Stop all the clocks.

Sometimes people go too soon. And it is really fucking shitty.

Je couche comme je suis morte apparemment

You know that you really have no clue about how to look after your money when you buy a second hand psp Terminator 3 game to make it in to an earring. Yes. I did that. What a fucking idiot.

Anyway, I've been puking like something out of the Exorcist most of the day so this will probably be brief. I say probably because I really couldn't tell you when the next attack of the vom is coming. AND I'm in the house on my own. I feel rather sorry for myself quite frankly.

This week I mostly.....

1 - Went to the new Larry Clark exhibition (obviously when I say went I mean got taken to the opening because there is no way I am important enough to swing an invitation to something like that. I should be that important though). My chaperone was, as always, delightful. However, did have the misfortune to bump in to perhaps the most irritating person in the world. I know her through a friend and she is in Art PR. I tend to associate Art PR with Paris Hilton because the exact same question about the two subjects springs to mind.......And your purpose is?? I'd say she is lovely girl but she isn't. The first thing she said to me was something along the lines of how are you in here. I know. Put me in my place didn't she. Trollop. Obviously I told her I had friends in high places. I then proceeded to try and be as common as possible to piss her off. My particular highlights were

Telling her about the "massive cock made out of wood on Brighton beach. Fauking hilarious" (Not fucking. I'm far too posh for that sort of language)

Saying that Larry Clark was generally dressed like a scrotum. 

Her: Did you just say scrotum?

Me: Yes. It's slang at home for tramp. (Continuing on whilst turning away and saying rather airily...) Can be abbreviated to scrot though. 

Once again I used my disgusting addiction to cancer sticks to end a conversation. This time it worked as she doesn't smoke. The conversation ended with her saying, "We'll do something......oh and I sometimes stalk you on facebook." First off, WTF and all that internet shortening geek malarkey and secondly, this is the girl (not feminist. More closing the gender equality gap) that hacked  her ex's FB to see if he was cheating or not. You DO NOT want to be told by someone like that that they're sometimes stalking you on facebook. 

2 - Went out for one of my favourite lady's birthday. Alas, I was not a complete drunk degenerate but I did get pretty shit faced. To the point where I was told by another girl who I shared a room with that I sleep like I'm dead. Nice. 

Thats enough now. I'm off to try and have a little sleepy without being rudely awoken by stomach contractions akin to the pain of when someone is about to squeeze out triplets (or at least I imagine that is how painful it is).

Espace de Conard

An example of why my life is hilarious in a sort of, "Thank Christ I'm not her sort of way".

Remember Juice Man? No? Ok, brief catch up for those who don't...

Ticked all the relevant boxes - nice hair, skinny jeans, expressive eyes (go on, take the piss. I think its because mine really don't work that I'm fixated on everyone elses) blah blah. Missing the pouty mouth but we can't be perfect you know. Alas he opened his mouth and I very quickly went off him. I'd be doing bananas an injustice if I said he about the same conversational range as one. So I won't. He had the same conversational range as a pineapple.

Friday night and I'm indulging far too heavily in the pub when some indie boy with nice hair walks past. Obviously the radar picks up this subtle but lethal combination. My heart sinks. Yes. It is the Juice Man. And he is headed straight for me. I down my drink and mutter, "Jesus Christ". I introduce him to my friends. A motley crew we made indeed. Me in my disco-tastic sparkly leggings, mighty boosh shoe boots and a bag that looks like a chicken. All my lady friends with cocktail umbrellas in their hair and in various states of sparkliness. Hayley, with a cape on her top. Cow, telling everyone how much we all love the cock through the medium of cocktail menus. The boys trying to pretend they don't know us in their jeans and generic t shirts. You get the idea. A looney bin excursion doesn't being to cover it. 

Me: "Everyone, this is the Juice Man".

My friends, mishearing (maybe. I can't be sure): "HELLO JIZZ MAN"

I find this absolutely hilarious and make a mental note to use this from now on. Jizz Man however, does not. In fact, he looks like he wants to kill all my friends. The conversational range of a pineapple AND no sense of humour. Hmm. Twat.

And then begins the, How you doing, What you up to, conversation. In a word, excruciating. I decide to escape outside for a cigarette and start wrapping this conversation up. He smokes. FUCK IT.

The excruciating conversation moves outside. Where there is 20p on the floor. So he bends down and picks it up. I shit you not. To compound the cringeworthiness of this some random blokes shout, "Theres 5p over here you can have mate". He then holds up the 20p to my face and says, "I dropped this. This is mine." One word. Why? 

It then transpires his friends have skanked him. I wonder why. He then proceeds to call them cunts. He barely knows me. You can't say that in front of strangers. That is strictly limited to use around good friends who know you have a mouth like a dustbin. For all he knows I could be a nu-rave nun in training. Still reeling from his indiscriminate potty mouth I am then caught off guard when he asks where I'm going next. I tell the truth. God Damn It. The Spanish Inquisition begins. How much is it to get in, when am I going, who am I going with, why am I going and on and on it goes. I start to fear for my nipples in case he uses electroshock therapy on them to get me to tell the truth Pentagon/Meat Safe Murderer style. This exchange means that I tell him that someone has vouchers and we get in for free and get a free shot before midnight.

Him: Do you have a spare voucher?

Me: Er, I don't think so I didn't organise it. I just turn up and drink and entertain everyone.

Him: Right, what we'll do is you'll go in with your voucher but don't give it to the person taking the vouchers. If you get to keep it then you ring me. Then you go outside "for a cigarette" but then I'll be outside and you can give me the voucher and then I'll use it and you can come back in with me because your hand will be stamped.

Me (sensing a fatal flaw in this plan): I don't have your phone number (oh and another thing. I hated myself a little bit when I said it because the wanking prick face knew that I'd say that. Had I not had so much to drink I would have been quicker on my feet and just said ok and then escaped. But I'd had a lot to drink.)

Then I was subjected to the puke inducing swapping of phone numbers. And luckily he then fucked off. I marched in and regaled this complete nonsense of an encounter to my friends. They were most helpful. Responses ranged from, 

"Ah, he isn't the man for you. If he picks 20p up off of the floor he'll never buy you expensive handbags and Clinique moisturiser"

to

"He's still fit though. Neck him"

And then a phrase that was on the front of a birthday card I recently bought a friend came in to my mind, "Better to have loved and lost than to spend the rest of your life with a psycho".

In other news: 

www.myspace.com/pinmedown

How fucking catchy is Cryptic? I'm sure all the cool, electro kids have been all over it for about 100 years but I'm not a cool, electro kid so I'm still in awe of it. And I'm pretty positive all the indie Bloc Party kids will be all over it soon enough for obvious reasons. Good name too.

Je pense que je vais mourir.

A resumé of my weekend in the style of an episode of 24. A programme I have never watched nor have any intention of watching. Bear with me.

Friday

5pm: Get in the car. Start smoking. Intend to stay this way all the way to Brighton, possibly the whole weekend depending on how my lungs feel.

7pm: Pease Pottage service station. Our weak bladders mean our 90mph trip down the motorway is curtailed. See a car full of indie kids (men) with nice hair. Ask my best friend why I can't get in with them to get to Brighton. Realise their windows are down. They have heard. They laugh, I die.

7:30pm: Get to Brighton. Drive around looking for somewhere to park. Decide on in front of the Volks. Get out. Realise all the wood from the ship that ran aground has washed up on the beach. Say the word epic a lot.

10pm: Go to the pub. Sit outside so we can smoke. See someone getting the shit kicked out of them. See some girl with thigh high boots on. See the girl's bottom as it is hanging out of her dress. A wondrous sight indeed.

Saturday

12am: Return to flat to begin getting mangled in earnest.

1am: Discuss Foals' decision to not put Hummer on their album. I feel smug and obnoxious. Tell everyone I have the Hummer promo so I don't really care. Feel infinitely cooler than everyone else. Also smug and obnoxious. When asked how I got my hands on it explain I have friends in high places that steal things for me because they know my love of shiny things. Continue to feel smug and obnoxious.

2am: Begin game of, 'Would you rather....' You see Dame Helen Mirren and Dame Judi Dench drowning. Who would you rather save?

3am: Would you rather fart confetti or sneeze marbles?

4am: Would you rather have a fish for a tongue or crab's legs attached to your abdomen? 

5am: Someone suggests going to the beach. Discussion ensues. Discussion mainly consists of everyone taking it in turns to say, "It's going to be fucking cold". 

6am: Finally decide on whether to go to the beach. Go. It's fucking cold. On the way smell a bonfire. Take it in turns to say, "Can you smell a bonfire?". Play with the wood and notice that someone has made a massive cock out of the wood. Lovely stuff.

7am: Decide to go home for a nice cup of tea. Have nice cup of tea. Set the world to rights about the price of the morning after pill.

8am: Pass out. Have 4 hour power nap.

1pm: Get up. Decide I must buy sparkly leggings or the world will end. Now.

2pm: Stood in American Apparel surrounded by sparkly leggings. Think, "Should I buy silver or gold? I wear more silver but the gold look cool." Repeat this exact thought process for 45 minutes. I know this because I listened to the whole of Funeral by Arcade Fire on the instore sound system.

3pm: Decide on the gold. Notice the workers staring at me. Perhaps the most protracted piece of decision making encountered since the dawn of time and God was deciding whether to make Adam or Eve first. Get to the till. On a whim buy a red lamé headband. Not hairband. Headband. 80's style Olivia Newton John style lets get physical style headband. Decide to buy it in 5 seconds flat. Oh the cruel, cruel irony.

4pm: Decide to have an 80's themed aerobics party at some point in my life. Decide I'll be the best dressed 80's aerobic person in the world. Ha! Feel pretty impressed I've found a use for my impulse buy. Have a cigarette to celebrate.

5pm: Attempt to eat. Manage something.

7pm: Have a shower in anticipation for the one year older party. 

9pm: Join the party. Drink too much gin.

11pm: Nibble and suck the ear of party donkey (not a naked man with a large penis. A big toy donkey)

Sunday

4-5am?: Pass out. I think.

1pm: Wake up in bed with my best mate and her boyfriend. Worry they may have made me partake in some sort of filthy sex game. Survey the bedroom area for evidence of this. Note my breasts have liberated themselves from my top during my sleep. Nothing appears to be out of the ordinary.

3pm: Veggie breakfast coupled with intense newspaper action.

6pm: Watch the Science of Sleep. 

8pm: Commence the journey home from Hell.

9pm: Change trains at London Bridge because First Capital Connect are incapable of running a single train from Luton to Brighton and vice versa on the weekend. Get on the train for home. Consider carrying a permanent marker with me at all times so I can write things like, "First Capital Connect are a bunch of Clarksons", in order for them to have to spend loads of money cleaning it up. (Clarksons as opposed to the other C word. I'm trying to be more of a lady and I feel it sufficiently fills the void. Begins with C and just as, if not more so, offensive. Everyone's a winner)

10pm: Get home. Irrationally decide I must put all my photos on FB right now or the world will end. Put my lampshade on my head for the posting.

Monday

12:10am: Pass out.

Je te regarde et je pleure

Ladies and gentlemen, Emo has left the building. YAY.

Je suis desolée

It is accomplished. I have finally finished watching all of My So Called Life. I think it's the biggest commitment I've made since, um, ever.

Crashing on. I realise that I've been totally rubbish and not really updated in a while. To be honest my Christmas and New Year were far too epic to even begin going in to in any depth so I'll give you a few token highlights....cos I'm nice like that. 

The main highlight was my Morgan Spurlock-esque, 30 days, Super Size Me, type alcohol fueled holiday season. I went from the 21st and managed til the 4th until things all got a bit too much and the constant taste of dirty shish kebab in my mouth made me want to vomit a little bit. Ah well. In order to fully complete the Morgan Spurlock experience it's only right I let you know what my conclusions were:

• Surviving on one meal a day which consists of either, chicken and chips, shish kebabs or burgers, eaten at 4am is NOT a healthy or balanced diet. Also, you tend to forget you've eaten.
• Drinking gin causes you to sin. 
• Waking up in the morning, still drunk and then trying to do normal things with sober people is really quite fun.
• You're marvelously witty when you're drunk. 

So there you go. Bet none of you knew the above did you? No. That's right. You didn't.

One day, not too long ago someone once asked me, "What sort of freaks do you go out with?". This was after I'd disclosed that through the wonders of Facebook (or as I like to refer to it - the instrument of the Devil) I'd found out that one of my ex's is now an Elvis impersonator. I know. Fucking awful. It was a question that I pondered for about, oooooh  5 seconds, before I carried on drinking and being merry. However, this question came back to haunt me over Christmas.

Christmas Eve eve - I go to the pub with my sister and I was at the bar when some guy asks if he can buy me a drink. Of course, I accept (remember, this was in my Super Size Me phase. If they asked me if I wanted a double I HAD to say yes). He then starts chatting (shit at me) me up. He tells me his name is Daryl. Yes. It IS as bad as it sounds. It really is all rather dull and I'm not even sure why I spoke to him in the first place at this point. I give him a fake number (changed the last 2 digits around. ALWAYS a winner. Although he was convinced it was a fake number as it has lots of 7's and 9's in it and things. Work that one out stalkers) and made my escape.

Christmas Eve - go back to the pub for some pre midnight mass cheeky binge drinking. As an aside, never been to a better mass (not to sound all Mrs Doyle on you or anything). They gave out FREE fair trade chocolate at the end AND it only hit the 45 min barrier. I'll be going back there again. However, I digress. As usual. So. There was a theme in the pub cos it was Christmas Eve. The theme was come as your favourite film star. So I'm wandering around the pub bumping in to Marilyn and Uma when I bump in to Samuel L Jackson. Or Daryl. I know what you're all thinking. This Daryl must have been a pretty cool black guy with a fondness for Kangol hats. Well. You'd be wrong. He was white. I bet I know what you're thinking now. But....Samuel is......black. Yup. Correct. So.....how did Daryl???? 

He put shoe polish on his face. 

If it wasn't so fucking ridiculous it'd be offensive. Honestly. What a catch.

And, finally. I went to Brighton over the course of the holidays also. We were getting ready to go out to a club night called Stick It On. The night itself isn't important for the purpose of the story. We're sitting around in the kitchen, drinking, chatting etc. One of the guys with us has a beautiful baby boy with a very nice lady and his robust sperm has managed to put another baby in her. Owing to this she is always at home with her feet up whilst he comes out with all his expensive digital toys. I was half listening to a story, half day dreaming when I heard someone say to him, "So, you haven't brought the Mother Bitch out with you tonight?". Hearing that I snapped out of my day dream and said to him, "Oh God. How far along is she now?". With that the room went deathly silent and everyone collapsed in to hysterics except him. Turns out they weren't talking about his girlfriend at all. They were talking about his digital SLR camera. Hoom.

From that quote alone I was a legend for the rest of the night. Other choice quotes which I feel I should really tell you about (I can not say that I said all of them but I will not reveal the speakers) are:

"A finger in the arse is always welcome"

"As I believe GlassJaw once said, I might just fuck you enough to love you"

"Oh my God you look like you should be in Kids or something"

And on that note I think I'll leave. I'm sure I'll have some ridiculous tale soon enough as it is my work Christmas party tomorrow. Yes that's right. You've not read the date wrong. Christmas party - 11th January. Good one. AND the theme is the Oscars ergo it is black tie so I had to suffer the indignity this evening of checking if my corset still fits (it does) in order to attempt to try and wear some sort of black tie esque outfit without actually looking like a complete toss piece. On the upside - free bar. It could get messy...

Je peux pas poursuivre les garcons

Happy new year and all of that malarkey. And now, in no particular order, my new year's resolutions...

1 - Consolidate all of my debts in to one easy, monthly payment. Then smash Carol Vorderman.

2 - Learn to drive!

3 - Stop watching My So Called Life. It only makes me realise that I am Angela Chase. And she is 15 in that show. God I hate my life and I wish Jordon Catalano would just ask me out. 

4 - Talking of young girls stop having non-lesbian girl crushes on children young enough to be.....very young - see Evan Rachel Wood, Daisy Lowe, Ellen Page.

5 - Stop behaving inappropriately.