Words can't express how lovely it is to be at home... there's just nothing like coming back here and having the world shift into a pace I'm totally familiar with. It's like comfort on a level with a memory foam mattress with built in speakers playing you Roald Dahl's audio books (read by David Jason) while Judi Dench brings you Horlick's and brushes your hair.
When I'm in London my world is a whirlwind - and that's how I like it (clearly - or I wouldn't do it). I am busy from the minute I get up at 6am and go to my day job, to the second I finish whatever gig/broadcast/rehearsal/audition I had lined up for the evening. It's beautiful but shattering. There seems to be something about London that makes you feel if you're not staring with bloodshot eyes into a Starbuck's mug that you're not really doing it right. If you haven't been on every tube line that week then you've wasted the cost of your travel card. Who's going to do the Evening Standard crossword if you don't? Granted, it's pretty hard when there are no seats on the Jubilee Line but fuck it, that's what other people's backs were invented for.
I find it nigh on impossible to keep any sense of perspective on what is important and what the world is for. The problem with being one of these 'self-employed motivating' types is that there's no manual on when to give yourself a break. You'll get a constant monologue from every one around you that if you want to succeed you have to push yourself and you have to be the best and the most determined... but there's no manual to tell you when to take a break.
So, I've come home...I'm not really doing anything. I've done one gig, I'm going to get my eyes tested and I've spent a long time chatting with an 18 month old who's made me a finger painting of a bonfire and piled a lot of dinosaurs on me whilst roaring. Together we watched Rescuers Down Under and my family told me they were very proud of me but that they were glad I was taking some time off. They didn't say they wanted me to take all my time off with them as I'm kind of high maintenance and they like 'quiet time' WTF? but they have expressed relief that my hair seems to be calming down and looking less like a Helena Bonham Carter character (pick any - they're largely the same. oooh...)
The little one and I are bonding pretty well...I'm a big fan of his work. He's the product of my older sister's matrimonial bliss with her soul mate. Insert gagging noise here. I'm taking as much interest and time with him as possible seeing as it's fairly unlikely my children are going to be anywhere near as spectacular. For one, I find it tricky to meet men that seem worth lifting my head off the bar for, second, if I do manage to reproduce I imagine my level of neuroticism will mean it's less the bliss of producing an angelic child and more like getting a mindight feasting gremlin wet. We think my children will probably come out already wearing eye liner and black nail varnish humming Placebo. Bless.
It's quite a big admission to have to write that I can't do everything. Turns out I've got a limit - doesn't mean I'm not going to be the next super star with all my dreams accomplished on a tidy check list. I will never tire of check lists. I especially like checklists where you actually draw boxes next to the items rather than cross them out. But it does mean it's OK to chill the fuck out sometimes. Nothing has to be accomplished by the age of 25 to make it a truly great accomplishment.
I had a gig last night where the headliner was Ian Cognito. Now, for a comedy geek and massive tool like me - this was amazing. This was watching an absolute master and legend at work...25 years of experience at holding the crowd's attention and playing with your expectations. And. afterwards, I got to go and sit down with him and hear about what it was like MCing for an up and coming Eddie Izzard... a-mazing.
Cognito's set was electric - it was magic to watch. And it made me realise something a little bit more profound than the punch line... he's been in the business for 25 years, and he was at the same gig as me last night. Yes, he got paid and he doesn't have a god awful day job... but, for last night, we had the same experience. I was really achieving something. So excuse me if today I only apply for 6 more gigs instead of 9. It's OK to take a break. If anyone needs me I'll be finger painting and eating mini-cheddar biscuits. And I'll still be a superstar quicker than you'll believe. A day doesn't make much of a difference if your head is going to want to something for the rest of your life.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Chilly Ding a Ling
I received a ludicrous phone call yesterday whilst on the train home to Somerset...I was already in an uncharacteristically bad mood due to having lost my oyster card, credit card, rail card and train tickets somewhere between Canary Wharf and Baker Street...not a happy bunny.
Between Paddington and Reading I'd managed to phone a number of call centres up and down the UK to cancel things, order new things, report somethings and hopefully get some sense out of my mishap of a morning. I have to give top marks to the young woman from TFL who completely saw the funny side of noting down distinguishing features of your oyster card holder - "It has, "Where Is my Fucking Travel Card?" written on the side."
However, upon finishing all of my necessary cancellations and requests, my phone rang -
"Hello" - Says I
"Hi, this is Chico." says a friendly voice.
I fight every urge to say "Is it that time already? Where does the day go..." and I just say hello again.
"I'm calling from one of the top fashion photography companies in the country. We're offering you the chance to come in for a fashion pampering session with us. Usually, this would cost you a thousand pounds... but because you've been recommended by a friend, we can offer it to you for £90 on a weekend, £60 if you come in during the week or just a £40 returnable deposit if you come in before the end of March. How does that sound?"
"It sounds awful." I say politely. There's a palpable silence. I wait patiently - I've got a 2 hour journey ahead of me and have no pressing need for him to move on.
"It sounds awful?"he repeats, sounding slightly incredulous. "Don't you want to do it?"
"Um, no. Not really. No, thank you - is that ok?"
"But you've been recommended...by your friend?" he sounds genuinely dumbfounded and I'm starting to feel a little sorry for him.
"Well," I say, trying to be friendly, "I'm sure she thought I might be interested but I think you're aiming at the wrong girl here. I'm really not into my fashion and the thought of being manhandled into different outfits and photographed looking like the chubby one from B*Witched at my own expense sounds frankly harrowing. I'm very sorry."
"So, you don't want want to do it... you, um, you're actually not interested?" he says again. I was starting to wonder if maybe I was a little crazy... perhaps I'm the first person that's ever turned him down?
"No." I say confidently. "Thank you very much for the offer but I don't want to."
"But, you've been recommended... by your friend... by your friend Jessica Dartmouth?" Hearing him read her name of the screen in front of him and use the full version that she never goes by almost made my compassion for Chico curl up into a ball and die.
"Well, you tell her thanks for checking if I was interested but I'm not. And, thank you again... she was just trying to be my friendly but, sadly, I loathe fashion, photographs, being touched by other people and I'm really not interested. Thanks, have a nice afternoon, ok?"
"But, we've gone out of our way to offer this to you?"
This, I'll admit, caught me off guard.
"No you haven't... you've just cold called me in the middle of the afternoon?"
"This isn't a cold call."
"Um, yes it is Chico..."
"No, this isn't a cold call. You've been recommended."
"I'm sorry if I'm ruining your self image of what you do for a living Chico, but you've called me out of the blue with no prior communication with me. I don't care if you have scoured your ex-clients facebook friends list for new leads... this is a cold call."
"No, you're wrong... this isn't a cold call."
"Chico, where are you sitting my love?"
"In an office."
"How many other people in the office Chico?"
"Er..."
"Can you name them all?"
"Well, no..."
"Do they all do the same job as you?"
"Yeah."
"And, is that job to keep phoning people until you make a sale?"
"No. They're not 'sales'. It's just getting people to put down deposits."
"Do you get more money, the more people put down deposits?"
"Yeah!"
"Chico, you cold call people my love. I'm sorry... you have a lovely product I'm sure... but you really have to accept this job for what it is. You're very good at it."
"So... do you want to come in now then?"
"Fuck off Chico."
Between Paddington and Reading I'd managed to phone a number of call centres up and down the UK to cancel things, order new things, report somethings and hopefully get some sense out of my mishap of a morning. I have to give top marks to the young woman from TFL who completely saw the funny side of noting down distinguishing features of your oyster card holder - "It has, "Where Is my Fucking Travel Card?" written on the side."
However, upon finishing all of my necessary cancellations and requests, my phone rang -
"Hello" - Says I
"Hi, this is Chico." says a friendly voice.
I fight every urge to say "Is it that time already? Where does the day go..." and I just say hello again.
"I'm calling from one of the top fashion photography companies in the country. We're offering you the chance to come in for a fashion pampering session with us. Usually, this would cost you a thousand pounds... but because you've been recommended by a friend, we can offer it to you for £90 on a weekend, £60 if you come in during the week or just a £40 returnable deposit if you come in before the end of March. How does that sound?"
"It sounds awful." I say politely. There's a palpable silence. I wait patiently - I've got a 2 hour journey ahead of me and have no pressing need for him to move on.
"It sounds awful?"he repeats, sounding slightly incredulous. "Don't you want to do it?"
"Um, no. Not really. No, thank you - is that ok?"
"But you've been recommended...by your friend?" he sounds genuinely dumbfounded and I'm starting to feel a little sorry for him.
"Well," I say, trying to be friendly, "I'm sure she thought I might be interested but I think you're aiming at the wrong girl here. I'm really not into my fashion and the thought of being manhandled into different outfits and photographed looking like the chubby one from B*Witched at my own expense sounds frankly harrowing. I'm very sorry."
"So, you don't want want to do it... you, um, you're actually not interested?" he says again. I was starting to wonder if maybe I was a little crazy... perhaps I'm the first person that's ever turned him down?
"No." I say confidently. "Thank you very much for the offer but I don't want to."
"But, you've been recommended... by your friend... by your friend Jessica Dartmouth?" Hearing him read her name of the screen in front of him and use the full version that she never goes by almost made my compassion for Chico curl up into a ball and die.
"Well, you tell her thanks for checking if I was interested but I'm not. And, thank you again... she was just trying to be my friendly but, sadly, I loathe fashion, photographs, being touched by other people and I'm really not interested. Thanks, have a nice afternoon, ok?"
"But, we've gone out of our way to offer this to you?"
This, I'll admit, caught me off guard.
"No you haven't... you've just cold called me in the middle of the afternoon?"
"This isn't a cold call."
"Um, yes it is Chico..."
"No, this isn't a cold call. You've been recommended."
"I'm sorry if I'm ruining your self image of what you do for a living Chico, but you've called me out of the blue with no prior communication with me. I don't care if you have scoured your ex-clients facebook friends list for new leads... this is a cold call."
"No, you're wrong... this isn't a cold call."
"Chico, where are you sitting my love?"
"In an office."
"How many other people in the office Chico?"
"Er..."
"Can you name them all?"
"Well, no..."
"Do they all do the same job as you?"
"Yeah."
"And, is that job to keep phoning people until you make a sale?"
"No. They're not 'sales'. It's just getting people to put down deposits."
"Do you get more money, the more people put down deposits?"
"Yeah!"
"Chico, you cold call people my love. I'm sorry... you have a lovely product I'm sure... but you really have to accept this job for what it is. You're very good at it."
"So... do you want to come in now then?"
"Fuck off Chico."
Friday, February 11, 2011
Find My Mug in the Dictionary under 'Mug'
I've just typed and subsequently deleted the line "I slept badly last night".
It's not strictly true you see...when I slept, I actually slept very well...it was just that I woke up even better than I slept. I got so good at waking up last night that I did it every 60-90 minutes.
I blame the can of Monster I drank during the interval of my gig. I have a small body, a small very efficient body that treats sugar incredibly protectively. As soon as sugar hits my body, we go bananas. We have the biggest party you've ever seen - it's like a carnival...there are fireworks, there's shrieking...sometimes there's classical music emanating from an unknown source. Sugar and my body get on like a house on fire. It takes less than no time for sugar to have found it's familiar nooks and crannies in my set up to settle down and wreak havoc.
But when sugar is gone, when my gluttonous body has rinsed it's firy friend for all it's worth...there's a real mourning phase. We hibernate. My body writes endless letters to sugar that start with "I just don't understand...where did we go wrong? When are you coming back?"
My brain will try and cheer my body up, he suggests walks to see some end dolphins but my body is nonplussed. We try all sorts of clever concentrating techniques but my body flicks the V and goes back to vacantly staring out from glassy eyes.
Over the years we've combatted this by only letting body have sugar in the way a prisoner sees their partner. Limited visits, no over exposure and certainly no rolling around naked together... small bursts of the right kind of sugar. You know? To use the prison theme - we don't let the embezzler see a woman made entirely of gold coins wearing a dress made of £50 notes. Similarly we don't leave body alone with some unwrapped fruit pastilles.
It makes night times difficult though. Body is naturally confused having been allowed uncensored alone time with liquid sugar. Body thinks it did well for gigging too, and on the whole we agree. But then when he crashes...brain is too sleepy to have kept a small tuck box by the bed to keep everything ticking over for the midnight hours.
So we have battles like last night...where my body and brain are fighting like cat and dog. Only Jo Frost or Dr Tanya aren't there to put us back to bed constantly and teach us about boundaries.
The long and the short of it is, I'm a bit tired today.
It's not strictly true you see...when I slept, I actually slept very well...it was just that I woke up even better than I slept. I got so good at waking up last night that I did it every 60-90 minutes.
I blame the can of Monster I drank during the interval of my gig. I have a small body, a small very efficient body that treats sugar incredibly protectively. As soon as sugar hits my body, we go bananas. We have the biggest party you've ever seen - it's like a carnival...there are fireworks, there's shrieking...sometimes there's classical music emanating from an unknown source. Sugar and my body get on like a house on fire. It takes less than no time for sugar to have found it's familiar nooks and crannies in my set up to settle down and wreak havoc.
But when sugar is gone, when my gluttonous body has rinsed it's firy friend for all it's worth...there's a real mourning phase. We hibernate. My body writes endless letters to sugar that start with "I just don't understand...where did we go wrong? When are you coming back?"
My brain will try and cheer my body up, he suggests walks to see some end dolphins but my body is nonplussed. We try all sorts of clever concentrating techniques but my body flicks the V and goes back to vacantly staring out from glassy eyes.
Over the years we've combatted this by only letting body have sugar in the way a prisoner sees their partner. Limited visits, no over exposure and certainly no rolling around naked together... small bursts of the right kind of sugar. You know? To use the prison theme - we don't let the embezzler see a woman made entirely of gold coins wearing a dress made of £50 notes. Similarly we don't leave body alone with some unwrapped fruit pastilles.
It makes night times difficult though. Body is naturally confused having been allowed uncensored alone time with liquid sugar. Body thinks it did well for gigging too, and on the whole we agree. But then when he crashes...brain is too sleepy to have kept a small tuck box by the bed to keep everything ticking over for the midnight hours.
So we have battles like last night...where my body and brain are fighting like cat and dog. Only Jo Frost or Dr Tanya aren't there to put us back to bed constantly and teach us about boundaries.
The long and the short of it is, I'm a bit tired today.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
A Cautionary Tale
I feel very strange today...like there's a really delicate balance that I don't want to upset by feeling any emotion too strongly.
And that, Lords, Ladies and Gentleman, is how you open a blog if your target demographic is 12-18 year olds with self-esteem issues.
But, it's also kind of true. It's ok, I'm not going to go spilling all my inner most feelings and then text you after with lots of emoticons and a message about how I'm really glad you're there for me. I just feel a little weird. Which is certainly not as good as feeling a little beard. I have a very odd sensation (and it might seem even odder once I've tried to explain it) that I want to have nothing to look forward to for a while...now, stay with me on this one folks. Please don't abandon hope and think I'm dreaming of a life where I have nothing to live for. This is not what I mean.
What I mean is...I'd just like to be able to live completely in the moment for a while. (I mean really Laura, what are you writing about? If this carries on you are actually going to have to move to California.) I would like to have no potential surprises (good or bad) or things to rush to because of the excitement. I'd just like to trundle for a while...just, be. And be ok with being. (Please notice the fact you are turning what is usually an amusing and completely irrelevant blog into a tirade on your desire to live in a bubble with no potential disasters? Please notice and shut the fuck up immediately.) Perhaps now's a really good time to start just doing things that feel like they ought to be done just because... (like laughing at old people?)
I've done several things so far today which suggest to me that my mental balance is somewhat off kilter... (starting with writing your blog in a semi-schizophrenic fashion where you're talking to yourself using brackets and bold lettering?)
1. I tweeted Danny DeVito to tell him I'm in love with him. (Shit, yes...I remember that.) Now, this might seem like quite a superficial thing to have done. He probably won't read it, he probably gets it all the time, he might have seen my Facebook status about it a few weeks ago anyway so it won't even be a shock. But, to me, it was something I just had to do. I was suddenly absolutely overcome with a desire to tell him that his trollfoot photos make my world go round and I have a really intense love for his face. It's a huge weight off my mind to be honest.
2. I've listened to my collection of Disney music twice. Listening to Disney in the office isn't a bizarre thing to do at all...in fact I do it all the time. But today I did it purely because I want to listen to Mrs Potts' voice. Then I want to scoop up her and Danny and for us all to go to Adventureland togather. Adventureland was the nearest theme park to me when I was a wee lass and was the home of the first death slide I ever went down. ( I have nothing scathing to say here. We're actually both quite big Disney fans. I like Ursula more than Potts though.)
3. I've booked tickets and been counting down the hours until my train pulls out of Paddington station tomorrow evening and I'm thundering my way back to the West Country for some rest and peace with my family. (I must admit I've still not quite fathomed why the skinny writing voice appears to be in charge in this scenario while I'm the amusing asides. I clearly have a better grasp on how to behave in polite society right now.) Usually I'm quite excited about going back (this weekend's excursions include a trip to the gym with my sisters and some finger painting with my nephew). I'm also gigging in front of a home crowd for the first time ever. Spazzam. (Spazzam, that's right ladies and gents. She's using 'Spazzam'. Sectioning?) So, the weird thing here though, is that I actually, physically can't wait to go. I keep finding myself day dreaming about being on the train. In my day dream Danny is there too and he's offering me a finger from his KitKat. He's wearing a red and white checked shirt and reading the Telegraph.
(Are you wrapping up soon? I think I need to take you home.)
So...this really is a cautionary tale that extreme mental and physical tiredness, a devotion to a small, hairy American man, and one of the most boring offices in the world will inevitably spawn a dual personality syndrome and a wittery blog that no one particularly enjoyed. (Good work, dickhead.)
And that, Lords, Ladies and Gentleman, is how you open a blog if your target demographic is 12-18 year olds with self-esteem issues.
But, it's also kind of true. It's ok, I'm not going to go spilling all my inner most feelings and then text you after with lots of emoticons and a message about how I'm really glad you're there for me. I just feel a little weird. Which is certainly not as good as feeling a little beard. I have a very odd sensation (and it might seem even odder once I've tried to explain it) that I want to have nothing to look forward to for a while...now, stay with me on this one folks. Please don't abandon hope and think I'm dreaming of a life where I have nothing to live for. This is not what I mean.
What I mean is...I'd just like to be able to live completely in the moment for a while. (I mean really Laura, what are you writing about? If this carries on you are actually going to have to move to California.) I would like to have no potential surprises (good or bad) or things to rush to because of the excitement. I'd just like to trundle for a while...just, be. And be ok with being. (Please notice the fact you are turning what is usually an amusing and completely irrelevant blog into a tirade on your desire to live in a bubble with no potential disasters? Please notice and shut the fuck up immediately.) Perhaps now's a really good time to start just doing things that feel like they ought to be done just because... (like laughing at old people?)
I've done several things so far today which suggest to me that my mental balance is somewhat off kilter... (starting with writing your blog in a semi-schizophrenic fashion where you're talking to yourself using brackets and bold lettering?)
1. I tweeted Danny DeVito to tell him I'm in love with him. (Shit, yes...I remember that.) Now, this might seem like quite a superficial thing to have done. He probably won't read it, he probably gets it all the time, he might have seen my Facebook status about it a few weeks ago anyway so it won't even be a shock. But, to me, it was something I just had to do. I was suddenly absolutely overcome with a desire to tell him that his trollfoot photos make my world go round and I have a really intense love for his face. It's a huge weight off my mind to be honest.
2. I've listened to my collection of Disney music twice. Listening to Disney in the office isn't a bizarre thing to do at all...in fact I do it all the time. But today I did it purely because I want to listen to Mrs Potts' voice. Then I want to scoop up her and Danny and for us all to go to Adventureland togather. Adventureland was the nearest theme park to me when I was a wee lass and was the home of the first death slide I ever went down. ( I have nothing scathing to say here. We're actually both quite big Disney fans. I like Ursula more than Potts though.)
3. I've booked tickets and been counting down the hours until my train pulls out of Paddington station tomorrow evening and I'm thundering my way back to the West Country for some rest and peace with my family. (I must admit I've still not quite fathomed why the skinny writing voice appears to be in charge in this scenario while I'm the amusing asides. I clearly have a better grasp on how to behave in polite society right now.) Usually I'm quite excited about going back (this weekend's excursions include a trip to the gym with my sisters and some finger painting with my nephew). I'm also gigging in front of a home crowd for the first time ever. Spazzam. (Spazzam, that's right ladies and gents. She's using 'Spazzam'. Sectioning?) So, the weird thing here though, is that I actually, physically can't wait to go. I keep finding myself day dreaming about being on the train. In my day dream Danny is there too and he's offering me a finger from his KitKat. He's wearing a red and white checked shirt and reading the Telegraph.
(Are you wrapping up soon? I think I need to take you home.)
So...this really is a cautionary tale that extreme mental and physical tiredness, a devotion to a small, hairy American man, and one of the most boring offices in the world will inevitably spawn a dual personality syndrome and a wittery blog that no one particularly enjoyed. (Good work, dickhead.)
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
My First Joke
Both the hot drinks machines in the office are out of order today...you can have no real grasp on how much this is disrupting the flow of my usual day. I chain drink tea...I don't mean I get a cup and then send 15 round to piss off people I know...I just drink it cup after cup after cup until my heart sounds much like that of a hummingbird.
With the drinks machines out of action I not only can't have my tea but my delicate balance of time management is also totally out of whack. Usually within any hour I will drink 3-4 cups of tea. This obviously takes about 10 minutes out of hour. It also causes me to pee once an hour. This takes about 4 minutes out of the hour. So at least 1/4 of my time is spent imbibing or outbibing my tea. I have no idea what to do with this extra time.
Thinking about it, potentially this is a cruel trick by the management team to get a little more out of their smallest employee. But, logically speaking if they wanted a work horse they possibly shouldn't have hired someone who did a 4 year drama degree and lists winning King Gong on her CV. It's not rocket science is it? But then neither is my job.
So far, my lack of tea has resulted in a small headache and has potentially impacted on the creation of one of my first ever "jokes". I wrote a joke today. I rarely write jokes...I find them very difficult to do on purpose and to be honest it's a wonder people keep giving me a microphone. Are you ready for my joke? Here it goes...*clears throat* -
You can tell a dyslexic's really happy because they hide and go to Devon.
It's quite difficult to put into words how pleased I am with myself for the creation of this joke. If I could turn my happiness into a dance it would probably be the Rhumba with overtones of the macarena. If it could be a song it would be a Bette Midler live recording of Wind Beneath My Wings. If it was a man, it'd be reminiscent of a young Clarke Gable and would be making me a cheese toastie and a cup of tea whilst ordering roses to surprise me. If my happiness were an animal it'd be a teacup pig riding a llama.
In short...I am pleased with myself. Perhaps caffeine's been the thing holding me back all along? Maybe if I got off the bagged up leaves of brown joy I'd be spewing out wordplay witticisms left, right and centre? I think it's unlikely...I think I'd end up on some other stimulant just to try and keep my eyes open. But a girl can dream right?
In other news, I went to the ever awesome Fat Tuesday at The Compass last night. It's run by Tiernan Douieb who's a cracking comedian (never struggles with punnery. Dick) and has somehow created the loveliest gig in the word which happens quietly and brilliantly every other Tuesday in Angel. If you're a comedy buff you've just got to go and see what I'm talking about. Last night I saw John Robins and Johnny Sweet and they made me cackle my ass off.
And then Andrew Maxwell hit the stage. He might as well have plugged me into the mains - the electricity of his performance was incredible. The timing, the topicality, the jokes, the opinions. His performance has a delicacy that looks effortless and yet you feel like you could easily sit down and have a chat with him after the show. Consider me blown away.
In the shameless plug section of the blog, I'll be on the radio tonight trying to be serious and shit and interview people so have a listen to London Festival Fringe if you like and we can all laugh at me together tomorrow. Cool.
Me out. I'm off to go and suck a dry tea bag and see if it has the same effect...I somehow doubt it.
With the drinks machines out of action I not only can't have my tea but my delicate balance of time management is also totally out of whack. Usually within any hour I will drink 3-4 cups of tea. This obviously takes about 10 minutes out of hour. It also causes me to pee once an hour. This takes about 4 minutes out of the hour. So at least 1/4 of my time is spent imbibing or outbibing my tea. I have no idea what to do with this extra time.
Thinking about it, potentially this is a cruel trick by the management team to get a little more out of their smallest employee. But, logically speaking if they wanted a work horse they possibly shouldn't have hired someone who did a 4 year drama degree and lists winning King Gong on her CV. It's not rocket science is it? But then neither is my job.
So far, my lack of tea has resulted in a small headache and has potentially impacted on the creation of one of my first ever "jokes". I wrote a joke today. I rarely write jokes...I find them very difficult to do on purpose and to be honest it's a wonder people keep giving me a microphone. Are you ready for my joke? Here it goes...*clears throat* -
You can tell a dyslexic's really happy because they hide and go to Devon.
It's quite difficult to put into words how pleased I am with myself for the creation of this joke. If I could turn my happiness into a dance it would probably be the Rhumba with overtones of the macarena. If it could be a song it would be a Bette Midler live recording of Wind Beneath My Wings. If it was a man, it'd be reminiscent of a young Clarke Gable and would be making me a cheese toastie and a cup of tea whilst ordering roses to surprise me. If my happiness were an animal it'd be a teacup pig riding a llama.
In short...I am pleased with myself. Perhaps caffeine's been the thing holding me back all along? Maybe if I got off the bagged up leaves of brown joy I'd be spewing out wordplay witticisms left, right and centre? I think it's unlikely...I think I'd end up on some other stimulant just to try and keep my eyes open. But a girl can dream right?
In other news, I went to the ever awesome Fat Tuesday at The Compass last night. It's run by Tiernan Douieb who's a cracking comedian (never struggles with punnery. Dick) and has somehow created the loveliest gig in the word which happens quietly and brilliantly every other Tuesday in Angel. If you're a comedy buff you've just got to go and see what I'm talking about. Last night I saw John Robins and Johnny Sweet and they made me cackle my ass off.
And then Andrew Maxwell hit the stage. He might as well have plugged me into the mains - the electricity of his performance was incredible. The timing, the topicality, the jokes, the opinions. His performance has a delicacy that looks effortless and yet you feel like you could easily sit down and have a chat with him after the show. Consider me blown away.
In the shameless plug section of the blog, I'll be on the radio tonight trying to be serious and shit and interview people so have a listen to London Festival Fringe if you like and we can all laugh at me together tomorrow. Cool.
Me out. I'm off to go and suck a dry tea bag and see if it has the same effect...I somehow doubt it.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Totting Up Black Birds
The office is delicately spinning and humming today...more due to my excessive champagne intake last night than any whirr of productivity emanating from my desk sadly. For some reason all of my worst hangovers seem to occur on Tuesdays - there's something so devilishly delicious about being a little worse for wear on a Monday that makes me not care overly that Tuesday will be a write off.
I can't say that it's helping matters that Google has decided to celebrate Jules Verne's birthday by turning the Google symbol into a steerable submarine portal...so far this morning I've opened a lot of emails, not responded, found some treasure, paid my bills, spotted a narwhal, drank three cups of tea and crashed into a star fish. Whilst not directly assisting my attempts to earn the money I'm being paid or keep the room on a horizontal level, it is helping me to feel happy. I am Captain Laura of the Good Ship Desk and I'll be steering myself through the trials and tribulations of the day with my trusty mouse and my squinty little eyes. I have forgotten my glasses for the second day running. Actually, toss that - let's just admit it - I've flagrantly lost my glasses and haven't attempted to find them and so can barely see the screen of my computer anyway. What the hell does it matter? It appears you can ram a narwhal umpteen times without it even attempting to swim away. What a bell end.
So...why am I hungover? Good question. Because I went out for dinner with some old friends from University last night and the cocktails at the restaurant were two for £6. This is a dangerous state of affairs when champagne cocktails are included and delicious. Hence my predicament this morning.
I've got to say that although dinner was delightful (salmon - thanks for asking) and the company was great, the absolute highlight of the whole thing was driving home. We'd left the car in Sainsbury's car park but found when we went to leave that the whole thing was closed, the ticket machine wouldn't accept our 'We're Leaving Card', and there was nowhere to pay for our parking in the car park.
After several studious laps of the car park and attempts to force feed the 'We're Leaving Card' into the ungrateful machine we gave up, moved the cones from the other lane and escaped. "Freedom" I may have shouted through the open window and into the Southern Bromley sky.
At this point a red car in front of us stopped and a woman got out. Now, this woman had not been in the car park, we had not seen her before...she had materialised in the road. She got out of the car and came over to our car...
"Did you just come out of the car park?"
"Yes."
"Did you get out ok?"
Now...I'll be honest...this is where alarm bells started ringing. Of course we got out ok...the car still had four wheels, we'd not lost any limbs in the procedure and, as indicated by our answer to the first question, we were out of the car park.
"Yes."
"You didn't just drive under the barrier did you?"
"Er...no."
Now...I'll be honest...I was struggling to keep a straight face while this exchange went on with mystery missus. We were in a Ford Fiesta that would have lost a battle with a barrier. Even if the barrier was made of Weetabix. We were also normal people. Normal people don't randomly smash their way out of Sainsbury's car park on a Monday night due to a brief moment on supermarket car park induced rage.
"How did you get out?"
"Well, we moved the cones...the machine wouldn't take our card."
"You moved the cones?"
It was at this point I started to worry that this woman might have given birth to the cones as an expression of sheer devotion to her beloved Sainsbury's car park.
"Yes...the machine wouldn't accept the ticket and so we had to get out. There was no where to pay."
"Have you still got the ticket?"
No. We burnt it in protest at the fascist state of Southern Bromley Sainsbury's car parks.
"Er, yes."
"Can I have it?"
"Erm...who are you?"
At this point she starts wildly tugging her coat off one shoulder. Mildly alarmed for a second in case we were about to see some crazy street nipple, I looked away. When I turned back she was actually showing us a name badge.
"I work there, I work there. I work in Sainsbury's. Ha! I'm not just a crazy woman on the street..."
Raised eyebrow.
"No, no, no. I work there. You shouldn't have parker there you see?"
Her earnest eyes are drilling into mine now. Daring me to give a shit.
"You're not meant to park there at this time...you must have got there just before 8pm? Do you see? Because you're not meant to park there this late...you must have got there at about five to 8?"
No. No, we got there at 7:13pm.
"It's the only way you could have beaten the system. Let me have the card. It's ok I work there. Let me have the card. There...that's better. I've got the card now. I'll sort it. Now you moved the cones you say...?"
And with that, she trundles off into the night to go and take care of her beloved offspring. But where the hell had she come from? I can only assume she patrols the street at night waiting to catch unsuspecting car park philanderers like us. What a way to get your Southern Bromley kicks.
I can't say that it's helping matters that Google has decided to celebrate Jules Verne's birthday by turning the Google symbol into a steerable submarine portal...so far this morning I've opened a lot of emails, not responded, found some treasure, paid my bills, spotted a narwhal, drank three cups of tea and crashed into a star fish. Whilst not directly assisting my attempts to earn the money I'm being paid or keep the room on a horizontal level, it is helping me to feel happy. I am Captain Laura of the Good Ship Desk and I'll be steering myself through the trials and tribulations of the day with my trusty mouse and my squinty little eyes. I have forgotten my glasses for the second day running. Actually, toss that - let's just admit it - I've flagrantly lost my glasses and haven't attempted to find them and so can barely see the screen of my computer anyway. What the hell does it matter? It appears you can ram a narwhal umpteen times without it even attempting to swim away. What a bell end.
So...why am I hungover? Good question. Because I went out for dinner with some old friends from University last night and the cocktails at the restaurant were two for £6. This is a dangerous state of affairs when champagne cocktails are included and delicious. Hence my predicament this morning.
I've got to say that although dinner was delightful (salmon - thanks for asking) and the company was great, the absolute highlight of the whole thing was driving home. We'd left the car in Sainsbury's car park but found when we went to leave that the whole thing was closed, the ticket machine wouldn't accept our 'We're Leaving Card', and there was nowhere to pay for our parking in the car park.
After several studious laps of the car park and attempts to force feed the 'We're Leaving Card' into the ungrateful machine we gave up, moved the cones from the other lane and escaped. "Freedom" I may have shouted through the open window and into the Southern Bromley sky.
At this point a red car in front of us stopped and a woman got out. Now, this woman had not been in the car park, we had not seen her before...she had materialised in the road. She got out of the car and came over to our car...
"Did you just come out of the car park?"
"Yes."
"Did you get out ok?"
Now...I'll be honest...this is where alarm bells started ringing. Of course we got out ok...the car still had four wheels, we'd not lost any limbs in the procedure and, as indicated by our answer to the first question, we were out of the car park.
"Yes."
"You didn't just drive under the barrier did you?"
"Er...no."
Now...I'll be honest...I was struggling to keep a straight face while this exchange went on with mystery missus. We were in a Ford Fiesta that would have lost a battle with a barrier. Even if the barrier was made of Weetabix. We were also normal people. Normal people don't randomly smash their way out of Sainsbury's car park on a Monday night due to a brief moment on supermarket car park induced rage.
"How did you get out?"
"Well, we moved the cones...the machine wouldn't take our card."
"You moved the cones?"
It was at this point I started to worry that this woman might have given birth to the cones as an expression of sheer devotion to her beloved Sainsbury's car park.
"Yes...the machine wouldn't accept the ticket and so we had to get out. There was no where to pay."
"Have you still got the ticket?"
No. We burnt it in protest at the fascist state of Southern Bromley Sainsbury's car parks.
"Er, yes."
"Can I have it?"
"Erm...who are you?"
At this point she starts wildly tugging her coat off one shoulder. Mildly alarmed for a second in case we were about to see some crazy street nipple, I looked away. When I turned back she was actually showing us a name badge.
"I work there, I work there. I work in Sainsbury's. Ha! I'm not just a crazy woman on the street..."
Raised eyebrow.
"No, no, no. I work there. You shouldn't have parker there you see?"
Her earnest eyes are drilling into mine now. Daring me to give a shit.
"You're not meant to park there at this time...you must have got there just before 8pm? Do you see? Because you're not meant to park there this late...you must have got there at about five to 8?"
No. No, we got there at 7:13pm.
"It's the only way you could have beaten the system. Let me have the card. It's ok I work there. Let me have the card. There...that's better. I've got the card now. I'll sort it. Now you moved the cones you say...?"
And with that, she trundles off into the night to go and take care of her beloved offspring. But where the hell had she come from? I can only assume she patrols the street at night waiting to catch unsuspecting car park philanderers like us. What a way to get your Southern Bromley kicks.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Get It Down You Zulu Warrior
I'm having a bit of a nostalgic morning here at the desk of dreams.* I've been listening to the three albums that I most closely associate with my first year of University...these are -
1. Hot Fuss by The Killers
2. Inside In/Inside Out by The Kooks
3. Costello Music by the Fratellis.
It was obviously a time when bands were hot on using 'The' in the hope it made them sound like they were friends and not some money bagging manufactured enterprise.
I'm not by any means suggesting these were the best albums of the year 2005-2006, or the albums that will define that particular time when we look back in a few decades. But, for me, these are the three albums that stand out. I can't listen to them without being instantly flung back to my tiny little bedroom in Bossenden Court at the back of the student village.
We were the first of the Kent students to ever live in this accommodation - it was fresh built for us and, in my case, came with your own personal set of builders to fix the myriad issues that had not been solved during the building process. It was little things, like the windows opening. It took them a week to get my window open. In hindsight, we probably should have left it shut. I certainly didn't open it a lot after month 2 at University when a slightly crack addled 4th year climbed through it at 4am as I snoozed. That was an alarming evening. Thankfully it didn't occur to either of us to commit any sort of crime...we just stared at each other for a while before both apologising and him leaving. Back out through the window because I didn't want to disturb my housemates.
I loved my little room. In the infinite wisdom of University types, the doors were bright, lime green, the furniture was that deep blue of cheap office furniture and one wall was orange. It was almost like they were daring you to drink - Go on fucker, try and have a hangover in this environment... I combatted the issue by having an equally alarming green bedspread that neither matched the door nor the carpet. It all ensued to give you a calm feeling of nausea unless you were asleep. Perhaps that was the point? You must either be asleep or reading a book or you will vomit.
My housemates in the first year were brilliant people. I lived on an international corridor and my housemates were all from different countries in Africa - I have never smelt so many different foods that completely confused my nose. My brain was telling me it was food as it was on the hob but my nose was complaining bitterly that it didn't seem like anything we'd ever had before. We tried a whole heap of it. Me and my nose. Soem of it we loved - some of it we loved and my tummy hated. Some of it we just hated. It was a great learning curve. The beautiful thing about international students, in my experience, is that they tended to arrive with siblings and so you met the whole family at once. There were perpetually nine more people in the kitchen than lived in there. One of my favourite memories was singing Busted songs with a 6foot4 guy with dreadlocks who I found in my kitchen at 4am...
It is now unfortunately lunch time so this reminiscence must come to a halt. Hope it was enjoyable for you. If not, it won't happen again.
* Dreams generally consist of stapling people's fingers to their nipples while I paper cut them to death. Either of that or I am rescued from the dreary boredom of office life by Barney the Dinosaur dressed as the Count de Monte Cristo who puts me in Iggle Piggle's boat and sails me away to live with David Bowie.
1. Hot Fuss by The Killers
2. Inside In/Inside Out by The Kooks
3. Costello Music by the Fratellis.
It was obviously a time when bands were hot on using 'The' in the hope it made them sound like they were friends and not some money bagging manufactured enterprise.
I'm not by any means suggesting these were the best albums of the year 2005-2006, or the albums that will define that particular time when we look back in a few decades. But, for me, these are the three albums that stand out. I can't listen to them without being instantly flung back to my tiny little bedroom in Bossenden Court at the back of the student village.
We were the first of the Kent students to ever live in this accommodation - it was fresh built for us and, in my case, came with your own personal set of builders to fix the myriad issues that had not been solved during the building process. It was little things, like the windows opening. It took them a week to get my window open. In hindsight, we probably should have left it shut. I certainly didn't open it a lot after month 2 at University when a slightly crack addled 4th year climbed through it at 4am as I snoozed. That was an alarming evening. Thankfully it didn't occur to either of us to commit any sort of crime...we just stared at each other for a while before both apologising and him leaving. Back out through the window because I didn't want to disturb my housemates.
I loved my little room. In the infinite wisdom of University types, the doors were bright, lime green, the furniture was that deep blue of cheap office furniture and one wall was orange. It was almost like they were daring you to drink - Go on fucker, try and have a hangover in this environment... I combatted the issue by having an equally alarming green bedspread that neither matched the door nor the carpet. It all ensued to give you a calm feeling of nausea unless you were asleep. Perhaps that was the point? You must either be asleep or reading a book or you will vomit.
My housemates in the first year were brilliant people. I lived on an international corridor and my housemates were all from different countries in Africa - I have never smelt so many different foods that completely confused my nose. My brain was telling me it was food as it was on the hob but my nose was complaining bitterly that it didn't seem like anything we'd ever had before. We tried a whole heap of it. Me and my nose. Soem of it we loved - some of it we loved and my tummy hated. Some of it we just hated. It was a great learning curve. The beautiful thing about international students, in my experience, is that they tended to arrive with siblings and so you met the whole family at once. There were perpetually nine more people in the kitchen than lived in there. One of my favourite memories was singing Busted songs with a 6foot4 guy with dreadlocks who I found in my kitchen at 4am...
It is now unfortunately lunch time so this reminiscence must come to a halt. Hope it was enjoyable for you. If not, it won't happen again.
* Dreams generally consist of stapling people's fingers to their nipples while I paper cut them to death. Either of that or I am rescued from the dreary boredom of office life by Barney the Dinosaur dressed as the Count de Monte Cristo who puts me in Iggle Piggle's boat and sails me away to live with David Bowie.
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