Review: 2007

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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...

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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...

'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

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:

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...

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...

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.

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.

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

"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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

Heh.... heheheh.

POOR TASTE ALERT

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

Feminism, or, Am I The Antichrist?

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:

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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!

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

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

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.

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.

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!

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.

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

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.

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

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."

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.)