L'Eté

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

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.

Folle

Okay, so we remember crazy guy from work who had a tendency to leave random messages on my FB wall when inebriated? Well, as a catch up I offended him massively the last time we went out and he unfriended me. It came more as a relief than anything to be honest (and to answer the question EVERYONE has asked me since he has done it, no. I didn't get a message telling me. He poked me and I left it and his name suddenly became blacked out. So unfriend away. Just make sure you don't poke them beforehand). As a brief resumé as to what exactly I did,

Him: Tell me what you think of me, honestly

Me: Really?

Him: Yeah! (I suspect he was hoping I'd declare him beautiful and the man I've been waiting for all my life)

Me: Okay, I think you're a desperately unhappy person who needs to drink less

Needless to say, it didn't go down well. It is brutally honest and perhaps I was a little too brutal but you know, ask me a question and you'll get an honest reply (especially if there is a gin in the vicinity). 

So I got on the bus today to go to work and there he was. Sat there. Depressed (did I mention he shaved his head the same weekend I told him he was desperately unhappy? I'm trying not to think they're linked although the joke at work was I pushed a man who was on the edge over it. Properly. Totally.). He waves at me so I feel obliged to go and sit with him when all I really want to do is listen to my ipod and catch up on where the embryo debate is at. Uplifting I know. I'm not too sure where this is going to go. As far as I knew I was out of the fold, unceremoniously thrown away, like the white, honest trash that I am. Desperately scrabbling around for something to say I begin to regale him of the current work gossip. It mainly consists of new people being employed and being paid a lot more than other people who work there already. Off the cuff, shooting from the hip guerilla style prose. I mention in passing that I've advised my favourites to hand in their notice. Go for the bluff. Say you've got a new job. Tell them it'll pay £30k a year + benefits + company car. See if they'll offer you a pay rise. He goes a little bit crazy and uses various words such as disgrace and despicable. I throw in the word abomination for the craic. He vigorously shakes his head in agreement. Finally we get in to work and I sit down to begin a day of furious internet action, maybe with the odd bit of work thrown in, post 11am of course. About mid morning I receive an email from him. 

He has handed in his notice. He hasn't got another job lined up. It may well be all my fault. I may be dead on the inside but this news cuts deep. On the upside, it has provided much hilarity for my whole department. Apparently tomorrow I'm to tell him to throw himself off the roof to see what happens...

Whilst not wrecking people's lives I've been out and about like a very busy bee. I managed to finally see Lars and the Real Girl. I've been desperate to see it since Christmas as the trailer convinced me it was right up my street. I wasn't wrong. I think I built it up so much in my head though that I didn't think it was the greatest thing ever. However, it was a really good film which I intend to buy as soon as it is out on DVD. 

I think maybe one of the reasons I didn't fall in love with it on first viewing is it got me thinking about things that I tend to bury my head in the sand about. It has become clear to me that if I think about things too much I over analyse them to the nth degree and end up coming to conclusions that are quite frankly, ludicrous. It also occurred to me that 95% of the people that I count as really close friends are all in couples. It means I have to think of two people as one entity even if I'm not gone on their other halves. I'm not overly concerned about the situation as I know for a fact that until recently I wouldn't have been able to handle some sort of normal relationship (if there is even such a thing) as the toxic boyfriend that I got rid of did such a good job at trying to convince me that I wasn't worthy of being anyone's girlfriend. When I did finally get rid I remember everyone telling me how proud they were that I finally expelled the bum from my life. I think what I'm most proud of is the fact that I not only managed to get over him but dust myself down and get on with life and find out, on my own, that I'm great. Don't get me wrong, there is still some residue left over from his venom but life is looking up. Which can only be a good thing.

I was also convinced to go and see The Orphanage. Me and scary films do not go together. I am jumpy and a bit of a worrier hence I spent the last third of the film hiding behind my scarf turned in towards my friends. It is, however, superb. Definitely my favourite film of the year so far and depending on how the year goes may be a contender for film of the year. That's right. Controversial. Out on a limb. Don't say I don't live life on the edge. The first scene is possibly the most sublime piece of cinematography I have seen in a long time and it isn't just scary for scary sake but also has an excellent story line. It is also one of the most tragic things I have seen in ages. When we came out of the cinema everyone had to have a fag and a bit of quiet time to digest what we'd seen. I really can't recommend it highly enough.

I've managed to get my hands on the Foals and Crystal Castles albums as well. All the boys are wetting themselves about the albums so I thought I'd get in on some pant wetting action. As expected, they are silly good. Some Crystal Castles reminds me of a calmer Alec Empire without the arm slashing on stage. Fingers crossed I'll get to go and see them in Bright Town when they play. If not, I'll probably chuck some sort of strop. 

And finally, I've made some sort of an effort to clean up this page. As much as I love that David LaChapelle photo of Izzy Blow, it had to go (look at me, I'm a rapper!). It looked a bit odd. I've also added a few links that amuse me. I'll probably add more but you know, less is more and I want them to be all gold. Watch out for that Bunnyboy though. I hear he is a right cun.......

Emploi

"I like you. I think you've got personality. You've got wacky glasses. You've got the job"

This happened to me today. 

Vingt Cinq

My God I think I am going to die. It was Anniversaire Celebration: London last night. I seemed to think that I wasn't that drunk however, the queasy feeling I've endured the whole day coupled with a banging headache and people telling me about bits of the night where I was present but certainly can't remember seem to suggest otherwise. Also, waking up in a hotel room with an empty bottle of champagne in your hand also points to the conclusion that a fun time was had by all. 

Anyway, once we'd managed to drag ourselves out we decided to go to Upper Street for some lunch. Obviously I wanted to die. On the way to lunch we were having an upbeat conversation about how you never know who carries weapons these days and how you have to be really careful not to give lip or you might get stabbed in the face and even though people say they only carry it as a deterrent it doesn't take much to lose your temper and accidentally use it. Your normal hungover, Sunday conversation. 

So, we finish our meals and we walk back down to Angel and there's five of us and we're spread around the pavement. Pretty annoying yes. I know. But we were so deep in conversation we didn't really notice. All of a sudden some moron behind us started shouting, "HELLLLLLLLOOOOOOO, HELLLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOO, WE CAN'T GET PAST YOU WHEN YOU WALK IN A LINE ON THE PAVEMENT"

Well. That was it. I was hungover and therefore a sniff away from anger. I turned around and said, 

"You are so rude. So unbelievably rude. If you had just said excuse me like a normal person we would have moved. Instead you shout like an uneducated ruffian" (Yes. I said uneducated ruffian. I'm such a knob). I then turned to my friend and announced, "And THAT, Dave is why I don't carry a knife."

The irony of the whole situation being that he literally had two steps to go before he crossed at the traffic lights so had he not been so out of order we would never have had our little exchange and he would have got there a whole lot quicker anyway. My friends, most of whom are Northern, were appalled at the debacle and Erin summed the whole situation up with, "I think I'd have a heart attack if I lived in London."

Exciting news - I have my first (well not strictly true but it was about 100000 years ago so we'll pretend that didn't happen. Oh and I drove in Ireland because it's Ireland and no one cares about laws and silly things like that. They all go to the Doctors on their tractors. That's true by the way. My Grandad used to put on his suit and get on his tractor and drive to the Doctor's and then park up in the car park. Beside all the other tractors. I digress. Focus, focus and I'm back in the room) driving lesson. Watch out! I'm on the road! (Probably slowly. Very slowly)

Je suis malade.

Okay guys, we've got a bit of a Code Red situation on our hands here. I'll start from the beginning. A good place to start.

So someone decided it'd be a good idea to celebrate an upcoming anniversary of my birth with everyone I work with in my home town. I won't lie. I was sceptical. I've not been there very long and I have a bit of a reputation as

a drunk

a bitch

and a bitch that hates everyone.

Obviously, it's all true so I'm not overly bothered but I put forward the argument that if I hate everyone why would I want to sit and look at their faces. I was promised a lot of alcohol. I was sold.

As a bit of background the last time I went out with these people I got horrifically drunk and fell over. Obviously I can't fall over out of nowhere. What actually happened was I jumped on a guy I work with pretending we were in Dirty Dancing. However, when he attempted to put me down I wasn't having any of it so I ended up on my back (insert own joke here, I'm far too weary) with a big bruise. I have absolutely no memory of this. It is pieced together from various accounts.

So off we go in to town to drink a lot of alcohol on Friday. That mission was accomplished. However, I was reminded of why I hate my home town so much. Having decided that a pair of fluorescent pink tights would set off my leopard print shoe boots very nicely I wander in to the ladies in the pub. A girl promptly marches over to me and grabs me by the arm and holds it very tightly and says,

"I'd just like to say, I think you're so brave"

I know. What a fucking slut. Now, remember, I don't put my brain in action before my mouth so the first thing that comes out of my mouth (as opposed to, Thank you, which is what I think she was expecting) is,

"I've not got cancer"

She was so stunned all she could do was walk away. Ha. I win.

Anyway, having ingested 3 mojitos, 3 blue lagoons, 100 million double gins and 3000 sambukas I decide it is time to go on to the dive I hate to frequent which plays indie/rock music (the best of a bad bunch). However, I decide that everyone I work with won't like it so I turn on them and abuse them. Some choice things I said (apparently) were,

"Fuck off. Fuck right off" - to anyone that attempted to talk to me

and "Oh fuck off Chotain you fucking tool" - when Chotain nicely tried to tell me that my top was coming down and to save my modesty maybe I should pull it up. 

However, first prize for me most definitely was being told the next morning that for absolutely no reason at all I fell over. Flat on my back. Had I not had a pretty dress on and been lying in a street I wouldn't have looked out of place in a pilates class. Fuck.

I really can't tell you much more but the next day I woke up to find various FB messages on my wall. One of which written by a total mentalist (no, he really is) at 4am rambling about how cool and alternative I am. It has since disappeared. He obviously got up, slightly more sober and realised what a twat he is. 

Vowing never to drink again I then accidentally found myself in a pub in London at 6pm on Saturday. It was an accident.