It turns out Top Gear has gone from being quite an interesting show about cars to a thinly veiled platform for middle aged pricks to massage their egos. Utter bullshit.
I'm not going to write about that though because I already saddled you with a miserable blog yesterday so on this Sunday night I'm going to beef up the chirp (not a euphemism) and totally be a happy bunny.
I've had a pretty eventful weekend...yesterday I went out shopping and bought myself a delicious bottle of my favourite perfume. Perfumes were put on this earth to cheer me up I've decided...I'm a big fan. I have a large selection of perfumes and the one I wear always depends on my outfit and my mood...they have to match. It's difficult to define exactly what it is about a smell that matched the colours and the feel of the outfit...but they definitely exist.
If I'm feeling like a bit of a sexy beast monster type lassy I'll either wear my Euphoria (Calvin Klein) or my Sex 212 (Carolina Herrera). It's potentially that both of these perfumes are pink. Not that I would ever wear pink if I was trying to look like a sexy lady. I'll be honest, I generally wear black or blue. I'm a very boring dresser. By dresser I mean 'someone who dresses themselves, not like a wardrobe. Unless by wardrobe you mean the one who comes to life in Beauty and the Beast - she is awesome.
If I want to feel classy and like I'm a superior woman of worth I wear my Coco Mademoiselle (Chanel) and pretend like I was brought up in Hampstead or Surrey or somewhere like that. I find it difficult to wear this perfume without heels and (to my knowledge) I've never worn it unless I'm wearing a skirt. Is this slightly messed up? This might be slightly messed up. It's getting harder and harder for me to tell if I'm honest.
My everyday perfume that just smell like me is Diesel (standard and limited edition). These are the ones I wear most often...they smell warm and can be worn with a multitude of different outfits. But I would really like to wear them when I get my motorbike. Perhaps if I stop spending all my money on perfume I'll have enough for the bikes. Clever girl. It would probably cause quite a big issue with my organisation of things that need organising though if I rode a petrol bike whilst wearing Diesel. Sigh. Will my trials ever cease?
Hugo Boss Deep Red and Ghost are ones that I've been wearing since I was about 16 and I'll put them on for days when I've been feeling a little bogged down in the fact that I'm a mid 20s ball of chaos. It's kind of like covering up a maniacal laugh and a bunch of cats with a loud of Elvis CD and a throw rug.
DKNY woman smells very clean and I will wear that only with a white top, a dress or if I've recently done something I regret and am hoping I can pretend it didn't happen. Makes sense in my head. Anyone that wants to use this blog to get me committed is really on to something tonight aren't they?
So...what perfume did I buy at the weekend then? Well, I'll tells you. My favourite perfume of all time. The one smell I never get bored of, the smell I could happily curl up and die in?
Ralph Lauren - Romance.
This is the smell of unicorns. It's the smell that emanates from Tom Selleck's moustache which I hope to one day experience as we smoke cigars together and re-enact the merry go round scene from Mary Poppins (ultimate fantasy).
It's the smell of peace in the Middle East. It's the smell of star fish (when they've bee washed). It's the scent of the red stripe of a rainbow. It's the aroma that whatever they banned from blue smarties emits. It's the smell of beautiful ladies with long hair and expensive pants.
I love it.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
The Wee Bit of Sense He Had
It's been a big week hasn't it? Self-assessments, Egyptian riots, Sally Bercow in a bed sheet? All making a combined effort to put you off reading the papers ever again. And, in the case of Sally Bercow, from ever watching the Speaker of the House without dry retching slightly.
I have to admit right now I am in a foul mood...I had a pretty shit gig last night. Now, I know I'm probably supposed to smile through this and probably not publish it so that when promoters find my blog they'll see a shimmering list of successful gigs and book me instantly. But fuck it - it's absolute bull shit to even suggest that a comedian with only 2 years experience is going out and rocking it every single night. Last night I didn't really rock a thing. Except my self-confidence. We won't go into details. But if you were a 'lad' tanked up on Carlsberg at the gig I did last night and you sat back down at your table and said in full earshot of me, "Well the bird was shit wasn't she" and then drank the Doritos out of the bowl on the table...I'm ok with you not finding me funny. I'm ok that my sense of humour differs from yours. I have to admit I didn't find your repeated grunting funny, or the time you said the c-bomb. We shall agree to disagree. Because you're a massive tool and I'm hilarious.
I've discovered two things in the last two days -
1. Aromatherapy literally means healing (therapy) with smells (aroma). This had never clicked before. It caused much judgement from my peers.
2. On my run this morning I noticed that the rugby players who train at my local park play football as a warm up. This got me thinking. Cricketers also use football as a warm.
I've come to the only logical conclusion from this information - Football is a such a piece of shit excuse for a game that proper sportsman use it as a warm up. I have never, ever seen footage of footballers in a scrum, playing rugby to warm up or grabbing tennis rackets and just getting into the groove before they start off on their 90 minutes of excruciatingly over rated toss.
Torres (so I'm reliably informed) was bought/sold/manicured for £50m this transfer season for being the best person at playing the warm up game. What a fucking travesty. Some English tool has even confused football insiders by being sold for £35m...which they say is a little much?
A LITTLE MUCH?
£35m for being a fairly adequate person at playing a sport that other sportsmen don't even consider worth putting on their CV because it's such utter drivel? In a few years time is this sliding scale of mediocrity going to reach a point where Sports Personality of the Year will go to the person who was best at 'Doing Funny Sidesteps Round Cones' for hours on end. His speech being -
"Yeah, a lot of people technically have criticised me for winning this on the basis of it being a warm up. But for years we've been celebrating the achievements of men who do little more than the average 6 year old in a playground. Obviously, footballs harder to do because not only do you have to concentrate on the game but you've also got to remember the name of all your team-mates' wives so that when you're balls deep in them and coked up to your eyes in your Essex mansion's night-club in the basement you don't have a huge Faux Pas. That probably isn't as easy as it looks. It's quite hard to train solidly when you're getting paid more than the average hospital yearly budget...I mean when are those poor lads even supposed to splash out on some granny minge? Some of them have been faithful this year. That's why I wanted to stick to my cones - you know?Just keep it simple. I think it's going to get better and better and pretty soon we'll have sports like 'Putting Your Trainers on to do the warm up for the game that's actually only a warm up too'. I'm really proud of this country."
Thank fuck the transfer window is shut. Maybe the entire football chorus can shut up too. And while I'm on my soap box - WHY ARE YOU ALL SO BALL-BREAKINGLY SURPRISED THAT FOOTBALL COMMENTATORS SAY INAPPROPRIATE THINGS ABOUT WOMEN?
Look at them. The man in the scenario is a fat, bald, ugly man who has a well paid job commentating on the show. He turns to his female co-worker and jokes that she should tuck something into his trousers. Look at his female co-worker - does she look like she plays football? Trains people? Has had an avid interest in football since she was four? And even if she does, is that what you fucking notice?
No. She looks good in a skirt and is wearing more make up than I have in my entire arsenal. Screw shoving the bloke out for being a massive tool - what do you sodding expect when that's the way you present a woman on TV? Shove the entire media industry up it's own gaping arse for not having the decency to admit that it's their own fault for trying to convince us that it's OK that only attractive women are ever used. The whole thing is rotten.
Tess Daly & Bruce Forsyth
Kate Humble & Bill Oddie
Christine Bleakly & Adrian Chiles
Cheryl & Danni vs Simon & Louis
Any more for any more?
I have to admit right now I am in a foul mood...I had a pretty shit gig last night. Now, I know I'm probably supposed to smile through this and probably not publish it so that when promoters find my blog they'll see a shimmering list of successful gigs and book me instantly. But fuck it - it's absolute bull shit to even suggest that a comedian with only 2 years experience is going out and rocking it every single night. Last night I didn't really rock a thing. Except my self-confidence. We won't go into details. But if you were a 'lad' tanked up on Carlsberg at the gig I did last night and you sat back down at your table and said in full earshot of me, "Well the bird was shit wasn't she" and then drank the Doritos out of the bowl on the table...I'm ok with you not finding me funny. I'm ok that my sense of humour differs from yours. I have to admit I didn't find your repeated grunting funny, or the time you said the c-bomb. We shall agree to disagree. Because you're a massive tool and I'm hilarious.
I've discovered two things in the last two days -
1. Aromatherapy literally means healing (therapy) with smells (aroma). This had never clicked before. It caused much judgement from my peers.
2. On my run this morning I noticed that the rugby players who train at my local park play football as a warm up. This got me thinking. Cricketers also use football as a warm.
I've come to the only logical conclusion from this information - Football is a such a piece of shit excuse for a game that proper sportsman use it as a warm up. I have never, ever seen footage of footballers in a scrum, playing rugby to warm up or grabbing tennis rackets and just getting into the groove before they start off on their 90 minutes of excruciatingly over rated toss.
Torres (so I'm reliably informed) was bought/sold/manicured for £50m this transfer season for being the best person at playing the warm up game. What a fucking travesty. Some English tool has even confused football insiders by being sold for £35m...which they say is a little much?
A LITTLE MUCH?
£35m for being a fairly adequate person at playing a sport that other sportsmen don't even consider worth putting on their CV because it's such utter drivel? In a few years time is this sliding scale of mediocrity going to reach a point where Sports Personality of the Year will go to the person who was best at 'Doing Funny Sidesteps Round Cones' for hours on end. His speech being -
"Yeah, a lot of people technically have criticised me for winning this on the basis of it being a warm up. But for years we've been celebrating the achievements of men who do little more than the average 6 year old in a playground. Obviously, footballs harder to do because not only do you have to concentrate on the game but you've also got to remember the name of all your team-mates' wives so that when you're balls deep in them and coked up to your eyes in your Essex mansion's night-club in the basement you don't have a huge Faux Pas. That probably isn't as easy as it looks. It's quite hard to train solidly when you're getting paid more than the average hospital yearly budget...I mean when are those poor lads even supposed to splash out on some granny minge? Some of them have been faithful this year. That's why I wanted to stick to my cones - you know?Just keep it simple. I think it's going to get better and better and pretty soon we'll have sports like 'Putting Your Trainers on to do the warm up for the game that's actually only a warm up too'. I'm really proud of this country."
Thank fuck the transfer window is shut. Maybe the entire football chorus can shut up too. And while I'm on my soap box - WHY ARE YOU ALL SO BALL-BREAKINGLY SURPRISED THAT FOOTBALL COMMENTATORS SAY INAPPROPRIATE THINGS ABOUT WOMEN?
Look at them. The man in the scenario is a fat, bald, ugly man who has a well paid job commentating on the show. He turns to his female co-worker and jokes that she should tuck something into his trousers. Look at his female co-worker - does she look like she plays football? Trains people? Has had an avid interest in football since she was four? And even if she does, is that what you fucking notice?
No. She looks good in a skirt and is wearing more make up than I have in my entire arsenal. Screw shoving the bloke out for being a massive tool - what do you sodding expect when that's the way you present a woman on TV? Shove the entire media industry up it's own gaping arse for not having the decency to admit that it's their own fault for trying to convince us that it's OK that only attractive women are ever used. The whole thing is rotten.
Tess Daly & Bruce Forsyth
Kate Humble & Bill Oddie
Christine Bleakly & Adrian Chiles
Cheryl & Danni vs Simon & Louis
Any more for any more?
Friday, February 4, 2011
Slut
Happy Friday my brethren.
The first thing I need to do is say that I saw a brilliant performance last night at The Ropetackle Arts Centre in Shoreham. It was The Shape of Things by Neil Labute, directed by Ross Drury and starring Rachel Savage, Kett Turton, Stuart Robinson and Jill Rutland.
The script itself is great and is one of the few non-pretentious explorations of 'what is art' I've seen in a long time. I've got an incredibly short attention span and I managed not to get bored - which, although it might sound like limited praise, is pretty impressive.
Having absolutely no qualifications for reviewing I'll now blind on and tell you exactly what I thought of it with all the finesse of an erotically charged hungry flamingo trying to get through a cat flap. I thought Turton produced a spell binding performance - it was a beautiful duet with Savage. Her energy and kinky sense of expression drove the temper of the show and kept me happily ensconsed in the world of the show. It was nice to be presented with a piece of theatre that didn't try and convince you that being uncomfortable and challenged was the ultimate goal. I enjoyed the performance, I want to watch it again - that, to me, seems to be what theatre should always be aiming for.
Speaking of reviews, I woke up to a Google alert informing me of one of my own. At my gig on Friday I apparently gave "a rather flustered performance of a woman on the edge of a mid-20s breakdown."
Brilliant. Why do I even fucking bother?
It wasn't a 'performance' you mother fucking eejit. It was a cry for help. I am on the edge of a mid-20s breakdown. What about publishing this on the internet do you think is going to help my fragile mental state?
This afternoon I am going to go and play dolphin derby on Brighton pier. Dolphin derby is a wonderful game where you flog the shot out of a dolphin until it wins you a scabby cuddly fish. As soon as you've won the scabby fish you're no longer interested in it, but it doesn't mean you won't play the dolphin derby again. It's like smack.
Usually I'd be against animal exploitation, but I don't really like dolphins so I'm ok with this one. Plus, they're not real I don't think so I don't think the race actually hurts them. And anyway, even if it did, if dolphin's are so sodding intelligent they can just shape up and do something about it. Until there is a dolphin uprising I refuse to believe they are the super animals that everyone would have you believe.
I'm also going to ride on a waltzer until I'm sick. Brilliant. Edge of a breakdown? Let's find out if waltzers push me over the edge...
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Rockafella Skank Ate My Fist
I feel like a child on Christmas Eve today...this is a necessarily short blog as I'm about to jet down to Brighton as quickly as I can to catch a play by some fabulous folks who live on the South coast. I am taking a 3 day weekend. Oh yeah!
Mixing it up like a proper pro I am. What's that Saturday and Sunday? No. No you're not enough for me this week...I need more. I need Friday. I'm taking Friday, wrenching her from the clutches of the weekday coven and adding her to my fun bag of weekend delights. Incidentally I have gendered all of the days of the week.
Monday - male, wears a suit, works in I.T.
Tuesday - female, reads paperback books and wears suede shoes.
Wednesday - female, large with glasses and an irritating voice.
Thursday - female, likes red wine, has cats, is quiet.
Friday - female, slut.
Saturday - young boy, wears shorts. Athletic.
Sunday - older man, bearded, secretly likes watching Britain's Got Talent. Probably a Grandfather.
I'm taking my slut tomorrow and smashing up the dolphin derby on Brighton pier, then I'm jetting up to Cambridge (I say jetting - I'm going in a vauxhall) for a gig, back down to London for a party, over to South West London for an audition and then hopefully cramming in some sleep somewhere along the way. Sleep? Ah, yes sleep. I miss sleep. Sleep is that thing where your brain shuts off for a while. Delicious.
Had an awesome gig last night down with the lovely people of the London Festival Fringe Radio...gigged like a proper demon and got asked to come back on at the end and do the lovely crowd a bit more material. Stupendous. What more could a girl want? To be asked back as the presenter for the next week's show? Well, good job that happened too than isn't it. What a way to spend a booming voiced owl lady day.
I'm about to go and find my train - if any of you are waiting for me at Victoria with a skinny hot chocolate, no cream, then I'll know today's been brilliant. If you aren't then I'm blaming the fact that I recently changed my conditioner and my hair is now epically static and constantly stuck to my face. Either way not my fault.
PS - (and this has been bugging me for 20 hours or so now) to anyone who was in the audience of my gig last night - my breasts are definitely real. What on earth was I thinking?
Mixing it up like a proper pro I am. What's that Saturday and Sunday? No. No you're not enough for me this week...I need more. I need Friday. I'm taking Friday, wrenching her from the clutches of the weekday coven and adding her to my fun bag of weekend delights. Incidentally I have gendered all of the days of the week.
Monday - male, wears a suit, works in I.T.
Tuesday - female, reads paperback books and wears suede shoes.
Wednesday - female, large with glasses and an irritating voice.
Thursday - female, likes red wine, has cats, is quiet.
Friday - female, slut.
Saturday - young boy, wears shorts. Athletic.
Sunday - older man, bearded, secretly likes watching Britain's Got Talent. Probably a Grandfather.
I'm taking my slut tomorrow and smashing up the dolphin derby on Brighton pier, then I'm jetting up to Cambridge (I say jetting - I'm going in a vauxhall) for a gig, back down to London for a party, over to South West London for an audition and then hopefully cramming in some sleep somewhere along the way. Sleep? Ah, yes sleep. I miss sleep. Sleep is that thing where your brain shuts off for a while. Delicious.
Had an awesome gig last night down with the lovely people of the London Festival Fringe Radio...gigged like a proper demon and got asked to come back on at the end and do the lovely crowd a bit more material. Stupendous. What more could a girl want? To be asked back as the presenter for the next week's show? Well, good job that happened too than isn't it. What a way to spend a booming voiced owl lady day.
I'm about to go and find my train - if any of you are waiting for me at Victoria with a skinny hot chocolate, no cream, then I'll know today's been brilliant. If you aren't then I'm blaming the fact that I recently changed my conditioner and my hair is now epically static and constantly stuck to my face. Either way not my fault.
PS - (and this has been bugging me for 20 hours or so now) to anyone who was in the audience of my gig last night - my breasts are definitely real. What on earth was I thinking?
Him and You 3
You - I'm tired. I feel awful.
Him - You look tired.
You - Thanks.
Him - Don't do that.
You - Sorry. I'm grumpy.
Him - Are you hungry?
You - No. Not at all.
Him - You're looking slimmer.
You - Thanks.
Him - It's not a good thing.
You - Yes it is. You wouldn't love me if I was fat.
Him - True.
You - Really?
Him- Ha! You're so predictable. Yes, it's true.
You - You shallow twat.
Him- I wouldn't love you, because if you were fat you wouldn't be you.
You- I'd be me in a fat suit...
Him -No, it would mean there was something fundamentally different about you. That you were lazier than the you I love. And that you didn't do all the things that you do during the day.
You - What if I was fat because I was pregnant?
Him- Is it my baby?
You- Erm...yes.
Him - Well then I love both of you.
You - Lovely. Sorry for calling you a shallow twat.
Him- That's ok. Sorry for not loving a lazy version of you.
You - That's ok.
Him - I'd be friends with lazy you.
You - I'll tell her.
Him - I don't think you'll ever meet her.
You - Maybe not. I'd love lazy you.
Him - I'm a pretty lazy guy.
You - No...laid back.
Him - Well, this is a very flattering conversation isn't it?
You - Would you like to have a row?
Him- No. But I wouldn't mind some chicken.
Him - You look tired.
You - Thanks.
Him - Don't do that.
You - Sorry. I'm grumpy.
Him - Are you hungry?
You - No. Not at all.
Him - You're looking slimmer.
You - Thanks.
Him - It's not a good thing.
You - Yes it is. You wouldn't love me if I was fat.
Him - True.
You - Really?
Him- Ha! You're so predictable. Yes, it's true.
You - You shallow twat.
Him- I wouldn't love you, because if you were fat you wouldn't be you.
You- I'd be me in a fat suit...
Him -No, it would mean there was something fundamentally different about you. That you were lazier than the you I love. And that you didn't do all the things that you do during the day.
You - What if I was fat because I was pregnant?
Him- Is it my baby?
You- Erm...yes.
Him - Well then I love both of you.
You - Lovely. Sorry for calling you a shallow twat.
Him- That's ok. Sorry for not loving a lazy version of you.
You - That's ok.
Him - I'd be friends with lazy you.
You - I'll tell her.
Him - I don't think you'll ever meet her.
You - Maybe not. I'd love lazy you.
Him - I'm a pretty lazy guy.
You - No...laid back.
Him - Well, this is a very flattering conversation isn't it?
You - Would you like to have a row?
Him- No. But I wouldn't mind some chicken.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
A Small Rant on Etiquette
Dear Fat Man in the Revolving Door,
I couldn't help but notice today that you seemed to set yourself the task of getting all the way round the aforementioned revolving door this morning without touching the handle. At first I could only assume you were being careful about germs but then I noticed you sneezed long and hard into the wide blue yonder without need of a tissue and without worry at wiping the protruding green slime on the back of your hand. It was at this point that the idea settled in my mind that perhaps you are a tad lazy? Could that have been your motive?
I don't know if you'll remember me, I am a small brunette thing who happened this morning to be your doorman. I weigh about 8st (your leg) and have the upper body strength of an anaemic shrew. Nevertheless I managed to get us both through the atrium safely (ish). I haven't received your note of thanks yet but I can assume this is because you have failed to enter a building with note paper due to your extreme laziness. If you like, we can petition David Cameron for a nation of automatic doors so that we can scrap these 'arm' things all together and only use them for their primary purpose of stuffing more cake into our faces.
Perhaps you were tired, and/or, had skipped breakfast in your hurry to get to your all important 'I work in a sky scraper in an ugly suit' job? Could this be the reason for your shirking of door based responsibility? I think it might be worth pointing out to you that the effort of pushing the door to get everyone through it will use up a minimal amount of the precious calories you pump into your body. I think it's safe to assume the grease from the KFC on your fingers of a weekend would be enough to power that little push.
That's the beauty of the revolving door, you see? It's a team effort. I realise you may have a slight issue with concepts such as this - perhaps Communism really freaked the shit out of you too? But, I think that it's something you might need to open your mind to. If we all push the door together it does mean I don't get out of breath and I don't start an ill advised rant in my (usually chirpy) blog to a walrus in a suit with a mobile phone glued to his lard encased ear.
Please don't think I'm being cruel to you because you are a larger gent. I am being cruel to you because you're a lazy, egotistical, self-involved twat who shows in small acts like this morning that you think everyone else on the planet should be helping things run smoother for you. How long have you been a Tory?
Now, you may have noticed this morning that the glass door collided with you at an alarming pace. This was part of your education that if you leave a spiteful young woman to haul your carcass through the spinning wonder mechanism, she may well stop pushing and exert an action we call 'pull'. If she pulls the door, it won't get forward anymore, it will go backward. If you are still tumbling through space in the same motion, oblivious to the expletives being uttered in the compartment behind you, you will find your jowels pasted across the carefully polished Canary Wharf glass.
You probably didn't like that part of your morning very much. I did. I enjoyed it immensely but you might not have noticed that because my 'Oh shit, I'm so sorry I didn't realise you weren't pushing too...how did that happen?!' face was so convincing. At that point, it would have been nice if you'd helped me get the door going again, and you're lucky I was running late or we might still be in those tiny glass prisons and I would be writing this letter in my own blood on the partition between us and possibly inspiring the next Danny Boyle film.
You didn't help did you? You probably just explained to the person on the phone (Ronald McDonald? Jeremy Clarkson? Any other twat?) that a girl behind you seemed to have motor troubles and was causing a nuisance to your day. Perhaps you commented that I may be pre-menstrual and/or poor. Aren't those the causes of most of the world's discontent in 'other' people?
So, I've taken the time out of my day so far to smack you with a door and write you a (fairly polite) letter explaining my actions. I hope I have some impact on you and that tomorrow you find the inner strength to embrace your social conscience and help us all work together to go through doors, sort out carbon emissions and be less of a dick to each other.
Kind Regards,
Venomous Little Cow Who Fucking Hates People Who Don't Push Revolving Doors
I couldn't help but notice today that you seemed to set yourself the task of getting all the way round the aforementioned revolving door this morning without touching the handle. At first I could only assume you were being careful about germs but then I noticed you sneezed long and hard into the wide blue yonder without need of a tissue and without worry at wiping the protruding green slime on the back of your hand. It was at this point that the idea settled in my mind that perhaps you are a tad lazy? Could that have been your motive?
I don't know if you'll remember me, I am a small brunette thing who happened this morning to be your doorman. I weigh about 8st (your leg) and have the upper body strength of an anaemic shrew. Nevertheless I managed to get us both through the atrium safely (ish). I haven't received your note of thanks yet but I can assume this is because you have failed to enter a building with note paper due to your extreme laziness. If you like, we can petition David Cameron for a nation of automatic doors so that we can scrap these 'arm' things all together and only use them for their primary purpose of stuffing more cake into our faces.
Perhaps you were tired, and/or, had skipped breakfast in your hurry to get to your all important 'I work in a sky scraper in an ugly suit' job? Could this be the reason for your shirking of door based responsibility? I think it might be worth pointing out to you that the effort of pushing the door to get everyone through it will use up a minimal amount of the precious calories you pump into your body. I think it's safe to assume the grease from the KFC on your fingers of a weekend would be enough to power that little push.
That's the beauty of the revolving door, you see? It's a team effort. I realise you may have a slight issue with concepts such as this - perhaps Communism really freaked the shit out of you too? But, I think that it's something you might need to open your mind to. If we all push the door together it does mean I don't get out of breath and I don't start an ill advised rant in my (usually chirpy) blog to a walrus in a suit with a mobile phone glued to his lard encased ear.
Please don't think I'm being cruel to you because you are a larger gent. I am being cruel to you because you're a lazy, egotistical, self-involved twat who shows in small acts like this morning that you think everyone else on the planet should be helping things run smoother for you. How long have you been a Tory?
Now, you may have noticed this morning that the glass door collided with you at an alarming pace. This was part of your education that if you leave a spiteful young woman to haul your carcass through the spinning wonder mechanism, she may well stop pushing and exert an action we call 'pull'. If she pulls the door, it won't get forward anymore, it will go backward. If you are still tumbling through space in the same motion, oblivious to the expletives being uttered in the compartment behind you, you will find your jowels pasted across the carefully polished Canary Wharf glass.
You probably didn't like that part of your morning very much. I did. I enjoyed it immensely but you might not have noticed that because my 'Oh shit, I'm so sorry I didn't realise you weren't pushing too...how did that happen?!' face was so convincing. At that point, it would have been nice if you'd helped me get the door going again, and you're lucky I was running late or we might still be in those tiny glass prisons and I would be writing this letter in my own blood on the partition between us and possibly inspiring the next Danny Boyle film.
You didn't help did you? You probably just explained to the person on the phone (Ronald McDonald? Jeremy Clarkson? Any other twat?) that a girl behind you seemed to have motor troubles and was causing a nuisance to your day. Perhaps you commented that I may be pre-menstrual and/or poor. Aren't those the causes of most of the world's discontent in 'other' people?
So, I've taken the time out of my day so far to smack you with a door and write you a (fairly polite) letter explaining my actions. I hope I have some impact on you and that tomorrow you find the inner strength to embrace your social conscience and help us all work together to go through doors, sort out carbon emissions and be less of a dick to each other.
Kind Regards,
Venomous Little Cow Who Fucking Hates People Who Don't Push Revolving Doors
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Ronan Keating Knows
Tuesday...Tuesday you say? Tuesday has so far involved being so tired I put my pants on backwards this morning and didn't realise until I got to work and went to the toilets to sort out what was turning into the most incredible internal wedgie a girl has ever had.
When you're quite small (I realise 5 foot and petite like a mouse runt is more than 'quite' small), wearing tights is always a hassle. I can generally pull the top bit of my tights up to my arm pits if I choose to - it's difficult to pinpoint exactly what influences the mood that makes me choose to do this. I like to pretend my tummy button is a bank robber. Makes it easier not to look at my tummy button. I've got quite a phobia of tummy buttons. I don't like things to go in them. Cleaning my tummy button has resulted in vomit on more than one occasion. It's possibly the only thing I don't like about a beach visit - getting the sand out afterwards. Eugh.
But anyway, I've digressed...as per...this is the result of being super tired. So...yes, wearing tights is difficult anyway. But when you've got your pants on backwards it does make the whole scenario even more confusing. For a while I was perplexed as to what on earth I could have eaten yesterday that had caused my bum to grow so immensely. I then noticed that there was a sort of pouch at the front, as though I should have extra front bottom to put in there. I don't have any more front bottom to give sadly and I was pretty good on the calorie front yesterday so there's no reason why my bum should have expanded to Lil Kim proportions.
It was then that I noticed the little label in my pants was not nestling quietly at the base of my spine...twas climbing my tummy on a quest to reach my chin. "Ah" said my brain, "you have your pants on backwards."
I swiftly changed them round and the world has been restored to normal.
This is what happens when I get tired. And it's only Tuesday. My reasons for tiredness are -
a) late night last night with Quiz In My Pants - which was super brilliant and starred Jay Foreman, Lou Sanders, Bec Hill and Pete Dillon-Trenchard. Next month's will be 28th February and will be Matt Green, Helen Arney, Henning Wehn and Stephen Hill.
b) an inability to keep my body temperature to a normal level during the night which is resulting in more shivering than dreaming at the moment. I think I'm going to track down a paramedic and get me one of those swanky 'I fell in a river' silver blankets to use in my bed.
c) I have a stupid day job. The only solution for this is going to be to start charging for my blog. It'll be 50p a go. So, once you've read it just click the like button on Facebook or sommat and I'll send you an invoice for 50p. Foolproof. Thanks for being so understanding.
When you're quite small (I realise 5 foot and petite like a mouse runt is more than 'quite' small), wearing tights is always a hassle. I can generally pull the top bit of my tights up to my arm pits if I choose to - it's difficult to pinpoint exactly what influences the mood that makes me choose to do this. I like to pretend my tummy button is a bank robber. Makes it easier not to look at my tummy button. I've got quite a phobia of tummy buttons. I don't like things to go in them. Cleaning my tummy button has resulted in vomit on more than one occasion. It's possibly the only thing I don't like about a beach visit - getting the sand out afterwards. Eugh.
But anyway, I've digressed...as per...this is the result of being super tired. So...yes, wearing tights is difficult anyway. But when you've got your pants on backwards it does make the whole scenario even more confusing. For a while I was perplexed as to what on earth I could have eaten yesterday that had caused my bum to grow so immensely. I then noticed that there was a sort of pouch at the front, as though I should have extra front bottom to put in there. I don't have any more front bottom to give sadly and I was pretty good on the calorie front yesterday so there's no reason why my bum should have expanded to Lil Kim proportions.
It was then that I noticed the little label in my pants was not nestling quietly at the base of my spine...twas climbing my tummy on a quest to reach my chin. "Ah" said my brain, "you have your pants on backwards."
I swiftly changed them round and the world has been restored to normal.
This is what happens when I get tired. And it's only Tuesday. My reasons for tiredness are -
a) late night last night with Quiz In My Pants - which was super brilliant and starred Jay Foreman, Lou Sanders, Bec Hill and Pete Dillon-Trenchard. Next month's will be 28th February and will be Matt Green, Helen Arney, Henning Wehn and Stephen Hill.
b) an inability to keep my body temperature to a normal level during the night which is resulting in more shivering than dreaming at the moment. I think I'm going to track down a paramedic and get me one of those swanky 'I fell in a river' silver blankets to use in my bed.
c) I have a stupid day job. The only solution for this is going to be to start charging for my blog. It'll be 50p a go. So, once you've read it just click the like button on Facebook or sommat and I'll send you an invoice for 50p. Foolproof. Thanks for being so understanding.
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