Thursday, 25 October 2012

Thinner, lighter, faster...

... are all the things I will be. One day. But for now, they're all the things the iPhone 5 already is.

As usual, Apple fanboys and girls were whipped into a frenzy of anticipation before launch, culminating in an all night orgy of, um, queuing to get their sticky fingers on the iPhone 5. At £550 for the one with the crappest storage, it ain't cheap. But is it worth it? And more importantly, what cool shit can you buy to go with it? Let's ask Siri. Actually, let's not. Because Siri is still a bit crap.

Never mind. The phone looks ace and is altogether more sartorially pleasing than any iteration so far. It's all aluminium and thin and tall. It's got a bigger screen and is dead fast. Changes include a back made of Gorilla Glass so you can drop it when drunk and some really annoying things too. For instance, Apple have got rid of that weirdy 30-pin connector that all their products have had since time immemorial. It's been replaced by something called a Lightning Port, which means if you want to use one of the 9,372 other Apple chargers you already have lying around your house, you'll have to fork out £25 for an adaptor. Hmmm.

And, perfection lovers, the shiny new phone back is easily chipped and dented. Which brings me on to the point of my post. Yep. It's time to look at some of the accessories available so you can get yourself a nice protective case or 12. So let's go. My top five things you should almost definitely buy.

Rich fashionista's choice: CalypsoCase Rainbow -  limited edition leather cases in black, red and silver designed by Lara Bohinc from calypsocrystal.com. And they're a snip at £120. Oh come on, you just paid nearly £600 or a phone, at least splash out to equip it in the manner to which it is accustomed. Cheapskate.


Practical and tough: Cyngett UrbanShield case for £25 at uk.cygnett.com. Looks cool and perfect for your business-like 'grrr' days.

Pure aceness: Breffo Spiderpodium. I love this. It's like a spider. A colourful, bendy spider. It's a stand and holder and if you get bored of using it for the iPhone you can just scoop things up with it. Endless fun for £15 from breffo.com.

It's not fashion but you'll need it: Lightning to 30 pin adaptor. If you were concentrating above, you'll see that you'll need at least one of these bad boys. It's £25 from apple.com. Where else?

Best thing ever: Griffin Kazoo for iPhone 5 case in Monkey, Elephant, Tiger or, um, Koala? Seriously. These are possibly the best things I've ever seen. And they even have compatible apps so you can customise your phone's background to your case.  £20 from griffintechnology.com
There's a tonne more out there so make sure you check out all the fancy sites where you can customise your own design and, apparently, get a case to match every outfit. Or you could go here Whatever It Takes and find a case designed by your fave rapper, soulster or rocker and know that some of your easily squandered cash will go to charity.

Just make sure you buy plenty of cases. You're most likely stuck with that phone for at least two years...



Tuesday, 23 October 2012

Enough with the shit...

I'd like to share something that isn't negative, cynical or sarcastic. That isn't tainted with disappointment, nihilism and ennui.

No, really, I would.

It's true that fortune has been projectile vomiting on my eiderdown recently - although, as people keep reminding me, you never know what's going to happen. Which is very true. These last few months could, indeed, be the making of me. Although winning the lottery, falling in love with a non-douchebag and not seeing someone who once put their tongue in my mouth on Embarrassing Bodies having major dental work on their rotten teeth and blackened gums, would also be the making of me. Just in case the sprites of fate, justice and karma feel like listening at any point between now and my inevitable demise.

So, onto the good stuff. Although I have to digress just very slightly. Tonight, while in the throes of my first ever kidney infection (I do love firsts) I remembered that I haven't yet watched any of this season of Made In Chelsea. It hasn't disappointed. Spencer Matthews is more hirsute and flabby than ever, while attempting to play the alpha male - even though all of the rest of the cast, including his doormat girlfriend just cannot stop laughing at his greasy oikishness - and it just always fills me with joy to watch Ollie, Binky and Cheska cavort around, orange of face and facile of tongue.

There was a whole scene with dialogue like: "Oh yah. Prada is, like, classic." "Yah, black. You can't go wrong with black. It's, like, a really good colour." "Yahhhhh, black. Yahhh."
It was amazing. A-maz-ing.

So yes. The good stuff.

It's my flat. I love, love, LOVE my new flat. I adore it. It has wooden floors and an exposed brick wall, beams everywhere, five huge sash windows in a row giving this ever changing view of a main thoroughfare of York. It's at the bottom of The Shambles and all human life can be glimpsed at different times of the day.

The church opposite attracts tramps, students, drunks and hipsters alike. Not to worship at it. That would be weird. No, they come from far and wide to loll around outside it on the grassy bit, smoking fags and eating Gregg's pastries. At night there are the ghost walks, complete with tolling bells, the screaming of drunkards, the nightly cry of "Yummy Chicken!" as some very drunk person discovers, to their everlasting joy and relief, that they can get a greasy chicken kebab from my downstairs neighbours

In short, it's a little slice of perfection in an imperfect world.




Sunday, 21 October 2012

Like a punch in the gut...

As I've recently moved, and subsequent events have taken up a lot of my time, I'm only now getting round to sorting out the last of the tedious utilities, bills, changing of addresses and general yawningly dull activities that follow doing pretty much anything in our bureaucratic society.

I've spent an hour tonight looking for my TV licence. I know that the TV licence people are generally rabid about making sure everyone and their dog pays. And to be fair, I do love my TV and I do love the BBC so I pay with no particular beef. But I can't find it. And without it I can't change the address. And their website asks for the email you signed up with, so I gave the address I use for everything. It doesn't recognise it. I find it difficult to believe I would suddenly have used a different email address but I must have done. Ten minutes on an automatic phone line and finally I get told to call back in normal working hours. Bastards.

So I'm looking through every pile of paperwork I can find. And I can find a lot. And then something flutters down to the floor. It's a printout of an email my dad sent to a friend. It's not dated, but it wasn't long before he died. An email from an account that doesn't exist from a person that doesn't exist. I printed off all the emails I could find after he died, desperate for some reminder of his words. His actual words.

So I read it.

And there it was. All over again. The twisting agony of grief remembered. Because that's all it takes. A reminder of his voice, of his essence, him. And I could scream. I miss him. I miss him. I miss him. I seem to have fostered a life spent mostly alone, on the outside, looking in. I don't spend Christmas with my family. I don't even see most of my family. I don't want anything to remind me of what I had, what I lost and what I wish more than anything I could have back. And what a pointless, pathetic wish that is. To bring back the dead.

Is there anything more pathetically human than grief? Why not live in the now, Deb? Why not embrace, fully and completely, what's right there in front of you, rather than living 11 years in the past?

Well, I'm trying. And I'll keep trying. And maybe, one day, I'll be able to see something of my dad's and not want to scream in pain. I wish I could get to the stage of ruefully looking back at the good times. But I can't. All I feel is loss. And pain. And loneliness. And, quite often, a real sense of nihilism.

Someone - a therapist probably - went through the cycles of grief with me. They put a time limit on it. After 12 months you're pretty much back to normal, apparently. I don't seem to have followed that pattern. Although I can look like I have most of the time. And that'll have to do.




Thursday, 18 October 2012

Seasons of mist...

I love Autumn. I imagine this is how everyone else seems to feel at the start of summer. That awful chirpiness that seems to infect people, leading them to sprawl around public spaces wearing hot pants - always with the hot pants -  and imbibe disgusting designer cider drinks or £5 a bottle.

Summer is aggressive and intense. It screams at you to get out and enjoy it. And if you'd actually rather stay inside with the curtains closed watching films in a darkened room people bang on about how "you're missing the best of the day". No, I'm not. The best of my day is spent in a darkened room watching films. That's what I want to do. I do not want to go and sit in a field, suffering from  the never ending snotfest that is my hayfever, getting hot, itchy and sweaty while waiting for a Morrisons sausage to blacken on a throwaway barbecue. I don't want to sit in parks surrounded by groups of aesthetically unpleasing people getting shitfaced and vomiting in the sunshine. I don't want to get sunburned. Hell, I don't even want a sun tan. I like being pale. I want to look like Emily Bronte in the throes of TB, not some tart from TOWIE. 

I hate summer clothes. I hate bikinis. I hate not being able to wear biker boots and leather jackets. I hate getting sweaty every time I move. I hate the smell of drains and Victorian sewers when it hasn't rained for months. I hate to see the trees gasping for a drink. I hate the sense of decay and overwrought humidity in August. True, I was spoiled this year, what with the arctic temperatures and never ending rain and I'm glad. 

And now that we've had an early cold spell and Autumn has arrived I feel renewed. I feel hopeful and happy at this time of year, no matter what's going on in my life. I love the way Autumn smells; wet leaves and crisp air. I love the colour of early evening Autumn skies, with their mellow pink sunsets and scudding clouds. I even love the rain. Fresh and cold like rain should be, not sweaty and heavy like mid-summer downpours. I love to see the leaves turning and falling and walking through them and sniffing. I love the nostalgic anticipation of Halloween, Guy Fawkes, Remembrance Day and Christmas (although I only really like the run-up, actual Christmas is hard), the possibility of icy frosts and frozen mists and hopefully snow. I love being outside and walking really fast and not getting hot. I love the clothes; fake fur, leather, lace and black, black, black. Even the makeup is better; kohl and new dark nail varnishes. 

So you can keep your summer and its sticky glare. I'd choose Autumn and its soft, enveloping darkness every time. 


Saturday, 13 October 2012

Old people are mean

I have been up since 5. Chronic insomnia, too much coffee, wandering round town on my own since 9.30 this morning. I'm the first to admit I might be a bit, um, sensitive right now.

But really. Where is the need? Would you ever go up to an elderly man and suggest he does something about his paunch, halitosis, incontinence or misogyny? No, you wouldn't. Because you're probably a nice person. And even if you aren't, there's some kind of unwritten rule that states you have to be nice to old people. No matter how horrible they are.

I just went to an outdoor book sale. In the churchyard opposite my flat. I like looking through old books. It calms me down. And if it's for charity then so much the better.

So I'm looking and, remember, there's a very good chance I will buy. I haven't spoken, made eye contact or otherwise engaged the gentleman behind the counter in any kind of conversation.

But he takes it on himself to hold a book out to show me. It is a recipe book for diet recipes. And he says: "You look like you could do with cutting calories." And then he laughs.

I appreciate I'm not exactly a sylph-like figure, but I was under the impression that I wasn't exactly so obese as to cause ridicule from strangers. Clearly, I was wrong.

I didn't even have it in me to say anything. I just left (without buying anything) and started to cry. It was ok though, I was wearing sunglasses so no-one could see.

Like I say, undoubtedly over-sensitive through lack of sleep. Still, I'm trying to cultivate an eating disorder right now. Maybe this will help. Every cloud.

Oh, and by the way, he was easily 16 stone with a face like a collapsed football. But I didn't want to ruin his day by telling him.

Friday, 12 October 2012

The icing on the cake...

That's the brown, squidgy, runny, unpleasant, poo-like icing on the big cake of shit that this week transpired to be. I find myself considering the grammar in that sentence as incredibly suspect. Don't think I haven't noticed it. Just assume I can't be arsed to correct it.

This week basically started badly, tailed off in the middle, hit a crisis on Wednesday, floated on the scum-covered grey waves of a sea of diarroeaha on Thursday and barely dragged itself out of bed on Friday. This week, basically, can go fuck itself.

And that was before O2, my ridiculously unreliable and unbelievably shit 'network' decided to not only merely deign to deliver just one random text in three, but shuffled off its mortal coil completely.

A quick internet search by my colleague showed that yes, it's true, 10% of O2 customers (or victims as I prefer to label us poor, suffering fools) have lost their network. But it's OK, it'll be fixed by 16:30. Except we were looking at the update at 17:30.

So that is how I found myself having to go and purchase things from One Stop in order to get cashback in order to rustle up the 60p [minimum charge in four coins or less] in order to make a call in a phone box. Yes, kids. Those things you see occasionally covered in beer, piss and graffiti are actual boxes with phones in that people used to use. All the time. That was back in the day when it cost 10p to make a call. Now, you can only connect to someone else with 60p, which gives you 30 minutes. But wait, I don't want to stand in this piss-ridden hell hole for 30 minutes but I sort of feel like I have to to get my money's worth. I'd rather spend 10p, deliver important message, preferably while not breathing in or out and get the fuck out of there. How has it come to this? And have you ever tried to hold a phone without actually touching it? It's difficult.

I'd picked the only phone box I've seen in York. Naturally, it's outside the One Stop which seems to be exclusively staffed by tagged ex-cons and frequented by hoardes of drunken, shit-covered tramps.  I'm thinking of setting up a new tourist attraction and standing outside selling tickets, so unusual is the experience.

I was determined to stand in that disgusting, stinking, fetid box until I had used every penny of my 60p but after a very long 10 minutes became aware of someone staring at me through the window. It was a man, clearly off his face, in pyjamas and hi tops. And on crutches. He was staring at me with a stabbing expression. As in, if I didn't get the fuck out of that box he would stab me in the face with his handy flickknife. Clearly, freak man needed to get on the phone fast. Presumably to organise his next shipment.

I hate O2.





Thursday, 11 October 2012

Do what thou wilt...

Especially if what thou wilt means having licentious, free-spirited sex with whoever tickles your ‘magickal’ fancy. Aleister Crowley was undoubtedly a charlatan. But he was also super-intelligent, a massively talented writer when he felt like it, heavily bisexual, extremely arrogant, a randomly excellent mountain climber (if you ignore the fact that he caused the deaths of quite a few people along the way), an extremely mediocre painter, a raconteur par excellence and an enthusiastic imbiber of drugs. Oh, and he was a magician. Whatever the hell that means.
 
Back when it got into magic it seems he probably did take it seriously. But as 99% of his magical practices involved plying young boys and women with drugs and then making them drink the elixir, it’s debatable how much magic came into the whole thing really. The elixir? That was his semen. A lot of his semen was apparently ingested over the years. Sometimes by him.
 
He would apparently achieve states of magic while having massive sex sessions under the influence of narcotics. And we’re not talking a bit of a spliff. He regularly got absolutely and totally wasted on everything from hash to cocaine and opium, mixed with revolting amounts of alcohol. He was contemptuous of those who couldn’t keep up with his iron constitution and confidently declared he wasn’t able to become addicted as he was in control of his Will. This changed when a doctor introduced him to the delights of pure heroin. Turns out his Will wasn’t actually any different from any other addicts after all.
 
He also believed he was here on earth to show people a new way to live. After spending his formative years under the yoke of the Plymouth Brethren and all the crazy that entails, he, unsurprisingly, decided to hate organised religion the instant he hit puberty and discovered booze, sex and drugs.
 
Like teenagers the world over, but with the added advantage of being really bloody rich, Crowley threw himself into a life where he basically did whatever he wanted, all the while attracting devoted followers who handily kept him in the cash when he’d spunked most of his own vast fortune self-publishing endless books and magazines, buying lots of magical gewgaws and having sex with prostitutes.  
 
He was riddled with venereal disease, quickly lost what looks he had, shaved his hair off apart from a small triangle in the centre of his forehead and resembled a bloated frog for most of his life, and yet the ladies – and young men – just kept coming.
 
Every now and again he’d meet someone he really really fancied, shag them senseless and then proclaim them his next ‘Scarlet Woman’. This meant that they must be psychic and could do magical shenanigans at the same time as having a lot of sex with him. Almost every single one of his notable Scarlet Women turned to hard drinking, drugs, prostitution and/or suicide.
 
He sired bastard children left and right, some of whom died, some of whom he could not have cared less about, and at least one of whom never wanted anything to do with his raddled old carcass in later years.
 
The same man who called himself The Beast, hung out with writers and actors, possibly spied for the British during the war, definitely wrote some pro-German propaganda and was only truly sorry when one person in the world died - his mother, despite saying he loathed her, he clearly had some major mommy issues. He was mad, bad and dangerous to know, in the finest Byronic tradition and accurately predicted, among other things, genetic engineering and the danger of pushing the drug trade underground. He was funny, cruel and utterly selfish and I had an excellent time reading about him.
 
What a guy.

Wednesday, 10 October 2012

To swear or not to swear…


… that is the question.

Astonishingly, some readers of my little blog here cannot get past the language I sometimes employ. My mother is one of them. She argues that any point I make is completely lost and will surely be ignored by all right thinking individuals due to the amount of times I say fuck and cunt.

Weirdly, an ex-boyfriend of mine is of the same opinion. Although I’m almost positive he says fuck and cunt quite a lot. I mean, I lived with him for about eight years. I’d have noticed if he didn’t swear. Wouldn’t I?

I like to think that swearing is entirely subjective. I am rarely offended by it - even by people who swear at me. I have been much more hurt in the past by people using other words to describe me. Mostly along the lines of: “You’re too fat to be my girlfriend” and “You’re too mental to be my girlfriend” and other things to do with just generally not fitting in to anyone’s vision of a girlfriend or, indeed, person. I’d have much rather been called a twat or something.

But, of course, this is my own personal opinion. If I read something that incorporates many swear words, then I’ll usually snigger because people using the word fucktard, for example, amuses me. But also, it is the language of my time. I have no wish – believe it or not – to offend anyone just for the hell of it. If I want to offend someone, conversely, I’ll generally use very long words with many syllables that have nothing to do with saying fuck or cunt. 

This is usually reserved for morally bankrupt people who have absolutely no compunction about stepping all over people for their own selfish and nefarious purposes. Those people make me want to vomit shards of anger in their face. Projectile vomit. Like Reagan in The Exorcist. I certainly wouldn’t waste any of my amusingly concoted swear words on them.

If I’m writing about accordionists or ridiculous people on TV and I swear, it’s generally because I think the sentence sounds funny. It really is that simple.

I do appreciate though, that some people may be offended by reading my blog and perhaps feel a certain level of moral superiority as they sniff disgustedly at the tenth use of the fuck word. And to those people I would say, maybe go and read something else? Perhaps a nice newspaper? Not the Guardian though because they sometimes say cunt. Try the Daily Mail. They hide their fascist tendencies behind the sort of morally hectoring language you’d probably feel right at home with.

Or just keep reading because it does everyone good to feel a bit superior every now and again. You can thank me later.

Tuesday, 9 October 2012

Well, it definitely rhymes with Hunt...



Health Secretary Jeremy Hunt thinks that the abortion limit should be halved. To 12 weeks. Based on, you know, nothing really, other than he feels a bit icky about the whole thing. Perhaps he agrees with Republican fuckwit Todd Akin who thinks that women who are raped can't get pregnant. Something to do with the fact that little sperm men can only get into the egg lady when the woman is enjoying herself. Therefore if she's pregnant it can't have been rape. Because she must have been enjoying it. Therefore abortion shouldn't be allowed. QED. Obviously. OBVIOUSLY.

What kind of cretinous cunts are in power in the Western world? What kind of absolute arsehats could spout this kind of shit? Akin I'll just leave aside as I actually can't compute what kind of total fucking prick would, in all seriousness, believe this shite.

Let's go back to our very own Home Secretary, shall we? Jeremy Hunt reckons that somewhere or other there's some scientific justification for the abortion limit to come down to 12 weeks. No one has been able to track this evidence down. He apparently deems that life starts at 12 weeks. To which lots of scientists have said: "Um. No, not really..."

Cameron must be lamenting his choice. Bad timing. Bad bad timing. Just when the Tories were going to start an obsequious fight back and lie their asses off to win around a scornful populace, oopsie, Mr Hunt gone said something stoopid. They have quickly and vociferously denied that they're even thinking about the possibility of lowering the limit from 24 weeks to 12. But the damage is done. A debate that is emotive, sensitive and highly charged has been shat all over by the careless words of one of the fucktards in power.

There's a disturbing anti-abortion movement growing in this country, echoing the dangerous voices in the US and it makes me ragingly angry.

I have had an abortion. And I am not ashamed. I had it for the right reasons, I thought carefully about it and, eight years on, I still know I did the right thing. And I am grateful for those who fought for my rights as a woman and as a human being to choose. Because there are hundreds of thousands of unwanted, unplanned, uncared for children in this country alone. And for centuries women were forced into dangerous poisons, being operated on by backstreet butchers or being forced to have a child, whatever the reason for its conception.

I was treated with respect and kindness. I knew that I would be safe and that I wouldn't have to worry about dying from a secondary infection. I was also looked after by the NHS and didn't have to pay hundreds of pounds (which I couldn't have afforded at the time). And for all of this I will always be grateful.

We are enlightened, intelligent people with a growing population problem and finite resources. Why is the threat of losing a fundamental right to decide what happens to our own bodies even on the radar? How can this be happening in 2012? It's also clear that Jeremy Hunt apparently thought that his "it's only my personal opinion" would be enough to cover his ass. So he's also fucking stupid. This may be his personal opinion. Maybe he also thinks dinosaurs didn't exist and god is a man with a beard sitting on a cloud. I don't really give a shit. The point is he is our HEALTH SECRETARY and he doesn't get to make flippant, ill thought out, ignorant, unscientific comments.

When are we going to stop going backwards?

Saturday, 6 October 2012

D'ya like spending time with interesting people?

This is one of many retarded opening lines from men on match.com. One corker was: I'd lik 2 cum on ur tits. We're getting married next week.

Online dating is a crock. For every story that someone's told you about their mate who went on one date, fell in love and married them, there's thousands of people like me plugging away on the basis that there must be some kind of law of averages or some vague scientific shit that states if you really try you get rewarded in the end.

Course, we know that's not true, don't we kids? Fact is, trying and trying quite often gets you precisely nowhere. Particularly when dealing with knobheads.

I was awake at 5am due to extreme rage. I've never actually woken up with my heart beating so fast that it actually hurt. But I guess there's a first time for everything. The reason for my extreme rage is not worth mentioning. But the point is, I was awake. So, obviously I went on the internet. What else do you do when you can't sleep?

And I logged onto match. It's become more of a weird hobby now, reading the utter bullshit that comes from these guys. I'm assuming there are some normal people on there, but they don't seem to be drawn to my profile. Perhaps it's the lack of using 'lol' and calling people 'hun' that puts them off.

It's possible people are wondering why I spend money on this bizarre sort of hobby. It's £30 a month. Or it was, the first month, at the end of which I phoned the man up to tell him to immediately desist and close down my account. Then he offered it to me for £7 a month, which is less than a packet of fags so I thought, what the hey? Why not?

This morning as soon as I logged on there were the usual messages in foreign languages, the odd ' u r fit' and the usual insulting one. And then a guy said: 'do you like spending time with interesting people?'. Sometimes I get so annoyed with the fatuous, inane crap that gets sent to me, that I reply.

I said: 'what kind of stupid question is that?' on the basis that I couldn't work out what kind of answer anyone would give such a banal and idiotic question.

He said:'lol. It's a sex question. You know sweetie.'

He'd obviously not picked up my contempt through my reply. Turns out a lot of these inane questions are code for: 'fancy fucking a total stranger?'. Who knew? Don't mention that in the fucking advert do they?

Wednesday, 3 October 2012

Is BT a 'Facebook Partner'?

I don't know what a Facebook Partner is. Is it one of Facebook's wives? Fuck buddies? Friends with benefits? I didn't know Facebook was such a slag.

If BT is one of slutty Facebook's 'partners' then they well be reporting this post as 'potentially offensive'. There aren't enough uses of the word cunt to convey my utter contempt for BT and everything it stands for. They are robbing bastards, borderline criminal with their lack of information and absolute cunty mccockfaces for insisting I hand over £200. What for, you may ask? Perhaps it is for a massive phone bill that I ran up talking to some twat boy. I know what you're thinking. But no. They want me to hand over that amount of cash for the privilege of leaving. That's right. I phone them up and tell them I don't want their services. Instead of saying: "Thank you very much for years of loyal custom, Miss Henderson, and umcomplainingly paying all your extortionate bills over the years on time and by direct debit - just how we like it. We will be sorry to see you go but good luck on your travels."

Instead of saying that they said: "You've still got a year on your contract and then you have to pay for the installation."

"Uh. What contract? I wouldn't have signed up for an 18 month contract if I'd known. And I paid the installation fee when you, you know, INSTALLED the fucking thing."

"Oh, we gave you a really good deal so now you have to pay it back."

"What the living FUCK are you talking about?"

Then, coincidentally, I managed to mute my phone with my giant face and by the time I had sorted it, we had been cut off. I didn't have the heart to do it all again. She called me back four times.

I'll leave tomorrow. Probably.

Tuesday, 2 October 2012

I'm really, really sorry...

... to any readers who were expecting something juicy and salacious in this morning's blog. Facebook saw fit to spam anyone who clicked on the link with the message that a 'Facebook partner' has reported the link as potentially abusive. And then went on to, ironically, try and push some MacAfee product on said readers to protect them from spam.

I immediately felt guilty. People must have been expecting something quite massively offensive.  Perhaps one of those posts where I pour forth a torrent of bile towards an accordionist. Or a man who was whistling near me. Or perhaps one of those blogs where I say that god doesn't exist. And then say cunt. Or cunty mccunt.

And all you got was my opinion on Lakeland products. I will rectify this tomorrow with a really offensive post. Just doing my bit to get those numbers up for MacAfee.

Monday, 1 October 2012

All I want for Christmas...

... is a croquembouche mould. And an electric egg boiler. And an insulated butter dish. And a waffle stick maker. And a terracotta water carafe. And an electric piemaker. And a fold out trivet. And a meat mincer. And a potato ricer. And a pineapple wedger. And a fruit and vegetable cushion.

Oh no, wait. I don't need any of those things. Because they're mental products for mental people.

I got a Lakeland catalogue through the post. All my books are packed still. I would rather read this than unpack one more fucking thing right now.

I sort of love these kinds of catalogues but in a weird kind of way. I would never buy any of it because, frankly, the chances of me needing to construct a croquenbouche even once in my life are pretty unlikely. Before Masterchef took over the world a croqueenbouhe was just a pile of profiteroles on a plate. Now there's apparently enough middle class mummies with more money than sense who MUST have one that they're being manufactured as a thing you might actually want to buy.With money.

An electric egg boiler. Boil it in a fucking pan. That IS an egg boiler. Who buys all this shit? Who has a big enough kitchen? Do people make such industrial quantities of apple pie that they need to spend £50 on a thing that peels it and cores it? How long does it take to peel an apple the normal way for fuck's sake?

Who needs a waffle maker? The same people that buy bread makers, cupcake makers, cake pop makers, doughnut makers and pancake makers I suppose. Fat fuckers presumably. Maybe they're all too fat to waddle down to Asda to buy their doughnuts.

Or maybe they're for the army of Nigella yummy mummy types who have sprung up since cookery programmes have taken over.

Still. I do really need the terracotta water carafe. Totally.