An exceptional problem

I just have absolutely no idea how other people do this. A bit of research in the form of 5-6 (thousand) movies reveals that ice cream, crying, listening to 80’s power-ballads and haircuts are the solution. But I really can’t be bothered. Similarly Manbans, dates, nights out ‘on-the-pull’ and voodoo dolls appear to be completely ineffective. Playing ‘hard-to-get’, being easy, texting, not texting, ignoring and feigning death – none of this shit works either. Writing poetry, reading poetry, singing songs, crucifying songs – all rubbish. Or am I just being awkward?

According to my best friend Mich (the Oracle….seriously), awkward is exactly what I am. She would deny saying this. And to be fair, she didn’t use that exact word, but this is what she meant. “The problem is” she explained with her immaculate ‘matter-of-a-fact’ delivery “you are exceptional”. As always, she delivered this statement without advice or analysis. I am exceptional, as in ‘an-exception-to-the-rule’, as in ‘difficult’: fact. And I am therefore bound to find it difficult to find someone.

Now, like Simon Cowell, who you will remember to be one of my heroes, Mich is always right. Therefore, rather like when Simon explains to the tone-deaf, boss-eyed, socially rejected mutant cowering before him that they do not have the X-factor, when Mich tells me that it is not going to happen Hollywood-style for me, I am forced to accept it. Damnit. Now that I think about it, Mich has much in common with Msr. Cowell. Sage, fair and un-squeamish in relating the truth, she would make a great agony aunt for Urban Elite, but for the fact that (like Simon), she would demand huge payment. The epitome of cool, Mich calmly navigates herself through any situation with poise and without ruffling a hair (currently a Cleopatra-fringed masterpiece). If I was half as cool as her, I would be the president of the USA. Mich would be the president of the USA, except she can’t be bothered.

So….the Urban Elite boys have yet to let me in on their plans for next Friday’s Switch it Up. After the huge and unprecedented success of the ‘White Wardrobe Party’ last month, perhaps they will be suggesting that we turn up all in red…or maybe they’ll go for a safari theme and have us all in leopard-print cat suits (I need an excuse to get mine out of the cupboard). I’d also be quite up for a 1920’s theme; I can see us all rocking up dressed like the cast of Bugsy Malone… Any ideas…drop us a line…


Stuff I definitely did not like this week and am in fact livid about

Erm….Danyl in the sing-off? R I D I C U L O U S: http://xfactor.itv.com/2009/

I’d like a Set 2 and a Ribena

So…I’m having the kind of week where everything that can go wrong has done. Really, really rubbish. To make it worse, I have a headache that so far has lasted 3 days and that no amount of Nurofen or wine can put pay to. And before you say anything Nathan Z (the other Nathan in my life) ‘the communists have not invaded’, it is not ‘Rag Week’ and I am not ‘up-on-blocks’. My only consolation so far has been a trip to see Bookshop Man who, after a long period of separation, welcomed me back with a beautiful smile and enquiries after my health, ‘where have I been?’ etc. I would have asked him out there and then but for the queue of customers behind me and the fact that I’m NEVER GOING TO DO THAT. I have also developed a fear that my blog has become so popular and widely read, that he will somehow have seen it, read about himself, recognised my picture as ‘that weird girl that comes in every week and purchases an inordinate amount of postcolonial literature’ and still not asked me out. Pure paranoia. For starters, I don’t look anything like that picture up there!

Yesterday was an eating kind of a day. Miserable and wallowing in self-pity, I made my first caff visit of the week (I am currently averaging two) for a ‘Set 2’ and a Ribena with ‘Caff-king’ Reg. Given the general tone of the week, I was surprised to find that my egg was of perfect dippy consistency, my chips crispy on the outside and soft in the middle and my sausage at least 10% pork. This was swiftly followed by a trip to a very fancy restaurant to discuss menu options for our staff Christmas party, which was of course accompanied by surplus desserts from the lunchtime rush and frothy coffee. ‘Afternoon tea’ wouldn’t be complete without Guinness and Baileys chocolate cake (it would be rude to turn it down) and after waiting for an hour to be seated in the busiest curry-house in London last night, I was so ‘starving’ that I was forced to sample the entire menu, leaving everything from my coat to my knee-caps sweating curry and causing me to feel quite peckish again this morning….

My jeans ripped straight across my thigh on my walk to work last week…can’t for the life of me imagine why…

Anyway…this blog is starting to sound distinctly like a Weight-Watchers confessional / trip to the hairdressers. Really I should be using it as a forum to discuss something topical and serious, like global warming, the BNP begin allowed to appear on BBC Newsnight or football…

I love football. I support Liverpool, Arsenal, Thierry Henri and David James. Occasionally my Dad (Big Tone), takes me along to the Emirates to watch the Gooners and it’s always a delight. We get a dirty hot-dog on the way, a free pint in the members’ enclosure (Big Tone knows people), fantastic architecture at the new stadium and 90 minutes of boys in shorts. I can also follow the game up with some boasting to any of my Arsenal-supporting friends and feign knowledge of the game by repeating things that Big Tone shouted (in his dulcet Northern tones) during the match, thus earning respect from the male fraternity, all of whom will have stopped reading this blog entry at the mention of ‘periods’ in the third line, so will be none-the-wiser to my fakery. Stupid boys (sums up my week really).

Stuff I liked this week

As a massive fan of the Full English, and an even bigger fan of staying dry in the drizzle, this made my day: http://www.londonundercover.co.uk/shop/slim_walker/english_breakfast/

Preddy Pictures: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/in_pictures/8314105.stm

I realise that not all of you are particularly interested in architecture. I just enjoy this blogger’s disdain and continuous profanity: http://badbritisharchitecture.blogspot.com/

Climbing the Slippery Pole

My whole body is aching. The strength required to type and the ensuing strain on my shoulder muscles is almost unbearable. Every mouse click is like a punch to my triceps and every touch of the space bar, a needle to my elbow. The decision making process involved in choosing whether to die from dehydration or lift my mug of tea to my lips, sending shooting pains across my back, is fraught with anxiety. I feel like Myra McQueen, forced to choose which of my my children should die (except Myra's decision should have been easier...they all deserved to die)...

...I might feel better about the situation had I attained these ailments in the pursuit of something noble; running a marathon for blind orphans perhaps, or rescuing an old lady from a tree. Or at least if I had suffered these injuries in the fervour of sexual climax, or even just down at the gym, I would have something to feel vaguely pleased about. The recipe, however, for my incapacitation is neither Nobel or noble; it comprises 6 Jagerbombs and a scaffolding pole...

...Monday night was supposed to be a quiet night, gently celebrating my childhood pal Rich's descent into the sorry climes of his 30's with a game of 'TopGolf' (kind of like a driving range with scoring). The game went well; I won (oh the beauty of having my own blog) and I set off back to London from Watford with thoughts of a mug of cocoa and a good book (I have enough to get through). On reaching the capital, however, I was met with a chorus of 'Aren't you coming out?' and 'You look like such a party-girl on Facebook...it's obviously just a front' and (the final straw) 'You used to be so much fun, you've changed'. Unable to digest my very 'fun-ness' being called into question, I quickly offered up a promise to have 'just the one', which inevitably turned into 'just the one every ten minutes for the next 2 hours'. You would be forgiven, therefore, for imagining that it might simply be a hangover causing me to feel like I've been practicing sumo-wrestling with Heather from Eastenders. But this is not the case. I don't even have the slightest taste of a hangover. A UDI then perhaps? (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=UDI) Sadly, no. Whilst these injuries could be referred to as 'drink-induced', they are not unidentifiable. In fact, I can pin-point the very second when they became utterly inevitable; the moment I saw the POLE...

...Now, everybody knows that pole-dancers are quite fit and is impressed by their acrobatic prowess (that's what we're all impressed with right?). And yet, something in me made me think that I could do it anyway. The same something that makes me challenge boyfriends to wrestling matches, convinced that I can win. The same something that made me attend a 'Michael Jackson Thriller Dance Class' at Pineapple studios, convinced that I would come out ready to take on the King of Pop's crown and wow audiences with my body-popping and moon-walking. It's that something that whispers '...but wouldn't it be really cool if you could?'...

...And so, presented with a pole, on a platform in a 'private booth' (converted stable) at the Proud Galleries in Camden, I did what any unco-ordinated weakling would and threw myself at it. Egged on by my new friend Anna (...and by 'egged on' I mean 'warned of the dangers to my health') I took a running jump at it, swinging myself around it, desperately clinging on for dear life, before slowly sliding down the pole (collecting a few friction burns along the way) and landing in a rumpled mess at the bottom. 6-10 attempts at this didn't dissuade me from trying again. I was, rather, encouraged by the smiles and laughter and convinced myself that I was actually quite good and, should the credit crunch leave me without work, could actually go pro. Luckily (and I'm not sure who for), my friend Russell followed me to the 'stage' and proceeded to entertain the masses with a display of such fantastic gymnastic and seductive aplomb, including a couple of turns upside down in the splits, that I quickly relinquished my crown (having already relinquished my dignity) to Russ.

Next week; line dancing.


Stuff I liked this week

Bring out your competitive side: http://www.topgolf.co.uk/Locations/UK/Watford/Default.aspx

Bring out your destructive side: http://www.proud.co.uk/

My plan for next week: http://www.polepeople.co.uk/

Nobody wants this more than ME

So far I have spared you from too much X-Factor chat, since we have until Christmas to talk about it…..but it’s all been hotting up hasn’t it? As per usual I am disgusted and appalled by many of the judges’ decisions this weekend, and yet completely unsurprised. As always, the line-up is 50% talented singers and 50% ‘good TV’. And by ‘good TV’ I mean cringe-inducing, fame-seeking, talentless cry-babies. I am a huge X-Factor fan and watch it pretty much religiously year after year; Simon Cowell is my hero. I love his resolute smugness and both tolerate and admire it since he is never ever wrong. But I genuinely can’t stand all of the blubbing and interviewing that goes on in addition to the actual music. My friend and I were discussing the initial audition process for the X-Factor and imagining the check-list of criteria that might be in place to whittle down the 1000’s of contestants to the few hundred hopeless, sorry hopefuls, that appear on our screens:

• Have you suffered a recent bereavement (must be in the last calendar year) Y/N [Y = 25 points]


• If yes, was if your deceased family-member / best friend / pet / bruva-from-anova-mutha's dying wish that you audition for the X-Factor? Y/N [Y = 20 points]


• Are you the product of a broken home? Y/N [Y = 10 points]


• Are you a single parent? Y/N [Y = 20 points]


• Are you a bad egg / the black sheep of the family / Satan hoping that the X-Factor will purify you of your sins? Y/N [Y = 15 points]


• Can you really think of anything you'd rather do other than sing? Y/N [N = 5 points]


• Do you really want to win in order to make your grandmother / teacher / child / home town proud? Y/N [Y = 10 points]


• If yes, is your grandmother / teacher / child / home town disabled / bereaved / dead? Y/N [Y = 15 points]


• Are you old? How old? Y/N [Yes = 5 points - additional point for every year over 70]


• Are you a former stripppoer / drug-addict / drug dealer / bus drvier? Y/N [Y = 10 points]


• Can you sing? Y/N [Y = 1 point, N = 10 point]

Thankfully, Sky-plus has provided me with the solution to my X-Factor irritation. I can now fast-forward through all adverts, crying and Danni ‘the cougar’ Minogue. Brilliant.

So…the white wardrobe party was a massive success. I managed to find a dress that didn’t induce mass projectile-vomiting and Nathan had the opportunity to showcase a white jacket which had a love-heart around his own name painted across the back. I like to think that he wears these things with a hint of irony, but I’m not entirely sure.. Either way, it absolutely made my night, so a big thank you to Hayley who created the sartorial wonder (Nath: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/sartorial).

I’d like to extend a big thank you to those of you who have offered their advice and support to my campaign to seduce Bookshop Man. Everyone from the IT manager at work to the pope has suggested that I take the Nike stance and ‘Just Do It’. Just so we’re all clear, however, that is NEVER going to happen; a)because I am rarely drunk whilst I’m in the bookshop and b)because there is a chance that he will say ‘no’. Some of you might suggest that reason (b) has never stopped me before. In response I will refer you again to reason (a).

Finally, my little brother (‘little’ brother as opposed to my ‘big’ brother…) has threatened me with an atomic wedgie (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=atomic+wedgie ), should I even refer to his existence in this blog. Whilst I value the comfort of my butt-crack, the child in me cannot resist the urge to ‘wake the beast’… Plus he’s about 150 miles away so I can hide from him for a little while…


Stuff I liked this week

I played this solidly for about 20 minutes: http://cheeseorfont.mogrify.org/

The greatest source of toilet humour known to man: http://www.viz.co.uk/profanisaurus.html