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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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?

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.

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?

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'.

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".

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?

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.