I want a brand new house on an episode of Cribs

Now….whilst there are a series of things that I could use this blog for (killing time at work, talking about design, settling scores, recommending recipes, scamming people out of their hard-earned-cash, raising the profile of primordial dwarves, discussing London Transport or getting dates for Nathan), I’ve chosen not to, since I don’t think you’d be interested and I’d like to keep it fairly light and low-brow. That isn’t going to stop me, however, from conducting a little market research and using this blog to significantly change my life. I need a platform for my talents and some advice on how to go forward and I think this might well be the place. The thing is, you see, I want to be a pop star.

There are a couple of other career options open to me, which I am still willing to explore. I’d like to, for example, be a journalist and write this kind of nonsense for cash. Or I’d happily be a gangster’s wife. I’m not adverse to chocolate tasting. And I will never, ever, shelve that dream of being a Blue Peter presenter (PLEASE GOD). But if none of that works out. I’d like to be a pop star. Or at least in a REALLY cool band.

Now, before you ask, I’m not entirely unqualified for this career. I can sing. Not like Aretha or Alicia or Beyonce. More like Norah Jones, or a Corr or Snow White. And definitely better than Posh Spice, JEdward or that nasal nightmare Pixie Lott. I’m not necessarily as hot as her though.

So what to do? When I was a teenager, I was in a band. A group of boys at my school had watched ‘The Commitments’ (awesome 90’s film) and decided to form a band exactly like The Commitments. Except not poor, Irish and unemployed, but white, middle class and teenaged. I was playing Dorothy in the school’s production of ‘The Wizard of Oz’ (unprecedented disaster) when my heartfelt, broom-clutching rendition of ‘Somewhere over a Rainbow’ inspired the guitarist in the band to invite me along to be one of their three backing singers.

Needless to say, I bumped the other two off (probably by singing louder than them) and was soon promoted to front woman, alongside front man and Stars in their Eyes runner up, Clinton (who actually is in quite a successful band in Norway these days). And so the glory days began. Five years of Friday and Saturday nights on the Cambridge pub circuit, with occasional trips to the scary Fens, singing covers of soul and funk songs to middle-aged drunks, our parents (not necessarily mutually exclusive entities) and our single groupie, Dale.

When, however, the band reached the difficult second album stage (university called) and artistic differences were causing rifts between the rhythm section and the horns (we couldn’t afford the train fares), the band were forced to split and I was left bereft, with no outlet for my creative juices (drunk in Leeds). Almost ten years on, my talents remain unused and wasted, only to be heard by my bathroom tiles and anyone within a 200m radius of my shower between 7.30 and 7.45am (I know who you are you weirdo).

So I need a plan. I’d welcome suggestions for band names / my stage name in the comments box below, along with any potential routes into the music industry. Likewise, if anyone knows any gangsters who need a wife, Blue Peter bosses I can ‘persuade’ into casting me or someone who edits a national newspaper, let me know…

Stuff I liked this week

Pure, joyous, genius: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A0N2bp-XhS0

The phrase every girl dreams of: “cheap Valentines gifts”: http://www.moneysavingexpert.com/deals/cheap-valentines-gifts

Be my Valentine

It’s getting to that time of year when a pinky-red cloud casts a shadow over our lives, calling into question the solitary bliss in which we spend our days and shooting a pang of loneliness into our warm and open hearts. Valentine’s tends to be a bad time of year for everyone. For those of you that have ‘someone’, it throws anxiety and fear into your stomachs when the realisation kicks in that the present you just shelled out November and December’s salary on is not going to ‘cover it’ for February too and a new inventive, insightful, thoughtful and probably expensive gift is going to be required if you’re to remain out of the dog house. Valentine’s is even more worrying when you have been specifically instructed by the love of your life ‘not’ to buy something, since Valentine’s Day is a ‘commercial invention designed to engage our consumerist society and forcing them to spend untold amounts of cash (which would be much better used by the starving children) on clichéd and insincere declarations of love and affection’. I have a couple of friends who spout this sort of Namby-Pamby bullcrap around this time every year, only to be bitter and disappointed when their instructions are followed to the letter and a donation is made in their name to the local hamster-welfare charity.

It goes without saying that Valentine’s is pretty rubbish for those of us ‘without other half’. My problems start as early as Christmas, when I have to start figuring out who to send cards to. Besides the short novel that gets written and sent annually to the love of my life, I have to whittle a potential 20 recipients down to a reasonable 3-ish, before choosing the tone, style and content of my cards. As a child and young teenager, I was a veritable Valentine’s card making factory. I would spend March through to December having jumble sales, running fun-runs and being sponsored for my silence in aid of the fight against deforestation and global warming. I would then spend January and February undoing all of my hard work when ‘Operation L.O.V.E’ came into effect. Reams of pink, red and white paper, gallons of PVA glue and vats of glitter would be carefully crafted into love-hearts and painstakingly folded into flowers and stars. A few minutes would then be spent composing the appropriate poem to accompany my homemade efforts. Usually something along the lines of ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, my name is Emilie Lemons and will you be my boyfriend and love me for ever and ever?’, before they were carefully sealed with a lipstick kiss and distributed in a timely fashion (often via our school Valentine’s post box). Then the waiting would ensue.

And still the waiting ensues. I did go through a period of receiving a red-rose every year from one of the boys in my form who sat behind me in registration (you know who you are…). Which was lovely, but did not always make up for the fact that he spent the rest of the year taunting me for my flat-chested-ness and trying to throw bits of screwed up paper through my hooped earrings… He also used to send one to the girl who sat a couple of seats away from me. Who didn’t have a flat chest.

One year, when I was ‘teaching’ 7 year olds in South Africa, I made all of the children in my class make Valentine’s cards in their art lesson and then went to great pains to describe that they could send them to anyone they liked, someone ‘really special’, who made them ‘really happy’, like ‘their best friend, or their Mum or their favourite teacher’. I then feigned horror and surprise when 16 cards arrived in my pigeon-hole by lunchtime addressed to ‘teecha Emeley’.

I have also (occasionally) had a boyfriend on the dreaded day and they have responded in various ways to my neediness. My first boyfriend would shower me with rings and jelly tots and all the good stuff. Pretty much everyone who followed failed to meet my requirements or ran into disaster. There was the year when my uni boyfriend paid my housemate £2 to make us baked potatoes with baked beans (since he was making one anyway), which the three of us ate in front of Eastenders. And the year when my Northern boyfriend took me to the Lake District’s equivalent of Fawlty Towers and it rained incessantly. Then there was the year I had the flu, ruining the love-of-my life’s attempts to surprise me with home-cooked dinner and instead scaring the crap out of him when I appeared in the kitchen mid-way through his second verse of Ray Charles ‘I got a woman’ and causing him to throw too much Worcester sauce into his jerk chicken.

But this year is definitely going to be a good one. I can feel it. Royal mail are on alert, I have cleared out my inbox and Bill Gates has been warned. I might even take the day off work to help direct the lorries into the sorting depot I have hired. 2010 is the year that Operation L.O.V.E will finally come into fruition.

P.S – Get along to Switch it Up on Friday to bag a date…


Stuff I liked this week

Get gluing: http://www.marthastewart.com/photogallery/valentines-day-cards#slide_3

Not as good as a Blue Peter effort, but nevertheless gratefully received: http://www.moonpig.com/CardGallery/Greeting+Cards/keyword/ROMANTIC/gallery.aspx?adid=GUKPerLove09&gclid=CLjY9Oq9v58CFeZr4wod9HSR0g

Probably a better way to spend your hard-earned cash: https://www.oxfam.org.uk/donate/haiti-earthquake/index.php

Transmogrify your enemy app

So…I got an iPhone. The boredom of not drinking through January had become all too much and I needed to swiftly displace my alcohol addiction onto something life-improving and positive. There are definitely arguments that suggest that the iPhone is neither of these things, but I haven’t bothered to read or consider them, since I’m too busy playing with my new iPhone.

Great stuff that my new iPhone can do:

I have a gun app, which simulates the noise of loading a gun with one movement and shooting someone with another. This is great for shooting my colleagues when they talk to me too much (you know who you are)

I can play Scrabble on the tube. And win.

I can make amazing recordings of myself singing, which are ideal for sending to ex-boyfriends when I’m drunk. Or, as it turns out, when I’m sober. These will probably be worth a lot of money when I’m famous.

I can pixelate photos of my face and use them as my screen saver. I can also pixelate photos of other things and not use them as my screen saver. These will also probably be worth a lot when I’m famous.

I can go on Facebook chat at 3am without leaving my bed

I can read my blog and all of the fascinating comments you guys leave whilst in the bath (doesn’t take too long)

A few problems that I may consider pointing out to the people at Apple:

When my fingers are numb with cold from the pelting snow, I can’t call anyone to come and pick me up, since the screen appears to be heat sensitive

I can’t take a photo of my face without it looking like a melon. Even when pixelated. Especially when pixelated.

I can’t stop playing with it and have to have my hand on it at all times

I’m worried that now I’ve invested in my new iPhone, they’re going to bring out a newer version, which I will desire immediately, but won’t be able to have

I think that the people at Apple might have missed a couple of tricks…I’ve been dreaming up some apps, which I will be suggesting to them for development:

Outfit app – An app that catalogues the entire contents of your wardrobe and puts together killer outfits for you. Kind of like the computer programme that Cher has in ‘Clueless’, except this app would take into account BMI, PMT and RUFKidding?.

The Dog Ate It app – an app which (when you shake your new iPhone) will provide plausible and imaginative lies to cover an array of sins, from being late for work to sleeping with your ex-boyfriend’s friend

Neutralizer app – an app that works like the mind-eraser thing in ‘Men In Black’ (I could do with one of these at the moment…though I haven’t decided whether I would use it on myself or other people…)

Diss app – an app that provides the ultimate put-down / witty come-back at the exact moment that you need it, rather than 5 minutes later

Genie app – a limited edition app providing the user with 3-wishes (activated by rubbing your iPhone)

Jonny-5 app – gives the user the ability to read and digest information at super-speed

The Lynx effect app – temporarily renders the user irresistible to the opposite sex

Undo app – Works on the same principle as the ‘undo’ button in Microsoft programmes (Apple might have to come up with a new name), immediately reversing decisions. Handy for ‘treading in dog-do’ / ’drinking one shot too many’ / ‘shop-lifting’ / ‘getting caught with your pants down’ / ‘telling your girlfriend the ugly truth’ situations

A few others, which may take a little more work:

Invisibility app

Time travel app

Mind Reader app

World peace app

Dance like MJ app

Let me know if you think of any others – I’ll be drafting my letter to the iPhone people shortly. BTW – I managed 13.5 days.



Stuff I liked this week

Probably the tools for my future career: http://developer.apple.com/iphone/program/

Switch it Up is back!!: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=794200592&ref=mf#/profile.php?id=663113337&ref=ts

An addictive personality

Long time no write. Silly season was as crazy as predicted and new year's day came around way too soon. To be perfectly honest, pre-Christmas didn’t offer a single second for me to breathe and 2010 has been, quite frankly, dull. As per usual, my new year's resolutions are made up of a clichéd list of unachievable delusions. And as opposed to being a positive list of ambitions and plans for the new year, it reads more like the ten commandments, with every 'resolution' starting with the words ‘you shall not'; ‘You shall not order Domino's pizza'. ‘You shall not drink 15 Havana and lemonades'. ‘You shall not call your ex boyfriend'. 'You shall not drink 15 Havana and lemonades, call your ex boyfriend and console yourself the next day with Domino's pizza'.

So…rather than render my life completely devoid of pleasure by banning anything remotely desirable, I have settled on giving up alcohol..for a month. I figured this will kill a number of birds with one stone; I will lose weight, I will spend less, I won’t text people when I’m drunk. What I didn’t bank on, however, is the boredom factor. Some of you may have noticed that it is pretty chilly outside and quite honestly, I’m struggling to think of things to do that don’t involve watching TV or going for a drink. I’m quite concerned with both my lack of imagination and motivation to do anything other than watch Celebrity Big Brother (I hate celebrities…I hate Big Brother…I love Celebrity Big Brother?). When I was younger, I was always busy making something, painting something, singing with my band or swimming. I don’t know what’s happened; On Saturday, I took the tube to Angel, went into a couple of shops and then came home. And this felt like an extraordinary achievement. On arriving back in my manor at 3.30pm, I pondered over my options for the rest of the day…and I was stuck. Ordinarily, I would take a trip to see Bookshop Man before heading to the closest bar to drink rum and read my book. Instead, I headed home and texted my ex-boyfriend…

I really hope that my Mum isn’t reading this, since she has her own worries about my drinking habits; namely - she thinks I’m an alcoholic. She called me last week and asked how I was feeling. ‘Are you having any cravings?’ she asked. Her tone of voice betrayed her deep concern; ‘Did you think I would?’ I asked her. She seemed genuinely surprised when I informed her that I wasn’t really finding it difficult not to drink at all and was just a little bored. ‘But is it having any side-effects?’ she asked ‘….are you feeling sick?’.

My Mum tends to imagine the worst-case-scenario. It would be unfair to say that she had a sheltered upbringing, I mean, how many people have been chased through the Atlas mountains by a gang of gun-toting psychos? But she’s not really one to over-indulge. She doesn’t really drink, she doesn’t eat a huge amount and she likes nothing better than cycling ten miles or running for an hour. She might like me to mention here that once, when she was at university, she bought a packet of menthol cigarettes and smoked one in her room, before deciding it wasn’t for her. That was a crazy day. Mum doesn’t even keep painkillers in the house; I was 19 years old before I realised that I could quite easily shake a headache by simply swallowing Neurofen.

I was not surprised, therefore, to receive a telephone call from her whilst I was still at university, asking me whether or not I thought my brother was injecting heroin. My little bro, sixteen at the time, had developed a bit of a penchant for the wacky backy, a habit that he had had for some time but seemed to have escaped my Mum’s attention. This, in spite of the fact that he and a group of his friends would regularly turn up in her kitchen at 3pm, ravenous. My mother was terribly pleased that the giggling crew of jackals loitering around the hob had such healthy appetites and would cook up enormous pans of pasta to feed them, inadvertently becoming the ‘cool Mum’ in the village. It was to her horror, therefore, that my brother admitted to her that he had trouble going to sleep without smoking a joint. After mulling it over for a couple of minutes, she came to the logical conclusion that he was, in fact, a smack addict. Obviously. And despite the fact that my brother’s addictions these days are limited to penny sweets (which he orders online by the bucket-load) and Appletiser, my Mum still watches him like a hawk when he goes to crazy on the vitamin supplements….’you can’t be too careful….he does have an addictive personality’.


Stuff I liked this week

My favourite advert of 2010: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQcVllWpwGs

My mate BD’s band’s free download: http://indieelectrorock.blogspot.com/2010/01/burn-before-reading-have-your-cake-and.html (one day he WILL be famous….let’s hope it’s for his music rather than his unusual fetishes).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fM7tKFqe7Sk

Nathmas

So…silly season is upon us and I quite literally have something planned for every single night until January 5th….that’s not to say that I can’t be persuaded to change my plans, should any of the hot young men amongst you need a date for your Christmas party…or hot old men…I’m not fussy. I’m pretty excited about it all and also a little bit nervous…I seem to have stopped having hangovers (famous last words), but I’m quite sure the damage is being done elsewhere..

I’m also a little bit concerned about the capacity of my wardrobe, in terms of catering for so many nights out. I mean, I could wear the same outfit more than once, but the constant stream of photos on Facebook which seem to document every Havana and lemonade that passes my lips and which dress I was wearing whilst drinking it, means that I am in danger of being seen wearing the same dress twice…or…three times… I can’t do that (unless it’s whilst looking at myself in the mirror after my 8th H&L).

Needless to say, all of the nights out I’m about to have pale into insignificance in comparison to THE Christmas night out of the season. I am of course referring to Urban Elite’s Limited Edition Christmas Party on 27th December. After much umming and ahhing over what their theme might be (and a series of stupid suggestions from me), the Urban Elite boys decided that no theme was in fact required, since you all know what Christmas is about….having fun, getting a bit squiffy and going dancing. It’s also Nathan’s birthday on the 27th…which is pretty much akin to a certain ‘son of God’s’ birthday in Nathan’s eyes and therefore provides a theme in itself. In fact, may I suggest my own theme, in parallel to the non-theme that the boys are running with: ‘Nathmas’.

‘Nathmas’ is a celebration of all things Nathan. For those of you who aren’t familiar with my fantastic friend, this will involve dressing like David Beckham (without that weird scraggly hand-bag of a wife), admiring the ladies and complimenting them on their ‘qualities’ (preferably without a hint of sarcasm in your voice) and being awesome at football. As I recently said when writing his ‘mysinglefriend.com’ profile, he is simultaneously the man that your Mum wants you to marry and the boy that your Dad warns you about… And I meant it. I keep having to explain to my Mum that if I actually go out with Nathan, then we won’t be able to tell each other all of our dirty secrets anymore. And I might have to shave my legs. So I will see you all on the 27th…if not before. I expect all of you boys to arrive with a Mohican, a top cut to accentuate your guns and a winning smile. And ladies…it’s Nathan’s birthday…you know what to do…


Stuff I liked this week

I’m not ashamed to say it (he’s 17..it’s legal) – I am pro-werewolf: http://www.twilightthemovie.com/

Ugly Naked Girl

Apparently it’s a very British trait to talk about the weather. But is it any surprise after the weekend we’ve just had? My trip back from the tube station yesterday morning was straight out of a British romantic comedy movie, but for the fact that I wasn’t wearing a slightly see-through summer dress, but my friend’s ill-fitting clothes. And I didn’t bump into the love-of-my-life whilst finding shelter in a shop doorway; I didn’t even find a shop doorway and was forced to enjoy the comedy of the situation on my own, since everyone else was indoors enjoying their central heating, a cup of tea and the Hollyoaks omnibus. I’d have been less wet if I’d have swum home along the Thames.

On arriving home I had to take off all of my clothes in the kitchen and put my shoes on the radiator. We recently had a floor to ceiling patio door put into our kitchen onto our balcony. Which is great for letting the light in, but slightly irritating when running around the house bedraggled and naked. Since this is London, I have no idea who lives in the houses behind mine, but I’m pretty sure they know me.

I have a habit of being late…for everything. Accompanying this lateness is a constant sense of blind panic. And when blind panic sets in, there is no time for putting on a dressing gown when socks need to be found. Or when the fish need feeding. Or when the kettle needs to be turned on (I made that last one up – there is definitely no time for cups of tea). Approximately 4 times a week, I can be found flying around the house in a state of semi or total nudity, much to the amusement of my housemate, who has kindly referred to it as ‘wobbling around the house’.

In case any of you boys are getting excited, or conjuring up images of two girls hanging out naked at home and having pillow fights, I’ll set you straight. Firstly, I am alone in my nakedness; Katie is organised enough to at least wrap a towel around her when she walks from her room to the bathroom (at least I imagine she is…I’m usually still in bed). Secondly, as Katie’s ‘wobbling’ comment suggests, it’s not a pretty sight. I’m not saying that I’m particularly ugly when undressed, or that I’m obese. But there is definitely something slightly comedic about running when naked. You won’t find women posing for FHM whilst scratching around in their drawers for money to pay the cleaner or standing on an upturned bucket stretching to reach the takeaway menus on top of the fridge. I am like the ‘ugly naked guy’ in Friends, driving down local house prices with my kitchen circus.

I will be expecting a dressing gown in the post from my mother for Christmas.


Stuff I liked this week

This made me happier than I can possibly describe and I will be watching it every single time I feel sad: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jFgdvK4e3oI&feature=related

Seriously…watch it again: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jFgdvK4e3oI&feature=related

And I enjoyed this more than I expected to –one of my all-time favourite songs…sung by Susan Boyle: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bz6BA1heMSI

Introducing Big Tone

So…it’s been a while. I decided to give it a rest since I’ve been a little bit grumpy and moany of late and was boring even myself with self-pity and dejection. I have also been very busy, playing tourist with one of the hoards of French cousins that descend upon me annually, demanding to be shown the sights of London. We went everywhere from Portobello to Stepney Green (there’s nothing there) via the London Eye, with an obligatory stop at Big Tone’s for a feed and some embarrassment.

For those of you who aren’t in the know, Big Tone is my long-suffering father, the butt of many of my jokes and the main man in my life. His Yorkshire accent, claims to authority on EVERY subject and constant name-dropping bring my brothers and I constant joy and make for excellent material when doing impressions of him. Don’t feel too sorry for him though. I am what you might call ‘a chip off the old block’ and my own penchant for embarrassing him and myself pales into insignificance in comparison to his own desire to do the same thing. As a child, it was just about manageable. Watching films with him meant being prepared for any sex-scene to be accompanied by his tapping me on the shoulder and asking ‘What are they doing Emilie?’ or making sloppy kissing noises. Trips to restaurants entailed both of my brothers squirming with discomfort as their middle-aged father flirted relentlessly with the (usually completely horrified) waitress, making jokes about their acne and asking deliberately provocative questions. He still does this now…

And as we ascend into middle age, Tone’s desire to humiliate us has only increased. So, at the weekend, whilst sat at the dinner table with my sophisticated French cousin and my very well to do uncle and aunt, my Dad suddenly started laughing and declared that he had ‘a present’ that he had brought back from the Lake District for me. Delighted, I asked him what it was. “Well…it’s not really a present” he giggled “it’s more a case of me returning something to you”. I racked my brain as to what it could be and came to the conclusion that he was going to give me the rucksack and tent that I ‘borrow’ from him to go to festivals every year and which he has never actually used himself. Dad had asked for said rucksack to be returned before his trip to the Lake District “in case I go walking”. It was therefore a logical gift. “Are you finally going to give me the rucksack?” I ventured. Again, Tone started to chuckle to himself and took a moment to check that everyone seated around the table was listening before he made his big reveal; “No…not the rucksack, love…just something that you left in it”.

Now…any other father, on finding a pocket full of jonnies nestling amongst his daughter’s things, might decide to spare both her dignity and his own, by NEVER MENTIONING IT. Tone, however, cannot resist the opportunity to raise a blush on his daughter’s face. “You didn’t get lucky at Glastonbury then?!” he shouted “nice to see that you’re keeping safe though love” he giggled. “A little bit ambitious weren’t you? 10 condoms?!!”. Sadly for Big Tone, he has to try much harder these days to make us even remotely uncomfortable; the conditioning of our upbringing has forced us to pretty much take anything on the chin and expect the worst. Like the time he mistook my buzzing electric toothbrush for a vibrator when packing my bag into the boot of the car to go on holiday and frantically started shouting and motioning for me to come over and turn it off. “I didn’t want your battery to run out” he chirruped. Or the time, when I was 15, that he shouted up the stairs to me and my petrified boyfriend “this is not a fooking knocking shop!”. Or the time that he hid behind a lamp post and jumped out on my brother (aged 16 at the time) and his first girlfriend, shouting “I’m Alex’s Dad”. Alex, old for his age, responded in much the same way as I did at the dinner table; with a pitiful shake of the head and a raised eyebrow.

Bless him.


Stuff I liked this week

Wish I thought of this myself: http://failblog.org/

A steal from someone else’s blog- but made me happy: http://www.thetoyfactory.org.uk/fancy.html

My friend Shenoda interviewed online: http://www.datatransmission.co.uk/viewnewtalent.aspx?ID=101