The most cultured lady I know and I have a dirty secret. Not that kind of secret I'm afraid. Worse. So much worse. I can barely bring myself to type.
We love shit tv. Not like, love. Don't judge us. We can't help it. Sometimes you need something to watch so your jaw can swing incredulously at the shit that is being bandied around on the television. It has been known for us to sit down on a Saturday and watch something like, Jodie Marsh: Who'll take her up the aisle? for about 4 hours. When we're not together it has also been known for us to watch something apart (although it breaks our hearts to not be watching it together shrieking, "OH MY GOD") and maybe text each other. About the tv. I couldn't possibly say if that has actually ever happened. No. I couldn't.
Until today I'd seen exactly five minutes of Vanity Lair. It was so stomach churning that I couldn't possibly bring myself to do it. And I think the Jodie Marsh saga illustrates I have a high shit tv threshold. However, I already had a churning stomach this morning and I really needed to lie down and not have to think for a while and I was just too hungover to reach for the remote. I succumbed and watched it. I believe it has been touted as a social experiment about perceptions of beauty. I believe it would be more accurate to say it is a group of retarded ming mongs who don't eat enough and have too much money to spend at the Fake Bake/Clinique counter metaphorically wanking each other off because they think they're beautiful. Also, the most boring people I've ever had to watch for an hour. They just talk about who is fit, who could be fitter, who is fitter with make up on, with make up off, with their hair up, with their hair down. Watching paint dry would be more entertaining. Someone should talk to someone and tell someone important in television that.
Furthermore, I went on the website and found this nugget. Immediately. I didn't even have to search for this. It was there. Staring at me in the face. Meet Larissa. She is a glamour model. Words fail me already as she really doesn't have a good or massive rack. She also resembles the girl next door that everyone else looks like. She went crazy today and didn't wear any make up for the WHOLE DAY. Welcome to my world on a Monday morning Larissa. She answered the following question thusly,
Describe yourself in THREE words?
Down to earth, bubbly and confident
Down to earth, bubbly and confident
If you can't see the problem with the above please do me a favour. In fact, do humanity a favour. Close down this window. Turn off your PC (I doubt you're using a Mac because you're clearly a cretin). Open the nearest window on the first floor, or above, and throw yourself out of it. Pavle though. He'd get it. Hard.
Continuing on the shit TV theme I watched an episode of Cribs today as well (I'd sufficiently recovered to pick up the remote. At this point I still couldn't face breakfast or as it ended up, brunch). I don't know who this man was whose house I was being led around. He was American. He could have been a singer. He sang a lot. He might have been a baseball player as he had a baseball shirt on. Or it might have been a basketball shirt. We'll go for sportsman. Or he may have been a male version of Paris Hilton. I really couldn't say. What I can say though is that he is a total mentalist. Oh. He also painted pictures. So he brings us to his gym. It looked very nice. Full of machines. Slightly ostentatious. Oh look. He's painted a lovely picture. Oh no! It's a mural. It covers the WHOLE wall. What is it?
It's a picture of the Last Supper. But with famous dead singers instead of Jesus and the disciples. Marvin Gaye was Jesus. Bob was there. Barry White had dropped in for a bit of wine. And then I noticed something really odd. Right. I'm not really up on this whole rap thing. But I thought that Tupac killed Biggie Smalls (Was he aware that his name is an oxymoron?) or the other way round or something. Anyway, what I do know is that they've both gone to the big ghetto in the sky and everyone that is left is blaming the other, East side, West side etc. But this man who has had a big bowl of Crazy has decided to paint them together. At the Last Supper. Hoom. Then he gets deep. He brings us down the hall. That's right, another mural. And now a direct quote,
"This one is called 'What If'. I just thought what if Malcom X baptised Tupac?"
Now people. I have lots of thoughts in that vein a lot of the time. So much so someone I once dated said that I reminded him of JD from Scrubs. It was just after I'd finished a musical number and called him Brown Bear. My point is, I do NOT paint murals in my house of my thoughts. If I did that I'd end up with pictures of necklaces that are made out of guitar hero guitars so not only do you have an 'alternative' accessory but you're ready at all times for any sort of guitar-hero-off and all sorts of shenanigans.
In other news:
I got a round in a night club yesterday for -£9.50 yesterday. I handed the guy a twenty for a £10.50 round. He came back with the twenty and a ten from the till in his hand and asked me if I had the change because he was running low. I had a bit of a dig around, found a fifty pence (no, the Jizz Man wasn't around picking them up off the floor for me) and handed it to him. He then handed me my original twenty and the ten from the till. I put the money in my wallet, picked up my drinks and walked off. Score.
It feels like Summer. Yay. I dragged my arse out in to the garden today and had a sit down and a bit of a read and listened to Finley Quaye. I can't wait for the Summer. It had better be good. I don't want to be mugged off like I was last year. I'm expecting long Summer nights sat in pub gardens with barmy weather drinking pimms and weekly jaunts to Bright Town to splash around in the sea, get fucked and have bbqs on the beach.