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.

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.

They cancelled my Uni email!

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

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.

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.

What's Your Ideal Career?

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.

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.

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.

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.