Niffsy - one nerd's adventures in the real world

Testing

2009-08-28T05:50:00.001Z

Testing, 123

I JUST CANNAE DO IT CAPTAIN

2009-08-27T23:44:00.002Z

Well, apparently I can't even do a Scottish accent in text. Never mind. I only lived there for four years.

I know I don't blog very often, and if I thought I had any level of readership then maybe I would apologise for my digital neglect - but I have no such delusions, so I really don't think an apology is necessary. I have been busy, and/or lazy, so I didn't post anything, and that is just how it goes.

Incidentally, that attitude (busy and/or lazy) is how I frequently get myself into the following situation: it is Thursday night, and I like to have the flat nice and tidy for Chris when he gets home from a week away, but I come home from whatever I was doing... and there it is: the washing up. It has hit critical mass, again. There is nothing left that does not need washing up. For three days, I have been drinking hard-water orange squash out of a ceramic noodle cup, and eating toast because it doesn't require a plate. And now the time has come, and it has to be done. I get close to the sink, and move a few plates. The smell begins to rise. Opening the window seems like a great idea until I am reminded, by the sight of a naked elderly man, that my kitchen window faces directly onto the bathroom window of the flat facing mine.
Is there a worse way to commence your least favourite household chore? I doubt it, somehow.

But I got it done! (I should note here that now, every time I say or hear any phrase relating to something getting done, I have to resist the urge to say "Git'r done!" because I watch far too much South Park.) And now my hands feel like sandpaper and my kitchen smells like crap. Having the window open does not make much difference; I will have to put some laundry on before I leave for work tomorrow. I love the smell of fresh laundry. How domestic of me! Never fear, though, I have not quite reached Housewife City just yet: I still occasionally get so drunk that I throw up, and then continue drinking. I am still in touch with my inner seventeen year old. What can I say - I don't think anybody's stomach reacts well to a combination of red wine, vodka, kahlua, amaretto and milk, when they have only eaten a bag of cheesy Doritos all day.

I can't believe I am blogging about doing the washing up and puking like an underage delinquent. I know it's 1am and I have been so sleep-deprived this week that my right eye has developed a sort of manic murderer twitch, but this blog entry is really taking the piss.

I am going to sign off before I start talking about my boobs.

Over and out.

January 20, 2009

2009-02-19T09:30:00.002Z

In a hotel room in Egypt as night fell outside, I sat on the edge of the bed next to the man I will marry. We were quiet, watching the screen.
The scenes unfolding before us may have no real impact on the way we live our lives; but they will have an impact on the world we live them in, and for this reason I felt compelled to watch. Although we had no say in the election of this man, thousands and thousands of others did - and replacing a feeling of animosity and scorn for a whole nation, there comes a feeling of pride.
It is sometimes hard to believe that people can still make the right choice when called upon to do so.
Now all that remains is to hope that this man can live up to his promises, and the expectations of the world.

"... and if you call it my 'wee-wee' again I shall kneecap you."

2008-09-05T17:54:00.002Z

I have discovered something that makes me incredibly uncomfortable:

Medical professionals using slang or layman's anatomical terms.

You know, I don't actually find it reassuring talking to you about 'weeing'. You have been to med school and I am fairly sure you are aware that the correct term is 'urinating', and considering I have in fact used the word in conversation in the last two minutes, presumably you are also aware that I'm not too retarded to know what it means. Just because I am in here because I am worried about my health does not mean I wish to be comforted by you talking to me as if I am a toddler who is a bit sore after a particularly big poop, but thanks for making the effort to soothe me, I suppose.

No laughter! I am serious! I am so glad I'm not in here to talk to you about my reproductive system because god only knows how you would choose to refer to my vagina. 'Lady pocket'? 'Special place'? In fact I am tempted to come in again and fake a vagina-related problem just so I can find out.

Also, whilst I am relieved that I am not in fact displaying symptoms of imminent death by ravenous cancer, I still don't appreciate you laughing at your own diagnosis. "Oh yes, you have a nice wee infection! Hahaha!" Yeah, your laughter is encouraging. Don't worry, I didn't genuinely spend the entirety of my Saturday thinking I was dying. Seriously. Thanks. How about instead of £7.10 for those antibiotics, I just punch you in the bladder and we see if it hurts next time you 'go for a wee'.

WHO SAYS 'WEE INFECTION'?! HOW IS THAT PROFESSIONAL?!?!

Then again, who blogs about a bladder infection? Takes all kinds, I guess.

20

2008-03-21T11:56:00.001Z

So. Twenty years old and not impressed. I miss being a teenager! I think I'll just keep telling people I'm nineteen... to be fair, I still get ID'd, and I got away with being 15 the other day, so I'm sure it'll work out fine.

I think I have a bit of a Peter Pan complex.

A short lesson.

2008-02-26T18:10:00.003Z

Dear world:

This is something I think you should know. It may shock you. It may surprise you. You may cry like a little sissy girl. But I think you need to hear it, because really, it's been long enough now and it's getting a little bit fucking ridiculous.

PRINCESS DIANA IS DEAD.

Now I know you weren't expecting this, but it is true, and has in fact been true for the last TEN FUCKING YEARS, despite what the tabloids and the High Court would like you to believe. I am fed up of hearing the following on the news:

"Today at Princess Diana's court hearing it emerged that..."

You know what? Today at Princess Diana's court hearing, it emerged that SHE FUCKING DIED! TEN FUCKING YEARS AGO!

Can we have some real news now, PLEASE.

That is all.

________________

P.S. Dear God, whatever you want me to do to get that IT job, I'll do it. I swear. On your mum's life. Whatever that's worth.

Seriously.

YOU FAIL AT BADGERS!

2008-02-03T13:21:00.000Z

So. I got smoked out of Waterstones by the hotdog man outside to the church next door playing the same fucking "Lord of Creation" song over and over again for fifteen minutes. As loud as he could. I could even hear it when I ran downstairs to hide out in the foreign languages section and try to make my way through the first page of Madame Bovary in the original French. I don't see why religion should drive me out of my quiet reading time. Does God think it's stealing if I stand there and read a whole book without paying for it? I really think he has bigger fish to fry, don't you? LEAVE ME ALONE!

My ears... they bleed.

In other news. Nothing.

Holy Fucktards, Batman!

2008-01-24T14:45:00.000Z

Wow.

Have I been Dooced?!

Well well.

2008-01-24T13:29:00.000Z

Well, 2008, I suppose I should probably thank you for waiting a record 23 days before you fucked me over. It's an improvement on 2007, certainly, but then I suppose all that started in 2006 and just sort of carried on.

I am starting to feel like a piece of toilet roll, frankly. Wipe your arse with me and throw me away. I don't mind! I'm biodegradable! There should be adverts for me on TV with some little puppy dragging me around and talking in a disturbingly un-cute voice.

Anyway, as I have said many times before (although it's sort of like bolting the stable door...) I know it's bad form to air all this on a public forum. So please be grateful that I'm not doing that life-casting thing because there would have been a lot of swearing and violence before the watershed and god forbid the kiddies see all the horrible things life is going to do to them once you stop protecting them.

This is all probably making me sound horribly bitter and jaded, isn't it? Funny that. I was in such a good mood. What with having to find another job. With no notice. Again.

I almost (note: ALMOST - I haven't completely lost the will to live yet) wish that they'd done it when I got back from Christmas, just before the letting agency decided to fuck up and then tell us that, due to something THEY had done wrong, we were going to get served our notice the next day. Because then I could have said, right, you know what, fuck it, and just buggered off home for a while. And it's depressing to think that two years ago, I would have given everything - DID give everything, in fact - to be here. And I've been through all this shit, just to stay here. And every time I think it's working out, every time I think it's going ok, something knocks me back - but for some reason I keep going. I find somewhere else, I move, I accommodate all these things that keep smacking me in the face, just taking it and taking it and taking it, just so I can stay put. I feel like a salmon leaping up a waterfall. And also I feel a bit like a pile of crap. I suppose this is what you called 'mixed feelings'.

In other news: I will have this fucking novel finished by the tenth of March if it is the last thing I do.

Which, going by current trends, it probably will be.

Joy!

Review: 2007

2007-12-31T10:26:00.000Z

So, I think it is time I reviewed my year, objectively and without self-pity or wallowing.

I'm going to start by saying, I am so fucking glad this is the last day of this year. I cannot wait to see the back of it.

Several events this year were, I thought, more than a little un-called for, including my four months of homelessness, several periods of unemployment including once being let go with no notice while I was on holiday, the death of one of my best friends, and the robbery of my laptop the week after I moved into my new house.

Now. Looking at these events, as I said, objectively and without self-pity: THEY SUCKED MONKEY BALLS. Seriously. If next year doesn't improve on this track record? Heads are going to ROLL, and I am not even joking.

Now, to the good points of this year: I have had several extremely enjoyable holidays, made some new friends, written 60,000 words of my first two novels, discovered House MD, and now live with one of my best friends. I have finally found a job I like, and I am a regular at a good chip shop, a good Chinese takeaway, and an amazing wine shop. I have blogged spectacularly; I have dressed up as a fictional character and pranced around like a twat; I have danced until I could not stand on several occasions. I have lived my life, within the boundaries of reason, to the extreme; and it ruled.

In conclusion: fuck you, 2007. You tried, but you didn't break me. But you know, I am grateful for all the things you taught me I can live through, so thanks for that I guess.
Now pack your things, and FUCK OFF.

Bring on 2008! YEEEEAAAHHHHH!

Ho ho blargh.

2007-12-24T15:47:00.000Z

Wow, I haven't blogged once in December! Can't let that happen...

"Tinsel is Satan's pubic hair."

"What's the deal with God and Santa? You know? Religious people tell their kids about Santa too. Are they like... brothers? What?"

See? I'm in the Christmas spirit.

Baileys hurts. My mother made me do it.

Touché, Mr Shand...

2007-11-23T08:26:00.000Z

Clearly, there are a few points I am going to have to clarify from my last blog...

While clearly, on some shallow but basically human level, EVERYBODY would be more pleased to have an attractive person check them out than an unattractive person, that wasn't what I was getting at.

I don't care if you're Brad Pitt (which is probably a bad example because I don't think he's attractive), if you're giving me that look when I'm not asking for it, I'm not happy with you.
The look I was referring to is a particular kind of look. There are appraising looks, and there are friendly looks, and shy looks, and coy looks. This is none of those. This is that look that is distinctly lecherous, distinctly dirty, designed to let you know that, in their mind's eye, you are not wearing any clothes and you're probably on your knees doing something that would make your mother vomit just to think about it. If a fat balding old man wants to smile at me, or give me an appraising look, you know what? That's fine. I'm actually perfectly happy with the fact that I'm attractive and that, now and then, people are going to notice. And if a fat balding old man - or any other variety of typically unattractive person, for that matter! - wants to 'check me out' casually while I'm on the dancefloor strutting my stuff (what a stupid expression), that is also fine. It's the particular attitude with which it is sometimes done - and I stress again, EVEN BY ATTRACTIVE PEOPLE - that gets to me, and this may not be something that men understand, because it may be that it isn't done with any different kind of attitude at all. I don't pretend to know everything about men. Perhaps that guy giving me the slitty eyed smirking look from the dark corner with his hand deep in his pocket is really a total sweetheart, thinking "she looks lovely, like she bakes a really nice sponge cake." You know? Who can know for sure. But it certainly doesn't feel like it so I'm guessing that's not the case.

On the other hand. If I am wearing something revealing, or tight-fitting, or otherwise sexy, I expect (well, not EXPECT, but you know) a lot of male attention; but I am not offended if not everybody giving it to me is up to my standards of attractiveness, because as Jase pointed out, that would just be unrealistic, shallow, and stupid. And I'm certainly not saying as long as you're easy on the eyes you have every right to treat me however you like. I won't put up with being looked at like I'm wearing a price tag by anyone; I wouldn't find it any less offensive coming from an attractive young man of my own age than I do coming from a much older and less conventionally attractive specimen.

And, as only one wise person picked up on when commenting on Jason's blog - it had a lot to do with the fact that I was standing in the rain after a hard day at work being stared down by some prick in a BMW. I mean, if you want to be viciously ogled by someone sitting in a warm expensive car while you stand in a puddle getting soaked to the skin and wondering whether to have a plate of plain pasta or a plate of plain noodles for your dinner, you be my guest.

In conclusion: if you think I'm pretty, I'm flattered. If you want to smile at me, I will smile back at you, regardless of your appearance.
But if you give me that look like you're imagining me gagged and blindfolded and tied to a dirty bed in some stinking basement somewhere... well. I'll blog about you and it'll be replied to by a Scottish radio presenter.
So, you know.

You have been warned.

Grr.

2007-11-21T17:50:00.000Z

There is a particular look that men in cars like to give young girls standing by the side of the road while they are idling at traffic lights or waiting to go round corners, and it is a look I am fairly sick of - and not only because it is typically employed by men who are fat, old, and bald, and look like their job is to eat glazed doughnuts and drink coffee (ironically, with sweetners instead of sugar - as if it makes any difference) and have hideously inappropriate thoughts about their young secretary.

It is a look that says, "I don't necessarily think that you ARE a prostitute, but I am blatantly considering whether I would stop the car if you were."

Now. I am not a prude, and I am aware that I have boobies, and that this can be considered attractive. There are certain situations in which I would not find this look offensive; for example, if I was, in fact, a piece of steak in a butcher's shop.
However. As some of you may have noticed... I am not a piece of steak in a butcher's shop.

What I am getting at here, is DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT LOOKING AT ME LIKE YOU THINK THERE'S EVEN THE REMOTEST CHANCE THAT I'D SLEEP WITH YOU IF YOU PAID ME TO.

What gets to me more than that - because I know that men can't actually help looking at attractive women - is that, if caught in their leching, they give you this cheesy smile, as if you are going to find it funny. Well guess what.
NOT LAUGHING.

Seriously, let's think about this. There's you; an overweight suit with male pattern baldness leering at me out of the window of a shiny silver Beemer while I stand on the side of the road, in the pouring rain, with an embarassingly hot-pink umbrella, after another day being the lowest rung on the office ladder, with the fax machine malfunctioning and this somehow being perceived as my fault, and people on the phone who don't even have the common courtesy to spend two seconds of their precious, precious lives listening to me say "Good morning Blah Blah Blah Accountants, Jenny speaking, how may I help you?"
Where, exactly, is the factor in all of that that you think makes me sympathetic to your leering? You have a big shiny car. I am standing in the rain, wanting nothing more than for you to MOVE YOUR FUCKING BEEMER so I can cross the road to go home and get into my pyjamas and watch Akira in ten minute segments on YouTube. Your shiny expensive car does NOT make me feel any better about the fact that you are staring at me like a piece of meat carved into the shape of Angelina Jolie.

Also? When are you going to realise that when you 'go out with the lads' on Saturday night, you are, and always will be, the old pervs in the corner. I don't care what trendy slop you're drinking, I don't care if you bought your shirt at River Island, and I don't care if you're wearing those stupid fucking pointy leather shoes (and FYI, brown shoes and black trousers looks so fucking stupid I could choke). It's pathetic. Next week, please stay in. I like to dance with my girlfriends or my boyfriend without feeling like I'm part of some seedy 2am webcam show, thanks. Also, I can stretch to buying my own drinks, but it's nice to know you see me as some kind of charity case - or at least I hope that's what you see me as, because I'd hate to think that you honestly believe buying me an Archers and lemonade (single, to boot) is going to get you anywhere.

In conclusion, if you're looking for cheap prostitutes, I suggest next time you cruise the other end of town. They probably won't blog about you.

Or maybe they will, and it'll end up as some shitty TV program starring Billie Piper.
Ho hum.

Oh dear.

2007-11-19T18:25:00.000Z

Well that was a fairly depressing way to mark my 100th blog post... but oh well. To be fair most of them have been pretty much completely irrelevant and or stupid. But hilarious! Or so I like to think.

So, still feeling crappy, but I have chocolate milk, and today I wrote a scene in which an innocent old man gets shot.
Not really. He totally deserved it.

On the other hand, writing is slowing down a little, as the big exciting scenes grow thin on the ground because... well, because I've got over-excited and written them all, leaving myself with only the piffling little filler scenes to write.
This depresses me for two reasons:

1: There should not BE any filler. If it's not important, it shouldn't be in there. That's what good writing is.

2: In my quest to write big exciting scenes, I am just coming up with more and more random plot points to facilitate said big exciting scenes. The story therefore deviates quite significantly from my original idea, and I've completely lost track of what genre - if any - it fits into.

Oh well. I wrote a scene where an old man gets shot. And a scene where people have sex in a little shed thing at Southampton Docks.

That's got to count for something, right?

Yeah I bet my parents are proud.

Blah blah shitting blah.

2007-11-18T22:22:00.000Z

So who knew some rain and a bit of a chill could make you feel like you were completely pointless and hanging around in completely the wrong place, eh?

Apparently libraries and art galleries on your own aren't good for you either.

I just feel crappy.

I just want to be a writer. I want to live in a warm room that has space for all my stuff and I want an endless supply of chocolate milk and I want to be bothered to cook a decent meal for myself every day and I want to not have to wish I was at the other end of the country no matter which end of the country I'm at and I want to not bite my nails any more and I want to be a writer.

Also I wish I could play the guitar.

Is that so much to ask?

So...

2007-11-15T20:29:00.000Z

"So what've you been up to?"
"Not much. You know, work... oh! Me and Amelia went to an anime convention."
"You sad fuckers."
"Fuck off!"
"You didn't get dressed up, did you?"
"... Hi I'm Jenny, have we met?"

You know what's really, really awesome? A hot shower - I mean really hot, so hot it would usually be too hot - on a really cold night. Getting out of the shower, and being FREEZING cold, but knowing that in a minute you'll be sitting nice and warm in front of an electric heater, wearing pyjamas and fluffy slippers. And knowing that your word count went UP today, instead of DOWN. (Oh yeah. I rule.)

Incidentally, my word count is currently 32,337 words, and rising. I'm going to have this finished - completely - by the end of December. The power of positive thinking.

LET'S KICK THIS PIG!

End of the Line.

2007-11-08T23:30:00.001Z

Dear Internal Lady Parts.

I was hoping it wasn't going to come to this, but I think it's time we had a little talk.

I understand that maybe sometimes I'm kind of mean to you. I understand that you really are trying to kick out those hormones and make me a little bit more girly, and I know I kind of reject that and try to suppress you. But I don't mean it like that. I don't mean to belittle your ability to create midgets. I think it's a little nasty the way you've devised to extricate them from me once you've created them, but we all have our quirks, I suppose. I understand that you are just doing your job.

But that doesn't change the fact, that I have had enough.

First, your mood swings are a pain in the ass. One minute you're fine, next minute you're achy. I DON'T WANT TO KNOW WHEN I'M OVULATING. Being able to feel the moment when I release another egg disturbs me more than you could possibly comprehend. Please keep it to yourself next time. It's fucking gross, and I don't need to know. Talk about a TMI moment. Sheesh.

Second, I do not appreciate the way you bloat a week before you start doing your thing, and take until several days after you're done to go down again. I eat well, and make sure to do at least a little exercise, and frankly I shouldn't have to put up with you just blowing me up like a fucking balloon for no readily apparent reason.

Third, I have had ENOUGH of that fucking mess you make. You make no contribution to the costs of cleaning it up, you are incredibly inconvenient about the timing, and you show NO regard for my property. Frankly you are inconsiderate and a fucking slob. STOP IT. NOW.

In light of all these grievances I'd just like to say, I'm sorry, but I don't think it's working out. You know, I know we have our disagreements, but I really did think maybe we'd grow old together, you know, and maybe one day you'd get to produce that little midget you've always dreamed of, and we'd sit back and laugh about the days when I told you that the day you squeezed a midget out of me would be the day a pig flew out of my fucking ears, but now I'm not so sure.

In fact, I'm going to have to just say this straight out; I want you gone. I want you to pack up all your tubes and whatever the fuck else it is you keep in there, and I want you to fuck right the fuck off. Seriously. You have one week and you'd better be out, and you CLEAN UP before you leave or I'll sue you, you see if I don't.

Regards,

Jenny.

I thought of a funny title on the loo earlier. But now it is gone.

2007-11-07T19:55:00.000Z

I have that feeling. Biscuit feeling in my soul.

No, seriously, I mean it. I went to the Range this weekend just past, to make with the mad awesome and get some stuff to make my house look less like a crack den. I'm not sure quite how well a tablecloth and a bathmat fulfil this criteria. But who knows. Maybe it did just the trick. It's a pretty nice bathmat. So big and white and fluffy.
Anyhoo.
What I was trying to get to was that, while there, I bought this gigantic box of biscuits. You know the type. Those slightly retarded biscuits that get sold for cheap in bulk because they aren't as pretty as the other biscuits. But still taste exactly the fucking same. Yeah those. So. I bought some. And they have taken over my life.
And also I ate all the good ones first, so over the last three days, my biscuity time has been going steadily downhill and now I am left with the dark chocolate KitKat-esque things, which get a bit overbearing after a while, and the weird things with some kind of supersweet gross toffee stuff between some substandard chocolate and an oddly squidgy biscuit. Blergh.
In conclusion: I need to eat some fucking real food. I bought some Chinese sauce for chicken on my way home from work. Then realised I finished the chicken at lunch time. And can't be fucked to buy any more. I have realised it is pointless. You might as well eat something completely tasteless (and cheap), because ten minutes later it won't matter worth one shit whether it tasted good or not.

In other news:

Today I realised that what sets me apart from other receptionists is that most receptionists would offer a visitor a beverage and then settle back at their computers to do busy work. Whereas I offer them a beverage and then somehow end up having a highly amusing conversation with them about whether Scripture specifices if Jesus had a beard or not.
This was brought on by Georgie's discovery that the internet, in all its infinite glory, has offered up another gem: Bible fanfiction.
I shit you not.
I like to imagine it has all the same weird traits and tendencies as other fanfiction. Slash. M-preg. All those scary things that make me go, as the internet nerds would say, O.o .
I also like to imagine that it contains sentences like "Jesus thought about this, and stroked his manly beard thoughtfully whilst deep in thought."
I also also like to imagine that Jesus looks alarmingly like Chuck Norris.

We can all see where this is going.

Oh.. oh God.

2007-11-06T20:28:00.000Z

You ever want to feel like you're the only person on the planet who doesn't deserve to be shot in the face? Go read the 'discussion' pages on the Sun Online. Seriously. Where do you FIND these people?! Probably sitting in their parents basements surrounded by Wotsits packets masturbating furiously to the more scantily clad players on WoW whilst at the same time spouting zealous religious bullshit at people who are patiently, and futilely, trying to point out all the many and varied ways in which they are OH SO VERY WRONG.

Actually, what amuses me most about this is that there are people on the Sun Online discussion boards trying to act rational and pretend they are normal - even intelligent! - human beings.
Let me reiterate the important bit for those of you who aren't laughing yet.
ON THE SUN ONLINE.
INTELLIGENT HUMAN BEINGS.

YA GEDDIT?

Oy.

Huh.

2007-11-06T18:58:00.000Z

Wikipedia informs me that having an ovary-ectomy (actually called an oophorectomy but would ANY of you have known what that was if I said it without the retarded explanation?) reduces your risk of ovarian cancer.

Man I wish I was as smart as these fucking people.

This gives me almost the same pained expression as that BBC news report last week about how bacon and booze basically riddle you with cancer and make you die. The report which was prefaced with the sentence "a study of cancer sufferers found that..."
Found that what? That they suffer from cancer? And that most of them have eaten bacon or ingested alcohol at some point in their cancery lives? WOW THANKS. I FEEL LIKE A TOTAL DOUCHEBAG FOR NOT HAVING FIGURED THAT ONE OUT.

Excuse me while I go and stuff the empty space in my head where my brain should be with acorns for the winter.

A dubious tactic.

2007-11-06T00:54:00.001Z

So, in lieu of actually writing my own blog today, I am posting a link to someone else's. They are far funnier and more awesome than me.
Mike's entry about AVP and the penguin therein.

But if I was going to write a blog today, it would be about how you know you've had a great night when you come home smelling of gunpowder and burnt pumpkins.

I mean, it's not like you NEED it...

2007-10-30T00:49:00.000Z

So, somebody told me that you can earn tons of money for letting a trainee surgeon remove and reattach one of your toes. I would so totally do that. I mean, what, at most, you lose a toe, right? Who needs a fucking toe. Imagine how popular you would be at parties if you were like "so... yeah I'm missing a toe." You could make up totally cool stories about how you lost it. A polar bear ate it. Piranhas. Chuck Norris. My homework ate it. All sorts of crazy shit.

Unfortunately, my extensive trawling of the internet (read: two garbled search terms on Google before I gave up and searched 'camel toe' instead, because yes, I really am that immature) turned up nothing. I think I might just wander into Southampton general, whack my leg up on the counter of the ER, and yell "TAKE THE FUCKING TOE AND GIVE ME THE MONEY, BITCH."

I bet I'd get a nice free holiday on the mental ward. I hear they serve delicious tapioca pudding up there.

I hate tapioca. It's like baby puke with rice in. Blegh.

Wut?

2007-10-29T12:43:00.000Z

What the fuck do you think you're doing parking a BENTLEY on this road?

You are one stupid motherfucker.

I don't care what you say, I still think Sarah Silverman is funny.

2007-10-28T20:14:00.000Z

Sometimes, I go to a bookshop, usually with a cafe, and I sit and drink a hot chocolate and let mysef daydream about being an author. It will be soon, I hope; I want to be a young author. When I was a child people expected me to be some kind of prodigy, but I'm too old to be a prodigy in most stuff now. I figure, I'm already a writer - surely becoming an author is the easy part. Probably not. Definitely not, actually. But maybe if I keep lying to myself I won't notice how fucking difficult it is.
I also walk around the bookshop and reach out but rarely pick anything up, because I think, is that book going to change my life? Or is the book next to it? Will picking up one and not the other perhaps change the course of my life? Maybe if I picked up one, I'd put it down and think "wow that sucked" and go and buy some chocolate to make me feel better. Maybe if I picked up the other I would find one sentence, or one word, one bit of inspiration that got me writing and within the month I'd be on Richard and Judy, who I hate, making me a gigantic hypocrite, pimping my new bestseller to within an inch of its life. (That's not fair, actually, I don't mind Richard. And I don't like truly HATE Judy. I just think she is really, really stupid.) (Also, I'm so hyped about that idea where I become rich and famous overnight, that I'm totally already thinking about the possibility that one day, Richard and Judy will read my blog, and put out a hit on me or something. But I bet they won't. They'll invite me to be on the show, and I'll either have to go for it just for the publicity and hope they never, EVER SEE THIS, or I'll have to reject them. Either way it'd be awkward, you know? It's hard being famous. I imagine.) (I'm aware that I could just delete this bit where I bitch about them. But that would be censorship and that, my friends, is wrong.) (Going to stop using parentheses now.)

On a less serious note (it gets less serious? Oops, more parentheses), who else thinks tuna in sunflower oil is wrong? Tuna should not come in ANYTHING other than brine. Fish in oil?! Fish are pretty fucking oily already! Nobody wants to have to wipe oil off their face after eating tuna. SORT IT OUT.

Also watch Chris Rock clips on YouTube, he's hilarious.

Linking is illegal.

2007-10-21T20:02:00.000Z

Christ knows what kind of laws I break every day if linking is illegal. I probably break laws in my sleep! I should be locked up. And the key thrown away! Perhaps we should all just kill ourselves and have done with it, eh?

The thing I don't get about taking down TV links, is that TV IS FREE ANYWAY. NOBODY IS LOSING ANY MONEY. I'm pretty sure people still have a TV, you know? It's not like millions of dollars are being lost because people are no longer buying TV sets. I'm pretty sure people haven't stopped paying their TV licence because of TV links. People need to start being sensible about the internet, really. Yes, unsavoury stuff is going to happen. Stuff that might be slightly irksome to people who have spent a lot of time and money and effort on ensuring that their product does not get abused. But also, we have to understand that sometimes, nothing is actually being lost, and although it might sting, no real damage is being done. Rapists can get out of jail in three years, but people get locked away for six for copyright infringement. Ridiculous? Of course not! Copyright is a very serious matter, dignity and humanity and all that bollocks isn't worth a shite, just let the rapists and the murderers and the paedophiles run free, it's fine. But make sure people aren't watching House on their laptops instead of their TVs for Christ's sake.

These are dark times we live in, people. Dark times indeed. Why, right now, there are probably well over four people on your street downloading MP3s! But while the rape in the bushes less than ten minutes away gets reported on the news, these bastards get away with it. They don't hear the news reports about the rapist being let free a week later because they've got their earphones in their ears listening to their free music! The audacity of these people is staggering. I'm telling you. They'd kill your grandmother and steal her false teeth if they thought they could sell them on Ebay.

Basically what I'm trying to say here, is: FOR FUCK'S SAKE.

Spare me.

2007-10-16T23:06:00.000Z

Ah, web ads.

"This is note a joke - you are the 10,000th visitor!"

OMFG! ORLY? SRSLY? OMFGWTFBBQ.

Yeah. I don't think so.

"This is not a joke! You are the 10,000th visitor! Who cares, you could be the 39090850230984792837678th visitor, whatever, just PLEASE let us destroy your computer with terrible terrible viruses!"

I still wouldn't click it, you know, but I'd appreciate the honesty.

.... wow.

2007-10-16T22:33:00.000Z

TV Links.

Why the hell did I ever watch TV? Why did I ever *gasp* buy a DVD?!

TV Links: I fucking love you.

I have spent the last two hours sat in front of my computer watching House, season 2.
It is actually physicall hard to stop myself uttering the common fangirl cry: Squeee!

...

squee.

Dick/Face

2007-10-16T18:35:00.001Z

So, you know some days, you'll just be walking around and EVERYBODY seems to be looking at you? Shop assistants, drivers, random people on the street? You have those days, right? Good, I'm glad you're coming with me on that.
And you're walking along, thinking, that's ANOTHER one. Should I smile back at them? I mean, either I've got something on my face, or I look really good today. Oh God I bet I have something on my face. I had tomato soup for lunch. I TOTALLY have soup all over my face. Oh God. Oh God. I can't even try to rub it off without looking like a total fucktard. Don't smile back at them they'll think you think you're looking good but really you just have shit all over your face, oh fuck oh fuckohfuckohfuck.

This might make it seem as if I am more than a little paranoid and insecure. But come on, people; everyone is looking at you, and the options are, you look really good today (which, face it, you've just been at work for seven and a half hours - it's not happening) or someone's drawn a dick on your face, and I'm not saying it's happened before, but... well, it's happened before.

...

Yeah I'm not really sure where I was going with that either.
Incidentally, on closer inspection, I didn't have anything on my face. So. Who knew.

It's for your own good.

2007-10-15T17:28:00.000Z

Right. This has gone on too long, and someone should probably have said something a long time ago. But they didn't, so now I guess I'm going to have to step up.

EVERYBODY HAS TO STOP WEARING SKINNY JEANS. NOW. I MEAN IT.

Seriously. Have you even THOUGHT about how fucking weird your legs look in those things? And if you have an ounce of extra fat on your posterior or your thighs, have you no self respect?! No I'm not saying you need to lose weight, I'm saying you need to wear clothes that don't make you look like a fucking Christmas turkey wrapped in cling film. I bet you have emo hair, too. You people make me fucking sick I swear to God.

Over and out.

And that is why I'm a ninja.

2007-10-05T07:14:00.000Z

I love being half an hour late and nobody noticing. I feel like a ninja. On the other hand, it is kind of sad that nobody notices when I'm not there... but ninjas don't care about such things. They have no time for emotions. Their sole desire is revenge! I'm a very vengeful person. I seek revenge on the world for the following reasons:

Tracy Emin.
Terry Wogan.
(Just so you know, it was really, really tough deciding which order to list those two in.)
The fact that pubs don't have Dr Pepper on tap. WHAT'S SO GREAT ABOUT COKE?!
Weekdays.
Street preachers.
Hobos begging outside banks and next to ATMs. Yeah here's a crisp new fifty. I don't fucking think so.
The fact that only three series of Black books were made.
The menstrual cycle.

I could go on, but I won't, because I don't want to get a reputation for being a grumpy bitch. For the record, some things actually make me less grumpy. Seriously. It happens. For instance:

Other people's pain.
Waitresses dropping plates.
Setting fire to orphanages.

See? I'm so happy I could explode... and blow up a third world country.

Seriously though. I like kittens and stuff. I plan to amass an army of cats, and give them deeply, deeply awesome names. My favourites are Michael J. Caboose and Meowbloop. Oh, and if you don't know who Michael J. Caboose is, I either don't know you, don't like you, or am going to have to think very hard about why i do like you. And in case you were wondering, yes, I do only keep fish because I enjoy giving them stupid names. Don't waste your time worrying about my future children, I don't plan on having any.
But if I do, I am totally naming it Spiderpig. I wonder if that's copyright infringement?
Fuck it, I don't care.

I have noticed that the weirdest conversations do not take place in the pub, or in crack dens, or in mental hospitals; they take place in offices. Something about the office environment - I noticed today that the water in the cooler is from Nestle and suspect this is the culprit, but it could be print toner molecules in the atmosphere - drives people completely fucking nuts. Popular subjects include Kris Akabusi, giant spiders (possibly with wings) , and the classics such as "who would you rather" and "would you be offended if I said".
My theory is that, ironically, people have evolved this tendency to talk bollocks at the office in order to keep them sane. I think it's a pretty good theory. That brief discussion about who would make a better lover out of Mr T and Chuck Norris ("Well Mr T did that song about being nice to your mum, but Chuck has that reassuring smile... also Mr T is a big black man and I'm easily frightened") is a perfect antidote to workplace pedantics ("you didn't email Jacob when that client called!" "Jacob sits next to me, I waited for him to come back, and I told him to his face and watched as he called the guy back." "That's not how we do things around here! More bureaucracy, less human contact!") .
Other brilliant ways to relieve stress include leaving shitty messages for clients, mutilating plastic cups, going home for lunch and eating it in bed whilst watching House, and thinking about the funniest way to commit suicide (any way you like - but dressed like a clown).

You love my advice. You do. You REALLY DO.

This blog sponsored by one Mr Drew Cameron.

2007-10-02T23:14:00.001Z

Tonight, I met my one true love: THIS WEBSITE.
If you don't read even one quote from that website, I will find you, and kick your face off.
Now then.

Our Find of the Day with this website is:

Employee #1: Why are you so late, man?
Employee #2: I got loaded last night and shit my pants on the way to work.

I'm not entirely sure, as a member of the female species, that things like this are supposed to reduce me to tears of laughter and those silent hiccupy laughs you get that make you feel like your brain is going to come out of your nose and you are going to die on the floor... but god damn it that's fucking funny.

And also, it made me think about some of the best office quotes I've ever come across in my long and distinguished (well, not all that long, really... and definitely not distinguished) office career.
Here are some of the best:

This hot chocolate is crunchy.

You are such a fuckbag.

Colleague 1: I'm off then too.
Colleague 2: Right, that fucking does it. I am going to DOMINATE the Christmas holiday.
Colleague 1: No fair, I need holiday at Christmas!
Colleague 2: Fuck off, you have three weeks holiday over festival season. You can have your Christmas early, bitch.

Whilst discussing someone's jumper:
Simon: What do you mean, 'no lemons'?!
Richard: NOEL EDMONDS, Simon.

Simon: Go go gadget arm! * throws yoghurt pot at nearby bin... misses. *
Me: That would not even have been funny if you'd got it in.

Whilst attempting to tell newbie what to do whilst his caller is on hold:
Gordon: Tell him to format his C drive.
* newbie takes caller off hold *
Gordon: STOP!
Me: Wow. How retarded are you?!

Karl: I'll be the pig, you'll be the horse. YOU know what I'm talking about.
Steve: Was that a threat?!
Me: That was the awesomes threat I have ever heard.

Threats based on iconic literature RULE.
At this point it should be noted that there is some kind of ruckus (what a brilliant word) going on outside my house which sounds like a mixture of babies crying, cats fighting over a dying giraffe (anyone here seen the South Park movie?) and a student party.
It worries me that it is entirely possible, in my neighbourhood, that it is in fact a mixture of all three. It also worries me that I can hear it from the bathroom, but not from my room; which indicates that it is coming from the direction of the house next door, which is inhabited not by babies, or squabbling cats and giraffes, or even by students, but by a sweet little old lady who came over to make sure we were ok after our house got robbed. I dread to think what is going on over there.

Speaking of the house getting robbed, I came home for lunch the other day and had the fright of my life when I had not even put my key in the lock and the front door swung open. I stood frozen on the doorstep for a couple of seconds thinking ok, you clearly forgot to deadlock the door before you went out. It wasn't actually open so hopefully it's ok this time. Which didn't actually make me feel any less like throwing up, but it was nice to know I was still in control of my brain.
Then I heard noises from inside my house.
Looking back on it, it astounds me that instead of running the fuck away like a sensible person, I advanced into the house. Perhaps it was the result of deep-seated anger left over from the first robbery; if someone had come back for more I was going to smash them so hard in the face with whatever came to hand (dismantled stripper pole? perfect) that their head would have resembled a raw beef joint.
Luckily, if a little anti-climatically, it turned out to be a double glazing man turning up unannounced to fit our second set of new back doors. Which was quite nice, in one way, but I really, REALLY wish the letting agency wouldn't just give people a key to our house and let them come round with no warning - especially because our contract states we need to be given 24 hour warning.
Still. We got new doors, and I didn't actually get raped or killed or have ANOTHER laptop stolen - and if I had, at least I would have been on the insurance this time.

While we're on the subject of getting raped and killed - I write such charming blogs, don't I? - I would like to announce formally to those who may still be wondering, no, I am not missing, or dead, despite what you may have heard between six and eight o clock on Friday evening.
I am aware that a lot of bad things have happened in the area recently, and that I am fairly small and pathetic, even for a girl, so would hardly be impervious to attack. I am also grateful that I have friends and a boyfriend who would notice and act quickly if I were to genuinely be missing, and I appreciate that this could mean the difference between my life and my death.
But it does amuse the hell out of me that I was reported missing to the police, the hospital, and even my parents, apparently before it occurred to anyone that PERHAPS I WAS IN A PUB.
To the people involved: once again, I understand your concern, I am grateful, yes I should be more militant about charging my phone. But from my point of view; it is pretty funny.
It's an interesting evening when you get home from work and your housemate says "Oh, it's you!"
"Well, yes... I do live here."
"Everyone's looking for you. You might want to call them."
"Everyone like who?"
"Catherine and Dave."
"Ok."
"And your parents."
"What?!"
"And the police... and the hospital."
"Oh, for fuck's sake... not again."

To be fair... last time I was actually working late.

Anyway. I really need to go to bed. Hopefully you have been suitably entertained by my rantings about offices, weird noises, hypothetical break-ins, and everyone thinking I was dead, again.

If not, balls to you. I'm going to bed anyway.

So there.

Another one bites my ass...

2007-10-02T17:39:00.000Z

'Let go' again... I know it's the nature of temp work but it would be nice not to feel like a used sanitary towel once in a while. Oh well. IT WAS BORING ANYWAY. Yeah I hope you're reading (I really don't, I've got to work there another two days yet). You don't need to call customers TWICE in a single day just because your temps are actually competent human beings and have already got through their whole workload by lunchtime. Not enough work? Don't hire so many temps. No wonder the pay was good.

Anyhow, no point moping, so I'm going to start bollocksing on about one of my other favourite subjects; university. Or, more specifically today, Freshers Week.

Freshers Week adds a few interesting decorative touches to my locale. The parking meter being attractively veiled by a polystyrene tray of mushy chips; the cars sporting fashionable orange cone hats; interesting crusty patches on the pavement; garlands of students hanging off the cash machines all along London Road, weeping at how much of their fresh new student loan they have spent on alcohol in the last forty eight hours. It's beautiful, it really is.
But despite all this beauty blossoming around me, I do have one complaint: SOME PEOPLE OUT THERE ARE GOING TO HAVE TO ACCEPT THAT IT IS NEVER, EVER, GOING TO BE ACCEPTABLE OR RIGHT FOR THEM TO WEAR MINISKIRTS. I'm serious. STOP IT. RIGHT NOW.
I think I'm going blind. Have some decency, for Christ's sake.

True or False: Growing Up

2007-09-28T07:21:00.000Z

So it turns out some of that stuff people tell you you'll do when you grow up... well you really shouldn't have denied it so vehemently because they're laughing at you now.

In the last few days, I have discovered:

My room really does look better tidy, and I'm actually quite good at keeping it that way.
I am quite capable of doing the washing up BEFORE it reaches critical mass.
People not putting stuff in the bin/sink/back on the shelf IS annoying.
Freshers will start to look really, really retarded (this worries me because next year I will be one, and hope I don't have to act as stupid, slutty and dangerously drunk as them).

But all that stuff about vegetables? That's rubbish. They're still gross.
Although I have reluctantly been eating the mushrooms in my Penne Marco Polo at Bella Italia recently... but in my defence, they look like duck, they're covered in plum sauce, and if you eat them in a certain way that involves your teeth and not your tongue, you can't taste the fucking things anyway.

In any case, I'm off to watch the anime channels while I eat my breakfast, because I discovered last night that I do actually have access to the anime channels, and this made me a very happy little geek.

This just in:

2007-09-26T13:29:00.000Z

Turns out the best way to cheer yourself up during a day at work is to come home at lunch time and watch that episode of Scrubs guest-starring Matthew Perry, better known as Chandler from Friends.

The highlights being:

"I was covered in bees!"

and the classic,

"I love this moment so much, I wanna have sex with it."

However, what with having to go back to work, oh, exactly one minute ago, and babysitting tonight, I don't think I'm going to have many of those moments today. Unless I come home and down the bottle of fruit cider that James conveniently left here on Monday.

Hmm.

Robin Williams...

2007-09-24T19:27:00.000Z

Have you ever watched any of Robin Williams' stand up comedy? Well if not I highly recommend it.

Right, I gave you a convenient break to go and do your homework there but I bet none of you did it. I'm going to carry on as if you did anyway though so nuts to you.

This man is Mrs Doubtfire. He is Jack. THIS MAN IS THE GENIE IN ALADDIN, MY CHILDHOOD HERO. (Totally). And he is NOTHING like you would imagine him.

I just wanted, really, to post this bit where he discusses having Bill Gates on a dollar bill.

"Bill when did you realise you were trying to create a monopoly?"
"Monopoly's just a game my friend, I'm trying to control the fucking world!"

Excellent.

That time again...

2007-09-23T10:15:00.000Z

So once again, the Freshers bandwagon rolls around (has it been that long already?) and once again I am not on it. Which makes the mountain-esque pile of club fliers coming through my letterbox all the more annoying. Incidentally, I have taken to shovelling them back out of the letterbox onto the doorstep in a vain attempt to deter repeat offenders; I don't think this is going to work, and the next stage of my villainous plan is to sit under the letter box and wait for the next unfortunate bastard to come along and try to violate my door with his worthless slips of paper, set them on fire the second they come into sight, and then push them back out onto his feet. Surely this can't be counted as arson as it's taking place on my property? Although technically I'm renting so I suppose it's still not a great idea. Oh well. A girl can dream.

Freshers week also means that navigating home on any given night of the week down London Road becomes something of a challenge, trying to avoid the tarted-up bands of girls who, I depressingly realised last night, are younger than me, and the hungry-looking bands of boys staring at said tarts, and of course all the random splashes of vomit and trickles of tramp urine (40% alcohol content or higher), add their own touches to the challenge. Doing this while you yourself have been drinking is even more irksome and not to be advised.

Don't listen to me. I'm just grumpy because I have to wait another year to university. And don't even know if I'll get in, which, believe me, is killing me.

As if Freshers week wasn't enough (aren't I a fucking ray of sunshine today?!) the Boat Show is currently exerting its annual death grip on Southampton. Don't worry, Boat Show. It's not like anyone actually LIVES here and needs to get on with their LIVES or anything. We don't need to be able to drive at over two miles an hour. We don't need to be able to park anywhere. It's fine. We'll just lie down and play dead til you've finished showing off your floating temples of sickening wealth, then when you've packed up and gone, we'll get to our gnarled peasant feet and go about our miserable mud-grubbing lives, wallowing in our own muck and mating filthily with people who share an umcomfortably high percentage of our DNA. That's fine. Really.

Anyway, as I need to get ready to go out, I shall leave you with this, from my good friend Ryan, who has just concluded an exuberant weekend of birthday festivities including fish and chips, a wang, the Alex, the Dungeon, a jazz club, some rabbits, and an Indian restaurant at half two in the morning:

Me: You are a bad man.
Ryan: Jesus was a bad man, I'm just misguided.

That's all folks.

Like YOU could think of a better title.

2007-09-18T18:23:00.000Z

It occurred to me today that it is probably about time I said this, even though there's not a specific person in the whole world I am saying it to:

FUCK you, world. You know what, I've been doing this daily grind thing for a lot less time than a lot of people but it's not for me and I'm not going to give up and sit there at my desk thinking "one day I'll do something else" and gradually dying of coffee poisoning. I am going to do exactly what I want to do, so in your face. People tell me you don't make any money from it but balls to them. Some of the lucky bastards out there living my dream have more money than the QUEEN. So screw you and the £12,000-a-year horse you rode in on.

I'm going to be a writer and there is nothing you can do about it.

Aha.

The weirdest office problem ever.

2007-09-14T17:02:00.000Z

Somebody in my office smells exactly like Peter and it is driving me NUTS.

It's hard to describe but it seems to be a subtle blend of the smells of ham sandwich, houses inhabited by people who keep horses, and sleepiness.

My head hurts.

I need to go to bed

2007-09-13T23:04:00.000Z

"I've been turning this over and over in my head like some kind of horrible... horrible pancake."

Watching Peep Show at 1.15 am makes me laugh so hard I think I might wee.

AAAAAH

2007-09-10T14:34:00.001Z

I HAVE A JOB, I HAVE A JOB, THANK FUCK FOR THAT I HAVE A JOB

£7.50 an hour, baby. Don't get much better'n that.

Fish love

2007-09-10T10:22:00.000Z

Ok, so... my two fish are getting on pretty well. I keep checking on them, to make sure they aren't killing each other, and I keep finding them snuggled up with each other in a corner (if a round tank can be said to have corners... which of course it can't...) as happy as can be.
Which is a relief, but also, I hope they don't have babies, because they tend to eat them, and that's not very nice. And much as I may enjoy keeping fish, I really don't intend to set up some kind of breeding factory in my bedroom. That's just kind of creepy.

Enter the Fish

2007-09-09T14:30:00.001Z

Just to announce the acquisition of my new fish:

Dr Norris T. Fishington, a small Sarasa Comet who, so far, has showed no signs of intending to eat Nugget, despite her appetising name.

My army is growing! Soon victory shall be mine. Those who consider themselves my friends, fear not; when the revolution comes, I shall ensure your deaths are quick and painless.

Dear Diary... you know where you can shove it.

2007-09-07T13:04:00.001Z

Here is a list of things I am fed up with when it comes to the whole employment game:

1: People not calling back.
2: People giving you the wrong email address.
3: Having to pretend like you aren't going to university next year in such a way that if they find out, you can categorically say you didn't lie about it.
4: Getting told that having a driving licence and a car would be useful. Really? You mean my life would be easier if I didn't have to rely on public transport that is flaky, at best? YOU DON'T SAY!
5: Filling out application forms with EXACTLY the same information that is on my CV, despite the fact that I literally just handed over a copy of my CV.
6: The fact that, the second you have the balls to stand up and say, "you know what, just because I'm a temp worker doesn't mean I have to sit here and take this crap from you," (in not so many words, obviously), the work suddenly, mysteriously ceases to pour in.
7: Calling someone about a job and getting their PA instead, who sounds really confused, and then realising there's a distinct possibility that you just let someone know their job is history. My bad.
8: Meeting your last employer on the street and not getting so much as a sorry. Yeah thanks. You didn't fuck me over or anything. Not at all. I had nothing against you, because that's how business works, but let's be fair here, your company pays out less a month for a worthless temp, and now I have no job, and no income. Cheers for the sympathy, I'm sure.

Sorry. Once again, I AM AWARE that talking about this stuff on the internet is bad form. But I am having a REALLY bad day, which is threatening to imminently become a REALLY bad month, so I'm going to allow myself this little bitch.

Note to any potential employers: I AM JUST LETTING OFF STEAM. I do not bitch about employers. It is inappropriate. This blog thing is purely for shits and giggles. I won't even post anything if I find out the CEO has been paying for Thai ladyboys on the company expenses. Honest.

I'm nice like that.

Employment Plane! Or, You Won't Get That Joke.

2007-09-07T00:57:00.000Z

I have made one discovery about job hunting: the SECOND you decide to go to university next year, it all goes to shit.

Telling an agency that you're planning on going to university next year is like telling someone you have AIDS whilst trying to persuade them to have unprotected sex with you. (Not that I've ever done that - I'm just presuming.)

RAGE.

Catherine says hello. She is in my bed watching Dylan Moran.

2007-08-30T21:21:00.000Z

Did you know that there are still people in this world who trust Microsoft Word's grammar check over their own knowledge of the English language - and, more importantly, over MY knowledge of the English language? I am a writer, after all, I think I deserve a little credibility here.

Also, camping. Is awesome. Just so you know. I have some very interesting tan lines (on my thumb) and some even more interesting burn lines (in random shapes on my back and stomach). I have a lot of bags full of sand.
However! Camping holidays DO NOT, repeat, DO NOT, benefit from a phone call half way through saying you've lost your job.
Now, I'm well aware that it is incredibly bad form to talk about your work on the internet nowadays, but considering I'm a temp, and rarely enjoy my work (prospective employers: do you really think your own employees enjoy their jobs? oh please) because, by definition, I am utterly replaceable and disposable, I'm not particularly worried about getting - as the kids say - Dooced.
But I will say that I'm fairly disappointed to have found a job I actually liked, in a field I considered myself incredibly lucky to have got a chance to gain experience in, and to then have been demoted to receptionist and PA level and be utterly ignored by people who had in the past valued my opinion and knowledge, and to THEN be told, with no notice, whilst on holiday, that I wasn't needed at all, was a little upsetting. And to then be told to hand my key in at the agency and collect my various bits of desk litter from the agency, instead of going in myself, and picking it up and saying thank you and goodbye graciously - as, I might add, I would have done - was adding insult to injury, somewhat. But then, I have always known that in being a temp you have to make certain sacrifices. Such as your self-respect, and your worth as a human being.
You know, little things.

In other news, though, application for university looms, and I could not be more excited. I have passed the 20,000 word mark on my book, and have begun to seriously think about how to go about getting an agent, etc. I got a new haircut, and am happy with it, and am considering getting more stuff done to it. I am sleeping in the most comfortable bed I have ever experienced.

So, apart from the whole job frustration (which I suspect is just a feature of life in general), and the INCREDIBLY disturbing dream I had last night about ghosts using mirrors and other reflective surfaces to harm the living... it's all good.

Giggidy.

El Oh El

2007-08-07T17:44:00.000Z

Heh.... heheheh.

POOR TASTE ALERT

2007-08-06T19:33:00.003Z

"I'm going to become a fundamentalist."
"What religion?"
"Whichever one means I'm most better than you."

Feminism, or, Am I The Antichrist?

2007-08-06T07:49:00.000Z

Where did all the sexism go?

Ok, I could be missing some gigantic important point here, and please don't hesitate to tell me if I am. But where exactly is all this oppression?

It seems to me that the remaining sexism is all quite high-level stuff, that not everybody will have to deal with. Men in big jobs earning more than women in the same big jobs, that kind of thing. Which, yes, I agree, is wrong and there is no reason for it to still be the case.
But in everyday life, I don't find myself being oppressed left, right and centre, as some people seem to imply we are.

I moved out of home at eighteen, after working for a year, and did all this stuff by myself (I know, brag, brag, brag) and not once has somebody told me I couldn't do it. Somebody once told me I should go home, but certainly not for sexist reasons - because Christ knows I had worked harder for it than he had. Nobody's ever condescended to me. Nobody has ever expressed surprise that a girl could do such a thing. Nobody has assumed how hard or easy it may have been for me.
I do not find myself overlooked or undervalued in the workplace simply because I have breasts, and an 'inny' rather than an 'outy' (as it were). I do not find that people - by which I mean men - treat me as if I am less intelligent (despite the fact that I'm blonde, as well as being female), or more fragile, than them. I don't find that I am excluded in social circles by value of being female - indeed I have as many male as female friends, and often find them less judgemental (not of me, I must point out - just generally).

In fact, you know what, I'm going to tell you something that I've learned from talking to a lot of men:

THEY LOVE WOMEN.

No shit. They really do. Men love women. Even gay men love women.

Men love the way women smell, the way they look, the way they laugh. They love the way they talk, and the way they walk, and the things they do. If you don't believe me, just ask one. They can speak for themselves.

A lot of women seem to find it offensive, now, when their partners or even male friends try to leap to their rescue all the time, but I don't understand that. I don't care what you say about modern enlightenment or the fact that we live in a different age, men have a basic instinct to protect, and that is all they are doing. Take it as a compliment that they think you're worth protecting. And you know what, I bet if any of them get hurt, even just get a little cut, you're right there administering the basic first aid, because women have a basic instinct to mother things. We are basically animals; however high-minded we get, whatever spirituality we practice or preach, when it comes down to it we are ruled by basic instincts that far predate our current rung on the evolutionary ladder. Girls, tell me you've never watched your boyfriend do something really manly - fix something in his car (preferably something where he gets all oily), or put up a shelf, or cut some wood - and thought "Yeah, I would." Don't tell me you think a man arranging flowers is just as sexy, because you're lying through the teeth of your instincts and you know it.

For all we might think we can complain about men stereotyping women, we do it quite a lot too - and nowadays, it's become increasingly fashionable to stereotype men in an incredibly negative way. Stupid, lazy, crude - hell, we even stereotype them as being sexist, which is both ironic and incredibly hypocritical. Just look at popular culture; it's full of blundering men, tolerated by secretly brilliant housewives. Homer Simpson. Peter Griffin. Tim 'the toolman' Taylor. It's everywhere. Do you think these stereotypes do anything to change this?

And another thing: a lot of the stereotypes are pretty accurate. Men can have issues expressing their emotions. What a surprise. It's hardly encouraged, is it? Ladies, do you like seeing a man cry? Would you make him feel like it was ok if he did? Right. Men can be 'possessive' or 'jealous' - it's because they're protecting you. Sure, you might not need it. But it's his instinct to do it, so at least be nice about it.
And as a woman, I can tell you I probably fit a lot of stereotypes. I can be a bit airheaded. I make funny little squealing noises when I'm tickled, or when there are bugs near/on me. I am helplessly drawn to cute fluffy things. I fiddle with my hair a lot. I overanalyse things. I am hopelessly forgetful. I'm not particularly career driven or ambitious; my overwhelming desire in life is to be happy and to have fun. (On the other hand, I am violently anti-having children... so I don't tick all the boxes just yet.)

Is it anti-feminist of me to enjoy cooking a meal for Dave, or giving him a massage? Is it anti-feminist of me to enjoy getting dressed up in a dress with a fancy hairdo for an evening? Is it anti-feminist of me to enjoy going dancing? Is it anti-feminist of me to like the fact that people think I am attractive? No, it isn't. It's natural. It's not anti-feminist to enjoy doing nice things for the person you love, and it's not anti-feminist to enjoy your own sexuality.

Finally, I'm going to really stick my neck out here and say that I sort of (i.e. I only formulated this idea a matter of minutes ago) believe that much of the anger women feel towards men, when they do feel it, is not because of anything men have done - it's because women feel, deep down, that they have it worse than men on a very basic level. It's nothing to do with salary or maternity leave or being able to go to a strip club. Women are pissed off because they have to have periods; because they have to carry the baby around for nine months; because they have to squeeze it out and because, traditionally, they can never escape from the role of mother - and, while they may not even want to do so, it doesn't seem fair that a man is much more able to just run off and father more sprogs.

Basically, even if rights were completely equal, I think there would be this divide between men and women. So yes, let's just get the wages thing sorted out, but then can we please accept: men and women are different, because they are different. Trying to be the same is stupid, and pointless; there needs to be a balance of male qualities and female qualities. Men and women are good at different things, and we need to get on and do the things we're good at, so stuff will work.

There! I said it! Oh, I am in for it now. Better start running.

If anyone needs me, I'll be in Mexico.

This is your homework:

2007-08-02T23:29:00.000Z

Ok, go to YouTube and look up Daxflame, if you haven't already come across him.

This kid has inspired me to get a YouTube account and contemplate posting videos, and possibly embedding them here.

Because, you know, apparently you can get famous from being retarded now. Which suits me down to the ground.

And I'm prettier than him, so I'd be even more famous. Retarded plus boobs equals marketing gold! Victory will be mine.

More comedy nuggets from yesterday:
"Alright boobies!" (as a greeting)

Home for lunch

2007-08-02T11:59:00.001Z

Thank you, American Beauty, for this quote which I would dearly love to write on an exit interview form for a job I didn't like:

"My job consists of basically masking my contempt for the assholes in charge, and, at least once a day, retiring to the men's room so I can jerk off, while I fantasize about a life that doesn't so closely resemble hell."

Although obviously I don't do that. And if I did, I wouldn't be doing it in the men's room.
Anyway.

Another American Beauty quote (not that I'm sitting here reading through the 'memorable quotes' sections of random films on IMDB, or anything) which makes me wish someone would say "Well at least I'm not ugly!" to me:
"Yes, you are. And you're boring, and you're totally ordinary, and you know it."

Also, today, I got home and started getting changed. I took off my trousers, and noticed some odd green markings on my leg. It took me a few seconds to figure out what was going on.
When I got in last night, I had got undressed, and sat down at the desk briefly to check my emails. It was taking a while to load; so in the interim, I wrote the lyrics to 'Spiderpig' on my leg.
It takes a special kind of person, you know? Jeez.

Today's comedy gold nugget - Dave, upon seeing a small Yorkshire Terrier.
"Ooh look. A kebab."

Rug.

2007-07-30T22:12:00.000Z

Just so we're clear on how absolutely, totally cool I am, I'm going to give you an example of my coolness.

Today, I came home from work, and... carpeted my room.

Now, I'm pretty sure you expected me to say something like "watched a Dylan Moran/Bill Bailey DVD", "ate some pasta", "went to the pub". But no! I came home, and barely had time to change out of my stifling work clothes before I was down on the floor, putting my back into it (ooh er!) and carpeting the living shit out of my room. Oh yeah. Go me.

Considering I am a nineteen year old girl with only just enough muscle power (ha!) to lug the carpet up the stairs in the first place, let alone lift stuff out of the way in order to tuck the edges under the furniture, and I have no experience of carpet-laying and no real inclination towards DIY, I think I did a pretty good job. Obviously all I have done is cut strips of old carpet and lay them down on the floor. But I'm proud of myself, and that's what matters. Now I have carpet from my old house; I have my old bed; I have a whole load of my old stuff back, stored in a whole load of my old cool storage things, and my bedroom looks fresh, and tidy, and modern, and cool, and most of all comfortable and warm (thank you, psychological and heating efficiency effects of carpeting). I also have a rather large quantity of chocolate. So I'm feeling quite cosy and at home right now, which is nice, considering my mum has just headed back up north after a very pleasant week of hanging out with her in the evenings.

I think things really are starting to look up for me. It feels great.

Also, today, Dave and I went to see the Simpsons Movie. And yes, I am going to quote the bit you think I'm going to quote.

Spiderpig, Spiderpig
Does whatever a Spiderpig does
Can he swing
From a web?
No he can't
'Cause he's a pig
Look out, he is the Spiderpig.

Ha!

Other comedy gold from today:

"They do! Babies do have gills! Otherwise how do they breathe?"
"They get oxygen through the umbilical cord."
"No they don't! They're in water, water is made of oxygen."
"Water is two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. And babies categorically do not have gills."

Besides, it's not water, it's amniotic fluid. It's basically made up of goo. Womb goo.

Time to stop talking now, I think.

SPIDERPIG!

Don't get much stupider'n that

2007-07-26T15:47:00.000Z

Number one on the list of retarded things to do:

Get your head stuck under the bed in an incident involving clothes, hair, and a spring. Add a sprinkling of dust, and wait to see if you'll manage to escape like a sneaky ninja, or die alone under a broken, creaky bed, because your housemates never know if you're in or not anyway.

Go me.

Haunted by sharks.

2007-07-21T10:24:00.001Z

Ignore the title.

May I just point something out here? Because I think this is important.

J.K. Rowling is richer than the Queen.

That is absolutely, 100% true. J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter books, is richer than the Queen of England.

They must have met, you know? Because the Queen likes to meet people who have actually earned their money by being good at something. I wonder what the dynamic was like. Who bows to who when that much money is involved?

"I am the Queen of England. I have a long and distinguished family line. I also have lots of money, thanks to them. And a big castle or five. Bow to me."

"I am J.K. Rowling. I have literally unbearable amounts of money. I have so much money, it makes me sick to my stomach. But I still love it. Every child in the world worships me. And all your family ever do is shag and kill each other. Come on, get bowing."

Awkward.

BRAIN SPASM

2007-07-18T13:16:00.000Z

YouTube makes me ANGRY.

I just watched the last bit of the last episode of Scrubs...

WHAT THE FUCK?! WHAT THE FUCK MAN, WHAT THE FUCK

ASLDKFJALSDKJFHABS;FJAWOIEPURTAUIEHGAJKHFAKSJPAWOIEPRUALKSHFALSKJ;ALKJSDFAOIPE

Just fucking get married and have babies and live happily ever after already, for Christ's sake. And not to those other gimps. To each other. PLEASE.

Because if you don't, I have wasted the last several years of my life watching Scrubs... for NO REASON..

Honestly. I don't usually care about television. At all. But this is like if Ross and Rachel hadn't got together in Friends... and we all know, that would have made so, so many people kill themselves, it probably would have solved the world's population problem.

Eurgh.

2007-07-18T01:28:00.000Z

There is a reason why I should not read xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx stories on the internet, and the reason is called xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.

And I am not kidding. If you don't want to really, genuinely throw up, all over the place, in a big sticky mess: DO NOT be a smartass and look it up. I am totally not kidding. Including you, Dave. I know I said this about the depleted uranium babies (the rest of you: DON'T) but this time I MEAN IT.

Excuse me while I go and bleach my insides... with fire.

______

EDIT:

You know what? It was so bad, and I so genuinely did not want all of you to experience this, that I came back and deleted the author and the story title.

Censorship, I know... but it's for your own good.

And no, no matter how much you badger me, I will NEVER tell you what it was.

It's better this way.

Francophone/Francophile

2007-07-18T01:11:00.000Z

You know that feeling, when someone says something to you, an insult, or a smart-ass remark, and you have nothing to say - no witty comeback, no scathing remark, no nothing - and then, hours later, it comes to you, and you wish that you were double jointed so you could kick yourself right in the ass?

The French actually have a phrase for that - "esprit de l'escalier", or "Spirit of the Stairway", so named because the smart remark comes to you after you've left the party and started down the staircase.

This fact goes some way toward restoring my faith in the French.

Only a little way though. I mean, they can't even come up with a solid reason why they call us 'les rosbifs'.

(Pricks.)

Disclaimer: kidding!

Also, having three novels on the go - writing, not reading - is a silly idea. Because you have an idea, and haven't got a fucking clue which novel it works with.

Blah.

DANGER, DANGER!

2007-07-17T10:18:00.000Z

If you are a Harry Potter fan, and you do NOT want to know who dies, and read the epilogue, before the 21st, I would advise you to NOT click on...

this link. The link... of DOOM.

I know who dies. Making me the victor. Aha.

EXCEPT! That the list of people who dies, and some other statements in the main text of the webpage, DO NOT match up to the epilogue... at all. Some bits do though. And to be fair, the photos of the epilogue are more convincing than the text of a website.
So.
I win.

Ha.

Fuk thu Dikshunerry

2007-07-12T23:24:00.000Z

Read this first.

Far be it from me to chase literately-challenged people down the street waving my arms like a crazy person and screaming "Identify yourself, science-dodging cow-human!" (which, although not entirely relevant in this context, is my new favourite phrase), but the fact that people are ACTUALLY considering this reform makes me hurt deep down inside.

I don't think I have ever read a more horrifying BBC article. And I've read all those scary ones about global warming, and everything.

Quite frankly, I am allergic to spelling errors. Grammatical errors, too. Syntax errors. Just errors in general. I am hideously allergic to them - to the extent that I don't have to even see the glaring error, I just start to itch the second I see the offending page - and see no reason why they should exist. Spell-checking is ridiculously easy. As far as I'm concerned, one tiny spelling error on a website throws its entire credibility into question. And to read a BBC page which is literally 50% composed of this 'simplified spelling' English, which I shall hereby be referring to as 'Retardese', makes a small but powerful part of my brain burst into flames of spontaneous and complete rage.

At risk of further aggravating this neurological condition, I proceeded to read the glossary which the article links to. You can find this here.

Now, listen carefully. For your own wellbeing, I strongly suggest that none of you ever, EVER use any of these spellings, even in jest. Because if you do, I promise you this: I will hunt you down. And I will kill you.

What this idea says is "As a society we are becoming too lazy to teach our children how to spell." This is not an idea for the betterment of humankind. This is not a treaty on global warming; it is not an effective policy against child abuse; it is not useful in any way, shape, or form. It merely justifies every single awfully-spelt forum post every dumbassed 13-year-old has ever spewed out in a fit of adolescent self-importance.

Of course, once you start spelling everything phonetically (or 'foneticly', as I'm sure these idiots would insist), you come up against some rather obvious issues. When you spell 'their', 'they're' and 'there' phonetically - which I would assume would be 'ther' or something equally stupid-looking - how do you differentiate between meaning? Don't start on at me about context, either. Leave context out of this. I don't care how relevant context is; bad spelling is bad spelling and that is the end of it. Words have different spellings for a perfectly good reason. Not to mention that I think changing the spelling of words hides the original etymology of the word; and while I'm sure that many children have no interest in this (and that most of them don't even know what etymology actually is), it is a huge shame for those of us who actually give a crap about the language we speak.

And now, to my favourite part, where I get to cease the incensed rambling and pick one of the articles apart piece by crapulent piece:

"Homophones, words which sound alike, are spell differently at present, but when represented phonetically would have the same configuration and would cause confusion to the reader. Dr. Gassner has shown great concern about this problem in his "Consistent Spelling," and uses double consonants in words to show difference in meaning."

Yeah. Because that is SO much simpler than just keeping the dictionary as it is.

"If Spelling Reform were implemented, the millions of volumes in public and private libraries would become 'closed books' (without special study) to the children of tomorrow.

My own observations on these points would agree that

'A language requires an adequate collection of various signs for its spoken sounds. English spelling reformers say we need 40 or more phonetic symbols instead of the 26 we have.' (Fairbanks 1970)"

What exactly the fuck does that quote have to do with the fact that if children can't read the language as it is now, they effectively won't be able to read anything that has been published up until now?
I just don't understand how they came up with this argument. It strongly reminds me of the way a vicar will respond if you ask him an awkward question about religion, such as "why should I accept the bible as right, just because it says it's right - surely the Koran can argue the same?" (Which, by the way, is a brilliant question to ask a vicar. They come out with some amazing shit. Then they start sweating and quickly leave the room.)

"After a short study of phonetic print, the reader will find he is able to read and write with perfect fluency."

Yeah. You'll be a fluent fucking idiot. Congratulations.

"It is said that reformed spelling would obscure the etymology of words. But in an approximately equal number of words wrong etymology would be clarified. A phonetic spelling would no doubt give many words a form farther removed from their Latin or other source than the old spelling, but the mass of those who learn the new spelling will also know the old, which will always be available for reference to those who are interested in etymology. The study of the derivation of words is a specialist subject for the scholar. As long as words convey meaning to the ordinary person, that is all he requires from them.

In the 8th Century Alcuin taught the scribes a development of script used by Irish monks. He introduced the small letters of the alphabet. Most of them have a different representation from their corresponding capital letters. [6] These were new characters and Alcuin could be accused of reforming the spelling of his day. He introduced new configurations to each word and we can assume that this was welcomed by the scribes who would find it much quicker and easier to write."

Ok, first off: 'the mass of those who learn the new spelling will also know the old'. Yeah. For a few measly generations. Until the first bunch of kids to be taught only the new spelling become the older generation, and nobody is left alive who has used 'old' spelling. Also, if it's that great, why would it be necessary for people to have ever known the old spelling? Yeah, that's what I thought. 'The study of the derivation of words is a specialist subject for the scholar'. So are you going to teach 'old' spelling at schools? At universities? Will people even be aware that there is an 'old' way of spelling? And how exactly would that work?
The word "ther" in the form meaning "belonging to them", was originally spelt "their" - no, I don't know why either, Timmy, silly oldworlders and their backwards spelling - which probably came from some stupid language like Latin, which as we all know is rubbish...
Also, 'He introduced the small letters of the alphabet... most of them have a different representation from their corresponding capital letters... Alcuin could be accused of reforming the spelling of his day.' Well, no, he couldn't. Upper and lower case are not different spellings. Get a grip. Changing 'anyone' to 'ennywun' is NOT the same as changing 'anyone' to 'ANYONE'.

It should be noted that the fact that somebody, presumably someone quite well-educated, has actually said the following, depresses me more than I can describe with words:
"Learning to read the English language is one of the worst mind-stunting processes that has ever formed a part of the education of any people."
What. The. Fuck. No, it isn't. Nobody says "Oh, if only I hadn't learned to read the English language, which I speak, and read, and write in, every single day of my fucking life, my mind would be so much less stunted!" Conveniently forgetting to mention they would also be what is commonly referred to as 'illiterate'.

"All books in the old spelling would be useless it is said. Those who use the new spelling would also be able to read the old without too much difficulty. Everyone would find it is relatively easy to read phonetic print. One verbalises as one reads. The future generations could apply this ability to reading the old print - they would not have to learn it and spell it - just read it."

Right, so, what you're saying is that, yes, it is easy enough to read words as they are spelt now - but who can really be bothered to learn to spell that way themselves? Not you, that's for sure.

Let's get right to the point, here. This is just plain lazy, on a disgusting level. Schools have now taken over teaching children about sex, money, and manners - all things that children should be taught in the context of real life by people they have an actual connection with, not just in a classroom by someone who is being paid to spew basic facts at them until the bell rings. But in amongst this, there are people who think that teaching the simple spelling of the English language is a waste of time?! I find this hard to believe.
I could read by the time I started infant school. I could outspell my teachers by the start of junior school. I am not the children of geniuses; as far as I know, I was not fed steriods in my baby food, or experimented on by neurologists, or played Mozart while I was still in the womb. I was your statistically perfectly average kid. And yet, I am not too stupid to grasp the spelling of the language I have heard every day since I was born. Perhaps this is because I was talked to (not talked DOWN to, there is a difference) when I was a child. Perhaps because my parents engaged me in intelligent conversation, and talked to me about things that mattered. Perhaps because I was read to, and encouraged to read by myself. Perhaps because I did not watch endless childrens' programmes full of nonhuman things bouncing around babbling unintelligibly. Perhaps because I was taught the necessary manners to sit still and listen at school instead of beating up other kids or dribbling on the table. Who knows. But perhaps these things are what facilitate a child being able to learn, and not the supposed complicated nature of spelling itself. A child can learn anything if you help them to. I notice that it is in England that this is being suggested, where children are falling ever further behind - oddly enough, at almost the same rate that parents become uninterested and university becomes more expensive and reading becomes more unfashionable and children's entertainment becomes more focused on giggling, farting, fluffy aliens who don't even have a language of their own, let alone English (Boobahs, I am looking at you).

I think it is hugely insulting to children for an adult to decide that English spelling is too difficult for them. Perhaps the adults in question would do well to take a closer look at the environment children are being taught in, instead of just dumbing down the subject matter to suit their expectations of today's children.

Also, on a much less 'children-are-our-future, teach-them-well-and-let-them-lead-the-way" mushy kind of level, I just think that a paragraph written in 'New Spelling' looks completely, and utterly retarded, and I could never take seriously ANYTHING that was written in it. I mean, look at the following paragraph from Charles Dickens' 'David Copperfield', in 'New Spelling' ('Retardese'):

Wether I shal tern owt to bee the heerow ov my own liyf, or wether that stayshun wil bee held by ennybudy els, theez payges must sho. To beegin my liyf wiv the begining ov my liyf, I record that I wuz born (az I hav been informd and buleev) on a Fryday, at twelv o clok at niyt. It wuz remarkd that the clok beegan to striyk, and I beegan to cry, simultayneeusly.

If this is what the world is coming to... I want out. Right now.

Sheesh.

Old notebook full of quotes

2007-07-10T00:28:00.000Z

I love finding old notebooks.

"Your face!"
"Your mum's face!"

"Converse One Stars?"
"You have a problem with my shoes?"
"They're not Chuck Taylors!"
"Forgive me for being less emo than you."
"Don't even talk to me! You fail! YOU FAIL AT SHOES!"

"What would you do if you were invisible?"
"Girls' locker rooms! Duh."
"Unimaginative, aren't you?"
"Oh, yeah? And what would you do?"
"Go swimming."
"Why?"
"It'd sketch people right out! I'd just float on the top so there'd be a humanoid dent in the water."
"What a waste of a fucking superpower."

"You fail."
"Your mum fails."
"That your mum joke fails!"
"It's 2am, I thought it was pretty good, considering."
"Your mum's pretty good, considering."

"Son, tidy your room."
"Dad, tidy your wife."

"You like poo porn!"
"Your mum is in poo porn!"

"How about a nice game of hide and go FUCK YOURSELF."

"How about shut up."
"How about your mum!"

"Oh, you are gonna be the first up against the wall when the revolution comes!"

"Papa Lazarou has done for people called Dave what Psycho did for showers, and what American Pie did for flautists."

'Your mum' and 'poo porn' type quotes, courtesy of Fisher and Elliott.

I love finding all this old stuff. And a load of stuff I wrote whilst at my last (really, really boring) office job, including this:

If the word 'mediocre' was a sound, it would sound like this office. Lazy fingers on dusty keyboards. Pointless documents spewing out of an ancient printer. Mindless chatter and halfhearted gossip. If it was a smell, it would be print toner and bad coffee and the lingering ghosts of everyone's fag breaks.

And if it was a physical sensation, it would be the dull, stagnant feeling between my ears, which settles in the second the computer kicks into life.

Whoa. I'm like, totally deep, man.

Rainbow.

2007-07-09T23:58:00.000Z

You've probably, at some point or another, come across the script for this:

Oh my.

Well.

That just shat all over my childhood.

In other news, my head hurts.

Also, as of this Friday, I won't be available for a week. If anyone needs me, I'll be in my room.
(By 'my room' I mean the one six hundred miles away.)

I'm looking forward to going home. Can't wait to see the look of disappointment on my dog's face when he realises that, once again, I have failed to bring Dave with me and my visit is therefore utterly pointless and infinitely tiresome to him. Then I should imagine he will turn his nose up at me and proceed to guilt me into giving him at least a third of my week's intake of food, as per usual.
It's a wonder he's not fat. But then I guess he does spend an inordinately large amount of time eating grass and sicking it back up. Can dogs be bulimic? Who knows.

Anyway... what with it being after 1am, and what with my having decided to train myself to get up at 7.30am (well... I am going to have to learn, apparently), I should probably do that sleep thing I hear so much about.

Blah.

Oh my.

2007-07-05T23:40:00.000Z

You know you're in for a good evening when you get home and your housemates are just about to watch some free-with-a-magazine type porn, involving "gothic lesbians and breast groping shenanigans in the kitchen".

"What is this? A party game?"
"Yeah. Pin the cock on the angel of vengeance."

"Foreplay is the distance from the door to the bed."

"Who would you rather have sex with; Chuck Norris, or Mr T?"

"I must say, there are a lot less shenanigans than I was led to expect."
"Dreadful."

"The fridge has spoken!"
"And the fridge apparently says... 'I heart midget vagine'. Nice."

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I was not physically able to make highly disturbing and inappropriate comments.

Woo!

2007-07-05T07:27:00.000Z

I'm getting way, way ahead of myself here, and I am fully aware of it - but I am thoroughly looking forward to being a student.

As you can see, I have skipped the worrying-over-whether-I'll-get-in stage - it's a writing course, I write all the time, and believe myself to be pretty good at it, my cup runneth over with UCAS points, I have relevant work experience, etc etc. I could go down the "technically I suppose I didn't finish college route" but for the sake of my own mental health, I won't bother.

I am just looking forward immensely to having a break from this big adult responsible life thing. I mean, I know I am probably not a model example of it to begin with. I don't remember the last time I was asleep before 1am, for example. I am quite often known to just eat a plate of plain pasta because I can't be bothered cooking anything else. I am notoriously untidy. But. I have to get up and go to work and stuff. Every day. And it isn't fun, and I've been doing it since I was seventeen, and I am now nineteen, and I would like a break, please. I am looking forward to not being the youngest person around. In fact, I think I will count as a mature student (which is a horrid, horrid thought, but there you go). I have over a year to get everything sorted out - it's only three days into applications for 2008, so I'm getting it done early, which is really very unusual for me - including loans, savings, and not to mention another year to work on my writing. Considering I have only been doing it really seriously since January this year, and have improved immensely in that time, this can only be a good thing. I should also have finished one or other of my current projects by then. You know. Maybe. Perhaps. Ish.

Basically, I am going to get a shitload of money (FOR FREE), spend every day doing something I love, and not have to hear the words "smart casual" for a very, very long time.

YES!

You have NO IDEA how good that feels.

I'm kind of a big deal.

2007-07-02T17:04:00.000Z

Please note:
If you have ever, EVER, posted a MySpace bulletin containing the acronym "pc4pc", there is at least a 99.99999999999999% chance that I hate you. Just so you know.

In completely unrelated news, today I suddenly remembered a film from when I was a little kid, and then that kind of led on to remembering all these other films from my childhood. Leave a comment if you remember any of these.

The Land Before Time.
Fern Gully.
Bedknobs and Broomsticks.
The Pagemaster.
Once Upon a Forest.

Also cartoon series:

Trap Door.
Stopit and Tidyup.
Sharky and George.
The Animals of Farthing Wood.

Now, I'm aware that I am only 19 and my childhood was arguably only a couple of years ago. But it still seems a long time ago, and those films and cartoons are some pretty dusty memories.
What's sad is that, reading through the quotes from them on IMDB or WikiQuote... I remember all of them.

I mean, really. You'd think something a little more useful/interesting would have taken the place of those memories in the intervening years, wouldn't you? Maybe the odd physics formula or maths theorem would have stuck around? The odd chemical equation? At least ONE Shakespeare quote? But apparently not.

Ah well.

Catherine: Do you read the dictionary, or what?
Me: No, I'm just absolutely, ridiculously intelligent.
Catherine: Are you being sarcastic?
Me: You know what... actually, I don't think I am.

Call me Little Miss Modesty, if you will... but I know what 'cadence' means.

Also I think 'The Hokey Cokey' in German, in the style of Kraftwerk (see Bill Bailey; Part Troll) is HILARIOUS.

Du steckst das rechte bein ein,
Das rechte bein aus,
Ein, aus, ein, aus,
Du drehst es andersrum,
Du machst das hokey cokey und du drehst dich herum,
Das ist die ganze sache.
Ja, das hokey cokey,
Ja, das hokey cokey,
Ja, das hokey cokey,
Knie gebogen, arme gestreckt,
Rah, rah, rah.

That is all.

Musings on being a growed-up

2007-06-29T17:10:00.001Z

So this whole being independent thing is a little weird.

Yes, before you ask, it has indeed taken me a little over a year to come to this conclusion. Shut up. It would take its time to hit you too.

And I am talking about real independence here, real living-on-your-own and occasionally ending up a little bit homeless and having to earn your own money and being well and truly screwed if you can't, kind of independence. Not going away to do a nice uni course and having people give you the requisite money for free, kind of independence. I am sure that can be pretty tough too. But I haven't done it so there is little point in me going on about what it is like. Because I simply don't know.

In any case. Basically what brought this on is this sudden sense of amazement I got today that I have managed, on a basic day-to-day level, to keep myself actually alive for the last fourteen or so months. You know? I've had to buy my own food, cook my own meals, put Mickey Mouse plasters on my own boo-boos... ok, no, but you know what I mean. For the last year, I have got up, almost every day, and dragged my ass to work, through wind, or rain, or scorching heat, or the occasional light and rather wussy Southern attempt at a flurry of snow. I have sat there and done my goddamn job, boring and horrible as some of them (although happily not the current one) have been, and I have come home afterwards, and done my own washing, and cooked my own food, and somehow managed to conduct a flourishing social life (and also watch a lot of Most Haunted, Walker; Texas Ranger, and, more recently, House).

Please don't get me wrong, by the way! Independence is a seriously brilliant thing. I live in a house with some pretty awesome people. And many other awesome people knock on the door and come in quite a lot. We quite often convene in the kitchen and have funny conversations which ALWAYS end up with one of us saying something about a giant willy. Also we leave messages for each other in alphabet magnets on the fridge ('benny smells a lot like a monkey from darren') and in the steam on the bathroom mirror ('flaps'). We have barbeques and sing loud songs. Occasionally songs called "Fuck her gently." In the direction of the neighbours' window. At stupid 'o' clock at night. We drink quite a bit sometimes, and do silly things. Dancing around the living room to the music channels, whilst wearing a tambourine around our necks. Dancing on a genuine, professional pole dancing pole which Darren bought for his girlfriend and erected in the living room.
I can cook whatever I feel like. I can go out whenever I want with no warning and don't have a curfew. I can stay out at the Dungeon until 3am on a Wednesday and nobody cares (except me the next morning when I have to haul myself out of bed to go to work). I can stay up typing useless crap on the internet until 5am if I wish (yes, I have done this, yes, realising it was light outside and having to go to sleep was a horrible experience).

Also there are a whole lot of brilliant people around to keep me happy. Including a particularly brilliant person with spiky hair and a sexy black car. And more of a tan than I will ever have. So, please do not misunderstand me when I say 'independence is scary' because I am not really scared, and I am really very happy, and I like people, and I like things, and stuff. I am ok. I am good, in fact, despite admittedly some shitty things happening recently. I like to think I have dealt with and recovered from them admirably.

It is just a little scary that I've been doing the whole grown-up thing for two years now. Two years, people! That's a very long time. I kind of miss doing the whole not-grown-up thing.

It is with this in mind that I gleefully announce that I am applying to do a degree in Writing Popular Fiction at Southampton Solent University next year. So I can actually be a normal 19 year old, at last.
Actually, I will be 20 by that time.
Fuck.
But anyway. Student discounts, here I come!

Also education and blah.

In other news... Catherine is making me lasagne tonight. And then there will be a party.
I heart my life.

More fish food disgust.

2007-06-28T23:34:00.000Z

Ok, the more I think about this fish food/fish issue, the more disgusting it gets.

I mean, it is like me buying a packet of cornflakes (which I don't do, by the way, because frankly cornflakes are shit and there are cereals out there which contain chocolate and other such tasty breakfast foods), and finding a label on the side that says "Now! Made with 30% more baby!"

I mean really.

In other news, 'House' is easily the best program on TV anywhere in the world at the moment. Possibly ever. I cannot stress heavily enough, though, that Walker; Texas Ranger is still a pinnacle of awesomeness not yet seen in the whole of humanity. What with Chuck Norris being the only person in the WHOLE of Texas who can shoot a fucking gun. And the black cop always getting injured, but being fine. Because it's not racism if he doesn't die!

"Yes, we did run over the black sidekick with a truck. The truck may or may not have been on fire at the time. It may or may not have exploded; and this, hypothetically, may or may not have propelled him into the air in a highly amusing, flailing, screaming-like-a-little-girl manner. But he is not dead. So it was technically not racist. Because he's fine. Please file complaints under 'F' for 'Fuck off'."

So... yeah.

Tasty

2007-06-27T17:39:00.000Z

Hands up who here knew that fish food is made out of, well, fish?

Cannibalistic little bastards. I let you stay under my roof...! Etc etc.

"Yes, I really am immature enough to make this joke."

2007-06-27T17:21:00.000Z

As part of my ongoing campaign to stay on top of the news (otherwise known as Common Office-Worker's Addiction to BBC News Website), I came across a page about Gordon Brown and his aides (not to be confused with 'AIDS' - I am not in the business of making allegations about prominent politicians' sexual health). The article, which can be seen here, amusingly refers to them as 'Team Brown'.

Nothing there to cause hilarity, right? Wrong!

First on the list: Ed Balls.

HIS NAME IS MR BALLS. And as the article points out, in delightfully biased BBC fashion, he is the kind of person who says things like "post neo-classical endogenous growth theory." I don't know about you but I'm not holding out much hope for this lot.

Did I mention 'balls'?

Also, did I mention 'LOL'.

...

(Actually, on reading that article again, the BBC really doesn't seem that impressed. And only a week after they published an article about a report which said the BBC needed to be less biased... tut tut.)

Oh dear.

2007-06-25T22:21:00.001Z

The house next door has finally been let, and they have taken down the very distinctive "To Let" sign by which I set my sights for home, and now I don't know where I live.

I expect to spend an embarrassing and frustrating few weeks accidentally walking up to the wrong door.

I should have seen this coming.

Balls.

Emergency o clock

2007-06-20T17:43:00.000Z

The washing up has reached critical mass.

There is nothing left that DOESN'T need washing up.

If only I were less exhausted from a day's hard work (read: lazy). Oh well. Maybe later.

Things that get said in our kitchen:

2007-06-18T21:18:00.000Z

"Abortion cheese." I don't remember why.

I think communication is a really fascinating thing. For instance, even within my house, we have a plethora of methods of communication. Most prominently, our fridge, which is covered in magnetic letters, and those magnetic words you get for poetry or whatever - one of the 'romantic' sets.

The fridge has been used to express a number of sentiments - most notably, for some weeks, "c*nty romantic long gush" (please don't ask - you don't want to know). Recently, though, it became yet another arena for Benny and Darren's ongoing 'smelly' insult war.

This started with Benny writing "Darren smells, from Benny." The other night, I decided to spice things up a bit and swapped the names, so it said "Benny smells, from Darren." Then, a couple of days later it was pointed out that there was a considerable surplus of letters, so I changed it again, so it said "Benny smells like a gay, from Darren." Today, Benny finally discovered this, and changed it to "Darren smells like a wet gay, from Benny."

See? Communication is utterly fascinating.

Also, following a drunken discussion about words which are just funny with no context or explanation, I wrote 'flaps' in the steam on the bathroom mirror. This was instantly discovered and blamed on Ryan, who responded to my gleeful text informing him of these events with "Disgusting! I would at least have drawn a giant cock." Since then, the word 'minge' and more recently the word 'hairy' have been added above my original message. (Note: I do not condone these actions; I simply recount them. Please bear this in mind when deciding whether or not to dump/disown/excommunicate me.)

Also, the other day I withdrew £10 from a cash machine, and someone had written "Hello!" and drawn a little smily face on the note. Which I thought was really sweet. In fact I fully intend to start writing on all my notes - maybe one of them will come back to me, even!

Yes, I'm boring, I know.

Go away.

Modern Feminism...

2007-06-14T08:28:00.000Z

As defined by Dave, in one sentence, following news about new public breastfeeding laws:

"Ok, you can get your tits out in public, but we're still not paying you equally."

My boyfriend is the shiz.

Urinal sculptures.

2007-06-11T23:34:00.000Z

Yep, you heard me.

Observe.

Urinal sculptures? Really? Ok, you find me a guy who wants to urinate in a fucking ceramic orchid.

Sheesh.

I apologise for the content.

2007-06-11T21:58:00.000Z

Ok, I meant it. I really, really do apologise to anyone too young, or innocent, or, well, my mum, if she happens to read this.

I just wanted to recount a particularly amusing rant I had the pleasure of having, hilariously enough, in front of an old woman on the walk home from town with Catherine today.

We had been talking about Quakers, and how Cornflakes were originally developed as an anti-aphrodisiac, and sexual repression in general.

C: The flaw in their argument is the clitoris. If it's not there for pleasure, what is it? It doesn't DO anything else.
J: I think maybe it kind of evolved.
C: For what?
J: To give women a reason to have sex!
C: Haha! How do you mean?
J: Well, there's not much in it for a woman otherwise, is there? 'Great, so, you get to poke my organs from the inside for a few minutes, possibly resulting in me carrying an incredibly heavy squirmy thing INSIDE ME for nine months, and dealing with all the related nastinesses, then having to expel this thing, now the size of a football, out of a hole smaller than a penny, and look after the result of the whole mess for the next twenty or so years.' If that process doesn't at least start with a fucking good orgasm, frankly, I'd feel ripped off.

Again, I'm sorry.

I'M SORRY!

Interesting.

2007-06-09T18:37:00.000Z

It's just occurred to me that my new colour scheme (and sexy heading!) look like the Matrix.

Hmm.

In other news! Today I have spent most of a lovely sunny day - well, I say that, it was on the verge of a storm until about an hour ago - inside, signing up to cool internet things, in a frenzy of geeky joy having watched the video I linked earlier and gotten all excited about Web 2.0. Which is, as Drew so accurately pointed out earlier "Basically a buzz word... meaning AppleMacness and MySpace." But still, it gave me something to do for a day.

Third post in about as many minutes. BALLOONS!

2007-06-09T11:44:00.000Z

This video is proof that I have had the privilege of knowing some of the coolest people on Earth.

How. Cool. Is. That.

Dear Tracey... eeeeeverybody hates you.

2007-06-09T11:35:00.000Z

I'm getting a little bored of having the odd one-minute-long rant, often to myself inside my head, about you, so I'm just going to have one gigantic, seminal rant, right here, that I can refer people to in future if they ask what I think of Tracey Emin.

You get upset when people take the piss out of your accent? Well here's the deal. I am not taking the piss out of your accent, or the fact that you were abused, or even the fact that you constantly look pissed. We are all imperfect. Get over it.

My problem with you is that you have this huge arrogance about everything. Almost all the answers in this BBC Q&A article are either patronising, just plain don't make sense, or are contradictory. "Are you going to be producing any more Christmas cards?" "No, I'm not going to... I will be doing a Christmas card next year of my local church." MAKE UP YOUR MIND.

Also, a filthy unmade bed IS NOT WORTH THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF POUNDS. If it was, I could just sell the contents of my bedroom and never work another day in my life. However, even for the money, I would think twice, because I have some dignity (people who know me, cease your laughing), and frankly would not want to show off any stains. I mean, congratulations, you have bodily fluids, which occasionally escape the confines of your body, and you don't clean them, instead seeing the perfect opportunity to make a quick forty grand! Clever you. Personally, I like to think that people who have any knowledge of me at all are able to deduce on their own that I menstruate, I own a bed, I occasionally drink, and have a sex life of some description, without being presented with the evidence - and that people who don't have any knowledge of me at all just don't care, and certainly wouldn't queue to get into a gallery to examine the evidence for themselves. If there are people out there who would actually do this - well, frankly, they are clearly Tracey Emin fans, and as such I find them slightly disturbing.

Still on the subject of the bed, I don't quite see how it's considered feminist. I wasn't entirely sure, but apparently, feminism is about having the right to be a complete skank and make stupidly large amounts of money from it. Hmm. Interesting. (Lucy... any thoughts, from an educated perspective?) Seriously though, what is it supposed to say? "I have a vagina. You can have sex with it, if you wear one of these, and sometimes it bleeds, which looks a lot like this. It really is very interesting. You will also notice that, although I am a woman, I sleep in an actual bed (albeit an awfully dirty one), as opposed to on a pile of hay on the floor! Clearly I am equal to a man. I am woman, hear me roar!" (Perhaps more appropriate would be "I am Tracey, hear me make common-bodily-function noises.")

Honestly the most positive thing I can think of to say about your work is "She's ok at sewing, I guess." Perhaps you should have stuck to fashion? Although I dread to imagine the kind of thing you would have come up with. Perhaps a hat resembling a used condom? Lovely.

You also said of some nude self-portrait drawings, "I wanted to show that I can really draw, and I think they're really sexy drawings." Let's see what she's talking about: click here.
An example of really being able to draw? The pinnacle of human sexiness? You decide!
Jessica Rabbit was an example of 'being able to draw' and she was a hell of a lot sexier than that. I guess that wasn't "art", though, was it, because it wasn't prompted by years of psychological trauma and abuse, etc etc.

Also, not that I have any involvement in the art world at all, and not that I consider myself patriotic - I certainly don't - but the following quote makes me feel frankly embarrassed at how Britain chooses to represent itself to the rest of the art world:
"Work in progress for [Emin's] 2007 show at the Venice Biennale includes large-scale canvases of her legs and vagina."
Of course. This is obviously the way in which a country which apparently prides itself on its dignity and modesty wants to portray itself to the rest of the world. Silly me.

In the sketch-show that is my brain, there is a sketch featuring Tracey Emin going through her day to day life and proclaiming everything she does 'art'. Allow me to subject you to a sample.

[Spits toothpaste into sink.]
"Art!"
[Removes hair from hairbrush; leaves it on the floor.]
"Art!"
[Eats some cereals; spills them on the table, dripping onto the floor.]
"Art!"
[Goes for a walk; encounters some tramp vomit in a doorway.]
"Art!"

I frequently conclude this sketch/fantasy with a giant foot, a la Monty Python, coming down out of the sky and squishing Tracey Emin like a bug, followed by me popping into the scene and yelling "ART! BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL ART!"

Anyway.

In conclusion: a lot of people have been raped, had tough childhoods, had abortions, had bad relationships, grown up in poor areas, and, god forbid, experienced things a thousand times worse than the things you have experienced. And yet, I don't see many of them subjecting the public to a constant stream of egotistic, poorly thought out, pompously justified and hideously over-priced shit with an 'art' label tagged onto it.

Take a hint.

Thank you for your time.

(And for those who were wondering, the title is a reference to a Dylan Moran thing about bad housemates, the kind who leave notes about you drinking their coffee. "You start leaving your own notes. For instance: Dear Tracey - everybody hates you. Even people who haven't met you yet. Your mum called, just to say, she's so glad she didn't hear from you." Har har.)

Ah...

2007-06-09T11:33:00.000Z

So that's Web 2.0.

'Cause, you know, I was starting to wonder.

On a serious note, though, I think that's a really good video.

Dancing Spleen (har har)

2007-06-08T08:15:00.001Z

2am
Stumble indoors
Realise jumper fell off outside
Fumble with key to get back out
Retrieve jumper
Stumble upstairs
Disrobe
Fall onto bed
Decide to check email
Fall off of bed
Check email
Fall back into bed
Decide to open window
Fall back out of bed
Struggle with window
Decide to write blog.

Hobbit beer garden: awesome.
Drinking games: fun, but only once you've had a few.
Singing back at a guy singing Del Amitri 'Nothing Ever Happens' in the toilets: Funnier than it should have been.
Jesters: oven.
Playing 'I Have Never': Dear Self, please bear in mind before you play this, you have done a lot of stuff, so make sure you have a non-alcoholic drink next time.
Dancing: awesome. Especially when they played ska instead of shitpop.
Stealing someone's cowboy hat: awesome until someone else stole it from me.
Muscles: oww.

Sleep now.

Avast!

2007-06-05T16:21:00.000Z

Right!

Everybody choose your pirate names!

I am 'Blind Dead McJones.'

And make it good, because you only get to choose ONCE.

Capture the Flag.

2007-06-04T15:51:00.000Z

So. Hands up who here has heard of flash mobbing?

Really? That many?

Ok, well congratulations all of you for being so up with things (just in case you didn't know what flashmobbing was, you'll notice I've given you the opportunity, by blogging this instead of asking you to your face, to find out about it on Wikipedia and act like you knew all about it anyway).

Well. In any case, flashmobbing is dead. Get over it.

But! I have an idea. And by 'I have an idea' I mean 'Somebody else had an idea and I'm going to use it (with permission, insofar as it is not copyrighted anyway, of course) because I am just that awesome'.

I fully intend to set up a new tradition in Southampton: Capture the Flag.

And no, I'm not talking about video games. I'm talking about Capture the Flag, played by real actual people, in the real actual city of Southampton. With real flags. Or something that looks like a flag. Possibly one of those little sandcastle flags, to add to the difficulty factor.

I'm quite early in the planning stages (i.e. I got the idea about an hour ago), but so far, this is how I see it going down.

We publicise the event underground, through the usual surreptitious channels (by which I mean, err... MySpace, mainly), collecting email addresses, but not giving out locations or a date.
When we have enough people, we send out an email to all those concerned, giving the date - with a reasonable amount of notice, of course - and the gathering place. Which will be near, but not in, the playing area.
We have a theme. Each team will be either a colour, or a separate theme. You will already have guessed, if you know me at all, that I am thinking Pirates vs. Ninjas.
There will be referees. They will be dressed as whatever the hell they like. Giant teddy bears. The CN Tower. A bottle of ketchup. Whatever.
Communication will be by mobile phone. Referees will have the numbers for the two team captains. The captains will phone two other people, they will phone two other people, etc etc, you see how this works. This is to notify of scores, of time left at regular intervals, of prisoners taken, and anything else of importance, including the end of the game.
We will take a whole lot of really, really stupid photos. If anything goes wrong: we plead the fifth! Or not. I don't really know what that means. We just cite our right to assemble, our right to dress like idiots, and our right to get the hell out of there and regroup, I suppose.

So. Who's with me?

Good luck, Mr Brown.

2007-05-25T17:47:00.000Z

So, Gordon Brown promises to take a tougher stance on bullying, huh?

Right. Let's see your best shot, then, tough guy.

I can't even remember how many times I've heard this now. It honestly makes me wonder if they have any idea what bullying is, or how it happens. From the way they talk about stopping it, you'd think bullying was a teacher formally witnessing one pupil punching another pupil squarely in the face. VOICE OF EXPERIENCE: Not how it happens.

This, just for the record, Mr Brown, is how it goes down:

It starts with one little thing. One teeny, tiny thing, that probably doesn't seem like a big deal at all. Perhaps you wear something odd; perhaps (God forbid!) you do well on a test, or get your homework in on time. Perhaps you are seen conversing with another kid who - GASP! - is not top rung on the popularity ladder. Perhaps you like books, or computers, or video games. Not an issue, you would think, young and naive as you are.

Wrong.

Because somebody notices. And somebody says something; one snidey little comment, one nickname, one quiet, mean-spirited little laugh. And you think, that's odd. They were probably joking. I'll just get on with it.

BUT.

They weren't joking.

And before you know it, barely anyone calls you by your actual name. Not a single class passes without some kind of jibe; not a single walk through the corridor is unmarred by name-calling or tripping or hair-pulling. You simply would not believe the scarring power of the evil looks a group of fourteen year old girls caked in foundation and mascara will give you if you dare to intrude on their private gang time in the school toilets because you actually need to use the facilities. That's not what toilets are for, you idiot! Clearly they are for smoking and gossiping and vandalism. Jeez.

Balls thrown at you in PE. People pushing in front of you in queues. Getting pushed around so often that eventually, if someone told you it was actually possible to walk down a corridor in a straight line, you'd laugh at them. Constantly being laughed at. Constantly being subjected to a stream of criticism, regarding everything about you. You don't straighten your hair? What a freak. Not wearing make-up? Slob. Uniform doesn't even bend the regulations? What are you, retarded?

Of course, there's no point trying to change any of these things. Try to adapt yourself to their apparent idea of what you should be like, and you'll be met with even more scorn. You'll be a laughing stock by the middle of the day. Wearing eyeshadow? Oh look, she wants to be like us! Let's push her around.

And that's not even to start on the physical abuse, which, yes, you can probably do something about - but it'll be locking the door after the horse has bolted. It would be nice to see someone being punished for all the physical abuse they so generously dole out - but by the time they've received their punishment, well, you already got pushed over on the concrete, didn't you? You already had a full-size regulation basketball thrown at your face. You already got slapped for no reason with no warning. You already got your bra pinged (not to mention the insult regarding the size or apparent absence of your breasts). You already got a slice of pizza, fresh from Home Ec, rubbed into your hair on the bus.

There is only so much comfort that punishment of the offenders can offer the victims. They got a detention, or a warning, or a letter home. Brilliant. You know what that will do, though? That will make the whole affair personal. They were just having their fun; YOU got them in trouble. They didn't get themselves into it - let me reiterate that - it was YOU. This is YOUR fault, and now YOU are going to get punished. And if they think you'll get them in trouble again, they'll make it subtle, and you know what? Not quite being able to tell if it's you they're laughing at in the corridor; knowing that they're still calling you that name behind your back instead of to your face; that lasting, niggling feeling that perhaps, wow, they might be right about you being ugly; those things hurt one holy hell of a lot more than a quick basketball smash to the nose, I can tell you.

Complain to the teachers! you cry. Ok. Complain to the teacher, who will either tell you to ignore it, or organise the most horrific meeting you can imagine between you and the offender, who will claim they know nothing of it, and are sorry for any offence caused. As far as the teacher is concerned, there is no problem, they have done their job. Ok, well done. Now off you go home to work on your lesson plans while I head for the bus, knowing I'm going to get the biggest bollocking known to man the second they lay eyes on me. Cheers.

Fight back? Right. You know who gets punished?
The person who started it, right?
Wrong!
Besides, it doesn't seem to have crossed the minds of a lot of the 'teach your kids to hit them back' crowd that although in principle it's a good idea (let's face it, it kind of is), the majority of kids who are the type to get bullied are not the type of kids who relish the idea of physical violence - whether because they are just not that way inclined, or because they are afraid of receiving an incredibly savage beating in response to their attempts to defend themselves.

On the other hand, if you lose your temper and go off on one at them, you will most likely get a telling off for your language. Give yourself the satisfaction of thumping them one, see where that gets you. Exactly the same place. Loserville: population, you. Doesn't matter if the bully gets the same treatment; they will still consider it a victory to laugh at you, being punished for your efforts to be treated like a human being. What right do you have, after all? You are worthless. Nothing. A nobody. You are a laughing stock; a walking entertainment centre. You are a punching bag. A clown to be taunted. A puppet to be toyed with.

I just don't see how you think you're going to make that better by allowing teachers to give punishments - which they probably won't do for fear of a fabricated accusation of abuse, followed by a hefty lawsuit brought on by the parents of the little shit who thinks they have the right to make someone else's life a misery for no reason - and introducing community police support. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but can schools not already call the police if something worthy of the police's time is going on? Or are schools banned from contacting the emergency services in such cases? Do you think a headteacher is going to waste the precious time of policemen or women who, let's be honest, have other things to be getting on with, because someone pulled someone's hair, or 'accidentally' pushed them down a small flight of stairs, or called them a nasty name? I don't think so, somehow.

And yes, ok, very often it ends when your school career ends. But even if you're lucky, and it does, you'll find parts of yourself that you really don't like lingering for years afterwards. Do you know, I still laugh when people tell me I'm pretty? And I don't consider myself a mean-spirited person by any stretch of the imagination, but I cannot tell you how wonderful it is, how vindicated I feel, whenever I hear that one of the people who made my life so miserable at times is now a single mother of two, or addicted to drugs, or living in a hovel, or working as a stripper. And those are horrible things, no matter who they happen to. And I don't like myself for feeling glad they've happened to these people - but still, deep inside, there is that little voice that says, "Look at what they did to you. They deserve that, and worse."

It's not like I have any better ideas. I mean, you know, of course it wouldn't hurt for parents to at least TRY to raise their kids to understand that torturing people is not really a very nice thing to do - and no, I'm not saying it's all the parents' fault, but to some extent it's a perfectly reasonable explanation - I just think, fine, if you want to introduce these measures, I'm sure they will be at least some help in some cases. But please stop acting as if you can make a real difference without far and away more drastic action. Stop holding out false hope to kids who are really, truly miserable. You do know people kill themselves over non-physical bullying, don't you? These are people's lives at stake here, in a very real sense.

I know you're trying to help. But you could at least take a closer look at what you're trying to stamp out - and recognise that it goes a lot deeper, and is a lot harder to catch, than you seem to think.

Intentions

2007-05-24T17:12:00.000Z

This summer, I intend to:

Get something at least faintly resembling a tan in attempt to look healthy for possibly the first time in my life - and to be able to bare my skin next to Dave without feeling and looking like an ivory statue in comparison.
Not burn to a crisp while attempting the above.
Grow my nails long enough to justify getting an actual manicure. And not bite them afterwards. Ever again. I really am too old to be biting my nails now.
Finish my fnucking novel, already. Yes, yes, I know, some people take years or lifetimes to write a novel, and I only started in January. But I'm not a slow writer; I'm just chronically lazy so I need to get over it if I ever hope to write more than one decent thing.
Paint. Lots.
Sell some designs to art trading companies.
Keep Keith (my clinically insane goldfish) alive. This would be easier if he ate the food I put in his bowl, and if he didn't persist in trying to jump out of it all the time.
Speak another language to people for no apparent reason, just to confuse them. Heheh.
Take lots of pictures.
Have a brilliant holiday (although this is guaranteed; there is no way a week's camping in Cornwall could go bad)
Start dance lessons, at last! How long have we said we were going to do this for, Benny?
Keep up healthy eating - but learn how to make it interesting. There's only so long you can enjoy a diet of cereal, pasta and grilled chicken just because you know it's good for you. Sooner or later you need to actually TASTE something.
Start swimming again.
Listen to lots of music. Attempt to fill my mp3 player almost exclusively with happy songs.

So... it's going to be a busy summer, what with working full time as well.
I am looking forward to it immensely. Well, I say looking forward to it... I guess it's already started.

Better get on with that novel, then.

Oh, and one more thing:

DECIDE WHAT I WANT TO DO WITH MY LIFE.

I'm sure I can fit that in somewhere...

Camping extravaganza!

2007-05-21T20:45:00.000Z

And so I return, victorious, from a two-and-a-bit-day camping extravaganza, with what can only be described as:

A 'healthy glow' (pink as a lobster)
A shopping basket.
A model windmill.
'Camping hair'.
A small goldfish named Keith, in a sweet jar. Bonds' Nut Clusters, to be precise.

Observe! The empirical evidence of a brilliant weekend:

The weather, despite being forecast to be shit, was actually brilliant, as proved by this rather glorious picture of yours truly wearing some really rather ridiculous sunglasses:

During our epic scavenger hunt, we came across this:

The tiniest ice cream van in the world! In case you can't read it, the writing on the side says 'Minghella's'. My mum reliably informs me, the company is owned by relatives of the film director, Anthony Minghella. One can't help but think, then, that they could have afforded a slightly roomier van. But, islanders can't be choosers (dear anybody-from-the-island-who-might-be-reading: that was a joke) so I think the 'little van that could' should be applauded for its ice cream selling efforts.

The following picture is one of my favourites from the weekend: Dave, chilling out with Keith, our newly acquired fishy friend (who is sitting next to me as I type.)

I like to imagine the dialogue thus:
Dave: Yo Keith, how you doin'? You like the sunshine?
Keith: ... Fuck off.

Ben masters the new dance move that everybody's talking about - The Sprinkler.

Ben was on something of a roll with dancing, what with having invented 'Fish Raving' only hours before. Videos, hopefully, to follow.

I am the epitome of class.

This looks like some kind of rip-off of the promo shots for 'Skins'.

Some of the more memorable moments included Manley rolling around in the popup child's tent with his third beer at about 1pm on Saturday before we started to set up camp, yelling gleefully "This was thirteen quids worth of pure genius!"
(The tent later became Keith's tent. That's one well looked after bloody goldfish, I can tell you.)

Also, last night, after returning from our slightly (ha!) drunken bus quest to a rather piratey pub, Dave and I went to bed shortly after we got back, then Adam and Ellie went to their tent, and as Ben, Mark and Manley were still moving about getting ready we hear Ellie yell:
"Eugh, someone help me, I can't get out of the tent because Adam's being sick!"
The tent unzips and we hear Adam stumbling about.
Ben calls out, "Adam, are you ok?"
"I'm fine."
"Have you been sick?"
"I'm fine."
"Have you been sick?"
"No."
Followed very closely by *BLAAAAAARORGH*.

Lovely.

All in all, an absolutely bloody brilliant weekend.
Scavenger hunts FTW.

Improvements.

2007-05-17T17:47:00.000Z

About a week ago, I decided to go on some kind of health kick. And here I am, a week later, looking really no different... but I feel pretty good, you know? It's nice not to wake up to an answering machine message in my brain from my body, saying "Right, you little bitch, the second your natural teenage metabolism crumbles, you are SO SCREWED."

So that's good.

Also I stopped biting my nails! Which is a major development for me. I do it every so often, but it usually fails. I am optimistic this time though.

In slightly less brilliant news I am having trouble sleeping, and unpleasant dreams. I know what they're about; I can relate them completely to the thoughts I am having whilst awake. I'm not worried about why they're happening, I know it's natural and common and all that other shit. But it's not helping. I think about it enough while I'm awake; I'd just like to be able to lay my head down on something soft, and close my eyes, and just for a while believe that I was somewhere where I don't have to worry about what happens when you die. Please. Is that so much to ask? I wouldn't have thought so, but who knows.
I'm sure it'll calm down, or at least, hopefully, get less vivid, harder to recall during the day, like most dreams.

I just wish - as anyone in this situation would - that this wasn't happening. In fact, possibly the worst dreams are the ones where it turns out to have been a mistake. And there are the tearful reunions and the soothing explanations and everything else. And then you wake up to a world that still has that hole in it. And you don't want to dwell on it but is it healthy not to? What do you do in this situation? Just grit your teeth through the days when your back just doesn't feel right, through the joint pains and the little niggles and aches, just try to let go and fall back asleep when you wake up at 2am for the third time in the night, sweating and shivering and aching all over? Just drag yourself out of bed through sheer force of will when you wake in the morning and have never felt more tired, when the sunlight streaming in through the curtains has never looked so cold, so clinical, despite the warmth you know in your logical mind is seeping through the room? Cold, all the time. Or too hot. Ravenously hungry or unable to look at food. And you're cheerful and happy through most of the day, and you can go to bed feeling perfectly fine, smiling and snuggling up to someone, but a couple of hours later you wake up and there's that tight feeling in your chest and that heat behind your eyes and you can't wake them up to tell them how you feel because you know the tight feeling will get tighter, shrinking until it becomes a little knot so tight and dense that it implodes into a little universe of worry and anger and fear, and you know that the heat behind your eyes will prickle and spread and before you know it you'll be there again, numb and silently crying and completely paralysed.

The last few nights have been hard. That's probably why I'm up so late. I don't want to go to sleep for fear of not being able to; for fear of the dreams I'll have.

They can hear me, but not see me. Or neither. And I suddenly see everything in my life that I'll never do - even things I don't want to do now. To never be able to fall in love, share a home with someone, get married, get a degree, hold your first child, buy your first house. To not be able to publish my book, be bridesmaid at my friends' weddings, be an aunt or godmother. To never be held by someone again, or kissed, or touched.

I don't know what I believe about the afterlife. Recent events have not encouraged me to make a decision regarding my beliefs or lack of. I just hope, in the mornings when I wake from these dreams and try to swallow the lump in my throat and anchor myself into a world where I am happy, that if there is something after this, it's not the way I dream it at the moment.

Apparently it takes a year for the body, let alone the mind, to recover from the death of a loved one.

If only it were as simple as not eating cheese before bedtime.

Duuuude.

2007-05-10T19:45:00.000Z

Next time Catherine says "Want to come out for an hour" I will know what I'm letting myself in for.

Go out 'for an hour' at seven.
Get in at two.

It was a great night though. So much dancing! So much... sweating, actually. It was very hot in there.
Rock and roll!

I regret nothing!

2007-05-08T17:29:00.000Z

I am going to get shot for this.

"Yeah, kiss it bitch."
"Please... just let me die."

Ok, yes, it's childish (incredibly). Immature (extremely). And probably blasphemous (excruciatingly).

But it's the first thing that came to mind and, damn it, I thought it was pretty funny.

"Oh man, I just shot Marvin in the face."

2007-05-07T19:33:00.000Z

Ok people, we have a lot of ground to cover here so please, try to keep up.

First on the agenda: Laughing at Scientology.

Disclaimer: I do not care if you think this is discrimination. I believe Marmite is nice; I believe Snakes On A Plane is a brilliant film; I believe boots and a dress is a viable fashion choice. You are free to laugh at these beliefs. I am free to laugh at the religious equivalent of a terrible 1950's sci-fi B-movie. Get over it.

So, if you don't have a great working knowledge of Scientology, this is a good place to start. Please at least skim the 'summary' section of this Wikipedia article, or what I'm saying won't make much sense. Not that I can guarantee it will make any sense having read the article, but it might help.

Now, I am not even going to start on Tom Cruise - except to say, if I had humiliated myself that badly on national television, I would honestly go and live out the rest of my life in a hole. On fire. Watching that must have been even more painful for Katie Holmes than giving birth IN SILENCE.

Moving on.

Right. If you've read the summary on the Xenu page, you should be with me on this.
Even as a science fiction script... it's a big steaming plate of poo. Plain and simple.

Ridiculously cliched names, a plane in space, the idea that the decor of modern cinemas harks back to some kind of racial memory of a giant screening room in which the first inhabitants of 'Teegeeack' (Earth, to the uninitiated) were shown a 3D film for 36 days which apparently made them into complete retards who couldn't distinguish between themselves and a thousand of themselves... and a plane in space. The artist's impression of which has the NASA logo on the back.

Sorry. No.

And also, this is only "Incident 2". "Incident 1" occurred, supposedly, four quadrillion years ago. This may not mean much until you consider that four quadrillion years is 300,000 times longer than current scientific thought holds the age of the universe to be.

Also, L Ron Hubbard was an alcoholic, and a drug addict. Would you devote your life to the indisctinct ramblings of such a person?

Zecharia Sitchin on acid would probably make more sense.

Second on the agenda: Life.

I know, I know. A broad net. But bear with me.

I was thinking the other day, it's strange how much tiny little things can affect your minute-to-minute perception of the world.

The fat bald guy in the football shirt who gives you the kind of look that makes you think "How dare you look at me like that, I'm somebody's little girl, somebody's childhood sweetheart" : shitty world.

A passer-by smiling at you and nodding towards the sky and saying "Lovely day, huh?" : wonderful world.

Two little girls dressed up like hookers, probably no older than twelve, sat on a bus stop bench, smoking : shitty world.

The dad in a shirt playing football with his two little daughters in the park : wonderful world.

Coming into your room while the house is empty and stopping dead and thinking "Fuck, something's missing" : shitty world.

Someone bringing you a DVD you lost because it was in your laptop when it got stolen : wonderful world.

A phone call and the words "Are you sitting down, I have some horrible news, I'm so sorry" : shitty world.

Waking up and the first thing you see is someone smiling at you : wonderful world.

Having someone to encourage you to paint and write even when you don't feel like it : wonderful world.

Hearing 'Raspberry Beret' on the radio : wonderful world.

I think you can see which one is winning over at the moment.

I was also thinking, whilst looking through all the saved messages on my phone, about all the things people do that are completely overlooked when people talk about the horrid things that happen in the world.

Do we even notice that people hold each others' hands? That people call just to say hello? That people give each other little cards for no reason, and buy each other little gifts on impulse? That people tell each other they love each other, every single day, just so they know? That people hug their friends when they say hello and when they say goodbye? That they have little nicknames for each other? That they say "You are lovely" or "You look so pretty today" or "I'm glad you are happy" or "You are my best friend" or "You matter"? That they sometimes look at each other at exactly the same time and laugh as if they just shared a thought about something funny?

Because all that stuff does happen. In among all the shootings and the insults and the mean little acts of spite, people are nice to each other for no particular reason, other than that they want to be.

And it's important. It's important that you do all those little things and that you tell the people you love, that you do love them, that they matter to you, that they are worth something. It may seem like you can tell them later. And maybe you will be able to. But please just do it now because you know what, you are never too young for it to be too late and if they don't know now, there is at least a chance that they never will.

So, to all those reading who do those little things for me - I love you. You matter. You are worth something.

Just thought you should know.

Halo memories

2007-05-05T16:58:00.000Z

"Aha! Dr Turd, I presume."
[headshot]

I need to start having Halo DeathFests again. I miss the good old days.

Also, this may not have occurred to any of you, but the song 'Love Shack' is far, FAR more amusing when the word 'shack' is replaced with the word 'sack'. I'm just saying.

I'm sure there was a time when I wrote useful stuff in here.

Nah.

For anyone who's ever had a run-in with the IT department.

2007-05-05T16:18:00.000Z

(Disclaimer: yes, I know some IT helpdesk staff really are incompetent or ignorant or rude. I am generalising. Get over it.)

I remember once last year hearing someone at work spouting off about the IT department. I earwigged in because having worked in IT, I am of the opinion that IT helpdesk workers are misunderstood, underestimated, downtrodden creatures, who really deserve someone to stand up for them.

The colleague in question was ranting because of a server problem.

"They had this message before you even got through, saying 'if you are calling about the server issues, please hang up now, we are aware of the problem and are dealing with it accordingly, thanks for your call' and I thought oh no, you're not fobbing me off like that. So I stayed on hold for seven whole bloody minutes and when I got through and told her what my problem was she said exactly the same! So I went off on one at her about how it was slowing everyone down and it really wasn't on. She starts going well it's not our fault, we're working on it, so I said I wanted to speak to her managed, but he was conveniently on a call. The whole thing is a complete sham."

Right. For anyone who's ever wondered why really competent IT helpdesk staff are a rarity, I'm going to let you in on a little secret:

It's because intelligent, hardworking people who know their shit about computers quite rightly see no reward in sitting there squandering their talents getting shouted and sworm at by ignorant cockbites like you.

I mean seriously. Listen to yourself next time you call the IT desk. Chances are, you immediately come across as thinking you know better than the analyst. Let's remember, shall we, that you are the one calling a complete stranger for advice on what is more often than not an incredibly simple IT problem. And another little secret for you, the more of an asshole you are, the less likely you are to get your problem fixed in a timely manner. And the more likely they are to find your picture on the intranet, or in a database where you thought it was safe, and laugh at it. And do you really, honestly, seriously think that they need another call about a server problem which is affecting literally thousands of people? They know there is a server problem. They know you cannot do any work. They know this isn't terribly convenient for you. They don't need to be reminded. It is all they have heard about all day. They have barely had time to pour their substandard coffee-machine-produced lukewarm piss down their necks, their office is either too hot or too cold, and their manager is in a REALLY bad mood.

Speaking of their manager, your analyst is not just trying to save herself the trouble of a complaint. He really is on the phone, to the server team, in fact, and has been for the last two hours. He's getting shitty with them because this problem is seriously screwing up his service level statistics, and his attitude is hardly hurrying proceedings along. There are seventy two calls waiting, and most of them get dropped because his desk is so understaffed and the other service centre is offline because it was evacuated due to unsubstantiated flood warnings. Oh, and while we're on the subject of the server team, they're the team who - funny enough - deal with servers. If the problem is anyone's fault, it is theirs. The way you talk to the analysts, you'd think they were sitting around, smoking, gazing disinterestedly at the servers they just smashed up with a couple of monkey wrenches and an office chair. This is not the case (much as they may be tempted to smash up the servers and leave you to deal with the chaos alone.) Your analysts is a go-between, a newsreel, a ticker-tape. Stop shooting the fucking messenger, you stupid fucking fuck.

In conclusion: YOU are the reason the IT helpdesk is often so unhelpful. The people who were really good at their jobs quit long ago, because:

You are a mouthy, self-important asshat, and
Because most of your problems, which seemed like the end of the world, could be fixed with a quick reboot, and this drives them to near-suicidal depression.

The people who remain are trying their best to mediate between you (the aforementioned mouthy, self-important asshat) and an uncooperative resolving team who are more concerned with the spelling mistakes in the many angry emails heading their way than the server issue.

So please, shut up, sit down, and know that next time your account is locked out - they did that on purpose. They giggle about it on their lunch break. Even their manager thinks it's funny.

Have you tried turning it off and turning it on again?

I am bad at titles.

2007-05-02T16:14:00.000Z

And not just blog titles, either. I am having even less luck naming my novel than I am writing it, and that's saying something at the moment. The most progress I've made with any aspect of it recently is wasting three rolls of Benny's film on pictures of me pratting about posing for the cover. Now this may sound vain, but I just don't know anyone else who fits the description of the main character even vaguely - short, slim with long blonde hair - so don't start on at me about vanity. I had to stand in. Yes, I could have waited to find another model. In fact I might still end up doing that. But I wanted to feel like I was making some kind of progress - and let's face it, pratting around in a little dress, in a park, in the sunshine, taking daft pictures, is a pretty fun way to make progress.

As is the compulsory glass of Rosé wine in 'Spoons with your photographer afterwards. And the lasagne. And the cake.
Oh, the cake.

Anyway! In other, more Chuck-Norris-related news... today on my lunch break, with the aid of that wonderful invention known as Sky Television, I was able to actually watch a program containing Chuck Norris.
Walker Texas Ranger; I would come up with an opinion, perhaps even a review. Unfortunately, I didn't pay much attention to the actual program, what with being far too busy being amused merely by the presence of the Norris on my TV screen.
Such is my amusement threshold.

Also, I got to go in a hot tub the other night. It. Was. Awesome. I bet you are totally jealous. Go on. Admit it. You are.
Except Dave, because you were there too... but still. Everybody else! Haha.
Although spending an entire hour trying to detangle your hair, at midnight, is not so fun... it was totally worth it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go and tidy my room, which currently resembles the bastard offspring of an Oxfam shop and that beached whale that they blew up.

That is all.

Belated birthday times

2007-04-28T09:42:00.000Z

"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?"
"Two."
"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!"?

The morning after.

2007-04-26T17:15:00.000Z

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.

Curry issues.

2007-04-23T12:07:00.000Z

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!

Gah.

Good times at the Amelia establishment

2007-04-22T09:38:00.000Z

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.

Mullets...

2007-04-19T13:51:00.000Z

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.

Sheesh.

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

Natasha Bedingfield

2007-04-18T08:57:00.000Z

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.

ONE OF YOU IS ENOUGH.

Good lord you make me sick.

Once in a lifetime

2007-04-18T08:43:00.000Z

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.

Yes.

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.

Awesome.

Royal break-up, OH NOES.

2007-04-18T08:18:00.000Z

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.

Anyway.

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:

http://www.thatsweird.net/Pictures/prince_charles.jpg">

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

NOBODY WANTS TO HAVE SEX WITH SOMEONE WHO'S GOING TO END UP LOOKING LIKE THAT! NOBODY! NOBODY AT ALL!
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?

Note:

2007-04-17T10:00:00.000Z

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.

2007-04-17T08:46:00.000Z

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.

Brilliant.

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.