Spoon Rage

And now for a matter of massive significance that will make you question how you see the world and everything in it. The economy? The war in Iraq? No, I'm talking about the free spoons you get from Marks and Spencer's foodhall.

As a central London dwelling deskbitch I often get my lunch from what my dear Mum called 'Marks and Sparks', and this usually involves some spoonable item. We do have kitchens at work so I could plausibly pick up a spoon on my way back in, but this would involve at least a three minute detour, which takes away from precious gorgeing time, and frankly, I get the rage when someone obstructs my path down Carnaby Street to try and flog me a charity subscription or ask where Oxford Street is, let alone any greater hinderance to face/sandwich interface. God knows how people go to the gym or shop on their lunchbreaks...

Well anyway, this terrible unrepentant greed coupled with the fact that I love a freebee, even if it is a small, black and made of plastic, means I inevitably end up picking up a M&S spoon.

So what's the beef? WELL. For some reason, these little spoons have been designed so they are slim and disproportionately deep for such a narrow spoonhead. What this means is that unless one is blessed with Angelina Jolie type lips, (and let's face it, my mouth is more like a letterbox made of flesh) you can't get all the stuff off the food with one mouthful.
This results in having to turn the spoon over to lick it, which can look inappropriately sensual if eating chocolate mousse, and disproportionately retarded if eating pomegranite (as it requires more of a flipping motion).

Usually I have the latter, which comes as no great surprise to my workmates, used as they are to see me doing things like falling off my chair or lying on the floor with my arse in the air taking photographs of tiny bottles of shampoo for powerpoint presentations.
Today, I had the mousse, and honestly, I think I might have to steal spoons from Pret a Manger on the way back in future as I turned into some terrible Nigella Lawson/Winnie the Pooh hibrid, 50% sexy, 50% a bear of little brain, 100% wrong.

I saw this clever little item, which got me thinking about how much you can do with a single lump of plastic, if you have half a brain. This is a toothbrush which has a dented back, so once you have brushed you can flip it over and redirect the tap waterflow so it becomes an easily drinkable fountain. It's not earth shattering, but it's simple, it's clever and it works. That's two points up on the M&S spoon anyway..

Dearly Departed, Now with Omega 3

It it with a bit of melancholy I bring you the news that my hamster, Bobo, has died. To be fair, he never fully recovered from the ceiling falling in on him, despite the Flatmate heroically lunging into the dust filled void where my livingroom used to be at 4am to save him while I, dear reader, stood in the doorway flapping my arms about and shrieking about my laptop.


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

The Official SOB Guide to... Scones.

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...

Announcement: Blogging Eurovision 2008

The laughter, the tears, the smurfs: yup, that's right! Following on from my vaguely popular liveblogs of the Brit Awards, tomorrow evening I shall be blogging Eurovision*! Admittedly not all of it, one condition for me having company whilst doing so is that we don't have to watch the intermniable scoring, but for the performances themselves I shall be on the frontline, valiantly watching 40 odd songs about 'sexi babi's and 'luff eternal' so you don't have to! But you should anyway because it's bloody brilliant....


..occasionally literally.


*Not totally 'live' it has to be said. Tune in from about 11pm to see my report on the whole glorious shebang

Indulge Me...

Massive geek that I am, I have been attending a night class in Creative Writing. Whilst things have not gone quite as hoped (that everyone would fall to their knees and proclaim me one of the greatest undiscovered writers of the 21st Century), the teacher is nice, and it's not ALL middle aged women. That said, regardless of age most of them are complete dullards - albeit accomplished ones who seem to have unending ways to describe clouds and skies and trees and shit* . It is good to have an ego kicking reminder that I am utterly crap at spelling and grammar - lord know I forget, being my own editor, publisher and worst enemy - but the public lesson infront of the Weatherfolk is a bit galling.

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)
by Biche.

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.

Quite.

*not literally shit

A Short Grumble

I still live near my old primary school. Back in the dark days when I went there, our playground consisted of a large bit of empty tarmac, a bench and a small wall. I think one time we spent a full week jumping off the small wall and attempting to grab this one leaf off an overhead tree. Happy days.

Yesterday I went past the old place on the bus - dear god! It is a riot of colour and so full of adverture playground contraptions that you could barely run a meter before tripping over some stimulus or another! No wonder kids are hugely obese and have such weak imaginations that if you ask them to think about a pink elephant they will pause, look confused and then look up google image search on their mobile.

Well tsk, I say...if my kids go to a school like that, I am going to take them out twice a day and force them to run around an empty car park and make their own fun. Yeah they will be a bit eccentric, skinny, and prone to talking to themselves, but frankly I would rather have a Holden Caufield than a horrible cabbage for a child.

Thoughts on Adverts

Yes, yes I know it's been a while (although not as long as I feared it had been) since I have written on this thing... I've been busy at work and so have probably lost all my loyal following (hello you two!) but oh well, I'll keep wittering into the void and pretend that there are people all over the world hanging on my every word.

I think last time I started blogging again it was inspired by some impotent rage I was taking out on the poor tv, and this time is not much different... recently several adverts have Got My Goat, so I have returned victorious to smash them down to size.

Case 1: BASF Group.
A man climbs up a glacier. He falls! But wait! His rope saves him. An invisible rope. This rope is BASF who rather self importantly call themselves THE chemical company, and thanks to their 'invisible contribution' there is a visible result.

Biche says: Wait, why are they THE chemical company? Aren't Glaxo Smith Cline a chemical company? Call me naive, but in this capitalist opportunistic climate, I somehow doubt that there is only one chemical company. This means they must really mean 'da' like 'you da man' and frankly that's just embarrassing. The more pressing issue however is the very point of the advert - invisible contribution? Then why the hell are you shouting about it three times an hour? That's like me repeatedly announcing that I direct debit monthly money to Amnesty International while in the pub and expecting praise and adulation every single time and not the 'shut up smugface, what are you trying to prove? Get a round in' that I would receive.


Case 2 - Frontline
Oh noes! The dog has the flees! Worrawegonnado?? Why, get Frontline flea repellent of course, 'The Gesture of Love you can Trust'

Biche says: This advert was obviously written by someone so jaded by 'dinner at a place with forks = putting out' that she now lives alone with hundreds of flea free cats.




Oh okay I had more, but now I've been distracted by Bear Grylls twatting around a Saharan salt plain with a urine soaked t shirt on his head, so I will leave you all for now safe in the knowledge that soon I will be back with some...funny...stuff....yeah?

Random Wikipedia Factoid of the Day

"Erica attended Robert Fulton Junior High in Van Nuys, California. During her teenage years, Eleniak became a regular on the San Fernando Valley party circuit and she began to use alcohol and drugs regularly.^[2] Steve Ferguson, a quadriplegic who socialised in the same circles as Eleniak, helped curtail her problem by introducing her to Alcoholics Anonymous in 1988 and helping her through her detoxification.^[3] Eleniak dated Ferguson for a while and there was talk of an engagement, but the relationship ended and her mother, Iris, ended up marrying Ferguson's father instead.<sup>[4]"

Huh.

Sorry, I have been really crap on the ole blog of late...no real excuses, just feels as if my brain has turned into a wheezing moribund bit of roadkill. Keep checking though, one day soon I will write something so inspired it will blow your socks off and people will quote it for years to come, causing 'Biche' to go down in history as an adjective for 'something really ace'</sup>

Horrific Painting of the Day

Now I will admt I have a penchant for wall art featuring trannies/gold cats/pelicans/Judy Garlands who stare down at you with big boss eyes as you attempt to watch Hollyoaks, but even I would not put this headfuck of a painting on my wall. It's like being raped in the eyes.

I once read that a sign of schizophrenia is an obsession with starey art. But then I once read that if you suck your thumb a man with scissors for hands will come and cut your fingers off and that eating algae will make you lose weight. Yes, those are two things that I have also read at some point in my life and completely believed. So basically the moral of this tale is that I am a mug.

Amusing Religious Facebook Groups

I'm very bored yo...

CRUNK 4 CHRIST (and dont care who knows it!!) - or who understands what the hell that means?

If it wasn't for jesus christ i don't know what i would do - I have a lovely image of these people just running around in a circle clucking like panicked chickens until Jesus comes along with some faith grain and mmmmm everything is okay again.


Boys Who Love Jesus are Sexy - And so much fun! Love the drama, the facepaint and the ketamine! Oh wait, that is Jesus the door whore at Heaven though..

I'm Saving Myself For Wild, Passionate, Awkward Honeymoon Sex - suprisingly, this is not actually a piss taking group, and for that, I salute them.

Richard Dawkins Is a Bastard - but kinda fly for an old guy

I Like Being A Mormon Girl Because I Don't Have To Shave Above My Knees. - Booking the tickets to Salt Lake now...

When God Writes Your Love Story - I think he would get more readers if he wrote that cartoon strip in the back of the Sun where the woman always has her baps out.

White Girls Who Love Hot White Guys - okay, not Christian, more like 'eh?'


I like Jesus...and cheese.
We Christians love our coffee! - voila! My breakfast via the medium of Christian facebook groups
Look Who's Toast Now?

Richard Littlejohn - He writes for the People

The second in an occasional series of amusing amazon.co.uk book reviews. This week:

Littlejohn's Britain: 'a themed collection of pieces that fires broadside at Blair's Britain and the absurdity of petty bureaucracy' - The cover

'the racist xenophobic witterings of a fool' - The Biche
finally someone gets it, 10 May 2007
By
pablo dombrowski "wewillcomebackasfire" (london) - See all my reviewsat last, a man with the visionary skills to realise how dangerous the London Eye is. So many people don't realise that this is an evil eye. Look at the patterns... it's clearly the eye that the freemasons use to signify control. They're laughing at us people, laughing. They're in league with the communists that make up the so-called labour party, and have ACTUEALLY erected this monument to their control, and we like sheep, actually RIDE IN IT. oh, i could weep for the stupidity of humanity. Buy this book AND LEARN THE TURTH before they get you.

the intellect of this man hath no bounds, 12 May 2007
By
Mr. B. B. N. Farrant "natural history fan" (uk) - See all my reviews One is reminded of Orwell, who once said "Every book is a failure." Well Orwell was clearly a fool and had not stumbled upon 'Littlejon's Britain' whilst browsing on Amazon, for no educated man could dare claim this seminal piece of literature a failure. If, as H.G. Wells assures us, that "Good books are the warehouses of ideas" then this book is a vast chasm of a warehouse, overflowing with such a smorgasbord of enlightened ideas that may liberate us from the shackles of contemporary liberal Britain. Oh how i feel complete having read this book, now i truly understand the meaning of Bernard Shaw's musing, "Only in books has mankind known perfect truth, love and beauty." LittleJohn i am indebted to you. hurrah



A new world dawns at the turn of a page., 12 May 2007
By
Mizake - See all my reviewsWith this insightful, visionary, and - I am not ashamed to say - celestially inspirational commentary on modern life, Richard Littlejohn has rendered the entire canon of Western literature, philosophy and ethical discourse entirely moot. On finishing the book - in one sitting, I might add, its compelling majesty renders one utterly incapable of laying it down - I had no choice but to burn each and every one of the other books I own. Such trinkets are simply unnecessary in the face of such brilliance, in this new and glorious era of "Anno Littlejohn". Yes, I cry, cast Hamlet and Macbeth into the fire! Render the Iliad and the Kalevala into dust! Drive away the librarians and book sellers! No other works are necessary; all knowledge and truth is contained herein. Praise you, Sir Richard, and long may your wisdom guide us all.

Thought provoking stuff!, 12 May 2007
By
Mangina Reilly-Hurtz (Misogyny) - See all my reviewsI read this while awaiting clearance in a terminal at London's Heathrow. By the time I turned over the last page I realised Britain was not for me. Thank you Mr Littlejohn. You have saved me from a squalid life living in a small studio flat above yet another Indian Takeaway or Pizza Delivery service. As for the neighbours I would have had according to you. Well it is not worth thinking about. So I asked for the Immigration Service to return me on the earliest flight back to where I came from. I just wouldn't want to live in a country that produced Littlejohn. Plain and simple

Brilliantly exposes the bonkers values of socialist Britain:, 1 Jun 2007
By
Brian Ginnity (Colchester) - See all my reviews
This book exposes the way we are now governed, which is why a lot of socialists can only respond with mockery and insult. It hits home and they can't handle it. It's the old "we're right (by definition) so anybody who doesn't agree with us must mad, bad or both. That's how the old USSR was able to justify locking up it's political opponents in mental hospitals. The book was a funny and merciless description of the self-serving, hypocrital antics of the likes of Prescott, Blair (Mr and Mrs), police chiefs who refuse to fight crime, councils who refuse to collect rubbish and all the other useless so-and-sos who have got us to where we are now.



Oh wait, that last one could be serious... well anyway, you can find all the reviews here

Respecttothemanintheicecreamvan!

No.

Although respect is due to:

*The street sweeper of Crouch End Broadway. He must be about fifty and appears to be built soully of sinew, wire and reflective yellow plastic, but my god! He is like a grizzly old duracell bunny! Well, to be honest he is probably on speed or at least some other low level amphetamine, but my god he gets the job done, and woe betide any dog/pregnant woman/annoying little tyke not in pushchair (who collectively make up at least 75% of Crouch End at any given time) who wanders into the path of his giant blur of a broom. I did used to think he was pretending he was in Stomp! in his head and was actually beating out complex drum rhythms as he anihilates the fag butts and bus tickets to the curb, but having seen into his eyes (through the protection of the bus shelter) I fink is jus da drugs.

Which begs the question why they don't subsidise them as part of the job. If they did I'm sure more people would sign up. Well, it would probably lure mon frere into gainful employment at any rate.

*The old man who dropped his melon on the bus yeterday. No shame, he just went and chased after it like a toddler chasing a duck before securing it somewhere near the drivers feet and getting a round of applause from the bus.

Ha you can tell I was thinking of this on my journey to the pub last night, can't you?

Christ what a lame entry

Virtual Biche!

Look! It's me (albeit a possibly quite svelte me with oddly red hair) It's from the Hennes website...

That's all really, watching the repeat of the Apprentice which is stressing me out even though I already saw it last week. It's slightly weird watching it now because all the besuited chumps are only a few years older than me and my dear friends, none of whom as far as I know talk about 'business levels' 'proactivity' or wear cheap suits.

A year ago it all seemed so alien, but already the talks of salaries, work and whatnot are however quite familiar, so perhaps this is the future! Perhaps in three years time we will all be synergising and profit margining! In nasty suits! Whilst shouting into Blackberries!

Still, virtual Biche will always be the same, oh yes, virtual Biche in her skinny jeans and slightly unflattering top that is usually only worn to the gym...she will never change!

Why North London is Nice - Londis of the Gods

Now kudos to this Londis (Ferme Park Road for those who know or care) I went in the other day and counted FIVE different types of taramasalata and FOUR different types of Houmous. Not to mention the vast sections of veggie food, hundreds of different jams and breads with every concievable seed/grain/healthy crap in them.

Basically despite being outside Crouch End technically it is the most horrendeously typical Crouch End shop ever, but then so what? I like having to spend half an hour debating over types of felafel and humming over cheese with my fellow 'Enders!

What is quite funny is that although it is so very very Crouch, it has this delightful shopfront. Scotch Egg? Scotch Egg?! That is the lunch of a National Express driver, ('eh, if i put it on a little plate with crisps see, it's a proper meal.') not a polenta eating Crouch Ender who has existential crises over olives! I do quite like how it looks like a little face, and can only assume that whoever made the decision thought that too..tis harder to make a smiley face out of houmous after all.

101st Blog Entry - I Wish I Had Found This Video One Post Earlier

Dan le sac vs Scroobius Pip

Kinda funny, kinda too-scene, and kinda like the brains of those angry ranty men you always end up friends with even though they detest your ideals and everything you stand for, played out over an electro beat.
You know, one minute you're merely debating whose round it is and whether to get crisps, and the next it's all 'YOU MAKE ME SICK THAT'S JUST WHAT I'D EXPECT YOU TO DO GOD YOU JUST DON'T GET IT DO YOU' after you suggest Beef flavour and suddenly you have do defend all your moral values when actually you wouldn't even mind Salt and Vinegar but no one else was making a decision.

But I digress!

Actually I don't, I don't have much more to say on the matter. What else?

Tonight I have been plagued by a mouse running around the flat and ignoring all the humane traps, bad television and a poster falling on my head. What is more peeving is that none of my varied shrieks of horror or suprise have gone at all warranted by the flatmate who is 'reading' in her room.

Also I have a boring boring temp job which saps my creativity, my joie de vivre but thankfully has the opposite effect on the old bank balance...or will do after another five days of inputting data and listening non stop to capital FM (how else do you think I heard Rihanna?!)
My thoughts on Capital Radio generally are as follows:

*James Morrison, Paulo Nutini and James Blunt should not exist, although I would grant them life if they took a vow of silence and joined a far away monistary.

*All people in London who call into Capital sound like complete retards. Without exception.

*It appears the good folk of London have no need for news updates of more than a sentence, but desire long reports on the Blackwall Tunnel every half an hour.

*The DJs all sound the same - like sleazy 40-something men who wear leather jackets and have greasy curtain hair which they have not changed in twenty years. (Although at least they aren't all jolly northerners who feel the need to say 'eeh oop' or whatever every other word to prove that although they live in Primrose Hill and shop in Fresh and Wild they are very much still in touch with the working man...that's Radio 1 btw)

*It's actually not that bad...

Natasha Bedingfield = Loon

I find Natasha Bedingfield a bit like a jewellery stall at Spitalfields Market - on the outset she seems all fun and sparkly; nice blonde lady singing catchy pop hits that do incredibly well in America etc, but when you actually look at her it's all rubbish tat which is overpriced and breaks after one wear (okay, similie slightly fell apart there..much like my earrings from said market!)

Firstly there is the fact she has large rolling eyes, horse teeth and is a mad Christian who spent her formative years banging a tambourine next to her equally mad Christian brother Daniel as they sang gospel to pissed off latchkey kids in council estates. Whilst I can't really claim to dislike her for this reason (she can't help her face and I'm sure the parents were behind the patronising of disatisfied youth) it does make me a little less enamoured of her...but mainly because I am a fascist atheist who will be smoted and brimstoned and whatever come the day of judgement. My bad.

Secondly, there is the way she has fantastic pop songs marred by the lyrics which appeal to the lowest common denominator of thick braying females, never destined to widen the gene pool because they are too neurotic. Observe:

First single: Single. 'I'm single woooah right now, that's how I wanna be'
So far so Pink, this is quite a fun song to sing in your bedroom when you are getting ready to go out, although never to be sung aloud to outside of said walls, because it is much like singing along to 'You and Your Hand' by Pink; all men will run miles away from you as you angrily stomp around like a bacardi breezer fuelled man-hating dinosaur. You will then wonder why no one is hitting on you and go home and cry to 'All By Myself' just like Bridget Jones taught you.
On a personal level it annoys me because I don't mind being single but do mind being cast into the same catagory as said militant delusionists; I am happy single, but would probably be equally happy not single. No need for an anthem.
Surely the point of being an independant woman is that you don't need to go around shouting at men how you are SINGLE WOOOAH every two seconds because it is evident and accepted and fine.

Second single: These Words. 'From my heart flows IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou!!!!!'
A bit of a change of direction for Ms B, she has gone from Pink-lite to sounding as terribly insecure and needy as most people who sing 'Single' really are. It also sounds a bit like having a seizure in Clinton Cards.

Third single: Unwritten'Drench yourself in words unspoken, live your life with arms wide open , today is where your book begins, the rest is still unwritten'
It might be just me, but this conjours up the image of Ms B standing in Clinton Cards (again), eyes closed in rapture and arms wide open, serenely pissing herself all over the 'Congratualtions on your Exam Results' card section.
In any case, it's rather annoying as I do quite like the sound of this song, but the godawful gospel-lite claptrap lyrics make me feel a little bit dirty, half through the thought of Natasha wetting herself and half because they are far too Oprah for my delicately cynical sensibilites. They have now predictably used this song in a shampoo advert, presumerbly because washing your hair is EMPOWERING and INSPIRATIONAL not just something you do to stop you STINKING of last nights fags and looking like a DECOMPOSING POTPLANT.

Fourth Single: I Bruise Easily.
' I bruise easily, so be gentle when you handle me, there's a mark you leave, like a love heart carved on a tree'
I can sympathise with Natasha here, as I too do bruise easily, but fortunately I have the presence of mind to not go out with people who carve hearts and 'R.G 4 E.B 4 EVAH TRU'. into me.*

*Well, once, but it was only a short alliance and I was only left with 'SPURS F.C carved into my left hip and a rope swing hanging off one shoulder.


Fith Single: I Wanna Have Your Babies'
Well actually I haven't heard it enough to quote but My God! No wonder the girl is single! I mean, I am not an expert by any means, but either singing about how men can bugger off, how you lovelovelovelovelove them, sprouting a load of gospel-bobbins, comparing yourself to a tree or saying you want their babies is not exactly the techniques the Sex and the City girls would use. Or any sentient being come to that.
'I want your babies'? God I don't think I would say that to my husband of ten years if I had one for fear of being immediately stared at, edged away from, divorced, buried up to my neck in sand and pelted with stones by my entire shamed family.... unless he had a packet of jelly babies, which could in fact be what the song is about for all I know.

In Conclusion: Don't listen to Natasha Bedingfield outside the privacy of your own bedroom, never listen to the lyrics and DO NOT follow her dating advice.

Important Issues Affecting the World Today

* Is it wrong to want the British sailors in Iran to be released, not for any huge political reason, but because at least one of them is quite fit? (in a young-ish kind of way)

*Why has no one ever suggested soup as a viable breakfast option? It is filling, nutricious, speeds up the metabolism, is an extra vegtable a day and
would also mean the flatmate would stop giving me weird looks at I enjoy my bowl of carrot and lentils infront of Jeremy Kyle.


*When did Jeremy Kyle turn into such a cunt? I remember when he first came on tv a year or so ago we really liked his refreshing honesty and the way he cut alcoholic abusive husbands down to size. Now he shouts at EVERYONE, which is especially jarring when he picks on 16 year old crackheads with four children who were abused as children and beaten up by their boyfriends. I can think of nicer ways to say 'YOU KNOW WHAT DARLING? YOU MAKE ME SICK. GET OFF YOUR ARSE AND GET A JOB YOU SCROUNGING WHORE'. Actually no, I can't, but I don't get off on making disadvantaged little girls feel like pieces of shit, so what do I know?

Then what happens is that the mong audience appluase like mad and they bring out the girl's three toothed one eyed boyfriend to call her a bad parent and demand a lie detector test. Ug. Ug. Ug.

* What has happened to fashion? Topshop is currently full of floral sacks, Primark has gone back to its pastel sportswear roots and Hennes is mass market new rave shit for teenagers downstairs (i.e incredibly individual clothes, but worn by every mong who derives fun from hanging around bus stops with cans of red stripe on a saturday night, which totally defeats the point) and boring houmous coloured work clothes upstairs.
What is a girl to do? I would make my own clothes except I fear I would end up with new rave sacks; a terrible compromise.

The Vinegar of Jesus.

In a moment of crushing boredom, I decided to look up Apple Cider Vinegar on the internet, after a mooch around Holland and Barrett made me wonder why it was so great.

WELL...

If you believe the internet, ACV prety much cures all your woes AND makes you lose weight by zapping fat or some shit. And I quote:

"the reported cures from drinking Apple Cider Vinegar are numerous: allergies (including pet, food and environmental), sinus infections, acne, high cholesterol, flu, chronic fatigue, candida, acid reflux, sore throats, contact dermatitis, arthritis, and gout. One reader reported that a shot of ACV saved him from going to the emergency room for heart pain. Apple Cider Vinegar also breaks down fat and is widely used to lose weight. It has also been reported that a daily dose of apple cider vinegar in water has soaring blood pressure under control in two weeks!

If you can get over the taste of apple cider vinegar, you will find it one of the most important natural remedies in healing the body.

As a wonderful side effect of drinking apple cider vinegar every day, we discovered that it brings a healthy, rosy glow to one's complexion! This is great news if you suffer from a pale countenance."

Hmm, thought I, I certainly have a pale counternance and a fat arse - maybe ACV, apparently Jesus in the form of sour piss-tasting apple brew, will be the answer to all my prayers!

So sure enough, this week I am testing it out. And not by half either, I figured to really get the most out of drinking a shot of 'orrible rancid piss every day, I might as well REALLY test it out. So I am eating a lot of taramasalata. And cake. Not together.

And no, the Jesus vinegar is not just for humans! Like the real Jesus himself if he had ever existed Jesus Vinegar loves all living things!

"Apple Cider Vinegar is also wonderful for dogs, cats, and horses. It helps them with arthritic conditions, controls fleas & barn flies, and gives a beautiful shine to their coats!"

Maybe I should try feeding some to the hamster, just to see what happens. He's quite a sturdy little thing - he accidentally rolled his ball into a puddle of bleach yesterday and is fine!

I wonder what Jesus Vinegar does to plants...

p.s How fabulous is that cake? I wish I was eating cake like that, opposed to stale slices from Happening Bagels. Boo

Where on Earth is the Biche?

Off to Chalk at the Scala tonite. Am rather drunk right now and have been ready for hours whilst the flatmate stresses about looking too indie and having hair llike a failed attempt at 1940's chic. I just look like a bit of a tit in leopard print top and neon pink winklepickers, but have had enough Vodka Oranges to convince myself I look like hot shit, opposed to a terrible parody of a member of the Skins cast (2007 way of saying Nathan Barley btw)
xx

News Report on the NEW SOCIAL TERROR that is Emo

Is anyone actually emo anymore? I mean, does anyone even call themselves emo? Actually I think I have a brain disorder that blocks out all tiresome black clothed people between the ages of 13 - 18 from my vision...a bit like in Scrubs where J.D can't see any of the women who wear wedding rings.

Actually I'm just not very observant in general...where I come from choo keep cho eyes on the pavement bra, don't be givin no bruvahs no looks what dey might misinterpret see? Fur reall..
Nah, only kidding, I'm too vain to wear my glasses out in public.