Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Sooooooooo...yeah

I haven't posted in over a month and I think that alarming coincedes with me joing the rat race. My life is so uninteresting right now that if I started to tell you about things that happened in the past month I might fall into a coma after the first paragraph.

Seriously, working in an office of middle-aged women has turned me into a middle-aged woman. I am no longer my own person - their worries are my worries. I've got two pregnancies, two divorces, three house moves, a villa in Spain with bad plumbing, about twenty kids and a dog that keeps shitting on the new living room carpet to fret about now. I have no idea how this happened.

All my friends have fucked off to do much more interesting things. Nikki has gone back to Uni to do a masters, Zoe is back at Uni too to finish her fashion degree and then is off to live in London or Paris or somewhere way cooler than here. Rach may be dead - who knows? Amy is seven counties away trying to be a physiotherapist (why she can't do that here, I don't know), Sarah is now married (which beyond scary) and has no time for me and Kirsty, Sammy and Ashley all have kids, which is even scarier, and certainly have no time for me especially as I'm really careless with babies. My lover, Anneka, is still in Wales and seems to be making no move towards the North, which upsets me greatly as I have planned our lives together and it involves an old Georgian house in Chester and 27 cats.

OH and the ONE attractive man at work is married which I found today. It was going so well cos he used to look at me every time he came in the room. Actually come to think of it maybe he was just looking at me looking at him. But I swear we did some photocopier flirting. Anyway, it's depressing.

So, my life is even more of a mess now than when I was unemployed. Oh well, at least I get to go to divorce parties and bitch about 'bastard men' all day.

Saturday, September 23, 2006

I do not make a good gnocchi

I guess I can add that to my list of things I cannot cook:

  • Any kind of meat
  • Any kind of veg
  • Salads
  • Sauces
  • Toast
  • Cheesecake
  • Mud pies

I'm stating it here now: I'm not interested in cooking. I'm interested in eating food, just not fucking around with scales and dashes and simmering and par-boiling and kneeding and whatever the hell it is people do in a kitchen for three hours.

I feel gulity about not being able to cook. Why? I always scorn at those women who give their kids microwave meals or eat take-out every night and McDonalds, urgh, but I know I'll be the same if not worse. My kids will probably have to scavenge in the neighbour's bins for nutrition.

I also feel like I should at least have a 'signature' dish so then I could say, "Oh! I can't cook for shit but saying that, I do make a mean prawn bisque!". That's why I tried to make gnocchi tonight - everyone loves Italian food right? It was like chewing on sponge.

I always wondered how I survived at Uni with my complete lack of cooking ability but here is how (and Anneka can back me up big time on this):

Breakfast (to be taken around noon): Crunchy Nut Cornflakes or, if we were on a *coughspluttercough* health kick, All Bran Flakes not strands! Rach used to eat those minging strands.

Lunch (to be taken around three): Biscuits and tea - mainly Penguins and Fox's Crunch Creams. Jaffa cakes were also popular. Tea was mainly PG Tips or sometimes a Typhoo affair. I also went through a Bird's Eye chicken burger sandwich with cheese phase.

Dinner (or as we say in Northern England, 'Tea'): Now this is the best part. For three years I mainly rotated between Spag Bol with the twisty pasta not actual spaghetti, frozen pizza (you used to get about 6 for £2 in Morrisons), more chicken burgers, oven chips and more biscuits. I sometimes had peas because, one time, Rach brought the biggest bag possible and then realised she couldn't eat them all before the three years at Uni were up.

Supper: Bitch piss, chips from the kebab shop, more tea.

Snacks: Tea. And the occassional satsuma when Anneka thought they were going rotten.

I think we attempted to actually cook about, um, once. Oh! I know what my signature dish can be! Those Harry Potter fairy cakes where you just have to add water!

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Annoying things that happened today mainly involving my Mother.

What is it with mother/daughter relationships? I seriously could not cope without her but some days I want to manually burrow a hole in the back yard to hide from her.

She dragged me into town today for 'bank business'. Urgh. The word 'bank' makes me shudder. I don't understand anything monetary. It takes me all my concentration to even read letters from the bank and then I have to lie down for a week before acting on them. The IRS gave me £84 the other week. I have no idea why. Oh, I do know I'm in a shit load of debt though. Thanks, Tony Blair!

Yeah, anyway, we got into town and I went through the bank 'system' all by myself, fairly unscathed. Didn't even try to tug the pen off the chain - growth! Maturity! But then my mother needed to deposit or withdraw or rob the cashier or something so I waited by the door and managed to read the front cover of a leaflet on mortgages - more growth! When I turned back I saw my mother shaking a box of pens by the cashiers window. She was pulling at the sides trying to get a free bank branded pen out. It wouldn't have been so bad if people hadn't been waiting. She actually started to bang the box against the wall to get it open. Folks were staring. Burrow! Where's my burrow?!

She finally managed to emancipate a pen and left the cashiers window. As she walked towards me she looked mighty pleased with herself and waved her hard won victory in the air mouthing 'Free pen!' like the WHOLE bank doesn't know you just got a free pen, mother! I just rolled my eyes. Honestly, it's too late in the day to change her now.

Next we were in a clothes shop. Mama had kindly offered to buy me a skirt suit so I would stop going to job interviews in 'inappropiate' outfits. I personally think this dress screams 'Hire Me!'. I have an aversion to anything that sends out a corperate aura and woman's suits say that to me but meh, who am I to turn down free clothes. So we picked one out which was relatively painless and went to pay. The lady on the till asked, 'Would you like the hangers?' and I was just about to reply when my mother literally leaned across the front of me and said loudly, 'Oh yes! That why she might actually hang it up instead of leaving it on the floor like everything else!' and then she laughed to herself. The lady on the till looked a little shocked because that's the kind of thing you say when your daughter is aged between 5 and 13 NOT fucking 22! She ALWAYS does that which is why I NEVER usually go clothes shopping with her.

By now I was a little aggreviated and I wanted some Fruit Gums to alleviate this. I walked into the One-Stop or Tesco Express or whatever the fuck they're calling it now and got all excited when I thought the Gums were on offer (3 for 89p if your curious). Upon closer inspection it was only Fruit Pastelles, Rolos and KitKat Chunkies that were on offer - Fruit Gums were not a part of this deal. My mother materialised at my side and I said something like, 'That's a shame, the Fruit Gums aren't on offer'. Then she just says, without EVEN LOOKING, 'Yes they are'. AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! WHAT? WHERE HAS THAT COME FROM? I know you're probably thinking I'm over reacting but this is typical behaviour from my mother. She thinks I'm that irresponsible and untrustworthy that she automatically assumes the opposite of what I say must be true even about something like confectionary offers. Okay, so that's a little exterme but why would she say that? It's like she accidentally walked into an operating theatre and the doctor said to her, 'These organs are not okay for transplant' and she said, 'Yes they are'. Just 'Yes they are!'

I actually pulled the little plastic bubble sign thing that said '3 for 89p' off the rack and made her read it. She didn't seem to have any reason for saying 'Yes they are'. I seriously don't get it.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

The Wankiest Bunch of Photos ever

Okay, sorry in regards to what is about to follow. There are a few reasons why I have shit photos from my holiday. 1) My family hardly ever take photos cos my Dad says he has a photographic memory and so doesn't need too. 2) Most of the pics that were taken were on a manual camera because Dad wanted to use up the film - I think it has pictures from 1987 on there that he wants. 3) I have no scanner. 4) Other people got in the way of most of the digital pictures and as I have learnt you're not really supposed to put other people's faces on the internet or at least I'm not risking it.

So, enjoy the following shitty pictures...



1. Blurry me in St. Mark's Square. Someone forgot to use flash.
2. Previously mentioned gondolier putting his phone back in his pocket after another gondolier yelled at him.
3. German tour bus that made me giggle like an eight-year old boy...which I'm not, FYI.
4. Me on the beach getting all ew-ed out cos I had dirt on my feet.

Monday, August 28, 2006

One Night in Venice

Back to my holiday adventures cos I can tell you're all dying to hear about that obese man I promised you.

Last time I went to Venice, I almost died. It was literally the hottest place on Earth. At least in somewhere like the Gobi Desert you might get a nice breeze. That city is the epitome of 'sun trap'. I was also wearing many clothes because the tour guide played that old 'they don't let you in places in shorts' gag - never believe that, ALL LIES!

So remembering the heat horror of last time we decided to go on a 'Venice by Dusk' trip. Awww, how romantic that must have been I hear you cry...um, no.

We got there at about three in the afternoon and it was still like being a foot away from the centre of the frickin' sun. You just could not stand in the light or you melted. St Mark's Square was a sight - every single tourist crammed into one corner to escape the burning rays. Also, and I don't mean to be offensive but the place was teeming with Americans. Don't get me wrong, I love the Yanks but there is something a little wrong about hearing,
"Morton!! 20 euros! How much is that in dollars?! Morton! Let's get in that church quick before the Japanese get in there!", in the middle of Ye Olde Venice. I almost stabbed this girl in the back because we were walking behind her and she kept saying, 'It costs a dollar to use the bathroom in this place'. No, it costs one euro and 'this place' happens to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world and certainly the most unique so stop talking about it like it's EuroDisney. She also later asked, 'I've seen their Burger King but where is the Starbucks?'

And not to go on but this was funny - wife of Morton and I were in a shop where they were selling silk scarves (for 12 euros which was apparently $15 as Morton had to calculate) and she was saying loudly how her friend wanted something in a royal blue. She must have heard me talking because she turned to me and said, 'Oh, you're British? Can you tell me which of these is most like royal blue?' WTF? Then she started going on about 'the Queen's capes that she wears' and I had to slowly back away.

So onto the gondola ride - I was most excited because I had been prevented from gondola-ness before because I was told it was far too expensive. Apparently it was 30 euros, which is a bit of a rip-off seen as it's basically a short ride on backwaters in a lump of oak but you can charge those prices when you're the only place in the world that does it.

So, in the wobbly gondola I got and got myself all seated in the red fluffy two-seater at the rear (yeah, it looked a little 'Moulin Rogue' meets 'Carry on up the Khyber') and I was all excited when this huge man got in. Now, I have no fat-ist issues - if you want to weigh 30 stone that's your deal, as long as you aren't down the NHS every week which come to think of it, you probably are - you selfish bastard). Yeah, anyway, gondolas and large people don't mix. We spent the entire journey tipped the left with danger of falling out. It didn't help that our gondolier was texting on his phone instead of watching where the fuck he was going. I'm good on and in the water because I grew up around boats but I was bricking it that we'd tip in and I would be crushed to my watery grave. Why? Why does this happen? Most people would have had a lovely time on a gondola ride but I end up with Pavarotti and the canal-navigating equivalent of Jake Gyllenhaal only not sexy.

Still Venice rocks, you should go and when you go will you get me a mask - I'm collecting them. I'm up to two.

I'll post some pics when I remember where they are.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

They cancelled my Uni email!

I feel so abandoned and alone! Plus I had stuff in there I needed you fuckers!

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Another Day in Unemployment Paradise

I had a interview today for the post of Conference Executive at the local Stately Home-ruined-by-turning-it-into-a-300-room-hotel. Think Toad Hall meets Holiday Inn. The fact that they call the person who puts chairs and water glasses out for meetings a Conference Executive pretty much says it all. Nothing like a bit of pretension to get my enthusiasm going.

Anyway, I don't think I got the job because during the interview pre-amble the bloke (who must have been only two years older than me) was reading out the company policy or ethos or whatever the fuck he called it and he said, 'We like to dazzle our customers with our sensational service'. Now, in my head I replied, 'Dazzle them with service? What? With like a really shiny tea tray?'. But then I laughed out loud at how funny I thought I was. I might have got away with it but further down the questioning line he asked, 'Do you consider yourself a natural smiler?'. WTF? Again, in my head: 'Yeah, but I smile like a person who doesn't quite understand what's going on around them'. Made myself laugh again.

He probably thought I was weird/rude. But I did smile a lot.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

I vowed never to do a MeMe

Your Career Type: Artistic

You are expressive, original, and independent.
Your talents lie in your artistic abilities: creative writing, drama, crafts, music, or art.

You would make an excellent:

Actor - Art Teacher - Book Editor
Clothes Designer - Comedian - Composer
Dancer - DJ - Graphic Designer
Illustrator - Musician - Sculptor

The worst career options for your are conventional careers, like bank teller or secretary.

But then this one just kind of spoke to me. I don't know why I thought it would give me an actual answer. I'm also 63% vain and apparently my blog colour should be purple.

I started the day quite stressed and aggitated and then things kept happening - just little things at first like the dog eating my sherbert dib-dab and people not letting things go and then some bigger things happened like getting rejected from the police and having a picture agency threaten to sue me - I was just generally a little wound up.

But then someone told me something that just made me completely zen out. That really wasn't the intention of the news, far from it but that is the effect it had. It just put absolutely everything in perspective.

I didn't get into the police. So what? I didn't want to! I'd probably be fretting more if they had accepted me because then I'd be worried about how to get out of it.

I've sorted out any potential legal crisis - it's no biggy. I contacted my lawyer (joyce) and she reassured me. It was almost exciting. I just wrote over at Jake Watch that it wasn't monitored by anyone but it seems the picture agency had a good old trawl through it so heh, maybe it is. One more threat of legal action and do I qualify as a blogging 'celebrity'?

People not letting things go - not my problem is it really?

The dog eating my sherbert dib-dab - now that kind of really pissed me off because I hadn't had sherbert in such a long time but then I guess I could buy another one. They're like, 15p.

And I still don't have a job but Pah! who needs money! Not me, oh no. If it gets that bad I'm off to Tibet (on foot obviously because planes are a bit of a problem right now, how shit close was that?) and I'll join the monks and do my Yoga. I really should start doing that again anyway.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Are you taking the piss?

'Rong Cheng', a newly-created robot, sits on display at the Institute of Automation of Chinese Academy of Sciences in Beijing August 7, 2006. Rong Cheng, dubbed as the first Chinese 'beauty' robot, is able to respond to some 1,000 Chinese words. She can dance, bow and greet people in the Sichuan dialect as she is destined for the Sichuan Science Museum to serve as a receptionist. The robot costs about 300,000 yuan (US$37,500) to make, according to Xinhua News. REUTERS/Claro Cortes IV (CHINA)

Seriously, there are humans here who still need jobs. HUMANS. I'll gladly sit at reception in the old Sichuan Science Museum and say 'Howdy' to folks if your desperate for someone although I do not know 1,000 chinese words. For fucks sake! Fine, I see the robot is more qualified and will probably pay for itself in three years. Whatever.

I had a job interview today. Inbetween carefully phrasing Jake Watch posts and answering the phone to someone who asked if they could sail a steamboat on the local river (WTF? Sure, go ahead, Humphrey Bogart), I got all trussed up like the turkey at Christmas and headed off into the job prospects horizon. Of course I still don't have a job but I think I have a lawsuit.

This job was for the position of receptionist at a prestigious car company sales room (let's just say James Bond may have been one of my clients had I taken the job). Subtle, they got nothing on me there. Now, Dad had warned me that they basically want a bit of "eye candy" for these jobs and at first I thought, fine, I need money before I need respect and equality. But ugh, talk about smary. Ack, car salesmen. Bleurgh - you getting the idea?

Now I've had issues in the past about how I've been treated because of my looks. I don't mean to come off vain here but I probably will. Fuck you. In high school (and my school was a 'high' school not a comp or 'secondary school') I was in the tough bitches gang. We were from the wrong side of town (the neighbouring town, actually) and people feared us because stuff like teen pregnancy, tattoos and drug dependency was water off our backs. I'd like to point out here that I was the most well-behaved member of this pack, in fact, I'm still the only one who is childless. People may be questioning my fertility behind my back. Anyway, fact is, we were the girls that the boys liked but were scared of. So, apart from a questionable relationship with a gypsy, a twenty year old who told me he was seventeen and a secret on-off thing the kind of boy I should have been seeing at that age I went kind of unnoticed. I always wanted more attention payed to me...

...then I got it. Big time. At age seventeen I started working at a local hotel and managed to get myself about five stalkers over the years plus numerous cases of sexual harrassment. I was just the 'pretty girl'. Nobody ever listened to me, they just kind of sighed and went 'Aww'. It drove me up the fucking wall at first because I'd gone from scaring the shit out of eleven year olds to having people practically patting me on the head. In the end I started playing into it. Honestly, I could say anything and people would just smile at me. One of the relationships I had during tihis time was with an older man. One day he said to me, 'You know, I don't just like to take you out because you're beautiful. Sometimes your good to talk to". At the time it passed me by because I was trying to work out if Nicky from Westlife was eating dinner across from us.

(I deleted this paragraph because it sounded all whiny and cheesy. I won't rewrite it because I can't remember what my point was - something about not being taken advantage of cos I got a pretty mouth).Plus it's wrong for people to be making robots that are more employable than me.

Sunday, August 06, 2006

The Dog Ate My Stress Ball

You know what's weird? When someone on the internet manages to aggreviate you more than anyone you've ever met in real life. Skill.

And sorry to interupt the holiday ancedotes but...my Mum made me go to John Lewis today. I hate shopping at the moment because a) I have no money and b) summer stuff is still out when I've been on holiday and just looking at bikinis depresses me. PLUS, we didn't even need to go as I shall now explain.

We've been invited to a wedding the happy damn couple sent us a gift list, all available ONLINE from John Lewis. I explained that all we had to do was look at the list, tick which little box we wanted to buy them and click 'order'. Mother dearest didn't seem to understand that the good people at John Lewis would then recieve this order, get the item, put it in a box and then deliver it to the happy damn couple along with everyone else's gift from the list.

To trick me into the car she said let's just get them a gift voucher instead. What? They don't want vouchers, they want whats on the fucking list but WHATEVER! Let's waste our Sunday in amongst the throngs of shoppers in which someone will undoubtedly piss me off by stepping on my foot or shoving into me or just by looking at me wrong. I didn't even go into the fact that you could also get gift vouchers online too.

When we got there, oh, Mum wasn't getting gift vouchers at all! She wanted to take a look at ALL the stuff on the list because she is the nosiest person in ENGLAND. What does it matter what the stuff fucking looks like? I was already pretty highly strung but now I could see me seriously blowing a gasket...which I did. I announced loudly in the little gift list section of the store that my mother was wasting my time and it was irrelevant what she thought of the gifts because if that's what the couple wanted then what business was it of hers? She ignored me and continued with the stupid 'press-the-screen-to-get-a-paper-version-slung-at-you-of-the-list-that-you've-already-seen-online-so-thanks-for-killing-the-enviroment-with-your-petty-need-to-get-all-up-in-other-peoples-lives' machine, which as I suspected, she needed my help to work. I might have broken the screen cos I didn't exactly 'press gently'.

When Mum had the list she said, 'Let's go and find this vase and see if I like it'. AAAAH! I'm not searching around a bloody four storey shop for one fucking vase just so YOU can decide if YOU like it. THEY want it so just buy it for them ONLINE AT HOME! I also like to give a shout out to John Lewis at this point for helpfully not giving any of their products cute names so they can be easily identified but instead calling them things like 'Medium Sized Wooden Vase 5274811524' and 'Set of 6 tumblers 55687892789477262922451'. Fuck you very much.

So we eventually found the stupid fucking vase that wasn't even that nice. Mum picked it up to examine it (which she should really stop doing because the amount of things she has fucking broken because she drops them when twiddling them around to inspect them from all angles). It was at this point I noticed that on the list it said 'Quanity: 2'. They wanted 2 shitty vases. I said this to Mum and she said, 'Well at £40, I'm only buying one'. 'Yeah, but they want two'. 'Someone else can buy the other one'. 'And what if someone else doesn't buy it?'. 'Well, then that's their problem', 'Oh, nice, Mum. I don't think you quite understand gift list etiquette. I think you're supposed to buy the set. It says here they want six table mats. Should we just get them one and let someone else worry about the other five? Oh, look, bookends! Let's just get them one of those too!'. 'I don't even like this vase', she said and walked off only to buy them gift vouchers.

I cheered myself up/calmed myself down by trying on really nice dresses I couldn't afford. Coast, you bitches! I also alarmed myself by trying on a jacket that was a UK size 4, (US size 2) only to find it fitted perfectly. I was kind of hoping I'd get stuck in it and then Mum would have to buy it and I'd feel like I'd got my revenge. It's was £500, that would have been sweet.

Friday, August 04, 2006

My Sinful Trip to The Local Church

About six days into my holiday I started to panic that I hadn't packed enough knickers. I had about twenty pairs with me which should have been fine but because it was so hot I was showering about five times a day and kept forgetting I was on an underwear budget. Sorry for these details but it's an integrel part of the story.

Getting ready for the evening meal one night I thought prehaps I could risk going commando because a)I'll be sat down the whole time and b)I'm coming back to the room straight after. When I got my dress on I thought yeah, no one will ever suspect a thing plus I was feeling a little naughty. I had my eye on one of the waiters and thought it might be an experience to sit there wearing no knickers and give him come hither looks. Then I went even further and put on my highest heels (increasing falling head over arse odds by 90%)- I was officially a sex kitten with bad things on her mind.

The meal went accordingly and I made sexy progress with the sexy waiter, Alessandro. For some reason people called him 'Jimmy' and he kept saying 'Ock aye the nooh' to everyone's amusement. I presume some passing Scot tourists had had a bad influence on him. So I left the resturant after a brief chat with Jimmy/Alessandro that was as confusing as always, to find my parents chatting with another couple. When I approached Mum turned and gleefully announced, "They're holding a special evening service in the Church down the street. Margaret and Alan here went on Sunday and they said it was lovely. We're going."

Now, let me point out that my family is not in the least bit religious. Like most people in Britain we attend Church for marriage, deaths and the occassional christening. My father is so resentful about his Catholic upbringing that he bitches about it at least once a month and has instilled in me a suspicion of all people involved in any kind of religion, especially the kind that like to wear smocks. My mother is Church of England but this mainly involves gossiping and the sporadic jam-athon for upcoming fetes. The only reason she says she likes Church is the hymns which I don't think counts.

Even though knowing my parents are prone to attacks of spontinaety that often remains unexplainable even after the event is happened, I was still bewildering by the suggestion of attending a Catholic church service. My Dad looked at me with desperate eyes and I could see immeadiately it was all Mum's idea. My mother hardly asks anything of me so then I felt guilty for thinking, 'What the fuck? Are you crazy? Do I look like I want to go to Church right now? Or ever for that matter?'. So I kept my mouth shut and straggled along behind Mum, Margaret and Alan. Dad looked like he was being taken to the chair. I totally forgot I didn't have any knickers on.

It was sort of like back at Uni when you meet someone random and they go, "Hey, want to go to the beach and drink Absinth?" and you go "Hell yeah!" because you're already wankered. Except the randoms we had met were middle class professionals from Wiltshire who wanted to give praise to the Lord and Absinth had not been mentioned. I see now it was The Fates fucking with me again. The one evening I decide to not wear knickers and I find myself in a 14th century Catholic church with priests and nuns and all kinds of crap.

So there I was, sat in the back pew, right next to the sign that had pictures of people with exposed knees and shoulders with big red lines diagonally across them. I'd been to Catholic services before but this was really dark and olde worlde. I felt like the Knights Templar might burst in through the doors and massacre us all, me first cos I'm by the door. I know that's not what The Knights Templar were all about, y'know, not their bag but I felt doom was upon me. I was getting so shifty and so concerned about the prospects of my soul, I got dragged in to their ways! I thought if God does know I'm sat here without any knickers on he'll smite me right? But then I thought, surely he has bigger shit to deal with? But then I thought maybe God is like the police in that they seem incapable of capturing the real criminals but can hand out about a hundred speeding fines a day. Am I the 'breaking the speed limit' equivelant of Catholic dogma?

I quietly broached the subject with my Dad who looked like he was in fact the one who might be about to massacre us all.
"Dad, you know how they're all arsey about you not exposing your shoulders, etc. Well, say, hypothetically, you weren't wearing any pants, that would be worse wouldn't it? If God can't deal with shoulders he's not going to appreciate that is he? You'd be condemned, right? If you went and confessed it to the priest, what would happen?"
"There is probably some loophole where they say, 'Aah but my child, you are too poor to afford pants so you are forgiven'."
"But what if you can afford them, you've got like two drawers of them but you just forgot to but them on?"
"Aah, my child, you are forgiven because you are a simpleton who forgets to put pants on"
"What if you didn't put them on purposefully?"
"What are you getting at?"

Anyway, I wasn't smited but I came pretty close.

Monday, July 31, 2006

Germans in Speedos - Why God Why?

More specifically German men in Speedos and even more specifically German men at my hotel in Speedos.

I can't for the life of me think why, as a rational human being, you'd ever feel the need to don a pair of Speedos. They do not look good, especially on fat, ugly men and unless those people were using the hotel pool for their Olympic training I don't see what advantages they have over trunks. Maybe they wanted an all over tan? You needn't have bothered because the only person who was gonna see you naked was your equally fat, ugly wife who was taking up two fricking sunloungers - one for her fat ass and one for her copius amounts of sunoil, towels, robes, reading material and snacks!

Ok, so you probably think I'm being a little harsh. What is it to me if people want to wear miniscule lyrca pants around the pool? Surely all I need to do is not look and the eye offense will end? Nope. Because the pool is not the only place they wore them. BREAKFAST. The fuckers wore Speedos to BREAKFAST. I seriously did not need to know the penis size of my fellow diners whilst I was applying Nutella to my crossiant. What was even worse was that they were wearing t-shirts that ended exactly at the penis bulge point so your attention was immeadiately drawn to the crotch and there was just nothing you could do about it!

And it wasn't just the Speedo wearing - they were just generally offensive. They were really loud, dive bombed it into the pool, bagged five loungers each at about seven in the morning, ate everything at the buffet before you got there - it was just everything to excess, apart from the swimming outfit, obviously.

End rant.

Sunday, July 30, 2006

Roman Holiday?

Actually, Lake Garda holiday but there were still scooters so go with it.

Of course there is plenty to tell and I shall reveal all in the next week. Look forward to the upcoming installments:

  • Germans in Speedos - Why God Why?
  • My sinful trip to the local church
  • My gondola ride with the obese, sea-sick man
  • Italian Men Love britpopbaby
  • My own father labels me a 'man-tease'
  • Why the city of Verona has a damn nerve
  • My holiday fling with the manicurist

But, for now, check out the amazing hotel I stayed at HERE. Looking at it now is making me cry.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Graduating In Style

Stomach flu style! Un-fucking-believable. The one day I actually needed to look good and I get a colour draining stomach bug. Three years of wandering around like a complete hobo and the one time I'm about to make A LOT of effort I can't even be arsed to straighten my hair or put eyeshadow on because I can't stand up!

The night before graduation I met up with Anneka to go out for a celebratory meal. I didn't feel a hundred percent great on the way there but thought I'd get over it. Once inside the restaurantI became uber sensitive to every smell and decided to eat light. By the time the menu arrived I couldn't even bear reading it although I do remember seeing the phrase saddle of rabbit (ugh).

Then the waitress brought a bowl of olives and plonked them down right next to me, that was it, I pelted it to the bathroom and threw up like I've never thrown up before. Sorry for the details but I want to convey the trauma. I usually never ever get stomach bugs and I absolutely hate being sick - I have the constitution of an ox. My family even makes me taste out of date food to see if it's still remotely edible.

Anyway, after projectile vomiting I thought everyone might do the decent thing and let me return to the B&B but they'd ordered whilst I was in the bathroom. I got told to wait in the lounge, read a paper and sip my mineral water. I was pissed but I thought I could manage for at least half an hour. Oh no.

Ten minutes later I was back in the bathroom and I was pretty sure everyone in the lounge could hear me heaving. When I came out I felt like making some announcement to them all about it not being the restaurant food at fault. I didn't, instead I staggered into the main section to tell everyone I was getting a taxi home because I was making a scene. Maybe the other diners liked the entertainment but I did not. Mum followed me out with her car keys in hand but before we made it to the carpark I was sick again near a flowerpot. Sorry about that, restaraunt folks. I was then sick again in some bushes near the car as a mini bus full of people pulled in. Nice. Mum finally sat me in the car, wrapped me in a blanket and then said the mains were coming so just wait here and if I needed to be sick again there were some perfectly good shrubs around. Fine I thought, it's prehaps a little inconsiderate but I guessed they've ordered now so they might as well eat it.

Sometime later, (I was now in the delirious stage and had started a conversation with a nearby sparrow), Anneka arrived. She said everyone else was just finishing up, except by finishing up she meant ORDERING FUCKING DESSERT! Hello? I've just heaved up half my body weight around the restaurant grounds and you people are sat waiting for your sorbet?

We eventually left the frickin restaurant of doom and on the way home I started to sing songs from Dumbo.

In the morning I felt like I'd been mugged by hoodlums with a crowbar. My whole body ached. The actual graduation was pretty uneventful although I'm mighty please with myself that I managed to sit through it all. Maybe something did happen and I didn't even notice because I was kinda swaying between full conciousness and delrium. I got up for my name though which was another achievement.

Here is a picture of me coming off the stage. It's the only decent one from the digital camera because you may notice the rather large gentlemen in front of me, well, he blocked me out of all the other shots. Thanks. Sorry, it's dark too. You weren't allowed to use flash. Complete token pic.

Anyway, this post is dedicated to my Anneka. As she sat in the car with me as other people ate dessert she said how this would be funny when posted up at Gin Harpy. She was right. And congratulations to us for getting our damn degrees, even though we still don't actually have them. We worked h...well, we worked for it and more importantly we drank for it.

Monday, July 10, 2006

Buongiorno!

I'm off to Italia on Saturday. I cannot frickin wait. Thanks to my new haircut, expensive fake tan, designer bikini and gym battered body I will be pulling off the following look:
Although my ass isn't as big but hell, you can't have eveything. The digital camera will be coming along so I'll get some shots of me leaning whimsically over a balcony or some shit and then you can all tell me how fabulous I look. Towards the end of the holiday, after too many bowls of pasta and a disregard for sun lotion, I may be working this look:
My hair has had a major change. Anneka will be surprised when she sees me today although last time I had a blunt fringe cut she didn't say anything and then some days later remarked, 'I'm not good at noticing things like that'. Bollocks, bitch! Anyway, I had all my hair cut off to a bob(it was practically down to my arse) and dyed it 'Bitter Chocolate' which is an extermely sexy way of saying very dark brown. I just like to say at this point that brunettes are superior to blondes so therefore it must suck to be Kate Bosworth.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

britpopbaby Almost Gets Fleeced Big Time

Sometimes, I'll be sat in a situation and will not take in anything that is going on around me because I'll just be thinking, 'How that fuck did I get myself into this?'. It happened when I got mowed down by a car, it happened when I got lost for two days in Spain and it happened again today.

In my bid to become the most brilliant website designer in the world (no laughing at the back), I looked into what courses were available in my area. Google (mis)lead me in the direction of a site called www.computercollege.com. All I did was click a box that said I was interested in information on website design and left my email. I expected a brochure, prehaps an email at most but what do I get? A phone call at 8.00am telling me a man will come round to my house to chat with me about the courses available. Now I was tried and also in a rush and the bitch on the other end of the phone seemed very determined that it was imperative of me to have a good talking to in my own house. I said, 'Fine' because I needed to get to the dentists and she said, 'Great, someone will be around to talk you at 4pm this afternoon,'. 'Er, whatever...'

THE dodgiest man showed up on my doorstep - my mother had a fit. He looked like a car salesman only more seedy. He stank of fags and had tattoos all over his forearms. I invited him in and he just stood there in the kitchen, looking around like he was scanning the place for valuables. My Mum was choking in the background (she hates most people, especially when they try to sell you things). Anyway, what unravelled was a 45 minute endurance test of my mother having to bite her tounge and me trying not to laugh.

The point where I almost lost it was when he pulled out a pyramid chart and asked me to 'place' myself on it. I went for the second highest one because I do have some qualifications in IT. He looked at me and just went, 'No. You're unqualified'. I said, 'No, I have qualifications - I can do quite a lot on computers'. He just ignored me and went onto to say, 'If you weren't to get a qualification with us, where would you see yourself on the skills pyramid in say, five years time?'. I pointed at the same one I did the first time. He huffed and said, 'Would you go up or down the pyramid?'. To piss him off I said 'Up' and then started twiddling with my hair. I'd like to point out the four levels of this pyramid so you can see I was right and he was a liar - Level 1 - unqualified, no experience. Level 2 - hobby, basic word processing skills. Level 3 - owns a qualification, competent computer user. Level 4 (the peak) - qualification from the Computer College, expert in computers.

When he finally brought up the actual price of the course my Mum swiftly booted him out the door. He was in the middle of telling us about his diving holiday too!

So, there it is.

P.S - Matt, I'm holding you partly responsible for this. 45 minutes of my life - gone!

Saturday, July 01, 2006

Quotes From The Week

"I do love a happy ending," Her Majesty the Queen, spoken in the presence of Mary Poppins and Ron Weasley - don't we all ma'am?

"I don't care about the meaning of life. I care about the 80's!" Pyscho mare Nikki from Big Brother - maybe the 80's were the meaning of life?

Me: "This towel smells funny"
Dad: "Spray it with your perfume then"
Me: "I think that's a slight waste of my highly expensive Chanel"
Dad: "Why? I sprayed it on the cat yesterday."

Mum: "Wait, start again. Whose this Jack Gyllenhaal?"
Me: "Jake Gyllenhaal."
Mum: "Jake? Is that Jack's brother?"

And finally, is it me or are My Little Ponies sexually alluring?

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

In More Alarming News About The State Of Britain...

...did you know you could apply to be James Bond online? I won't link directly to it because I'm scared but go HERE and then click on 'Careers'. I seriously thought applying to be a spy for one of the most highly secretive and cool ass agencies in the world would be an invite only scenerio.
Apparently not.

In other alarming news, britpopbaby almost applied to MI5 (apparently Matt did too, even more worrying eh?). They were ADVERTISING for intelligence officers at this site. All you need is a degree and the ability to keep your fucking mouth shut - I think you can guess why I didn't pursue my application. I filled in an online form and they sent me all the real forms - I think they were trying to disguise it as letters from a travel agents, oooo, top secret! I was very excited, as you can imagine, when the third question after name and address was, 'Do you own a personal website?' FUCK. I was faced with the following options:

1. Lie. But wait, this is MI5 - they're bound to find out! But wait, this is MI5 - they can't even track terrorist organisations to Leeds.
2. Shut down Gin Harpy AND Jake Watch. Gin Harpy wouldn't have been a huge problem but Jake Watch? No, I just couldn't.
3. Play dumb/clever. When questioned specify that I own 'blogs' not 'websites'.
4. Realistically think about do I want to work for MI5 - a lot of responsibility, the pay wasn't even that great, I'd have to move to London permantly and I'd never be able to tell anyone what my job was even though saying, 'I'm an intelligence officer for MI5' would be the coolest fucking sentence in the world bar, 'I'm an intelligence officer for MI6'.

So, all in all, I'm not going to apply to MI5 but I guess you can - just go to their website.

This post will self destruct in 3 minutes - hey it's MI5 not IMF, they don't have the resources!



P.S The MI5 tagline is just 'The Security Service' - not very catchy. It should be, 'This is MI5 not 9 to 5' like in Spooks.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

britpopbaby's Night Down The Old Nick

And what a night it was! First off, I went there of my own accord, well, my mother's accord. She is desperate for me to join the police or as she likes to put it, 'Wouldn't it be nice to know you could get in, you know, if you wanted to'. Er, what? Fortunately it doesn't take Freud to work out the cogs behind this wheel. My Mum wanted to join the police when she was younger but couldn't because she had a heart defect (not serious, not even sure if she still has it but enough to keep her out the force). This is why I'm mainly going along with it, well, until someone hands me a bullet proof vest and tells me to watch their back or some shit.

The evening in question was a 'Familarisation Evening' for prospective recruits. Not as sexy as it sounds. I was hoping to get familar with some officers because there is a TV programme on BBC One at the moment called 'Traffic Cops' starring our local police station and some of the chaps they feature on there are very arrestable.

The first hint that I might not be quite the right material for Her Majesty's boys in blue came when I was getting ready to attend said 'Familarisation Evening'. Instead of thinking, 'What questions should I ask?', 'What issues are facing the police force today?' I was thinking, 'How much make-up should I put on?' and 'What should I wear? Pumps or flip-flops?'. After deciding on pumps and a respectable yet pretty mascara/lipgloss combo I boarded my sexy Italian car and bombed it to the police station, playing the steering wheel bongos along to Shakira. My hips don't lie either, baby. I broke every speed limit: hint two.

Arriving at the imposing headquarters I managed to neogiate both the speed bumps and security barrier. Once inside the building I did feel like I had committed a crime but I felt naughty not scared. Then the retardedness began...

First of all they made everyone sign in at three different points - once in reception, once in the canteen (?) and once in the final lecture room. Not only did you have to sign and print your name, you also had to note down your nationality - British White if you're interested. In all this took about twenty minutes each time because there were so many of us. I understand you have to have some level of security because it's the county police HQ but c'mon! As everyone signed in thrice I could feel my life slipping away before me and I hadn't even been recruited yet!

I was one of the first into the lecture room so I got to watch everyone else come in. I'd say about half of them looked like criminals - automatic assumptions about people based on looks alone - hint number three that I should not be a police officer, but wait - the next hour unfolded as some officer calling himself Head of Recruitment gave the world's most boring talk about how to fill in the application form correctly. It was like being spoken to like a five year old. I soon saw that quite a few people in the room needed things explained even more clearly so prehaps his tact was correct. When he came to the part about Criminal Convictions I naively thought we'd skip through this bit rather quickly, after all, why would anyone with criminal convictions attempt to join the police? OH MY GOD. Half the room started asking questions about driving offences and public orders! Retracting hint three that I shouldn't be an officer - I can spot criminals from appearance alone.

Other stupid questions asked included: "Will the police force buy me a house if I have to relocate?", "Do you have to wear boots because I have metal rods holding my ankles together?", "I got a parking ticket in Sainbury's car park once. Will you hold it against me?" and "I've applied to the police four times now and they haven't accepted me once. What am I doing wrong?" the same man later brought up some complicated point about serving time so I assumed that's where he'd gone wrong.

That was about it. I left in an almighty huff and also with the urge to scream out, 'I have a fucking degree! I'm better than this shit!". But I didn't. When I replayed the whole evening back to my parents Dad said, "Doesn't that give you encourgement that you'll get in?". Dad, were you even listening?

Thursday, June 22, 2006

In Pop Nostalgia Today...

I just learnt that I've appeared on the same stage as The motherfucking Beatles! If you live in the North-West of England you most likely have a Beatle's story - my Dad beat John Lennon to shit in the school toilets once - I played drums for them for two weeks once - I wrote 'Hey Jude'.
Saying that, I haven't really grown up around The Beatles. Dad doesn't own any of their LPs because, as he sat me down and told me when I was younger, when he was growing up, in our town you were either a Beatles fan or a Rolling Stones fan and you NEVER divided your loyalty. Dad also claims that The Beatles were a band for the girls and very overrated. My Dad also thinks democracy is overrated so we'll move on quickly.

Anyway, my point is, I've never really 'got' The Beatles fascination - apart from the time I annoyed the fuck out of Anneka by playing We Can Work It Out over and over again in her car - that song makes me happy. I've gone off track again - despite not being a huge fan I was still excited to learn that I'd graced the same stage as them - Northwich Memorial Hall. Apparently they played there back in the 60's just as they became famous. They had booked months before and couldn't get out of it even though they tried (how rude - forgetting their roots already). I appeared on said stage in 2004 as a model in a fashion show, yeah, get me. There is a video of it knocking around somewhere. I just feel, I don't know, kind of cooler? I feel like now I have a really good point of interest if anyone brings up The Beatles at any future cocktail parties I plan on attending. Goes to show how powerful myth is...

Well, that's all. I have an exciting post to make, prehaps tomorrow, about my evening at the police station. See that, it's called building suspense so the readers come back for more - I'm a total writing pro. Tune in next week for tips on the technique of 'Foreshadowing'.

Monday, June 19, 2006

The Medieval Fayre

I'm not sure why we went but now I know we'll never, ever go again. Usually I appreciate English eccentricity - cow trials, cheese-rolling, Morris dancing - but these dudes were seriously fucked UP.

So it was Father's Day and being the good daughter I am I said, "Dad, what should we do today?". Dad replied, "There's an antique fair on at Arley Hall. I'd like to go to that and see if I can invest my life savings in grandfather clocks". I said, "Not fucking likely. When they say 'antique fair' they really mean 'car boot sale' but with tressel tables. There'll just be chewed Smurfs and jigsaw puzzles with pieces missing. We're not going there. Hey! Let's go to this Medieval Fayre at Tatton that I've just noticed advertised in the newspaper!". Dad replied, "Er, no". So thirty minutes later we were on our way to the Medieval Fayre.

Outside the Medieval Fayre there was a doughnut and crepe van which I later learnt had only been placed there to taunt us as inside the Medieval Fayre all you could buy was real ale, hog pie and scones. Nice. Mum hilariously asked the Gandalf looking man who was running the 'food' stall if they had a gluten-free option. Er, Mum, what part of medieval do you not understand? He looked at her like she'd just asked to hold a private court with King Arthur.

Everyone was dressed up like some peasant which was fucking creepy. They had real swords too. Dad loudly announced, "If I were to dress up to come to a medieval fayre I'd come as the King not some country oaf!". He later admitted that everything was, "making him feel uncomfortable". Everyone was really getting into it - using old english accents and they're were pigs running around! They were holding the fayre at this Tudor hall so with all these tents pitched in front of it and all these nutters walking around it was completely surreal. Occassionally you'd spot a Coke bottle and remember where you really were.

Anyway, it started to rain so Dad suggested we leg it promptly before we got huddled into a tent by the ironsmith who was making jousting armour (just like in A Knight's Tale with Heath Ledger) and keep smiling weirdly at us. We also had to stop Mum and Aunty Ange from buying gowns a la Rivendell. I demanded a crepe on the way out.

And another thing! I got admitted as a child! Mum got her money out to pay and the man in the ticket booth said, "So that's four adults and a child is it?". I was about to say, "No, actually. I'm 22, dickwad," but Mum jabbed me really hard in the ribs and said, "Yes, and one child".

Monday, June 12, 2006

Weird Sunday

There was something odd about my Sunday. I don't know if it was because I got up at seven to go to the gym or because Dad and I made the exact same trip to PC World that we'd made on Saturday (driving the scenic route and stopping off for ice cream) but it was just weird. I don't think my Dad's fast decline into insanity is helping much but neither is my nonchalant attitude to life at the moment.

I think both my Dad and I were in a strange mood. Examples:

Dad: "Nice day for a car crash" as we avoided a pile up on the dual carriageway.

Dad: "Should we ram raid PC World?"
Me: "Nah, it's too hot"

Dad: "I could take him" aimed at some random bloke that walked past as we were pulled up at traffic lights.

Dad: "Why can't people concentrate when they're driving? It's a serious business but people are chatting away on their phones and trying to drink their takeaway coffees and not taking any notice of what they're doing" During this rant Dad took a wrong turn and we got lost in a business park. The irony.

Me: "I had a dream last night that I worked in a zoo as the Kangaroo keeper"
Dad: "Me too!"
Me: "Really?"
Dad: "No."

Dad to me as the ruler I purchased at the shittest zoo in the world falls out of my handbag in the middle of PC World:
Dad:"You're obsessed with zoos, you are"
Me: "No I'm not", as the badge I purchased at the shittest zoo in the world drops out too.

This next quote requires some back story: Both my Mum and Dad help run the local sailing club which is no way near as posh as it sounds. Think dinghys not yachts. Anyway, a lot of the boats were getting vandalised by local youths so the club set up security cameras to catch them. On our way back from the expedition that was PC World we dropped in at the sailing club because Dad wanted to check the security camera footage.
Dad: "Look at these pair!" in reference to a couple getting mildly fresh near the safety boat containers.
Me: "Dad, I think that's improper use of your powers and the security equipment"
Dad: "I think that's improper use of a boat!"

Maybe it's because it's been unseasonally hot and we've got summer madness?

Friday, June 09, 2006

I'm Off To The Gym Tonight

Yes. You read it here first.

I figure a gin harpy must have the legs of a thoroughbred racehorse and the abs of Marky Mark. This is mainly in preparation for my summer holiday in Italy in which I plan to be fabulous and not at all tourist like so I can bag myself an Italian stallion. What could possibly go wrong?

Let's start with the gym - I rang them up this morning and the conversation went like this:
Man: Hello (inaudible mumble)
Me: Sorry is this Brook's Gym?
Man: What?
Me: Is this the gym?
Man: Oh, you'll want to speak to Sarah. I'll get her to ring you.
PAUSE
Me: Do you want my number?
Man: Oh, yeah...
Me: (gives number). I was told there was an induction tonight at 5.30pm?
Man: I dunno...
Me: My friend is booked in for it.
Man: What's your friends name?
Me: (why the fuck is that relevant?) (give friends name)
Man: Yeah, Sarah deals with it. Are you going to become a member? It's £35 for the induction and then £2 everytime after that.
Me: I was told it was £8 for the induction and then £3 after that?
Man: Yeah, you can do it that way. (WTF?)
Me: Okay, thanks. Bye.
Man: Ta-ra!

Three minutes later....

RING RING
Me: Hello
Man: Hi, it's me...(???). I've booked you down for that induction tonight. It's £8.
Me: Right, thanks.

I do not have high hopes. Last time I went to a gym I spent a hour cycling on one of those bikes with the saddle too high and it was really painful when I eventually fell off. Plus I went with my friend who was totally over the top about the whole thing, like, I'm setting it on Mountain!

Maybe I'll just drink water and knock back caffeine pills for six weeks.

Monday, June 05, 2006

I'm Just About Ready To Cry

When I left University last Friday I was promised I wouldn't be nagged about finding a job for at least a week because I'd been a good little girl, working hard and so on and so forth. Well that went out the window by about erm, Saturday morning.

I even applied to the police to shut them up and now I've even filled in the damn form and I'm getting all stressed out about fitness tests and how firm my grip is (it has to be 32kg). I don't wanna join the fucking police! Mum asked our neighbour, whose a policeman, to come round and chat to me about it. He kept using phrases like, 'dead bodies', 'mangled bodies', 'chasing', 'arms training' and 'our county can't afford a helicopter so we've got a van'.

Yesterday I was convinced to try out work experience for the BBC. I got all excited about that and went online to see what positions they had available only to quickly discover I'm not even qualified enough to work for free. Fuckers.

Mum has been nagging me to go back to my part time job but I hate it because they make me work 16 hours shifts catering for chav weddings. By the time I've finished I can never feel my feet and I stink of fags and lager and I've been sexually harassed by most people there - once the bride even squeased my bum. Plus I get bossed around and patronisied and I'm never allowed any responsibility - this from the people who can't even remember to pay me most months.

I want to cry. How is your job hunt going, my darling Anneka?

Thursday, June 01, 2006

What is a Gin Harpy?

It may be a phrase I coined myself and if I did how mightily impressive of me, but, to be honest I think I heard it somewhere many moons ago.

My interpretation of a Gin Harpy is a fine sophisticated woman that has been perhaps dealt, what they consider, an unfair hand in life. As a result they are wickedly bitter whilst still retaining an air of dignity becoming of European royalty. Gin Harpy's like to drink gin, obviously, and they also like to crush men between their perfectly manicured fingernails. They are to be feared and greatly admired in equal quanities. Not to be confused with 'bitch', Harpies have much more class.

Examples of Gin Harpies?
Joan Collins or more accurately Alexis Morell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan from Dynasty. As a Gin Harpy you can also respect any deceased Hollywood star from the old school: Marilyn, Marlene Dietrich, Jane Russell, Greta Garbo - you get the idea. Tortured yet breathtakingly beautiful.

The Gin Harpy Lifestyle
Have affairs, sleep with younger men, ruin people, marry for money alone, have a special room for shoes, distance yourself, stay mysterious, look down on people, wear red lipstick, sneer, get drunk by yourself. The basic code of a Gin Harpy is that life is game that cannot be won and it's okay to be resentful about that fact.

So why is this blog called Memoirs of a Gin Harpy?
After trying other routes including 'intelligent', 'nice' and 'maternal', I decided the only path for me to take, as a woman in the 21st century was Gin Harpy. Alas, I am only a Gin Harpy in training but I hope to achieve full harpy status by the age of 25.

'Memoirs' is a little misleading as I'm not techincally dead but I did have some great explanation for this choice involving Roland Barthes's Death of the Author theory but you know, I've left Uni now and forgotten everything I ever learned.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

More Vainness

Sorry, I can't help it. Remember this post about people I've been told I look like? Well now thanks to www.myhertiage.com I can add Moran Atais to the list. No, I don't know who she is either. This site scans your face and matches it with celebrities in their database.

I think myhertiage.com is slightly off. We're not even the same race. They've just gone on angle, haven't they?

I've Decided To Take On A Lover

It's time to break my vow of chasity and get myself back on the market. Whilst I understand the importance of finding a mega-rich old codger to satisfy my needs financially there is no way in hell I'll have sex with him more than Christmas and his birthday so I need a plaything to occupy me the rest of the time. This man or prehaps really hot woman if I'm drunk enough should be witty, educated and a great dresser with a pad in London. I would have run some Jerry Hall style "Kept" contest but then I realised I had already stumbled upon my perfect lover last summer. Please meet Russell Brand...
What a beautiful man . I'm in love with him; he's crazy, eccentric, he dresses like a Mick Jagger Charles Dickens crossover. To truly appreciate him you have to see him live in action which you can do HERE. I highly recommend the Jonathan Ross Interview. And, oh yeah, apparently he's dating Kate Moss but I'll soon put a stop to that, prefably with my stiletto in her face.

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

I Got Smacked (again)

I only submitted this blog at italk2much about week ago so I didn't think it would get reviewed for months but lo and behold they smacked me promptly! Turns out they like me more than they like my obsession with Jake Gyllenhaal. That's okay, so do my parents. Here is what Sassy Sadie had to say:

"Easy now. I don’t mind a good romance novel from time to time to break up the monotony of the flights. However, while the graphic in the header is okay, I hate the header. It just looks barren. Why is it so much squeencier than the body of the blog? You should fix that.

It’s a 1 month old blog, but I think she must have been blogging before now. That being said, I did enjoy reading this blog. I like her sense of humor as if she were talking to her friend about what she’s been up to. Good day-in-the-life-of blog. Good snark. Good writing. I don’t understand why the titles are ALL IN CAPITAL LETTERS LIKE THIS nor do I understand why make a picture clickable if it isn’t going to lead to a larger version. A pet peeve of mine.

Ring me, we’ll meet up in London for a drink.

How to improve: Fix that header! "

I got three smacks which is pretty darn good. As you can see I've already followed my orders and reinvented my blog, well, changed the colours. Maybe I'll re-submit in a few days. It's sad but I need validation from internet strangers.

P.S I'm keeping the capital letter headers. I think it makes things look clearer and neater.

My 'Gin Harpy' To-Do List

1. Repeat the mantra, "Drink isn't the cure but it'll do until they discover a better one".

2. Remember to apply make-up every day, concentrating mainly on eyeliner and hot red lipstick.

3. Purchase a black silk dressing gown with embroided details for sitting on my chaise longe and hurling tumblers at the maid.

4. Buy a chaise longe.

5. Get a maid (prefably illegal).

6. Buy a tiger. It's the only being that will ever understand me - wild, savage and yet stunning. When it dies, skin it and hang on wall.

7. Alienate everybody, especially respected members of the local community.

8. Have an affair with everybody, especially respected members of the local communtiy.

9. Wear Chanel.

10. Collaspe at dinner parties.

11. Perfect glare.

12. Grow fingernails to acceptable scratching length.

13. Buy shares in Bombay Sapphire.

Sunday, May 28, 2006

I need a Career or a Carer

I seriously have no idea what I'm supposed to do! I really need to get an idea in my head before I fall into an admin job at some huge company.

Ideally I want to do something creative that pays very well and only takes up a minimum amount of my time. Any ideas? When I did the questionaire at this site it told me I should be an actress. Unfortunately they neglected to include the question, "Can you act?" to which I would replied, "NO!". Why isn't life more simple? It really makes me question the whole feminist movement - I would have been perfectly happy to marry some lad from down the street, have a couple of kids and then spend my days wrangling clothes and saving up ration stamps. But no, I have to have a career, support myself and be an independent woman. Fuck that.

Oh wait, I do have a career - gin harpy.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

The Internet Lies

The following dress was sold to me as an Angelina Jolie copy. I have yet to find a picture of Angelina Jolie looking anything like this. If you do, will you please let me know.



You'll have to excuse the posing - I was drunk.

Daytrippers


I went to the shittest zoo in the world yesterday - the kinda place you shouldn't go if you're easily offended my animal cruelty, or just generally offended. Once you got past the Marmosets being kept in garden sheds though it was fucking hilarious!!

First off it was down some dirt track, that, had it been raining we would have quickly become lodged in - you needed some sort of off road, four wheel drive vehicle to access this "zoo". When we got inside we had to wait in the ticket office/cafe/gift shop/animal hospital for some guy with a teddy boy haircut to show up and sell us tickets. We later saw him officiating over the pony rides and messing with the snakes - he was clearly management.
I can't really describe the "zoo" properly, it's one of those has to be seen to be believed places but maybe if I go over a few incidents you might get the vibe of this particular tourist attraction.
They had this ring tailed lemur (my new favourite animal) that was stoned or maybe tranquilised. It was sat in it's shed with it's little head pressed up against the window, just staring. Occassionally it's fellow lemur would come over and hug it.

For some crazy ass reason they let people take their dogs inside the "zoo" and we saw three shih tzus and a sausage dog that were either looking shit scared or taunting the goats. They had a leopard in there that was absolutely beautiful (apparently he once belonged to a millionaire who couldn't look after him anymore, wtf?, I thought that stopped happening in the 1800's), but he wanted to eat the sausage dog so they both sat quivering, one in sheer fear, one in anticipation.

I got very excited at the prospect of feeding the animals and went to buy myself a feed tub. I raced back out and started handing over bits of carrot to the disillusioned lemurs. One took a bit off me but immeadiately threw it on the floor where there were rabbits! Rabbits and lemurs together in the same enclosure - exactly as it would be in the wild. WTF? I went to give some more carrot to the more excitable lemur in another enclosure and he was glad of it but then I saw the list of animals you were allowed to feed and lemur wasn't on there so I slowly backed away, hoping carrot couldn't do much harm to natives of Madagascar.

We saw an animal called Geffory's Cat which just looked like your average cat. Maybe it was just some dude named Geffory's cat. Who knows? Each animal seemed to have some Oprah worthy sob story about how they came to be at this "zoo" - mainly, some other zoo didn't want it.

They had a porcupine named Cuddles who had a little notice next to him saying 'Please don't pet, Cuddles'. Yeah, that was about it.

Finally I had to go back in the ticket office/cafe/gift shop/animal hospital to buy souvenirs. I settled on a lemur and called him Larry. He now has a drinking problem. I was hungry but I wasn't going to have anything to eat there - I've got my suspicions that they're resourceful when it comes to the food, if you know what I mean. I'd love you tell you name of this place so you could visit it yourself but I don't want to be sued.

The real Larry who ate my carrot

One of the exhibits. People travel for miles to see that injured pigeon - maybe it got bit by a terrapin?

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Dream Interpretations

I always have very vivid dreams that I can clearly remember in the morning. Mostly they are such nonsense that it would be impossible to try to decipher them but last night I dreamt I was getting my hair cut really short by a very camp hairdresser (think Gino from Neighbours). I didn't mind that he was chopping it all off and I didn't even try to stop him when he put these glittery blonde streaks in it. It looked hideous but I just didn't care!

So I check out the website Dream Moods, whose URL is confusingly dreemmoods.com, and this is what it had to say about hair dreams:
Hair
To dream that you are cutting your hair, suggests that you are experiencing a loss in strength. You may feel that someone is trying to censor you. Alternatively, you may be reshaping your thinking or ambitions and eliminating unwanted thoughts/habits.
To dream that you are combing or styling your hair, suggests that you are taking on and evaluating a new idea, concept, outlook, or way of thinking. You may be putting your thoughts in order and getting your facts straight. A more literal interpretation suggests your concerns about your self-image and appearance.

I was thinking this doesn't really apply because I wasn't cutting my hair, someone else was.
But then I scrolled down and saw this:
Salon
To dream that you are at the salon, indicates your consciousness of your appearance and beauty. You may be trying too hard to impress others. It may also suggests deception and cover-up of some situation. Alternatively, it may denote a new outlook toward life.


Great, it's official. I'm so shallow even my subconscious focuses on aesthetics. Whadda ya make of that Freud? I'm just petty and hollow! Alternatively I'm a big liar with a new outlook.

Monday, May 22, 2006

A Little Tale

I've wanted to post some of my work up here for a while but I've only now worked out how to use expandable posts.

I wrote this prose last spring and it got really good feedback from my tutor - who is now on Sabbatical - I wish she'd stuck around. She was brilliantly nutty in that academic way. So, please read it through and see what you think. There are still parts of it I'm not happy with but I daren't touch it anymore. Thank you!


PEDRO

Pedro was the only one left. He would sit beneath the statue of the Duke of Wellington in Threadneedle Street holding a tenth edition of the Oxford Concise Dictionary under his left arm. Most of the time he would sit and watch them go past but occasionally he would turn his attention to his book, read something to himself from it and then laugh loudly and beat his fist on the bronze beside him.


Sometimes they asked him why did he not go home to Sorrento. He could sit on the black volcanic sand and drink limone, or sink his feet into the still Mediterranean ocean and watch the boats go by. Pedro told them that London was too important to him, he couldn’t leave her now, she was his world and she held his everything. He could feel the cold that swam through her streets, the endless rain, the fog; but he also knew the heat of August that used to bring all the people out of the buildings and into the parks.

Sometimes he would walk along the banks of the Thames, slower than the rest of course, and stop every so often to look over at The Houses of Parliament. He would start reciting all he knew about Westminster, all the facts he had learnt from leaflets, books and the internet. They could hear his muffled words some in English, some in Italian but could not make sense of what he said until he would suddenly lift his head and scream ‘WAR’ or ‘BETRAYAL’. He startled the younger ones and their guardians would have to pull them close to reassure them.

Once some security service officers tried to take him away from his spot at Wellington’s feet. They tried to reason with him, explain to him that he didn’t belong here and that he should go home. Pedro circled their faces with his eyes and then reached out and gently stroked one of the officers hands. In the moments they were taken aback by his behaviour Pedro opened his dictionary and began running his finger repeatedly across one particular entry:

Human · adj. of, relating to, or characteristic of humankind. † of or characteristic of people as opposed to God or animals or machines: human error † showing the better qualities of humankind such as sensitivity .
· n. a human being.

He began to laugh as if the word was his own private joke. They took this action to be a confirmation of the his dementia and told him they would come back for him later when they had the official paperwork. One officer stayed behind a moment longer than the others and whispered to Pedro, “Stay safe Old Pedro, the doctors can help you, please let the doctors help you”. Pedro laughed, he thought very little of the doctors in their hospitals. Fifteen years ago the doctors had helped Pedro’s friend Joe. They took away all his problems, cured all his pains and then Pedro never saw him again. They had done it to them all.

Two days later the authorities came back and Pedro knew it was over. As they gathered around him Pedro recognised the officer from the day before and remembered how he had almost been kind. Maybe there is some hope he thought to himself as they escorted to him to a white van. Inside it was warm and relief came to Pedro’s cold limbs. It saddened him as he wondered whether he’d ever feel that kind of sensation again.

At the hospital they took Pedro to a small room with a desk and three chairs and left him there. A few moments later two doctors came in and sat down to question him.
“Why did you wait so long to come here Pedro?”
Pedro said nothing. He just looked around them again like he did the officers, like they were just like the statues and landmarks he adored.
“We can replace everything Pedro. Your old bones, your poor eyes, your skin…it’s far too sensitive to temperature. Wouldn’t you like that Pedro? No more pain?”
Pedro answered them this time, “I like the pain, I like the cold”.
“You can’t Pedro. Nobody has to live with pain. You don’t need the pain”.
Pedro sighed and resigned himself as he knew the doctors would never understand. His pain reminded him he was human, that he was frail and that he could die. He wasn’t like them with their replaceable parts, their bionic bodies. They were not human.

As he waited for his operation Pedro considering escaping. He wanted to look around the city just one more time. To see the statues of forgotten war, the palace of extinct hierarchy, the buildings that once housed corruption and greed. They said those were the worst traits of the human condition but Pedro thought at least they were human. Pedro knew all about the terrible things humans had done but he also remembered the good things. Just like the summer in London, everyone would forget about the rain once the sun was blazing on their backs as they lay in the beautiful parks. Maybe they didn’t think about it like Pedro did because he knew that those parks only looked so lush and green because of the rain. Pedro knew the old world had existed on balance. Not now though. Pedro opened his dictionary one last time and turned to a word:

Cyborg · n. a fictional or hypothetical person whose physical abilities are extended beyond human limitations by mechanical elements built into the body.
- ORIGIN 1960s: blend of cyber- and organism.

Pedro did not laugh. His dictionary was very old.

copyrighted britpopbaby 2006

Sunday, May 21, 2006

I've Had A Great Idea

I'm always having great ideas, immense flashes of genius but this is sommit else! I'm going to open a zoo. Now, I know what you're thinking: that sounds really expensive and relatively high maintenance, britpop, but don't worry - I've thought it through. My zoo is special.

Instead of actual animals I'm just going to have a shit load of foilage and sound effects! Then when people ask me where the tigers are I'll just say they're hiding or sleeping. I might be able to afford some actual rabbits and a duck. Perhaps a goat. But that's it. What do reckon? Think I'll get away with it?

Friday, May 19, 2006

Save Lewis

This just made me cry and laugh at the same time. Okay, more laughter than tears but I'm so touched I'm joining the cause and for anyone who knows me this means it's a big deal because I usually stay at least ten foot away from charity. Read about Lewis the Cat HERE.

Then go and buy something from here:
http://www.cafepress.com/crazycatlewis

On a similar topic, I just want to say, I think it's bullshit when people say you're either a dog or a cat person. I love 'em both. Dogs are loyal and really become a part of the family and cats are just so cool and rebellious and slightly evil - well mine is. I could never pick between my dog and cat, they both crack me up and they work as a team to pull defrosting legs of lamb down off the kitchen counter.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

Conversations In The Kitchen

Me: You know Ryan wotshisname, who's going out with Annalise? That new film of his looks shit.
PAUSE
Anneka: Apart from the fact that I don't know who Ryan wotshisname or Annalise are and no idea what this film is, I got all of that.
Me: Ryan...Ryan...
Anneka: Seacrest?
Me: No!
Anneka: Philli...mont?
Me: Phillimont?!?
Anneka: I can't pronounce it!
Me: So you went straight to Phillimont?
Anneka: What is it then?
Me: (ignoring Anneka's question) The bloke who was in Van Wilder!
Anneka: Reynolds?
Me: Right. And he's dating Annalise...
Anneka: Alanis Morrisette?
Me: That's the one. Well, his new film, called 'Waiting' or something, set in a restaurant, looks shit.
Anneka: Well, despite ten minutes hard work, now we actually have a talking point.
SILENCE
Me: Phillimont?
Anneka: Yeah, he's married to Reese...
Me: Withermont?

We don't need to watch sitcoms when we stuff like this in our own house.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Is This Bitchy?

I've just realised that I give nicknames to practically everyone I meet. Now that may initially sound sweet but they're not nice monikers. I don't know whether I do it to amuse myself or whether I don't care about their exsistence enough to use their proper names?

Par example:

Sideshow Bob: A man who has often been in my creative writing workshops and literature seminars over the last three years and is far too intelligent for my liking. I take comfort in the fact that he is quite detached from reality because he is a skinny white man from some posh part of Southern England but he has foot long dreadlocks - all these facts combined equals the name Sideshow Bob. Clever, no? Anyway, he ain't never gonna get a job unless it's on the till at a surf and skate shop.

Fisting Boy: An accomplice to Sideshow Bob, he once wrote a metaphorical poem about fisting so he only has himself to blame for this label. He seems nice but I really don't want to know him anymore than I already do, which is not at all. As I once said, "There is a time and a place for fisting and a poetry workshop is not it."

Wanking Boy: We sat next to him once in a lecture and all the way through my pal kept pulling her nose at me and as we left the hall she announced, quite loudly, "Was it just me or did that boy smell of sperm?". Ah, poor wanking boy. He looks like the sort who has many a video file in his computer documents.

That Fat Slag: Not the most original but entirely appropiate when used to describe my next door neighbour.

Jesus Freak: Again, not creative and the only reason she gets called this is because she has one of those fish stickers on her bumper.

Laura: That's her actual name but she is so frickin' creepy we have to pronounce it Laaaaauu-raaaaaaaaa!

Library Twat: This fucker works in the Uni library and acts like it's the most stressful job in the world. He is always bitching about something and when you try to get books out he says stuff like, "God, you don't wanna read that!"

Book Shop Twat: Similar to Library Twat he acts like it's really cool and high pressure to work in the Uni book shop and tries to chat you up in that, "I don't give a shit about you" way which I would actually kinda like if I was trying to start a relationship not buying a fucking book.

Wild Bill: He is a mature student who has a slightly, well, wild aura surrounding him. He can be really rude sometimes, particularly to lecturers but the most exciting thing that happened was when we saw him with one of our tutors in the supermarket, together, buying courgettes!

Creepy Andrew: He is like this albino daddy long legs who seriously freaks me out. No matter where I sit in a room his long limbs manage to touch me. Once he sat right next to me and put his arm round the back of my chair in a seminar! Ugh. He also managed to write 'I suck cock for ten pounds' on my arm in black marker at a party once when my Dad was picking me up the next day.

I think I'll stick to my nicknames, everybody does it, right?

Monday, May 15, 2006

We Shall Overcome (Perhaps)

So I got my Writing Project back and my professor liked it! He said I have a, "talent for creative dialogue and...characterisations which come close to caricature yet remain oddly convincing,". Oddly convincing? Anneka and I decided that was a slight backhanded compliment but I'll take it! People have said worse. I haven't got my exact mark yet but he gave me a good estimate that means I should graduate with a pretty decent degree. Well, actually, prehaps not so much - the lecturers are on strike. Selfish bastards.

Our Uni even made the BBC Six O'Clock news, again - we're such trouble makers! Lecturers want a 25% pay increase over three years, yeah, good luck with that, chumps. They won't pay nurses, you think they're going to hand over more cash to you? Any teacher in the AUT is not marking work which means essays and exams. Loads of exams have been cancelled already which has just totally screwed everyone up. Why take it out on the students? And I wish they would strike properly - I want to see marches, picket lines, bearded tweedy proffs scaling Buckingham Palace not just them all sat in their offices going, "Oh, I'm so sorry I can't mark your dissertation. Hopefully it will all be resolved soon now excuse me I must go back to my tea and chocolate digestives,". It's been going on since March! I'm waiting for two portfolios back from my other writing lecturer and there is a possibility my exam on Saturday will be scratched. I actually don't mind that so much as it's on Twentieth Century Literature - god, what a whiny bloody century! Apparently, because it's our final year they may just give us an average - that would be so sweet. In fact that would be too good to be true so I reckon my exam will not be cancelled. Screw 'em all.

In other news I've just been to see Mission Impossible 3. It was pretty decent, I even managed to forget how six levels of bat shit crazy Tom Cruise is for a moment. Best line: "Don't interupt me when I'm asking rhetorical questions!"

Saturday, May 13, 2006

Friday Night Fever

I headed out into the glittering lights of town last night. All I can say is that I have officially turned into a gin harpy, just minus the gin; we were on Sex on the Beach and Blue Lagoon cocktails - how 80's of us. Anneka and I sat in the corner of the bar and bitched about everyone who walked past. Can I just say, frayed denim mini skirt + stillettos = fucking cheap on even the most beautiful woman. What's the matter with people? Just because the temperature rises above 10 degrees for a day does not mean you can go out dressed like it's Ibiza in August.

After we slung back our two pitchers we went on to the local nightclub. Nightclub is not quite the right noun for it, shithole is more accurate. It's full of shits too. The first bloke I got chatted up by was, as he shall always be known, Ribena Boy. We met before in 2004 when he tried to sleep with my pal Sarah but ended up passed out on our couch, only after I'd made him a hot Ribena - fucking child. He's one of those men who knows their good looking ( he kinda looks like Adam Levine) and is just an arrogant twat about it, not cheeky or cocky, just a complete dick. On the night back in 2004 we went to the chip shop before we ended up back at our house and he thought it was hella funny to keep putting his greasy fries on my shoulder and then pointing, saying, "You've got a chip on your shoulder!". Well he hadn't improved any by last night and when I began to recollect our relationship (which also involved a Halloween incident where he was dressed as a baby) he denied having ever met me and claimed it must have been his twin brother. Cock.

The next man was a bald policeman who asked me dance. I tried to pretend that my feet were too sore but Anneka nudged me up. Thanks for that. We had a very arkward dance where he kept trying to ask me questions but hello? we're on a dancefloor, not the place! I promptly left when the song was over and said I'd join him for a drink later but er...I forgot, whoops!

Man Number 3 was a cute Southern American looking gentleman but turned out he was from South London (pronounced Sarf Landan), not so exotic. We spent about an hour chatting before he said, "Look you're beautiful and great to talk too but I've gotta be honest, I've got a girlfriend. She does English too!". Oh, that's great! Maybe we can all get together and read some Chaucer? COCK!

I stopped even making eye contact with people after that but Anneka and I still managed to attract attention in the form of a seventeen year old girl who seemed a little too excited to be out. She told us we were the coolest people she'd met and could she have my phone number? Did I just get hit on my a sixth former? I have to admit it, she was quite foxy, I probably would have. We managed to escape the club and bagged a taxi straight away but had to have a very confusing conversation with the taxi driver about club and pub closing times all the way home. All in all quite a depressing night. I can't wait until I start properly on the gin because that's supposed to make you angry depressed. Woohoo!

Friday, May 12, 2006

People I've Been Told I Look Like

I was putting on my make-up and then I got bored because I'm waiting for Anneka to move herself so I thought I'd put this up. Make of it what you will...












Dark hair aside, are they in any way similar?

Freaking Out May Become My Hobby

According to my writing tutor, Professor Jem Poster (works available at all independent, low-scale book stores), my Writing Project is ready for collection. Trouble is, I don't want the fucking thing back. I've spent the whole of University doing as little work as possible just to get through because, as I mentioned in the previous post, I'm a lazy cow. Sometimes I get all excited about a challenge, come up with a million ideas and then never follow it through. Take the Writing Project for example, I had all my ideas ready for it last summer but then as the months went by I went off the plot I had planned and by March I scrapped the premise completely. Then I had to grab onto any thread of thought I could and tug at it until 4,000 words of prose came out. Then I hurried to write the commentary where you have to explain every little bloody choice you made when writing your piece and I can usually never remember so I just bullshit for another 2,000 words. Then I bullshit about what other authors influenced me (like Virgina Woolf, ha! The only thing she would influence me to do is kill myself) but they ain't never pulled me up on it so far so fingers crossed.

I think I'm fretting about it more than I should because I've always had it down as a huge deal but I think it's only 2.9% of my total grade. Mind you, saying all this, I've never been one for worrying too much so that completely backtracks on the title of this post. My Mum says she reckons I've been here before in another life because I'm so laid back but more on that at another time. Maybe if I worked harder at things I'd be more concerned over the result. I feel guilty because my parents always say, "Well as long as you tried your best,". Maybe 'my best' is just getting through it, I suppose there was so much more I could've done but it's too late now. Ugh, this totally the way my life is heading: career, marriage, kids - could have tried harder. I do slave away at these blogs though, it's a mystery to me...

Thursday, May 11, 2006

I Am Such A Lazy Mare

I was woken up at 9.30am this morning by what I presumed where cleaners that had come to deal with the mess of THIS NIGHT. I quickly assessed that half nine was far too early to rise and literally burrowed back under my pillows. I was woken again at 11.00am by some twat outside revving his car and again I decided to go back to sleep. I finally got up at 12.30pm. It's now 3pm and I still haven't had breakfast. I disgust myself. In a moment I'll go to the kitchen and have some kind of meal with my soulmate, Anneka and we might play Monopoly. Then we'll watch Deal or No Deal and then Neighbours. Probably The Simpsons after that and then we'll have another meal. Then I have to watch Dismissed at 7pm because it's hilarious and then more TV until about midnight and then I'll go to bed again. I have an exam to revise for and a career to plan but I just do not give a shit anymore. I'm also not even that concerned about my perpetual laziness although I'm sure some doctors or therapists would be.

I found this blog called The Lazy Way to Success. It's very reassuring.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

The Illuminati

One major thing you should know about me is that I'm obsessed with conspiracy theories. I just think that has to be so much more to the world to explain all the shit that goes on. I'm not talking about aliens, I'm talking about people in positions of power doing all they can to fuck up the rest of us. I've always said that politcians should not be allowed to run countries - I don't trust ANY of them, domestic or foreign and they usually come up a cropper and prove my misgivings to be correct. Take Tony Blair for example, why does that man sweat so much?

Well, until today I did not realise there was a name for all this but then I saw Sky One's Conspiracies with Danny Wallace. He was trying uncover to information on a global secret organisation called The Illuminati. Secret clubs are my absolute favourite! I won't bore you with the details because I understand it's an aquired taste but basically these people are taking over the world by dumbing down the rest of us, they funded Hitler and George W. Bush is a member. Enough said. Run for the hills!


You can learn more HERE.