Mine

No no no no no no.

Oh dear this is a moaning post. I’m not much a fan of them especially when it’s not particularly clever or witty but this has gone too far.

What happened to proper breakfast telly? I know it’s first thing in the morning but I don’t want to listen to lightweight rubbish; it’s one of very few times I actually get to see the news and I’d like it be about something important.

Generally I watch BBC Breakfast in the hope that it’s a bit less filled with fluffy nonsense as GMTV. But really they’re just the same. For example, a few weeks back there was some news story about rules of dating. Then more recently about whether people still sit at the table to eat their tea. I can understand reporting these things, they’re interesting bite-sized nuggets. But why, oh why, invite experts in and sit there and debate the “issue” for half the time I’m getting ready?

Just this morning some “hard-hitting” news story appeared saying “scientists” (probably) had figured out how much of their lives women spend getting ready. Turns out it’s quite a lot. WELL who knew?

I fail to see how this qualifies as newsworthy, let alone worth lengthy discussion on breakfast television. They always wheel out this Barbie-looking doll woman to repeat obvious banalities as if she’s the correspondent for stupid women everywhere, genuinely looking as though she’s an authority on why women have lots of shoes and put on makeup. If I wanted to listen to this gubbins I’d watch GMTV, that’s what it’s there for and it does the job quite well. Where on terrestrial am I supposed to go if I want some proper news in the morning?

For some reason my London bedroom can barely pick up radio waves and really cannot be fussed firing up the laptop to listen to internet radio.

Honestly at this rate my brain is just going to rot between that and the London Paper.


I was going to go on a rant about NME but think I’ll leave it alone. Everyone else will be blogging about it anyway.

Don't most bands still look exactly like this?

Once again men have proved that they are long long overdue a status change from "dominant sex" to "if left to their own devices the sky would fall in sex" with this latest story of a man who chose to try and shag a bicycle. The hapless chap was in the privacy of a motel room and probably shouldn't have been put on the sex offenders' register but still it does make one wonder why on earth someone would do that. And how.

But, not wishing to assume that only men are stupid enough to try and have sex with inanimate (and presumably potentially painful) objects, I whacked "woman caught having sex with" and "man caught having sex with" into Google to see what came out.

At the very top of the "women" pile was "woman caught having sex with horse". So far nothing too unexpected. I know if you heard about one of your mates having sex with a horse it would be exceedingly scandalous but stories like this are hardly unheard of.

Fourth one down - after the next two both being the sex with horse story - is "woman caught having sex with best man". Well that's just downright dull. And it leads to a fairly pornographic site, just to give fair warning.

After that comes a post from someone's blog who thinks they're an authority on politics, society and religion. Even duller.

After that there's a few more "other husband types" and a couple of "dogs" but that's it. Google only finds two pages of results.

For the men, well, it's an entirely different story. Compare 15 results with 3,760. Yes, we really shouldn't be letting you lot out unattended anymore.

Top of that pile is the oft-clicked BBC story on the Sudanese man who was forced to marry his goat after being caught doing naughty things to it. In this story it's the goat I feel sorry for.

The second is another "dog" story which is fairly standard in terms of bestiality tales. The third one is much more disturbing: "man caught having sex with the four-day-dead dog of his girlfriend".

After a few more Sudanese goat hits comes the also unappealing "man caught having sex with dead deer". Seriously, what is it about a dead deer that makes a man see it in the same manner as a busty blonde with "fuck me" written on her t-shirt?

From there we come to a "calf" and a "sheep". And only then do we reach the end of the first page of results.

Further on we come to some prostitutes (hardly news), more goats, other family pets, a blow up doll, minors, other men's wives and the like. Not quite as illuminating as one may hope but there's still those who choose to indulge in necro-bestiality holding up the side.

Should this appeal to anyone apparently sexing animals is legal in Holland, Sweden, Finland, Mexico, Norway and Denmark. Just so you know.

The cats of Very East London are invading and I have photographic evidence to prove it. Waking this morning I open my curtains to find a furry devil face staring in at me, trying his best to tempt me to open the window. He rubbed his face against the frame, stood on his hind legs and generally stared in a manipulative sort of fashion. But I was not to be fooled. Knowing his only intention was to make me sneeze like a bastard, and possibly use his powers to make my eyes swell up to look like I've been punched, I ignored his desperate pleas. Then I noticed he'd brought soldiers with him. There they stood on a distant shed, snipers at the ready, to complete attention, constantly checking around to make sure no outsider could thwart their master's plan of getting inside.

I tried to shake off their majestic ways by going for a shower and to make porridge and things. But still they did not desist, for their determination was most fierce. The silent, sneaky pleading continued until I had no other choice but to leave the house, else I'd be drawn into their thrall. And I had to go to work.

By the time of my return they had returned to their base, clearly admitting defeat. But they shall be back. And I shall be prepared.

Them who know me know that I am largely upset by the arrival and ongoing presence of a TV presenter who has my name. Many people even happen by this very blog thanks to Googling/Yahooing her. No doubt those particular people will find this post most amusing. However, once here they find that I am, in fact, much better at the internet than she is because not only have I bagsied catherinegee.blogspot.com but I’ve also got catherinegee.co.uk. So boo her.

Anyway, despite being mostly a vacuum of nothingness on my TV she somehow has managed to pick up some rather mental fans. She also works for a company seemingly populated by inept morons because as of a month or so ago they began forwarding her fan mail to my London address.

The level of security at the BBC is honestly staggering.

The content of these letters suggests that they are mainly written by people who have yet to be acquainted with both the outside world and other members of the population who don’t come into their lives via a magic box in their living room.

The first letter; typed absolutely and completely as it was written:

27^th July 2007

Dear Catherine Gee (Escape to the Country)

Hello my name is ***** ***, I am a 45 years of age and I am a really big fan of Escape to the Country I really do enjoy it very much I really do enjoying watching you on the show very much Catherine

May I just take this time to pass on to you Catherine my very best wishes and my congratulations to you.

Please could I have an autographed photo of you Catherine or a letter from you.

My Very Best Wishes

***** **** (male)

Makes your skin crawl doesn’t it?

I initially I found it exceedingly amusing and then spent a while pondering how on earth it got to my house. I have since formulated a theory that is probably correct. Having applied for a job with the BBC my address has been placed in a vast, all-encompassing electronic address book which anybody can search through. They searched her name when this letter appeared and decided mine must be it.

Second letter (on lovely pink and yellow writing paper):

10^th August 2007

Dear Catherine Gee.

I really enjoy watching “Escape to the Country”. I think it is such a fantastic show. I love the way you present it and try to help the couples wanting to buy their dream home.

I know how busy you must be, but I wonder would you PLEASE send me a signed photograph?

Thank you very much.

Good luck and Best Wishes.

******* ****** (female)

I actually feel sorry for this poor lady. She really does want an autograph and she sent her request on such lovely paper.

Third letter, complete with stamped addressed envelope to ensure a reply:

24^th August 2007

Dear Catherine,

Could you please Could you please let me have a syned Photo I would be very grateful for all your help in letting me have a photo wishing you all the very best

Love from

******* (male)

I don’t much want to make fun of that because he could actually be special needs. Or at least I hope he is.

Anyway I have since begun a process of trying to tell the BBC that they’re sending me the wrong letters. I’ve made about four phone calls and each time I am told to ring a different department. The next one should be the final one. It has taken days to get this far because I have to make the calls from work and I am very conscious of how daft I sound saying these things down the phone.

I'm exceedingly glad I'm not famous.

Oh god, everything is awful. Pavarotti is going to die soon which is terrible because he has an awesome beard and voicebox. And he's dying of pancreatic cancer which, anyone on the Mag course 2007 knows, he very much IS going to die. Which is rubbish.

There have been sodding tube strikes which have just been entirely pointless and based on an archaic idea of employment that that fat, cockney Crow seems to think still exists. This one was finished early but they're threatening another next week. Someone needs to tap him on his lightbulb head and remind him that the rest of London have jobs too. And many of us don't get paid 30 grand.

Honestly, if they're going to strike then the rest of London should perform a tube staff member only strike in protest against not being able to get to work on time. If, while they're taking their days off, any of them tries to go anywhere or do anything we should refuse to serve them. That's no transport, no electricity or water running to their houses, no lessons for their kids at school, no medical treatment, nothing. Then see how they like it.

I think this is now turning into a list of the disasters I am forced to face. Floods, strikes... errr... 50 Cent.

I won't blog extensively about the tubes, because every other bugger in London will do precisely that.

50 Cent has threatened to stop writing and recording solo material if Kanye West's album outsells his own. That's reason enough for me. Go and pre-order now. They're both out on the same day next month sometime.

On Friday me and my ever-tolerant parents embarked on a trip to Cardiff to gather all my world belongings and then move them London-wards the following day. A simple task, I’m sure you will agree. But then a mini-apocalypse happened. Rain hurled down, the country was getting quickly buried underwater and then (so we’re told) part of the M5 motorway disappeared under 2 feet of water as well. All the local roads near Worcester were closed due to flooding so anyone with the clever idea of getting off the motorway and taking the A roads were met by the same gridlock. And that’s only those who could reach a motorway junction.

Traffic crawled on and off until about midnight when it hit a complete standstill. Occasionally we would move about ten yards and then engines would be turned back off. Stomachs began grumbling and mouths were becoming dry but sadly we had had only a small bottle of water which I had bought from the Spar on the way and that was long gone. The rain outside seemed to be taunting us in our thirst. We had nothing to subsist on but a giant novelty Toblerone which we happened to have in the car.

BBC Radio Hereford and Worcester were clearly in their element, doing non-stop reporting of what’s probably the biggest story to happen there in a long time. They took calls from hundreds of people stuck in the deadlock, hearing their stories and getting more information from them than from the police or Highways Agency. Some poor souls had been trapped since the afternoon and as you can imagine there were coach loads of children and old people, people with diabetes and all manner of types ill-equipped for a night on a motorway.

One caller from South Africa was finding the whole process very amusing and repeated his father’s old adage of ‘there’s the right way and there’s the English way’ to do things. And he was absolutely right. This was very much the ‘English way’. Rather than taking their chances with the floodwater the police just trapped tens of thousands of people on a motorway with no access to food, water or toilets. And then they left us there without even bothering to give the local radio station any information as to what the hell was going on.

By the time we drove past the formerly flooded area there was no evidence of its assault on the motorway, merely a very fat and swelled river on the left. Now, I’m no car expert but I’m fairly sure most cars can handle a foot or two of water, especially if they’re lorries or SUVs. Yet the police chose to wait until around 7am to set us free.

Sometime in the early hours it was reported that the police had opened up a gap in the central reservation to allow cars onto the mostly clear northbound side and let them head back up north. This was mostly pointless as the vast majority of the stuck motorists had no intention of going back north and most who were near the gap flatly refused to go through it. Had we ever made it anywhere near the gap, my father was holding similar determination and he was all geared up to give whatever Highways chap who was cheeky or arrogant to him (as they were apparently being) the verbal bitchslap of a lifetime. Unfortunately the opportunity never arose.

Around 3am Mother and I took a wander up the middle of the motorway for the purposes of stretching our legs and investigating just how far we were from the now famous (to all those listening to BBC Hereford and Worcester) Strensham Services. The situation was very surreal. It was now only lightly raining but the air was still heavy and humid. Cars all around had switched off their engines and lights and most contained people slumped in their seats, fast asleep. It was like being in our own horror or sci fi film. Occasionally we saw people walking around looking rather despaired and men nipping over to the edge of the motorway to relieve themselves.

In all it took us 15 hours to drive from Lancaster to Cardiff, 11 hours later than our original plan. Surely a record never to be beaten. I am just proud of my very sleep-deprived father’s ability not fall asleep at the wheel as we then made the trip from the M5 to Cardiff then an almost immediate jaunt from Cardiff to London before they then headed back again. Well, I think they made it back okay. I haven’t heard.

EDIT: I entirely forgot I took photos. So here they are. The mini-apocalypse in all its glory.

Apologies for my rubbish camera phone but it was at night and raining.

My mother's hand. Holding the only water we had. Which by then was mostly gone.

The offending river. Which looked more like a giant lake. Throw your evil looks upon it.

I never realised there was such a secret blessing to having to wear contact lenses until I chopped onions in my glasses earlier today. Good lord, they're horrible, those onions are. It felt like my eyes were on fire, stinging merrily away and causing me to cry horrendously. When wearing contacts the eye is protected from their evil retina-gouging vapours and I had mostly forgotten onions were even associated with making people cry. But JESUS, it's awful. I was stood in the middle of the kitchen moaning aloud in agony. How can a food I love so much be so cruel to my eyes? And more's the point how on earth do you regular-sighted people do it?

Earlier today I saw one bee use its leg to kick another bee off a flower. Kind of like John McClane.

I don't really like it. But it's okay because I'm not here for long. Because soon I will have a job. STOP laughing, I will. Surely.

Anyway apart from being blamed for everything that I had nothing to do with I've been intermitting my time up north by going to London and winning one sevenths of an award. Which was super fun, especially knowing that we were in the Reuters building being told we were ace by important media people and having our pictures taken by a friendly photographer with a very big lens who I can only assume works for Reuters too. I'd like to think he was photoing hungry black children the previous week or something else as equally important as us winning something.

And our magazine was about GHOSTS and ALIENS and things.

My mother was even nice enough to buy me some Cadburys Heroes as a well done. Although, I think she's stolen all the Whole Nuts and either eaten them or run off the Isle of Mull with them in her possession. Sneak.

Dr Who...Catherine Sodding Tate...

Why is this woman allowed on TV? I mean honestly who in the BBC thinks she's talented? She MUST be offering out sexual favours. It's the only possibly explanation. My cat is more amusing to watch than that awful non-comedian. She thought up one funny joke once and she's created an entire programme based on it.

I'm becoming increasingly convinced that all women called Catherine are talentless chumps. Except me of course, who they are continually giving a bad name to. Catherine Tate: entirely rubbish. Catherine Zeta-Jones: No obvious talent to speak of aside from an ability to grin and bear it during bedtime with her husband. Catherine Gee: (the other one) silly posh woman with a funny shaped body.

If you can think of a Catherine who isn't an almighty waste of space do let me know.

This isn't really a very interesting blog but there's nothing happening on Facebook and I'm waiting for some internet tv to load on my father's exceedingly slow internet.

...But I don't care.

Sod Johnny Depp. Sod Robert Plant. Sod Ghandi and anyone else who has done anything good during this short time Earth has existed. The new Greatest Person EVER is now Judge Michael Sauer. Having nothing of her attempts to avoid rightly doing time, he has sent Paris Hilton's filthy arse back to prison where she belongs. Paying off medics (not proved, only my opinion so you can bugger off media lawyers), paying even more to lawyers and probably a couple of bob extra to the prison sheriff has done no good thanks to this man. This is a woman who clearly should not be allowed to walk the streets given at any moment her stupidity will cause her to kill someone with her car. Which, if it was me, would be possibly the most insulting way to die, quite frankly, ever. EVER.

I can't find a photo of the judge in my 2 minutes of looking so I've taken what I believe to be an accurate interpretation of him so we can all hail his powers of wonder.



And do know that I wrote this whilst dancing triumphantly in my chair to Lovecats by The Cure.

Normally I don't like Mondays. I like them even less when I have exam and a deadline and am likely to be suffering the kind of tummy pain that only girls get.

But this isn't any regular Monday. This is the Monday where The World's Biggest Waste Of Space That's Not Kate Beckinsale has to walk herself into prison. For the next 23 days (which is far from long enough) Paris Hilton will be in jail for being a brainless skank who's too stupid to realise when she's been banned from driving.

The only issue here is she's apparently planning on writing a diary of her prison experience. I call for this literary work to be treated with the same contempt as Mein Kampf, ideally banned in as many countries as possible. The boycott begins here. Do not fall to temptation. Spread the word.

For those who missed the opportunity to attend this year's Full Ponty one day festival you will not have had the chance to marvel at the way certain Valleys inhabitants choose to dress themselves. But do not be concerned for I photographed the best of them and placed them here for the glory of the internet. Mainly because there was nothing to do for the first two hours.

First I'll start it off fairly tame with kids who haven't yet realised that the Towers of London ruined this look forever. Not that it was that good a look to begin with. But now, it's definitely bad.



I just hope this guy is gay.



Does anyone know what 'I heart ML' actually is? Though, the star here is really the chap in the red trousers. Genius, really.



Fat people. Running.



That large lady there also had a pentagram pierced into her back and looked like a demented tooth fairy. Notice also the exceedingly underage kid in front drinking not one but two bottles of WKD bought for him by his dad.

Was this change always planned and I just haven't been reading my Media Guardian closely enough?

I don't like it at first glance, anyway. For one they, like many other web design companies, assume everyone has a 1024 x 768 screen. Well I don't, okay? I'm poor and have a Lancaster University reject from five years ago and can't afford a new one. So just to kick me while I'm down the Guardian website now forces me to scroll across as well as down. Well thanks for that.

Also, busy things scare me. There's too much jumping off the screen fighting for my eyes' attention. Too much, too much. Less is more.

Come to think of it, it looks a lot like The Times's new website...

Paris Hilton is being sent to prison. This is possibly the most brilliant thing that will happen for the next twenty years.

She was was caught driving her car whilst banned after having been arrested for drink driving back in February. She claimed she didn't know she was banned despite the paper work telling her so being in her glove compartment. We can't automatically assume she's lying, though. The woman probably wouldn't notice had there been a family of scorpions living in the glove compartment too. Or on the dashboard, for that matter.

I sincerely wish I could be a fly on the wall in that prison. Or possibly just become an inmate for a few of the days she's there. Then I could force-feed her Snickers bars until she's a fatty.