Wednesday, 28 February 2007
2) I can be amongst my unemployed brethren. This means avoid eyecontact with all the buffed up men with sweaty arsecracks that hang around the weights end. Thankfully exertion of most kinds makes my eyesight quite bad, so I find avoiding eyecontact quite easy. It also stops me doing that thing where out of nowhere the thought 'I must not stare at his crotch' pops into my head, and quite obviously the impulse to do the opposite is overpowering. I see it more as pushing bounderies in my mind rather than perving.
3)You, like, only get one body and it's totally in your hands how it looks. This year I have already given myself the haircut and colour of a boss-eyed French lesbian and bodged my eyebrows so hopefully having a better physique will make me look more like a toned boss-eyed French lesbian, which is preferable, at least until the hair grows out and I go back to resembling the the boring pasty straighty that I really am.
4)Going to the gym actually involves a few hours of mental psyching, an hour or so actually there and then at least the rest of the day on the sofa feeling very smug. I like sitting on the sofa feeling smug. Eating Nutella out the jar.
5) Whilst striding around town on a very important missions such as buying coathooks or trying to find somewhere that stocks edemame I can laugh at all the deskanimals with their straining shirts, bingo wings and various chins. Yeah, they have a wage, speak to people on a regular basis, have a career, a goal in life, real reasons to leave the house.....I HAVE THIN ARMS!
In summary: I am a smug and shallow cunt who will get killed by raging fatties way before they all die of heart disease anyway.
You might remember Sara Silverman, she was the woman at that Secret Policeman's 'comedians do their bit for charidee' Ball thing who ended her sketch with the immortal line
'I hope they find semen in my dead grandmother!'
She is basically as sharp as a barrel of hyperdermic needles, which leads me conveniently on to recommending THIS CLIP (ooh, clever, click on clip to see it etc etc) from her new tv show, which is airing in the states, but will probably never make it to the UK.
If it does it will be stuck on FX along with all the other good stuff that no one watches except for smug tv critics who then rub it in your face... oh! the trials of being one of those channels you can only get if you buy the super-expensive sky package, in which case it comes with 2,000 other viewing opportunities so the chances of getting distracted by fat people crying to some orange talkshow host who can't hide his smirking is raaather high.
Even then it's up in the high numbers surrounded by SKYSPORTS23, FUCK ME TV X, BUYSHIT TV and the like, so chances are you won't find it (or will get further distracted by louche gappy toothed essex ladies in non flame retardant skimpies.)
I see the relationship between tv reviewers and channels like FX a bit like that between good-yet-pretentious as fuck musicians and those guitarists from Malawi (or wherever) who are supposedly amazing.
Fact is, it's only the pretentious twatty musicians who will bother to go to Africa and then probably don't so much like sitting on a log listening to the 8-bar tribal rhythms so much as they like wanking on in interviews about 'the experience and timbre', and dragging the poor feited Malawians over to the UK to parade them around Hampstead like gaudily-shirted ponies. *cough* damon albarn *cough*
I suppose you could say by reviewing loads of FX programmes, that reviewers are encouraging people to watch great tv, but to those of us who can't afford £40 a month on Sky it is like Charlie Brooker and Sam Wollaston riding Dave Chappelle like a giant horse (well, he has the teefs for it) around and around in a circle, corralling us until we are forced to tread in Dave's poopmanure.
Oh, lost my origional point.
Basically this clip that I recommended aaages ago is a sketch about a woman who decides to cheer herself up by having an HIV test, because she knows she's clean. Hence the convienient segeway from talking about needles. Which I should have explained earlier. Along with why I recommended the clip.
Actually, this is all an exercise in structuring.
So I win.
Tuesday, 27 February 2007
In a nutshell, a man called Tommy starts dressing up as a clown and dancing funny at kids in South Central LA's birthday parties.
As you do.
Something happens when I went to go and make a cup of tea but basically he ended up drawing loads of kids away from gangs by getting them to join his dancing troupes and they create krumping.
They all wear clown makeup and dance these crazy energetic bodypopping dances and hold dance offs, which dispite appearances (man, those clowns love to frown as they krump) are completely non violent and are SAVING LIVES.
Oh wait, maybe the krumpers are the other group of kids who form a rival troupe. Hmmm. Anyway, Tommy the Clown's house gets burgalrized and he ends up in welfare housing and I ended up in tears that life can be so shit to someone who has done nothing but give to others, even if it does involve movements that make me fear for the kids' lower backs and a lot of greasepaint
*gets off soapbox*
On the upside, some of the kids get to be in Madonna videos. God bless that woman, popular culture is truly the vessel she desperately sucks the lifeblood out of, vampire style.
I then tried krumping in my bedroom when the flatmate was out, which was quite fun, except do not do it in just a bra and knickers unless your stomach is totally flat. It was like the film 'The Perfect Storm' only more fleshy. And no tiny George Cloony drowning in my tummy button neither.
Monday, 26 February 2007
It dawned on the the other day (as taking featured pills) that they really are vitamins for the shallow. I mean, most multi vitamins are sold upon the premise that they will make you all healthy and able to run around town juggling mini people, hi-fiving young children and clicking your legs as you jump over burst water mains ad nausium, but these pills are purely to make your external womenly features more glossy strong and shining...sod internal beauty!
Well, it worked on me!
In other events of minor interest to a few people, Danny visited me this weekend to see if the streets of London really were paved with gold and if it's true we spend half our lives underground in tunnels where the dust of thousands of people's dead skin blinds us as we wait for trains and turns our bogies black (no and yes btw)
During the weekend I found out something shocking...Danny, and most of the people he knows have never seen a dinosaur!
It was then I realised that we Londoners (and presumerbly Edinburghers) take occasionally wandering into a museum and seeing piles of black bones sometimes assembled into the shape of a giant dead thing totally for granted. I can't even remember the amount of times I have seen dinosaurs, and not once do I remember thinking 'wow, these bone have been around since the beginning of time blah blah blah' I usually think 'how can I take an amusing photo of Christy looking pissed off next to said giant heap of bones? (observe)
I feel a bit bad now, especially as we took Danny to the Science Museum where all we did was wander around in a sea of small children (annoying), see crap pictures of what we would look like as the opposite sex (ugly) then go to the shop (tamagotchi)
So now I am officially unemployed, but still have one glorious day left on my weekly travelcard, so may go on a madcap journey to Primark because someone's sister's friend said the one in Wandsworth is good, and to be honest I'm not too bothered about spending all day underground in the skin wind. I have the new LCD soundsystem album to listen to and it puts off gym for a day, so why not?!
Thursday, 22 February 2007
Oh god, this is so funny! I have a deep seated love for CSI - no longer an avid viewer, but if pressed (or if just drunk) I can witter on for hours about the subtle nuances of the franchise...or have a full blown argument about which is best.
The answer to this debate is obviously CSI:NY btw; it used to be the origional CSI, but that has got more and more outrageous in a desperate attempt to keep the viewers:
Did you see the one where this mad Nazi guy gouged out a girls eye and put a tramp's in its place and then she bit through her wrists to escape and there were these siamese twins cut in half? Yeah, utter bollocks. I was on a plane. No escape from the rabid shark-jumping.
Miami is too flashy and has the most ridiculous one liners (as shown above) and that godawful mortician lady who strokes the corpses whilst over emoting cliches such as 'poor baby, you went before your time'. She's like a weird cross between a soccer mom and a necrophiliac with teeth that look like she is constantly wearing a hockey guard .
There is also an emphasis on personal relationships that goes beyond tedious - Horatio is in love with the sister of that other CSI but she is dying of cancer and he is plagued by the memory of his brother who was crooked and his feelings for his wife blah blah de bloody blah. Give me Gil Grissom and Sara who can barely relate to human beings, let alone have relationships with them.
NY also featues over-acting, but in a far more Steppenwolf manner than Miami's Sunset Beach-style hysteronics. It also has a darker sense of humour. And more fitties.
*geek alert over*
I have recieved much slagging off in the past for my love of American television, and although it was generally mixed in with criticism of my love of television in general (which is deep like the ocean), I do feel this is a little unfair - I don't like American tv per se, I just happen to like GOOD tv. Fact is, Uncle Sam churns out so much more of the stuff, the cream of the crop is
larger and therefore there are more utterly amazing programmes too. Ok, maybe not CSI, but The Shield, ER, Law and Order: Criminal Intent..not to mention this Wire programme which has everyone wetting their pants in joy. Sadly this number does not include me as bloody LoveFilm will not deliver it!
ER is a good case in point, as I watched the Classic British Film 'My Beautiful Launderette' t'other day and followed it up with that episode of ER featuring Forrest Whitaker, which was more brilliant and moving in ten minutes that MBL was in a whole two and a half hours!
Fuck, I am really cold. The little heater I had on reception packed up and was angrily thrown into the dumpster yesterday after emitting a dubious fish smell for a couple of days. This initially started out as a bit of a whiff which made me doubt my personal hygene, but then got stronger to the point where others commented on my personal hygene, before blasting out a stench that was most definitely NOTHING to do with me (except that mabye my unconciously wiping my sushi fingers on it post-lunch caused the smell, but it seems unlikely)
Anyway, this was so overpowering my throat went a bit funny, and at that time, I decided I valued my respiratory system more than being a bit chilly, although now I'm not so sure.
LINK OF THE DAY - TvGoHome
I imagine most people will have seen this site as it is tres old, but if not, and you have a spare...day, give it a butchers as it's by Charlie Brooker, the comedy genius who makes me scared of reviewing, talking about, or even looking witheringly at anything because it all just feels like a weak rip-off. It is also the birthplace of Nathan Barley, and if you don't know who that is, you should not be reading this blog. If you enjoyed the tv show, you shouldn't be reading this blog either as it was nowhere near as good as it could have been given the credentials it had...an Emperor's New Clothes of cutting edge comedy if you will.
Ha, who am I kidding, no one reads this blog anyway!
Wednesday, 21 February 2007
"She's an actress"
"Yeah, well she's doing a great job of playing dead"
" I can see it's not my day"
"It's better than hers"
Really, it writes itself, doesn't it?
Tuesday, 20 February 2007
Monday, 19 February 2007
This is bloody hilarious yo.
Ok, maybe ignored is the wrong word as it is one of the most popular progammes in America (barring I Love Raymond, Martha Stewart, Oprah and all those programmes for lobotomised housewives) but here in the UK it is shunted to ITV2 at 11pm on a Sunday, which is really shoddy as it is the closest thing to a male version of Sex and The City there is that isn't a pile of mysogynistic crap. Thankfully this means we don't have Giles from Buffy and Nigel Havers acting like right dicks, but instead good looking Hollywood-ites talking a mile to the minute, loads of knowing references to the film industry and men acting, well, like dicks, but this being something that goes with the territory much like being fabulous, rich and beautiful in New York makes being a bit of a slag ok.
Particularly ace is Jeremy Piven as the agent Ari 'you fire a man you make a rival, you fire a woman you make a housewife' Gold. (pictured above with his wonderful weave and that Motorola phone Americans seem to think is the height of cool for some reason)
Thieves Like Us
I was going to say this BBC3 Comedy was the best thing the channel has done since the Smoking Room. The Smoking Room was funny, well observed and had great actors in it, but unfortunately was made in the wake of THE OFFICE domination of british comedy as we know it, so died a terrible death, choked on accusations of copycat-ness.
Thieves Like Us is so far nearly as good, but appears to have The Worst Publicity Photo Ever (as the blonde girl seems to realise) and is on a channel that also broadcasts Man Stroke Woman which is so bad it makes you want to put a boot through your tv, throw it out the window and then scrub yourself in the shower until you can no longer feel feelings. I therefore am reluctant with all out praise, so will have to settle for a gentle hint of an amusing half hour.
Sunday, 18 February 2007
A scour around my computer threw up this image, which is one of hundreds from www.maskon.com which caters to men who like to wear female latex masks as part of their cross dressing.
God knows who gave me the link to the site, probably the same source that leaves me with photos of grown men in nappies on my harddrive, but I think it's kind of cool! (not in the same way that lead me to admitting to fancying the boy who I used to do philosophy with who dressed up as Edgar Allen Poe everyday...latex masks do not have the same allure as someone who looks like he snorts snuff and goes to a gentleman's club to discuss the plight of the match selling orphans over a whisky and soda, but that's just me)
Apparently that is the English translation of this J-pop song, which could possibly have the best use of pub toilet features since that video when Dannii Minogue dries her armpits under a hand dryer (I Begin to Wonder, if you must know) It's funny, I would never had made the connection had I not been trying to do a Dannii last night, as it turns out a red fitted shirt is not the best choice of attire to a metal gig at the Bull and Gate. It was made all the worse as there was apparently some school disco shitey night going on at the Forum next door, so I was only a tiny skirt and some bunches short of looking like one of those feckin' eejits whose idea of a great time is to dress up like a twelve year old and act like a 6,000 year old caveman. Urrg, they all looked about fifteen as well, which makes me question why they would want to go wear the clothes they wear five times a week to go and dance to Chesney Hawkes, although I suppose it must be hard to ID when everyone is deliberately looking like a paedophile's wet dream.
Utter twats, non? --->
Saturday, 17 February 2007
Ooh how iconic! Throwing off the shackles of celebrity blah blah blah. Seriously, I think she should go underground, change her name, become a muslim and not be found cold and dead in a pool of vomit with her knickerless torso on view to all in a few weeks time. That would be nice. In other news my hamster, as if sensing the change in Britney's wellbeing also totally flipped out today and shovelled all his bedding to one side of the cage and then ran around like a loony. Poor little mite. Poor little mites. I have since changed his name from Bobo to Iqbalbo in hope that it may stabilise his condition. It worked for Cat Stevens after all.
I really hope this isn't an elaborate hoax, or I will look like a right twat.
Friday, 16 February 2007
Today's little gems:
'Allen shrugged as the cheers erupted for Winehouse, who looked slightly incoherent during her acceptance speech'
First off, Winehouse was not anywhere near incoherent, in fact she seemed remarkably sober as she thanked her parents AND there was at least one shot of Lily smiling and clapping Winehouse.
'Halle Berry cannot understand why she is yet to find a man. 'I'm open, honest and fun so I don't know what the problem is,' she said'
She might well have said this, but certainly not after last summer since she has been going out with a Versace model called Gabriel. Come on, there have been rumors of her pregnancy and engagement since Christmas so the woman is far from single!
'Whitney Houston is having an online auction of items belonging to former husband Bobby Brown. 'I want to clear up my life and this is the start' she said.
Again a case of gossip drawn from an old issue of More! found on the bus - she has already done this...back in January.
' Jodie Marsh is furious a drag queen act is using the name Jodie Harsh. 'People actually think I am performing' Moaned the glamour model. 'And she is ugly''
Hmm, she sure looks furious to me...
First off, Jodie Harsh has been established as one of London's premier drag queens for quite a while now, and this photo is at least a year old.
Secondly, I doubt anyone would think Marsh not Harsh was performing as Harsh hosts the Circus night at Soho Review Bar, the poster for which always has a massive photo of her on..
Thirdly, Harsh is better looking than Marsh anyway!
It makes me mad to think that this time next week I will be unemployed, yet the Metro actually pay people like Neil Sean to regurgitate months old rumours as fact and then fill in the gaps with lazyily made up lies!
AND he looks like a smug twat.
Release the dogs!
Thursday, 15 February 2007
I'm actually quite pleased about Britney's recent long dark skank of the soul, if only because I always maintained she was a bit fug (no waist! The woman has no waist and a fat nose) and clearly had no taste (I mean, she was collecting faries in a completely un-ironic fashion as early as 2001, THE SIGNS WERE THERE!)
I guess it's just a shame she decided to reproduce before going on a mad tequilla soaked, vomit splattered bisexual bender, but then it's not like she was ever going to be a stay at home mum, and to a six month old there is little difference between 'mum off recording an album' and 'mum off flashing her bits around town like a two penny hooer'
Speaking of two pennies, these are mine on the matter...
I think she should do a swap with Christina Aguilera, she's all nice and settled down these days (admittedly she's settled down in 1945, but I'm sure she employs someone to stoke her coal fire and wind up the car) ... a couple of sprogs in exchange for some old leather chaps and a bulk load of black eyeshadow seems fair!
Maybe it's the scout uniform, but how cool would she be as a mother? I imagine little Jayden and theotherone running around playing hide and seek in a big garden as Christina counts to ten, poops her horn and runs to find them before they all run inside, red cheeked and glowing for some Bovril and Spam Fritters... sure would beat the rounds of 'find Mommy's fags and Cheetos' chez the Spears residence (which I imagine to be like The Heart is Decietful Above All Things but with more faries and a plush peach decour)
On reflection this a boring and rather Americanised blog...I blame the five hours of MTV I have watched today. Will do better in future, I promise.
Wednesday, 14 February 2007
20.05 Went to make a cup of tea, but from kitchen have already heard at least five 'Robbie is a druggy' quips and the drummer from Muse has droned on for ages about winning something or other.
20.14 Goddamn, Snow Patrol are on, or the aural equivalent of a dog pissing on your shoe as I more fondly think of them. They appear to be performing inside a giant lightbulb and surrounded by little lightbulbs, in a move that should inspire both the Editors and Get Cape Wear Cape Fly to sue. If they are not already in a stupor. They all seem to be performing with their eyes shut, which seems a bit hazzardous, although I suppose it blanks out the cool kids making the wanking gestures in the front row
20.18 Fern Cotton is EXCITED and Snow Patrol gave her GOOSEBUMPS. She can't BELIEVE Muse keep their Brit Awards in a box. If the woman was any more literal she would burst through the fourth wall of the television and nick some of my stirfry. Apparently there is 'BRILLIANT' stuff coming up and we should all have a LOOK-SEE. I kinda wish she would burst through the screen so I could stick my chopsticks up her excited little nostrils.
20.25 Russell uses lots of sex metaphors and makes himself feel a bit ill. Jarvis Cocker comes on looking like a dour uncle who you bring into school because he was once did a really cool job but now has nothing to say and looks a bit uncomfortable as the kids ask him what it was like to be alive in the 1980's.
Actually that is a bit harsh, he just looks like it is all a bit below him. Which is is really. Makes great emphasis that the award was voted for by Radio 1 listeners, which cements this fact.
The Fratellis win, but I now forget what the award was for. Best Newcomers? They are terribly scottish and incomprehensible. One of them looks like Alexander Mc Queen
20.30 International Breakthrough Act. Presented by Toni Collette. Orson win, which I'm pleased about because I met them and they were quite nice and polite, although they are now running around the stage like boorish oafs. Anyone would think they thought the Brits actually meant something. They shamelessly plug their website and punch their fists in the air, as Americans are want to do.
20.33 Amy Winehouse performs. 'There's nothing of her' says the entering flatmate, which is very true, she is quite possibly 25% beehive, 10% ink and 75% proof. Still, she seems very together however and gives one hell of a good, yet understated performance. Good old Amy, I think she's ace but most people only know her as a drunken ball of hair.
20.37 More sex jokes from la Russ. Best British Male award presented by technicolour vomit on legs a.k.a Joss Stone. 'Big Love' to Robbie then tries to outsing Amy Winehouse, the little neon tramp. James Morrison wins, beating Thom Yorke and Jarvis Cocker. He 'did not expect this' damn straight he didn't! Actually it's not worth getting angry over, it is just the way of the Brits, one of those weird little blips, like the way Annie Lennox and Tori Amos are always nominated for Best Female whatever even when they haven't done anything.
20.42 I am going to have to stop this now as wine, garlic dip, pringles and flatmate are all being neglected.
21.22 Bored of flatmate and stinking of garlic, I am back like keuroac. Amy Winehouse won something, as did The Killers and Nelly Furtado who was all like 'Wow, I am honoured, I wanted to win this award since....*akward grimmace* I LOVE OASIS!' Arctic Monkeys dressed up as the Wizard of Oz, which was quite amusing, the guitarist sure do have a purty mouth.
Chilli Peppers just did an energetic performance, but you could tell their hearts weren't in it.
21.25 Best International Band. RHCP surely? Russell is actually doing a pretty good job at presenting..
The Killers have won something else! They performed previously, which could be why (another little Brit eccentricity..turn up? Get an award!) Apparently this is 'something else'. More American air punching, but in a more ironic fashion.
21.28 Corrine Bailey Ray performing and looking a bit more slinky than her previous wholesome image. Oh wait, there are kids skipping on stage for some reason, I take it back. Lots of people with afros slinking around in the background and looking all New York except I know CBR is from Leeds, so background artistes dressed up as asian rudeboys sharing fags and eating burgers out of polystyrene trays would be more relevent. They could chuck chips at her in the bridge.
21.33 Best British Single voted by the Great British Public a.k.a that bunch of morons who push infront of you to get on the bus everyday.
The nominees are all shite in a Virgin FM kinda way - The Feeling, Take That, Snore Patrol etc
Take That win. A weird man sitting on their table strokes Jason's belly as they get up.
The sound blips so we don't hear Mark Owen, but they all look suitably chuffed, which is genuinely quite touching. I mean, they do have 1,000000 of the bloody statues at home, but they must be getting rusty by now.
21.36 Best British Album. Russell still being funny, much as I hate to admit it. Sean Bean contributes to a night of random presenters. Arctic Monkeys win another one. Now they are the village people. It does make me like them more as it shows they have a smidgen of a sense of humor, but it could just be the manager as they still have faces like smacked arses.
21.39 Fearne congratulates Take That on the 'SPANGLY STUFF' during their performance. She says it cost £36 million pounds. Take That give her polite, yet withering looks. She is a gimp who can't read numbers. She then says that Oasis will play a BLINDING SET and then bids us LATERS, because she is down with the kids and goes to gigs and everything.
21.45 Outstanding Achievement Award. Brace yourself for Oasis being arrogant arseholes. Russell takes the piss out of Noel going to Downing Street back in the day That's kind of brave...I wonder how they are going to react to La Brand. Russ makes up for the piss taking with five minutes of arse licking. 'They write poetry for football fans' a.k.a boorish idiots like themselves. Big hugs all round, so I guess Noel isn't in a fighting mood. Liam says something rude but very quickly so god knows what it was. Oooh he's so hard. Time for the 'glorious loveable hooligans' to perform.
Actually, much as they are a coiterie of wankers, watching them perform is a slightly nostalgic experience. Shot of the audience suggests that most of them were still in nappies twelve years ago. Momentary sound fuck up seems to throw everyone, but Noel and Co snarl through it, ignoring worried looking other guitarist guy. Shot of Fratelli singer looking really bored. Shot of Chad from RHCP doing an appreciative head nod. Sound a bit buggered again.
They then perform a song which might be new because I don't know it. Oh god, I hope not...a britpop revival is years away, we need to get through new rave, new funk and new pop first. It's about 1991 in terms of revival years so far.
Shot of Corrine Bailey Ray looking smashed and singing along. I wonder if Liam straightens his hair. I bet he does, it is worryingly like mine, sideburns aside.
Well, that's it...I'm going to switch over to Never Mind the Buzzcocks which is truly ace now Amstell has stepped into the realm, and drag the flatemate away from her notes on spacial motion art colour blending blahblahblah
Friday, February 02, 2007
People who look like witches should not dye their hair black (the gospel according to me)
Current mood: a bit hungry
Aqua Teen Hunger Force is really good and funny and should be watched by all.
This can be done at jello tv ,although biche would never want to condone such thievery (or spelling of thievery) from the industry she peripherally works in; it is a very funny series starring a milkshake cup, a box of fries and a ball of meat.
Biche realises she sounds like a right gimp to a certain Danwise Gamgee who told her about the series about six months ago only for her to go 'uuhhh yeah cool' and totally erase it from her tiny mind, but gospel is gospel non? I mean, when you have priests going 'God is good! Do not steal!' you don't see Jesus going 'yeah well I said that aaaages ago'.p.s Danwise is not Jesus. He could maybe pass as an apostle or something but only when he hasn't shaved.
Biche is however a priest. A priest of cool.
p.p.s Biche is not a priest of cool. Maybe something a little bit less authorititive and important. Maybe a ticket inspector of cool, or more likely the receptionist who takes calls and puts them through to cool's PA.
Gossip websites rot your brain
perezhilton.com, dlisted.com, defamer.com, idolator.com, usweekly.com are the crack of the internet world. This is evident by the way Biche likens them to crack, the laziest metaphor you can think of for something addictive and rubbish. So no, they are not like crack, your teeth will not fall out, you will not (perhaps sadly) lose lots of weight and there are no need for a burnt out coke can, virtual or otherwise.
They are however utter rubbish evidenced by the fact Biche now knows more about Lindsay Lohan than she does her brother, her flatmate or indeed herself, yet has only seen one of her films, on a plane, during severe turbulance. Biche also hold LiLo and others personally responsible for her inability to remember vast swathes of her philosophy degree and how to wire a plug.
In a suprising turn of events it is revealed the reason Linday can't ever remember her lines or turn up to set on time is because her brain is too full of useless information about Biche. Here she is desperately trying to forget about the dilemma Biche had yesterday at Boots where one mascara was £2 off but the other one had 200 advantage points as a bonus.
Conclusion: Do not ask Biche or LiLo to help you sort out electrical appliances and Biche now has £10.47 on her advantage card.
People who look like witches should not dye their hair black.
Now Biche is not shopping for sympathy here, her hair, although a bit of a state, is not black and her general appearance is not overly witchy-poo except in certain lights and in bad photos. It did however start a chain of though which ended with the above conclusion, other strands of reasoning being that if people who looked like witches dyed their hair blonde they might look a bit like Meryl Streep who is pretty damn fly for an old lady and veh good at acting.
This is a flawed argument with dodgy premises and a desperate attempt by the Biche to claw back some philosophy from Lindsay Lohan's tight little fists.
Speaking of witches, Loose Women is on. Urg, it's like the female equivalent of Top Gear in that smug middle ages twats make their sex look bad by well, being smug middle aged twats who think they're so fucking funny..when they're not like, ...fucking funny...fucking..
Well anyway, I almost wish I could lock them all in a big room together for years until some of them mate and then the child would grow up tormented by their polar opposite parents and trapped because he is repelled by his chauvinist father's attitude to women so tries to be gay but then his mum wants to go clubbing with him and talks loudly about bum sex with all her friends so instead he gets a great big knife...Dear god, Biche does scare herself sometimes.
Anyway, gospel number four - Loose Women and Top Gear are shit and may endanger the future of the planet.
And lo, it was decreed and Biche went back to tidying her desk.xx
Friday, January 12, 2007
Current mood: tired and headachey
Last night Ms Welsh and I tested out the theory (her theory) that if you coat your teeth in Vaseline, then they won't be stained by wine. The results were neglegable, but it sure as hell made the wine taste bad, so I am not convinced. This could however have something to do with the fact that we used Aloe Vera Vaseline.
How the Vaseline looked after the consuption of a bottle of Shiraz
Been hunting for a new job, seeing as current job consists of not much more than answering the phone about 5 times a day and sorting the post. This is not all bad as I do have all day to hunt for the elusive bugger that is a job in television which is paid, not totally admin and for a company that makes something other than corporate videos.
Still trying to find my way to the emerald city that is the BBC, but there is only so many times one can apply for work experience, bleeding your poor little heart and soul out over two pages of 'put your answer in the box below' fully aware that you are never going to even get a reply. It feels a bit like in Lost where those two men filed reports, sent them in a chute and they shot out in a field somewhere.
Somewhere impossibly good looking people have stumbled across a huge pile of applications and are going "wow this *Biche* says she has 'a great love for entertainment television' If only I wasn't stuck on a tropical island with nothing to do but get caught up in increasingly ludicrous plots and look incredibly beautiful, I would definitely hire her'
Kate and Sayid consider my application for BBC entertainment, based on the fact 'I avidly watched Strictly Dance Fever and thought it was an excellent programme which succeeded in targeting a wide range of audiences'
Hmmm what else? Oh yes, that advert for Cheesestrings where the teacher goes 'grrr what is that?' to the smug child who is strolling along carrying said processed crapstick aloft. Cue long montage of how Cheesestrings are actually cheese and come from cows and everything, before smug child goes 'oh. It's cheese.' and strolls off, like this is the answer for everything. Surely the teacher meant 'why the hell are you parading around like a smug little bastard with a sweaty bit of orange processed rubbish clenched in your tight little fist?' Why not just eat the fucker, or is it because it is totally inedible, but looks a little like a glowstick and the child is down with the whole nu-rave thing? Nu-rave does appear to be like a lightbulb to the smug trendy moths of london town. Hmmmm
another link between nu-rave and cheesestrings. Goddamn, I'm like the Jessica Fletcher of popular culture
Oh so bored. Still, better get back to productionbase and apply for jobs I am hopelessly underqualified for
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
zen and the art of getting a seat on the tube
Right, so the trick is to stand at the end of the platform, trying to forget your aunt's tales of train crashes -"ooh no, the end carraiges get totally smashed and the people in the middle are ok"- by reasoning that terrorists are more likely these days, and if they are terrorists worth their salt, they will blow up the middle of a train. What is even better is if you know exactly where the doors will be when the train stops (Opposite the man holding a peanut if you're on Piccadilly northbound at Earls Court par example) because then you don't have to push past those who think 'allow passengers off the train first' applies to those stupid tourists and their massive backpacks who seem to be waiting for an extra announcement to go 'yes Pablo Arronzo, you may now also get off the train' and realise 0.2 seconds before the door closes that they should have got off two stops ago anyway.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
'no pop no style' debate:
*I got a bit bored so wrote a little storyette in a different stylee to usual blogs. I think it makes me sound like a right moody bugger, heneforth any comments on the subject gladly accepted. Except those about my spelling Mrs Gerould!*
The heat wave had been a great excitement to the student population as it allowed them to act out their music festival fantasies on the otherwise grey streets of
Even the trendiest kids partake of the bum-grass action, although their uber-skinny black jeans and tight t shirt combo suddenly seems like less good dress sense and more like lack of common sense. The great apathetic sit-in continued for several days, until the eager participants found that their red skin was as hard to cool down as their red houses were. Sitting on a slight slope also buggered up spines. This turned owners of previously slinky gypsy walks into hobbling old dears who smelled like nights under abandoned railway bridges with clothes salvaged from a rubbish bin. A half open can of Orangiboom in ketchup stained hands only added to the look. The after effects of a medieval diet of beer and barbequed meat were also something of a downer on the summer ideal, although it did lend an air of festival authenticity to bathrooms across
Still, the onset of exams somewhat staunched the alfresco revolution, as life in the library negated the risk of being twatted in the head by a Frisbee whilst trying to recount the finer points of Weizs Anti-Essentialism theory.
Sitting in the library was a bit like being inside a lego house made by a giant, although with everything either made out of cement or wood (except the books, but then then paper/wood/whatever). A lego house overrun by thousands of tiny ants who have carved their favorite football team into most of the wooden surfaces and scurry around whispering, ironically in high little voices that travel far further than normal talking. About where they are going for lunch. And what a dick Steve is. And did you know the exam had three parts? I didn't and Tony's fucked because he only went to two lectures.
She realised she had been looking at her book for half an hour and not actually read more than the first sentence. Tony was going to chat to Lucie because she has notes and is safe and that. She was going home to enjoy Deal or No Deal with a milkless tea.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006