Sunday, 21 December 2008
Today, while bored at home - well, watching Hollyoaks omnibus but whatevs - I did the same, and this is what I found... (click to make bigger):
Yes, that's right, Ms G, graduate of 'one of the top academic schools in the country' noticed Robin Driscoll, but failed to see that "The school uses a system much like that in operation at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry where only the smartest can see the school buildings. This is why some candidates cannot find the school when arriving for entrance examinations."
I do like the basically accurate zing 'The school was judged by The Times newspaper to rank 1st and 2nd best achieving state school according to GCSE and A Level results, respectively (thanks to a combination of the girls' natural intelligence and intensive tuition to make up for lack of teaching)' but I feel I must state that this was Nothing To Do With Me as I would have done it a lot better.
Thursday, 18 December 2008
Or are they just implying that fit men from Southern Europe are Chalmydia Marys who will ply you with ouzo and let you run your fingers through their gleaming locks before having their wicked way, leaving you alone the next day with a hangover, V05 under your nails and a minor-yet-bad-if-left-untreated STI ?
It is most perplexing, but I take comfort in the thought that a 'Joey from Friends' storyline has become a reality.
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
SOB post from September:
Wow, I almost feel like a proper journalist and everything.
Monday, 1 December 2008
Well anyway, occasionally you get a little semi private gem from someone's life that makes you snort in laughter and then have to pretend you sneezed instead because you're meant to be fannying around with that spreadsheet:
That this girl is a potential paramore, only makes it all the better!
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Call me naive and not 'down with the kids', but I thought eight year olds daydreamed about Bratz, the Jonas Brothers and gummy hairbands, not obese hippos sensually wallowing in chocolate to the dulcet tones of Terrence Trent D'Arby.
Sunday, 23 November 2008
Gordon Brown is starring in a film made by lefty euro foreigners!!1! As a terrorist!!!!!1!1! A GERMAN terrorist!!!11!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111!!1!!!!!1
Even tho it aint him it lookz liek him n dat is sik enuff. I fink e shud resine now.
*..or maybe they have, lord knows I don't want to sully my internet search history and check.
Monday, 10 November 2008
Monday, 27 October 2008
"The university students union has seen many celebrities from The Killers, to several Big Brother stars to Vernon Kaye and former England Volleyball player Paul Galbraith.
I know, I know, THE Paul Galbraith, the man, the myth the legend...well certainly the myth, as although I have found him mentioned on at least three sites about High Wycombe, he does not appear to exist anywhere else (unless he also moonlights as a Scottish classical guitarist of some repute). Please attempt to prove me wrong, to think I am the only person who has ever wasted their life typing 'Paul Galbraith volleyball england' into Google is eminently depressing.
Well in any case his sexily elusive celebrity status still shits all over 'Mornonic Ken doll with Extra chewing gums for teefs' Vernon Kay and 'I look like Biche's friend Ben but, like, retarded' Brandon Flowers.
Incidentally, here is the Mayor of High Wycombe. Sexy beehatch has my haircut and taste for delicate refined jewellery.
Saturday, 27 September 2008
Incidentally, I saw this on the website last night, and it still has the same exciting news now.
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
This video is just brilliant - not only does it neatly tie in to an earlier post of mine where I wax (arf!) lyrical about the Blind Melon video featuring a Beegirl, but it highlights a very serious issue, namely that the bees of the world are mysteriously dying out. As someone who has been known to eat honey at every meal (on toast, in yoghurt, with brie in sandwiches, in tea yadda yadda) this concerns me, but as I also simply love saying 'bee', the prospect of never likening oneself to a 'squashed bee' or a 'bumbling old bee' or a 'dozy fat bee in a jar' is simply devistating.
The word 'bee' exudes fuzzy joviality and bumbling joy, it should not be associated with death and (some would have you believe) the destruction of the planet!
I thought this pic was so brilliant I sent it to the equally brilliant Copyranter blog. It was posted on Animal NY along with this additional pic I took, to prove the caption was true:
Someone put this comment:
Why didn't they use the same poster image when they chopped those pictures?
Naturally, being the massive pedant that I am, this massively pissed me off. Yes okay, I should have corrected Copyranter when he accreditted the first pic to me (I never said I took it) and I should have noticed that the poster at Finsbury Park is in a different format but STILL.
So I took action.
Firstly, I wasted an entire lunchtime travelling down to Stockwell to look for the poster. Typically, it is no longer there, but I did speak to a man putting up new posters who confirmed that the poster had been up, but then got all afraid and aggressive when I asked him if I could film him saying so. (Shocking, I know... thank god I'm blonde and act like a moron. If I was Muslim I would be f**ked)
Anyway, so being me I wrote a pedantically moronic comment in response, whilst still realising I did not quite have enough ammo for a full FUCK YOU. Until this morning, when sadly gazing out the window of the tube in a small gap framed by some guy's armpit and a goth's wet hair, I saw something that made me audibly go 'yesssssssss' into the sodden dyed black locks.
So this evening, whilst being very aware that I was once again acting in a vaguely suspiscious manner - but trying to allay my fears by reasoning that no one would mistake someone carrying a cartoon themed umbrella and listening to Britney Spears as a terrorist - I got off a stop early, fannied around and managed to take these beauties:
And, to show the angle on the origional pic is possible:
John? FUCK YOU.
*'best' in it's awestriking bumclenching awfulness
Saturday, 20 September 2008
Anyway, I was just chatting with my friend Ms W, who, dispite being an intern, sleeping in her clothes on people's sofas, living off a diet of fags, Red Bull and mini picnic eggs, is for some reason still called a 'glamourous blonde', and she had this tale of urban trickery to tell:
"So I was like queuing up to buy a can of coke for my breakfast and just after I put my PIN in the machine the guy behind me starts tapping me on the shoulder. I had my ipod on high and obviously wasn't really with it, but then I see he's pointing to a five pound note on the floor to my left. It's not mine, but because he obviously thinks it is, I think 'sod it' and reach over to grab it. When I turn back my card had been stolen from the machine! The guy must have got my PIN over my shoulder and then deliberately distracted me so he could nick my card!"
Me - "That's terrible!"
"Ha, not at ALL! I have LITERALLY no money in my bank and wasn't even sure if the can of coke would go through, so I just went 'sweet!' bought a twenty pack of fags, got a free can of coke and went to work feeling incredibly happy."
And the moral of that story, dear tea leafs, is do not attempt to scam glamourous blondes... or at least not ones who are attempting to buy a can of coke on a card at 8am with eyes the size of saucers and Chromeo blaring out their headphones at inhumanly loud levels. Not because these people are clearly wonderful (although they are - unless you late for work and stuck in the queue behind them) but because they are clearly skint as hell and you would literally be better off stealing candy from a baby.
Thursday, 11 September 2008
Because it's as easy peasy lemon squeezy and I like my friends on Facebook telling me I'm funny, like..
Mind you, given the actual true viewpoints of real, living, voting people out there it is also massively depressing.
A few months ago, in Subway on Berwick Street.
Man in queue in front of me attempting to pay for a £1.99 sub with a credit card gestures to poster on the wall with his gold American Express.
'Oh look, the Reggae Reggae sauce sub!'
Bangladeshi cashier who clearly speaks as much English as his co-worker who is currently drenching my sub in Mayonnaise despite my request and hand gestures to the contrary
'.' (dull eyed stare)
'You know? Reggae Reggae sauce? The guy was on Dragon's Den!'
*background noise of me swearing under my breath at the prospect of a 3,000 calorie sub but being too polite to actually complain*
'Dragons Den! On BBC1! The guy sang a little song and they gave him money? Dragon's Den? Yes? Oh.'
He glances around: first to the still blank faced cashier who is now proferring a receipt, then to the equally blank faced condiment-mad co-worker. His eyes finally settle on the glowering girl holding a dripping bundle of greasy bread behind him, before he stalks out, head down.
A few weeks ago, a hairdressers in Crouch End.
An awkward fifteen year old girl whose job consists of pushing hair around the floor, making hair tea and answering the phone with a superfast esturary mutter is nonchalently swinging on the reception chair.
Jabbing at the mouse of the computer and staring intently at the monitor screen - 'thatallbe*outrageous sum of money* plez'
I hand over my card.
*awkward silence punctuated only by more mouse jabs*
'Oh look, those are those hairbrushes they had on Dragons Den!'
I gesture to a pyramid of spikey brushes balancing procariously close to her flinching mouse arm.
she looks up at me with half shut eyes and a half open gob displaying her half chewed gum.
'You know? It's like a magic brush that gets rid of tangles? They didn't invest but it looks like he has done quite well for himself.'
'What really? You don't watch Dragon's Den? Not ever'
'You know what it is, right?'
Another awkward pause until I take back my card and slink off into the day with my poofy blowdryed mushroom hair.
Is this just a terrible co-incidence? Why not try slotting 'that awful band called ham or spam or something' or 'that cap to stop you putting diesel into a unleaded car' into polite conversation with a service level stranger and find out!
Monday, 8 September 2008
Not so much 'Daddy or chips?' as 'sitting in an over air conditioned open plan new build in a Humber retail park...
Incidentally, possible kudos to the Granuaid (although I have a feeling it may have been accidental) for giving an aesexual man in a story about having a happy sexless marraige the pseudonymmed surname 'Cox'.
Wednesday, 27 August 2008
Although one of my best friends is moving abroad, I have a fat arse and am squandering my precious holiday sitting alone on the sofa (last two fact quite probably related) at least I am not Christian Jessen, Channel 4's very own Clap Doctor.
Cripes! 20.05 and we're already getting closeups of him fingering some teenager's spotty penis.
Pop quiz! If someone said you could be famous and on telly, but only if you checked people for STD's and so would be irrecoverably linked in the public's mind with, well, pubis, would you do it?
Good news. The teenager does not have gonorrhea.
A group of BMX-ers are now having their sperm counted. Obviously smoking 20 a day will make you less fertile, but wanking a lot? I'm sure that's something they tell you in Catholic school. I'm not sure I would want to be told I was firing duds on tv. This programme is not so much 'airing your dirty knickers in public' as literally 'flashing your flaps on the box'. Maybe that's just how the 21st Century rolls.
Oh MAN, how can they get away with showing a 50 year old woman's leaky vag before 9pm watershed? Ha, watershed! Weak bladder! My incontinence fuelled humour knows no bounds.
A woman has lipo on her aesymmetrical breasts, so now she just has equally horrible saggy tits.
One of the BMX-ers has a low sperm count. We are not told which one it is, but the numerous camera pans gives us a pretty good idea.
Pop Fact! - When not fingering diseased genitals, Dr Jessen is an 'accomplished oboist'. He also rides horses. Here is a photo of him looking smug because he has finished a sudoku.
I vaguely knew A&F to be a Gap-ish like clothes shop in America that people seem to love, even though as far as I could work out it sold either bland as fuck clothes or highly branded bland as fuck clothes.
Yesterday however, I happened to be in the area, so decided to visit the London A&F store. Within two seconds of entering it shot up from being a thing I had sort-of-heard-of-kind-of to being my official Worst Shop in London and Possibly Ever. - a title snatched away from Halfords in Friern Barnet Retail Park with considerable aplomb.
Where to start? Oh, well as you enter, you can queue to have your photo taken with a shirtless male hunk and keep the polaroid to show all your friends back home. Why? So you can tell them you shagged him? So they can be impressed that you stood next to someone with a six pack? Because some of his fitness might rub off on you and make you look less like a fat tourist in a straining pair of chinos and sweat drenched 'I heart London t-shirt'? *shudder*
This isn't apparently just a random act of whoring: A&F is known for it's good looking staff and presumerbly being pimped out to hormonal girls is part of the job description. I did wonder about this alleged hiring policy, as it appeared to be very much in action in the London shop and surely smacks of discrimination if true. Is anyone who reads this really fat/hairy/muslim/tattooed/all of the above? Please apply and let me know how you get on.
Anyway, inside. You know what I hate more than bland as fuck branded clothing in a million different pastel colours? I hate being lost in dark crowded nightclubs while shit trance music thumps so loud I can't hear my own angry thoughts.
Random? No, no, no, THIS is Abercrombie and Fitch, London. Confusing, as A&F is what one is supposed to wear to a chase a labrador across a beach in the Hamptons with your wholesome looking boyfriend, so the Ministry of Sound get up is beyond infuriating.
They even have two of their Stepford employees dancing on a balcony as if to say 'Hey, this is really fun! I always like to rave it up in the middle of the day wearing stonewashed bootleg jeans and a cornflower blue vest top!'.
It's a wonder the staff get time to actually fold jeans in between being groped and pretending to be 'aving it large', but I gather it's actually an honour to work in A&F as it means you are 'fit'. Fit and presumerbly also as thick as two short planks to allow yourself to be exploited in such a manner for £6.50 an hour.
Shops like A&F with concieted good looking staff (Urban Outfitters is another prime example) also irk me, as until a few years ago, I would be seriously intimidated about going in them, actually being worried about what the staff would think of me. Fortunately, now I am not just confident enough in myself to know I am as 'fit' as them, I also don't fold t shirts for living and could buy that whole pile of muthafuckin' folded Micky Mouse stencilled abomonations if I wanted to.
edit: Ooh I just found THIS article by someone at the Daily Mail *hock, spit* who went undercover at A&F. He said what I said but in a more boring way.
edit: while looking for a suitable image for this entry, I came across their website description - 'The highest quality, All-American lifestyle clothing for aspirational men and women'.
I think I just vommed in my mouth and waged war on the West.
Vice style 'Do's and Don't' from the Olympic opening ceremony.
It fair made me snort into my cornflakes.
Incidentally, I'm off work this week, hence the prolific blogging; it also means I am sampling the 'wonder' that is daytime TV for the first time in about a year. How vile is Jeremy Kyle? Really, who the hell is this perma-angry man who shouts over undereducated poor people as they attempt to defend their poxy lives on national television? I can't believe I ironically dug him at Uni, he is the 21st Century version of the Witchfinder General.
next week on SOB, Biche wonders why aeroplane food tastes so bad, comments that Gordon Brown is a big boring and cocks her hammer in the direction of more sealife held in wooden containers
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
The bottle looks a bit like a giant butt plug, which is unfortunate, given it's location and Kate's posture.
Kate Moss has been interrupted midway through farting a plume of smoke and isn't pleased about it.
Isn't there some phrase about 'shooting smoke up your arse'?
Is this what 'embracing the night' looks like? I would say this is what 'embracing the staircase after drunkenly tripping over your own feet in Mo*vida' looks like
Velvet Hour sounds like a cheap range of chocolates from the 1980's.
Or some niche evening show at the Four Floors of Whores.
Who the hell would buy this perfume anyway? Even impressionable young women who worship la Moss would know that she wouldn't wear something you could buy in Superdrug next to Charli, Angel and Stunning by Katie Price.
I like her hair.
Monday, 25 August 2008
I suppose it was okaaay, I mean, I used to think I was the whitest girl alive and so looked about as 'in place' at Carnival as Cher would on a pilgramage to Mecca, but that was before I went to Carnival with A and E who take being 'whitey' to a loud shrieky level not seen since Julia Stiles in Save the Last Dance. (or maybe those Step Up films but I haven't seen them) But Y to the T anyway.
Although I drew the line at drinking rose from a cup and bogling to reggae in the middle of Porterbello Road with several other rah-sterfarian* friends of A, after a while (and several drinks) it felt less like a poultry stinking pressure cooker of barely repressed anarchy and violence and more like a noisy dirty festival in the middle of London.
After a while (and some more drinks) we had a dance and a drum n bass stage, which is where I got a pondering on precisely how bizarre drum n bass dancing is. I mean, I think I have thought this before - and by thought I mean druggily ranted at someone in the toilet queue at Fabric - but never have I put finger to keyboard about it.
But yeah, so for one, dancing to DnB you basically dance by yourself. This in itself is quite weird if you think of the great grand history of Dance, which is basically an inclusive group activity. But in DnB you barely touch, unless your gun fingers (pow! pow!) accidentally go on the opposite trajectory as the person next to you's eyeball socket.
Secondly, you don't really move from the same spot. Unless you are a bit of a fancy dick with your leg work or are off your face and flail about like a psychotic spider, you generally bop about from foot to foot as if you are standing on rather hot sand.
Thirdly, one of the most common moves is to slump your shoulders forwards and sway from either them if you are male, or from your waist if you are female. This is not terrible attractive, again, unusual for a Dance, traditionally a roundabout way of attracting people.
Remember those plastic anthropomorphic flowers you could buy that danced when you played them music? I imagine from the stage we must have all looked like that, albeit bedecked in Jamaica whistles, soaked in Red Stripe and with poor posture.
But anyway, Carnival. It's over for another year and maybe in 2009, unlike the last two years, I won't be saddled with a friend who is all 'omg but I've never beeeeen and you have to go to Carnivaaaaal'.
Honestly, I'm such a whore for London knowledge based flattery - tell me you've never been to Brick Lane and we'll be sitting there having overpriced shitty curry made with 40% water injected chicken breast before you can say 'oh cool was this like, where that book was set?'
*rah like 'awful privately educated braying Henrys and Camillas who gad about Carnival in their multicoloured Ray Bans going 'oh yah, I rahly love that Leathal Bizzle, his shit is like, totally street? yeah?' I just thought of that phrase and although it undoubtly exists already, I am quite proud of myself.
Monday, 11 August 2008
Many a valiant hero has fallen and great warriors lost their lives...by bumping into their reflection in the hall of mirrors in Longleat Safari Park. Other baser mortals such as myself just wasted a lot of time preening and seeing what the back of their heads looked like after two hours looking at monkeys in the pouring rain.
Honestly, if you bumped into me today I would probably regail you with fascinating anecdotes about 'this client meeting I had to set up for Mel with like two hours notice *outraged look*, but like, then Rich had a clash with the HPI debrief *exaggerated wince* so I had to beg to Lou...'
Yeah, I'm a boring git.
BUT, it won't be forever I swear...an excess of holiday and a lack of friends with funds mean I will probably spend a jolly week in the luxury holiday chalet otherwise known as 'my flat with in-date food in the fridge', so then I will blog, oh god I will blog!
In the meantime, my good friend who I have never actually met, Dom, has started a new blog - Ich Luge Bullets - so go read that, or check out onedatatime.com or fourfour - the blogs by Rich and Tracie who do Pot Psychology on Jezebel.com. Honestly, I'm such a geek, I have huge 'friend crushes' on them - I haven't wished some perfect strangers were my friends more since I first watched Wayne's World...
I guess the only redeeming features this time are that a) they are real people and b) it won't result in me wearing baseball caps, tucking my hair behind my ears and going 'shhhha!'. That shit really does not fly when you are a 10 year old girl who lives in North London. Even if you do have the same hair.
p.s How shit is Mike Myers these days? Shhhhhha!
Monday, 14 July 2008
When I was at the Clap Clinic today (there ain't no shame, regardless of how you may feel when asked to describe your discharge and you turn into a twittering idiot who goes 'ohmywellisupposeitsabitlikeummmmohwelltheotherweekarentwehavinglovelyweatherthesedays?' much to the chagrin of the long suffering doctor) the only reading material in the waiting room was a copy of SAGA magazine. From December 2007.
And a fascinating read it was too!
But yeah, this would suggest that the oldies do grace Clap Clinics with their presence, although possibly they are so engrossed in readers' photos of snowmen from years gone by (my favourite: This is the snowman we built outside Hounslow Police Station in 1978. Back when we could see to the prisoners how we liked without letting the 'PC brigade' get involved. Pardon the pun!) that they don't hear the doctors call them in, and after a satisfying read, toddle on home again, still riddled with STD 's and without their free bag of condoms and lube.
Incidentally, I do now feel compelled to tell you all, dear readers, that I do not have any diseases, but I did accidentally pee on my hand while taking a urine sample, so I would still give me a wide berth.
Well anyway, last Saturday I kept checking on him, by the Frasier where Niles agrees to pretend to be still married happily to Mel his breathing was shallow and by the time Frasier hires a butler to try and get on the Opera Society board, he was cold.
I was a bit sad, but what was weighing more heavily on my mind was how one goes about respectfully disposing of a beloved pet in a flat with no garden. After several lame attempts to dig up the mostly concrete front garden with a spoon, a plan B was needed, as Bobo was quite a hefty ham, and I didn't want a reputation as the mad lady who mysteriously dug lots of little holes in the front garden with a bit of cutlery.
Luckily, I had recently finished a tub of Flora, and even more luckily, I have been thoroughly conditioned by the Flatmate to wash out every sodding bit of packaging, right down to petit filous tubs for recycling. So in an act of (in my own head) massive bravery, I gingerly scooped up the dead Bo and plonked him in and put the lid on. Then sat there looking at it for a bit.
Anyway, several bizarre txts later (heya, how are you? Long time no see! Could I possibly bury something in your garden?) Rhi came to the rescue, and Bobo was interred, or more accurately squashed by a large lump of clay as I attempted to bury him with my eyes shut.
RIP Bobo, Feb 2006 - June 2008
Monday, 16 June 2008
So here I sit, with a brand new laptop balanced on mosquito bitten knees (good ole insurance payout and beachside dwelling respectively) and once I have got my shiz together - ie caught up at work and finally cleaned the layer of plaster dirt off all my wordly possessions - I will be back on form. I swear.
In the meantime, go read a book or something.
Sunday, 1 June 2008
Friday, 30 May 2008
Who would have thought that Kristin Davis would be the best thing about any film, let alone the SATC? Her comic mugging was about the only redeeming feature in this predictable cheesefest of an extended advert.
I did like SATC on tv, I went to the cinema with my brain firmly switched to standby and my cynicism (oooh! I'm SUCH a Miranda) tucked away safely in my back pocket, but even then it would take a very simple woman indeed to be moved by this souless schtick.
SATC had genuinely moving episodes, you felt for the characters, they seemed real. On the big screen it is not just their fabulous wardrobes which are larger than life...they have all become such parodies of themselves, we feel nothing for them. At one point when Carrie is emotionally devistated (no, not saying why) and slowly takes off her sunglasses for the first time to see her sorrowful reflection in the mirror, a member of the audience with cynical volume muttered 'wow.' There was a pause and the whole cinema errupted into laughter.
Oh god and don't get me started on Jennifer Hudson, a woman apparently only cast for her ability to bring some good ole token sass to proceedings. I mean, she can act most of the others off the screen, but given that her dialogue mainly consists of 'uuuh huh girlfriend', and hideously twee one liners, they might as well have saved themselves the money and brought in some bit character from Keenan and Kel. I mean honestly, who says 'I came to New York to find love'? Emotional men. Lesbians. Not smart women in a town where they outnumber men 2:1.
But yeah, the clothes are fabulous, the shoes are fabulous, the locations are fabulous... but then they always were. But the series had more, it had (a rather ditzy, materialistic, bittersweet) soul.
In summary: The SATC Movie.. it's like meeting up with your old best friend from school and finding out you have absolutely nothing in common. But that they do have nice shoes.
Edit: The best review of the film I have read, on Jezebel.com, a site any woman with a semblance of a brain should waste some of her daily time on.
Scons, scowns, scooons, for some reason (probably because I'm consciously trying to get fit for a beach holiday so the bitch in me is subconsciously ruining all my efforts) has been consuming loads of them of late. Cream teas to be precise, and for those of you who aren't middle aged or massive losers like moi, a 'cream tea' consists of scones served with clotted cream and jam. Oh, and tea. But mainly cream.
In order to turn this losery negative into a hip ironic positive, here is the official SOB guide to Cream Teas
John Lewis - setting the standard for teas what are creamy, this was a perfectly nice scone, with a perfectly nice amount of cream and jam. The only downside were the cups, those little squat inflight meal ones you can barely fit a finger through the handle of, which made me feel like a big obese giant who should be eating air and carrots, not creamy buttery biscuitcakes.
Kew Gardens - massive scone the size of a child's head. A bit stale as it had been left out all day, but quite good value for money if you are after a full stomach and an excuse not to poo for two days. Normally okay amounts of cream and jam were just not adequate on this floury beast.
Liberty's - two warm scones with a delicious buttery texture eventually rolled up about half an hour after the tea. Marks subtracted for lateness, the frankly ludicrous £10.75 price tag and the fact that had I not nicked someone else's cream I would have gone wanting. *cough* greedy mare *cough*
The Frances Hotel, Bath - £7 odd quid for one average sized scone and an unrequested bit of lemon drizzle cake. The cream was plentiful, but not a clotted as in some places. One pot between five also lead to a secret battle of wills and nerves, of hearts and minds, of greed and stomachs. It would be fair to say R and I won that one. Marks added for the lemon cake and swiftly deducted again, as I felt compelled to eat the soggy citrussy bugger to get my money's worth.
Hopefully not to be continued...
Wednesday, 28 May 2008
This is a rather long INFURIATING report about 'Millenials' or work shy young shits like my good self (and you if you were born between 1980 and 1995). I defy you not to throw your iphone through the lcd screen of your laptop after watching about five minutes of this utter claptrap.
Yeah times have changed Grandpa, young people no longer want to wear suits and trilbys or 'punch a timecard'. If you keep slapping your secretary on the arse, chances are she will quit and sue you, not giggle and fetch you another martini.
The point about more young people living at home is also a bit rich, as had the 'Babyboomers' not fucked up the US banks and stock market, then more Millenials could afford to move out and not live with their darling parents who have apparently raised them too well, being that we weren't all shoved down coal mines at 14, constantly critisized and told to work all the hours God sends.
Then again, maybe it's not just a biased ill researched piece of utter trash masquerading as news. Perhaps it is reverse psychology to stir us - admittedly more apathetic - young folk into action. Don't know about you, but I sure as hell want to go out and beat some 'Boomers right now.
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
Well, as I found out at Longleat Safari Park, it is not just Doreens the world over who have been faintly insulted via the medium of small bits of cork you put on the table to stop stains. Observe:
This range of coasters truly are designed for passive agressive husbands to bring back for their wives after a stolen weekend with the secretary in some seedy location.
Possible future gems:
Maud from the Italian meaning 'ugly'. She is nice and cheerful. She is friendly and fun.
June from the Sanskrit for 'frigid'. She is proper and just. She is a good mother.
Eileen from the Norse meaning 'stupid twat'. She is lovely and forgiving. And makes nice food.
From Racked.com, this poor Warner Bros prole turned up to her office one morning to discover she now works in one of the most overexposed, hard working Vajayays in pop.
And it also happens to be an incredibly tenuous excuse for me to post this clip of the Day Today (see last 2 seconds of clip)
Saturday, 24 May 2008
Friday, 23 May 2008
*Not totally 'live' it has to be said. Tune in from about 11pm to see my report on the whole glorious shebang
Thursday, 22 May 2008
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
"This is an account of Lesley's time in the Big Brother house last summer and the road that took her there. (Lesley is the grandmother and WI member who calmed down with a strawberry.)
There are lots of laugh-out-loud momentsbut also some sharp insights into the BB experience, including the audition process and what it was like to live with the other contestants (who can forget Ziggy, Chanelle, or Charley?).
Throughout, Lesley draws parallels with the original world of Big Brother in Orwell's "1984". My only complaint is that the 168 pages seemed to fly by, which left this reader wanting a little more. However, the stories are very well told and hopefully we will see a lot more from Lesley in future. Overall, a must read for fans of the show, and plenty for others to enjoy too. "
Well thank YOU, Claire Horton from Surrey. And here I was thinking it was a shameless cash-in from a Big Brother quitter, hypocritically criticising all the other fame hungry wannabees who dared to stick to their guns. And what is she doing on the front cover? Joyfully shelling a pistachio? Reading the smallest joke book in the world? Tearing a tiny person limb from limb in glee?
Much as I like to get on my high horse and ride around dusty Amazon planes, herding reviwers and shouting YEEHAH (oh and I DO) my bookcase is not entirely worthy and Big Brother free...
Look right, my mum had just popped into Waterstones to use the loo and he was there doing a signing and no one was there and she felt sorry for him, yeah?*
But yes, that does mean I not only own a copy but a SIGNED copy.
Why I should just retire now, I'm made.
Edit: I love how it looks like Nick is looking up at Lesley going 'mmm maybe she will drop the pistachio shell my way so I can suck it for sustinence'
Tuesday, 20 May 2008
For example, it took me two days to write the below poem. And, after reading it out to a class of twenty odd people, about a minute to realise that I have a very weak grasp on the concept of syllables.
The Demise of Commerce (and abuse of 9 syllable lines)
Dusty glued plants in a strip lit mall
Scents thick and sweet creep from the Food Hall
Smooth blue cream towers of china rise
Flapping scarlet sale signs sieze the eyes
Shop owners haggle, scowling, degraded
Carved dragons loom large, claws chipped and faded
Gold plastic glints, yet bright in the gloom
But darkness and still come first of June
Oriental City turns into a tomb.
*not literally shit
Sunday, 18 May 2008
The waiting room for the local cab office...
In fact, alfresco seating is very much derigur in Colindale it would seem.
This house has ideas above it's station. Colindalia? Nope, sorry love, you still live in an area which sounds like something you wash peas in.
Still, they have their pride in these parts. Don't want no foreign bins coming over here, nicking our rubbish... (kudos to the Bruv for that one)
The window of a long closed Bookies. I like how there is a bit of the base relief missing, like once someone lost a load of money and punched the wall in sheer RAGE. Colindale is kind of emotionless these days.
Yet another example of al fresco seating, this time outside Dixy Chicken. It's hard to show the true surrealist nature of this bench, but it was built either by someone with a Dali fixation or a spirit level that was out by about 45 degrees.
The sad fact is that when Oriental City closes, this will be Colindale's claim to fame. The Bruv was sent here after he trod on a dog in Thailand ('It was a black dog sleeping in the middle of a dark road. Really he was asking for it') It's proximity to Dixy Chicken is a bit worrying.