Thursday, 27 October 2011

Nail varnish remover. Yes. Really.

Yesterday I accidentally punched a wall while walking past it resulting in a cut across the vein in my right hand. I smashed an entire bottle of rum at work resulting in the loss of two hours wages. I stubbed my toe so hard on a chair that I fell over and cried. And finally, I tried to remove my make up with nail varnish remover.

Marvellous.

I'm almost in awe of my own stupidity. I honestly don't know how it's possible to be so vacant and so clumsy and so ME to do stuff like that. I mean, nail varnish remover? Really? I only realised when my eyes started to burn and I began to choke.

In other news I'm anxiously awaiting my contact lenses. I have a costume for Halloween that I've actually put some time and effort into. Usually I rely on the fact that I'm good with goth make up and go as a generic witch or corpse bride. But this year I'm working at our Halloween party and decided to go as the Black Swan.

For those who have seen the film and know me well, you'll most likely agree it's a good choice. Not, I hasten to add, because I see any resemblance between the divine Natalie Portman and me physically (quite obviously, I would have thought, although someone the other day did say: How are YOU going to make yourself look like Natalie Portman? It hadn't actually occurred to me at that point that anyone would think I would even try to. It's the character I'm going for. Capice?). But I definitely identify with the character. I'm often to be found mindlessly peeling the skin from my fingers and only noticing when it bleeds and repressing my rage and psychosis. I jest. Ish.

Anyway. The costume should be aces but sort of lives and dies on whether these contact lenses I've ordered arrive on time. I paid for two day delivery. Three days ago...

Tuesday, 25 October 2011

Tearing off tights with my teeth

Not literally. Obviously. It is, of course, a lyric from Insomnia. Which I have used to illustrate the fact that for approximately the 15th night in a row, I can't fucking sleep.

So instead I'm smoking a, frankly ill advised, fag and listening to the millionth episode of The Ricky Gervais Show. You've got to love Karl Pilkington.

I remember the days when I couldn't stay awake. I remember sleeping through parties, through university, through Sundays. Sleeping till 2pm was the norm. I remember my parents yelling at me every fricking day to get the fuck out of bed.

How is it that these days, sleep eludes me unless I take valium. How?

I can't turn off the swirling nonsense in my brain. I can't shut the voices out. I try reading, and all that happens is I end up reading an entire book in a night. I even watched Glee, thinking that would send me off. But I started getting involved in it and watching an entire series. I've tried writing. Shit, I've even tried working. And nothing helps.

It could be because I've been ill for about the 18th time this year. Last night for instance, I was knackered. Absolutely knackered. Late night on Saturday followed by work on Sunday should have allowed me to drop off like a normal person. But instead I spent four hours hanging over the toilet being inexplicably sick.

Now that's stopped and I'm just sitting here. Albeit it with a very dodgy stomach. Maybe it's that.

But if I could just switch my brain off. I mean, is it normal? Is it normal to be analysing every, single situation from every, single angle? Is it normal to be wondering if I should channel my energies away from being angry every day to, I dunno, being kinder to people? Would that make me feel better? Would that help?

I tried it in Tesco the other day, as it goes. There was an old woman faffing with packing her shopping. You know how they do. It seems to come as a surprise that, once they've pissed about finding the money and counting out the change, they have to put the shopping in bags and move away fast. Because the next person, ie. me, is standing there wishing they'd hurry the fuck up so they can leave this horrible place full of chavs and BOGOF deals.

Usually I wouldn't say anything, but I would radiate impatience until they've gone. This time, I looked at her and said: "It's fine, take your time." And she said: "Oh, I'm so sorry, dear." And she was nice. And I said: "Honestly, it's fine, I'm not in a rush." And she calmed down and managed to pack it up and then she thanked me. And it was nice. It was a nice feeling.

Perhaps what I need to do is stop being so fucking self obsessed and think about other people more. Maybe then I could actually sleep.

Among the many books I'm currently reading (Snuff by Terry Pratchett - Sam Vimes centric Discworld novel - obviously brilliant; Mad, Bad and Dangerous - a study of the treatment of mental illness from 1700 to the present - very interesting; Catch 22 - for book group - very funny; Karl Pilkington's latest - again, because he makes me laugh) I'm reading one called How to be Kind.

I have a plethora of self help books. Because I do like to fit the stereotype of a neurotic spinster cat lady in every way possible. (As an aside, someone in the pub actually, in all seriousness, called me a spinster the other day. Apparently it's 1865). I have them all. I have ones about anxiety, ones about agoraphobia, ones about depression, ones about breaking up, dating, how to stop thinking about your ex, how to stop being angry, the list goes on and on and on.

But when I was in the library I found this book called How to be Kind. It's an interesting idea. Be nice to people and you'll feel better about yourself. I quite like it.

I find it easy to be caring and nice to people I know and love. I would do pretty much anything for my good friends. I don't mind putting myself out in any way at all for them. It's people I don't know I can be impatient with. People who I don't click with immediately that I unconsciously dismiss. Or people that have pissed me off, I can hate with the fire of a thousand suns. I hold on to grudges and find it very difficult to forgive.

Maybe that's where I should concentrate on making changes. Worth a try, eh?

Now I have word vomited all over this blog, maybe I can GET SOME SLEEP.

Good night.

Monday, 17 October 2011

Ten things I like

This is most definitely trickier. But I'm almost positive there are ten day to day things in this world that I actively like.

But first, I HAVE to get in a number 11 on the hate list. Big Issue sellers. Particularly Big Issue sellers who mistakenly believe they have the gift of the gab and come across in a sort of cockerney cheeky chappy way, as opposed to a harrassing, rude and FUCKING annoying way.

Right. Likes.

1. Coffee. I really really like coffee. It has to be real, but other than that I'm easy. Cappuccino, americano, whatevs. Don't care. But I have to have it every day. Most recently about five times a day. This has coincided with my insomnia. Oh.

Coffee literally gets me out of bed in the morning. I've even got into the habit of drinking it last thing at night before bed. Who does that? Weird. I would rather give up eating than coffee. Fact.

2. The Guardian on a Saturday. I like The Guardian every other day but I only read it online. Or on the Facebook app. Which, by the way, is creepy. I don't particularly want everyone to see exactly what I've read. They'll see that I mostly leave the actual news out and only ever get stuck in to the culture section. When did Facebook get so JUDGY? But on Saturdays I go and buy it. It costs me £2.10 and it's 210p well spent. I read it cover to cover (obviously apart from Sports and sometimes Money) and I freaking love it.

Even the shit bits.
3. Reading. I like reading immensely. I was a child with no need for friends. I genuinely didn't really understand the concept until I was about 13. To me, most activities - school, socialising, exercise, family - were just distracting me from my main purpose in life. Which was to read all of L M Montgomery's books over and over again. I used to read under the bedclothes until ridiculous times of night. I loved it, adored it. It made my life worth living. When I hit puberty, for the first and only time in my life, books took a backseat for a couple of years. I was far too confused by everything that was suddenly going on and I forgot about it. And then when I was 16 my mum gave me Therese Raquin for Christmas, with the rather curt instruction to 'for goodness sake, expand your repertoire Debbie'. So I did. That took me through 19th century french, english and russian literature. Through Terry Pratchett's entire collection. To books on madness and love. Poetry, Shakespeare and Bridget Jones. Marian Keyes and Biggles. Endless awesomeness in paper form. And more recently in Kindle form. Of course, it does mean that one has to stumble across the occasional Finkler Question or Twilight, but that's a risk I'm willingt to take. Reading is what separates us from the beasts. Reading and thinking. Absorbing other peoples' ideas, dreams, theories, nonsense. It's what makes me tick.

4. Singing. I love singing. I'm a decidedly average singer. Possibly less than average. I don't know. I don't really care. Increasingly I spend my days working at home while singing along to one of the twelfty million music channels I have. Right now it's Edge of Glory.

5. Men. Yes, despite my rantings and ire, I don't actually hate men. That would be ridiculous. I hate one man right now, for instance. And I expect that will fade with time. I love men, I love being around men. My male friends are awesome. Fascinatingly different from my girl friends. I like looking at men, and I like flirting with men.

6. My friends. Obviously. Really is so obvious it almost doesn't warrant a mention, but every day, without fail, one of my friends will either a) be there for me even when I know I can be the highest maintenance friend at times, b) make me laugh till I almost wet myself, c) reaffirm my faith in mankind.

7. This Hollyoaks trailer:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ymp29R4XF2g

I don't watch Hollyoaks - at least I haven't for a long time. But this trailer is a slice of awesome. Maybe if they spent the cash on decent actors and script writers instead of shiny stuff like this I'd watch. But hey ho.

8. Cold weather and bright sunshine. Yesterday was almost perfect - a couple of degrees colder and it'd be there.

9. Running. Especially interval running. Running fast is the best I probably ever feel, apart from when things are looking particularly rosy in the bed area. I cannot believe it took me 32 years to be brave enough to go out and do something that would make me feel this good. I mean, obviously, it also makes me heave sometimes and sweaty, hot and look like a tomato. But it's transcendental.

10. I like the things I've achieved this year. I like the fact that I'm a freelancer. I like the fact that I've made a tonne of new friends. I like the fact that I've broken free of a destructive and ridiculous relationship. I like the fact that I'm free to live life how I want to. And I should remind myself of this every day.

Wowsers. Writing this has done things to my synapses and made me feel all, uh, what is it? Positive. That's it. Positive.


Ten things I hate

I'm often mistaken for an angry type. A ragey girl. Someone with 'issues'. Or it's assumed I have permanent PMT. Which, by the way, really pisses me off.

So anyway,  I thought I'd channel some of my pointless rage and just take a moment while in the throes of caffeine induced insomnia, to catalogue my top ten petty hates.

So, just to be clear, I'm not including Nazis, child abusers, politicians and Jordan. Just take those as read.This is more about the things that really dick me off on a day to day basis.

Some of you on bookface will be familiar with number 1: buskers. Specifically accordian players. Even more specifically, Leamington Spa's inexplicably vast array of shiteous accordian players. They appear to be mostly of the Polish variety (and I'll explain how I know this, and no I'm not being racialist, I'm just pointing out a fact) and their repertoire consists entirely of three bars of The Godfather theme over and over again. My aquaintance with these accordian players began a couple of years ago when it became clear that this dickless wonder was actually going to stand on my street outside my window 'playing' his tunes for eight hours on a Saturday and then eight hours on a Sunday. All year long. Not one to not confront my deamons, I went out and had a little word. This was after many Saturdays were destroyed as I sat in my house wearing ear plugs and gently weeping.

Long story short, we had a fracas. He accused me of being racist. I said I don't give a fuck where he's from, he needs to leave the area stat. He refused. I called the cops (oh yes, I did) who informed me that no buskers in Leamington have rights to be there and can be moved on. Oho I thought. And I went out to see him once more. I informed him that I will come down and move him along every single day of the year until he fucks off. I did also give him the option of actually learning how to play his instrument.

There are now no accordianists on Regent Street. I expect to be knighted shortly for this service to the community.

Number 2: people who sniff incessantly. I used to sit next to a woman at work who spent the whole day snorting great big flobs of phlegm. I can only assume she would let her nose run right until it was about to drip onto her desk and then take an almightly double inhale so that you could hear it juicily reentering her nasal passageways. Every five minutes. For the entire day. I fantastised about ways to make it stop. I would sit there and think: "It would be OK to ask her to stop, wouldn't it? I mean, that would be OK, right?" But no. It's just not something you can do in an office. Along with putting up with bodily odours not normally sensed outside of an abbatoir and people smacking their lips through their tenth packet of crisps of the day, it's just something that you have to put up with in an office.

I now work freelance.

Number 3: the man who I sat next to on the train from York the other week. The man who systematically and noisily chewed, gulped and yomped his way through the entire refreshment trolley. I felt like I was eating with him, so visceral was the experience. And every time I thought he must be full, he'd buy something else and masticate away, for all the world like a cow chewing that cud. But with more sound effects. Sir, I despise you and everything you stand for. Which is mostly eating by all accounts.

Number 4: urinating. It's such a goddamn waste of time.

Number 5: whistling. That kind of aimless, tuneless whistling that old men do in bookshops. Who are they being nonchalant for? Why do they feel the need to make a noise for no reason? Are they drowning out thoughts of their own pointless existence?

Number 6: Liz Jones. Liz is a columnist for The Daily Heil. She is a bigoted, unpleasant, bizarre creation who is very possibly a sort of paid troll. In which case the whole thing is actually quite amusing. I suppose. She likens herself to a kind of hybrid Carrie from SATC and Bridget Jones character. And yet she's 65 if she's a day and most closely resembles Alice Cooper. She chronicled her appallingly bad marriage in graphic detail and writes like a pre pubescent teenager with questionable grammar. The Mail sees fit to send her on actual journalistic assignments and invites her commentary on famine, war and murder, which she always brings back to the fact that she was stood up on Millenium Eve. Seriously. Horrible.

Number 7: The Daily Heil.

Number 8: The Finkler Question. 2010's Man Booker prize winner and six hours of my life I'm never getting back. Just shit.

Number 9: Jamie Oliver. I was struggling for a second there and then his fat tongued face popped into my head. An average cook got lucky, coasting off the 90s love for blokey, laddish culture, Jamie burst onto our screens with The Naked Chef, where he pretended to cook in a pretend house with pretend friends. Heinous. Since then he's reinvented himself as a christ-like saviour of our health. Which translates to him moaning a lot about school meals and then going to the US and being laughed at by transfat-soaked American fatties. He proudly states he has no time for his family - that's a wife and four children - because he wants to spread the message. He's a 21st century missionary and he's fecking annoying. Also, before preaching to others about their weight, he might want to have a wee look in the mirror. His face is expanding at a rate of knots and soon won't fit onto our screens at all. He also spits when he talks, which can't be at all hygenic when it comes to preparing food.

Number 10: Indian summers. I don't want to be sweating half way into October. I don't want to be viewing endless arses squeezed into ill advised hot pants. I don't want to see chavs with their shirts off for any longer than strictly necessary. And, please, for the love of god, stop telling me to get out and enjoy it while it lasts. I cannot wait for winter.

Tomorrow I will be scraping together for a top ten of things I like.

Maybe top five.

Thursday, 13 October 2011

I felt kind of bad, so...

you know, about my Jodie Marsh post the other day.

So, I thought I'd rebalance my karma by posting a picture of her taken yesterday all dressed up nice and glamourous.

Enjoy.

Don't tell me who to cry for

In case you haven't noticed, and I'm sure most of you haven't on account of the fact that you hardly ever look at the interwebz, a man called Steve Jobs died last week.

Of course, as is usual when someone even vaguely famous dies, Twitter, Facebook and (probably, although I wouldn't know because I just can't get the hang of it) Google + were aflame. And with Mr Jobs it was even more vehement, on account of him being basically the god of all that is normal and natural to us these days.

As an aside here, I'm really glad Twitter and Facebook weren't around when the Princess of Bulimia got into the wrong car a la Paris. That would have been irritating.

Anyway, my point is, Steve Jobs died. It's pretty fucking tragic. He was 56 and he'd been sick for a long, long time. I'm sure his money bought him the best care possible and perhaps he eked out a few more years than ordinary paupers would. But nontheless, the big C got him in the end.
And it's sad. The degree to which you were sad will, as is always the case, depend on your emotional investment in said corpse. For me, the first celebrity death that properly upset me was Freddie Mercury. I cried quite a lot.
Kurt Cobain didn't get much of a flicker of interest as I thought grunge was too mainstream at the time, plus I was 16 and so enormously self-involved that I didn't honestly notice that much. As long as it wasn't Andrew Eldtrich then I was good.

I felt bemused and isolated when old crazy Lady Di bought the farm, not because I was sad, but because everyone else seemed to go batshit mental for at least a week and I felt well left out.

Now Amy. Amy got to me. She was just too young. Obviously Kurt was as well but at the time I was 16 and he was 24, so seemed retty damn old. Amy was just 27 and as I can barely remember turning that age, she seemed like such a youngster to me. Such a waste.

I posted something or other on Facebook about it. Hey, I'm not ashamed of bandwagons if I give a shit about the cause. I was more frustrated and boggled that we can watch these damaged people implode over years and years of media coverage. It's like a long running Victorian freak show. Anyway, when I posted on the book of face, people were in agreement. You know, loads of RIPs and sadfaces. Twitter was the same.

And then it started to change.

Slowly but surely during the hours that followed more and more posts cropped up along the lines of: "She was one druggy. Who gives a shit?" "What about the Norwegian massacre?" "What about the Boer War?"

OK, so I made the last one up. But man, it pissed me off. One tragedy does not outweigh another. It is possible to be sad about ONE thing (ie. a mentally ill girl who had a great musical talent) AND also be sad/empathetic/sympathetic towards the victims of terrorism, f'r instance.

I was reminded of this when Mr Jobs shuffled off his mortal coil. Of course it exploded across the interweb like a wildfire. Geeks everywhere hung their heads and said a little binary prayer for the late genius. But even I, as a non-techno-geek, felt a stab of sadness for one of the greatest minds of our generation. He actually did change the world and if people want to express their sadness on social freaking networking then fuck the FUCK OFF with things like this:

Fucking trolling, weakly reasoned bullshit. If you want attention post about your sex life. Leave the big stuff for the grown ups.

Grief (of all kinds) is ENTIRELY subjective so don't ever, ever tell me who I am allowed to cry for when they die. I'll make up my own fucking mind.

RIP Steve Jobs.

Tuesday, 11 October 2011

Easy target

I have a long standing fascination with Jodie Marsh. Strange but true. A few years back she kept a blog, which was completely and totally unintentionally hilarious. It was about her nights out at the Sugar Hut and spent a lot of time chronicling her clear alcoholism and justifying wearing outfits such as:


And this:



Many of her blogs went on and on and on about how she was all natural and didn't have fake tits like that Jordan. And then she went and got fake tits.

And then she went and advertised for a husband. On TV. How crashingly low must your self esteem be to stand in the middle of London begging for someone to come and be 'auditioned' for the role as your husband. At one of the castings there was a total of four men. And two of them were drunk.

Soldiering on, Jodie decided to become a tattooist. This was also filmed for a TV show. She failed hard. But not before branding her own father with an enormously shit tattoo.

After a spate as a lipstick lesbian Jodie disappeared out of sight for a couple of years.

And then last week, this happened:


Jodie announced her sudden devotion to a career as a body builder. For a TV show.

"Every single person is jealous of my body" chirps Jodie.

Of course they are love. OF COURSE they are. Who wouldn't want to look like a man with fake tits covered in ronseal? Who, in short, wouldn't want to look like this?



I just wanted to share that with you all. You're welcome.

Monday, 10 October 2011

Weird shit what I have watched on TV tonight

Yeah, I know. Triple whammy of blog posts. It's called procrastination. And tense, nervous energy.

There's tonnes of things I could be doing right now. Should be doing in fact. Things that range from laughing at Fatman getting high on catnip to finishing the pug's head to deciding whether or not to just get the boots from the asos sale.

But while I have been doing stuff, I have also had my favourite friend in the room - the TV.

Things that I have caught bits of tonight include the new series of America's Next Top Model. Fricking hilarious. For the uninitiated, this is a reality show that brutally cuts down a group of stick thin gazelle-limbed girls who all look like bambi on heroin until there is but one single, emaciated winner, who then gets some ropey magazine deal and maybe a Cover Girl commercial. Suffice to say, it's taken extremely seriously by the girls. Not so much by Queen Tyra who presides over the starving children at her mercy and thoroughly enjoys ripping their tiny ideals apart and jumping on the pieces. Her trick this year is to tell a load of them they've been booted off and then back track and shout 'surprise' as she informs them they actually HAVE got through.

Half of them collapsed into a quivering wreck of bones and bling, genuinely confused as to what the hell is going on. For the rest of the episode you get to watch them visibly dissolve into paranoid wrecks as they clearly expect Tyra to leap out and screech: "psyche" while chucking their suitcases out of the window.

There's one who looks like her jaw is actually going to cut through her skin, it's that sharp. She has cheek bones that would severely damage any guy who goes anywhere near her. There's another one who really does look like a 19 year old skinny indie boy, which Tyra says is 'in'... I mean she looks EXACTLY like a boy.

The rest of them spend the time picking listlessly at plates of food (I think it's a contractual thing to show them eating once an episode so no one can point the finger at a show that's blatantly encouraging anorexic, vulnerable young girls to learn to further loathe themselves on the basis of a completely subjective and flippant comment from the panel of 'judges'.

After that I watched a bit of University Challenge. I adore it when Paxman gets all irritated when they take more than three nanoseconds to answer. "Come ON. Come ON." They all look terribly young. I can no longer tell the difference between anyone between 15 and 25 without IDing them.

Then it morphs into Embarrassing Bodies. I was vaguely aware of it because people were talking about sagging boobs and back acne. But I just happened to look up as a young girl happily spread her legs for that weird doctor who has no body fat and a bad hair transplant after complaining of itchiness and discharge.

"How long have you had these symptoms?"

I was thinking a couple of days... maybe a week. That would be normal, right?

"A year and a half." More than 500 days of her life have been spent oozing an itchy prurient discharge. And it didn't occur to her to go the free doctor that she is entitled to? Or go online and see that some canesten would clear that right up? Or even watch the fucking TV for the constant adverts aimed at women's problems? No, she waits a year and a half and then shows her vagina to the nation on TV.

Is anyone else confused by this programme? I understand the ones who have horrendous problems that need expensive or specialist surgery. I think that they are brave. It's sad that they have to prostitute their diseases in return for high class medical care, and in some cases, ANY medical care. It's all a bit John Merrick for me. But I sort of get that.

But people like this lass who clearly has thrush - why wait? Why put it on TV? Why? I looked up just as the doc was describing the discharge as "oozing" and I saw something that I cannot now unsee. I was also eating peanut butter at the time and had a moment or two of fighting with my gag reflex. Actually I'm fighting it again right now. Seriously. She is never getting laid ever again.

And after all that, he's like: "Get some canesten."

So, over to Dancing With the Stars. This is the US version of Strictly Come Dancing. But it has proper people on it. It has Ricky Lake! And David Arquette! You know, the Hollywood actor (of sorts). And some girl from The Hills! And Chas Bono - that's Cher's daughter who is now a man. Yes, really. It's awesome. I highly recommend it.

I have also been reading Catch 22 and pondering the dichotomy paradox. So don't be thinking I'm a dumbass, yeah?

Invisible woman

You ever get the feeling that you're actually invisible? No, boys, not invincible. Invisible.

Today has been a day of fuckwits being fuckwits.

I was informed by a company that I would very very much like to work for, a company that I hold in high regard, that I have an interview with them. A date was pencilled in. That date was last Friday. I was told to wait for confirmation. I received none. So, me being me, showed willing and called them up. I was told: yes, we definitely want to interview you, we're waiting for someone or other to come back from New York and then we'll be in touch.

Fine. OK. I figure no point in calling again because that would be annoying.

Still nothing. So I call again. Nothing to lose really at this point. Oh, how wrong I was. Turns out that the interviews were on Friday but he forgot to tell me. He forgot. HE FORGOT. Someone forgot to confirm with a candidate that they were due in.

And now you see, well, even though it's my fault (says he - freely admitted it was an error on his part) I still lose out because they've selected for next stage. So, you know. Shrug.

By this point panic and tears were rising in my gorge. I don't mind as much not being selected at all. That happens all the time. Believe me. The last six months there isn't a job I haven't applied for. But to be offered an interview, to be told that I sounded perfect for this, and then to lose out because someone FORGOT ME.

I meep out: But that's not fair, can I still be interviewed.

I can hear the shrug in his voice as he mumbles something about it being his fault but hey ho. Like this happens every day. Like a golden opportunity is dangled in front of you and then taken away just like that.

I feel like an X Factor reject. I can see Louis Walsh's asinine grin in front of me as he plays with my emotions. Look at what you could have had.

The only thing left to do is run

I haven't been running for about three weeksish. Possibly a bit longer.

If any of you have been concentrating at all then clearly you should ignore that whole: I'm going to run every day for a year post.

My speciality is declaring things and then failing to live up to them it seems.

I got sick a few weeks ago and stopped running because if I had run I think it's not exaggerating to state that my sinuses would have actually exploded. It was hard enough getting through my various jobs and coming home to die in between. And then, like all good habits, it was extremely easy to break.

How is it that bad habits - smoking, drugs, food, inappropriate men - are so difficult to break. Impossible even, apparently. Actually the food thing is pretty easy at the moment. Safe to say eating is not high on my agenda right now.

But you get my point. All of those things, the nice things, the fun things are bad. And the good habits - running, cleaning, doing all the shit that's stacked up to do - you miss one and then it's like: ahhhhh fuck it.

For three weeks I've been convincing myself that I'm too busy, too tired, too whatever to run. Or I have to just finish this thing first. Considering that this thing is crocheting a pug (don't judge me) and I'm a total beginner clearly that's going to take some time. I've become an expert in procrastination. I haven't tidied my bedroom for about two months. I'm living like a teenager. Going to bed at 4am. Drinking too much. No schedule. No routine. Crashing from one minor disaster to another. Oh hang on, no, that's just how I've lived my ENTIRE life.

But no more. I have had a rather upsetting conversation with someone this morning that has, once again, made me question mankind in general, and men in particular. So fuck em. Fuck it. I'm just going to run. I'm not going to sit here and think about all of this bullshit. I'm going to run till I puke. And then I'm going to run some more.

Sunday, 9 October 2011

On the wagon

Is it my age? Last night I ingested less booze than most people would have on a normal week night. And yet I have struggled through what appear to be appalling hangover symptoms all day. To the extent that my boss sent me home from the pub because I was green, sweaty, puking and a general embarrassing mess.

I have that itchy paranoid restless weirdness that comes with a monster hangover. And yet one glass of red wine, a couple of gins and a bit of rum really shouldn't have done that to me. N'est ce pas? That's not normal to get sick from that. It just doesn't happen.

I know people - lots of people actually. Many, many people. Possibly hundreds - who can happily consume at least three times that amount, turn up for work and be absolutely fine. How is it that I am a gibbering wreck? I mean I know I have ten years on some of them, but not all of them I don't.
A couple of them are almost as old as me.

This may sound like a whinging post (shut up) but it's also my itchy, paranoid attempt to analyse what exactly happened to my alcohol tolerance. Last time I was dumped I was going through at least a bottle of red wine a day with no particularly dire consequences.

Actually perhaps it was the extremely ill advised croque monsieur before going to work which, to be fair, may have been the thing that pushed my stomach over the edge. A plate full of bechamel sauce when your guts are doing somersaults probably isn't the best thing. Eugh. Greasy cheese and ham. Would you excuse me for a second? I just have to barf again.

But I feel like a twat. I'm too old to get sick from alcohol. I'm too old to get sent home from work.

I'm going to give it up. From now until Christmas I'm just not going to drink at all.

Fact.

Friday, 7 October 2011

Big up winter

I don't care if I'm the only one rejoicing in the fact that the recent sweaty 30 degree highs have finally fucked off, hopefully clearing our streets of endless displays of arsecheeks hanging out of hotpants (just because Rihanna does it doesn't mean you should ladies) and mahogany tinted, bleach blonde identikit girls schlepping round town. It's like fucking Hollyoaks round here these days. Nauseating.

So yeah. I wake to a text from a friend saying that it's bastard cold and he bets I'm happy about that. I am and I say YES. This is the time of year that gets me happy. I love it when the wind turns properly cold and you can smell autumn in the air. And the trees get all artistically naked and the clothes get ace. And I can wear my fake fur coats. And awful chavvy young lads stop getting their tops off.

I can do things without sweating after five minutes. I can wear thick tights and heavy boots. My new mittens with the teddy bear ears (don't judge me). I can sleep better at night and catch early frosts. It's going to be Halloween and Bonfire Night, and the run up to Christmas, which I love.

People look better, pale skin is in and everything's just cosy and lovely.

I'm scaring myself slightly with this positive blog post so will keep it short.

I'm ashamed of my species

I've had a weird few days, punctuated with a couple of hours sleep here and there. I've been out too much and I'm fucking knackered. In between burning the candle at all ends (no thanks to the lovely bout of insomnia I'm currently enduring) I have stumbled across the new series of X Factor.

Now, I'm a Strictly girl. I bloody love it. It's hilarious. And while not being able to sleep last night I caught up on the launch shows. I mean, when I say I love it, obviously I loathe 'Sir' Bruce Forsyth and the horse faced lady that co-hosts with him. I said that dismissively like I don't know who she is. Of course I know who she is. She's all round media whore Tess Daly. The one who's married to that massive lump of stupid, Vernon Kaye. You know, the lanky one who presents really shit gameshows and has 'trendy' hair. Oh, and he got caught sending sexeh texts to bimbos.

As usual, Tess looks like she's been styled by a blind person. A sort of cadaver in rags with red lipstick. She's so very very skinny her fake norks stick out like footballs on a rib cage. And she's orange. Bruce is just an idiot. The guy was an idiot in the 70s, I'm fucked if I can understand why the hell he's endured as some national treasure. I skip through Bruce and Tess's cringe inducing double act and get to the dances. They're scraping the proverbial with this series I tell you. I only recognise Jason Donovan who has some movvvvvvvvvvvves, man. Must have been all that hoofing about when he played Joseph. Or Scott. Do you remember when Guy Pearce was in Neighbours?? And Russell Crowe. Madness.

I digress.

There's also a guy called Dan Lobb on Strictly. Apparently he was a tennis player. Maybe a golfer. Something like that. And now he hosts Daybreak, which I think is like GMTV but with more fake tan. I think. Anyway, the point is he's a friend of my boss at one of my myriad jobs, so you should all vote for him, if you are inclined to vote for these types of shows. Which I sincerely hope you're not if you're on any of my friends lists. So, actually, just support him from the sidelines, yeah?

After the Strictly starter, I moved on to the X Factor main. I usually don't have two courses. It makes me sick.

An assorted bunch of - mostly weeping - people greeted my bemused gaze. It was the judge's 'houses', which is obviously bollocks. The lass out of N Dubs is apparently besties with Jessie thingie, and Robbie Williams was on it (WHEN did Gary get sexier than Robbie? When? Obviously I would still do both of them. So would you. Just admit it), and even though Simon Cowell is no more, Sinitta is somehow still peddling her wares on it. Weird.

Some strange looking child says:  "It's not the end of the world if I don't get through, but it kind of is the end of the world."

Closely followed by a couple of fat girls, one of whom says: "I don't want to be a nobody, I want to be a, sniff, sob, somebody."

Another girl who is apparently 25 but looks at least 20 years older looks into the camera soulfully, while saying: "Today's probably the biggest day of my life. I have to get a yes." Mascara streaks down the face, carving rivulets into the layers of fake tan.

Everybody, but EVERYBODY, is crying. Great rivers of snot cascade through the wailing wannabes. Very little actual singing seems to be occurring.

Louis Walsh then patronises someone who appears to have actual mental health problems, who has made it through the boot camp, whatever the fuck that is. After spinning it out for at least 12 hours, he informs the seemingly special individual that he IS through to the live shows. What the fuck is this guy on? Seriously? He's put someone through he CLEARLY isn't ever going to be a pop star, in fact he's never going to be anything but a source of ridicule. Even his family didn't believe it when he called them.

Other people say things like: "If it ends I'll be going back to a hell hole. I'll be going back to Moss Side."  Snigger.

A small child comes out with: "This is massive to me, this is really massive. I've been doing this since I was 14." He's 16.

A woman of almost 50 is crying uncontrollably. She was also a laughing stock. She was the one that got through on comedy value but didn't realise.

For the love of Simon Cowell. Louis Walsh is evil, he's put through not one, but two people who are clearly mentally disturbed and a borderline case. What the fuck are they thinking? Why are they allowing this to happen? Not one of these people is going to reach the dizzying heights of Cher Lloyd or whatsisname. You know, the one who won last year. He wore a cardigan a lot. And a hat.

More gems follow: "If I get a no, I'll be back in the building site/Tesco/card shop/office/bar on Monday." Yeah? And? If you don't get through you'll have to have like a normal job? And earn money? Instead of instant fame and riches? THE HUMANITY.

"If Louis believes in me then maybe I'll believe in me a bit."  Possibly one of the most
heartbreaking comments ever made.

Carbon copy girls in hot pants and big hair line up to come out with pearls such as:

"If I don't get through I'm literally back to shcool. There is no other option to me." Soooo, if you don't get through you have to go back and have a state funded education? HOW VERY TRAUMATIC FOR YOU.

"This is literally all I want." LITERALLY? IS IT? No sustenance? Shelter? No? Just LITERALLY this?

They waft Miami in front of these stupid, naive, damaged people. Fancy houses with pools. Expensive cars. Nice clothes. Makeovers. New teeth. Hair extensions. Look at what you could have, proles. Look where you could be if the X Factor grants your wishes. The genie in the bottle, eh? The big, fat, malevelont Simon Cowell shaped genie in the bottle. All these children and mentally disturbed people need to do is rub him in just the right way and all the riches can be theirs.

I weep for humanity.