Category: A Bad Idea

Tiggy’s Twelve Days of Christmas

Cocks and birds. Ahhh, Christmas!

Dear diary, this year my true love has promised me a new present every day until Christmas! I can’t wait to see what he’s got me. I’m hoping for electrical goods. And a vibrator.

Day One
My true love led me blindfolded into the garden. Was it a new car? A hot tub? No. It was a pear tree. A small partridge had been tied by its feet to a branch. It didn’t seem very happy and was squawking loudly.

I had asked for a Wii for Christmas. It’s the thought that counts I suppose.

Day Two
My true love gave me a large ribbon-tied box. Was it a Wii? I shook the box; it shuddered and squawked. Another partridge? I opened the box to find a pair of fluffy turtle doves blinking back at me. Oh. I guess they could keep the partridge company.

If they misbehave I could transform them into a pair of fluffy slippers.

Day Three
I received a huge box today! It rattled alarmingly. A massage chair? No, more frigging birds. Three angry-looking French hens glared at me and pecked my fingers. They flapped around the kitchen, scratched the carpet and bit my ankles. The poor things seem frustrated. I think they need a French cock.

Day Four
A blood-curdling shriek greeted me this morning. My true love presented me with four calling birds. Tweeters with Tourette’s, more like! The little bastards squawked what sounded like “cockkSUKKA!” all day.

My sexually frustrated hens have finally given up trying to mate with the doves.

A bit chunky for my liking.Day Five
I got into trouble with the Salvation Army carol singers today. They were crowded around my doorstep and three bars into Silent Night when their warbles were shattered by “cockkSUKKA!” I had no idea carol singers could be so violent.

On the upside, my true love finally gave me a decent present – five gold rings! They’re a bit chunky for my liking, and one of them has “4 REAL 4 EVA” inscribed on it. I’m not going to ask too many questions.

Day Six
More fucking birds. I now have six geese to add to my aviary. They look suspiciously similar to the geese from our local pond. On the upside, they are popping out eggs like ping-pong balls from a Thai hooker.

I wonder what French hen omelette tastes like? I’d give it a try but unfortunately the geese have taken over the kitchen and attack me when I try to open the fridge.

I'm scared to go to the bathroom now.Day Seven
I had to put my foot down today after my true love presented me with seven swans. All swans are property of the Queen! I now have stolen goods flapping around my house.

I’ve hidden them in the bathroom in case the cops come round. I think they’re onto me – this evening I saw a big black car parked across the street. It must be the Animal Squad or something.

Day Eight
Heeding my bird gift ban, my true love presented me with a money-making present today. A local dairy was going out of business; a dairy herd and eight milking maids were going cheap. I now have a garage awash with milk churns and cow emissions.

This enterprise may work out – the ditzy maids are so grateful for a job I’m paying them a pittance. I may have some plucking jobs for them as well.

Day Nine
I’m beginning to wonder who my true love is buying gifts for. This evening he turned up with nine scantily-clad dancers from the local strip club. He spent all evening “erecting poles” and has turned the basement into a sleazy night club. He argued that seeing how I now had my own home business, it was only fair he had one too.

The geese and swans have declared war on each other and are battling for control of the dining room. I’m thinking of moving out.

Day Ten
To mark the opening of the basement night club, my true love invited ten yuppies from the local Yacht Club for a party. They parked their shiny Porsches all over the street and barged into my basement demanding liquor, music and pole dancing. The posh poseurs spent all evening leaping around with the dancing girls and spilling expensive whiskey on the carpet.

The racket woke up the calling birds who are now squealing “cockkSUKKA!” every ten seconds.
Bloody upper classes.

Band's arrived - Merry Christmas Tiggy!Day Eleven
I have a mutiny on my hands! The Yacht Club yuppies upset the girls with their dirty dancing demands and called one of the dairy maids a “sour cream udder whore”. The maids and dancers got together to demand better wages and conditions. This morning they formed the Amalgamated Women’s Union of Dairy Operatives and Erotic Performers, otherwise known as Cream & Panties. Fucking unions.

I received a nice gift this evening. A group of eleven kilted hunks from the Purple Pipe Blowers Marching Band called to play a medley of Christmas tunes on their bagpipes. Unfortunately the band had spent most of the afternoon drinking and their spirited efforts were rather off-key. I’m sure one of them vomited into his pipe during Jingle Bells. At least the noise drowned out the squawks and clucks of the household menagerie.

That black cop car was parked outside my house again. It has spinning rims. On a cop car! No wonder my taxes are so high.

Day Twelve
My fun night of song, scotch and sporran fondling was ruined! One of the Yacht Club snobs started a fight with a piper after accusing him of throwing up on his Porsche. The piper retaliated by lifting his kilt. Twenty-one drunken men then spent the evening punching each other to a pulp.

The Cream & Panties union was no help. They voted to hold a women’s peace protest in the hallway. If I hear them sing We Are Women, We Are Strong one more bloody time…

No! Not the new carpet!!Worse was to come! At midnight a tour bus full of drummers from the Battle of the Hair Bands Show arrived at my door. They had heard the night club was throwing the best Christmas party in town, brimming with drink, drugs and birds. Oh yes, I assured them, there was plenty of birds.
Overpowering the air with the smell of hairspray and weed, they tumbled through my front door with their drum kits, shouting “We’re ready to ROCK! Let’s PARTY!”

So this Christmas Eve I have a house full of sex-starved chickens, stolen swans, obnoxious yuppies, drunk pipers with no underpants on, drugged-up rock drummers and a militant women’s peace camp. This is not going to be a silent night.

Day Thirteen
The gunfire started at two in the morning. The black car squealed down my street and the occupants burst out, firing their guns into the air and screaming “Gimme ma bling yo mofucka! You stole ma muthafucking bling, bitch!” Looks like my five gold rings already had an owner. The gunfire woke up the calling birds, who screeched “cockkSUKKA!” at the gangstas. The dink-dink-dink of bullets hitting Porsches echoed around the street.

The Cream & Panties union broke their peace circle and raced towards the hoodlums, screaming about pimps and unpaid money and how they were taking their muthafuckin’ asses to arbitration.

Having spent the night snorting coke with the drummers, the dairy cows got spooked by the gunfire and rampaged through the garage doors, sending drunken pipers flying and crushing any gangsta or Porsche that got in their way.But officer, I can explain... I think...

The cops needed thirty police cars and a helicopter to arrest all fifty-two suspects. I’ve been charged with affray, public obscenity, assault with a lap dancing pole, various weapons charges, theft of Royal property, parking violations, infringement of unionized Labour Code C574 and imprisonment of a game bird in a pear tree.

Next Christmas, I’ll get myself a goddam Wii. And a new true love.

Wishing you all a very Hazy Christmas and a Drunken New Year!


Zen and the Art of Falling Off Motorcycles – Tiggy’s Bike Test

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

You know how sometimes you get a good idea but halfway through doing it, it doesn’t seem like such a good idea any more? Well, I decided to take my motorcycle test. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

I used to be a biker babe when I was a teenager and able to fit into skin-tight leather pants. I rode everywhere on my bike and together we had lots of high-speed adventures and horrific accidents. Happy days. But after digging the bike out the snow one winter’s evening, I decided to sell the damn thing and buy a nice warm car instead.

So there I was at the training centre the other night, shivering with nerves and squeezed into my old leathers (they must have shrunk over the years). Of course I was saddled with the biggest, heaviest bike the instructor could find. Me and the bike got acquainted in no time. By that I mean I ended up lying in the gutter with the bike wedged on top of me. I was just testing the weight of the machine, obviously. It had been a while since I’d ridden.

So far so good...After wobbling up and down the street on the hideous metal beast for hours, the instructor waved me on to the assault course, complete with sharp turns, gravel and pot holes.

There must have been something wrong with my bike as it refused to go around corners. Bright orange traffic cones jumped in front of the wheels like they were on a suicide mission. They should build one of these torture courses at Gitmo Bay – send a few prisoners around that on rusty Honda 125 and they’d be howling their confessions in no time.

... although things were getting tricky by lunchtime...Of course my fellow trainees were all burly men who whizzed around the course like Evil Knenivel on a Vespa. I chugged behind them all, a stream of curse words and sobs echoing around my fogged-up helmet. The only way I could avoid coming last in class was if Steven Hawking joined the course.

As the rain started to pour I realized this idea was not my best one.

But by some miracle I passed the course! The miracle coming in the shape of the bottle of whisky I gave the instructor just before the test. Ha! Works every time. How do you think I got through school?

Now to decide on a new bike.

What I can afford is this:

A two-wheeled twatmobile. No thanks.

I can see the benefits – fuel efficient, space for several friends and handy for trips to the shops or lumber yard. But I’d look like a twat.

What I really want is something like this:

Tiggy gets her knee down! She has been know to get both knees down at once.

Sports bikes are sexy, sleek and totally impractical. Not sure where I’d put the shopping, but I could solve that by only buying really small things and putting them in my helmet, like sliced cheese.

Now everybody seems to think this is the ultimate bike:

Harleys - I just don't have the chaps for one.

But there’s no way I’d ride one of those metal monsters. A Harley is about the same weight as a shipping container. If one fell on me I’d have to stay under it forever.

And as a Harley-owning biker chick, it is compulsory to wear the following attire, as this young lady demonstrates:

The bare cheek of it!

I can see the benefits of a thong ‘n’ chaps combination on those hot and sticky days, but what about winter riding? One sharp frost and I could hire my bum out as a ski hill.

I need a machine that is safe, practical, and suits the level of my motorcycling skills. I think I’ve found my new bike.

It only needs a machine gun and it's perfect!

Chaps and thongs are mandatory over at


Hurrah For Canada!

Hurrah for Canada Day!

July 1st is Canada Day! The day when all Canadians avoid work, crack open a beer and then crack open another beer. To be honest, that happens most days in my house, but today we do it with pride!

To get into the spirit of things and help my non-Canadian readers join in the celebrations, I decided to find a photo that sums up Canada and what a cool place it is.

And what better than a picture of our national animal, the beaver? I set to work and Googled ‘cute furry beaver’. Unfortunately, the images Google presented me with… well, let’s just say a) I will remember to switch ‘Moderate Safe Search’ ON in future and b) I now have an image of Britney Spears burned into my brain I didn’t really need.

Britney-free beaver spotting.Never mind, I decided to head to my local wilderness park with my camera and snap the cheerful critter myself. After crawling through the undergrowth for hours, I finally chanced upon the fluffy little fella! Great, now I could get my shot. Come on little guy, do something cute and Canadian!

Unfortunately, I seemed to have caught my little beaver friend in, let’s just say, a rather private act of self-gratification. I waited patiently as the creature fiddled around with his nether regions. And waited. And waited some more. Get on with it, you little cocksucker!

More time passed. A group of curious tourists began to gather behind me.
“Mommy, why is that lady with the orange hair taking photos of a beaver playing with itself? I’m scared.”

I was escorted from the park by the rangers who were under the impression I was some kind of depraved fur-fancier, my protests that I was doing it for Canada Day falling on deaf ears.

Cover your eyes!

I’m really sorry about this, everyone. I just wanted a nice picture for Canada Day and all I have to show for it is a photo of a beaver masturbating. The day is all spoiled now. The only other picture I got was of three recidivists from the local trailer park. Admittedly they are not quite as fluffy, but they are Canadian and will have to do.


Give them some chicken fingers and they won't steal your barbeque.


Tiggy Joins The No Cussing Club

Swearing - not big or clever.

My language is often less than lady-like. I could give a 350lb Docker with a spade through his foot a run for his money in a swearing contest. I didn’t want admit I had a problem until I called my boss a cock pirate (to be fair, he took it entirely out of context). It was time to act.

Sign of Intelligence
I joined the No Cussing Club. Happy orange-shirted kiddies smiled at me from their website in encouragement. I too could a live profanity-free life! All I had to do was swear a pledge of allegiance (without swearing), buy an orange Club wristband and my potty mouth would be silenced forever! I couldn’t let the children down.

“I won’t cuss, swear, use bad language, or tell dirty jokes. Clean language is the sign of intelligence and always demands respect. I will use my language to uplift, encourage and motivate. I will Leave People Better Than I Found Them!”

I made it through the oath but as I tried to order my wristband my computer crashed. “Fuck!” I yelled, and realized I’d broken my pledge in under two minutes. “FUCK!” I exclaimed again as I realized I’d just said ‘fuck’. This was going to be tough.

The website suggested I try alternatives to swear words. Just use an everyday word, the first one that pops into your head. My friends began to wonder whether I was high on drugs as I randomly shouted out “Switzerland!” “Fudge Bucket!” and “Wooden Monkey Carving!”. The fact that these were the first words to pop into my head was worrying. Maybe the Club wristband was affecting my circulation.

I sounded like a Dictionary with Tourette’s and was becoming reluctant to speak in case I slipped up. I imagined tears running down the children’s orange glowing faces as I wrestled with my fudges and fucks. I had failed the No Cussing Club kids.

I’m sorry kids. It’s not that I have a limited vocabulary and don’t know lots of big clever words. But sometimes only a fuck will do. When you’re grown up and you put a spade through your foot you’ll understand.