Dodgy Pancreas

I’ve got a dodgy pancreas

It’s really got me irked

What’s the point in having a pancreas

If your pancreas doesn’t work

 

The Islets of Langerhan sound right exotic

But they’re there under your skin

Where the beta cells do their handiwork

Producing Insulin

 

Something beat my beta cells

That’s what’s got me so pissed

Around last march I got the flu

And The Islets went ‘fuck this’

 

Now I’m saddled with prescription bags

Needles in my backpack

Shooting up four times a day

And no – it isn’t smack

 

It’s just my dodgy pancreas

It’s really not my fault

But my daily treat of something sweet

Has been brought to a halt

 

I’ve got a lifetime ban on Lucozade

A fatwa on Fruit Pastilles

Some people think I’m bonkers –

That’s a quote from Dizzee Rascal –

 

But they don’t know

The difference between ‘hyper’ and ‘hypo’

Ups and downs like a yo-yo

On a go-slow cos I’m low on carbohydrates

Makes me weak, sweat, shake, confused, irate

And what I hate the most

Is having to stop mid-coitus for a slice of jam on toast

 

And drying my toes with talcum powder

‘always wear clean socks’

If you don’t do it your feet might smell

But they might have to chop mine off

 

And ‘ooh do you have to inject yourself?

‘I couldn’t do that’ they cry

‘okay, fair enough’ I say

‘then you’d just die.’

Like Ella, Bob Marley, Jonny Cash,

It’s a fucking long list, I’ve read it

It’s not quite the 27 club,

more a dancehall for dead diabetics.

To The Girl

To the girl whose relationship to me

Was somewhat ambiguous due to her ‘heterosexuality’

But who I was fingerblasting on a regular basis.

 

It’s taken me five years to know

Just how to write this letter

To decide whether I saw you as a threat, a regret, a stressor

I’ve had that time to think though

And I reckon I’ve got your measure

Roll credits, have I got news for you:

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer

 

Okay so you’ve had eyes for guys

Dated, kissed, whatever

Got your hands on him but you don’t fool me

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer

 

Have you still not realised

Or does the truth upset you?

The closet door is open wide

Come out you big fat lezzer

 

I want you to know that it’s okay

I’m not here to depress you

Liberate and celebrate

You big fat fucking lezzer

 

There’s really no need to cry cos

You’re  big fat fucking lezzer

Is it really such a surprise that

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer?

Has nobody else realised that

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer?

 

You’ll say I just imagined it

But I’m not gonna let you

Forget how real I made you feel

You big fat fucking lezzer

 

You think you’ll get away with it

But you can’t pretend forever

Your breasts were pressed beneath my palms

You big fat fucking lezzer

 

Say he’s the best you’ve ever had

But you know I was better

You loved my head between your legs

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer

 

You came so hard you cracked my ribs

You big fat fucking lezzer

 

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer

 

You big fat fucking

Liar liar

Pants on fire

I make you so wet you need a tumble drier

Your about as straight as a donut mate,

In that we both took pleasure

I see you for what you truly are

You big fat fucking lezzer.

Culinary Corner: The Problem with Gnocchi

Mmm Gnocchi. Said no one. Ever.

I mean, I should love this stuff. I LOVE Italian food. I love food in general come to think of it. So I was super excited to try something new, something which promised to be so simple to make and easy to ‘sauce up’ (so to speak!).

I’ve made pasta before and gnocchi seemed like the next, grown up step in my repertoire. Cooking is an exercise in de-stressing for me, so when I scuttled in from the cold after a full-on day at work, the bus home having eluded me twice, I was in serious need of some relaxation. And things seemed promising. I’d done my research, I knew all the tips:

‘Use an egg to stop it being gloopy!’

‘Don’t overwork the potatoes!’

‘Why not try reverse cowgirl?’…Oops – *ahem* wrong tips!

So, potatoes mashed I added the flour and egg and set about rolling a potato sausage. I’d advise waiting until the potatoes have cooled in future  – always a bit disconcerting grasping a warm, firm sausage on your chopping board if you catch my drift. If you don’t catch my drift IT FELT LIKE A WILLY OKAY OMG EEEWWWWW BOYS! Anyway, now that’s out of the way, once cut into little pillows they looked quite cute, the phallus was forgotten, I was feeling rather proud. They didn’t look quite like the cookbook photographs but oh well, nothing ever does right?

I boiled for 1-2 minutes as per instructions. Why anyone boils anything for 1-2 minutes I have no idea, you may as well just leave the food near a fresh teapot all the cooking it does. Safe to say boiling had not improved the look. When is anything ever improved by being soggy?

Still I gave it all my culinary love and no expense was spared – parmesan, thyme, extra virgin olive oil, all yummy things. I settled in for my sophisticated meal for one. It almost even looked good.

It was so bad.

Seriously. Not only did it look like an army of miniature, beige, flaccid penises (penii?) had invaded and set up camp in my pasta sauce, they had the texture of blu-tack that’s been accidentally left out in the sun. I could’ve watched a whole episode of Breaking Bad in the time it would’ve taken to chew through them all. They were gloopy yet firm, soggy yet chalky, tasteless yet foul tasting – bad things. They were ALL THE BAD THINGS. Observe.

The worst part is it’s just too late to do anything else.

Jamie Oliver promised it would be ready in around 20 minutes. I always approach that with a little scepticism, but this shit took hours.

So my ‘glamorous’ tea has consisted of oily mushrooms and peas, fished from around and in between the perpetually phallic potato beasts.

Now there’s a sentence you don’t hear every day.

Yours, Hungry

Faye