Am I still a virgin... why, the impertinence!

I am sorry that I started this already!

Yes, M, you are WELL beyond my reach, well beyond the reach of ANY PROFESSIONAL HELP, that much is quite clear to all of my beloved readers, not to mention the boys who have fallen victim -never was a truer word spoken- to your charms.

Do you actually know what a sonnet is, or is that how Australian's pronounce something, like sun-newt?

The feelings I really have for you? M, let me assure you that those are quite unpublishable. Given that I have already been unfortunate enough to have met you, chances are if I published my true feelings you'd be involved in a freak accident and investigating authorities would inevitably suspect that I was the one who had done you in... thereby doing all the Australian men that you HAVEN'T done a tremendous favour.

Now, go away, and play with spell check on your computer.

Ms C Quisp