Monday, August 30, 2010
Moving (I think)
Sorry for the inconvenience to all non-existent readers but I've left my wife, Blogger.
And moving in with my hot, young mistress, Wordpress.
And this is the blog I've chose out of my 40-strong harem of blog names this one will be my premier number #1 mistress. I've decided. I'm almost sure I've decided.
Sure I spent the best years of my life with blogger but she's old now. And although she's faster and more reliable I'm probably going to shack up with Wordpress just because she looks better.
(Even as I type the words above I'm unsure if I'll actually stick it out with Wordpress. See I planned to come home tonight and blog on Wordpress but its so fricking heavy and slow and there are so many things to click through that I typed this whole post out on Blogger. I'm racked with indecision. Luckily no one reads my blog. So it all works out.)
And moving in with my hot, young mistress, Wordpress.
And this is the blog I've chose out of my 40-strong harem of blog names this one will be my premier number #1 mistress. I've decided. I'm almost sure I've decided.
Sure I spent the best years of my life with blogger but she's old now. And although she's faster and more reliable I'm probably going to shack up with Wordpress just because she looks better.
Unless WP pisses me off. Which it already has. Stupid bitch.
(Even as I type the words above I'm unsure if I'll actually stick it out with Wordpress. See I planned to come home tonight and blog on Wordpress but its so fricking heavy and slow and there are so many things to click through that I typed this whole post out on Blogger. I'm racked with indecision. Luckily no one reads my blog. So it all works out.)
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Screw you Wordpress
So I'm blogging again.
Fuck Wordpress. Another 3 hours, 1 cold cup of tea, an uneaten croissant and just 40 wordpress blog domains later and I still don't like any enough to defect from eblogger. Yet.
The whittled down domain list:
sigh. What to do?
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Fuck Wordpress. Another 3 hours, 1 cold cup of tea, an uneaten croissant and just 40 wordpress blog domains later and I still don't like any enough to defect from eblogger. Yet.
The whittled down domain list:
- scritchproductionsblog.wordpress.com (too dangerous. My last blog of this name got sniffed out by my father)
- tellmepanic1.wordpress.com (I hate the number at the end)
- iratewoman.wordpress.com (I guess)
- slightlyiratewoman.wordpress.com (I was feeling calmer when I made this one)
- rantandwhine.wordpress.com (That is largely what I do)
- tinroofpress.wordpress.com (hmmm quite like it, it has a nice ring and remind me of my house in bombay and also references cats, of which there are many in my house in bombay, altho downsides are there is one too many uses of the word 'press')
- aprofessionalwhiner.wordpress.com (also true)
- bewareoftypos.wordpress.com (my tagline)
- commasemicolonfullstop.wordpress.com (I neglect punctuation, so it is fitting)
sigh. What to do?
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What can you do with a vagina?
I was at the pub, with someone from work, discussing the never ending topic that is babies.
My consistent lack of desire to breed, is constantly questioned incredulously.
Because, how can that be true? Why bother being alive? Surely all a woman is meant for is to squeeze out some brat and then die.
So she says, (she's french) "For me, that ees ze meaning of life, to 'ave a baby. What else can 'ou do with a vagina?"
I reply, grinning ear to ear "I can think of a lot of things you can do with a vagina..."
She blushes.
( Of course she's pregnant now. Figures)
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My consistent lack of desire to breed, is constantly questioned incredulously.
Because, how can that be true? Why bother being alive? Surely all a woman is meant for is to squeeze out some brat and then die.
So she says, (she's french) "For me, that ees ze meaning of life, to 'ave a baby. What else can 'ou do with a vagina?"
I reply, grinning ear to ear "I can think of a lot of things you can do with a vagina..."
She blushes.
( Of course she's pregnant now. Figures)
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Saturday, August 28, 2010
Technologically Handicapped
Clearly, the last post saying I was going to blog again was a lie.
Blogging is a habit easily broken, unlike smoking or drinking.
I've neglected it for ages. Two years to be exact. (The ex accuses me to switching from one obsession to another - My online Library, to drawing, to facebook, to this blog. Its hard to deny. I obsess easily and procrastinate often. )
I spent the last 2.5 hours trying to leave eblogger and defect to Wordpress, which has better features and nicer templates.
But then I accidentally deleted the domain I wanted on wordpress and they have some irrational inhouse policy to never allow the recycling of domains.
Why, you may ask? Fuck knows.
Of course, they have some bogus bullshit reason because the guy who originally had the domain would be so upset blah blah whatever. BS, like I said. Utter claptrap.
So I sent this message to customer support...
"Deleted an inactive blog (tellmepanic.wordpress.com) without realizing you could never use the domain again!!! Ever! I was planning on just creating a new account and using that domain there. (I should have transferred it I know but it was a mistake) I saw: The post on recycling domains - however I am the same user of both accounts - I would really like that domain back - deleting it was a mistake. please please pretty please"
...and they replied in a typically robotic fashion...
No. You Can't. Screw you. Customer support hates you. How dare you ask us this? You were warned blah blah.
You know how they are. I asked them if they weren't being just a little despotic?
They haven't replied to that yet.
So I'm back here, at blogger.
Like a man who tries to leave his long suffering wife for a new, shiny, technologically updated mistress but then for various reasons he ends up crawling back home to his loving but template handicapped wife.
Friday, March 21, 2008
The Return of the Blogger *groan*
So I've returned from a lovely and far too short holiday home.
*sob*
I've decided to re-blog again since it will be my only creative outlet since my career has DIED!
Its over! I'm fucking doomed! Forever.
AND WORST of all! I couldn't buy any duty free fags. NOT ANY. NOT A SINGLE ONE!
*sob*
Jet Airways, as usual, no fucking surprises SCREWED me over AGAIN.
The airport was renovating the duty free shops and they were ALL CLOSED!
And Charis [who came to stay for a week] NEVER even gave me a heads up!!!!!!
So I didn't buy any cigarettes to take back. I would have at least bought them from the fucking pan walla if CHARIS HAD AT LEAST BOTHERED TO LET ME FUCKING KNOW!!
Not only was the duty free kiosk closed but Jet had an entire catalogue of crap they were hawking on the plane but not a single fucking carton. Can you believe this shit?? Like one solitary, miserable, palty fucking carton.
AND CHARIS DIDN'T EVEN LET ME KNOW!!! LIKE. WHAT. THE. FUCK.
I'm very upset.
As you can tell.
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*sob*
I've decided to re-blog again since it will be my only creative outlet since my career has DIED!
Its over! I'm fucking doomed! Forever.
AND WORST of all! I couldn't buy any duty free fags. NOT ANY. NOT A SINGLE ONE!
*sob*
Jet Airways, as usual, no fucking surprises SCREWED me over AGAIN.
The airport was renovating the duty free shops and they were ALL CLOSED!
And Charis [who came to stay for a week] NEVER even gave me a heads up!!!!!!
So I didn't buy any cigarettes to take back. I would have at least bought them from the fucking pan walla if CHARIS HAD AT LEAST BOTHERED TO LET ME FUCKING KNOW!!
Not only was the duty free kiosk closed but Jet had an entire catalogue of crap they were hawking on the plane but not a single fucking carton. Can you believe this shit?? Like one solitary, miserable, palty fucking carton.
AND CHARIS DIDN'T EVEN LET ME KNOW!!! LIKE. WHAT. THE. FUCK.
I'm very upset.
As you can tell.
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Saturday, January 05, 2008
A New Year, Same ol' bitching
*Long post. You have been warned.*
The "Collective"
For the record, I'm really going to regret writing this post since a couple of 'collective' members just might collectively lynch me.
The Illustration Collective was conceived in the post-graduation glow of good-will, hope and cock-eyed optimism.
We dreamed of inspiring one another, working together on projects, dreamed of endless exhibitions and commissions.
What a fucking load of shit.
Allow me to explain.
The first thing the collective are united in voting for is a group website. Two kind volunteers within the collective opted to build and launch it. This so far, is all peaches.
Possibly due to the fact that both volunteers work full-time and were/are both highly technophobic, the website seems to take forever to be completed.
Some time later one of the frustrated volunteers sends out an threatening email saying the site will never get hosted until all the collective members cough up.
In a random irate moment much later, I question the glacial rate at which this website is being developed considering the ransom had been duly forked up.
One of the volunteers, disguised as a big burly man, promptly sends me a very stroppy message saying something along the lines of "...saw your email... and thanks a lot yeah? cheers!" [seriously what a girl]
*Sigh*. So this is what it feels like to be in a collective.
True, irate emails are always foolish, but its been 3 fricking months developing a simple Flash website.
Few weeks later, Urh sends out a vaguely despotic 'memo' before his missus commanded him off to the barren wilderness of Luxembourg to breed other tiny Slovenians.
It stated that in the future if the majority agreed to an idea, however dim, ill-conceived or desperate the idea might be, the entire collective must 'join forces' [cough up basically]
Martyn and a few others agree whole heartedly with Urh's memo. Martyn says that as a group we need to be 'streamlined' and 'organized' and spewed out other such corporate mumbo-jumbo hogwash.
What seemed to have started out as a way to collaborate and perhaps inspire each other seems to be evolving into a vaguely sinister organization with a lot of in-house politics.
The reason for Urh's email was this:
Martyn, Uhr and someone else decide that the best thing we can do now with our scarce earnings is invest it in some advertising poster on the tube that claimed to be at a cut-throat rate [£700 split by 10 people].
I, financially straightened, opted out at once. [It was also a fucking stupid idea for various reasons, one being that the website the poster aimed to promote wasn't even fully functional yet]
In an ironic way, after all those harsh, honest critiques in class, we were now all pussy-footing around the two web volunteers like they were made of glass.
"Oh he'll feel bad you guys, they worked really hard, I don't know why its not working even Ray doesn't know, they worked really hard guys. We can't say anything"
So after 5 or so months of faffing around we can't even gently and sensitively ask: What the fuck have you been doing??
Why volunteer if you haven't a fucking clue and still type with one finger? Who volunteered the most technically inept people to set up a web page?
Oh yes thats very 'streamlined'.
So its one poster, advertising nothing in particular, no website to send people to and nothing to offer as of yet. All for 700 quid.
But of course, you cant say anything in case feelings are hurt [god forbid]. I can't really object to the poster forceful way or argue about it because I'd be offending supporters and perhaps being obnoxious. [and lets face it, I am]
Martyn's argument for the poster was that its just something to do, we'll sort things out this way, its a good method to organize ourselves blah de blah de blah. I argued its a rather pricey way just to relieve boredom nor fair to coerce the minority into a corner.
It basically boils down to a question of politics. Who can we convince to join our side, who's on yours. Who loses? I hate politics, its being back in those stupid school cliques. So my feeble arguments are swept aside. And so poster goes ahead as planned.
Then Uhr sent out his organizational corporate memo.
I am obviously not the only one who opted out. Others were equally sensible to the serious flaws in the plan. While I don't object [care] to other people [fools] proceeding with a daft idea, being forced into it myself is not for me.
Uhr doesn't feel this should be allowed.
The part of his 'memo' I particularly found amusing was when it said even if I didn't have the money now, when I do I can send it to The Collective's joint bank account, because if the poster advertised the collective website which I was part of, that wasn't even working yet, then the whole collective would 'benefit' [my ass] from the poster
Yes a majority vote is probably reasonable, the government works like that. But really, one government is quite enough. Being forced to do what the idiot majority does in daily life is bad enough. I quite resent the idea of being forced into a decision I don't support in my private life as well.
So I ended up quiting. It was way too frustrating. Again, a lot of school flashbacks.
So the poster went ahead as planned.....
It was a completely and total disaster of course.
The place that offered this cut rate poster claims they want an underground art gallery but basically advertises his own site & business with your money and artwork. No one else is allowed to put up email address or their website. Great.
The poster also didn't adhere to advertising standards and had to be edited heavily. Remove the blood, remove the man having a shit, remove all penises.
The station eventually picked to host the poster was on the worst line possible. The Waterloo and City line. What does a wanker-bankers care about art or design?
Tiphane then saw the poster and was horrified. [Uhr convinced her it was a good idea *gufaw* and she trusted him without even attending our meetings.]. The Poster Being a collage of course meant that not everyones work got priority.
She then fired off an really enraged email in broken Anglais saying she was only recruited to get money and the poster was a total rip off, and she was quitting and wanted her money back.
dear all
I saw the poster. to be honest I think it is totally unfair to pay more than 70 pounds to appear like that on the poster.
I want to have my money back and leave the group, sorry it is rude.
but it is rude as well to convince people to join the group because you need people who pay.
thank you
tiphaine
*oooo this is an interesting start to the day I thought*
Martyn then got very cross saying no one was forced to do anything.
[...although strictly speaking taking Uhr's despotic memo into account of course this is not quite truthful]
I backed Martyn up that she didn't have to do it, as myself and others hadn't, and had she attended meetings she have known what was going on a lot better. No need to have a strop etc.
[This was a highly unproductive work morning as you might imagine]
Uhr then called Tiphane to explain it all and smooth things over, so a while later she wrote in saying
The "Collective"
For the record, I'm really going to regret writing this post since a couple of 'collective' members just might collectively lynch me.
The Illustration Collective was conceived in the post-graduation glow of good-will, hope and cock-eyed optimism.
We dreamed of inspiring one another, working together on projects, dreamed of endless exhibitions and commissions.
What a fucking load of shit.
Allow me to explain.
The first thing the collective are united in voting for is a group website. Two kind volunteers within the collective opted to build and launch it. This so far, is all peaches.
Possibly due to the fact that both volunteers work full-time and were/are both highly technophobic, the website seems to take forever to be completed.
Some time later one of the frustrated volunteers sends out an threatening email saying the site will never get hosted until all the collective members cough up.
In a random irate moment much later, I question the glacial rate at which this website is being developed considering the ransom had been duly forked up.
One of the volunteers, disguised as a big burly man, promptly sends me a very stroppy message saying something along the lines of "...saw your email... and thanks a lot yeah? cheers!" [seriously what a girl]
*Sigh*. So this is what it feels like to be in a collective.
True, irate emails are always foolish, but its been 3 fricking months developing a simple Flash website.
Few weeks later, Urh sends out a vaguely despotic 'memo' before his missus commanded him off to the barren wilderness of Luxembourg to breed other tiny Slovenians.
It stated that in the future if the majority agreed to an idea, however dim, ill-conceived or desperate the idea might be, the entire collective must 'join forces' [cough up basically]
Martyn and a few others agree whole heartedly with Urh's memo. Martyn says that as a group we need to be 'streamlined' and 'organized' and spewed out other such corporate mumbo-jumbo hogwash.
What seemed to have started out as a way to collaborate and perhaps inspire each other seems to be evolving into a vaguely sinister organization with a lot of in-house politics.
The reason for Urh's email was this:
Martyn, Uhr and someone else decide that the best thing we can do now with our scarce earnings is invest it in some advertising poster on the tube that claimed to be at a cut-throat rate [£700 split by 10 people].
I, financially straightened, opted out at once. [It was also a fucking stupid idea for various reasons, one being that the website the poster aimed to promote wasn't even fully functional yet]
In an ironic way, after all those harsh, honest critiques in class, we were now all pussy-footing around the two web volunteers like they were made of glass.
"Oh he'll feel bad you guys, they worked really hard, I don't know why its not working even Ray doesn't know, they worked really hard guys. We can't say anything"
So after 5 or so months of faffing around we can't even gently and sensitively ask: What the fuck have you been doing??
Why volunteer if you haven't a fucking clue and still type with one finger? Who volunteered the most technically inept people to set up a web page?
Oh yes thats very 'streamlined'.
So its one poster, advertising nothing in particular, no website to send people to and nothing to offer as of yet. All for 700 quid.
But of course, you cant say anything in case feelings are hurt [god forbid]. I can't really object to the poster forceful way or argue about it because I'd be offending supporters and perhaps being obnoxious. [and lets face it, I am]
Martyn's argument for the poster was that its just something to do, we'll sort things out this way, its a good method to organize ourselves blah de blah de blah. I argued its a rather pricey way just to relieve boredom nor fair to coerce the minority into a corner.
It basically boils down to a question of politics. Who can we convince to join our side, who's on yours. Who loses? I hate politics, its being back in those stupid school cliques. So my feeble arguments are swept aside. And so poster goes ahead as planned.
Then Uhr sent out his organizational corporate memo.
I am obviously not the only one who opted out. Others were equally sensible to the serious flaws in the plan. While I don't object [care] to other people [fools] proceeding with a daft idea, being forced into it myself is not for me.
Uhr doesn't feel this should be allowed.
The part of his 'memo' I particularly found amusing was when it said even if I didn't have the money now, when I do I can send it to The Collective's joint bank account, because if the poster advertised the collective website which I was part of, that wasn't even working yet, then the whole collective would 'benefit' [my ass] from the poster
Yes a majority vote is probably reasonable, the government works like that. But really, one government is quite enough. Being forced to do what the idiot majority does in daily life is bad enough. I quite resent the idea of being forced into a decision I don't support in my private life as well.
So I ended up quiting. It was way too frustrating. Again, a lot of school flashbacks.
So the poster went ahead as planned.....
It was a completely and total disaster of course.
The place that offered this cut rate poster claims they want an underground art gallery but basically advertises his own site & business with your money and artwork. No one else is allowed to put up email address or their website. Great.
The poster also didn't adhere to advertising standards and had to be edited heavily. Remove the blood, remove the man having a shit, remove all penises.
The station eventually picked to host the poster was on the worst line possible. The Waterloo and City line. What does a wanker-bankers care about art or design?
Tiphane then saw the poster and was horrified. [Uhr convinced her it was a good idea *gufaw* and she trusted him without even attending our meetings.]. The Poster Being a collage of course meant that not everyones work got priority.
She then fired off an really enraged email in broken Anglais saying she was only recruited to get money and the poster was a total rip off, and she was quitting and wanted her money back.
dear all
I saw the poster. to be honest I think it is totally unfair to pay more than 70 pounds to appear like that on the poster.
I want to have my money back and leave the group, sorry it is rude.
but it is rude as well to convince people to join the group because you need people who pay.
thank you
tiphaine
*oooo this is an interesting start to the day I thought*
Martyn then got very cross saying no one was forced to do anything.
[...although strictly speaking taking Uhr's despotic memo into account of course this is not quite truthful]
I backed Martyn up that she didn't have to do it, as myself and others hadn't, and had she attended meetings she have known what was going on a lot better. No need to have a strop etc.
[This was a highly unproductive work morning as you might imagine]
Uhr then called Tiphane to explain it all and smooth things over, so a while later she wrote in saying
dear all firstly i apologize for my previous message, i don't put any manners because i am not fluent like everybody. secondly I speak with uhr who explain me why it was like that etc in a diplomatic way. now i understand thirdly janine you are really nice, i really appreciate you, it is the fact that I didn't really understand why there are a lot of drawings of you and not of georgina or emma... but now i understand the poster should be coherent it is for promoting the collective. so apologizes for my email i am overwrought i just learn that my mum is ill. so sorry and i still stay in the collective see you everyone tiphane |
-----------------------------------------------------
I respond with
no i'm not nice at all
please dont appreciate me
it makes me very nervous
Janine
-----------------------------------------------------
And Martyn concurred with,
No, don't appreciate Janine under any circumstances. She has ruined my life.
Glad you are staying with us and hope your mum gets well soon.
Martyn
-----------------------------------------------------
*whew* I'm definitely not getting involved until the 'collective' leaders drop this idiotic majority rule.
I respond with
no i'm not nice at all
please dont appreciate me
it makes me very nervous
Janine
-----------------------------------------------------
And Martyn concurred with,
No, don't appreciate Janine under any circumstances. She has ruined my life.
Glad you are staying with us and hope your mum gets well soon.
Martyn
-----------------------------------------------------
*whew* I'm definitely not getting involved until the 'collective' leaders drop this idiotic majority rule.
[The final poster, which I quite like really]
Whippet
I thought Christmas was going to be uneventful. Then I found myself in A&E in my wife's knickers ...
Blood poured from the wound, which was eventually staunched by a large wad of paper tissues. The whippet resumed its howlingAlexander Chancellor
Friday January 4, 2008
The Guardian
Full article here
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Saturday, December 22, 2007
At Last
Back posted: Dec
After an eon of slumber the beast has risen once again.
The reason for this stretched sabbatical is that
Finally, at long last, I have a job.
And I FINALLY FUCKING QUIT THE SHOP!! YES!!
The new one is far from ideal
But
No. 1: I get paid
No. 2: I get to sit all day.
I have often dreamed of job where I can actually sit.
Shop work is endless standing until the balls of your feet ache.
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After an eon of slumber the beast has risen once again.
The reason for this stretched sabbatical is that
Finally, at long last, I have a job.
And I FINALLY FUCKING QUIT THE SHOP!! YES!!
The new one is far from ideal
But
No. 1: I get paid
No. 2: I get to sit all day.
I have often dreamed of job where I can actually sit.
Shop work is endless standing until the balls of your feet ache.
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Friday, November 16, 2007
Fotze unt Muschi unt Schwanz
Back posted: Nov
Had an interview at a Gay and Lesbian publishing house and fuck me there was barely a straight person in the entire office. [I was very thrilled]
They delicately tried asking me if I minded working with images that occasionally might be explicit hahaha.
I asked them in response if they had seen any of my work. [yes they had, they liked it]
I had to answer all these questions about layouts while 3 catalogs full of cocks fetish and miscellaneous, where under my nose.
Then they made me do a Quark test.
Oh fuckit another one down the drain.
Weirdly enough I got a call back.
Sadly not even all the gay innuendos and camp men flitting in and out of the office were enough to make the job any less tedious. My god not even a page full of cocks and vaginas would have spiced it up. Pages and pages of cocks and vaginas.
Open file. Move text from right to left. Shrink text size. Import pictures. Save file. Close file.
A real challenge.
So after day 3 I went back to UJ. At least I can get up later.
On a side note, on the way home one day from this place and it was fucking pissing down it rain, Buckets and buckets. I was soaked through.
And then I saw it...
....Bathed in light. It was a cinema with its name is bright lights above it.
I had to stop and take a picture it was just too good to miss.
Unfortunately my phone has a lousy camera. The cinema's name in big fonts was "FORUM"
Had an interview at a Gay and Lesbian publishing house and fuck me there was barely a straight person in the entire office. [I was very thrilled]
They delicately tried asking me if I minded working with images that occasionally might be explicit hahaha.
I asked them in response if they had seen any of my work. [yes they had, they liked it]
I had to answer all these questions about layouts while 3 catalogs full of cocks fetish and miscellaneous, where under my nose.
Then they made me do a Quark test.
Oh fuckit another one down the drain.
Weirdly enough I got a call back.
Sadly not even all the gay innuendos and camp men flitting in and out of the office were enough to make the job any less tedious. My god not even a page full of cocks and vaginas would have spiced it up. Pages and pages of cocks and vaginas.
Open file. Move text from right to left. Shrink text size. Import pictures. Save file. Close file.
A real challenge.
So after day 3 I went back to UJ. At least I can get up later.
On a side note, on the way home one day from this place and it was fucking pissing down it rain, Buckets and buckets. I was soaked through.
And then I saw it...
....Bathed in light. It was a cinema with its name is bright lights above it.
I had to stop and take a picture it was just too good to miss.
Unfortunately my phone has a lousy camera. The cinema's name in big fonts was "FORUM"
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Teaching with Emma
Back posted: Nov
My dreams for collaboration have eventually came true.
Emma advertised an opening for a last-minute workshop artist. So I did.
Have spent the last 2.5 days teaching a bunch of school drop outs a graphic novel workshop.
It sounds grander than it was.
Picture Michelle Piffer in dangerous minds....
Then picture someone a lot less atrractive, [a fuck load less]
In glamorous places like Uxminster or Westbourne Park, making a vulnerable teenage girl cry.
Foz would have been pleased. After all, I learned from the best.
I feel bad about it now.
However I should like to say that my defense, most of these kids seem to have varying levels of serious emotional problems.
It was far easier to make them cry than for scary Foz to make us cry.....
Although we'd have to take the Firecracker into account......
But the second week went a lot smoother.
One of the girls in the second group said I looked like an 'oga baby'.
I've decided to take that as a backhanded compliment.
Its never easy being green.
My dreams for collaboration have eventually came true.
Emma advertised an opening for a last-minute workshop artist. So I did.
Have spent the last 2.5 days teaching a bunch of school drop outs a graphic novel workshop.
It sounds grander than it was.
Picture Michelle Piffer in dangerous minds....
Then picture someone a lot less atrractive, [a fuck load less]
In glamorous places like Uxminster or Westbourne Park, making a vulnerable teenage girl cry.
Foz would have been pleased. After all, I learned from the best.
I feel bad about it now.
However I should like to say that my defense, most of these kids seem to have varying levels of serious emotional problems.
It was far easier to make them cry than for scary Foz to make us cry.....
Although we'd have to take the Firecracker into account......
But the second week went a lot smoother.
One of the girls in the second group said I looked like an 'oga baby'.
I've decided to take that as a backhanded compliment.
Its never easy being green.
Friday, November 09, 2007
MA-ness rears its ugly head
Back posted: Nov
Spent all day at work rearranging the ties in rainbow colours grading them from dark to light with all the concentration, intensity of the master that I am.
I spend hours and hours diligently moving ties around in various colour and pattern orders, deeply contemplating my magnificent and various levels of MA-ness. Foz & Gary would have been so proud.
Two years of studying illustration and I rearrange ties on colour order. I might as well go back to kindergarten.
Looked at my Lloyds TSB account and shrieked loudly, in my head, for 15 minutes. Have realized sadly that until the end of November probably should avoid eating food because if I do I won't make rent this month.
I never knew what a shameless spend thrift I was until I saw all my Sainsbury's bills lining up neatly horrifying me to my very bones [For all the ready meals I'e bought I could buy a ton of gold].
I've been called a cow many times in my life but I really wish I could regurgitate some cud. It looks damn tempting right now.
More horrifying than not eating anything other than packet noodles, is the heinous heinous thought that I might have to forgo my monthly maal [gasp and golly]
Leo has kindly offered to fund my maal supply. His kindness has touched me deeply. I no longer worry about maal. Who needs to eat anyway? [god i'm so hungry]
So to re-cap my poverty:
No fags
No going out
No eating
NO STARBUCKS! I SAID NO JANINE NO don't be so fucking weak
[those devious, greedy, little greasy bastards at Starbucks have been progressively and very sneakily raining the price of hot chocolate up my 10 pence every month. Its now rates at an exorbitant £2.80]
Scrimping on the maal [sob]
Prayers daily
Thus I return home on this cold day, my back laden down with my laptop which the last few weeks has been surgically attached to my hip for various reasons, to the cold comfort of packet noodles.
I was so absorbed in reading the London Lite I missed my stop, then got on the next train back and missed my stop again [sigh] so its been quite along day. I'm tired, I've been standing in the tube and missed my tea and I smell.
But I return to my little room to a pleasant and welcome bounty from the mysterious Royal Mail. The post has been remarkably kind to me today
not one , no
not two, no no
but three packages.
Item 1
My long overdue [and fucking overpriced] graduate visa.. joy joy another year of poverty and begging pleading groveling for a job please please give me a job pretty please cherry on top.
Item 2
A payslip from the Press Association [the last one I fear] a surprise none the less I didn't realize they were still paying me [nominally, of course but who's complaining] to do nothing
And last but not least the real clincher
A box of brand new puma shoes from a competition I never entered but had apparently won
hahaha
What a great day.
ps- Happy Diwali
Spent all day at work rearranging the ties in rainbow colours grading them from dark to light with all the concentration, intensity of the master that I am.
I spend hours and hours diligently moving ties around in various colour and pattern orders, deeply contemplating my magnificent and various levels of MA-ness. Foz & Gary would have been so proud.
Two years of studying illustration and I rearrange ties on colour order. I might as well go back to kindergarten.
Looked at my Lloyds TSB account and shrieked loudly, in my head, for 15 minutes. Have realized sadly that until the end of November probably should avoid eating food because if I do I won't make rent this month.
I never knew what a shameless spend thrift I was until I saw all my Sainsbury's bills lining up neatly horrifying me to my very bones [For all the ready meals I'e bought I could buy a ton of gold].
I've been called a cow many times in my life but I really wish I could regurgitate some cud. It looks damn tempting right now.
More horrifying than not eating anything other than packet noodles, is the heinous heinous thought that I might have to forgo my monthly maal [gasp and golly]
Leo has kindly offered to fund my maal supply. His kindness has touched me deeply. I no longer worry about maal. Who needs to eat anyway? [god i'm so hungry]
So to re-cap my poverty:
No fags
No going out
No eating
NO STARBUCKS! I SAID NO JANINE NO don't be so fucking weak
[those devious, greedy, little greasy bastards at Starbucks have been progressively and very sneakily raining the price of hot chocolate up my 10 pence every month. Its now rates at an exorbitant £2.80]
Scrimping on the maal [sob]
Prayers daily
Thus I return home on this cold day, my back laden down with my laptop which the last few weeks has been surgically attached to my hip for various reasons, to the cold comfort of packet noodles.
I was so absorbed in reading the London Lite I missed my stop, then got on the next train back and missed my stop again [sigh] so its been quite along day. I'm tired, I've been standing in the tube and missed my tea and I smell.
But I return to my little room to a pleasant and welcome bounty from the mysterious Royal Mail. The post has been remarkably kind to me today
not one , no
not two, no no
but three packages.
Item 1
My long overdue [and fucking overpriced] graduate visa.. joy joy another year of poverty and begging pleading groveling for a job please please give me a job pretty please cherry on top.
Item 2
A payslip from the Press Association [the last one I fear] a surprise none the less I didn't realize they were still paying me [nominally, of course but who's complaining] to do nothing
And last but not least the real clincher
A box of brand new puma shoes from a competition I never entered but had apparently won
hahaha
What a great day.
ps- Happy Diwali
Monday, November 05, 2007
Halloween Party UJ
Miracle of miracles someone actually decided to hire me for 7 hours a week.They then invited me to their Halloween party in Brixton [the flyer has nothing to do with it, it's a bit shit. I drew it for a job interview in a day or so].
I doubt I'd have gone for my employers bash if the party hadn't been down the road from the flat and I hadn't spent 3 hours the night before coerced into helping them carve pumpkins.
Winning costumes:
A white guy in a Santa suit wearing a 'black man' mask
A guy in a Scooby-Doo suit doing the 'robot'
One girl in a white top that looked fairly normal aside from the large bloody syringe sticking out from just above her left breast.
Two chalky white geisha girls.
Sexy striped and masked bank robber girl
A blond girl in a very sexy red evening dress with roses in her hair and on her arm
A Friday the 13th chainsaw guy in lumberjack shirt
A girl scout with a fake [and quite creatively made] bomber back pack.
And of course the nearly mandatory multiple slutty-vampire-goth-girls-for-one-night-only.
And last but not least a group of 5 girls who came attired as the 5 stages of Britney Spears:
Teen Britney, sexed-up Britney, pregnant track-suited Britney, trashy Britney, crazed bald Britney.
You know what would be a great costume for next year? A full on burqha.
Monday, October 29, 2007
The Great Job Hunt continues....
Interview at Alexander McQueen's design studio.
I am told to wait outside in the corridor.
I am then vaguely instructed to go inside by an unsure camp Indian-ish guy [Indian Bangladeshi Pakistani who can tell anymore] with long ratty hair and a completely bald crown.
Another camp exasperated skinny blond 'boy' is running the interviews.
I'm ushered in as another girl is still mid-interview. I stand behind her waiting awkwardly, unsure of where to look. I read the titles on the book shelf trying not to eavesdrop.
Someone asked the Camp Boy how many interviewees he's got lined up. He rolls his eyes and says sarcastically in a European accent "Like, 7................hundred million..."
The girl is done and I sit in her vacated and still slightly warm seat.
Camp Boy says in a tone heavily laden with boredom "Hello, how are you?....Well, Lets see it then!" and proceeds to browse through my portfolio with one hand, flicking the pages back and forth lazily, exuding indifference and disdain from every pore.
I mention he looks tired. He smiles icily and says bitchily "No I'm OK, thanks"
The interview last a total of 8-9 minutes.
"OK well.....we'll call you in like, maybe the next week OK? Bye thanks for coming"
I walk out the main door to find the weird camp Indian-ish guy with bad hair comforting a very tall blond fashion-ista girl smoking while in floods of tears.
Ah just another day in the Alexander McQueen factory.
I am told to wait outside in the corridor.
I am then vaguely instructed to go inside by an unsure camp Indian-ish guy [Indian Bangladeshi Pakistani who can tell anymore] with long ratty hair and a completely bald crown.
Another camp exasperated skinny blond 'boy' is running the interviews.
I'm ushered in as another girl is still mid-interview. I stand behind her waiting awkwardly, unsure of where to look. I read the titles on the book shelf trying not to eavesdrop.
Someone asked the Camp Boy how many interviewees he's got lined up. He rolls his eyes and says sarcastically in a European accent "Like, 7................hundred million..."
The girl is done and I sit in her vacated and still slightly warm seat.
Camp Boy says in a tone heavily laden with boredom "Hello, how are you?....Well, Lets see it then!" and proceeds to browse through my portfolio with one hand, flicking the pages back and forth lazily, exuding indifference and disdain from every pore.
I mention he looks tired. He smiles icily and says bitchily "No I'm OK, thanks"
The interview last a total of 8-9 minutes.
"OK well.....we'll call you in like, maybe the next week OK? Bye thanks for coming"
I walk out the main door to find the weird camp Indian-ish guy with bad hair comforting a very tall blond fashion-ista girl smoking while in floods of tears.
Ah just another day in the Alexander McQueen factory.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
No one ever really changes
I was just thinking about kids the other day.
No no, not for me. [*hurl*]
And no, not even about people fucking breeding them in enormous litters and then complaining about the fate of the world, tsk tsk terrible this global warming isn't it?
No, I was just thinking about how Riddhi's old house had a whole bunch of baby pictures of her and her brother plastered everywhere.
Most of her brother's were of a happy-go-lucky, cheery child.
Nearly every single one of hers were in various stages of a tantrum. Her parents had even enlarged a really large portrait of her sulking thunderously and placed it in her bedroom.
Riddhi definitely, in her 24 years has mastered all the tantrum-throwing-melodrama-diva skills of a professional.
Clearly nothing has changed.
Sure there was that brief period in school where she was always smiling and laughing but aside for that small rebellion, she's now happily reverted back into her natural inner self. The incredible sulk.
Even the ex's first childhood memory, when I inquired, is of a massive strop. [It figures]
I'm definitely on to something here. I'm sure of it. In fact I think it must be investigated further.
My very first memory is of walking into my mother's bedroom as she was breast-feeding my newborn brother, belligerently and loudly demanding to know what she was doing. I must have been about 2.
This seems to [in part] explain my revulsion/fascination with pregnancy. I'm also unfortunately still loud, obnoxious and belligerent.
Leo on analysis is very curious. I'm not exactly sure what his first childhood memory is but his long running streak of rejecting women is very curious indeed.
When Leo and I were in the third standard, I decided being as magnanimous as I am, to invite him to my 8th birthday party.
It was a pool party and by third standard terms, was a posh affair.
Ok so we didn't actually have a pool. It was one of those blow-up paddling pools on our lawn and a rubber hose. [standards weren't that high in the third standard, what can I say?]
Leo was the only boy invited [a great honour if I do say so myself] among the many many little girls [not counting my brother].
On a side note:
Do you remember when everyone always wanted to stand next to the birthday girl or boy?
As if having a birthday party automatically made you a celebrity for just one day and the closer you stood to the birthday person the higher the chances of some of the 'birthday magic' would rub off. And you'd get loads of presents and freebies, your long suffering mother was forced to make and decorate a cake with a theme and even your guests got gifts when they left.
Damn I miss those birthdays. They just aren't as good any more.
One year I'm going to have a kid’s party for adults. Everyone will have to dress as if they're 8, bring gifts, play housie, catch & cook, land-land-sea-sea, alligator-alligator and leave with a slice of cake in the a goodie bag. There'll be loads of booze and....other stuff of course. We're not really pretending to be 8. Besides if anything, for most people, getting pissed is the shortest route to acting genuinely juvenile.
Anyway, before I got distracted:
As the birthday girl I recall spending a large portion of my birthday trying to pull both Leo's and my brothers swimming trucks down. My brother being younger, more naive and far more trusting of women than Leo, had his shorts yanked numerous times to a chorus of gleefully shrieking girls [or just me] sing-songing...
"Ha HA! Loo-ook whaa-aat I di-id nyeh neyah I ca-an seee you--ur b-uum! Ha ha-ha hah hah!" *point* *point*
Leo with evasive coyness managed to escape my brother’s fate.
Even at the end of the day, when my brother and Leo were taking a shower in one loo [*snerk*] while the girls showered in another, Leo refused my brothers innocent request to take off his trunks.
Which was lucky for him because all the girls then burst in to point and shriek yet again. My brother once again was caught pants down but oh no not Leo.
Fast forward about 16 years and Leo still seems reluctant to drop his trousers. Girls all over Mumbai, Delhi, Denmark, Tehran, Dublin, Sydney and London are internationally struggling to get the tease to detach his shorts, which by now must have grafted themselves to his rear.
I'm unsure if Leo was always naturally reluctant to have girls remove his shorts.
Perhaps he had an inborn distrust of women.
Perhaps we actually scared Leo so much that even to this day he bears a morbid dread of a group of girls bursting in to point and giggle.
Perhaps in fact Leo is just a boy more comfortable bathing with other boys but firmly insisting he keeps his pants on.
Perhaps people just never change.
I like to imagine that girls all over Khar [and possibly even as far away as Juhu hah!] are having little locker room chats [in the Khar gymkhana of course] bemoaning how Leo plays so hard to get-
"Dude that Leo just doesn't put out man, it’s like so not on. What a fucking tease!"
"Yah yaar, he only lets me get to 1st base. I can't wait this long man."
I like to imagine how it might have now evolved into a competitive sport to see who can get Leo's boxers off quickest, much like when he was 8.
No folks, people definitely don't change
I shall [no doubt] report back perhaps on future investigations.
No no, not for me. [*hurl*]
And no, not even about people fucking breeding them in enormous litters and then complaining about the fate of the world, tsk tsk terrible this global warming isn't it?
No, I was just thinking about how Riddhi's old house had a whole bunch of baby pictures of her and her brother plastered everywhere.
Most of her brother's were of a happy-go-lucky, cheery child.
Nearly every single one of hers were in various stages of a tantrum. Her parents had even enlarged a really large portrait of her sulking thunderously and placed it in her bedroom.
Riddhi definitely, in her 24 years has mastered all the tantrum-throwing-melodrama-diva skills of a professional.
Clearly nothing has changed.
Sure there was that brief period in school where she was always smiling and laughing but aside for that small rebellion, she's now happily reverted back into her natural inner self. The incredible sulk.
Even the ex's first childhood memory, when I inquired, is of a massive strop. [It figures]
I'm definitely on to something here. I'm sure of it. In fact I think it must be investigated further.
My very first memory is of walking into my mother's bedroom as she was breast-feeding my newborn brother, belligerently and loudly demanding to know what she was doing. I must have been about 2.
This seems to [in part] explain my revulsion/fascination with pregnancy. I'm also unfortunately still loud, obnoxious and belligerent.
Leo on analysis is very curious. I'm not exactly sure what his first childhood memory is but his long running streak of rejecting women is very curious indeed.
When Leo and I were in the third standard, I decided being as magnanimous as I am, to invite him to my 8th birthday party.
It was a pool party and by third standard terms, was a posh affair.
Ok so we didn't actually have a pool. It was one of those blow-up paddling pools on our lawn and a rubber hose. [standards weren't that high in the third standard, what can I say?]
Leo was the only boy invited [a great honour if I do say so myself] among the many many little girls [not counting my brother].
On a side note:
Do you remember when everyone always wanted to stand next to the birthday girl or boy?
As if having a birthday party automatically made you a celebrity for just one day and the closer you stood to the birthday person the higher the chances of some of the 'birthday magic' would rub off. And you'd get loads of presents and freebies, your long suffering mother was forced to make and decorate a cake with a theme and even your guests got gifts when they left.
Damn I miss those birthdays. They just aren't as good any more.
One year I'm going to have a kid’s party for adults. Everyone will have to dress as if they're 8, bring gifts, play housie, catch & cook, land-land-sea-sea, alligator-alligator and leave with a slice of cake in the a goodie bag. There'll be loads of booze and....other stuff of course. We're not really pretending to be 8. Besides if anything, for most people, getting pissed is the shortest route to acting genuinely juvenile.
Anyway, before I got distracted:
As the birthday girl I recall spending a large portion of my birthday trying to pull both Leo's and my brothers swimming trucks down. My brother being younger, more naive and far more trusting of women than Leo, had his shorts yanked numerous times to a chorus of gleefully shrieking girls [or just me] sing-songing...
"Ha HA! Loo-ook whaa-aat I di-id nyeh neyah I ca-an seee you--ur b-uum! Ha ha-ha hah hah!" *point* *point*
Leo with evasive coyness managed to escape my brother’s fate.
Even at the end of the day, when my brother and Leo were taking a shower in one loo [*snerk*] while the girls showered in another, Leo refused my brothers innocent request to take off his trunks.
Which was lucky for him because all the girls then burst in to point and shriek yet again. My brother once again was caught pants down but oh no not Leo.
Fast forward about 16 years and Leo still seems reluctant to drop his trousers. Girls all over Mumbai, Delhi, Denmark, Tehran, Dublin, Sydney and London are internationally struggling to get the tease to detach his shorts, which by now must have grafted themselves to his rear.
I'm unsure if Leo was always naturally reluctant to have girls remove his shorts.
Perhaps he had an inborn distrust of women.
Perhaps we actually scared Leo so much that even to this day he bears a morbid dread of a group of girls bursting in to point and giggle.
Perhaps in fact Leo is just a boy more comfortable bathing with other boys but firmly insisting he keeps his pants on.
Perhaps people just never change.
I like to imagine that girls all over Khar [and possibly even as far away as Juhu hah!] are having little locker room chats [in the Khar gymkhana of course] bemoaning how Leo plays so hard to get-
"Dude that Leo just doesn't put out man, it’s like so not on. What a fucking tease!"
"Yah yaar, he only lets me get to 1st base. I can't wait this long man."
I like to imagine how it might have now evolved into a competitive sport to see who can get Leo's boxers off quickest, much like when he was 8.
No folks, people definitely don't change
I shall [no doubt] report back perhaps on future investigations.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Dinner with the Griks
Saturday night
The entire shop was invited to a work dinner by Rami, intended to be the last good bye dinner or some such melodramatic reason.
I have lost count of all the good bye dinners I've been emotionally blackmailed into by now. No one really ever fucking goes anywhere.
Especially Habib, who cant go anywhere because no one else would be fucking stupid enough to hire him.
For some inexplicable reason Rami picked this restaurant near Goodge street we'd been to a few times before. Well, its not really inexplicable. Rami is both a man of habit and semi patriotic [it was a Grik joint].
Greek food, you think, yum you think?
Fuck no.
Not this place. It was unabashedly vile in every possible way. I didn't recall the food being quite so inedible previously. Perhaps I was drunk at the time or perhaps the old 'Grik' chef got into a heated debate with the manager [also 'Grik'] and was replaced by MJ's chimp.
All the meat, from the prawns to the chicken to the pork, were equally luke warm, bland and all tasted like leather tossed on the same cheap ass £1.50p BBQ from ASDA. It amazes me that the manager of the place is as 'Grik' as they come, as Charis might say [in fact never stops saying] if you cut him he'd bleed hummus. Salad! They couldn't even muster up a half decent Greek salad! What a fucking rip off.
We were placed in an upstairs 'banquet room' and I can only thank God that the government in all its wisdom hasn't yet decided booze isn't good enough for us and banned it like everything else.
The music initially was a selection of doleful Greek songs no doubt about buxom Greek women lamenting their tragic loves. The dirges continued with determined tedium well into the meal but about half way though the DJ had a sudden change of heart and decided now would be ideal to play some Greek techno.
By the time desert arrived the DJ still unsure and started playing what sounded a lot like the a Greek version of the chicken-dance song. I use the term 'DJ' very loosely. He was actually a teenage waiter who kept forgetting our drinks.
From Greek tragedy to Greek wedding, Rami was in his element. He suddenly did an impromptu dance grinding his hips disturbingly to one particularly 'moving' number. Unfortunately he then pulled his *cough cough* groin muscle and collapsed in some loo muttering curses.
In the middle of our starter [the best part of the meal] I hear this weird vibrating noise on my right, like someones phone going off. The 2 girls on my right looked at me and laughingly asked me if I wanted to know what it was. I began to worry, in the back of my mind that it might be a vibrator. To my horror, she flipped up her top and flashed me her breast pump, vibrating happily. She was actually pumping her breast milk. At dinner!
Naturally I yelped loudly and then went out for a fag.
It thus with some embarrassment that I must confess that the smoking ban was in a way a blessing in disguise [at least on this occasion], affording an easy and constant escape route from the hideousness that was dinner.
Everytime we left the table Gerry [who was a bit drunk] would fake a look of shock and shout loudly "Ja-neeen!! Ja-neeeen!! Are you guys leaving? Where are you going? Will you be back soon? Why are you smoking you guuuuuys?"
The manager would occasionally come out to banter with us while we smoked at one point staying out so long and talking about all his football bets in such detail that even the upstairs party began to seem exciting.
"You know I paid 10 pound on Arsenal nil one. 10 pound, then, I put 5 pound on Arsenal 2-1, 5 pound. Then another 10 pound on Arsenal 2-0. 10 pound you know I made 30 pound on 2-0, but I lost 10 pound. 10 pound. Then I put 10 pound on Chelsea, 10 pound."
Then just as I hoped the endless circling of his Arsenal betting wins and losses was over he began another monologue about all the strategies employed for the entire EU football games. *groan*
Interspersing his enthralling gambling anecdotes, he began hooting at girls walking by, yelled "TAXI! TAXI!!" for no reason and then hurled abuse in Greek informing a random driver how to take it up his arse. It was no longer surprising that the place was so deserted on a Saturday night. Rami's loyalty is the only thing keeping this place going.
Shocking as my tepid approval of the smoking ban on this one occasion is, I did find another social situation where the ban was quite handy. [In NO WAY does this mean I shall EVER approve of this c**t of a ban]
Went to the 'Catton Street Group' meeting on Monday. Georgina [the leader] was remarkably sulky [for whatever reason] and said barely over 3 words to anyone. When she finally did speak it was only to Anna, who having recently gotten 'hitched' in a gun-shot Las Vegas wedding, is now called 'Mrs Spratberry' [what a delicious name, like a British Mrs Robinson].
I was relieved to find 2 of my favorite smokers there: The Firecracker and Amalia. Every time we went out for a smoke it afforded some excellent time to exchange gossip without the involvement of the whole group [none of who smoke, dull bastards]
The only downside being that those damn wenches kept nicking my fags.
The entire shop was invited to a work dinner by Rami, intended to be the last good bye dinner or some such melodramatic reason.
I have lost count of all the good bye dinners I've been emotionally blackmailed into by now. No one really ever fucking goes anywhere.
Especially Habib, who cant go anywhere because no one else would be fucking stupid enough to hire him.
For some inexplicable reason Rami picked this restaurant near Goodge street we'd been to a few times before. Well, its not really inexplicable. Rami is both a man of habit and semi patriotic [it was a Grik joint].
Greek food, you think, yum you think?
Fuck no.
Not this place. It was unabashedly vile in every possible way. I didn't recall the food being quite so inedible previously. Perhaps I was drunk at the time or perhaps the old 'Grik' chef got into a heated debate with the manager [also 'Grik'] and was replaced by MJ's chimp.
All the meat, from the prawns to the chicken to the pork, were equally luke warm, bland and all tasted like leather tossed on the same cheap ass £1.50p BBQ from ASDA. It amazes me that the manager of the place is as 'Grik' as they come, as Charis might say [in fact never stops saying] if you cut him he'd bleed hummus. Salad! They couldn't even muster up a half decent Greek salad! What a fucking rip off.
We were placed in an upstairs 'banquet room' and I can only thank God that the government in all its wisdom hasn't yet decided booze isn't good enough for us and banned it like everything else.
The music initially was a selection of doleful Greek songs no doubt about buxom Greek women lamenting their tragic loves. The dirges continued with determined tedium well into the meal but about half way though the DJ had a sudden change of heart and decided now would be ideal to play some Greek techno.
By the time desert arrived the DJ still unsure and started playing what sounded a lot like the a Greek version of the chicken-dance song. I use the term 'DJ' very loosely. He was actually a teenage waiter who kept forgetting our drinks.
From Greek tragedy to Greek wedding, Rami was in his element. He suddenly did an impromptu dance grinding his hips disturbingly to one particularly 'moving' number. Unfortunately he then pulled his *cough cough* groin muscle and collapsed in some loo muttering curses.
In the middle of our starter [the best part of the meal] I hear this weird vibrating noise on my right, like someones phone going off. The 2 girls on my right looked at me and laughingly asked me if I wanted to know what it was. I began to worry, in the back of my mind that it might be a vibrator. To my horror, she flipped up her top and flashed me her breast pump, vibrating happily. She was actually pumping her breast milk. At dinner!
Naturally I yelped loudly and then went out for a fag.
It thus with some embarrassment that I must confess that the smoking ban was in a way a blessing in disguise [at least on this occasion], affording an easy and constant escape route from the hideousness that was dinner.
Everytime we left the table Gerry [who was a bit drunk] would fake a look of shock and shout loudly "Ja-neeen!! Ja-neeeen!! Are you guys leaving? Where are you going? Will you be back soon? Why are you smoking you guuuuuys?"
The manager would occasionally come out to banter with us while we smoked at one point staying out so long and talking about all his football bets in such detail that even the upstairs party began to seem exciting.
"You know I paid 10 pound on Arsenal nil one. 10 pound, then, I put 5 pound on Arsenal 2-1, 5 pound. Then another 10 pound on Arsenal 2-0. 10 pound you know I made 30 pound on 2-0, but I lost 10 pound. 10 pound. Then I put 10 pound on Chelsea, 10 pound."
Then just as I hoped the endless circling of his Arsenal betting wins and losses was over he began another monologue about all the strategies employed for the entire EU football games. *groan*
Interspersing his enthralling gambling anecdotes, he began hooting at girls walking by, yelled "TAXI! TAXI!!" for no reason and then hurled abuse in Greek informing a random driver how to take it up his arse. It was no longer surprising that the place was so deserted on a Saturday night. Rami's loyalty is the only thing keeping this place going.
Shocking as my tepid approval of the smoking ban on this one occasion is, I did find another social situation where the ban was quite handy. [In NO WAY does this mean I shall EVER approve of this c**t of a ban]
Went to the 'Catton Street Group' meeting on Monday. Georgina [the leader] was remarkably sulky [for whatever reason] and said barely over 3 words to anyone. When she finally did speak it was only to Anna, who having recently gotten 'hitched' in a gun-shot Las Vegas wedding, is now called 'Mrs Spratberry' [what a delicious name, like a British Mrs Robinson].
I was relieved to find 2 of my favorite smokers there: The Firecracker and Amalia. Every time we went out for a smoke it afforded some excellent time to exchange gossip without the involvement of the whole group [none of who smoke, dull bastards]
The only downside being that those damn wenches kept nicking my fags.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
A Very Cheerful Tale
We had this race in school once, for our annual sports day.Every year our school had different 'themed' races: a sack race, egg & spoon, a race where you had to wear a Hawaiian skirt-garland combo.
One year we had to find a marble in a tub of sand before we could get to the finish. By the time the stupid thing turned up in my tub, 3/4 of the class had finished the race.
Being highly competitive I was determined, at least one year, to end up on the exalted podium of gold, silver or bronze instead of receiving the commendation reward [losers prize] of a lame coloured plastic ball.
So one year we had a milk race.
You had a line drawn at 50 meters where you placed a bottle of flavored Energee milk drink of your choice. Coffee or vanilla, and if you were really 'out-there' you had pink, mango and green milk [fuck knows what flavor green was].
Since kindergarten, the school had always been strictly divided into two distinct types of people. The ones who drank the coffee flavored energy and the tasteless twats who drank vanilla [which didn't even taste remotely like vanilla; it was like a weird pineapple flavor]. The other flavors were rarely offered.
Being a stanch coffee energy drinker I could never associate with a vanilla milk drinker. It was a massive cultural divide.
People were practicing the minute the short break recess bell rang. I could barely force the coffee down in 2 minutes. One guy managed to knock it back in a record time of 12 seconds flat.
I was fucked.
And I hate those stupid commendation prizes.
Finally the annual sports day trial-run came. The runners were all geared and ready. The bottles of milk were somberly placed at 50 meters, and like ol' gun slingers we turned and slowly marched back to the start.
The gun went off and we all sprinted, racing to our respective coffees and vanillas..
Unfortunately it was a hot day. By the time the fastest [the guys practicing religiously] had sprinted to their drinks, chugged them down at top speed and then raced, bellies full of coloured milk to the finish line, they were about ready to hurl.
And so they did. There was a happy line of school uniforms spraying out row upon row of multicolored milk. Pink and white and brown and yellow mmmmm
The teachers had to promptly change the race to a plain 100 meter sprint.
And I came in third. Ha ha
Was this not a cheery tale?
Monday, August 27, 2007
Alton Towers
The Tower Gardens with some *ahem* interesting landscapingI find my Belle G. case has been thrown out due to non-attendance. Contrary to Badri's expert legal advice I probably ought to have attended the hearing [which he also suggested] but I now owe court costs of 40 quid to that evil thieving bitch. Its both humiliating, infuriating and aggravating and other such adjectives that I have lost a wasted a lot of time, effort and cash to boot. I suppose court costs could have been worse. *sigh*
Gloom seems to be the current theme in the Valley of Illustrators. Foz's great hopes that we would all find employment commercial success and future happiness have been swiftly overturned in the great vacuum that is the job market for idiot illustrators with poor computer skills, minimal experience and no left brain whatsoever. [No I tell a lie. Foz & Gary had no such illusions regarding us]
We had a brief reunion picnic in the park near college a few weeks ago, it was a rare sunny day and our booze and munchies grew in area as we sat there from 4pm to 8pm. We debated Urh's swiftly approaching parenthood and how his girlfriend could now order any policeman to remove his helmet so that she may deign to piss in it [pregnant women are above and beyond all common normal decency]
And Now Back to Alton Towers:
Alton Towers is the land of endless queues. They say the British love to que and they certainly do it best at Alton towers.
If you think however that I'm complaining [and I am] it doesn't mean the weekend wasn't a complete blast.
However the ex and began in great style with a full blown fight from the night before [which was my fault I must admit] but that continued with both of us sulking halfway till Bedford on the M1 in our rented convertible.
Then we made up.
then we got to Alton Towers [super late at around 3, hungry and cranky].
Then we had another fight and sulked some more.
Then we made up.
Then we went to our hotel had a bunch of Margaritas and Pina Coladas in a Mexican place and meandered our way back to the room.
Having learnt our lesson from the day before, the next day we arrived a lot earlier and attacked Alton Towers like it was a military conquest. We studied our map until we knew it like the back of our hand. We only targeted the 'thriller' rides and tried to use the single queues where possible [which are faster but you end up sitting next to any random person].
By 5:30 when the place began winding down we must have stood in a countless queues.
We then had to que in the gift shop.
Then there was the que to get onto the monorail to just to get to the car park.
Then we queued in the car park for over 2 hours behind an endless row of cars.
The ex tried explaining all the motor-way politics and maneuvering behind over-taking: which bastard was pushing his luck and why. How the ex and fucked them over and why [on the motorway]. All the machismo mumbo-jumbo really makes no sense. Whats the big deal about over-taking? What difference does it make anyway? Its not the Grand Prix.
I think we only sulked once on Sunday on the way back. Comparatively a lot less than usual.
The Ripsaw
The Car Park[queued is the most bizarre word in the English launguage]
Twin Rants
Although at one point like a true junkie, I found myself making excuses to get out of going out and meeting real people. Instead preferred to spend more time online building up my 'characters levels' and talking in stupid acronyms to 12-17 years olds.
True all my 'reality' friends were on holiday anyway but I'm still consciously and progressively neglecting the few I do have left.
On the other hand due to my diligence in clawing my way up the steep ladder of game levels my esteem has been raised in the eyes of other Dofus players.
But I have taken the time away to aggressively type out these two sequential rants because I'm so effing irritated with London.
You know, it was fucking bound to happen.
All you morons supporting the 'blanket' smoking ban have left the door wide open for any other kind of ban that supposedly 'improves' us and 'betters' society
[Bah humbug! At the same time they legalize 24/7 pub opening hours and gambling, no doubt being totally wasted as we stumble into a casino will better us immensely particularly in the wallet department]
They now want to ban any kind of alcohol in public because their cockeyed logic is that this will stop the pitter-pattering of little teens binge drinking and then smashing each others heads open.
Even more offensively they want to raise the fucking price of alcohol so that us regular Jane responsible punters have to pay for some twatted bunch of drunks who get lagered up! As if price will stop a determined student out on a bender? And we have to pay for this logicless shit??
Is everything remotely fun going to be banned one by one?
And another thing - These fucking shameless goddamn breeders shitting out kid left right and center actually have the nerve to complain about how they aren't being offered free fertility treatment by the NHS!
The NHS which in some boroughs refuses to pay for cancer treatment and is under funded, under staffed and generally swamped in all areas but all these fucking breeders can think about is how the blessedly barren aren't being offered fertility treatment.
ADOPT YOU SELFISH STUPID FUCK!
As if incapacity to squirt out children is some fucking life threatening illness even remotely comparable to cancer not to mention pregnancy being a completely voluntary process unlike a fucking terminal disease.
Why the fuck should the NHS [ergo the tax payers and yes, I pay tax] have to pay for what is in effect an entirely non-essential cosmetic treatment and clearly encourages over-population??
When not being able breed actively kills people or the world even runs out of humans [hah!!] would I ever be happy and willing to support fertility treatment.
Fucking hell. I really hate people.
All you morons supporting the 'blanket' smoking ban have left the door wide open for any other kind of ban that supposedly 'improves' us and 'betters' society
[Bah humbug! At the same time they legalize 24/7 pub opening hours and gambling, no doubt being totally wasted as we stumble into a casino will better us immensely particularly in the wallet department]
They now want to ban any kind of alcohol in public because their cockeyed logic is that this will stop the pitter-pattering of little teens binge drinking and then smashing each others heads open.
Even more offensively they want to raise the fucking price of alcohol so that us regular Jane responsible punters have to pay for some twatted bunch of drunks who get lagered up! As if price will stop a determined student out on a bender? And we have to pay for this logicless shit??
Is everything remotely fun going to be banned one by one?
And another thing - These fucking shameless goddamn breeders shitting out kid left right and center actually have the nerve to complain about how they aren't being offered free fertility treatment by the NHS!
The NHS which in some boroughs refuses to pay for cancer treatment and is under funded, under staffed and generally swamped in all areas but all these fucking breeders can think about is how the blessedly barren aren't being offered fertility treatment.
ADOPT YOU SELFISH STUPID FUCK!
As if incapacity to squirt out children is some fucking life threatening illness even remotely comparable to cancer not to mention pregnancy being a completely voluntary process unlike a fucking terminal disease.
Why the fuck should the NHS [ergo the tax payers and yes, I pay tax] have to pay for what is in effect an entirely non-essential cosmetic treatment and clearly encourages over-population??
When not being able breed actively kills people or the world even runs out of humans [hah!!] would I ever be happy and willing to support fertility treatment.
Fucking hell. I really hate people.
Three Little Pigs
21 August 07
Dofus has temporarily released me from its death grip [I died and must wait to recover].
I seem to have a lot of writing to catch up on.
Unlike writing a non-electronic journal where for some reason I feel as though ever single moment must be accurately and minutely jotted down, here I am content to largely skip out on all the niggly pointless details [which are many] and just make up the rest as I go along.
So it is fortunate that when I went out with the ex and co. a few weeks ago the tedious bits are largely forgotten but the main drama remains crystal clear.
Spent a monumentally dull day [as always] at the Gulag [Savoy Tailors Guild] staring outside the window and watching Charis, who in a freakish moment of Macgyver-ism managed to fish out a stubborn book that had dropped behind a drawer with only cellotape wrapped around a ruler and a determined will.
Dragged Macgyver off to Gordon's Wine Bar, one of the few places in central London that has suitable outside seating ideal for smokers.
Naturally, there were no seats.
Like a proper desi ghat I plonked my ass on the floor but Charis wearing a stylish jacket and trousers spread out a newspaper to perch upon gingerly [He likes to take care of his 'garms' he tells me]. The ex called to scold me for giving such poor directions to Gordon's Wine Bar. [My directions were crystal clear as a matter of fact or so I am convinced]
Then Amar [the ex's pal] showed up and proceeded over the course of a bottle and a half of wine to wind the ex up to a point where they were both kept calling each other 'bitch!' and smacking each other over the head as we walked down to a Mcdonald's [groan]. They both were now insisting enthusiastically that they wanted to go to a club [double groan].
So off we went, the 2 retarded brats still smacking, shoving and swearing at each other drunkenly as we cross the street "Shut up bitch!" "You shut up bitch" "Bitch!" "Bitch!" [so dangerous tsk tsk], while occasionally I was the unwilling recipient of some of these shoves and smacks.
At some point, for no reason at all the ex imagines Amar are conspiring together [such paranoia] and throws a massive strop and then walks off in a huff [which is worrying because Amar has to spend the night at the ex's but I politely offer the use of my couch/spare bed in Brixton if he finds himself suddenly homeless].
Amar and I chase the ex to Trafalgar Sq where there's some desi lurve fest with dancers running up and down ropes on the side of Nelsons column [although the 2 main dancers were firangs what the fuck man?].
The ex rejects my olive branch and walks off again [I reiterate that so far I have done nothing and I blame it all on good wine and Amar's rotten influence on the ex].
Annoyed at this unwarranted abuse I then walk off in a huff. The ex then chases me [Well calls me anyway, but only to accuse me of throwing a tantrum. Me?!!!]. I make a difficult decicion to continue storming off to the tube or return and sulk in person over alcohol. I choose the latter as its a far better guilt trip.
Amar desperately tries to mediate between us fighting lurve birds so that we all can just go get drunk, a truly noble aim. We sulk our way to 'The Jewel Bar' as the ex calms down and attempts an apology. I passive aggressively accept the apology but continue to sulk for the next hour.
After a few drinks I quit sulking and we all boogie baby.
The Jewel Bar is ideally placed for all drunken tourists at the traffic light hub that is now Piccadilly Circus.
As a general rule anything around Leicester Sq and Piccadilly Circus must be avoided at all costs. From the crowded streets full of idiots to the over priced shops, the vile McDonald's to the hideously decorated bars. Especially the hideously decorated bars which are usually filled to the brim with complete and total twats desperate to get laid before they catch the 10:30 am flight from Heathrow the next morning. The bars are a no-go area for any self respecting London dweller.
I must admit The Jewel Bar on this occasion was a pleasant exception. No crowd, place to sit, relatively reasonable ££. Even the decor was decent. [Perhaps in the daylight all the jewel encrusted walls might be a bit gaudy but you're pissed I'm pissed so who gives a fuck?]
At 1:30am when Jewel closed its sparkly doors and kicked us out. Being an aged old woman I insisted on going home. This did not please the ex who wanted to hunt for another club with Amar [another internal groan]. I cheerfully [and rather smartly I might add] declined to 'club hunt' and took a cab to the ex's.
Smartly I say because the ex and Amar then squandered a futile and useless half hour wandering the streets looking for a club that would let them in. Failing this the ex came home very very cranky and annoyed indeed [a cab suddenly wasn't so easy to find] while Amar ran off to smoke a spliff at some pals place.
I completely and totally blame Amar for all the huffing and puffing on this evening. He's clearly a bad influence.
Dofus has temporarily released me from its death grip [I died and must wait to recover].
I seem to have a lot of writing to catch up on.
Unlike writing a non-electronic journal where for some reason I feel as though ever single moment must be accurately and minutely jotted down, here I am content to largely skip out on all the niggly pointless details [which are many] and just make up the rest as I go along.
So it is fortunate that when I went out with the ex and co. a few weeks ago the tedious bits are largely forgotten but the main drama remains crystal clear.
Spent a monumentally dull day [as always] at the Gulag [Savoy Tailors Guild] staring outside the window and watching Charis, who in a freakish moment of Macgyver-ism managed to fish out a stubborn book that had dropped behind a drawer with only cellotape wrapped around a ruler and a determined will.
Dragged Macgyver off to Gordon's Wine Bar, one of the few places in central London that has suitable outside seating ideal for smokers.
Naturally, there were no seats.
Like a proper desi ghat I plonked my ass on the floor but Charis wearing a stylish jacket and trousers spread out a newspaper to perch upon gingerly [He likes to take care of his 'garms' he tells me]. The ex called to scold me for giving such poor directions to Gordon's Wine Bar. [My directions were crystal clear as a matter of fact or so I am convinced]
Then Amar [the ex's pal] showed up and proceeded over the course of a bottle and a half of wine to wind the ex up to a point where they were both kept calling each other 'bitch!' and smacking each other over the head as we walked down to a Mcdonald's [groan]. They both were now insisting enthusiastically that they wanted to go to a club [double groan].
So off we went, the 2 retarded brats still smacking, shoving and swearing at each other drunkenly as we cross the street "Shut up bitch!" "You shut up bitch" "Bitch!" "Bitch!" [so dangerous tsk tsk], while occasionally I was the unwilling recipient of some of these shoves and smacks.
At some point, for no reason at all the ex imagines Amar are conspiring together [such paranoia] and throws a massive strop and then walks off in a huff [which is worrying because Amar has to spend the night at the ex's but I politely offer the use of my couch/spare bed in Brixton if he finds himself suddenly homeless].
Amar and I chase the ex to Trafalgar Sq where there's some desi lurve fest with dancers running up and down ropes on the side of Nelsons column [although the 2 main dancers were firangs what the fuck man?].
The ex rejects my olive branch and walks off again [I reiterate that so far I have done nothing and I blame it all on good wine and Amar's rotten influence on the ex].
Annoyed at this unwarranted abuse I then walk off in a huff. The ex then chases me [Well calls me anyway, but only to accuse me of throwing a tantrum. Me?!!!]. I make a difficult decicion to continue storming off to the tube or return and sulk in person over alcohol. I choose the latter as its a far better guilt trip.
Amar desperately tries to mediate between us fighting lurve birds so that we all can just go get drunk, a truly noble aim. We sulk our way to 'The Jewel Bar' as the ex calms down and attempts an apology. I passive aggressively accept the apology but continue to sulk for the next hour.
After a few drinks I quit sulking and we all boogie baby.
The Jewel Bar is ideally placed for all drunken tourists at the traffic light hub that is now Piccadilly Circus.
As a general rule anything around Leicester Sq and Piccadilly Circus must be avoided at all costs. From the crowded streets full of idiots to the over priced shops, the vile McDonald's to the hideously decorated bars. Especially the hideously decorated bars which are usually filled to the brim with complete and total twats desperate to get laid before they catch the 10:30 am flight from Heathrow the next morning. The bars are a no-go area for any self respecting London dweller.
I must admit The Jewel Bar on this occasion was a pleasant exception. No crowd, place to sit, relatively reasonable ££. Even the decor was decent. [Perhaps in the daylight all the jewel encrusted walls might be a bit gaudy but you're pissed I'm pissed so who gives a fuck?]
At 1:30am when Jewel closed its sparkly doors and kicked us out. Being an aged old woman I insisted on going home. This did not please the ex who wanted to hunt for another club with Amar [another internal groan]. I cheerfully [and rather smartly I might add] declined to 'club hunt' and took a cab to the ex's.
Smartly I say because the ex and Amar then squandered a futile and useless half hour wandering the streets looking for a club that would let them in. Failing this the ex came home very very cranky and annoyed indeed [a cab suddenly wasn't so easy to find] while Amar ran off to smoke a spliff at some pals place.
I completely and totally blame Amar for all the huffing and puffing on this evening. He's clearly a bad influence.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Latex
Isn't it funny how condoms aren't made to measure? I.e. available in small, medium or large sizes?
With a mans ego its just doesn't seem feasible.
Imagine having to go up to the counter of a pharmacy and say:
"Uhm could I have.......one glycodin... uhm..........a pack of paracetamol and uhm.......uh........a pack of extra-extra small Durex please?"
"Oh no , its uhm not for me.....my friend....very shy... yea hm...he's just waiting in the car...yeah uh my friend....yea very shy...."
I guess he could ask his girlfriend to do it but that might be even worse.
Every time she asks for the extra-extra small Durex as she buys her pack of Tampax, 'it' *inadequate size snicker snicker* would mock her. Just at that point some smart ass guy would slide up next to her at the counter and ask the chemist
"Yar! 12 super mundo large, thanks you please." and then wink.
At some point she might even fall for it.
R. once made Heble go to a chemist while she sat in the rick, with explicit instructions to get her a pack of sanitary towels. He came back and she said "Sorry I forgot can you go back and also get me some toothpaste?"
"What the fuck dude, like fuck man..grumble grumble mutter doode man like fuck." but grumbling aside returned dutifully with the toothpaste.
R. then promptly sent him back to buy a pack of condoms *insert more grumbling under breath here* [R. is scared of what people might think of nice desi ladki buying 'sex goods' haw haw!]
Although the chemist must have thought "What the fuck can this guy do with condoms, toothpaste and sanitary towels?" As a combo its all so suspect. Kinky man that Heble.
Condoms 'too big' for Indian men
Eoughan kindly sent me this highly amusing link which I'm sure every Indian man will deny but which I can definately confirm regarding at least one Carter road inhabitant. Poor bastard.
The Prodigal Blogger
A wheat field I did not deign to scamper in. Pretty isnt it? Martyn [Voice of Bedford] eat you're heart out. [He predicted rain tsk tsk foolish man].
Many many weekends ago, in the days of yore [when I never played Dofus obsessively and constantly], James and Jake managed to coerce an invite out of our course leader to his farm down in Kent.
Geoff a man who has often mumbled to himself during course meetings and happened to mumble to James and James on one inebriated instance about his place "Welcome to come anytime, camping mumble mumble field mumble mumble so lovely mumble mutter".
It is highly possible that had he been sober such a reckless offer to students with upcoming holidays and joblessness would never have been made.
Unfortunately for Geoff his generous albeit slightly drunken invite was ruthlessly taken up by J & J and the rest of us being first rate scroungers all tagged along to the poor mans house in Adisham.
We all sort of meander to Victoria at a relative time. I say relative only because there was a clear time but no Foz being present to yell at us for unpunctuality we let it slide into general lateness.
Having no leader we all sort of wander around helplessly looking for trains and ticket deals. G. and a random gang of 3 non-illustrators bought tickets and boarded a train before a shocked Eoughan, James and I were even in the que.
Those bastards couldn't fucking wait? Seriously what the fuck.
While London might have been grey, wet and full of Islamic terrorists Kent was warm, sunny and golden.
We are told on good authority that the station house at Adisham serves as a bordello after hours. On the wall behind it are scrawled in graffiti the words "Welcome to hell". It begins to dawn on me why Geoff would want to move here. I reiterate my statement that Geoff secretly has the libido of a Arab stallion.
"What are these things 'Trees'? My how interesting I've never seen them before..." say the somewhat confused city boys.
I deeply regretted not bringing along my spliff kit. On the other hand if I was paranoid about pitchfork carrying farmers while sober smoking a spliff could only have made things worse.
Now if I was Riddhi , I'd have labeled this pic something humongously cheesy like "Children of the Korn" both a band reference and a horror movie. Yeesh.
We are forced to wait as Geoff and his monster truck are dragged away from the lagers he and the traitors who ditched us are already tucking into.
While James and Eoughan recklessly run through the wheat fields I stand on the edge expecting at any minute an enraged a farmer on a tractor who will come whizzing along with a giant pitchfork and a scarecrow handing off the bonnet to lynch us for destruction of property and trespassing. What can I say? I'm such a cheerful carefree sort of person.
I promised Georgina I would write about visiting Geoff's place, but I must to admit, I really have nothing much to say about it. It was a day I'm happy to gloat about in person but nothing much happened as such.
We sat around, eat, drank, made merry, jumped on his son's trampoline, watched Geoff fiddle with the fireplace as he told us all about his adventures when he was a jolly sailor sailing on a boat full of gay Dutchmen who performed a very odd cure for sea sickness that involved them strapping him down onto the galley table and shoving cotton wool in his ears. You know how these gay Dutchmen are.
[I thought the sailor story might go to a fairly dodgy place at one point but it thankfully it took a very PG turn in the end]
The thing about feeding cats, especially the stray ones [which my mother insists on doing thus adding to her growing collection of assorted cats and then complains about how many shes got now - darling the kittens keep falling off the cupboard I'm so worried etcetera etcetera mom stop fucking feeding them I have yelled many times] is that from then on you can never get rid of the little adorable bastards and they cute lil' faces aww squishy squishy *ahem* anyway...
This is also true of Geoff's wife [18 years his junior we are told. Well done Geoff wayhey!], who cooked us a lovely picnic meal and therefore made the massive mistake of feeding a gaggle of rabid starved artistes. She'll never get rid of us now. Like an STD we'll keep coming back. Perhaps next time to pay a visit to the lovely station house brothel.
The brothel lights were twinkling as we made our way home at twilight [So poetic no? Twilight would be about 10 o clock in summer, Geoff was finally rid of us poor man] and shone a welcoming homely shade of blood red from the one single bulb hanging on the ceiling of a room.
As we trudged up the station path we heard a melodic voice near a night-vision-green and flickering light saying oh so sweetly... "PLEASE BE WARNED THIS STATION HAS 24 HOUR CCTV SURVEILLANCE PLEASE BE WARNED THIS STATION HAS 24 HOUR CCTV SURVEILLANCE".
You could hardly even see the welcome to hell sign. It was a very romantic night only interrupted by the occasional blood curdling shrieks from behind the bushes [perfectly normal on a Saturday night to be honest].
As we stood on the platform Geoff was accosted by a very lovely charming and gregarious young lady [the source it would seem of those shrieks] who came out from the afore mentioned bushes. She beelined for us in a determined but totally wasted wobble [I was suddenly struck by the remarkable parallel to Onnalin] to warn us all in the nicest possible way to get the fuck out of Adisham.
"Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you?? I ain't see you around here before? I'm been here my whole fucking life I ain't never seen you before. I fucking 'ate this place mate. Why the fuck are you here? I'm fucking...I'm fucking going to Canterbury mate I'm going to get fucking ..get fucking wasted mate"
Geoff suggested mildly that perhaps she should go to London to discover her potential [I love that he would think of giving a drunken woman a pep talk about London]
"London mate I aint going to London mate its fucking full of terrorist innt it? I don wanna get blown up mate....You shouldn't go to London you'll get blown up.....I don have any fucking potential mate I'm fucking....I'm fucking nothing mate.... I ain't never been nowhere except here mate my whole life I'm normally a lovely person you know".. she slurs...."but I really don't give a FUCK right now" Geoff pats her on the arm.
We finally board our train and take the bottle of wine we nick from Geoff [my god are we a rotten bunch of moochers] and go off home. [We purposely didn't offer to play cards with the ditchers on the way back. Humph! Serves them right!]
Eoughan beats me in Chinese Bridge. Curses on Eoughan's phony baloney Irish god. By Zarathustra and Ahura Mazda I shall get him back next time!
Geoff telling us about his DIY adventures and this cult leader that lives next door. Eoughan is enthralled. Being so catholic he's naturally drawn to the depravity of cults membership.
You can never take him anywhere.
That goddamn Irishman nicking all my fags. And I bet he supports that fucking ban too.
Sometime I really miss the third world privileges of not giving a fuck and doing as you please. Mumbai seems so sweet and innocent at this time, free from all the clamping down of civil liberties under the guise of 'democracy' in the 'first world' yeah right who the fuck fucking voted for this shit stupid fucking fucks??? I heart Mumbai - smoke everywhere you like drink cheap so nice warm all the time.
At the pub in Adisham. I seem to have been magically turned into a red satchel.
Eoughan looks bemused by a pair of sunglasses.
The sequence of all the pictures makes me feel like I was in a Magners advert.
Georgina looking heroic with very art fully wind swept curls.
We are all such idiots.
I have to say hanging out with photographers sounds very different. Theres no poo, piss and sex talk but a lot of clicking shutters.
I'm really curious as to how Geoff found out that the station house doubled up as a whore house after hours. I'm sure there's a perfectly innocent explanation. No slander on THIS here blog. No indeedy.
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