Off tomorrow

It's my last evening with Sparkling Eyes, my weight has probably gone up by a stone.  I've got Buds to keep me company and even some G & T, which has a flowery kind of smell.  But it does the job and gets me drunk.  I always feel like getting drunk on my last night.  It's the thought of missing Sparkling.  Whilst in the background Rock Chick takes the Micky out of my accent.  Sparkles is now giving me the third degree, she has that stare.  Without a pointing index finger but just as dangerous.  She is beautiful.  Even when my testicles are in a vice and she's the one turning the handle waiting to see what my reaction would be.  There's something I always know when I'm here.  It's the feeling of being happy and contented.  Even if I am the cat's bitch. Yep even the cat plays me like a fiddle.  Up, then down, then up again from my seat because he has decided he wants out the back door and in the front window.   If he wasn't male, I'd of thought he was female coz he changes his mind so much.  Maybe he has inside knowledge from living with Sparkling and Rock?  Who knows?  I certainly don't.  Not even in the early hours of the morning when he decides to step on my head and use it as stair to the window sill. 

Bud is waiting.  Better give it some attention.  Don't want it to feel lonely.

Jamie Oliver my mate and track suites

The past few days I have been making dinners.  With the aid of a trusty friend.  Jamie Oliver.  Actually I feel like me and Jamie are becoming great friends.  His 30 minute meals are a work of genius, if you watch them a couple of times there's always something new you get to learn.  They are piled with so many little tips.  He makes light work of salsa like dips.  Everything is presented in a you can do way, which makes you just want to get out there and try them.  For me, his book has been a little bible.  Or rather a big bible. Sparkling and Rock Chick have been my test subjects and to their delight have enjoyed most of the food I've produced.  Sometimes his meals can take a little longer than 30 minutes, a hell of a lot longer if you consider having to buy the extra ingredients.  You wouldn't believe the trouble I had trying to get hold of puff pastry and I still haven't done his Portugues tarts, but they are next on the list.  They will have vanilla extract in, lick your chops and weep baby hmmmm.

Today I put on my tracky suit.  A little bit like the ones my mate Jamie wears - just watch one of his shows.  Sparkling got it for me as a Chrimbo pressy.  It fitted then.  But for some reason now it's a little short in the leg.  It doesn't look as good as the first time I put it on.  I think it's shrunk in the wash.  I asked Sparkles if it had been in the wash.  She replied "no" but I know she is pulling my leg, there is no way I could of put on this much weight in such a short time.  The top barely covers my belly now.  Sparkles is going to drop me off at a superstore so I can pop in and get some jeans.  Thing is she has clearly stated she will not be coming with me.  Then she threw a number of derogatory names about the sort of person I looked like.  Thanks.  I can assure the readers of this BLOG I do not live in a caravan or on a housing estate of dodgy reputed.   Neither do I take drugs or sell drugs.  The ones I take are prescribed by my GP or are freely available on the shelf and are not for any mental illness.  Sparkling obviously is afraid I might tarnish her image in this tracky even though it was her choice.  Anyway I can't find any other apparel which would be suitable.  And I'm certainly not going to hit the superstore in a Batman and Robin outfit.  I could put the hood up and then no one will recognise me.  Mind security alert might be alerted, then I'll find myself being trailed by blokes talking into walkie talkies, keeping an eye on me.  Just in case I am a suspicious looking character.  What a palarva.

Dangerous Sports Lad is here keeping Rock Chick happy.  It's funny watching them interact, they make me laugh.  Rock definately wears the trousers in that relationship.  Apparently Rock Chick has also aquired a Cockney accent.  She has been in my company too long and now thinks she can imitate me.  So Rock gives an impression to Sparkling each time she wants to pass on something I've said.  Rock did get a little bit annoyed yesterday when I was helping her with home work.  It was my own fault.  I must remember Rock doesn't always appreciate man humour.  Or child like humour.  I'll admit to being irritating at times, but it was fun and I did apologise.  Dangerous sure has got his work cut out for him.  Lucky man lol. 

Today's lunch is likely to be a curry, but it won't be a Jamie one.  Sparkling will no longer let me go out and buy ingredients.  She says we have to use what is in the cupboard, even if it's not on Jamies list or not there.  Memo, must look out for cumin seeds.

What's happening on 26th March 2011

It's a week and a day in Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick's company.  On the first night I was told several times I was going to have my block knocked off.  Sparkling was going to do it but it was said in a kindly non threatening way, I know because the finger wasn't being pointed and Sparkles had a glass of wine in her hand.  I could of counted the number of times this was said but, would probably of lost count.  I was on the Guinness, very nice to, I felt happy.  As always, when I got a lift in the car I was happy.  Carrying a silly grin on my face.  Well I hadn't talked to anyone on the train journey either; I held it mostly together and didn't bombard Sparkles with inane chatter because the city centre was busy and Sparkles had to concentrate on the driving.  Last night Rock Chick also stumbled in a little worse for wear, this morning she's been not feeling so good.  It was a night on the town that did it, she says while standing outside a pub a man began talking to her and said she was related to Elvis.  I wonder if Elvis knows about it?  I'll ask him next time I bump into him at the bar. 

Today is 26th March 2011, there is a march in central London organized by the unions in protest against the government, at least 250,000 people are in attendance.  They have come from all over the country. The organisers advised to bring the whole family, so even little children are there, some being pushed in their prams.  Today is also the day of the Oxford and Cambridge boat race later in the afternoon.  Cambridge have been given the better odds.  It might be a two horse race, but for some reason one of these horses has got more riding on it.  The weather is miserable in London, no sun, overcast.  Fine if you happen to be a rower.  The march is stretched around parliament.  Some have even said there are one million attending.  Massive.  Lastly I'll just say the clocks are about to go forward one hour as we catch up with British Summer time. 

OK got some washing up to do and I was going to have a walk, so as to exercise a little.  Sparkles is working about ten hours today so she won't be around much. I'll go down to the large super market and see if there's something worth looking at.  It's always worth a stroll.  I've just finished watching another episode of Come Dine With Me,  I wouldn't mind I'd seen it once already. The weather for tomorrow?  Cold and cloudy.  I'll keep my eye out for a good woolly hat.

Ironing Trousers

I have just been trying my skill at trouser ironing.  Taking three pairs of trousers, a quarter bottle or rum and a three quarter bottle of diet coke I set about it.  It's not the easiest thing in the world to iron.  But it certainly is a lot cheaper than getting professional pressing.  I also tried this a couple of weeks ago, but then I didn't have the aid of rum and coke.  Don't forget the ice.  An essential.  Oh yes and a little entertainment with help from the world service and continuous updates of the situation in Libya.  I must admit to being a news freak in this respect and eagerly eat up any bit of news there is.  First thing was, filling up the iron with water and plugging it in.  No first thing was checking out as many videos of trouser ironing I could find on YouTube.  There wasn't many.  In fact I thought if I can get the hang of trouser ironing I could do my own video of it.  But I'm beginning to think, ironing is a hell of a lot more difficult than one would think.  A bit like playing golf, or even just being able to hit a golf ball.  You sit there watching it on TV, slagging it off as a ponce's game and then find, just as you put down a golf ball and hit the bloody thing you look like a complete twat as nearly falling over.  I know, I have.  If Sparkling sees me because I've managed to twist her arm to come along she sits there in laugher.  I'm sure any woman who saw me with an iron and trousers this evening would also of been sitting there laughing.  But it's not right.  Ironing shouldn't be a gender related task.  It should be something everybody does.  I'm quite convinced now it is one of those useful tasks which they never tell you at school but would be a hell of a lot more useful than an 'O' level in geography.  Where I learnt geography was more about volcano's than it was about countries on the world map.  It should of been called geology, rather than geography.  Unlike ironing.  Which is definitely ironing and nothing else by any other name.  I will confess to one thing.  When I began the 4th rum and coke, whether the crease is in the right place just didn't seem to matter so much.  At least two of my three pairs of trousers now have train tracks where there was once a single line.  Not a single crisp line, because they needed an iron in the first place.  The train tracks happened after I got my hand on the iron.  Well, so what.  It's not the end of the world and I'll be sitting on my fat backside most of the time.  Viva le iron, viva life.  Love ya baby x x x

Not being valued

Sometimes the value of something becomes next to nothing but the thing is important and useful in life.  An example has got to be the toilet role.  A toilet roll is so simple, so functional, cheap and of course disposable, used every single day and always performs it's job.  So I don't know why it is the simple toilet roll is at times caste aside in favour of the less simple single tissue.  Toilets around the world have been flushing quite well without any problem and someone has to come along and invent the stacking tissue dispenser.  The reality is this is worse than re inventing the wheel, but worst of all is it's actually taking over from the good old fashioned roll.

The Fish Factory is a building 13 floors high.  Not massively tall, yet still taller than a house.  Here I work on the sixth floor, at one time I used to work on the seventh floor.  The first time I went to work on the seventh floor I got dizzy, in fact I got mildly dizzy for a few months.  Looking out of the window just seemed pretty scary.  Each day I still have to pop up to the seventh floor but usually only for short periods of time.  The toilets are situated between floors, and they are alternate gents and ladies.  So for me to hit the loo I have to go to floor six and a half.  It's odd but it's true.  Sometimes I am so busy at the Fish Factory sitting in my chair slicing and dicing the fishes I barely get a chance to get up and go to the bog.  Then I might fit in a visit just before I leave.  Unfortunately for me, without fail, the cleaners come along and nearly every day about the time I am leaving there they are cleaning out the loos.  This means I have to either walk up the stairs two floors or walk down them.  The situation can get desperate.  There I am wanting a crap only to find the cleaner has held open the door by putting an orange cone in front of it.  Maybe this is a good reason to get annoyed at cleaners, but it is good particularly if it's the time you just need to go.  When it's been held in a little too long this is the time when I could put the entire cleaning squad on a hit list.  Though sometimes, just sometimes they have got there before me and this becomes less of a worry.  Well except for the wet seat because it's been wiped over with some detergent and hasn't quite dried off. 

The other day I was in such a situation.  The loo had been cleaned and I had found a seat.  Content I sat down to do the business.  It is almost relaxing except for one thing.  The loo roll has been made redundant and instead a tall tissue container is attached to the wall.  It dispenses from the bottom.  Except when the cleaners have been there, they jam this container so tight trying to pull out a tissue is hardest thing in the world.  I want to leave but I can't wipe my bloody arse.  I desperately try to use my finger tips to pinch a tissue, but can't because it is like trying to pinch the wall paper off a wall.  Desperately pulling at this thing my finger nails are able to get some kind of grip and I tug.  The tissue comes away.  In normal circumstances this might be good, but in these circumstances all I have achieved in doing is tearing a piece of tissue the size of a bloody postage stamp off. I look at it.  Staring in bewilderment and confusion.  How the feck am I going to wipe my fat arse with a postage stamp?  With fecking great difficulty that's what. I try again.  This time I tear off a narrow band of tissue, maybe I could plat my hair with it, maybe it would be used by a centipede, but not for me.  Again I try and yet another postage stamp, and then another postage stamp.  This goes on for a moment.  I look at the bloody thing and am thinking of standing up and kicking the fecking shit out of it except that my trousers would fall round my ankles and my arse still needs a wipe.  I give it a thump, which of course does no good.  Eventually, my finger get a grip and about a dozen tissues come out.  Which is much better.  But this dozen tissues are still connected to each other and trying to pull one off has a kind of accordion effect where the others feel their brother is missing and must come along as well.

So it is about half past five in the afternoon, I learn how undervalued and wonderful the simple toilet roll is.  God save the toilet roll, long live the toilet roll, god save the roll.

Keep your trousers up

It was one of those days where I forgot an essential item of clothing and had to do the whole day without it.  The item was a belt, to hold my trousers up.  On my way into the Fish Factory I contemplated whether I should buy another belt but I've done this before.  Where I went to the shop picked one off the hanger bought it, put it on and then found I'd bought one which was two sizes too big for me.  Not to say I am inspired to get even fatter than I am.  When I got home I couldn't find the receipt so now it sits all on it's own in a draw with no waist to go round.  Consequently today the only thought which went through my mind was just to make do and keep pulling my trousers up if they felt like they were slipping.  At one point I wondered if they had slipped too much and I was now showing the top of my pants.  Fortunately I sit down most of the day and don't have to walk about so no one could see me pants, they were a new pair as well.  Mind, pants aren't the kind of thing you want to show people.  Even when they are on the washing line, you just hope they go quietly unnoticed.  Unless someone comes along stretches them around their waist and says "hey look at these biggies!"  Which has happened.  Not a particularly proud moment to say the least.

The past few months have been oddly timed.  Like a pair of trousers slipping.  No.  Just oddly timed.  It's always a matter of budgeting and timing.  Especially counting the Tuesdays between one pay day and the next.  It's like I been waiting for the 5 week month and I'm not sure whether I've had it or whether it will be this month.  the issue always is ensuring there is just enough finances in the account to work the extra week.  Talking about finances and waist lines.  I have just received a reminder for the Gym and the monthly charge has gone up.  It might only be a quid or two but it has now broken a psychological barrier.  It's not like I am hitting the gym 3 times a week.  Sometimes I don't go at all, like last week.  No wonder my trousers had no problem staying up.  So I have to consider cancelling membership.  Then I have two choices.  Join another cheaper gym, which there just happens to be quite close to the Fish Factory or exercise myself from home.  Jogging or maybe skipping.  I am sorely tempted by it.  In an era of austerity why should I keep on paying for the gym?  Especially as I'm not using it fully.  It doesn't make sense.  It's OK trying to stop my trousers falling down but I don't want to have to be buying more pairs because they have got even tighter and my girth has got even bigger.  Blimey, the things you have to do just to keep your trousers in place.

Walking off an attitude

Two in one day (blogs).  What can I say?  Not much.  I went for a nice long walk this morning after my earlier blog. At the end of it I was knackered, just over two miles.  I got to the supermarket and there was a crowd of people waiting to go in.  All I needed was shaving foam and mouth wash, so bought two of each and headed back to base.  Eventually at home I take out the tins and find they are shaving gel.  I'd bought the cheapest items on the shelf and it was the wrong stuff.  Now I'll have to use it and work up a lather out of the gel rather than instant foam.  Funny thing was I held the tins in front of my face and thought I had read what was on the labels.  I still need to calm my head and get control, get some exercise.  Chill out. 

Yesterday when the the train came into it's destination, the two doors slid open, as they do automatically and one man stood in the way on the side I was..  My usual pissed off mood came through with twats who like to try and get on the train when I've hardly had a chance to get off the train..  I said "let the people off the train first," his brain must of been disconnected from his limbs because it hardly registered.  So I just stood there for a moment.  He sort of shuffled but ineffectively to my left then stepped up part into me.  I was pissed off.  Pissed off and yet calm.  I didn't give a shit.  So shouldered past him as I got off the train.  Then called out "tosser."  If I carry on like this I'm going to get into a fight.  Better see if I can get some knuckle dusters mail order.  Wonder if they're on Amazon.

Blog Block and a moan

I'm suffering from Blog Block at the moment.  Although my days are pretty busy at the Fish Factory it seems when I sit down and think I should write a BLOG nothing comes.  I just can't think of a subject.  I can think of Fish Factory subjects but those technicalities would bore the tits of an overweight hippopotamus.  I could tell an imaginary story of a brick.  Because even bricks can have adventures, well they just sit there and see the world going by, but I'm sure there are meanderings which go on in their brick like brains.  If a bricks actually have attained any form of consciousness they certainly would have meanderings.  I know.  Sometimes I come back from the Fish Factory and feel like a brick, a brick in a non self conscious state.  One which would just rather sit and dribble from the side of his mouth.  Blubber, blubber.  See what I I mean?

Then there's Sparkling who has got right up my nose at the moment.  We've had very little communication over the last week.  The last text I received from her was 6 days ago.  Then I find out from a web site she had her debit card cloned and someone in Venezuela tried to use it.  Fine bloody thing I'm sure.  See.  Even Sparkling's bloody card is having a more interesting existence.  The thing is, communication is important.  A little text here or there and I'm happy.  Nothing makes me feel like I don't exist and I'm not worth talking to.  I got to the point of thinking well, I've had enough, I'm fed up.  If she wants to talk to me then she can bloody well pick up the phone.  Women.  Can't live with them, can't live without them.  If I was the type who had a number of mates right now I'd go out, with my mates, probably including the brick and get completely drunk.  So drunk I puke.  Then when I wake up the next morning I got to puke again because of the dizzy room.  To top it off I might even shit myself.  Then I need a couple of days away from the Fish Factory and every other Tom, Dick and Harriet.  A couple of days away.  Watching ants build nests, paint dry, clouds in the sky, absolutely anything.  I need to gain a moment of my own life back.  A moment of control and stop thinking about shit, shit in the head not soiled pants.  No wonder I keep waking up early in the morning.  And yes I know things could be worse I could have my nuts in a bloody vice being turned by some psycho maniac who likes to inflect pain on lonely fat men who are feeling neglected.  Bloody hell!

I haven't even been to the gym and done my fat man running on a machine routine for a while.  Not forgetting the fat man farting and walking away from a cloud of gas.  The chill of the weather and the dull dark days just haven't helped.  OK so it is getting lighter.  It's still so overcast at times it feels like the cloak of Dracula has been laid over London.  I wouldn't mind, but I can't see his bloody brides anywhere, at least they would bring out some reaction, some kind of life in me to buy garlic, crucifixes or run like hell.  I need to get out and clear my head.  Some control.  A good long walk.  Meditation.  Singing to myself and not just giving a shit if anyone hears me while I walk along.  Which reminds me better get a battery for my MP3 player.  Which will be something to keep me going and going and going.  Maybe then, just maybe I'll get my head straight and at least wont have Blog Block.

Revolt is in the air

There is a movement in North Africa, which is undeniably one towards freedom, but this freedom will not come cheap. So I watch every little bit of news and hope with my fingers crossed the people succeed.  I'll eat a couple of dates for a little bit of luck.

Days in the Fish factory are extremely busy.  I hardly get to put down my skilletting knife before another big whopper is put on the table in front of me.  Then some of those whoppers are more difficult to deal with than anticipated.  It's almost like I am becoming an adrenaline junky.  I didn't even get a chance to make a cafetiere of coffee today.  Which is probably good because sometimes I can feel my heart palpitates and I wonder if I carry on like this I'll be keeling over clutching my chest.  Saying "ouch, that hurt," oh well if it's going to happen it's going to happen and there's nothing I can do about it.  Except maybe try and stop eating so much Chinese food at lunch time.

There now tends to be times where I feel I have lost control of what is happening.  Where the Fish Factory is becoming everything.  It is becoming a ruling force, dictating what, where and when.  But making my move into middle fish territory was probably the best thing I did when taking everything into consideration.  It is a challenge and one I'm enjoying at the moment.  It's odd though, just odd.  In a couple of years I may be forced to leave the Factory, because fish will no longer be on the menu. However, just maybe, a glimmer of hope will arise on the horizon.  I don't like talking about hope.  Yet there very much is a small trace.  The trace is a revolution.  Not in Africa though, one right here on the doorstep.  At that time I'll expect the ones in power will know how Qaddafi feels.

Up the revolution.  Viva Che Guevara.

Where did the day go? Turpitude, rusticate.and unctuous.

Sometimes days float by like clouds, high up in the sky.  Then the day is over and without realising it I wonder exactly what it was I did.  How did I get to this place here, sitting on my arse typing?  Last night I went to bed tired.  I slept, woke up a couple of times in the night but then drifted off again to sleep.  The morning arose earlier as the sun now wakes up a bit quicker to, light through the window told me it was time to stop savouring the warmth of bed.  I got up.  Did a full day shift at the Fish Factory, had a quick pint of Guinness in the pub and subsequently caught the train home.  A cup of tea, some biscuits, then some toast and more tea, a little bit of face book and now I'm here to this moment.  Reflecting.  Where did it go? 

At lunch I came across a word I wasn't sure of the meaning.  Now I'm into the habit of noting such words in my phone to look them up later.  I've actually got three words now.  Two I've already looked up and forgotten their meaning.  For clarity this word was "turpitude."   Meaning: wickedness, vice, vileness or  wrongdoing.  It was used in the description of a politician's actions, so is quite apt, you could say was used in a perfectly consistent manner, seeing as we all know this is a trait some politicians do hold.  I might forget the word tomorrow but for this moment I got a good idea of how to use it.  Now if I take this one thing as an entire learning experience for the day then the day hasn't been lost. Provided I can still remember it tomorrow.

Spending a moment I've now looked up the other words. One was "rusticate" meaning: :to go to the country or live in the country.  Whilst the last word is "unctuous" this means: characterized by excessive piousness or moralistic fervor, especially in an affected manner; excessively smooth, suave, or smug.  Odd.  It also sounds like something which could easily be used on a politician getting the world's attention and have an overwhelming sense of self importance.  It's pretty damning when you think about it.  But again it is pertinent and has a place in the world. Which is all really we can hope for.  Places in the world, and of course being loved.  Maybe words like this would feel better if they were hugged, or seeing as we can't actually hug the words then we should all hug a politician and then the words would be made redundant and so evicted from modern English.  The world would become a better place, or we would hope it did.  It's about time we had more lovable and hug-able politicians.  OK now go out into the world and see if you can find any.

Don't rely on the weather

There is indubitably one thing the British like to talk about and it is the weather.  The reason is simple it's an easy ice breaker, it's a common fundamental of every day experience so everybody can talk about it and lastly it is completely unreliable.  It was the great weatherman Michael Fish who in 1987 did his session after the news and said there would not be a hurricane.  A concerned citizen had written in saying there would be, and the weather as though sensing pride before a fall dutifully and independently decided there would be a hurricane.  Fish got it badly wrong.  Winds of 110 miles per hour hit the South.  It didn't effect Scotland by the way, and some Scots felt they had missed out because they usually get all the bad weather.  Trees had fallen across every main road and every rail line.  It was odd seeing so many fallen and rumour had it, were the Russians to start a nuclear war we were going to be gonners.  Tree roots could be seen high in the air like an upturned dish unnaturally balancing on it's edge..  It took weeks to clear up afterwards.  I am sure I took some pictures of the occasion when I was into photography.  I'll have to see if I can find them.  Poor Michael Fish though.  I'm sure his standing as a weatherman toppled just as ignominiously as those trees did.  It's generally taken for granted weather forecasters make predictions with caveats, because experience tells us they just can't help but to get it wrong.  However, his hubris got the better of him.  To make such an big wrong prediction because he had been challenged by an anonymous person was without doubt doubly humiliating.  It don't matter if you predict a sunny day then it's overcast and rains, but to completely miss a hurricane is well off the scale.  Pun intended.  The weather is just unreliable.

Why then, when I know of this unreliability did I assume as in make an "ass" out of "u" and "me," spring was in the air.  Maybe it's all to do with the isobars and the wind.  The wind just can not be controlled, nor can the isobars either.  For there had been a clear bout of very cold weather in January and in the back of my mind there was this hope.  This wish.  A wish which bordered on a prayer.  A wish which was really no more than a wish without the genie, the weather had changed.  We had come out of the long cold and snowy winter and the wish it was over.  Spring would soon descend and make it milder.  The temperature went up instead of the usual 2 or 3 degrees it was reaching between 8 and 11 degrees Celsius.  Which after Scotland's very long cold winter felt like being in the Bahamas.  It is interesting how the human body just adapts even to cold weather.  How the internal central heating you have kicks in as more layers of clothing go on, scarves are tightly wrapped, vests put on and all food must be hot.  After coming through this period of hard tortuous living there was this undeniable want and need which goes beyond all reason.  The want to feel warmer and comfortable rather than constantly depressed with shortened days and bitter winds.  It is the human condition, a euphemism we call "hope," and hope does not have any place for reality, unfortunately reality is true and very much in your face regardless of hope's desires.  So I and I expect millions of other people in the UK had an immediate psychological quandary.  Either moan and groan because it is unfair, and no matter what anyone says reality is unfair.  Or quickly and appropriately just do your best to get over it.  I so wish I could say "get over it" in a strong Scottish tongue, because it would sound a lot better than my wimpy English tongue.  Anyway, to draw a longer conversation to a close.  It's bloody cold again and I'm pissed off with it.  I can hear those words now, ready... 1, 2, 3, ....."get over it."

Baby Gaga Ice Cream - I'll pass on that thanks

It was with a kind of macabre interest I watched a news item about an ice cream being sold in a shop in London.  It was titled Baby Gaga ice cream.  Not at all related to Lady Gaga, except in part of the name.  The shock was to do with the main ingredient.  This being human breast milk.  It's odd, because I would of thought a woman's breast milk was for a baby not for anyone else to purchase in ice cream form.  Then there comes the question of hygiene and exactly who these women are donating their milk.  The Local Authority have now stopped the shop from selling they ice cream on grounds it required testing for bacteria.  I can't help thinking in some way a woman's breast milk is a sacred thing.  Not something for an adult who has a couple of quid in their pocket and some weird fetish.  There may be some very good reasons why the women are selling or donating their breast milk.  More likely selling it.  But still I don't understand why they would do such a thing, perhaps I was born on a different planet, one where I suckled the titty of a 9 titted green monster, who loved me dearly of course.  But one thing is very much for sure, I don't have the faintest uncling to eat or suck or slurp breast milk which came from some unidentified woman, not genetically related to me when I'm over 6 months old.  I prefer my milk pasteurised and out of an old cow who grazes in lovely green pastures, green being a bit like the alien mother who suckled me when I was younger.  I want my milk with my tea, or my cappuccino and I don't want it from anything else which doesn't have four legs or says "moo."