Tuesday, December 18, 2007

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......

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. 

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

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.

  • 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.

Monday, December 03, 2007

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.