The Nurse, on the other hand, is one of those big, gangly, raw boned, coarse haired, ruddy skinned Englishwomen who look better in a hand knitted sweater and horsey slacks than twin setted and pearled. If asked to describe herself, she’d admit she looks rather like a large, unkempt terrier. Only not as friendly.
It takes all kinds. And although The Nurse isn’t ladylike as such, she makes an effort. Forcing her abundant, wiry hair into a Thatcheresque bouffe, she flatters her mannish figure with military-precise tailoring, softening the slightly alarming effect with patterned silk scarves and discreet gold jewellery. She’d like to think she can pass as a lady, although some of the requirements of lady-dom get on her tits something rotten.
Take last night. When Betty asked her to “sit ladylike”, The Nurse saw red. Tradition dictates sitting in a ladylike fashion means keeping your knees glues together or crossing your legs. Neither of which are particularly comfortable. Whereas men can sit any way they like, including the classic bloke pose: legs splaying wide and – depending on the trouser trend of the time – happily displaying their meat ‘n’ two veg in spectacular high relief.
In a subtle way, women are being physically controlled according to draconian values. To preserve our feminine virtue and appear appropriately modest, we’re still being brought up to sit nicely instead of comfortably. It’s a kind of repression. Equality it isn’t.
The Nurse likes to be comfy. She can’t be bothered with most of society’s norms, although she does a pretty good job of blending in. She has to, given her inability to stop killing people and her steely determination to steer clear of prison – fuck that for a lark. But she should be able to do anything she likes in her own home, behind closed doors. And that includes letting the air circulate around her fanny whenever the need or desire arises.
If The Nurse feels like sitting in the kitchen with her legs wide open, vag in clear view of the whole of Christendom, surely that’s her prerogative. If she fancies a lazy afternoon indoors flapping her flaps to the rhythm of a House music tune – or even throwing shapes with the blasted things – so be it. It’s her home and she can give her beef curtains an airing any time she sees fit. The way she sits doesn’t make her any less of a lady.
On the other hand, The Nurse ruminates, her need to remain safely anonymous and invisible doesn’t dovetail well with bus loads of passengers fainting at the sight of her pale, wrinkly wizard’s sleeves as she gets comfy on the short journey to George Street shops. Perhaps in Kemptown. But Hove? Hm. Probably not.
The solution to the dilemma at home is clear. It’s such fun having a killing partner. The Nurse doesn’t want to offend Betty. So she’ll keep her knees well and truly together when Betty’s there… and let everything hang nice and loose when she’s alone. Not normally one to compromise, The Nurse is rather chuffed with herself.
The Nurse might be a complete c**t. She’s happy to admit she isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. But while she likes a G&T as much as the next woman, at least she isn’t a selfish drunken bastard.
£21 billion in UK tax payers’ money spent sorting out drunk people
If you were knocked for six by the £21 billion annual price tag put on booze-related issues in Britain, you weren’t the only one. The Nurse was shocked rigid.
Not so long ago a family took their child abroad because the treatment they needed for their cancer-suffering child was too expensive, not readily available over here. Now it turns out Britain’s precious NHS is being forced to shell out billions in taxpayers money to sort out the drunk and disorderly. The fuckers.
New and innovative treatments, some for cancer, are regularly rejected by NICE, often because of the expense. Is it really OK for us to spend billions drying out thousands of drunken assholes every year? Why do so many Brits think it’s socially acceptable to get so fucking stotious they need an ambulance? Probably because, right now, it is socially acceptable. Good grief.
Vandalism, noise, fighting…
Then there’s all the property damage, noise, vandalism, breakages, smashings up and beatings up, lost working hours and damage to the economy. Oh, it makes her so mad she could spit. In fact she just did.
The Nurse, for one, would love to be able to specify what her tax money was spent on. If she could, she’d make damn sure her contribution to the nation’s health, wealth and happiness would not be squandered patching up the slaughtered, the off their tits, the trousered, the vomitous, the out of their trees, the trollied, the fighters and the variously passed out.
She’d leave the silly shits where they fell to sober up on the pavement, which is no more than they deserve. And she’d force them to pay for their own medical treatment instead of draining the NHS’ coffers.
There’s nothing quite as boring as a drunk
Apart from anything else, there’s nothing quite as boring and embarrassing as a drunk. All that mithering on, repeating yourself, forgetting the story you were half way through, beer goggles, puffery, bullshit and staggering around. Revolting.
If The Nurse was in charge she’d ban regular offenders from buying alcohol. Or just hurl them into the stocks and let townspeople pelt them with dog poo and over-ripe veg. That’d be immensely satisfying.
Get pissed in Hove… if you dare
Ooh… the glimmerings of an idea. The Nurse is inspired. The thing is, pissed people are so vulnerable. Vulnerable enough, in fact, to be kidnapped, dragged to The Nurse and Bettys’ place… and used for trepanning practice.
There’s plenty more room in the garden to bury the buggers if it goes wrong, and if it goes right there’s no way they’ll remember a thing about it. Ha. The Nurse and Betty are getting quite excited at the prospect.
If you, perchance, fancy getting absolutely steamed in Hove, it behooves you to be jolly damned careful. You might end up their next victim. Not that it would necessarily stop you engaging in your signature uber-tedious drunken behaviour, but it’s worth a go. At least she has given you fair warning.
(A cordial The Nurse-style thank you, complete with pointy-toothed grin, to Photobucket, for the image)
The Nurse is disgusted of Brighton. Or Hove, actually. How come those spiritually ugly idiots at UKIP have been awarded a coveted spot in the pre-election telly debates while the caring, sharing, future-minded Green Party have been left out?
No Green Party presence on pre-election TV debates? WTF?
She might not seem like the planet’s most right-on individual, being a mass murderer and all, but The Nurse has been Green all her life. And she’s astounded at the omission. After all she lives in Brighton & Hove, where the Green Party has been in charge for some time now. In fact she has lived in the city since 1982, during which time things have changed beyond all recognition. They’ve mostly changed in a good way. And much of the positive change has come about thanks to the Green Party.
You can call her a hippy if you like… or if you dare. If she hears you she’ll rip your head off, post it down your throat and rip you a fresh arsehole while she’s at it. Not that she’s defensive or anything. But The Nurse believes that every aspect of life, no matter how prosaic, is much better approached through green-tinted spectacles.
The Nurse is busy protesting through every medium she can get her well-manicured hands on. As are plenty more people who believe a fair and equitable world isn’t one where UKIP gets a voice and Green politics doesn’t. She hopes fervently that the BBC and the other dick-brains involved in the TV election debate scandal will change their minds.
Is Green Party inexperience a bad thing?
The Greens may be inexperienced. But if it means she gets representatives like Cameron, Farage and, going back a bit, Tony Blair and the dreaded Margaret Thatcher, The Nurse doesn’t think experience counts for much. She’d rather have fresh and relatively inexperienced leaders than more of the same old guff, the same old environmentally mental policies.
In personal and private protest, known only to herself and Betty, The Nurse has dyed her pubic hair green. It might be a private protest but the very sight of her pea-green pubes every morning and evening, as she dresses and undresses, fires up her anger all over again. And, as The Nurse knows full well, her anger is powerful stuff…
Watch yourself. The Nurse is back. And now Betty’s on the scene…
Two fucking years. The Nurse has been locked in a cupboard for two fucking years, fed disgusting mush (what’s with the porridge, you loony?) and reduced to peeing in a bucket.
That’s what happens when you get greedy. There she was, happy in her little garden flat in Kemptown. Then the voices started: “wouldn’t it be nice to have a bigger place, a posh place, an actual house, somewhere detached?” Oh, foolish bint… at first, The Nurse dearly wished she’d stuffed cotton wool in her ears and stayed put.
A bigger home meant starting all over again, grooming yet another old lady to the point of no return and stashing her body under the patio before moving in like a Thatcher-hairstyled, twin-setted and pearled, middle aged cuckoo. The Nurse has done it before. Several times. But she met her match in that bitch Betty.
Having spent a few weeks labouring under the illusion she was buttering Betty up, The Nurse was startled to find herself suddenly hoist by her own petard, imprisoned in Betty’s musty, welly-cluttered cupboard under the stairs. For some reason The Nurse can’t quite grasp, it took Betty six months to simmer down and another six to break her sulky silence. Eventually, another stultifying six months later, they became friends. And now they’re in cahoots.
Here they are, rattling around happily in one of those enormous Victorian mansions on a leafy Hove boulevard. Betty, with her pale blue hair, powder blue knitted skirt and cardigan suits, well-turned ankles and still-flirtatious manner, is a perfect foil for the sterner Nurse. Who would suspect such a harmless looking pair of evil doings? Nobody, that’s who. Which is why they’re getting away with murder. And The Nurse is woman enough to admit it: murderous deeds are much more fun with Betty at her side.
It turns out Betty has a cruel streak as wide as the M25. Betty’s husband Gerald is buried under the rose garden, the unwitting cause of many a first prize for uncannily large blooms. The combination of Betty’s sunny lack of conscience and The Nurse’s hideous habits is compelling, and they’re gradually turning their large back garden into a charnel house.
All of which means The Nurse is on fine form, ‘back in the driving seat’, as it were. If you notice an increase in the number of missing people in Brighton & Hove, it might be down to The Nurse and Betty sailing too close to the wind. In the meantime, The Nurse is delighted to announce she’s back, blogging like a fiend and doing her best to keep her nose clean… after a fashion.