Monday, October 24, 2011

If You Squint Hard There Are Still No Jokes Here

Before I start, I know this is a contentious issue and I'm well aware that come the morning I'll have an inbox full of angry messages telling me to "stick the jokes" and asking me if I know what it feels like to lose someone when you're very young. It's inevitable people will be angry with the following opinions and I have no doubt that, having been cast a different lot in life, I'd be one of those very people. The truth is that close proximity to an issue makes you an awful judge of the situation... and it's the very reason I shouldn't be writing this blog when I'm a little riled up. However it's equally true that close proximity to a situation breeds passion for it, and without passion we would get barely anything done that didn't line our pockets generously.

I just sat at a train station with an old man next to me. He had smart shoes on - brown and polished - and navy trousers that looked fairly reputable and expensive. He was wearing a North Face jacket and had an averagely well kept beard. He had open cuts on his face, some starting to scab but others still fleshy pink where scarring was sure to occur. He was sitting on the bench beside me. He got up, walked over to the toilet doors and pushed gently against them. Finding them locked he turned around and gently wet himself. It was audible from where I sat on the bench. You could hear it pattering against his leather shoes, the dark stain creeping out around his groin. When I looked towards the noise, he turned away towards the toilet door.

When the train arrived it was one where minding the gap was a necessity rather than a tourist attraction. The old man leaned at a precarious angle and clutched the open doors whilst trying to get the momentum up to swing his leg on to the train. I asked if he would like some help.

The hurt in his eyes as I asked was excruciating. He politely declined and winced as he moved his limbs into the carriage. He stood proudly the entire journey.

I sat in my seat watching him. Praying that this would never be my father or brother. Wondering when it is that we stop seeing people as men and women, but as old people. Why does no one ever really believe that they will be like this one day? What do you have to do in a life to be this alone when you most need a hand at your elbow?

I can't help but feel the human race has been a little like the irresponsible parents at Christmas when it comes to life extension. Buying the puppy before we've quite considered how much maintenance it will require. The average life expectancy 100 years ago was 54 for women and 50 for men... this year it will 82 for women and 74 for men. Whilst this is INCREDIBLE... it feels a little weird. Like no one has realised that this extra 30 years isn't going to magically appear in between 20 and 21... it's going to be a 30 years at the end where we have different requirements and need a whole load of looking after. Living an extra 30 years is insanely brilliant... most people will have an extra 30 years with their Grandparents to learn lessons, with their parents to fall back on. Utterly amazing. But at the same time truly terrifying. We're all so scared of death and of grief that we've postponed the problem for as long as possible, like the ultimate DFS sofa payment deal, but without considering that death will come anyway and that the life we substituted it for over such a long period may not have been a better deal anyway.

It's got to be money that's the problem. It always is - money is the biggest fucking problem on this planet and it's a completely made up concept anyway, which makes perfect sense given our shambolic hijack of this planet. If we're too expensive to be comfortably old then maybe we need to weigh up whether we're prepared to care, potentially full time, for our elders for the first half of our lives, or whether we're prepared to meet with tragedy a little earlier. It's our call but we can't have it both ways.

I don't want anyone to die before we have to let them. But if we're going to keep ourselves alive, can we at least make sure it's a life? Not just a slow slide into complete degradation without the physical means to maintain a sense of identity. If we're too selfish to live with death then give us the social responsibility to understand that we're all the premature elderly and that it isn't a condition we'll be able to side step. No matter what. Whatever money, whatever race, whatever job role you used to have. One day you'll be watching people disregard your worthy experience because you're too old to have died young. Caring for our elderly isn't the job of an NHS care nurse with 4 hours a week to dedicate to each person, there's no room to complain that we've paid our taxes duly and so someone else should have been spooning shepherd's pie. It's down to us and we should be tripping ourselves to do it or we should be willing to let go.

Friday, October 21, 2011

A Cute Frustration

Two very annoying things have happened to me this morning... and this is following on from last night which was also a pretty bad evening. Let's start with last night:

1. I had to collect my brother and his best friend from Charing Cross Road and take them to Heathrow to meet up with my parents who are taking them to Greece on holiday. I could have been going on that holiday had I not had a few gigs booked that I didn't want to cancel. I make no secret of the fact that I love my family - I'm lucky, they're good people. Some folks' families are dickheads so I figure I'll fly the flag loudly for people who like their siblings. Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those "My mum's my best friend" people - she's not, she's  my mum. I need a mum more than a best friend so we've come to this useful arrangement.
    Leaving them all at the airport and knowing that they were about to go and make more of the memories that I really treasure was a bit pants. Never mind, I was heading to what was sure to be a lovely gig in Islington.

2. I DIED ON MY ARSE IN ISLINGTON. You are quite welcome to smack me over the head with a rusty shovel that's got a half assed raccoon attached to the end of it if that wasn't one of my worst performances in the history of my meagre "career". Jesus, Mary, the lowing cattle and Joseph. An audience haven't hated a comedian that much since Germaine Greer did that open spot at Portsmouth Jongleurs.
   I can't even really shed much light on what that hell I did wrong... I suppose I had less energy than usual and I started with some chatty stuff rather than a big BOOM joke but fooking hell I didn't expect that reaction. Each joke was met with either uncomfortable silence or a reluctant single laugh when I caught them off guard and they had to begrudgingly give something back.
   The back row began a stealth heckling campaign where they would say something too quiet for me to catch properly and then go silent when I asked them what had been said. The front row mistook my attempted bonding for blind hostility and it all spiralled into a clammy heap from there... abysmal.

So all in all I was glad to get into bed and finish season one of the adventures of Lorelai and Rory (The Gilmore Girls for you uncultured cretins).

Then, this morning has been lame for a few reasons:

1. I lost my joke book. If the panic at losing that is anything like the panic of misplacing your child then it's a good job I'm a barren harpie. I imagine it's a very similar worry:

You're not actually too fussed about getting it back because you're sure you can do another one, but you're petrified someone's going to find out and see what you've created before it's finished.

I've now found my joke book - it was hiding in a nook under my bed where I'd been scribbling something truly unfunny in the middle of the night and hadn't managed to put it away.

2. I tried to Google the whereabouts of my nearest post office. I need to offload some parcels... I know where my nearest sorting office is but I'm confused as to whether I can send things away from there. I'm suspecting you can't.

You'd think this would be simple, I went to the website, found the "Find your nearest branch" bit and look in the "What service do you need" drop down box and then select... oh hang on a minute, despite the fact that it's the frigging postal service there is no option to search for branches that have a postal service. Brilliant. Now, don't start assuming this must be because all branches have a postal service, because this beauty of a search device also lists all ATMs that it has a connection to. So there's a good chance if I take my 6 parcels to what is technically listed as my local branch, I'm just going to end up jamming them into the debit card slot whilst freaking out that I don't have a pin.

Ridiculous. I might write to the Daily Mail. Clearly not having a job is the main cause of Whiny Bitch Syndrome. Joy.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Late Night Letter

Dear People Who Didn't Think I Could Sink Any Lower,

 I am watching "Bonus Material: Gilmoreisms - Many of the memorable witty encounters from the show." (Disc 6, Season 1).

This is a time of day when normal girls are screwing or cuddling their boyfriends.

Successful girls are asleep preparing for a day ahead at their brilliant, highly paid jobs.

I just needed to people to know because now it looks like I purposely do this sort of thing for comic effect. If I was embarrassed at all I wouldn't tell people so this is all just helping to establish my comic persona.

Thanks for your time,

Good Night,

Wednesday, October 19, 2011


This morning hasn't exactly got off to the best start...

As I lay in bed last night, awkwardly trying to fall asleep through the thick buzz of a good gig adrenaline kick, I was worrying to myself that there was no bread in the cupboard. I'd failed to have dinner, had nothing to look forward to for breakfast and sleep was avoiding me. I love breakfast... I literally look forward to it the second I get into bed at night - dinner is optional, lunch has great potential, but those first mouthfuls of sugary cereal or well cooked toast in the morning are heaven. Any man who has the foresight to woo me using fried tomatoes and crispy bacon on a platter meant for a rugby team is likely to have his wildest fantasies fulfilled. So long as those wild fantasies include an enthusiastic midget getting jiggy with a a few baked beans in her hair.

As it turns out I needn't have worried about my woeful cupboard filling... I woke up this morning, rolled over, looked at the clock and it said 08:06... normally this would be cue for smiling a bit to myself, rolling back over and wasting an extra 3 hours. However, today I had to be at an office for 9am.

For a second I thought my heart and lungs were going to try and propel us out of bed ont heir own steam by just launching through my rib cage and heading for the shower by themselves. If I'd thought the post gig buzz was hard to deal with the sheer panic of having a head of hair that looked like I'd styled it with Golden Syrup and only 55 minutes to wash it and arrive at my place of work for the day nearly blew my mind.

I just about had time to clothe myself and apply shampoo to various portions of my head. Not necessarily in that order.

I'm currently sitting at my desk for the day with hair that resembles one of those birds you see looking miserable after someone crashes an oil tanker. It's fluffy in all the wrong places. I've also discovered that when you're grabbing an outfit through half clothed eyes whilst already walking out the front door, what might seem like it screams "powerhouse" may actually be whispering 80s lesbian by the time you reach the office.

I feel like everyone knows I'm not firing on full cylinders. I think I might be firing on one cylinder and even that one is a bit dusty. On my way to work it occurred to me that I might start eating the bottom end of the loaf of bread first because that always seems to be the bit that goes mouldy. This, is the type of thought I like to label #idiotgenius - it goes in a box with other ideas I've had like:

If I walk to the gym then I won't even need to go to the gym. Then I won't have to walk there in the first place.

I implore you to get in touch with your own examples of #idiotgenius so that I stop feeling like a complete moron.

I think it's going to be a very long day...

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Busy Wasp

Busy day! Barely had time to breathe it's been so crazy.

I was on my way into town and I bumped into John Lewis, not a man called John Lewis, but literally the corner of a massive shop. I knocked myself out for a good few hours and when I came to I was sitting in a bath of yoghurt while Martine McCutcheon sang Perfect Moment to me in a series of accents. I asked her why this was happening and she said it was karma because Perfect Moment was the first single I ever owned on a CD. She's got a long memory.

When she let me go I had to promise that the first thing I would do would be to become a life long member of the One Direction fan club... this I have been working on for the rest of the afternoon. I've tied photos of them to each of my toes so that we can chat whenever I feel like I miss them. I have no idea how many of them there are or what they look like but they look good on my feet and so I'm keeping them there until shaving day.

Some people might think I've not done much with my day but to you I say, SILENCE. I am a Queen among procrastinators so just keep your opinions to yourself.

Love and hugs,

Saturday, October 15, 2011

Internet Dating For Dummies

I've had a phenomenally unproductive day today... as a direct consequence of an innocent tweet and a conversation with a friend last night, today I have tried my hand at internet dating. If you have access to a computer, a picture of a human with breasts, and a lot of time to kill then I cannot recommend this enough as a way to pass the time.

I have been constructing my profile as a piece of living art throughout the day, every time I receive a mail from a would-be suitor that amuses me enough, I update my profile to reflect their advances. At the moment (about 6 hours in to my adventure) my profile is drafted like this:

Cute Name to Attract Mate: OfficialBarrelScraper
Tag Line: Must Have Life Insurance

About Me:
If you own Dark Side of the Moon I'm willing to over look even serious flatulence and excess hair.

I used to spend entire days rocking back and forwards because I could only be reached by a small number of sex pests in a day, but since I discovered internet dating things have really turned around and now I can browse any number of vowel free messages. It's bliss.

I cannot stress enough how much I adore profile pictures where you can clearly see the "ex" having been edited out. This sort of phenomenal approach to moving on deserves a medal. I've put my Dad as my profile picture so you can seek him out and ask for permission to date me should you want to - I don't want to make this shallow by including some picture of my luscious blonde mane of back hair.

Please don't message me to ask what:
a) Dark Side of the Moon is
b) Barrel Scraping is

I'm not genuine and I am solely interested in playing games so please, no time wasters.

My favourite word is "gawjus", please use it with gay abandon and if you can construct a message that's suitable for copying and pasting to everyone/thing on here that has included cleavage in their picture, please can you forward me a copy? You're a gem.

If anything I think language is just overcomplicated these days so if we can just agree that the difference between your and you're is inconsequential and replace either with ROFL then it'll be much more efficient for our long term mating compatibility.

If I don't reply to your message please don't take it personally, I'm just very shallow and have already judged I will never want to merge gene pools.


First Date Preferences:

Ideally something with wool and some passive aggressive sarcasm over dinner.

I'm not great at first dates so in a perfect world we could skip this altogether and just move straight on to separate beds, affairs with our colleagues and arguing over why I can't seem to distinguish between rare and medium rare when cooking.

I like short walks in the city and gender stereotyping.


So far, it's been a complete blast. I've yielded responses that have gone from:

"Hey boo boo, u look cute. Wanna chat?"


" :-D xxx "


"Girls like you make me sick, what makes you think anyone on here would be that desperate to message you anyway? Why don't you do us all a favour and go choke yourself to death with your sarcasm."

All in all it's been an awesome experience. I've learnt that the vast majority of the men who speed date can be divided into two groups:

Men who have muscles and biceps and have no photos where they are not in plain view.

Men who do not exist in any photos not taken on their webcam.

I'm sure the fully paid up "I want to meet a wife" kind of sites are a totally different experience, but so far I have not been convinced that internet dating is going to do anything to help me find the man of my dreams. Tomorrow I'm going to borrow the profile picture of one of my housemates and find out what internet dating is like for men.

The trouble is, it's very difficult to write down anything that really comes across as genuine. On paper, people are really very similar in their likes and dislikes (or the likes and dislikes we want other people to judge us on) and its not until you get to talking to someone that you can judge whether there is even the remotest chance of compatibility. I don't think internet dating is any worse than trying to meet people on a night out (having spent last night boogying in KoKo in Camden with rather mixed results) but it does have a sort of seedy quality to it where you hope no one you know finds out you sunk this low.

I will, of course, keep you posted as to whether or not my knight in shining armour turns up but for now, let's assume that the profile will just continue to grow until I become bored and try Speed Dating as my next challenge.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Hey Zumba, Not In Front of the Kids

A lot of people have said to me they can't imagine anything more terrifying than doing stand-up; that having to think quickly and be funny in front of a room full of people is close to nightmare territory. Yesterday, I discovered my equivalent... Zumba.

I have about as much faith in my body as I have in people with guns. I've carefully trained it to walk to places in a pair of jeans and then to just do as little as possible so it doesn't give us away as being little better than a toddler when it comes to coordination. Maybe it was too much Ninja Turtles as a child, but I often wish I could just be a brain... my brain and I get on so well (on a good day). I've cultivated a happy little nook in the world where I don't really need to be able to do much other than type, learn and then emit witticisms as and where appropriate.

So yesterday I thought I'd take myself out of my comfort zone and try out a Zumba class... Zumba translates into English as: "Dance workshop designed to make middle class people look panicked".

I think the real pit of the stomach panic appeared when the instructor bounded into the room, he was made entirely of dread locks and limbs and if he had body fat, he was keeping it in his locker. I'm not even 50% limbs, I'm a healthy mix of puffy head, boobs and a stomach bump that cannot be blamed on bad posture or pregnancy. My gene pool conveniently combined to give me the additional facial hair of my father and the jacket potato knees of my mother. This isn't usually a problem when I have foundation and jeans to combat the problem; but in a pair of shorts and an already sweaty green t shirt I was starting to regret even entering a mirrored room.

Without introducing himself Dreadlimbs kicked off the first track and started to move... this immediately caused a problem for me because he was doing everything four times and then changing the move to a new one. Four times is not enough to learn, copy and repeat! The first time he did it I was still doing the last thing, the second time I had noticed and was watching whilst trying to still look busy, the third time I was moving in the right direction but with absolutely no clarity and the fourth time I was just about starting to feel camouflaged by everyone else before he'd moved on to something else. I distinctly heard the woman behind me ask the woman next to her if she thought I might be fighting a bee.

I can only hope that the feeling of burning shame also tosses a few calories into the furnace at the same time. By the end of the third song my instructor told me that if I was going to have to leave if I insisted on remaining in the foetal position.

I was determined to try and make it through the entire class; physically it wasn't a problem to keep up but recreating the same shapes as Dreadlimbs was actually impossible. My arms and legs just wouldn't continue doing the same thing if I shifted my attention to another part of my body.

If I'd thought it was bad when the music was still on, the worst was very much still to come... old Dreadlimbs paused the music and asked us to find a position in the room where we were near something we could bang. If we couldn't find wallspace then it was fine to use the floor. I shuffled nervously to the back and stood, my back felt like someone had left a 99 ice cream on my neck and just let it meander down to my waist, my hair was sticking out at odd angles like I'd just had 1950s cartoon sex and I think I might have been crying.

"We've got a 30 second intro on this next song" says Dreadlimbs,

"Biscuit time?" my brain chirrups.

"So, what I want you to do is really let loose! I want you to spank that wall or floor with all the attitude you've got! I want your ass shaking, I want to see booty moving!! I want to see you really do this! Let me hear noises, I want attitude faces! Are you ready?"

"No biscuits?"


"Not at all! Is my booty my ass or my hips? I'm much more breasticularly enhanced, please may I shake those? I don't want to spank the floor... I'm quite flaily, I think it's going to look more like a cockroach infestation than foreplay."


"Too late..."

And then all of a sudden everyone went mental. People started rhythmically whipping the floor and saying "Oh yeah!", I learnt that booty means everything in your body that is wobblier than bone, people started crawling across the floor like some kind of slinky Rihanna cat with ricket hips. I stood at the back nervously apologising to my wall space and reassuring it that I was only acting under orders and that it hadn't really done anything wrong.

If it hadn't been for Alesha Dixon and her search for a new drummer boy (I can only assume she's putting together a Christmas Fayre) then I would probably have sworn of movement for life. But suddenly, Dreadlimbs was encouraging us to march. Yes, marching! Now, this is how the British conquered the world: simple repetitive movements with no sway, no sass, no creativity... just right leg, left leg, make a right angle with your leg - angles I understood. I was in my element.

I'm going to stick to my cardio machines today... maybe a little bit of machine weights if I'm feeling saucy. Organised movement is not for me. I'll be going to the gym later this afternoon, if I can just get through this list of apology letteres to anyone who has ever gone clubbing with me.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Gymming By Numbers

Yesterday I went to the gym for the first time since I left University in 2009. I honestly had no idea I could sweat so much. I've always seen sweating as something other people do because they are either gross or impressive. My body doesn't sweat an awful lot, I go bright red and it looks like all the sweat might be gathering underneath to peer out, but then it inevitably decides to hang about and just make me look uncomfortably puffy instead of escaping and cooling me down.

Yesterday was a different story. I'm sure other people in the gym were looking at me like some kind of mentalist as I examined the droplets of sweat collecting on my wrists as though they were jewels. It was amazing! My hair was sticking to my forehead like a Playmobil character who's recently escaped the mouth of a toddler, my t shirt had reassuring dark patches like I was in a sitcom playing basketball. I was completely thrilled with myself.

I did about 55 minutes of running, bike and cross trainer and then I thought I'd round off my cardio session with about 10 minutes on the stepping machine. I climbed on and thought I would programme it to help me "fat burn" for a few minutes.

It asked for my age: 25.
It asked how long I wanted to step for: 10 minutes, please.
It asked how much I weighed in KGs...

... now, for starters I didn't know exactly how much I weighed. I'd forgotten to check before I started. I thought it wouldn't hurt if I guessed though. However, I have also never really known how KGs worked so I also had to guess that... I guessed I must be somewhere around 122 KGs - it seemed reasonable in my head. So I punched in all the numbers and the workout began.

Sweet. Jesus.

After 30 seconds my legs were pleading with the rest of my body to find the gym machine equivalent of an elevator and just put us all out of our misery. It hurt. It didn't just hurt, it was miserable... it made my bones bend, I could barely squash the stairs down, I was in agony. What the hell could have gone wrong?

Having showered and left the changing room on a bit of a downer having been so cruelly thwarted at the end of session, I thought I'd quickly check and see how much I do weigh, just so I'd know for the next session. Turns out KGs are a lot bigger than I'd envisaged and I weigh only 55 of them. I'm worried that when I go back to the stepping machine tomorrow and explain the situation it's going to think I've been crash dieting and tell me off for not being sensible. Do I really want to admit to it that I'm that stupid?

So, gym by numbers =

55 minutes of cardio
An overestimation of 67KGs
At least 1 litre of sweat
Oh, and 2 breasts of at least 45 cms in length.

I may not be good at calculating kilogrammes but I know a lengthy breast when I see one and yesterday I saw two and they were taunting me.

See, I decided to use the steam room after my workout so I wouldn't spend all day today aching in the wrong places, I swung the door open and there, lying outstretched on the bench was a quite naked woman with the longest breasts I've ever seen in my life. I looked at her and was immediately uncomfortable. It took me all my strength not to point out the sign that clearly said "No nudity" and ask her to put her wibblers in a sling. But, once I'd opened the door, I felt really rude clocking her and then turning around and leaving straight away so I thought I ought to spend a cursory five minutes in there with Nudey No Pants so she didn't get offended.

It was the most British 5 minutes I have ever endured. She lay like a Greek statue all stretched across the bench while I sat in my swimming costume with arms and legs crossed with my eyes closed hoping that no bum hole vapours were getting into the steam I was breathing in. Then, just as I thought I had done my time and went to get out, she put on some scratchy gloves and started exfoliating. RIGHT THERE IN THE COMMUNAL (tiny) STEAM ROOM. So all her skin particles were suddenly wooshing around the room into my leaving space and I had to stay. Then, when she'd finished, she got up and left. This made me think I should probably stay so she didn't think I was following her. I was hot, flustered, covered in bum hole skin vapours and generally quite cranky with her.

Muscle pain be damned, I am going straight home tonight.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Occupy Small Street

Two blogs in two days? Could it be that I have my mojo back? Or, could it be that I'm bored out my skull sitting and hoping there will be some work for me to do this week? Wisdom tells me that it's the latter but I shan't give up hope that boredom breeds mojo.

I'm currently sitting at a temping office where I have been since 8:30am. The theory here is that I come dressed up for work and then if they get any calls in or have any success pimping me out on the phone then I can go off straight to work. If they don't get any work in, I can go home at 10:30am. But, because I showed dedication by coming in here to sit, I am priority worker for this week. Huzzah for me or some such nonsense.
The brilliant thing about this is that as soon as I stepped through the door I was immediately told I probably wouldn't get any work, so I've been able to sit here and plan the most amusing way of getting myself home... seeing as I'm already suited and booted and will be on the 10:35 bus home, I'm going to steal a potted plant and a lot of pens and sit sadly on the bus pretending I've just been fired.
There will crying, gnashing of teeth and maybe some silent mouthing of children's names and the words "Christmas presents".

I'm supremely bored... it's at times like these you discover the incredibly low expectations on our generation when people suggest you can happily spend 2 hours on Facebook and see it as a positive way to spend a morning. Facebook is fine, but what are you supposed to do for 2 hours?
  • Checking whether previous conquests have toned up enough to consider getting back in touch - Between 8 and 17 minutes depending on results and photo evidence.
  • Examining the off spring of ex schoolmates to see if they are "mummys lil Princess" or a cross eyed ball of fat - 6 minutes (inc time spent to forward pictures to other friends).
  • Updating status with something witty - 3 minutes (on a good day)
  • Refreshing witty status to see if anyone has noticed - If you continue after 5 minutes you have issues.
  • Scouring your photos for one without a double chin that can be used as a profile pic - 15 minutes.
So... even with all that I can just about get through 45 minutes before absolute despair sets in and I am trying to think of new films I like to update my profile. However, if I log out of Facebook it leaves me in very dangerous territory where I'm staring at Google wondering what on earth I could search for that might make for some interesting research... I've already exhausted the life and times of D. Attenborough, the early acting career of Messrs Jason and DeVito, and the life expectancy of a naked mole rat when clothed.

Where do you go from there?

Of course the logical conclusion was to Google Facebook itself and have a gander about the precious "Previous Facebook" layouts that people get very uppity about once they've been updated. There is more uproar in this country about Facebook changing the homepage than there is about the dismantling of the NHS. Presumably because changing your Facebook status to "My leg fell off" will be the future equivalent to dialing 999 and you'll just sit and wait for Legs4U to get in touch with a quote.

However, despair I will not, because when you really fall on hard times there is always your spam box and the Daily Mash to keep you amused. Thank heavens you people have me and my hilarious musings to keep you occupied. You can thank me by a small round of applause by yourself in front of your monitor. Or just by not commenting *idiot* underneath this. BYE.

Monday, October 10, 2011

One Night in Heaven

I crashed back down to earth from my holidaying last night courtesy of an 8 hour night shift in a glossy mall of doom.

Never having done a night shift before, I had no idea how to prepare for being awake and not drunk past 3am. Call me what you like, but I spent most of yesterday trying to work out what the results were going to be when someone asked me to fold a knitted sweater better whilst I was off my tits on red bull and trying to stop poking myself in the eyes with a coat hanger to keep them open. My preparation involved baking for the major part of the evening. The results of which are below:

Having managed to get 22 cakes out of the mixture that was only meant to make 12, I contemplated eating the spare 10 and just never telling anyone and then thought it was safest to take myself off to bed before I didn't argue with myself and Dawn Frenchdom edged ever closer to my already less than svelte physique.

I'm a bad sleeper at the best of times, I punch (ask my friend Marie) I kick (ask my sister) I talk (ask my friend Jamie) and I'm quite capable of waking up very distressed about whatever I dreamt about and then holding a grudge against whoever was involved in the dream (ask several ex boyfriends). So, trying to sleep in the middle of the day when I'm hopped up on sugar and raspberries and dreading my impending incarceration was not easy.

I decided to catch up on my guilty trash TV pleasure: Made In Chelsea. Now, I know it's not good TV, and no, I can't enlighten you at all as to what the hell mongrel genre the programme even is. But, for some reason I like to watch it. Enjoy it/give a crap about it is stretching it, but I do quite like to have it on. While I was lying there I kind of wished I had a boyfriend. Now, this is the first time I've felt like this for a couple of years so it was quite exciting to admit. Obviously, I was watching Made in Chelsea in the middle of a Sunday afternoon so I was probably going to need a closet gay boyfriend, but then that's the beauty of MIC - it shows you that even super rich women with the world at their feet will also go for the same option.

I dragged myself out of my pit of Sloaney indulgence and headed in to work. In fairness, it wasn't quite as bad as I thought it was going to be. There were definitely some negatives:

1. No air conditioning
2. Rails built for normal people not stump limbed dwarf creatures
3. Clothes designed by people who understand the concept of trends
4. Clothes designed for normal people not stump limbed dwarf creatures
5. People who see retail as a healthy career choice

Now, I don't mean to be scathing and derogatory. Actually, yes I do, but in a more informed way than you might think... you see, everyone has their mental blocks. Some people are racist, some people are homophobic, some people are sexist and some people are just morons to everyone. I have a complete lack of understanding as to how to make working on a shop floor a fulfilling job. People who profess to have "always wanted to work in Topshop" leave me doing my best impression of anyone on TV who's just foud out they've been cheated on... I just stand muttering "Why" over and over again with my eyes watering and my feet shuffling backwards. The years I spent in retail were some of the dullest of my life, of all the areas I've worked in (building, plumbing, waitressing, office, acting, elfing) I can honestly say retail was the worst.

Last night I was asked to sort out all the knitwear. After someone had shown me what constituted knitwear (I was caught suggesting a jersey was knitwear) I was told to collect all the knitwear together and sort it out. I was allowed to sort it out into whatever I thought was appropriate. After my initial suggestion that we grade it all from "Kill it with fire" to "Which limb is this for?" to "I pity the sheep this came from" was greeted with a stony glare and a mildly alarming grip on a coat hanger, I got on with sorting it into these categories:

1. Buttony things
2. Fluffy things
3. Massive things
4. Normal clothes

This seemed to go down better and the hours passed like a kidney stone through a eunuch.

Today my body is extremely confused as to the time and the feeling of degradation that surrounds us. I've showered a few times but I still can't get rid of this burning desire to own something in dalmation print. I fear I have been through something akin to Hugh Jackman's experience prior to having adamantium bones... only I'm destined to fight crime dressed as RumpleDeVille. Oh joy.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Serious Blog for Serious People

Oh hello and welcome to my new blog now that I am 25 years old and a proper grown up with a quarter of a century's experience at being a female human. I've read through all the old posts that were here and realised they are terribly silly. Some of the silliest blog entries that can be found anywhere on the internet. The founder of the internet even wrote to me and said: "Hello to you, please grow up and stop polluting our fine internet with  your nonsense. It is nonsensical. Thank you, love Tony x". I found it weird that the internet founder would write to someone rather than email them but I decided not to let this bother me and pinned it all down to his own special brand of whimsy.

So, as of now this will be a place for absolute, straight down the line serious business for serious people. If you don't like it then just paint a new websical page on the screen of your device and look at that instead. Don't navigate off this blog because I'll get furious and start pounding my fists onto things. You won't like that and neither will the things in my nearby vicinity that are getting pounded. Think of the children.

The new blog is going to include subjects like:

  • Metallurgy
  • 14th Century crimes that involved paper clips and/or scissors.
  • Pixels
  • Nomadic people
  • The habits of limbless creatures
I suggest that if you're not a fan of these kinds of subjects you immediately cease and desist following this blog in any way because you won't like it and then you might pound stuff and I don't want to be responsible for things getting pounded if I'm not getting the pleasure from pounding them myself.

So, you've been warned. Now, it's your responsibility to make sure you think about your actions and behave accordingly. I'll see you tomorrow.