Tuesday 22nd June. “You have got to be phucking kidding me”.

An excellent couple of days for the following reasons: Face now resembles Amanda Holden crossed with a giant hamster levels of prettiness (moving down the fat scale). Secondly, bought a very expensive and shiny new red car that looks like a minx and goes like one too. Finally (and some would argue most importantly) managed to remove the massive ingrowing hair that has been plaguing my leg for the last fortnight. Yeehaw!

Feeling much more confident about appearance now, probably due to receiving my first post-operative wolf whistle on my merry way to Somerfield. True – I was wearing tiny hot pants and he could only see the back of me. Feel quite affronted that he didn’t even bother to check out my face first so throw in an attempted yell of “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”. It is an attempt as, due to the fact that I am still struggling with my diction, “fucking” comes out “phucking”. However I don’t panic as I’m fairly confident it makes me appear more gangster.

Applying for a car loan by phone was a daunting experience. Not due to the sums involved, or the fact that Natwest will be going through my accounts with a fine toothcomb (although incidentally feel grateful,as i’m on the phone to them that I paid cash for my last purchase in Ann Summers, and that drug dealers only accept cash.. joking work people..aha ha...). What, infact, makes the phone call so difficult is the loan guy dealing with me seems to be royally pissed. Its 10am. But then, being conscious of my own imperfect telephone voice due to the op – I am wary. Pretty sure I don’t sound like I’ve necked a bottle of bells in the last half hour though, and that I would be able to say “WelslumtoNatswestloanshowcanihelpsyouuu” in a more appropriate manner. Manage to refrain from saying anything though for fear that a) he may be mentally retarded and don’t want to be a bigot and more importantly b) it may have a negative impact on my loan application. Instead put him on speaker phone and silently laugh with my bro and his girlfriend Natalie as he takes 10 mins slur his way through the T&C’s. My only comment is a heavily sarcastic “Yeah. CHEERS mate” at the end of the conversation.

Buying a new car inevitably means selling the old one. Thus it needs totally hoovering out and cleaning. It’s a nice day so decide to wear the bikini to do this a la Jessica Simpson in order to ensnare any passing mega buffs. Seeing as my parents live in a quiet suburb of Southport (home of the aged) this is most unlikely. Chances decrease further when I twat myself in the face with the hose attachment. Yep – the feeling is definitely coming back.

Sunday 21st June. “My parents are insane”

“Bored bored bored with a capital buh. When it’s the weekend when you’re working it’s THE WEEKEND! You look forward to it; you relish every drunken, hung over, illegally intoxicated moment of it and metaphorically sigh when it is over. The post-operative bird with the fat face on the other hand cringes for the entire 60 hrs of it (I go to the pub for Friday afternoon lunch). Make a massive error on Friday night. I log on to facebook. Jeeeeeeesus! Does every single bloody one of my friends have to change their status to either one of the following: “I am getting fucked tonight”, “Ive already started getting fucked for the night” or “I am getting fuucked tonight’ (extra ‘u’ = the getting laid type of fucked). Bastards. Consider changing my status to “I hate you all you fucking fucktards”, but remember the time I did this once before when I was battered and it did not go down well (0 comments). A few lovesome friends do not forget old twat chops and send me a few drunken texts. This is no good. I need something to focus on. So make plans for my first night back in York at the start of July with the darling Al. Now I have a night out planned which I am going on twat chops or not.

In addition to being bored family are becoming increasingly irritating. Main points of irritation are as follows:

Mum and Dad constant bickering. How can two people live their lives in such constant drama?! The ‘major issue’ ratio is greater than Hollyoaks but without the deaths or any one fit. Most ridiculous argument to date was over whether or not my brother should or should not be allowed to drive the car they bought him for his 18^th which is fully insured and taxed in his name and has a private number plate with his initials. Bro and I argued he needs to practice. Mum and Dad argue he needs to pass his test first. Recall very clearly my main motivation for leaving home at 17. My parents are insane.

People looking at me when I attempt eating frustrates the hell out of me. Yes yes yes i know they are just checking to make sure I can cope ok. But seriously, I had an operation on my jaw not a lobotomy, I will be able to figure out if I can’t eat anything. Try to circumnavigate the problem by holding a napkin to my mouth. This causes an even greater furore as my Dad is concerned I have...ultimate drama.... stopped eating the barbeque. Explain my predicament angrily and manage to spit sausage everywhere in the process. No one speaks to me for the rest of the meal. Happy with this.

Finally what annoys me the most is my physical inability to shout. This becomes apparent on Saturday when, as everyone is out, I hook up the x box 360 to the ‘main tv’ to appreciate the awesome graphics on ‘Assasin’s Creed’. Am appreciating them so much I have to explain to a POT that I have no time to dirty text right now as they are pretty incredible; oh and P.S, does he not know that the game can have up to 60 different NPC´s on the screen at a time to create a more realistic atmosphere?!! Geese! N00b! Get blasted by me Ma when she comes back from town to realise what i’ve done. The source of her anger is the fact that my brother fucked up the Sky last time he hooked the 360 up to the tv. I try to give a practical demonstration how UN-fucked up the tv is, but she just continues to shout. She’s an only child, I think it’s an attention thing, and, like most mothers, has no interest in practical logical explanations. Further en-angered today when I find I am unable to partake temporarily in my all time favourite past time... shouting and swearing loudly at the TV whilst the Grand Prix is on. And today was such a good day for shouting. Reduced to sitting directly in front of the TV hoping that my face will cause enough offense as it is.

Thursday 18th June, 2009. “A post ironic gang of armed vigilantes”

A much better couple of days. Face is now distinctly “chubby” in classification rather than “blatant overeater”. Can now pass for being mildly deformed as opposed to utter freak. Celebrity status-a-like : Bungle from Rainbow (Chubby but cute looking. Minus the fur).

Yesterday was spent locked in a “no bailing” dual effort to conquer ‘Streets of Rage’ 1, 2 & 3 back to back on the old Sega Mega Drive with my brother (it rained). Macs informs me ‘Streets of Rage’ was banned in Cornwall when it first came out. I feel very grateful for this vital information. It adds to the gaming experience and makes me feel HARDCORE. Later I also ponder the judicial system in Cornwall – is it somehow different to the rest of the UK? Did the local authorities implement this or was a county-wide strategy? Most importantly how was this ban enforced? I imagine a post ironic gang of armed vigilantes breaking into the homes of Cornish 9 year olds - ripping the illegal cartridges from their 16bit consoles. Decide Macs must have been lying. Four hours later also decide my eyes hurt.

So I came to the beach today to write my blog. I feel tres artistic, huddled up in the sand dunes...scribbling away. Then comes the ‘Sand to Eye’ incident. No longer feel artistic and in fact feel quite stupid. This is most impractical. Also un-artistic is the nearby group of utter scallys (Southerners. This means chavs) I am dutifully trying to avoid eye contact with. Scals don’t have morals. They would blatantly laugh right in my deformed face. What surprised me was the lack of reaction to my deformity on the 30min walk down to the beach. Could it be that I have slightly overestimated how freaky I look? Although, thinking about it a dog did run up to me, but when it got up close it ran off whimpering (Promise this actually happened). Maybe it’s just the general public are good at hiding their disgust around here. Portera suggests in an attempt to be the ultimate artiste I sign off my blog “fin”. I propose that with my excellent command of language and natural eloquence this would be overkill.

Laters slags.

Tuesday 16th June. “Bisto for breakfast”

Threw some sexy shapes in the mirror before I went out to sunbathe this morning in my bikini. Body looks good due to malnutrition no doubt. Face still like a freak. Result = that Apex Twin video . One of the POT’s declares I have “the body of Baywatch and the face of crimewatch”. Sigh. It’s true. I can see similarity between The Hoff’s thighs and my own. No but seriously, what if my face does not go down and I remain fat faced forever?! As a precaution I am going to concentrate on keeping my body slender. Paranoia is sets in. I constantly think my Mum is adding cream to my “food” (aka mush). As I think about it i’m sure the chicken soup from last night was particularly frothy. Therefore I take over making my own “food”. Attempt milky ‘Complan’ solution. Sick in mouth. Still stubborn about making my own meals. Have Bisto in the beaker for breakfast.

Sodbag brother has left a half eaten sandwich around. Its crusty exterior and half melted £1.99 for 400g special offer innards have the effect a grass-fed Argentinean fillet steak would have on normal people. Under normal circumstances I would tut, and throw it away. Instead I eye it over the top of my heat magazine for half an hour until I begin to worry what the neighbours will think of the strange sounds coming from my tummy (Like an angry Alsatian). I finally throw the sandwich away and locate the offending block of cheese which bore it. There is about a small sandwich worth’s left. I cut the cheese in to miniscule cubes (and i mean miniscule – later I see an ant making off with one I drop outside) and consume them over the course of an hour. It’s painful, but gets easier and is like gastro heaven to my cheese starved tummy.


Later I look across to see my Dad’s poor rabbits stuck in their hutch in the sun (he’s not a mental rabbit man – they did belong to us kids but we’ve all moved out now). Feel sorry for them so decide to give one some fresh air and put it in the run. Also decide it’s not necessary to put my bikini top on to perform this task. It will be my thrill of the day. Someone might see me! It might be a mega buff! Who is shorter than me and does not like looking at people’s faces! Now have a fat face, sunburn marks and scratched nipples in the shape of a rabbit claw.

Monday 15th June. "Rick Waller definitely would".

Hi. Been back to hospital again today. Not elastics malfunction related - just a check up. There was a massive waiting room full of old people. Me and the other post op bird were both there. She still looks better than me and is nice. Fucking bitch. Everything is fine with the jaw etc. I am told to make an appointment with my authodentist for the next week so that he can check up on me. All i can think is "yuuuuuuuesss! Spike removal time!".

I sat out in the sun all today. It’s not been as nice as it sounds. Firstly came the problem of how does one with a broken face sunbathe on their front? All positions proved painful, but I finally settled on a position I call "the inverted banana". It involved two deck chairs and lots of cushions. My second problem of the day came when I ventured in doors and realisedthat, yes, I had somehow achieved the impossible. I had given myself horrific sunglasses burn marks that made me look even more of a fat faced freak than before. I even have those horrific 'neck lines' that fat burnt people get around their chins. Just as I was beginning to think I could pass for as attractive as Britney circa the bald picture of her attacking the paps car with her brolly, however I had unwittingly demoted myself to Lisa Dingle's fuck-a-bility.

Whilst I was sunbathing, I could not seem to think of much else but sex. For sure, a highly influential factor in this train of thought was the ridiculous Jackie Collins book I was reading I had found in my sisters room (honest).

He turned lazily, still asleep, but hard. Nellie opened her legs and he entered her. She breathed his name softly, moving to accomodate him. He came very quicky, eyes still closed. Then he mumbled 'Go to sleep Edna' and turned his back on her.

You can see how I find this sintilating. Bare in mind that this is the girl that saw a'sex scene' between two pensioners on telly one evening at uni and announced to her housemates"I'm going out to pull". A convo with one of the POT's (potentials) from the other night keeps coming back to haunt my hornyness too. However. No-one would fancy me in this state, particularly since the demotion. Well, actually, I'm pretty sure Rick Waller definitely would do me. And maybe Keith from the office. And surely that hairy multi-chinned darts bloke. But that’s all.

Sunday 14th June, 2009. “All the best cowboys have daddy issues”.

Went back to the hospital today. Fortunately the hot doc had the foresight not to be around such a mega buff looking person as myself right now. Elastics were fixed. It felt weird walking in by myself as my mum parked the car because it was just me. Looking like a freak – with no one to hide behind. I felt better once I got back on the ward.

On the way out of the hospital me ma pointed out to me a familiarly large and dumpy looking silhouette sitting outside smoking in a lurid floral dressing gown. Fatty scouse in the corner we meet again. She, somehow, recognises me (I think it’s the brace – because believe me I am unrecognisable) and says I look “great”. Liar. I know it’s a lie because she then tells me she has seen me about on the ward but thought I should be left in peace. I didn’t even go back to her shit ridden ward. I ask how she is “getting on”. This proves to be a mistake of great magnitude. I can’t remember the exact syntax used but it involved the words “size of a”, “blockage”, “melon” and something called a “telescopic intestine” which was followed by a hand gesture. She assures me she is being discharged tomorrow.

Annoyance levels raised on the way home. An old Libertines song which I love comes on the radio (Time for Heroes) but I can’t sing along. I mumble and hum and me ma thinks I am trying to ask for something. When I get home my Dad is in. He is looking at some photos on his digital camera. Some of which are me pre-op. He says "god look at that jaw sticking out there – are you doing that on purpose?". No Dad. No. That was my normal face. I am reminded of the Lost episode entitled, “All the best cowboys have daddy issues”. I am a cowboy. Pew! Pew! And I look better now.

Saturday 13th June, 2009. "Relationships were different in my day".

Its Saturday afternoon. Aunty Betty is coming over. The same unsuspecting Aunty Betty that came round to my student house in second year only to be confronted with my house mates screaming at the unfortunate Jenben "You sucked him off! We know you did!" in the other room. I anticipate this visit will be much more sedate, seeing as I, for one, still cannot feel my face and hence cannot talk to, yet alone taunt, aunty betty with overheard tales of accused fellatio.

Aunty Betty sits in the boiling sun with a light knit sweater on, a beige anorak and a straw hat salvaged for her by me from my brothers room which reads "Buffalo Bill's Disney Land Wild West Show". She chats about how good I look considering the op, and tells me I will have a pretty smile. Me ma comes over and tells me the swelling has gone down dramatically. They both check out my side profile. I still have two chins (as opposed to three) but they both say my profile looks 100 times better.

We have something to eat. It is absolute TORTURE! Ma and Aunty Betty have lasagne and garlic bread. I have the dreaded beaker filled with further liquidised soup (yes folks - turns out the normal soup wasn't quite liquidified enough).Talk / mumbles turns to my recently ended relationship. Aunty Betty morns the loss of beloved Las J. I feel sad. She says "you see relationships were so different in my day", and then goes on tell how when she got married she was forced to leave her job - purely because she got married. I feel fucking glad relationships are different in my day.

We watch Mr Beans Holiday before aunty betty goes home. Throughout Portera (a colleague) is texting me foody taunts, the bastard. He makes me laugh by A) telling me his baby plotted to throw up in his face and then giggled about it and B) referring to one of our other colleagues as a popular item found on the McDonalds menu. Result: Elastics snap again. Back to the hospital tomorrow. Portera claims its erotic. I assure him it is definitely not. Is Pauline Quirk snapping elastic bands erotic? Nope. Thought not. Samething. Goodnight!