A Russian tale of caution, overheard on the Victoria Line this morning...

*Two Russian women get on the tube at Highbury and Islington. I can't actually see them as I am squashed up against some man with a giant rucksack he has refused to take off, but I can hear them clearly, not least because one is basically shouting in my ear*

"My friend, she keep snake. Big snake, Anaconda you know? They sqeeze, not poison but verrry big. She keep in her flat and one day notice that snake is being verrry friendly. It come sit with her on sofa, sleep with her at night and so. Now she think this is most unusual, she play with snake often, but it never so friendly."

"That is verrry odd for snake. Snakes not friendly often"

"Yes. So she go to vet and say. Vet goes 'oh no! You must not return home! Snake is not friendly, it is measuring you so's it can work out how it will eat you best. Get rid!"

"Noo!"

"Yes! Get rid! You see snake is like Dmitri. He being friend to you now, so he can make you trust, then he will come in night and kill you."

конец (end)

Out In De Streets Dey Call it Muuuurdah

Aah so I have just returned from the chicken bone strewn circle of hell also known as the Notting Hill Carnival.

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.

Photo of the Day - Dare ye Undertake this Epic Quest?

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.

Announcement: Greek Tragedy!

No doubt you have all been worried witless by the fact that I have not blogged in a couple of weeks. I am now able to reassure you, dear reader, that I am in fact not dead but merely back from a week in Greece, which was preceeded by the ceiling falling in at home and crushing my poor laptop to a pulp.

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.

For the Bain Marie of my Life

You might remember my earlier post, about the frankly fantastic Doreen personalised tea coaster I found in Weston Super Mare.

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.

All Types of Amazing

spotted in Weston Super Mare

A Rather Long Post About My Rather Long Sunday

I am very spatially unaware. This has proved a minor problem throughout my life, especially in dramatic scenes such as those where I run with arms outflug to greet a long absent friend and fail to notice things such as door frames or bystanders faces. I have also failed my driving test twice due to a complete inability to park or manouver a vehicle around any object smaller than a row of houses.

It was the latter that I was cursing myself about this weekend, as I was forced to take a nine hour round journey to visit my Grandmama on the National Distress (copyright S. Sculthorpe) /Peasant Wagon (copyright some rich cow I was at uni with).
Actually it wasn't too bad on the way up, I had my copy of Private Eye artfully wrapped around my copy of Heat, and managed to negotiate the blocked groaning bowels that is the Underground on a weekend quite speedily, although this did mean having to hang around the drafty 'departure lounge' with the usual collection of old people, students and lost souls. This seemed to go on for what felt like several overpriced-tea-fuelled hours as it would be fair to say that what I lack in spatial awareness I more than make up for in time awareness*.

I had to hop about in the rain for a while after disembarkment as 'Cirencester Taxis' turned out to be a bloke, who was busy,and who wrongly suggested that taxis pass the coach stop 'all the time!'. Londoner that I am, I have an inbuilt fear that anyone who hails a car on a faintly countrified lane ends up strangled with her knickers and dead in a ditch, so was very wary about using the old 'stick out your arm and hail anything that moves' technique. Actually this only seems to work if you are coming back from clubbing at 5am and accidentally wave down a police car to take you home, although this does mean a week as the subject of the neighbours' gossip.

Anyway, eventually I found a cab, found I could have actually walked the distance to the nursing home in the time it took me to find a cab, and went to see Gran. Usually when I come down I have, if not a relative (Spurs were playing so the relative was getting drunk in a pub) , then someone with a car with me, so we can bring a wondrous feast of non nursing home food, or even go out to a restaurant. Unfortunately the best I could manage was a cake that got a bit squashed en route and a pack of biscuits, so we were booked in to eat in the dining hall with the other residents.

Actually it wasn't that bad. Well, the air smelt of sprouts, not death, and it wasn't quite as One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest as I feared. I admit there was a moment of slight panic as I entered the dining room to be faced with about fifty identical grannies (and two drooling grandpas). It was a veritable immobile army of little ladies with cotton wool hair and pastel cardigans, but thankfully my little old lady (why do I feel very creepy writing that?) is as vocal as ever, so I was able to pick my way across the sea of zimmer frames to her table pretty quickly.

It is a well known fact that people over the age of about seventy have no tastebuds and consider things like pasta, rice and flavours other than 'salt' as deeply foreign and wrong. This was reflected in the menu, which was allegedly a roast dinner, but in actuality was more of a boiled mush. To be fair, quite a lot of the residents have the upper body strength of mice, so perhaps that is the reason that everything, even the chicken leg, was so completely overcooked that it basically fell away as soon as you poked it with a fork. I just kept thinking of those Japanese people who live to be 120 by stopping eating before they are full, and was then harrangued by my gran for leaving something that might once have been chicken skin but was now a load of blobby fat.

The pudding actually looked alright, a lemon meringue pie, but it was then suggested that I could have something from the Sweet Trolly if I so wished instead. And rather like a gameshow I had to choose before seeing the much lauded sweet-laden entity, and rather like a gameshow once I had decided I would indeed gamble on a different sweet, a large tiered trolly full of bowls of different coloured...stuff all topped with whipped cream, was trundled over by an over smiley assistant.
I plumped for the brown mush, which I hoped would be chocolate mousse, but turned out to be chocolate Angel Delight; the whole trolly actually turned out to be Angel Delight of different colours, which was a bit of a cheat. Then again, I hadn't had any Angel Delight in about fifteen years, so thought it would be a charming novelty. Which it was for about two mouthfuls until I remembered that much like Turkey Drummers and Spam, Angel Delight is a food of childhood for a reason, the reason being it is highly suspect in both taste and appearance. And in a room which contains at least twenty colostomy bags, the appearance and texture of the chocolate desert mush weighed especially on my mind.

After lunch was spent doing uninteresting (for the purposes of this blog) things like chatting about my recent holidays and family members, then Gran fell asleep for a bit and I read a Radio Times and saw all the tv I was going to miss that evening. Then she woke up, we had squashcake and tea, chatted some more, before I got a better taxi number, called a cab and paid £3 to be carted down the road to the coach stop as it was raining.

The journey home was less straightforward, for one, I was stuck next to a woman who insisted on having the light on when I was trying to nap, secondly the driver thought it would be nice to turn the coach into a veritable sauna, and for three I accidentally trod on the remains of the cake while trying to cross my legs. Then there was lots of traffic and I was distressed to see that the Lucozade Clock had vanished (will blog more extensively about that later). My sneaky plan to cut time by being dropped off at Earls Court then went slightly awry when some bloke and I were left on the edge of a motorway, in the rain, about half a mile away from the Station.

Oh, and then to compound my joys, when we did arrive at Earls Court, some c**tpancake had thrown themselves under a train and so shut off the entire Piccadilly Line on top of half the other lines not running anyway due to repair works *cough* laziness *cough*. I therefore had to endure a crowded long schlep on the District Line, where I was squashed in those seats that inexplicably face each other, trying to avoid looking at the winsome American couple opposite (well, ontop) of me, who smelt of donuts and spent the whole journey stroking each other and talking about toothbrushes.

After about an hour in the bowels, I emerged at Archway in yet more rain. On the upside my prayers were answered and the driver of the bus was not the same driver whose vehicle I threw up on on Friday night. On the downside, all my amazing acting practise and 'what? me? Oh god no that would be my twin sister. I've just been visiting our gran. Look! I have squashed cake and smell of sprouts and everything!' went in vain.
I eventually staggered home at about 9pm, collapsed, realised I was hungry, decided I didn't want to live to 120 and so made a massive pile of toast, and collapsed again. The Flatmate dived on the remains of the squashcake, I neglected to mention the foot-cake interaction, and instead lay back and wondered how much it takes to bribe a driving instructor.

*Frankly it would be no great surprise if I turned up early to my own funeral and bitched at all the mourners out when they arrived five minutes late as 'I have been DYING of boredom for the last FIFTEEN minutes'.

The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow

Hello, sorry, been somewhat at a low ebb today due to inactivity, boredom and a chill caused by being too embarrassed to ask for the air con to be turned down AGAIN. I thought I was a champion for the people until I realised that half the people near me were lounging around in T shirts.

Maybe I'm one of those Lizard People David Ike talks about. I was starting to wonder why David Attenborough was hiding in my filing cabinet, filming me from behind a stack of old ASA ajudications.

Aaaanyway, as I have mentioned before, tomorrow I will be blogging the Brits in all their boring glory, so I will save all my inspiration juice for then.
For now I will leave you with a photo of one band mysteriously left off the nominations for Best International Band, the 'Japanese Beatles' aka Bump of Chicken.
I have never actually heard The Bump, but am already in love with them thanks to their wonderful Wikipedia entry (HERE) which features not only their album and single titles, but each member's blood group and the fact that the lead singer "enjoys doing laundry, cannot eat spicy foods, has poor eyesight and likes to eat chicken"

What's That Coming Over The Hill..

... is it a giant anthropomorphised paedophile hand? Giant anthropomorphised paedophile hand!

Photograph taken from my recent-ish travails in Japan. I mean, I am assuming that is vaguely what it means, but given that I can't so much write my name in the language it could just be a health warning about dirty fingernails or something.

I am quite amused by the idea of loads of little Japanese kids growing up in fear of giant floating evil hands; a completely irrational, imagination fuelled fear much like the one I suffered from when locked my dolls in the bathroom every night for a couple of years after watching Childs Play.

I then saw it again about six years later when I was about thirteen and felt like a right tool as it could actually be the most un scary shit horror film ever.

Biche's Travails part 1 - The Bus to Finsbury Park

Don't say I didn't warn you..

I arrive at the bus stop in Crouch End at approximately 08.55, an unfortunate ten minutes behind the aspired to (usual being an overstatement) time, as there was no food in the house bar some stale Greek bread, and my hair appeared to have been possessed with the spirit of a 90's boyband and formed into two limp curtains over my forehead.
Friends I have spoken to remark how they always see the same people at their bus stops, some to the point of chatting/sharing coffee/life stories. Due to a vain refusal to wear glasses and a general dislike of anyone and everything before about 10am, I have never had this joy, but given that the friends who expound such morning wittering are also the sort of people who end up being ranted at by mad tramps, I'm not too bothered.

Today I am standing next to a woman in an unflattering white knitted hat and a coat that I enviously notice must be a lot warmer than mine. Due to January Sales bargain blindness my current coat is a woollen jacket that does up rather tighty around the waist, leaving either a pleasing silhouette or a gap of midriff and a cold arse, depending on weather and stance. Hat woman is sucking fervently on a fag and appears completely oblivious to the scrawny ipodded man on the other side of her, who is noticeably and irritatingly moving out of the path of every grey exhale. Looking at him in his long black coat that sufficiently warms his nether regions and poncy black goatee, I can tell he is probably imagining himself as Neo from the Matrix dodging a hale of bullets in slow motion, not a graphic design assistant in a Camden Market coat bobbing about like a chicken. Tool.

Together we stand in a little line along with about ten other Crouch End Work Proles and alternate between blankly staring across the road at Walter Purkiss and Sons dropping ice and fish everywhere as they set up for the day, at the hideous Cargiant advert on the bus shelter that is so sexist it must be a huge ironic joke I don't quite get, and to the right, where the bus is already lumbering towards us

As usual the novelty of the British Queue completely crumbles once the bus actually arrives, and everyone pushes on in a persistent yet silent throng, beeping their oysters before going to their assigned seats.. old people at the front, annoying little kids, parents and lazy women in heels downstairs, and everyone else upstairs. It always surprises me when people don't get these unwritten rules; sit at the front downstairs and some old person will always come and give you the evil eye and mutter grumpily at you until you are shamed into giving your seat up, sit at the back downstairs and you will get fleas and burst eardrums from the kids (word of warning, once they can speak you might as well give up scowling too.. nowt worse than when they stop shrieking to go 'Mummy why is that lady pulling mean faces at me?')

Likewise, tip for champions, if it is a sunny day, don't sit at the front of the bus on the way to Finsbury Park or you will be blinded for the entire length of Stroud Green Road which, what with the traffic lights that appear to be having a nervous breakdown and the local families taking their kids to school who appear to think that once you drop a sprog the rules of the road no longer apply so you can slowly drag your brood across the road at any time like a fucking family of ducks, can be some time.

That said, if you are not late for work or staring into the sun, the journey down Stroud Green can be quite pleasant. Where else would you find shops called L'AN KOMPRESSOR 2000 or else gaze into afro hair salons and wig shops on the way to work? Okay quite a lot of places, but it's good to know that should you ever want a washing up bowl, some goat meat, a cheap lightbulb or a bunch of human hair on your way home from work then you would be able to procure such items speedily thanks to SG's many bargain amenities.

Finally the bus turns the corner by the mysterious art shop where I have never seen a living soul enter or exit, the blinded people at the front heave a just audible sigh which cut short as the bus turns the final corner which thrusts them back into the sun. Then silently we all stand up and begin the next social dilemma, which is whether to allow the dazed people from the front of the bus to go down the stairs before you. I usually don't, reckoning that I will never see any of these people again so don't really care. Unfortunately due to my aforementioned introspection this might actually not be the case, which would explain why I always seem to get barged into as I stride towards the tube*. I imagine somewhere there is a woman sitting bored in another office off Oxford Street, ugly wool hat in her desk drawer writing 'So I was at the bus stop next to Matrix Guy and Rude Cow in the Stupid Jacket...'

Next week - The Tube to Oxford Circus

*although at least half of the barging is caused by people dawdling as they check out their reflection in the mirrored shop window next to the station and not checking out the cursing figure who is reflected just behind their reflection

Thai Green Envy

The Guardian, who I would usually expect a little better from, have decided it is high time they followed the the progress of a 19 year old middle class twat called Max Gogarty on his gap year as he wastes his parents money piddling around India and Thailand looking to 'have a good time'

I find this incredibly irksome for several reasons:

1) Don't tell me he doesn't have a relative working at the Granuiad. Thousands of idealistic young kids must send in the article proposal 'I will go travelling and blog my experiences', and no doubt a small fraction were actually really good writers looking for a break*, so why him? Oh right, a quick search of the website brings up Paul Gogarty, travel writer for the same publication. Nepotism much?

2) Anyone with a facebook aged between 18 and 30 will be already inundated by hundreds of hysterically boring and samey accounts of Khao Pi Pi, jungles, buckets and full moon parties not to mention thousands of photos of the above things. By people they actually know. And they are still boring as fuck.

3) I have not been, but I get the impression that Thailand is occupied by one ladyboy, an old lady selling alcohol in seaside buckets and half of the Home Counties loudly braying, boozing and taking hundreds of photos of each other in bikinis. Before going over the border to Cambodia to take a jolly photograph of themselves posing with a machine gun on the Killing Fields. What fun!Maybe if he was going somewhere remotely interesting, unexplored or, lets face it, unexploited, it might be more interesting. Like Iran.

4)For those of you who may consider number 1 a bit unfair, you can read Max's first blog HERE.. Yeah he's not even a particularly interesting writer. It's just so...obvious. And absent of similes or any other allusions (if we are going to get technical) that might make it more amusing or imaginative. What humour that is there seems to come from his variations of the word 'shit'. Oh ho de ho.

So in conclusion, I am very disappointed in the Guardian and until they give me my own blog, where I will recount my far more interesting, unexplored and humorous experiences as I travel to Oxford Circus and sit at my desk daily for three months, I will not be appeased**.


*Not the Biche, it has to be added.. I never got around to sending in my proposal

** If anyone knows anyone at the Guardian please forward this post on to them. With an added request to kick Paul Gogarty in the shins.