The Twitter Fallout

I admit I was getting a bit hooked on tweeting - well, any excuse for me to piffle more rubbish out into the tinternet and avoid my head imploding under the weight of a life that involves sorting out meetings, watching Masterchef and very little else...

What I never realised however, is that merrily microblogging away meant that you leave a very obvious googletrail of witter behind you. I was idly googling myself - an activity I do every so often in boredom and preparation for my inevitable life as a fantastically well known and admired sort - and I'm now popping up all over google like a battered plastic gonk from a whack-a-mole arcade game!

Although it is now easier to find out my identity than it is to buy an artisan bread in Muswell Hill, I am still going to attempt to keep some veil of anonymity and blank out my non biche identity.

As you will note, if you click and zoom in on the above picture, this twitter problem is two fold. Not only am I exposed for all to see, I am exposed with the phrase 'so painful I considered leaving it jammed up there'.
For those glorious souls who possess an inquisitive nature and click the link, they will readily see I am in fact writing about the incident when I got my entire fringe caught up in a hairbrush and panicked. For those who don't, I quite frankly just sound like a minger.

Japanese meme (NSFW if you work isn't keen on epilepsy inducing shots of male buttocks)

Oh poo, since I wrote the title, the best example of this bizarreness which included the flashing bumcheeks has been taken offline. Ho hum, such is life..

I found this brilliant article on Gawker today. In a nutshell, the collected works of gay pornstar Billy Herrington have become massive internet hits in Japan, ten odd years after their release. Being massive internet hits, they have been mashed up in various bizarre forms, and this being Japan these are very odd indeed, generally including rhythms beaten out on arsecheeks, baby's faces covering genitals and lots of grunting. Well, watch for yourself really...





Why have they become hits? Quite simply the English for 'You got me mad now', when growled by a beefcake in an echoey locker room sounds a lot like 'You are not distorted' in Japanese and 'Like embarrasing me, huh?' becomes 'You are sloppy recently' respectively. Oh, and it's like, two dudes wrestling and that is huhuhuhuh so gay.

Can someone with more accomplished (a.k.a any) video skills see what happens if we overlay Japanese tenticle porn with Something Kinda Ooh by Girls Aloud? Oh, but cover all the rude bits with photos of Matt Lucas' head? Then speed the whole thing up so it looks like people having a fit in a fishmongers to the sound of chipmunks singing? Internizze hizzle right there yo.

Westfield - Shopper, you are terminated

Boredom, curiosity and an ovewhelming urge to spend money lead to me visiting Westfield, the new juggernaut of a shopping centre in Shepherd's Bush today.

And absolutely huge it is indeed -and inside so white and curved that it is near impossible to get your bearings, find a start/end point or work out where any specific shop might be. I had to make do with wandering around in a daze like Will Smith in that bit of Men in Black where the doors open to reveal an extraterrestrial society getting about its daily business (but without the ensuing comedic high jinx).
Obviously there were no aliens, but nor were there that many earthlings at Westfield - I was there at 11am on a Saturday morning and there was probably a Monday evening 5.30pm amount of shoppers. This only added to the sense of surrealism as I pootled about, lamely trying to find Topshop but not wanting to queue at a cuboid touchscreen map, as they all seemed to be commandeered by the scant few other shoppers, eyes agog, trying to work out where the deuce Boots is (somewhere near the floating Nandos I think) or where in this dazzling ark of consumerism one might find a ginger beer (okay, just me on that one. The answer is 'nowhere' btw)

Maybe it was the emptiness, maybe it was because I was reading Revolutionary Road on the tube journey there, but I found the whole desperate 'this is the future!' great white massiveness of the place really oppressive - it's like Logan's Run before the running bit or The Island before the 'oh shit we're clones' bit.... something in the milk ain't clean, in other words. At one point I even found myself idly eyeing up the height of the glass rails, and wondering what they would do if I - okay, well, someone else - threw themselves off and landed splat on the white marble of the lower floor in protest. Believe me, it takes a lot for me to think such insubordinent things, I'm the biggest most superficial capitalista I know, but Westfield made me want to go and join an ashram in India, wear tie die gypsy skirts and brush my teeth with a stick.

That said, I wasn't completely impervious to the many, many shops, and I'd be buggered if I went all that way and didn't get anything, so I got this:

Fitting in quite well with the whole 'pointlessly futuristic' flex of this post, it is Mood Swing lipgloss: Our supernatural formulation starts off crystal clear and blossoms into countless shades of pink, depending on your emotional state - Oh goodo, that sounds plausible. Maybe Too Faced have discovered a formulation that will successfully do away with a hundred odd years of psychoanalysis, and who would have thought it would be strawberry scented too?

So what is my 'emotional state'? (apart from 'woman who has just discovered she has taken a photo of herself that includes a slight bogey up the nose')

Hmm according to them I am having 'dirty thoughts'.

Little do they know this is far from the truth, as I am in fact wondering if I have time to do my hand-washing before I go out this evening and if it is weird to have felafels for both lunch and dinner.

So yes, Westfield... it's definitely worth a look, but more so you can work out your exit strategies for when the thought police come knocking, or to have some life-changing revelation about the shallowness of your existence. Not if you want a ginger beer, that's for sure.

p.s If anyone wants to hire me as a hand model, do drop me an email...

p.p.s Let's update that emotional status to 'woman who is now questioning her photography skills after taking a second pic with the most embarrassing item in her living room in the background.' Look yeah, I won it on a grabber in Southend, and it's not exactly easy to dispose of a giant teddybear without feeling a bit cruel and wasteful.

What we have learnt from 'He's Just Not That Into You'

*If you force someone to marry you, they will have an affair and hide their smoking from you, but if you don't force someone to marry you, you will split up, get back together after a few months of ritual humiliation on your part and living on a boat on his part, and he will compromise all his values and marry you anyway.

*Baltimore is nothing like the Wire. There are still corners, but they are clean and empty. Front steps are street kid free and lead to frosted glass doors, not crack dens. Everyone has exposed brickwork and distressed leather furniture and every house overlooks the Domino Sugar factory. It's also a yuppie's dream, as it appears you can afford a massive warehouse loft to yourself simply by managing a bar, or doing some vague office job where you actually spend all day squealing and jumping up and down or running out at a moment's notice to catch your hubby cheating.

*Jennifer Aniston has a head like a sweet potato**.

*If you a sexually liberated feisty young woman who knows what she wants (read: slut) you will end up sad and alone (even if you are Scarlett Johanssen) but if you are a kooky fuckup with no social skills who acts like a twelve year old, you will meet the man of your dreams because 'at least you try'

*If you are Jennifer Connolly you must be asking yourself why on earth you are in this film.

*If you are gay, you will flock around Drew Barrymore like squawking seagulls ready at any moment to drop a dead fish of sassy relationship advice into her lap. You will also be well schooled in rolling your eyes, clicking your fingers and generally binding the different storylines together in various tenuous ways. You will dress like the last ten years never happened (see right)

*The best place to tell your wife you cheated on her is the flooring aisle of Homebase. This section was also good ammunition for the argument I had with my brother that you really can't tell the difference between laminate and real wood flooring.

*The mirror in your house is not for checking your hair, it is for Seeing Into Your Soul. Every so often you will look in it with a faraway gaze, then either sigh wistfully or smash it into lots of pieces. If the latter, you will then get a new mirror, symbolically put it on the wall of your new batchelorette pad and repeat.

*Scarlett Johnanssen truly has a fantastic figure. Dodgy hair extensions not so much.

*You will leave the cinema uneasy at a film that on one hand shows some quite obvious truths about relationships (if he doesn't call... if she doesn't sleep with you... if he doesn't want to marry you etc etc) but on the other hand ties up all the ends nicely and 'happily ever after' under the weak justification that these women are 'the exceptions to the rule'. Unless you are the slut. (see above)

*Wood Green is the BEST place to see any film of even slight comedic merit. Honestly, the cinema was half full but it was still like sitting in a Ricki Lake audience when some fat woman just stripped down to her red polyester neglegee- the whooping! The laughing! The genuine gasps of shock at coming-a-mile-off revelations! I swear I even heard a 'go girl!' at one point. There was also one man with a really distinctive loud laugh, which is just great, because you end up laughing at their laugh rather than the lame pratfall that happened onscreen.

Update: Rather good article in the Guardian about this twatfest of a film and why romcoms in general are vile

**I know, I know it's all anti-woman to say so, but she is getting to the age where you can't get away with superlong romcom facial closeups when you are projected sixty foot high onto a screen. It's harsh, but it's just not that nice to look at. See Sarah Jessica Parker in SATC. That said, it's not everyone, the rest of the SATC 'girls' and Drew Barrymore did not offend the eyeballs so. Maybe 'a face for television' is the kindest way to say it.

How to Hypnotise a Woman (NSFW if you can bare to watch it all the way through)

I defy you to find one woman this could possibly, ever, ever, work on, those having undergone frontal lobotomies or aged under eight excluded. That said, Brenda's sheer gullability and the toys on her bed suggest that actually both these things might be the case...

Honestly, it's more like an episode of The Red Shoe Diaries than a self help video and was clearly made for men by men who clearly haven't spent much time in the company of those who are not men.

Note to self: If any therapist ever utters the word 'horny' run for the fucking hills!

A heartwarming image for a cold Wednesday evening

Here is P Diddy treading in a poo.

This is why you are fat.

A great, self explanatory website, with the best use of a full stop I have seen in a while.

On one hand, you will never want to consume bacon (in all it's many, many forms, from taco shell to mayonnaise flavouring) ever again, on the other it makes you question The Truth.
We're told that even minor things like M&S sandwiches and tiramisu are superbad for us, and yet people actually eat the things on this site and don't explode into Mr Creosotesque fireballs of lard, or simply drop dead of a coronary angina within a day.

Yeah, they are fatties though.

Nothing is new...or sexy

I expect by now you've seen Morrissey's new 'gasp omg contravorsial' CD sleeve (Dlisted and Ich Luge Bullets have shrieked about it at length) It's here anyway in all it's pallid fleshy glory:

Ha, let us blight the memory of your favourite songs as they will now forever be associated with some hairless pale blokes from the pub stand around nonchalently listening to Morrisey play 'pat a cake' on his head.

Well anyway, vaguely offputting it is. New, contravorsial or different it aint. Get ready for a second scar on your retinas...

Yup, Cosmopolitan, glossy mag for slags (or for those stuck at train stations when WH Smiths has run out of Marie Claire) has had celebrity male centerfolds for years, including this incredibly...honest? one of Radio 1 or 5 or whatever DJ Colin Murray* from a couple of years ago.

One can only assume (or rather would like to assume as it is tres amusent) that Moz is a Cosmo Girl

*I don't get it. If you were of a slightly mouse-like persuasion, why would you agree to have your DJ partner (with her incredible invisible legs and torso) hold a CD over your bits in a delicate pinching fashion one would usually use when trying to pick up a teeny tiny jellybean off a desk? No amount of 'it's THIS big' hand gestures from you is going to offset that.

Don't say I don't do nothing for yous..

Bored with bad phone photos of creepy dolls? Tired of amusing websites and wondering what Hatchet Face out of Cry Baby looks like now?

Why not click the cornify button, handily located above PeeWee's head to the right of the screen?

Joy!