28 April, 2007

Belated birthday times

"Get the sleep out of your eye, it's gross."
"That's true friendship, that is, being able to say to someone in the middle of a nice restaurant, you look like shit, sort it out."

"Wonder how much wine the three of us will get through tonight?"
"You drove! Shit. I guess that's just the two of us then."
"Honestly? That probably means we'll drink more."
"Heheh. Bring it on."

"Could we order some wine please?"
"Certainly, I'll get the wine list."
"No, don't worry, just get us a bottle of your cheapest Rose."
".... now THAT was classy."

"Wow, I look retarded!"
What exactly the fuck did you expect when you uttered the words "here, take a picture of me with the 'reserved' sign on my head!"?

26 April, 2007

The morning after.

I need to go out on Wednesdays more often. Last night was awesome.

Vodka and coke at 50p a go is both a brilliant and a terrible idea.

Brilliant because... well, I don't need to explain it how vodka and coke for 50p is brilliant, do I? And terrible because - and I'm sure you can get this one too - it means that if I get £10 out for the night, entry is £3, stashing your bag is £1, I have £6 left, which is twelve (twelve!) vodka and cokes.
Not that I drank twelve vodka and cokes. Because I didn't realise this until I'd had four SoCo (god I hate that contraction) and lemonades, at £1.70 each.

I make that sound like it's a bad thing, but let's be honest, I would probably be swimming in a sea of pain right now if I had drunk twelve vodka and cokes in the space of four hours. So let's just all be grateful that I have expensive taste.

In any case... I had a brilliant night. You know sometimes you just feel like dancing... well I'm not a great dancer, but sometimes I get the urge. It was a lot of fun.

See? I can have a life.

The only problem with this plan, though, is the day after. Which, of course, isn't at the front of your mind while you're squirming through a dingy, sweaty club in platforms with a vodka and coke in each hand at 1am.
And this is where I discover the downfalls of flexible working hours.
It is all very well to wake up wishing you had actually drunk the pint of water you got yourself at 4 o clock that morning (a mere three and a half hours ago), and think, "I know, I'll go in at half nine and just lie here quietly moaning for a while." Until you realise, this means you will be working until 6.

But still. I stayed in bed til nine. On a weekday.
I rule.

23 April, 2007

Curry issues.

Right. If I had wanted those little leaves in my curry, I would have picked some leaves off of a fucking tree and put them in my curry.

But what really pisses me off about these leaves is, they make it smell, and taste, like perfume.

I have plenty of perfume! If I wanted my food to taste of it for whatever reason, I would just have sprayed perfume on it!


22 April, 2007

Good times at the Amelia establishment

I have literally been trying to remember this incident all week, and I finally did it.

"Your face."
"Your mum's face."
"That was crap!"
"It's 3am, I thought it was pretty good, considering."
"Your mum's pretty good considering."

Fisher and Elliott's slagging matches... good times.

19 April, 2007


Business in the front, party in the back!

This quote makes the idea of a mullet quite tempting... just so I can get to say it, all the time. You know I would.

Well, actually, Dave will tell you how difficult it is to get me to cut my hair into anything even resembling a style - even a nice one - so maybe I wouldn't.

Ok stop worrying, I was joking, I'm not getting a mullet.


"All I've had today... before this obviously... is some pasta."
"Wow. Why?"
"I don't know. I could have done without it though."
"Because then I would just have had wine and chocolate all day, and that would be pretty much brilliant, I think."

18 April, 2007

Natasha Bedingfield

You need a fucking restraining order. You need to stay at least ten miles away from anything with reproductive organs, and any medical facilities which may remove the need for reproductive organs.

Basically, the day you get anywhere near enough to someone to have their babies, is the day I will throw myself off a roof.


Good lord you make me sick.

Once in a lifetime

I would just like to say, also, I saw the most amazing thing the other night.

It was about seven or eight. We were sat in Bar Risa. They had just switched to 'nightclub' mode, lights down, music up. We usually sit near the door because it's a little quieter there so we can actually have something resembling a conversation if we feel so inclined.
Suddenly, Ben gets this huge grin on his face and points to the raised area behind us and yells OH MY GOD LOOK AT THAT.


It was, a genuine dance-off.

"I have waited my whole life to see this!"

You just haven't lived until you have actually seen two men vying for the alpha male spot... through the medium of incredibly camp, incredibly crap, dance.


Royal break-up, OH NOES.

This is kind of in reply to Lucy's post.

Oh, and the BBC quoting someone from 'Hello' magazine? I can only assume this is a sign of the End of Days. I don't know about you but I'm stockpiling bottled water and cans of beans.


For all those who still seem to be unable to figure out the (really rather obvious) reason behind the split, I offer you, exhibit A:

the word genetics.

And exhibit B, the following picture:

Now for those of you who still need convincing, I'm just going to yell until you get it.

I think we can ignore Camilla because, well... just look at her. Beggars can't be choosers.

Do we really need to consider any other reasons?

17 April, 2007


Just so you all know, I am going home for a couple of days. I will probably be back at the weekend. You can reach me all the normal ways if you want to.

The times when you hope your laptop will explode.

Before I get into the depressing stuff and forget this, I would like to pass on the following information.

This morning, in town, I saw a poster for The Vagina Monologues. Starring Jerry Hall.
Hands up anyone who wants to listen to Jerry Hall prattling on about her vagina? Anybody? No? You sure? All right then.


So. I would also like to pass on the following advice:

NEVER utter the words "At least it can't get any worse." Because it can. And the second you think it can't, it will.

Now, I am normally a very positive, happy, upbeat, optimistic person. But there comes a point, where you just think, why do I constantly kid myself that there is a good side? Why do I settle for believing it'll be ok eventually? Eventually is just, frankly, not fucking good enough any more. I would like it to be ok, RIGHT, FUCKING, NOW.

I would have liked it to be ok before I became jobless. I would have liked it to be ok before I subsequently became homeless. I would have liked it to be ok before my best friend died. I would have liked it to be ok before my house got burgled and my laptop, with all my pictures, and writing, and my fucking novel on it, was stolen.

And just in case whoever took it has got enough computer savvy (although I highly doubt it, they haven't shown the greatest amount of intelligence) to have found the link to this, and is in fact reading this entry, right now, this is for you:
I would like two things.

#1: I would like to know why you think you have the right to go into someone else's home, and into their personal space, and just take whatever takes your fancy. To you, that laptop is probably your next fix of whatever drug you are retarded enough to stuff yourself full of. So congratulations. You stole something that contained three years of photos - photos of family holidays, of outings and special occasions with friends, photos of certain people whose faces I will never, EVER see again apart from in those photos - something that contained all the writing I have ever done, everything I've worked on, the novel I have been literally SLAVING over for months, the first thing I've ever created that I thought was worth anything... you took that from me, I will probably never ever see it again, and you probably did it so you could get some crack. I would just like you to know, that I quite seriously hope you overdose, and die horribly, with blood leaking from every single orifice, and pain ripping your nerves to shreds, or possibly you get shot in the stomach and take twenty minutes to die during a drug raid or gang war or whatever the hell you scum-sucking bottom-feeding cretinous assholes get up to. And I quite seriously hope, despite my atheism, that I am wrong, and there is a hell, for people like you to rot in.

#2: I would like to know where you live, so if you don't overdose, or get shot, or rot in hell for all eternity or any of that stuff, I can at least come round there and kick you squarely in the balls. Repeatedly. Causing internal bleeding and irreparable damage. Until you stop twitching.

Thank you for your time.

13 April, 2007

Bits of dialogue floating in my brain...

Bite me.
Make me.
... shut up.

12 April, 2007


"What, an unemployed prostitute?"
"You can't be an unemployed prostitute."
"Of course you can!"
"No, you can't. Prostitute is a job title. If you're a prostitute, you are employed. As a prostitute. You see?"
"Imagine writing that on your tax forms."
"Profession... prostitute. How much did you earn last year?"
"Well I dunno, frankly I was coked off me tits."

I love living with people. So much more fun than trying to have retarded conversations with yourself.

"I heard that when you get period pains, it's because like, your womb gets top heavy and kind of goes flop."
"What the fuck?"
"What? Isn't it called a womb? I didn't pay much attention in sex ed."
"Of course it's called a womb! Just the idea of it getting top heavy and going 'flop' was kind of amusing."
"Amusing how?"
"Amusing like 'haha.... that's actually really, really, genuinely gross' kind of amusing."

"Oh god, I just spent twenty pounds on shoes."
"I know. I just made you."
"So you'd shut the hell up about how cute they are."

"Women. Can't live with 'em..."
"Tough shit, I signed that contract fair and square."
"Eat your chips."

It's nearly 11 o clock. If I were to go to bed right now, I would actually consider this an early night. How sad is that?


Dear Marks & Spencers...

I would just like to say, I have eaten your food. On a number of occasions. It was quite nice; I found no fault with it.
But I would like to point out one small thing.


Terribly sorry to disappoint, but I have run some tests, and your 'not-just-food':

- does not give me telekinesis (which is superior to invisibility.)
- does not give me invisibility.
- does not, in fact, bestow upon me any superpowers, WHATSOEVER.
- does not increase my IQ.
- does not increase, or decrease, the size of any part of my anatomy.
- does not cause me to talk in a slutty voice like the woman who does your snobby, retarded voiceover. ("These are not just carrots... this is not just a cucumber..." Yeah, I fucking bet.)
- does not (disappointingly) cause spontaneous orgasm upon consumption.

In conclusion:

Food is not something that can be 'more than' what it is. (Apart from maybe that carrot that I carved into a tiki statue over a year ago which still lives, wrapped in clingfilm and cryogenically frozen, in my parents' freezer.) Food is something that you put in you, so you don't die. Please stop trying to 'sex it up', and accept that everybody, and I do mean everybody, is laughing at you, and shunning your expensive overblown wares in favour of Tescos own brand, which they pretty much pay you to eat in comparison. Even I, greatest Wogan-hater of all time, would rather eat food promoted by that posh-voiced fop-haired twat, than food promoted by your over-sexed Nigella wannabe voiceover bitch.

Thank you for your time.

11 April, 2007

Good times.

"I... I think he broke my side!"

"There! Now the roof is down, you can't slag it off!"
"I could point out that it's more secure now than it is with the roof up."
"You can walk home."
"Big deal, takes ten minutes."
"Ok, I'll break your ankles, then you can walk home."
"Oooh, that's cold."

"Get a meaty to taste it."
"I resent that."
"Ok then, James can do it."
"James is head meaty! Haha... hahaha... ha."
"I will kick you, Jenny."
"Haha... I know."

"Ow... my reproductive bits."
"How many do you have?!"
"Ten... backups."
"... right."

The Internet's Prayer

Dear Internet Overlord,
Give us this day our daily internet,
And forgive us our rants against Indian callcentre workers,
Even though we don't forgive those who rant against us.
Lead us not into expensive internet cafes,
And deliver us from useless library computers,
For yours is the porn,
The Google and the out of date bus timetables,
Forever and ever.

Subtext: I need to get a life.

Erotica, brutality... yeah no.

(If you don't get the title - and you won't, unless you are Amelia - don't ask. Please just rest assured that it is innocent.)

One other thing I forgot to mention about that writing course I was waffling on about maybe applying for next year... in your third year, one of the units is 'Fiction and the Erotic.' That is so totally a brilliant reason to go through two years of boring writing technique classes and struggling to make deadlines. To get to learn how to write about sex. (Can it really be that difficult? I very much doubt it, but then, maybe there is some arcane knowledge here that I am missing out on.)

Speaking of deadlines, actually, I would combat this problem by handing in a bunch of pages covered in completely illegible scrawl, with a post-it note on the top quoting Douglas Adams: I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they rush past.


In other news! Today I get to see James. And eat lasagne.
I don't do either of those things often so it's kind of a big deal for me.

Office bitch.

Why is it that employers think it's a good idea to confide in their new temp that "the work's really boring, to be honest"?! Oh yeah. I AM SO MOTIVATED RIGHT NOW. Yeah you see that coffee machine over there? Could you plug this intravenous drip into it... and then shove the needle directly into my heart. Yep, that's it. That's the good stuff.


At least the office is close enough to my house that I can walk home for lunch.
Small victories, etc etc.


It is 2am. AGAIN. The 2am's just keep coming at me! God damn it.

In case anyone (Lucy, so far my only reader) cared, I did find my phone charger, I did hear from my agency, and I did get a job. Which means - and I haven't decided if I'm happy about this or not yet - that I will not spend the next two weeks sitting around on the internet in my pyjamas eating toast, or cereal out of the box, watching comedy clips on YouTube and determinedly not tidying my room.

I am thinking about going to University next year. I say 'thinking about' because I have rent, food and meaningless miscellaneous expenses to consider, and I don't want to have £20,000 of debt by the time I'm twenty three. Just doesn't seem like fun. On the other hand, though, where can you honestly get in the world without a university qualification? Unfortunately, from what I can tell, not very far. Besides, I think it would be fun. I'm not sure what a university course in writing can teach you if you already consider yourself a writer - surely the act of writing makes you a writer? - but I'll never find out if I don't try it, I guess.

In other news, I have mixed feelings about the film Crash. My first feeling is: yes, it's a brilliant film, well done, blah blah. My second feeling is: my god that was a depressing two hours. Was there anything uplifting about that film? Anything at all? The little girl didn't die. That's the only happy thought I took away from it.
Of course, I am well aware that it was not supposed to be an uplifting film, it is supposed to be a film about racism, that makes us stop and think wow, maybe I am also kind of a dick sometimes for really bad reasons. (Obviously it didn't make me think that, because I am not kind of a dick sometimes for really bad reasons. I mean, I am kind of a dick sometimes, but for good reasons. Or so I like to think.)
But still. I have had to watch a SERIOUS amount of YouTube comedy to cheer myself up.

Oh, and also? The moral of the story (well, the bit about Sandra Bullock's character) is: CARPETS ARE GOOD FOR YOU. Who lacquers their staircase? Assmonkey.


10 April, 2007

The novelty should wear off soon.

You know things could be a little better when you find 55p in the lining of a bag and utter the words Victory is mine!

Also when you post six blogs in two days.


"I just, you know, everyone always goes on about what a terrible place the world is, but I can't help but think it could have been so much worse. I mean, when you think about it, logically it should be worse. Humanity should have evolved, according to their instincts, into a barbaric society where everybody ate everybody else. I think it's amazing that this universal framework has been built to try and contain man's basic impulses. Man isn't naturally this good, benevolent creature; man's natural instincts are to eat as much as he can, fuck as much as he can, and be the last one to die. But for some reason, people have built religion, and law, and ethics, out of this overwhelming desire to be good. And the world functions like this, and the people who revert to their natural inclination to destroy are the exception. And yet people despair at the state of society."

"You know... some people would just have said 'nothing.'"

The morning after.

For anyone who was wondering (Lucy), no, I did not manage to do any of them. Actually I read about one more page of Man Walks Into a Room, but that was it. It was good though. You should read it.


So, what does today hold in store. Well, I need to find my phone charger, which has mysteriously gone missing, because if my agency should happen to call me today they will not be able to get through on my mobile and they don't have the correct home phone number any more. And considering how badly I need the money now, that's not good. I could always just phone them and inform them of my new home number, but that would be far too sensible, I fear.

So, I'm going to tidy my room, pluck my eyebrows, read my book, write my book, call my agency, maybe hoover...

Or I could play with openCanvas 4.5.07, because I just downloaded the trial version and can't resist.

I suck.

(I did take a break to tidy my bed, though. And I think that's something to be proud of.)


Somebody, please, make me go to sleep!

It is 2am, exactly. I stayed up in the hope that I would:
  1. Read some more of 'Man Walks Into a Room'
  2. Tidy my room
  3. Write some more of my novel
  4. Defrag my computer
  5. Pluck my eyebrows
  6. Attempt to make my bed to a decent enough standard that it doesn't fall apart the second I get into it.
I have done approximately none of those things. In fact, I have done precisely none of those things.

Lord help my spine in this, its time of need.

09 April, 2007

Not quite the Theory of Relativity, is it.

Scientists have discovered the formula for the perfect bacon sandwich.


The formula is: N = C + {fb (cm) . fb (tc)} + fb (Ts) + fc . ta, where N=force in Newtons required to break the cooked bacon, fb=function of the bacon type, fc=function of the condiment/filling effect, Ts=serving temperature, tc=cooking time, ta=time or duration of application of condiment/filling, cm=cooking method, C=Newtons required to break uncooked bacon.



I would like to start, if I may, with some musings about tomatoes, because a small and probably inconsequential remark about them sparked the idea for this monumental waste of cyberspace.

So. Tomatoes. What the fuck is a tomato? It's a little red sack of crap. Pointless, tasteless crap. Also, it likes to pretend to be a fruit. Well I have news for you, tomatoes. You're not a fruit. You're not even a fucking vegetable. You are nature's waterballoon. Get over it.

While we're here, actually, let's just clarify - I don't mean the good kind of waterballoon, you know that one bigger than your own head that you guard with your life until the enemy is all out of ammo then you obliterate them with it. No. I mean the crappy little one that the kid from down the road who you didn't really want on your team anyway made, the one that's still opaque because that's just how pathetic it is, and it just won't explode no matter how hard you throw it.
Obviously a tomato would exlode if you threw it hard enough, but you know. In terms of disappointment they're pretty similar.

Cucumbers are a bit pointless too but I can't think of anything sufficiently witty to say about them. So I'd just like to pass on this message to cucumbers everywhere:
My sister might like you but I think you're a bit rubbish.

By the way, if you thought this was boring, I wouldn't advise you to come back. It's not going to get any more interesting from now on.