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

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