Du pain, du vin, du boursin

In another moment down Alice went after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.

The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well.

Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything: then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves: here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed: it was labeled 'ORANGE MARMALADE' but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar, for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it one of the cupboards as she fell past it.

"Well!" thought Alice to herself. "After such a fall as this I shall think nothing of tumbling down-stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!" (Which was very likely true)

Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end?

OMGROFLCOPTERLOLWTFORLY?

I did NOT see this coming.

What happened? The Kings of Leon become a stadium band...and manage to carry it off with much aplomb. You can't argue with two solid hours of music. Shockingly good. 

Clothes show. Hoom. Managed to be very restrained and only buy one pair of Irregular Choice shoes even though at one point it was looking like it'd be three. And yes. They were heavily reduced. It has also been decided that if we're reduced to Lohans Erin and I are hitting up that civil ceremony shit asap. A day of shopping followed by a lovely evening in a country hotel. I couldn't ask for a better wife.

You should also hit Tara McPherson up. Is it wrong to spend £50 on a 5 colour silk screen print? Think of my imaginary house. I think it's crying out for an uncut death metal girl.

Merde

"Er Guys, do you remember when we went to Coachella in the Summer and we all went a bit batty on the K and to sort ourselves out we dropped a load of acid and then decided we should use Madonna in our S/S08 campaign?

We went to Coachella?

Yes Jeff. We did. But you had to over exert yourself on the first night with a load of smack that you got off of Anthony Kiedis and spend the rest of the month hooked up to a ventilator in the desert cos you were too touch and go to be moved. Anyway. The photos are back. And we're fucked.

Hmm. Not really a surprise.

No. It's not. I mean we've done what we can but....Well look at them. Thankfully the stylist thought to put all the bangles we had for the shoot on her arm all at the same time which means we've managed to cover up the 97 year old arm problem. Unfortunately we didn't bring quite enough bangles so we had to pay for some 17 year old photoshop whizkid to do the rest. And obviously, we then didn't have any other bangles for the rest of the shoot.

What about her inexplicable desire to show her fanny off at every moment?

It's not really inexplicable. She had a Catholic upbringing and she's a bit of a ho bag.

True say. Okay. What about her desire to show her fanny off at ever moment?

Turns out Meisel isn't just a photographer. He's a fricking genius. He got her to sit sideways to the camera and for her to turn her head.

HE'S A GENIUS

I know! It failed slightly though. Turns out she has an out of control ginger muff. I guess that's what happens when you get as old as the dawn of time though. You start growing hair at an alarming rate from places you really wish it didn't happen. Ears. Nose.

Muff.

Muff. But you know, muff covers clit so we're all good.

I thought it was Cock, Muff, Bumhole?

NO! I'm not talking about games now. We couldn't talk her out of the hooker tights cos she's Madonna and don't we know who she is and all that.

Fuck.

Oh no, it's alright. We went through some stuff, put out some calls and managed to find a pair of hooker shoes so it looks like it's deliberate. Sort of. If hookers hang out in high class Parisian cafés.

Nice. Very Helen Mirren Emmy thing.

Yeah. It was inspired. Even if I do say so myself. And I do. So all in all, we'll pay Vogue enough to chat shit about how great the pictures are, hope all the bitchy queen bloggers go for them cos it's Madonna and every bitchy queen blogger loves Madonna and promise ourselves to never make decisions like that whilst high again. So. Next campaign. I've just done a couple of bumps by the way. I was thinking - Britney?

C'était quelquechose que j'ai dit?

Tu n'as pas la chance...

Such an inordinate amount of hilarious things has happened this week that I really don't have the time to do them justice but I feel it is my duty to post the following:

I've never been Dita Von Teese's biggest fan. I now know she isn't my biggest fan either. Her bras just make my chest look crap. And I've tried pretty much every style in every possible size that could accommodate the girls and nada. They look totally rubbish. I know! Who thought such a thing was possible when it comes to my chest but there we have it.

Back to the job in hand. She's pretty enough but not a knock out. Fairly hot body but she looks a bit mis-shapen to me. I don't mind the whole vintagey thing she has going on but all in all she doesn't rock my world. By the same token I don't despise her with a passion either. Apathetic would probably sum it up nicely.

Until I saw this:

I'm not sure if it's the way that corset makes her tits look basically perfect or her facial expression but I most definitely would. Good Christ it's enough to give a straight girl a heart attack. As an aside. EXCELLENT job on the suspenders Dita. Great choice.

The above gentleman, however, does not agree. I'm going to come clean right now. I was on a gossip website and it linked me to Dita. Which was published in the sun (I'm deliberately not giving it capital letters. It scrapes the barrel for news. As illustrated by Dita Von Teese getting her kit off being in the 'news'paper. I didn't read about it in The Guardian today. Please note the capitalisation). Which allows it's morons, sorry I mean members to have their say. Yes! Because everyone wants to hear what a sun reader has to say. I imagine on most topics it's a fairly simple, "NO". Or perhaps, "SICKOS". When I say most topics I mean those that get published in most publications. When it comes to the proper news, however, comments can go up to, wait for it, two WHOLE lines. That must have taken up most of the day. And then a little lie down for exerting so much brain power.

Okay. Sorry. My vitriol has no bounds but I will stop or this will degenerate in to a rant that has no end. Where was I? Ah yes, that comely young man above. Apparently he "wouldn't". Why? Because she had a "bizarre relationship" with Marilyn Manson. He wouldn't touch her with a "ten foot pole". If your pole really is ten foot then I imagine Dita is kicking herself right now. I mean it. She sits on the sun website all day every day waiting for you to change your mind about her bizarre relationship that consisted of her going out with someone she liked, then falling in love with him, then marrying him, then divorcing him because it didn't work out. Fucking bizarre hey? OH NO I forgot. All sun readers go out with people half their age then field out their children to the local wack job to put them in a drawer under the bed so they can get reward money from the papers sorry I mean so they can dump their much younger boyfriend who turns out to be a peado. Dita Von Teese is one fucking crazy relationship bitch!

Je sais que...

Slumdog Millionaire is going to be brilliant. How do I know this? Because they use That Epic Sigur Ros song in the trailer (The one off of Takk that I don't know the name of because it's all in Icelandic but they always use it when someone overcomes some sort of adversity on the X Factor like they found out that the top of the X Factor audition outfit was actually in the wash so they had to rethink the whole thing but still found something suitably slutty to get through to boot camp).

No. But seriously. It will be brilliant. And so will The Wrestler. Factoid. 

PS Je t'aime mais tu ne me manque pas

First of all I would like to apologise profusely for the interruption in services. I could make up some sort of elaborate excuse about how I went to Leeds twice in one week and was pretty much a woman on the edge but the bottom line is I just couldn't be arsed.

I overheard the best chat up line. Ever. The weekend before last weekend I was minding my own business 'helping at the bar' when the greasiest, nastiest waster strutted past. He stopped behind a young lady who happened to be stood beside me and very smugly tapped her on the shoulder. Around she turned and he opened with....wait for it....."Excuse me, you sold me some underpants today." I shit you not. To put it in to context, he looked like he'd been dragged through a copse backwards (which is rich coming from me but I do settle for just bush. HAHAHAHAHA. Sorry. That's childish. I'm still sniggering though) and what clearly went unsaid was, "And I bet you were fucking wet when you did it. Bitch." Did I mention he looked like he'd not think twice about sleeping outside Game for the new World of Warcraft. Mmm. Hot. Her reply was pretty much all one could do in the circumstances, "Er. Really?" I mean. It wasn't all she could do. It was the polite thing to do but it wasn't the only thing really was it? I think I would have replied with, "Get fucked" or "It was clearly such a traumatic experience I have wiped it from my brain so please get out of my face you mentalist", etc etc. As opposed to doing the decent thing and leaving the bar to go in search of his dignity he remained. And went in to great detail about the sort of pants he'd bought. By this time I was in hysterics and actually bent over crying. For the record they were covered in pacmen. Which is fairly cute I guess but I won't be able to look at a pacman for a while now without collapsing in to giggles. When he'd finally finished the girl just looked blankly at him. He then loped off like he had such a large penis that he'd had to tape it to his left leg (don't even PRETEND you don't know the sort of walk I'm talking about. ESPECIALLY if you're a bloke). She then turned to her friend and the only thing she said about the whole experience was, "Well that was weird". Understatement of the year.

The next day I took myself in to town for a wander when I ended up stood in front of a massive rack of tights. Two girls were stood beside me, one of whom worked in the shop but was chatting shit at what was clearly her friend. They were sizing up the tights when non shop girl said that she quite liked the bright pink tights and could her mate get them discount for her. Shop girl's reply went something along the lines of why would she want those crazy pink tights and who would wear such crazy clothing. If this was a film this would be where the camera cuts away from the two girls in coversation and pans backwards really slowly until I come in to shot. Wearing the offensive article in question. Luckily I saw the funny side although I'm unsure of whether Shop Girl meant to be rude or not. No matter. She won't wear coloured tights. Like her opinion counts for anything. And I really do mean anything.

Saw the Boosh on Thursday and spent the weekend in Bright Town. Boosh was surprisingly funny. Probably not worth £30 but it was a pleasant evening all the same. And it gave us some dance tips to bust out on Friday night in the pub. On our own. Here's a tip. Don't do moves Bob Fossil has taught you. It'll end in tears.

It has since come to my attention that my interpretation of the Rhianna song might be a bit wrong. Well quite wrong. My sister has come home and informed me that she is actually singing Disturbia. Not dirty love. And has mocked me relentlessly ever since. In my defence I say the following,

• Is Disturbia even a fucking word?
• Why has no one told me this before?
• I only overheard it in the supermarket ONCE. Why would I assume that she is saying a MADE UP word as opposed to dirty love? As I explained to my sister - I thought it was like a dirty protest. For love.
  

I'm still going to say it's dirty love. It sounds better.

This week Miss B has been trying to get this and this out of her head. To no avail.

To try and get her mind off of the above she has been salivating over Phillipe Starck's new venture. And thinking about Paris in the Spring.

She has also been alarmed by the fact that this has grown on her to such an extent that she is almost tempted to buy it. Maybe in the January sale. Ouch.

Trois

Three jobs I have had :
1) Sandwich Artist
2) Cocktail Barmaid
3) Paralegal

Three places I have lived:
1) Barnet
2) Paris
3) Leicester

Three shows that I watch:
1) X-Factor
2) Nevermind the Buzzcocks
3) Peep Show

Three of my favourite films
1) Requiem for a Dream
2) Eagle vs Shark
3) Little Miss Sunshine

Three of my favourite music albums
1) Justice - †
2) MGMT - Oracular Spectacular
3) Crystal Castles

Three people who email me often:
1) Fay
2) Sammy/Carrie (Reply all....)
3) Sleazy/Money

Three of my favourite foods:
1) Chicken Chow Mein
2) Guylian sea shells
3) Roast lamb with my or me ma's roasties.

Three of my favourite drinks (non-alky-hol-ik)
1) Robinson's Orange & Mango - sugar free
2) Orange juice
3) Chocolate milkshake

Three of my favourite drinks (alky-hol-ik)
1) Gin & Tonic
2) Oreo Cocktail
3) Grasshoppers from Hot Coles (RIP)

Three places I'd rather be right now:
1) In bed having a bed picnic and watching a good film
2) Tokyo
3) In a river on an elephant in Thailand.

Three things you are looking forward to:
1) Boosh in Bright Town
2) Kings of Leon
3) Manchester

Three famous people I'd like to meet:
1) Lindsay Lohan (only if she was off the wagon though)
2) Lily Allen
3) Debbie Harry

Three Superheroes I'd like to be (in order... 1 being the best!) :
1) Rogue
2) Harley Quinn
3) Wonder Woman

Three words that amuse me for no reason:
1) cretin
2) nefarious
3) spatchcock

Three things about I think about love:
1) It's when your brain shuts down and your heart starts working
2)
3)

Election

It's possible that it may have escaped your notice but something really important is going on right now. And if you have the ability to vote then you should use it. Seriously. Because your vote could make all the difference between a Leona and a Leon. Yes. That's right people. I'm talking about X Factor.

I feel compelled to comment upon this weekend's episode (No, I didn't watch it on Saturday night. Yes, I was enough of a loser to watch it after it had been broadcast). Daniel. Please. Someone give him a t shirt that says, "My wife is dead", and then let him stand mute for 3 minutes on stage until it's time for the judges to say their usual spiel about how that performance might just be the best in The Competition and that they've changed their mind about the contestant or that they have the next Leona Lewis on stage in front of them etc etc etc. If there ever was a man on the edge then he is it. If the judges had any compassion they'd boot him off and put him in the Priory for what is clearly insanity brought on from grief.

I'd also like to take the time to point out that if anything epic ever happens to my entire family (the Jennifer Hudson saga will do. She'd be hauled on to X Factor if she hadn't already been on American Idol) then I'm gonna present my arse to Simon Cowell on a plate in exchange for a couple of million. I know for a fact I'd only be famous for about a week before I'd be forgotten about. Suits me down to the ground. I could handle being followed for a week in exchange for silly cash.

Anyway. Enough. I'm off to watch some proper television. That's right. Twiggy's frock swap.

Grace

This has just come to my attention. It's important I put this up now. Otherwise I'll forget about it. I might buy this tomorrow. Or I might treat Smiths like a library. And proper order that treatment is too. 

News just in:

Cleaning up your room is actually quite rewarding in that you can walk around without stepping on stuff AND you find £40 of Selfridges vouchers you'd forgotten about AND you find that bright pink lipstick you thought you'd left in Brighton that you were on the verge of rebuying only at the weekend. 

Keep it foolish.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxKMPTR0MVA

"And what is this medication you took last night?"

The right answer would have been, "Lots of fucking vodka". Absolutely wankered. Openly admitted that her child does more mothering than she does. Nice. 

Ebay

So in an effort to stem the amount of crap falling out of my bedroom door I have decided to sell things on Ebay. When it comes to Ebay I have a sort of compulsion to lie. In fact, I have to. If I told the truth about why I was selling things no one else would ever buy my stuff. In fact, I make up quite elaborate, hilarious lies because I get a bit carried away. I sort of look at it like a blog...a short lived one, that gets a lot of views in a week.

Anyway. I have this dress right. It's from All Saints. If I was to tell the truth my listing would go something like this:

Bought this in a sale frenzy. Looks good from the back, awful from the front. If you can stomach walking around back first this is definitely the dress for you. Also, is a terrible biscuit colour. Makes you look a bit like you've got rickets. Or scurvey. Maybe AIDs.

What I will probably write (no, really):

Bought this as a maternity dress but my bump was too big! [The exclamation mark is important here. It makes you an approachable seller. Gwan, ask me a question, I'll reduce postage and everything. Also this dress could accommodate triplets.]

I also have this skirt which come out loads at the hips. I mean, loads. The truth would be:

Bought this skirt because I was bored at work. Makes your hips and arse look massive. Well, makes my hips and arse looks massive. Which is quite impressive as my hips are quite small in comparison to the rest of my body. And I do have quite a small arse.

Obviously I'll write something completely ridiculous about Kate Moss probably wearing it and the (old) bird out of The Tings Tings coveting it and how it makes you like an hour glass.

However, possibly the worst thing I have ever done when selling on Ebay is the following:

I have a habit of going to charity shops because I am obsessed with old Granny's jewellery, bags and general accessories. Whilst scouring one day I stumbled across a pair of Rossignol women's ski boots. In a former life I used to ski. A lot. I skied a lot. A. Lot. So I knew they were worth about £300 new and they'd clearly been used for about a week. They were a fiver. You can guess what I did. In fact. Let's give you some options....Did I

i Tell the nice old lady in the Cancer shop (NOT a shop where you go to buy Cancer) that they'd vastly underpriced them and that they could bung at least another thirty quid on top
or
ii Buy them and then put them on Ebay saying that I was too pregnant to ski and will probably not ski again for years (are you sensing a theme here? The irony being my friend was 8 months gone and saying to me, "I just want it out", every time I saw her) and had them go for £160.

Yes. I am going to Hell. After a slow painful death. From Cancer.


This week Miss B was all cultured out and will probably not go to a museum/gallery/play until the year 2012. She also received her Mighty Boosh tickets.

Noel

So I read this today,

We booked into a very expensive hotel, bought some very expensive drugs and stayed up all night until it was light, when we walked through London in the twinkling emptiness of Christmas morning

and decided that for a person without kids it sounds like the most perfect Christmas ever.

This week Miss B has been amused by:

The toilet monster is your friend.

The lyric, "Ladies are waxed, they all know I'm coming"

Being in the supermarket with the old dear (yes, I must oversee these things or she ends up forgetting the important things like Tropicana orange juice and arriving home with cream cakes and novelty mayonnaise - Look! It's mayonnaise but with garlic! We can have it with our chips - We never eat chips - Sometimes we do. From the takeaway - Yeah and then we can get garlic mayonnaise from the takeaway - But they never give you enough - Shut up) and having the following conversation whilst Rhianna's Dirty Love was playing on the most excellent in supermarket sound system,

"Mum, listen to the lyrics of this song

Mum puts her head to one side and obliges 

Do you think it's about poo?

No. No I don't. And we're in public. Wake up and smell the coffee (??????????????????????)

I think Rhianna is smelling poo"

At that point she couldn't help but laugh. Ha. I win. 

Enfant Terrible

Right. I know everyone hates on Tracey Emin but I really don't. Not at all. Which is why I really enjoyed this. Don't get me wrong, I hate Piers Morgan more than Parmesan and it didn't really tell me anything new at all and it'll prolly be gone tomorrow cos iPlayer is a bit rubbish like that but still, I like her. I like her a lot.

I don't profess to know anything about art. Mainly because I don't. But I do know what I like and I am allowed to have an opinion. I remember having an all out, full on, blow up with a St Martin's graduate who decided that my opinion wasn't worth shit and I know nothing because I didn't go to St Martin's. He will forever be in my book under 'Wanker'. No matter what he may do to try and right the terrible wrong that he probably isn't even aware he has committed.

Basically, if you haven't been subjected to the Emin Assault already I'll give you a brief overview - a bit like Stephen Hawkins history of time if you will. I like her because she is the Anti-Me. The thought of me advertising my personal life (and generally the lowest, most painful times) in such a way makes me want to be violently sick because it leaves one so completely vulnerable. But it seems she isn't afraid of that vulnerability and so I have a lot of respect for her due to that apparent lack of fear. I know that people can be polarised when it comes to her and some may regard her as egocentric and I can equally see where they are coming from. The difference is though, I won't tell them they're wrong to have that opinion.

Wrong

Everton Football Team

Sponsored by Chang. Does anyone else find this abso-fucking-lutely hilarious?

BunnyBoy

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Pete's Bang Cupboard

No legs? No problem!

Stuff I'm Up For

Choke

Milk

Burn After Reading 

How To Lose Friends & Alienate People

Quantum of Solace

Changeling

The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button

The Spirit

Lovely Bones

Alice in Wonderland (Favourite fairy tale, favourite director, favourite actor. Eeeeeeeek)

The Wrestler

Cloud Atlas

Dance Dance Dance

The Kite Runner

A Prayer for Owen Meany

Female Chauvinist Pigs

Conseil

Basically Bladder Boudoir is a hive of activity. There are emails left, right and centre coming from all sorts wanting some Bladder blarney in their life. In the main though, it's adoration for my truth nuggets and requests for advice. Obviously I have some famous subscribers. I'm not going to tell you who they are. Privacy and all that. But one is Daisy Lowe.

And it's good to see that she pays attention to what I post...in fact fuck it. I'll let you in to a little of my email exchange.

From: daisylowe@googlemail.com
Subject: Nipple Pasties
Date: 24 September 2008 21:52:22 BDT
To: missbladder@googlemail.com

OMG Miss B you have like just totally made up my mind about whether to do the AP perfume show. I wasn't sure. I thought maybe nipple pasties might go against your principles and you know I never want to upset you but it's all good! You like them too! I mean, Mummy doesn't have a problem with them but lets face it - she lives in the country making cushions out of lace with a caravan in the back garden. She's not London anymore. You wouldn't understand though. You're not from her world.

I do still have a little problem. You are so much fitter than me and you know, look 100x better naked than me so when I'm walking down the runway all I'll be thinking is, "This should be Miss B, this should be Miss B". I just don't know what to do. XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

From: missbladder@googlemail.com
Subject: Re: Nipple Pasties
Date: 24 September 2008 23:22:47 BDT
To: daisylowe@googlemail.com

Daise!!!! Long time no speak. First off, let me congratulate on how far you've come with the old spelling and punctuation. That first email you sent me that I just couldn't read because of the sheer number of grammatical errors is now just a distant memory (well, it isn't. But I have to put it to the back of my mind though otherwise I want to vomit. Everywhere. Take solace in the fact that Wino is too browned up to even consider the importance of a full stop).

Also, so sorry to hear about Mark. How you holding up? Deleted all his contact details in a post break up rage yet? If not, don't suppose you could help a sister out and hook me up with his phone number could you? I heard he is quite the producer and I'm looking to him to produce something so you know, hit me up with that shit. Haha. Only joking. But you know, a little bit serious so well, you get the idea.

Anyway. AP. Wow. So the catfight with Moss paid off then? Can I just remind you I wasn't the one to advocate a mud wrestling match in front of Stuart Rose, the victor then securing the modeling contract. Call me old fashioned. Anyway, what's done is done I guess. So on to your fears. Well you know me. I tell it like it is. And you're right. It should be me up there. But my mum isn't as famous as yours so I'm not quite as high profile. So instead of thinking how fabulous I look naked when you're on the runway think about your mum instead and you'll be fine! Hope that helps. By the way, I find your overuse of x and o as some sort of illustration of affection somewhat irritating. And I'm guessing I'm not the only one. Just some ad hoc, uncalled for advice there. You can have that one for free.

Good luck on Thursday. Remember. It should be me up there. x

Still no reply but I did my best. Sometimes you have to let 19 year olds figure it out for themselves. And try to remember that she is only slightly behind me on the path to her young, nubile breasts eventually ending up on the floor.

Because I've always got my advice hat on so to speak this sometimes spills over in to my real life life too. I've taken one particular girl under my wing. She continually has boyfriend trouble so we all have a bash at counselling her at lunch time. I know what you're thinking. Miss B, who are you to give boyfriend advice when everyone you ever went out with up until about 18 months ago were real shits? I can't argue with that but everyone knows that no one follows their own advice. Also, if you've spoken to me about this, at length, when I'm drunk, you'll know I've implemented a one strike and you're out policy for the important things - like cheating, cussing the threads, asking me how many pairs of shoes I have - stuff like that. So now I'm perfectly able to discuss other people's relationships. However, it appears I have quite a tolerance for her boyfriend's high jinks so my advice isn't always really welcome. The last piece I gave shocked and appalled everyone present. First off. I don't see the problem with her boyfriend daring to go out with his guy pals for a night out and leave her at home. Shocked everyone. They think I'm a disgrace to females everywhere. Then he tried to make it up to her by asking her if it was okay if they had sex when he came in. All the ladies in the room squawked in disgust at this. I didn't squawk and I actually think I offered the most practical solution;

"What did you say? Go have a wank in the shower and when you come out we'll talk about it, that way we're all winners?

WHAT???? NO! My boyfriend doesn't wank. He has me.

Yeah. Course he doesn't love. He had to ask to have sex with you and then you turned him down."

Come on. That or squawking. Which would you prefer? Also, it shut them up squawking so I killed two birds with one stone. So to speak. Well, three birds actually. None of them are talking to me now. Back of the net.

In less shocking news:

This week I have mostly been listening to -

Kings of Leon - Only by the Night ("Understated masterpiece" - BunnyBoy)
Ladyhawke - Ladyhawke ("80s revival goodness mmmmm" - MissB)

Merise Noir

So when Seventh Tree came out was everyone like, OMG, WTF, LOL, ROFL, come again, where has their electro sound gone that I'm totally in love with?

And then did everyone watch Christina Aguilera and be all like, oh THAT'S where it's gone...and I frickin love it.

Excellent choice of haircut too. Bravo. 

Voleur

"Sorry about my language but really what sort of cunt would do that? Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh sorry I said the c word again didn't I? But seriously, what a bunch of cocks. Oh sorry, can I not say cock? Yes. 403032. COW? What's my address?"

That's pretty much what I slurred down the phone at half five/six o clock on Sunday morning to my bank. Obviously, I can't really remember doing this. Nor do I remember getting to the Engine Room. Nor do I remember when exactly I noticed my wallet was missing but gone it was. Basically I was Amy Winehouse without the massive beehive. Or track marks. And I want to cry. I am so sad my wallet is gone because I loved my little old lady purse. It was also (already) full of notes and titbits I'd accumulated that I can't bear to throw away. Boo. I don't even care about the cards and the £40 that was in it. Although it'll teach me to stop getting so fucking drunk.

As if having my wallet taken wasn't indignity enough I wasn't even allowed to wallow in my own self pity (and raging hangover) on Sunday. I was dragged to the park for a BBQ. Which was actually quite pleasant. Apart from Gary bringing both his guitars. The reason? Just in case I grow another set of arms. Riiiiiight. 

What I do remember, however, is Cow and me thanking everyone profusely. Arms wide open. Telling people how we just can't express our gratitude enough. Basically, we watched Barack Obama's acceptance speech and counted how many times he said thank you (I read a fucking shocking article about Sarah Palin. Did you know whilst in office in Alaska she made women who were raped pay for their own HIV tests? In fact, don't get me started on HOW anti-women she is) and decided to emulate his charisma to anyone that was nice to us. I think the barmen were particularly appreciative. Then we tried to out thank you him (31. That's the number to beat). I'm not sure if we managed it. 

So I have something quite shocking to say. I'm canceling September. Fuck September. It has brought nothing but trouble. So........31 days to Hallowe'en. I love dressing up for Hallowe'en me. Pumpkins. Yay. 

Apathique

It's been a shit week. Right now I can't even be bothered to attempt to put a hilarious spin on it. My shitty week has been exacerbated by the fact that I've entered one of my low phases. For anyone that actually knows me this isn't a new phenomena but they have been getting fewer and more far between since my teens. It is highly probable that the two things occurring together are symptomatic of and dependent on each other. Hopefully I'll snap out of it soon. I'll have to at least make some sort of effort on Wednesday as I'm going to see a house share and I'm not sure these random girls would even entertain the idea of living with a girl who hasn't bothered to get dressed since Friday. Or washed her hair. Or put on her make up. 

Something that has also inexplicably pissed me off is Facebook. It's stupid and childish but I was perturbed to note that someone I used to work with friended my sister. Generally I couldn't give a flying fuck who friends my sister - we have loads of mutual friends who are say actually my friend but they've met her at mine and chatted shit at each other but are not really 'friends'. This guy, however, she has met once. In the pub. And they barely spoke. It's not even that that pisses me off. It's who it is. I'm not going to package this up. He is a fucking mental. He writes shit on my wall from time to time and sends me private messages full of offensive drivel constantly. I completely ignore these and only don't unfriend him because the fall out would be more hassle than it's worth....and he could still private message me. I do not want him doing the same to my sister. So I text her and ask her why she friended him. Her reply? I recognised the name so said okay. Well. That's alright then. I'll make sure Rosemary West friends her. Seriously. How completely irrational can I behave at the moment?

Then there's Hayley's leaving do at the weekend. I'm unsure if I can even be fucked to go to Brighton in this mood and pretend I'm okay (no one likes a misery guts). I know this has been an unusually candid post as the very thought of revealing any feeling of relevant importance scares the living daylights out of me but maybe it's time for me to actually say what's on my mind as opposed to batting out flippant answers to questions I'm afraid to answer. And maybe I should be more candid with people in general. There's a thought.

La Langue

Basically I wrote in  using loads of pseuydonyms. Except for the ones that were corrected. Obviously. C.Matthews, Birmingham, UK - you are a laughing stock. 

Dit personne mais....

...j'ai pleuré comme une sallope.

I love a good looking man between my thighs

Mariage

So. It's almost time for Sleazy to turn over a new leaf and relinquish his Sleazy moniker once and for all. It's pretty much guaranteed to be a messy, teary affair. I have still yet to get my arse in gear and send them the requested three songs I want played at the wedding reception. However, I have been thinking about their first dance song a lot. I'm so indecisive I don't think that if I decided to attach myself to a ball and chain I could quite cope with choosing pretty much the most important dance of your life (I could say something extremely crass about the most important dance of your life being that one at the school disco when you were 12 and you accidentally ended up losing your virginity in front of the whole school. But I won't. Because I'm talking about my best mate's wedding. And I wouldn't want to lower the tone).

I've come up with a few options now....so maybe, one day, in the very distant future I can look back on this for inspiration. And a prod to my memory. And the contenders are:

Rick James - Super Freak
Blondie - I Touch Myself
R Kelly - Bump n Grind

Remember that.

As an aside, I'm going to make the unprecedented move of summing up my weekend in two words. Bet you can't think I can do it. Well.

Woot! Yay!

See. Fuck you. Or are you counting these words too? Cos if you are that really isn't fair. Because this is actually abusing you for not having enough faith in me to tell a story using less than 1,000,000 words. Yes. Abuse.

Highlights...

Everyone standing...looking lovely. It started so well




Stop being such big fucking girl's blouse, play by the rules and we won't humiliate you totally...


Just let you lie in the street with your Superman pants out. And then let you get your cock out (I feared for the lens so I'm afraid there are no pictures of this nature. Much to Sleazy's horror, "What? There are NO pictures of me with my cock out?"
"No. You got shot in the bollocks at paintballing. It was bruised. And we were turning away. Covering our eyes. Saying euggghhhh")

Merde

And so my first full night back from the Motherland should have probably been one of rest and recuperation....but then my uni friends decided to come to the Big Smoke and it would have been quite rude not to get smashed. I suppose the right thing to say is something like, "Oh my God, I'm never drinking on a school night again I feel awful", like Michael emailed me today but I didn't feel that bad. Obviously I had a bar of chocolate and a can of coke for breakfast and I looked like total shit (my boss asked me what time I got to bed at and if the gig was any good. He also let me get away with wearing footwear that straddles both the shoe and trainer line. I think he secretly likes the fact that I come in sailing just close enough to the wind to be appropriate but still far enough away from appropriate for people to say to me, "Leopard print tights and grey wedges....You're so crazy!").

I think the reason I love seeing my uni friends is that I just do not stop laughing when we're together. Not only are they hilarious in their own right but we inevitably end up reminiscing about when we lived together and the shenanigans we used to get up to. It's also amazing the things you forget. We were discussing our drunken highlights and I'd actually managed to forget the morning Chris woke up in the back of a car which was locked on the other side of Leicester and how no idea how he ended up there. Obviously the owner wasn't impressed and when he found him, several hours later, kept saying, "But it was locked. You were in the car. And it was locked", over and over again. The story gets all the more surreal when he frog marched Chris to the cash point so he could give him the money for it to be valeted but gave him a clean shirt and dropped him back at the house. Although when Chris was sat in his living room waiting for him to find him a shirt he went to pet the man's dog (not a euphemism for something filthy) the man turned around and just said, "NO". Obviously there are other highlights and it's difficult to choose just one but I think that one is definitely up there....Although the story of the toilet is definitely quite surreal. Me and the boys had been out the night before and I woke up the next morning vowing to never go to Fan Club (or as we affectionately called it, Fanny) again and opened my bedroom door to get the much needed pint of water and proceeded to trip over a toilet. Yes. An actual toilet. Left outside my bedroom door like a little present. None of us can remember finding it, much less bringing it back to the house. The irony of the whole situation being when we decided to move it a week later (we were students...) none of us had the strength to pick it up and carry it down the hall. How the fuck we managed to drag it from wherever we found it I don't know but I think we were pushing the student stealing boundaries. Traffic cones are so passé.

My favourite bit of last night though was Alex getting totally shitfaced whilst her fiancé sat and watched her hug us all and say things like, "Do you remember when we used to drink ourselves stupid at home before went out so it'd be a cheap night and Chris would get so drunk he'd projectile vomit on the way to wherever we were going?" (I think it is becoming very obvious, very quickly that my drinking habits are actually quite acceptable when compared to the East Park Road Massive) and make an appalled face. My how these things come back to bite you in the arse....On the way to the tube she shouts, "Hang on, carry on walking", whilst she stops off in a door way on Longacre, voms a little, comes out of the doorway and announces, "I've just been sick!" I fucking love that woman.

Today I read about this

http://photooftheday.hughcrawford.com/

Jamie Livingstone decided to take one photo a day on a Polaroid for no reason really other than he wanted to. Now his friend has put them up on a blog. No explanation, just photos. If you google it you'll find the story but I've been looking at the photos and it's actually completely mesmerising. I love photos anyway, even if I don't know anyone in them. I spend a lot of time on Flickr. They do end up telling a story which is compelling and sad although I'm sure at the time he thought that no one would be interested in his day to day life because everyone thinks their day to day life is incredibly dull but to an outsider it probably isn't. I should stop rambling and just let you decide though.

Also,

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/gallery/2008/aug/12/bushlol

this is actually one of the funniest things I've seen in absolutely ages. I think my favourite is a toss up between the massage one and the geek one. Keeps me entertained anyway.

And finally, why the fuckedy fuck is fucking Peaches Geldof front page news cos she went to Vegas and got married to some massive chin? Tell you what Peaches. Why don't you fuck off to AmericaLand and stay there with your massive chin? Nothing would please me more than not having to see your stupid OD face polluting my vision when you make some massive cock up that is drugs related.

Sorry. That was quite venomous wasn't it? She really is rather irritating though is she not?

Les Pauvres

You know women talk too much when they email each other......


but don't bother reading it themselves.

Is it wrong to be perversely amused by this?

J'ai un secret pour vous

It's nearly time for Peter Pan's wedding. This is all very exciting and Bunnyboy and myself have attempted to step up to the mark and "organise the shit" out of the stag do. Thus far things seem to be going preeeeetty peachy.

Soleil s'il vous plait

Wouldn't it be really lovely if it was actually sunny on the weekend as opposed to rainy and then I could drink in the sunshine and listen to this

Pervers

I really don't need to read about how much of a pervert Dov Charney is anymore. I know this for myself because my new dress is so clingy I actually don't think I can wear knickers with it. On the upside - it's really fucking slutty.

Fatiguée

Miss Bladder + Sleep Deprivation (due to sun streaming, alcohol intake, exciting etc) = More forgetful, near narcoleptic.

News in Brief:

New Girl Crush: Katy Perry (Apparently she kissed a girl and she liked it. I doubt it but I'm sure it gets Gym Class Heroes fans off)

I think we should all go out with our faces painted as jungle animals. It looks like a lot of fun.

Maybe a more coherent rambling will follow.

Réalisateur

In a completely unprecedented happening I'm updating 3 times in as many days. Wow. I must be bored.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00ccgp3

Watch this. Seriously. It'll probably be gone soon so if it is I'll just tell you what it is....BBC 4's Imagine: Werner Herzog. He's basically the battiest man you'll ever come across. My personal highlights are continuing his interview with Mark Kermode after he'd been shot and his whole performance in Julien Donkey Boy (if you haven't see that film you should).

Also watched Cashback this weekend. It's alright. Probably worth a watch because it's so beautifully shot. Last time I went to the Spread Eagle though I wasn't aware of strippers on the stage. Also, if you've ever had the misfortune to work in a supermarket you'll totally empathise. I had the pleasure of an 8 week honeymoon with the arse smacking branded supermarket. Worst 8 weeks of my life. Being home from uni and not being able to get a job sucks. It was made bearable by the fact that I was completely cained off my face the whole time I was on the premises. It also meant I didn't do any work. I mainly sat cross legged on the floor in the biscuit aisle daring myself to open a packet and stuff my face. Never did though.

Had another crazy dream last night. Basically I ended up giving birth with the intention of giving the baby away Juno style. Unfortunately I had the baby a bit premature and when the parents came they didn't want it anymore. Apparently it was too small. I did my best to convince them that he'd grow (cos that's what babies do) but they weren't having any of it. Then my parents found out that I'd given birth (clearly in Dreamland I didn't waddle around with a massive bump) and they were over the moon. They came and named him and told me I was mental to be giving him away. I responded by going down the pub as I had arranged to go down before I went in to labour (and the pub comes before labour in Dreamland too obviously). Got down there and met up with some bloke who I used to work with who told me all about his trip to Texas whilst dressed as a cowboy. Then I told him I'd just given birth. He was disgusted. So I went back to the hospital and the baby grew on me a bit and then I woke up.

And so....drum roll please.....this means.....

To see a baby in your dream, signifies innocence, warmth and new beginnings. To dream of an extremely small baby, symbolizes your helplessness and your fears of letting others become aware of your vulnerabilities and incompetence. Happiness. Rebirth. Trust.

Or - I should never have read Diablo Cody's memoir or looked at pictures of Texas before I go to sleep.

And finally. I have been such a good lady this weekend. I cleared out some of my wardrobe and sent two massive black bin liners of clothes to the charity shop. The clearing out process went something like,

No, that black and white stripy jumper does not make you look like a beatnick. You look like a dumpy cat burglar
and
No, that black and white stripy top does not make you look like a pirate but a squat French person
and
No, that skirt you bought off of Ebay in a frenzy because it had a picture of a flamingo on it that is actually a size 22 and you wear as a dress does not look good on you. Even if you put a belt round it. You look like you've been attacked by a sack with fashion aspirations.

You get the idea. Also, found ten, count them, TEN lighters in my room. I will never buy a lighter again.

Histoire

"Would you buy from a gypsy?"

Those, my friends, were the immortal words that stopped me in my tracks whilst I was quietly trying to make my way to the train station. I made several school girl errors at this point. The first was made slightly before this point actually - not having my ipod in. The second was my complete failure to think on my feet and give some sort of reply other than, "Errrrrr". My thought process at this point was something along the lines of,

"Shit. She's obviously a gypsy. What do I say? If I say yes then she'll try and sell me some heather. Or a jeep. Or try and block pave my driveway. If I say no she might try and put a curse on my family. Or stab me. Or mug me properly as opposed to just pickpocketing me in a non violent way."

All of this jumbling up in my brain, passing through my nerve endings to my mouth culminating in the entirely quotable, "Errrrr."

I should really set the scene a bit more. Mainly how I was dressed. I think this is fairly important. Not because I think I'm a fashion icon and everyone NEEDS to know what I'm wearing at any given point but for reasons which will become apparent. Basically I got a bit excited at having my whole wardrobe at my disposal and ended up wearing an 80s black mini dress with some tartan tights (yes. Tartan.), leopard print ballet pumps and one of my many glittery/sparkly cardigans. Oh and a massive pink plastic necklace with a heart hanging off of it. And a massive bag that looks like an American school bus. So. With this in mind I'll crash on. In fact, maybe at this juncture you should do a little doodle. Your vision of my outfit if you will. Or maybe I'll get to the point.

Having asked me if I'd ever buy anything from a gypsy I followed up my stunning first liner with, "I don't have any money". Clearly a lie. She doesn't seem that bothered though. She's talking at me. Quietly and very quickly. It was a bit like being an extra in Snatch. Apart from she didn't look like Brad Pitt. And Guy Ritchie wasn't behind the camera saying, "I'm a cockney, I'm a cockney, I love ale, me Mrs has totally bitch whipped me". More importantly, what SHE said next was, "You're not a liar", looking me straight in the eye. Clearly I am. I have just lied. To her face. I'm cursed. I'm going to die a slow horrible death. She continues, "You're going to make your fortune in design. You have a head for business. You'll have your own business and you'll make a fortune". Clearly I know this isn't true. If I jacked in my career tomorrow my parents would kill me. Slowly. Horribly. Knowing the ludicrousness of this statement I start to laugh. "Don't laugh at me", she snaps. I have never stopped laughing so quickly in my life. She then goes on to tell me I'm a free spirit and I'll never be tied down. Then she makes a few guesses about relationships and commitment and rounds off her reading with I'll move to a hot country (I have the teeniest colour on me at the moment). See how I'm going to tie all these threads together now? See?

She was essentially a scary lady full of bull shit that said things based on my appearance and had the cheek to say things that were sort of true and freak me out massively. And then came what I had been waiting for the whole time....."I don't suppose you could give a sister a fiver could you?" No. I haven't got any money (lie). And with that she let me off. And then I noticed she had a little friend with her who'd been stood in very close proximity to me the whole time. Hoom.

In other news:


Found this on t'internet today. Fairly offensive isn't it? You can actually buy it though. Go on. I dare you. Wear it to your next family gathering.

Vacance

Number of cigarettes brought back in to the country: 600

Amount spent on Chanel products in duty free: £35 (worship the restraint)

Number of mosquito bites: 6

New favourite pairs of shoes broken: 1 (sniff sniff, boo hoo)

Number of texts to my sister begging her to get replacement favourite pair of shoes: 3

How long it will take Sylvia's (old Granny. Bad hair) rendition of 'She bangs, she bangs' to get out of my head: centuries, possibly millennia.

Spanish learnt: Pomado - Menorcan gin and Fanta Lemon (my new favourite drink), una mas - another one. Mainly used in the following context, una mas Pomado por favor! Check this out -

http://www.drinkon.com/Details/SP1111175/Detail/Spirit

Don't worry - I have totally duty free-ed that shit up.

Most listened to album: MGMT (Chars Úna)

Number of times Organ Donor listened to because it reminded me of Summercase (and the sun. And Spain) last year: 8

Number of dips in the sea: 14

Amount of seafood ingested: I'm actually shocked there is any wildlife left in the sea

Random patches of really dark brown where I burnt initially and turned the colour that Chantelle Houghton could only dream of coming out of her bottle of Fake Bake: 5

Number of freckles: Gazillions (zillions on my face)

Sans Gout

Contente

This not having anything planned for the weekend malarkey is quite good isn't it? It's actually quite refreshing to go in to work on a Monday morning and not want to stab someone in the face because I've not had nearly enough sleep at the weekend.

It also meant that I got to be around for my Dad's birthday lunch which was the most ridiculously epic roast I've ever seen in my life. My Dad's birthday is always a bit hit and miss seeing as we don't actually know what day he was born on. So roots was his upbringing there are no actual concrete records of his birth, my nana said one thing, my aunt another and the midwife another so we just sort of play birthday bingo and celebrate it on one of the three possible dates it could be. Don't ask how he applies for important things. I really don't know. I'm sure he makes it as convoluted as possible.

Obviously I got up to bits and bobs and managed to see the people that matter but it was good to not be tied to some schedule squeezing in seeing people I promised to see 100 years ago and then feel guilty about canceling because I just can't be arsed and, frankly, I've had a better offer. I intend to make this sort of weekend a regular thing.

I am also certain that I shall remain in this state for at least the next two weeks. This Friday is The Big Day. Needless to say I've bought a shitload of confetti and a teeny weeny top hat for the occasion. I'm expecting it to get messy seeing as we're being bussed out to a barn in the middle of nowhere and there is literally no way out until midnight....where we'll be brought back in to Brighton to continue the carnage. I might tattoo, "Slow and steady wins the race", on my forehead in a mirror image so I don't go crazy mental and pass out at 5. PM. Such is my new transient approach to my weekend I'm still trying to decide whether to stay in Brighton the whole weekend (2 hour journey home. Eek. Thanks a fucking bunch FCC) or come back on Saturday to spend time with my favourite purple haired lady, drink home made, lethal cocktails and eat so much meat we're still rushing off of our tits on Wednesday. Or who am I trying to kid I am the most indecisive person in the whole world.....I'll leave you to decide.

EDIT:

Okay, okay. I'd literally finished writing this and wandered downstairs to find my Dad on the phone. I assumed, correctly, that it was someone ringing to wish him a happy birthday. Obviously I was ear wigging trying to find out who it was. They sounded Irish, definitely male. Could it be his best friend who went home to Ireland begging him to come back so they could sing forty shades of green together in the pub whilst they drink their pension away? No. It was his brother. Who lives up the road and I despise with a passion.

Anyway, you really have to meet this part of my family to believe they're real. They're so mentally ignorant and racist you wonder if they've had some sort of lobotomy. Oh no! That's it - they're Daily Mail readers (no, they really are). Furthermore, they impose themselves upon us without warning some Sundays. My Dad is such a wanker that even though they're HIS family he gets up and runs down to his little project house because he's just remembered that during World War II there may have been a bomb dropped in the vicinity that never exploded and he just has to check that it's not in the back garden or some other such stupidity. I try and explain that I'm actually a bomb expert and World War II is my niche but he's having none of it. I see. Deserter. They tend to stick around until my Dad thinks it's safe to return thus eating in to valuable tea drinking, newspaper reading family time. They also take it upon themselves to hold up the newspapers we get on a Sunday and laugh because we read "dem masssssive papers like". Good Christ I can't believe I have been spawned from the same gene pool.

Unfortunately they also sired a child around the same time as my parents had me. He's pretty much the most vacuous, insipid person you've ever met. And I don't mean he's really shallow and only interested in mobile phones and other such things, I mean he is actually and totally devoid of a personality. Trying to get a conversation out of him is like trying to get blood out of a stone. And it's not just me. My sister, my cousin, my mum, my dad, everyone and no one hates everyone enough to not be able to muster up some sort of conversation. Remember, this is me here.

So my cousin has been on his travels. To Magaluf (is that holiday destination painting enough of a picture for you). So my Dad is talking to him on the phone this evening because he has been forced to speak to Pa and wish him a happy birthday. Dad is working away, slaving and toiling to try and get some little nugget of gold out of him. Unfortunately I had to witness this. It went something like this,

So, day all call it Shagaluf, was it as good as da nickname?........what? you just did karaoke every night? Ah Jaysus you may as well have stayed at home........what the fuck is a banana boat? By Christ you're too big for a banana.........so you mean it's just a yellow boat? so why don't day call it a lemon boat? why a banana?

At this point my father is clearly on a massive wind up mission so I make signs for him to wrap up the call. It really isn't fair on the personality-less one to have to try and humour a man who is clearly several sandwiches and a flask of tea short of a picnic. I then interrogate Dad on the part of the conversation I missed. Clearly my cousin had behaved in a depraved manner on holiday such was the disgusted look on Dad's face. And then he answered my, "So how was his holiday?", question with the following:

Well, it sounded fucking shite. There were 3 of them in a room in a villa. How the fuck did he think he'd get fucked with 3 in a room?

I was sick a little bit in my mouth.