Je ne sais pas pourquoi

Well, well. Here we are. One week until Christmas

and how much Christmas shopping have I done? 

None. Thats right. I'm looking forward to braving the crowds on Saturday in London. No. I really am.

Anyway, I've not been up to much of late. I attended my old work's Christmas party on Friday. It obviously degenerated in to a 12 hour bender that took me to Walkabout (eww) dancing to Guns n Roses like I was Slash and shouting at people who even dared speak to me whilst I asked (shouted at) the ceiling where exactly where we go now. Somehow I managed to hail a cab (Me and black cabs in London do not have a good history when I'm drunk off my face. Mainly because they refuse to take me anywhere) and direct it back to my friend's house with absolutely no hitches whatsoever. Well done me.

So. Because I can't say any more about Friday night due to legal reasons (no really). I've decided to be a COMPLETE SKANK and do a Pickard of the Pops (see previous post). Why? Because as I lay on the sofa on Saturday watching music television groaning and shouting at my friend, "I feel WRONG. WRONG I tell you" or "I'm weary now (having had the sleep of the drunk obviously. Dehydrated to fuck sleep that is interrupted by either a banging headache or you desperately needing the toilet or both)" I couldn't help but notice that that Leona Lewis is EVERYWHERE. Luckily, I've managed to escape her clutches thus far but when you've settled in for some serious music television watching it is almost impossible to avoid That Video. In fact, I'd go so far as to say you'd have more of chance of not hearing The Fairytale of New York than you would of not hearing That Song. I think we all know where this is going. Yes. I've watched it in its entirety as I shouted, "My eyes! My eyes!". However, it is absolutely fucking hilarious and deserves some second rate attempt at Pickard of the Pops quite frankly. And I am the woman to attempt said second rate hatchet job.

I'll set the scene. Leona is in a house. There are all sorts of angsty types around. Mainly women. Crying. Probably got man trouble. Thats the only reason us women cry isn't it? Anyway, Leona is in the corridor, slightly over dressed if you ask me, singing. We get introduced to the various women in the house, who are crying (did I mention that?). To save time - I think we can all see I can ramble for England - I've decided to concentrate on the most bizarre story in the video. That of this woman:

Look at that pose. She is waiting for someone is she not? Yes. Thats what I thought. Batty tights as well.

There is actually a phone beside her in the shot so she is clearly waiting for the phone to ring/the pizza man to come around

Christ on a bike he is taking his time isn't he? Look at her. Looking at her watch. Is she still waiting do we think? I'd like to point out that this little lady is EXTREMELY impatient. She has actually featured in the whole of the video for about 10 seconds now. 

There she is. Sitting over the phone. Waiting. Now love. Don't you know a watched pot never boils? 

Tired of waiting she decides to have a bath. In her clothes. The big crazy! She doesn't look happy though does she viewer? Hmm. I don't think this bodes well does it?

Uh oh! She is going for the dunk. Here we go. She is going to.....mess her hair up because she is so ANGRY that the person she was waiting for hasn't bothered to call. Now I don't know about all you other ladies out there but I know I am constantly trying to drown myself when someone I'm waiting for to call doesn't bother. In fact I wouldn't have time to do this pointless exercise now because I'd be DROWNING....maybe because I'm a psycho hose beast? Maybe? Hey Love? You're being a bit over the top here aren't you poppet? 

As an aside have you ever wondered what Leona Lewis might look like in the throes of ecstasy? I think we all know Simon Cowell has. The dirty old man. So just in case you were wondering the Director thought he'd do us all a favour. What a nice man. 

Anyway, crashing on. We have a suicide on our hands in one of the other rooms you know. 

Here he is! At last! I think he knows something is wrong though don't you? Look at that expression. Do you think he asked, "Whats my motivation here?" or something else really wanky? Better late than never I guess.....or is it? She has gone for the dunk let me remind you.

Phew! By the power bestowed upon her by submarine navigation systems the world over she somehow managed to hear the knock on the door whilst SUBMERGED in the bath in the bathroom and limbers out like the little nymph she is to answer the door fully clothed and dripping wet. If you ask me this guy must reckon either......

Result. 

or

WTF? What sort of psycho hose beast gets in the bath with all her clothes on. Right psycho hose beast. I'm off. Oh. Here are some flowers. 

Quelle sallope

Look at that face and remember it because I am absolutely livid with that slut bag. Last night after settling in to watch a bit of Gordon and catch up on The Amber Spyglass which I have been REALLY slack at reading I had the MISFORTUNE to stumble upon a documentary about that complete waste of space to the left. Would you believe that the man faced "woman" was actually 'Girl with a One Track Mind' or Abby Lee or whatever her real name is. No. I wouldn't either. Why? Because she is fucking rough.

This documentary charted the rise of sex blogs in the mid noughties. As a brief resumé she basically started a blog charting the trail of spunk that she left around London town and everyone celebrated because she was so sexually liberated (or emotionally retarded) that if there was a whiff of relationship potential she hot footed it on to the next unfortunate man that happened to impale himself on her rank claws. Owing to the fact that she was completely frank and explicit about what she got up to people all over the shop were logging on to read about whose penis had entered her on any given day. Then the tabloids (who were painted as the mongrels that they are, obviously) exposed her for who she was after she had had her blog published as a book and things fell to shit for a little while. But not for long! Thank God! Because now Channel 4 are making a documentary about her. Well done Channel 4!

My problem(s) with the documentary:

1 - We all know the format here guys. Channel 4 choose a topic to cover and they get 'relevant' people to discuss it, give their opinion on it and then have their name appear at the bottom of the tv about 6 times in one hour. Then they return to whatever job they normally do which has given them the right to discuss said topic. There were 3 commentators in this programme. I think that says a lot as generally the average is about 20. Clearly, no one could give enough of a shit about this stupid bint to actually bother to leave the office.

Commentators:

• Zoe Williams from The Guardian (I expected more from The Guardian. I really did.)
• The editor of Scarlet magazine
• The woman who runs Cliterati (see what they've done there?)

So. The above women are banging on about what great thing she did for women and she really is a feminist and how women love sex and at last someone was actually talking about it. Now. I think it is time I mentioned that the 3 commentators who were championing feminism in whatever guise they have obviously decided it has taken in the 'noughties' were wearing the LOWEST cut tops I have ever seen in MY LIFE. And I was a fifteen year old strumpet that needed to get served in the pub. There is always serious cleavage action when you're fifteen. Fact. Zoe Williams was being filmed from above with extremely muted lighting the whole time. I'm telling you I could tell you the woman's nipple circumference. And this is meant to be feminism? Really? Wearing tops that you genuinely wear when your a teen and are desperate for some male attention regardless of how positive the attention is? I've hit 24 and I realised quite a while ago that tops like that attract the sort of knobheads that I'd quite happily kick in the bollocks repeatedly.

2 - Is broadcasting who you're banging and exactly what you're doing sexually liberated? Here is the deal. Life isn't like Sex and the City. Sorry. I find it totally distasteful to have the world and it's mother and YOUR mother be able to read a blog and then say over Sunday dinner, "So dear, did that wheatgrass juice really make a difference to the taste of his spunk?". No. You wouldn't like it either.

2 - Completely randomly and for no reason at all the clips of the Girl with a One Track Mind (who was either on the tube, in a taxi or at a café - why? Was it some sort of social commentary about transport and getting to and from cafés as well that I totally missed?) and the commentators were interspersed with scenes of some random lady whose face you couldn't see typing at a laptop COMPLETELY NAKED. Gratuitous doesn't even begin to cover it. Obviously everyone that writes a blog does it completely in the nude. I know I'm naked right now. Did I mention that I have the heating turned up to 30 because it is -3 outside? Yeah. I'm right sexy I am.

3 - Oh yeah. Fleetingly, there was some bird back in the '60s called Erica Jong. She wrote some book that was really revolutionary but you don't want to know about that.

THAT was all the mention the above lady got. Who did a whole fuck load more for feminism and sexual liberation than a blog on the internet could ever do. But we don't want to hear about her do we? No. She kept her clothes on when she was writing her book. Doesn't she know ANYTHING about sexual liberation? First rule - write your blog (books are for geeks) in the nude! Idiot!

4 - Advertising. We all know that advertisers pay big bucks to have their adverts broadcasted at certain times and during certain shows. So, finally the adverts came on as I was about to explode with rage (I know what you're thinking. Why did you keep watching? Car crash. You know them? Yeah. Thats why). So anyway. What is the first ad to be shown? An ad for Southern Comfort with some woman telling us how much we should be knocking back the Southern Comfort. Then she goes to a party and drinks some Southern Comfort and all these men fall at her feet. Obviously. I think it may have been all the alcohol fumes emanating from her that did it. I don't think Southern Comfort would want you to think that though so the ad wrapped up fairly quickly after that. Never fear though! The next ad will sort out that fumigation problem.....Have you got the code? The Armani code? No. I don't either but clearly we should do. It'll sort that men falling over as you walk past at parties problem that I find ALWAYS happens to me. So, lets take a step back here. What sort of woman would be watching a documentary on some jolly wench that strumpets around London and then writes all about it on the internet? Oh that type! The drunken lush that can only hide the fact she is a drunken lush by dousing herself in some expensive perfume.

I had more problems but I think that is enough of a rant quite frankly. If you do see me in real life in the next few weeks I'd advise you don't bring this up. I could go on for hours. And I apologise profusely if you disagree with me and you've found my rhetoric unsavoury.

If there are any publishers reading this blog who are looking for another blog to publish I'd like to make it quite clear that as I write this I have various sex toys of every shape and size hanging out of my every orifice. Oh and I use the term write fairly loosely. I'm currently reclining on a chaise longue dictating this to my gimp. Every girl should have one.

Je suis une Guitar Hero

First off, apologies for my tardiness in updating the blog. I've had some thoroughly deserved abuse through various mediums letting me know exactly how selfish I have been by not updating it. I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I am a bad lady.

Anyway, I have been off on my travels the last couple of weekends. First off I went down to Brighton to see my best mate, DJ extraordinaire, DJ Spaffy Giff do his thing. Clearly he doesn't DJ under that name but he FUCKING SHOULD so if you're reading this Spaffy...you know what you have to do. It appears that I am unable to go to Brighton without getting completely spannered and the weekend just gone was no different. The only regret I have is that I was too hungover to go and check out Spaffy's box properly.

However, I have been introduced to the most addictive game ever. Now, I'm a girl so I'm completely retarded when it comes to technology (the freeview box that I can't manage to set up in my room is testimony of my knobbiness) but I like to get in to the spirit of computer games. I couldn't sleep for two months during uni such was my addiction to Halo. That and I was so spectacularly bad at it that I had to spend all day every day trying to complete it and in the end the only way I managed was having my housemate complete it for me.

I digress. Guitar Hero III. Thats right. The greatest game known to man according to me. I started out a novice and a couple of bottles of vodka later I was a pro. I unlocked Pearl Jam Even Flow as an encore and everything. Plastic guitars with coloured buttons on the easy setting rule. However, the only downside was the fact that in my drunken haze I seemed to actually think that I was a Guitar Hero. There are now photos of me floating around standing up with one leg on the coffee table showing off tomorrow's washing, frowning with intense concentration at the TV whilst I try and beat Slash in a guitar off (It didn't happen. A more competent player had to take on the challenge....the story of my games console life).

The only sucky thing about Brighton was that one of my favourite people in the whole wide world was ill so she wasn't as rowdy as I have come to expect. Its ok though. She is coming back to see me soon and I reckon people should start locking up their sons right now. And maybe their spirits. Such was her illness that she decided to make me a cocktail of Passoa, coffee liqueur and orange juice. Yes. It was as nice as it sounds. Ahem.

I've also visited Birmingham on my travels. It was lots of fun apart from the Journey of Death in which a man with tattoos on HIS HEAD decided to take it upon himself to direct where everyone should sit on the train and started asking people to move their bags, their feet, themselves etc. I was far too scared to even argue and basically crawled under my seat with my book hoping that he couldn't see me.

As an update I'm still really enjoying my new job. Everyone is really lovely and the girl who suits opposite me is completely random and, it seems, is obsessed by poo. She can't stop talking about it. An example of a conversation we had recently

Me: Peppermint tea is nice. Someone told me it aids digestion but I just like mint tea since I went to Marrakech

Her: Ooooooh, it makes you do a big poo.

This was after I'd known her 3 days.

There is a funnier story that she told but I think it is just a bit too rank for the blog. However, I was in hysterics when she told me it. A sort of, its funny because its true, sort of story.

Its a well known fact that I bruise like a peach. I am the whitest person to walk the Earth (Irish parents, gets you every time). I wake up on a regular basis covered in bruises that I have no idea how I got. I think I have managed to acquire the most random bruise bar none. Whilst at work today I was dicking about, emailing, making tea, emailing, answering the phone, emailing etc when my friend said, "You've got a black mark under your chin". So obviously I try to get rid of the offending mark. You know, you rub your face and say, "Gone?". No. It wasn't. And I also noticed that when I was trying to get rid of it my face really hurt. So I got out my mirror (yes, I am that vain) and had a look at my chin. Thats right. I'd got a bruise. Under my chin. Its fucking massive. I look like a complete twat. There is no other word for it. I can't even begin to work out how it got there. I've decided I must have punched myself in the face in my sleep or something.

Now, I think thats quite enough, I'm off to bed. All this galevanting around like an Arabian donkey has taken it out of me.

Bonnes choses viennent aux personnes qui attendent

I'm very sorry to tell you this but I'm afraid my life hasn't been a complete can of spam this week. In fact, this week has been great.

Basically, I've gone and landed myself a new job that I start tomorrow (the joys of being a temp). It is permanent (woooohoooooo) with a view to a Training Contract (Double wooooohoooooo) AND they have offices all over the world so after I've been there a bit I can go and work in France for three months if I want (I don't want to wooooohoooooo myself out or anything but fuck it, lets go for broke, woooooooohooooooooo). So it was with great pleasure that I said, "Adieu" to my last post and ran out of there on Friday crying tears of joy.

There are other things going on behind the scenes as well which all seem to be pretty positive so on the whole it has been a very good week.

Obviously though some hilarity has to be included as my life is one long situation comedy and nothing else. I feel now is a good time to introduce my father. He is a mentalist. Imagine the most Irish person you know (so Irish you can't actually understand what he is saying unless you are lip reading) with the look of a mad professor (curly hair that is sticking up at different angles all over his head because he can't be bothered to have it cut. His words, "I like it. I think it makes me look a bit eccentric") with the personality of someone who can only be high on drugs. All the time.

Anyway, to get you in to the feel of what it is like having to put up with such a father I'll give you a Dad Highlight.

Picture the scene. You've just got off the plane from France with your best mate from uni, we'll call her Mrs Hoppy. Dad has picked us up from the airport and she is in the back (think back to that thick Irish accent that you can't understand unless you're lip reading. Its VERY important). He is asking us how our little holiday went,

Dad: Mrs Hoppy, did you enjoy yourself?

Mrs Hoppy: Yeah (sounding slightly unsure of herself. Clearly plumping for yeah hoping that it would be an adequate answer to whatever Dad was saying)

Dad: Did you do a lot?

Mrs Hoppy: Yeah (still unsure)

Dad: What was the weather like?

Mrs Hoppy: Yeah

At this point Dad turns to me and says: Miss Bladder, I think Mrs Hoppy thinks I'm a bit of a dick....do you Mrs Hoppy?

Mrs Hoppy: Yeah.

How we laughed.....although Mrs Hoppy didn't even realise what she had said until about a year ago when I recounted the story to her.

Anyway, today we were driving past this house that my dad has bought to renovate (he gets bored and it keeps him out of our hair). He is terribly proud of what I call the Death House. Its almost like the daughter he didn't have who will never let him down or rebel. Recently he has had a wall built outside it so he went the long way around so we could fully admire the wall in the pissing rain and bollock freezing cold and he turns around to me and says, 

"I'll tell you what. That wall is fucking rude."

Now, I don't know WHO he has been hanging around with but he is a 50 year old man. That is something I would expect MY friends to say (indeed, they do). And for the record, it is used in the context of, "That girl is pretty rude", meaning that girl is pretty fit. So to recap. My dad fancies a wall. Great.

Once we'd managed to leave the wall alone and stop sexualising it my dad asked me how my Saturday night had gone (look what I'm about to do here. Its genius.)

WELL, I hooked up with an old school friend who is okay in small doses but when I say small doses I mean like, 10 minute intervals. We went to a restaurant in Soho that I like quite a lot. Obviously she pissed and moaned about it the whole time we were there. The wine was flowing (it has to be, its the only way I manage to not stab people around me) and we managed to get on to the subject of the Seduced (google it) exhibition and she invited me to come along and see it next Thursday with her, her (37 year old) boyfriend, her "feminist" (completely mental, hacked in to her ex's FB account because she thought he was cheating....which he was but STILL. What would Germaine Greer do?) friend, a man she is setting her friend up with who is an ex-army out of work actor (I KNOW, HILARIOUS) and a load of her uni friends. So to summarise, come and look at pictures of cocks with a bunch of cocks. However, I was too quick for her. I came up with the best excuse ever....

"Sorry, I can't, I'm going to Birmingham that Saturday."

Don't congratulate me. It is clearly the BEST excuse in the whole wide world ever. Totally  unrelated to Thursday. I know. I fucking rule. And the best thing? She was totally understanding. 

Moving swiftly on. We then went to Farringdon to hook up with the most cultural woman I know and her man friend. The bar was quite loud and so my school friend decided it would be a good time to ask me what my sexual preferences are as she is so 'liberated' and 'out there'. Yes. I was a bit knocked sideways too. Is it the done thing to discuss these things 

• with a person who winds you up beyond all belief 
• in a crowded bar
  

I decided not and tried to sidestep the question as successfully as I'd sidestepped going to Seduced. I went to the toilet to ring National Rail Enquiries. 

On my travels around the internet whilst at work I came across this:

http://music.guardian.co.uk/pickardofthepops/page/0,,2018095,00.html

It is possibly one the most pant-wettingly-funny things I have read in AGES. 

I also highly recommend

Mark Ronson feat Lily Allen - Oh My God

Highlight: The photo that they got all the visual analysts in for

Natasha Bedingfield - I want to have your babies

Take That - Patience

Highlight: So identikit, in fact, that I now can't tell Howard Donald and Jason Orange apart, so will have to refer to them collectively as Jawar Dorange. (Mark Owen, meanwhile, is still 12)

Sugababes v Girls Aloud - Walk This Way

Newcastle, je t'aime

I've just come back from a most splendid weekend in the Northeast. Frankly, as soon as I pulled in to Newcastle station on Friday evening I basically shat myself with excitement. I always have lots of fun when I go up North and this weekend was even better as I hung out with a lot of people that I went to uni with. I was especially pleased to see my friend who has just got engaged. She holds a special place in my heart as she came round to my house when we were at uni and she laughed so hard at something she puked out of her nose. Now tell me, who doesn't want to marry a woman like that?

I think my favourite part (and I think all who were present will agree) was the most drawn out and protracted fireworks display in the whole wide world ever. I was having a whale of a time. I love fireworks. The highlight of the whole 'show' was the bush going on fire though. You can't beat a bit of impromptu drama. I think my enjoyment must have been obvious as the Birthday Girl and basically everyone else present cowered behind me. Clearly I'm a human firework shield. The display was followed by an upbeat chat about ghosts and breaking in to the attic in your mate's house to find a wedding dress hung up on the wall with a chair beside it with a wedding ring and an axe on it. I half expected Derek Acorah to come in from the back garden.

I know you'll be shocked to read that I managed to get completely wasted on the Saturday night and I thought that I had behaved in a fairly reserved way and didn't manage to make too much of a holy show of myself. That was until we were dissecting the night over breakfast this morning. Turns out I'm more of a strumpet than I thought I was.....I just can't remember in the morning.


I also went to see The Crack (Shibboleth) last week. I mainly wanted to go as I'd been scoffing at the simplicity of the piece. Cracks in society, crack in the floor, yeah yeah whatever. Racism and imperalism. Yawn. I had even come up with a theory that they said they'd bung her an extra £100k if she came up with a new piece but she forgot all about the commission until about 2 days before the opening and she just got to work with a kanga hammer hoping for the best. I even went so far as to come up with my own piece. It was going to be called, "The Futility of Trying to Fit in". Basically, I'd scribble all over a piece of paper and then draw a very small stick woman in the middle and blu tac it to a pillar in the Turbine Hall. I know. Its fucking inspired. (And if any of you skank the idea I'll kick you in the balls).

I went with one of the most cultured women I know who, it turns out, did History of Art as an A Level and a supplementary subject at uni. I'm sorry to report that it did actually provoke discussion about the ramifications of war and the fall of the British Empire and how these things have shaped the society we live in today. Then we got over ourselves and went and dropped some serious cash in Selfridges. Corporate machines - nice.

Quand je fais l'amour avec toi je pense a lui

When I want to drop someone off the edge I do what I consider the Done Thing. Completely ignore their texts/emails. It works for me. I don't have to have that awful conversation where I come across like a complete bitch that is dead on the inside and I say horrible clichés like, "Its not me, its you" (LIE), and "I've just come out of a really long relationship and don't feel ready to make a commitment at the moment" (again, LIE). It also means that the person who you're ignoring retains at least a shred of dignity as they're not told outright that you're totally not interested and you'd prefer if they never contacted you again or you'll get a restraining order. Or something.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not so deluded that I think that I'm the fucking shit and that no one has ever ignored my texts because they're just not interested. However, I have the good sense and the dignity to take that non reply to my text etc and realise what it means - I'm a drunken lush.

Anyway, it seems one person has completely disregarded his pride, self respect, whatever and is not taking the hint. After several Facebook messages (unread, not replied to), text messages (read, not replied to) and emails (unread, not replied to) I got a bit of The Fear. This could turn in to a stalker scenario. Having discussed correct etiquette with my friends it was decided that I should reply to the last text (Oi. Where have you gone too?xxxxx) and be brutally honest.

This evening I did what I consider a cardinal sin. I attempted to chuck (can someone you've only had sex with and not really gone out with be chucked?) him by text. I say attempted because I think I've failed. Miserably.

My reply: "I've not gone anywhere. I'm avoiding you because you have a small penis and you don't know how to use it"

Which is semi true. It was of an adequate size.

I crossed my fingers hoping that this would be harsh enough for him to either stop texting me or send him in to such a rage that I would receive a volly of abuse that is totally deserved and would also mean that I would then forever be referred to by him and his circle of friends as, "That lying bitch who doesn't know what she missed out on".

I should have crossed everything. Almost IMMEDIATELY he replied with, "I know you think that you told *** (his best friend starred for anonymity purposes) when you were drunk. When do I get my date? xxx"

Firstly, what the fucking fuck fuck fuck?? Secondly, I don't remember telling his best friend that when I was drunk but it definitely sounds like something I would do. Thirdly, did I mention the last time I had sex with this person was TWO YEARS AGO?

Quel dommage!

The Office Mouth. We all have one. You know that woman who thinks she knows everything about everything and shouts out all her, incorrect, trivia across the office. Thus far I have managed to keep my mouth shut and let her share her "wisdom" whilst I put my fist in my mouth to try and stop myself from shouting out, "You're fucking wrong you FOOL."

Anyway, the other day enough was enough. I know I don't know a lot about anything but Catholicism, Catholicism I know. So she proclaims that she will have to go to Mass on Hallowe'en as it is a Holy Day of Obligation because it is All Souls Day. I've never heard anything more wrong in my life. Seriously, trying to say smoking doesn't cause cancer is less wrong than this ridiculousness. So I pipe up and tell her that she is wrong. We get in to a childish, Wrong, Right, Wrong, Right exchange until she says, "Fine. We'll google it". I was really mature and replied, "Fine. Do that.", adding under my breath, "Because I know I'm right.".

Whilst this hilarious exchange is going on a deathly silence has settled across the office as the Clash of the Titans began. Meanwhile I'm emailing a like minded colleague who also thinks that The Mouth is a complete cretin. I believe my email went something along the lines of, "I've had enough of her fucking spouting".

Whilst The Mouth googled something I already knew I was right about I made myself look busy waiting for the inevitable apology. The rest of the office waited on tenderhooks and I'd put money on the fact that they were furiously emailing each other debating who would win this battle.

And then, the apology came. Of course I was right. I knew I was right. I attempted to accept the apology with grace and poise without coming across as too much of a smug bitch.....all the while typing a new email to my like minded colleague:

"And she can suck my fucking fanny"

Je crois que je ne t'aime plus

I intended to start my blog with a well needed rant about how much I hate my job and how I want to stab everyone I work with in the face. However, the last week of my life has been some sort of comedy of errors and it is only right that I recount it in order to illustrate that God, or whoever is up there, is taking the complete piss out of my life.

It started off with an attempt to buy the National Lottery last weekend. I say an attempt as I was id-ed. I'm 24. I was speechless; and that doesn't happen often. So thats fine. I get over the trauma of being mistaken for a 15 year old by the cretin that was working behind the counter.

Off I go in to London to my job and I'm listening to the most uplifting song ever on my ipod as I make my way through Lincoln's Inn Fields when my foot sort of slides a bit. Of course I was so uplifted that I wasn't looking at the floor to watch my step. I'd stepped on a freshly run over, still red as fuck, pigeon. It was fucking grim. It was one of those things where I thought, "I'll laugh about this later". On reflection I'm not laughing. Still gross. Suddenly the world wasn't quite such an uplifting place.

To cheer myself up I went home and thought I'd see what my leopard print dress looked like with my new nu-rave neon pink tights. It looked like an overweight flamingo had been unfortunate enough to wander in to the path of a leopard where it was unceremoniously eaten but the leopard hadn't quite got to the legs yet. I can't quite bring myself to discuss it any further. It was all quite undignified.

I've started to notice that I've begun to morph in to that London-ite that I despise with a passion. You know the ones, they stand right on top of you behind you and huff and puff until you move out of their way because they have somewhere to be and they are FAR MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOU. Yeah. Thats me.

So I had a pretty shit afternoon at work on Friday what with being at work and other things completely out of my control. So I decide to sack work off a bit early as I'm clearly not doing anything productive apart from updating my Facebook which *I* see as productive - don't think work quite does. Anyway, I reach Holborn tube and there are these two girls in front of me linking arms. About my age, walking fairly slowly, taking up all the space so it is impossible to overtake them. So the inner, angry, monologue starts going,

"Oh my God do they think they are in a Match.fuckingcom advert or something. I don't think they're going to fucking lose each other if they unlink their arms so I can GET PAST and get back so I can start in on those lovely bottles of Becks. Or maybe they are so fucking disabled that they need to fucking hold each other up and if they ARE that disabled then maybe they should consider getting the tube not at rush hour because they are just."

And then the inner monologue stopped. Dead. They had got on to the escalators in front of me. They were doing quite a lot with their hands. They were deaf. And then one of them turned around. Thickest glasses I've ever seen. And I'm pretty blind. They actually were disabled.


I am a horrible person.