Early Sunday.

A new day, a new look for the blog. Ish.

It's come to my attention that in the below picture, as taken by the lovely Joe, I may look as though I have been indulging in a little self-mutilation. Not so. I'm still not one hundred per cent sure why or how I woke up on Saturday with my arm looking like it'd been rubbed up on a cheese grater.
My best guess is that on the short cut that we tried to take home from the Queenshilling I did it on the brambles. The "short cut" in question was up the side of a car park out back of the Carling Academy. It was Joe's idea anyhow.

I'm kind of bummed out because I kicked the job at the Elbow Rooms already. It was decent money. However, I just can't bring myself to walk up and down Park Street all night - Saturday nights too, of all nights - handing fucking coupons to people. I feel quite guilty about this, as I always ridicule other people when they'd complain about menial jobs - "Oh, at least you've got a job, et cetera."
I gave it up for good reason though; there were ladyboys to be accosted that night and accosted they certainly were. What the frickin' frack happened to that secret Foals/CSS thing that was meant to be happening? Was that even real? Did I make it up? Answers on a postcard to the usual address. Anyway, I'm going to do another proper photo post soon, there'll be the photos of the ladyboys in there.
Speaking of things I'm meant to do but am not doing, I have several things lined up for this blog. Watch this space.

So Darren and I went for lunch at Kino and were throwing around the idea of writing a 'zine together, you know, for shiggles.

Him: So, you can do the drawing. I suck at drawing.
Me: Yeah, all right then.
Him: You should probably do the writing too.

We don't know what to make it about. I kick myself daily for not thinking up Found Magazine first.

Friiiiiiiiiday.

Giant gaps in my memory of last night. Things I know did happen: dramatic escape from a gay bar. People at the Tube, gypsies, the lot of 'em. Joe got hit on loads. I brought some dude home with me for a cup of soy milk. Climbing the outside wall of a car park.

All righty then. Tonight I have to flyer for the Elbow Rooms, from 9 till 2, but we'll see if we can't combine that with a little bar crawling and ladyboy action. Yes.

The Birthday of my Mother

Retro picture time:



Nineteen years ago, Ziggy Stardust gave birth to yours truly, in a quiet wing of the Norfolk & Norwich. Then Ziggy went off to Mars to see/rock out with some spiders, resulting in a lifelong affliction for the baby child, who still sweats and feels sick when she sees any arachnid. Chaos ensued, there were guitars, Marc Bolan and that Tainted Love lady had a baby, it was the late '80s! I didn't take History at GCSE! Beat surrender, Rubik's cubes, I Heart NY, whatever!

Then Ziggy came back, moved into a three-bedroom terraced house, and settled down.

Today it is Ziggy's birthday. I don't think I should say how old she is, but let's say it's almost twenty years since that picture was taken. I sent her an 'Enjoy Your Retirement' card which got me a 'cheeky fucker' down the phone and an assurance that I'm not too old for a clip round the ear, you know.

Tuesday Afternoon.

My housemate Pav and I are loafing around the front room. She's meant to be revising for an exam retake she has tomorrow but is playing poker on PKR; I have nothing to do until term starts again, though really I need a job.

Because PKR uses a Sims-style 3D visual , showing the table, dealer, and all the player's twisted Second Life interpretations of themselves, it's popular with younger (READ: amateur) people. We're baiting flirtatious strangers on MSN, only one step down from 3 AM crank calls. These all seem, on closer inspection, to be either Italian or Colombian 14-year-olds.

Jade Goody has uterine cancer . . . couldn't have happened to a nicer person.

Condy Rice has gone to Poland to seal the deal on all those missiles they want to stash there or whatever, the ones that Russia aren't chuffed about. My housemate, Mister 2.2 in International Relations, BSC(Hons), Joe, seems to be not concerned or even impassive but rather gleeful about the whole thing.

I have rather a limited understanding of internation relations and politics (see below for just how poor), but I get that this is not a Good Thing. Eff you Martha Stewart, eff you right in your little house on the prairie. Us Tareyton smokers would rather smoke than fight!



hahahaha. my united kingdom looks like a cocknballs.

Poland! It's always your fucking fault you shitrags! You keep getting everyone into these scrapes and I'll bury you under those jars of 'sobie w pomodorwym'^[1] tit features!

So I was thinking about conscription. Badger voiced his theory that he, Rory and Joe would probably be drafted were there to be a 'WWIII'. I find this unlikely 'cuz there's no way we'd run out of chumps willing to get themselves shot in the head whilst living the dream, dressed as one of the Village People, abusing brown people and raping their female colleagues, but whatever. We all know how I feel about the armed forces.



So, were a draft to happen (it wouldn't: we're being hypothetical), would women be drafted? You can hardly not draft them. They'd get all fucking moany about discrimination. Blah blah blah we deserve the right to get shot in the head in a desert climate too blah.

. . . you know what. Sometimes I think it's okay to indulge in a little patriarchy. It can work in your favour. Like getting dudes to hold doors open for you and give you free drinks and shit. It's unethical, but hey, fuck you Jesus. Everything's still really expensive and I'm still really poor.


^[1] I don't know what it is but it's brown and white and in a jar in Tesco.

Later, Monday

I know that at the minute, I'm doing a degree in English and Journalism (blargh), but when I grow up, I want to be Sarah Haskins. (all videos @Current)

She's the deadpan host of that video about yoghurt I was LOLing at a few months ago, and since I've been away from the internets ooh wee has she been prolific.

Wedding Shows: "I'm reading the paper and thinking about current events . . . nope! I'm thinking about weddings!"

Suffrage: "Who-whoa whoa wait! You [Obama] watch Army Wives? I watch Army Wives! I'm voting for you!"

Botox: "(expressionless) What, this face? Do you need a sandwich? The house is on fire."

Cooking: "Food should make your family happy. 'Reggae dance party' happy."

Birth Control: "Birth control is sold as 'period control'. Why? I don't know. I am just a lady. With a simple lady mind."

Mooooonday

Things have been slow but then I've been out of town for weeks. Times have changed, I've started my own Private Detections Agency, crimes I've been investigating include:

'What the frickin frack happened here?'

Heeeeeeeyyyy! It's our second year of university! I live in a large house in Clifton, which is (for the uninfomed) the 'nice' part of the city! We are all responsible adults with jobs and studies and bicycles or cars, and our house is a beautiful celebration of art and music and PlayStation3, and all agree that it is the friendliest, most comfortable party house in all of Borstal. There are always delicious cooking smells wafting from the kitchen, and the toilets are fragrant and sanitary.

Oh no wait, it appears to be a fleapit fucking frat house. My bad.

An epic cleanup operation has begun (I'm a P.I. and also Mrs. Mopps).

'How can I protect myself from arachnids?'

If you have a fly problem, you buy flypaper (I'm experienced in this area now because we do, unsurprisingly, have a fly problem). If you have an ant problem, you put down Raid. If you got rats, rat pellets, or some kind of poncey trap if you're a poncey vegetarian like me. If you have a Gremlin infestation, you burn them in a cinema. If there's a zombie attack, you have to seperate the head from the body (thanks to M.Hewitt). This is knowledge passed from generation to generation of council house dwellers like me.

However, what can you do about spiders? Answers on a postcard please. Until this point I had kind of kidded myself that spiders hadn't made it to Bristol. I knew that they existed in Norwich, much to my chagrin, but maybe they hadn't made that first big journey West across the country, from sea to shiiiiiining seeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaa


(with apologies to S.Milligan)

'Where's Ruben?'

The only case that so far has been closed. Ruben is, without a doubt, the Anne Frank of the hamster world. Whenever Daisy and Kate's landlord comes up, he has to be hidden in the Secret Annexe a.k.a. under Daisy's bed, and his most recent escapade was to disappear under the floorboards for a day or two like a kind of furry George Michaels stalker.

(Anne Frank's diary makes me uncomfortable. Specifically when she starts chomping on about her lady garden for pages on end.)

Okay, so maybe I'm no Horatio Caine right now. What next? Lunch? Dog The Bounty Hunter? Party? Cup of tea!? . . . I want to be the little spoon!



(apologies for the old photos and mediocre content, normal service will be resumed soon)

Meanwhile:

1) Peanuts, by Charles Bukowski. Funny only if you get the references, much like Family Guy.
2) George & Lynne - that comic strip from The Sun which is not only powerfully unfunny but also kind of offensive gets an even more offensive reworking which makes it funny . . . it's too early for chiasmus!
3) Photobombers. We all know people like this. The most infamous one, an ex-workmate from Norwich, explained it to me thus: "I just get bored of posing, waiting for them to press the button, so I pull a face instead."
4) Avril Lavigne's 15 Greatest Outfits. Don't judge 'till you've read it.
5) Nostalgia; the old Nathan Barley bits from TVGoHome. If I could ever be a fifth as cutting as Chris Morris I think my life'd be complete.