About Carole Morin

Posts by Carole Morin

Tiny Acts of Evil

smoking martini cocktail

I’m a tourist not a traveller. I don’t need to defecate in a dunde to enjoy myself. I can manage in dead glamorous hotels with a barman who makes the perfect martini and a bedroom blacked out better than Dracula’s coffin. But, like Freud, I feel anxious before travel even when my destination isn’t deprivation. He called it Reisefieber; I call it fear that my Louis Vuitton suitcase will be stolen. It’s all I have left of Granny Black. Apart from her rubies and pearls and spare teeth.

The first time my bag was snatched I was on holiday with Gang of Four: Maddie, Daddy and their two drunk doppelgangers. As we came out of the airport in Spain I saw an old guy with osteoporosis escaping with my suitcase. Maddie sank her teeth into him while Daddy grabbed his arthritic legs. Red faces all round when it turned out that old Salvador was our driver. Honour your father and mother; unless they are torturing an OAP. If there was any chance that Salvador’s still alive, I’d send him a bottle of Fountain Super HA for his joints and a tube of Sheald to fade the bite marks on his face. Read More…

Bad Behaviour

bad made of grass

I was minding my own business in Hyde Park, hoping I’ll never have a bench named after me, when a dog called Jekyll tried to rape me. His panting owner, whose red face made me reach for my SDSM, blamed me for his pooch’s bad behaviour. “Don’t encourage him,” Big Red shouted, like it’s my fault his pet is a rapist. There’s not much a blast of SDSM can’t cure but this victim blamer was inflamed with outrage so I didn’t waste my NIOD on him.

What kind of a weirdo calls his dog Jekyll? Names are important and that’s just not the right name for a sex offender. In China, people change their name when they want to change their luck. I was supposed to be called Vivien after the bi-polar beauty Vivien Leigh but my dad got drunk on his way to register my birth. He forgot the time. And the date. And the name. All he could remember after a night on the single malt was that I had been born in Grandfather Money’s bed; though Grandfather wasn’t in it at the time. The registrar preferred screwball comedienne Carole Lombard to mad, bad Vivien Leigh so my evil twin got to be Vivvy. Read More…

Desert Island Lips

desert-island-lips

When Guru Gill invited me to select some of my favourite things, I had to resist loading the entire site into my basket. I’m struggling to find anything VH that I don’t adore.

Except maybe Enterosgel, the drink that stops diarrhoea, because it reminds me of a pig farmer sitting next to me on a flight to Columbo who said, “Don’t worry…I have lots of lovely pigs at home. You are not my type.”

But I don’t want to be banished from the inner sanctum. The Guru has already told me off. At least she hasn’t taken the Wet Brush to me. When I beat the manservant, I use the pink watercolour detangler with the scary spikes. Disciplining him totally tones my arms. Read More…

Bum Bum Bum…

shower head turned on

I’m on my roof in Soho, lurking behind a big tree, minding my own business until it’s time for Peeling Solution to come off when Crazy K calls begging for help. Again. She’s accidentally attached a bum selfie to her contacts’ list. Now everyone who gets a message from her is treated to a view of her recently waxed rear, she apologises just as ‘My Bum’ appears on my screen.

There are no compromises in backsides these days. They are either fatties or flatties. But in this pic Crazy K’s bum looks like two demented satsumas with scary sunburn. Funny I’ve never noticed the creepy rubbery texture before; ‘You’re looking at the wrong bum,’ she explains. ‘That’s the one I bought in Selfridges.’ She’d bought a blow-up bum when her boyfriend told her he likes a fatty but it turned out to be more of a farty and kept falling off so she gifted it to her mum. Read More…

My Bad Hair Miracle

bad hair day sign

Some people have bad hair days; I’ve had a bad hair life. Starting when I head-butted a hairdresser “somewhere in Mayfair” who gave me a Dennis the Menace when I’d asked for a Kate Bush. My mum Maddie doesn’t recall the salon, just the embarrassment of being asked to leave without paying and a trip to Regent’s Park Zoo where a gang of monkeys tried to steal me.

Her punchline when telling this story is always, “Your haircut wasn’t that bad!” The brunette in a family of blondes, Maddie did her best to Blondie me but couldn’t get my locks lighter than banana; which clashed with the wee red blazer of my school uniform. I had to wear a balaclava until Aunt Irene the Slut bought me a Lolita wig in a porn shop when she came on one of her flying visits from New York where she lived in self-imposed exile away from the disapproval of her six sisters. Read More…

Weirdo Of The Week Award

Rolled jeans

Just another abnormal day in the life of a VH addict. Selfish Jean is threatening to appear with a tape measure and it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee; after the manservant makes it obvs. Of course at Addicts Mansions we drink Curcumin Latte with an Aduna Super-Cacao chaser. A similar high to so-last-century cocaine; without the risk of widening your beak until a family of five can move in up there with their furniture.

I lay back on my SilkSkin pillow, which keeps my hair Stemm smooth, while the manservant asked nosey-parker questions about my dreams. You know that nightmare when you’re running but never quite manage to escape the strange man who’s chasing you? I turn round and punch him in the face. Let the strange man be careful. Read More…