How Many Spots Do You See On The Jumper? I Count 13

Unfortunately I can't get blogger to post this picture in the right size, so you will need to open it in a new window: right click on pic, then select "Open Link in New Window", so that the pic opens in, yup you guessed it, a new window. I know, I know, it's crap but it's blogger. In it's normal size, it does make counting the dots easier though.

Happy Hallowe'en

A pack of dolphins

I truly love the randomness that is London.

Last Friday night a few of us started the evening at the Victoria and Albert (V&A) museum for a hollowween inspired night of gouls, ghost stories and exhibitions. The big draw card was the ghost tour and the booze. Unfortunately, tickets for all the good things disapeared in like 2 minutes flat, and we never made it to the bar.. That's how we started the night.

Here is how we ended the night aka my tale of how we met some NFL football players from the Miami Dolphins. In London. In a Hard Rock Cafe. No where near the V&A:

Calv, C and I decided that we would walk to Green Park tube station about 10 minutes from Kensington.. Meandering along, yabbering to ourselves we passed the Intercontinental and a massive tour bus chuckablock full of Americans, all with Miami Dolphin tags on their necks... Calv is a massive NFL fan, and a Dolphins fan to boot. And that's when we noticed the 5 massive blokes who got off the bus and were walking the same direction we were headed. So doing what all good, law abiding, live and let live people like us do, naturally we followed them. Right into a Hard Rock Cafe..

Calv, C and I went to the bar and scoped out what the 6 foot whatever, really broad shouldered footballers were doing. Drinking down some dutch courage, Calv and I got up the nerve to go speak to them. Ok so when I say speak, what I really mean is I said nothing other than "hi how are you doing?", whilst Calv swaggered over to them like a man, and then gushed at them like a schoolgirl. We introduced ourselves. Calv told them he was seeing them on Sunday, that they were his favorite team, and he was so excited about seeing them, and did he mention they were his favorite team? And he was really excited? Did he? Uh-huh? Then one of the guys, (Michael Lehan according to the Miami website) introduced himself to me. That is a perfect oppurtunity to show how cool you can be, and let me tell you, I really did fail 100%. I couldn't do the chit chat. I couldn't do the witty banter. I couldn't even do the awe struck fan (ok that's cause I'm not one). All I could do was say "I'm great thanks, how are you?". No witty repartee. No "wow, so how are you enjoying London?" or "Are you excited about playing here?" or "what the fuck are you guys doing in a Hard Rock Cafe?" or "so.. groupies eh?".

Anyway, to prove to all and sundry that this event took place, here is the pic I took of them...


You know what impressed me the most? Professional atheletes, top of their game, have a big match in less than 48 hours. How were they preparing? By scoffing as many nachos and ribs in as they could possibly fit into their mouths. Classic.

Self Induced Strangilation

Ah, late night, 1am postings after drinking rosé all night and chatting about the various pubs nearby that are infamous because East End gansters like the Krays* murdered members of other gangs. Gotta love it (obviously the drinking and chatting and posting, rather than the murder. Which is not nice and shouldn’t be loved.)

Anyhoo. The problem with late night, drunk postings is that you don’t really recollect what you wrote… When I checked my post today, I was flabbergasted as to why the hell did I feel the need at 1 am to type out most of the lyrics of a Queen song?

I woke up this morning with the inevitable hangover, sprawled on the bed, my headphones still in my ears, and the cable wrapped round and round my neck, half strangling me. That’s when I had a flashback of me listening to my ipod, in my pj’s, dancing around the room, hairbrush in hand, silently singing to “Under Pressure”…

I am such a classy bird.

* Ok this is completely unrelated BUT I just realised that Ronnie and Roxie Mitchell from “East Enders” are based on Ronnie and Reggie Kray! It makes sense now. Plus they all have Peggy Mitchell (Barbra Windsor) in common. (She's plays the girls aunt in East Enders, and she used to be a girlfriend of one of the Kray brothers.. If you go to the Blind Beggar, there are loads of pics of her and gangsters all over the walls...)

seriously. I love this song

yes. I have had a few.

"it's the teror of knowing what this world is about
its watching some good friend sccream let me out
pray that tomorrow get me higher
pressure on the people
people on the streets"..

and further on..



" Turned away from it all
Like a blind man
Sat on a fence but it don't work
Keep coming up with love
But it's so slashed and torn
Why why why?

love love love love love love love love
Insantiy laughs under pressure we crack
Why give ourselves one more chance
why can't we give love that one more chance?
Why can't we give love, give love, give love,?
Give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love?
Cause love's such an old fashioned word
And love dares you to care for
The people on the edge of the night
And love dares you to change our way
Of caring about ourselves
This is our last dance
this is ourselves

Under Pressure
Under Pressure
Pressure"

- Queen & David Bowe

If you haven't listened to it in years, get it, get a pair of headphones, sit on a chair, have a few, and love this song again.

Want all the words? Look here

I have had a few. So yes, I am on my bed, headphones on, ipod on, pyjamas on, loving this song. Ok, it's by Keane (who I normally hate) but wow, what a great song. Listen to it. Love it. LOVE it. Yes I've had a few.

Never say "and get yourself something nice" to me

Last week Dr D asked me to get him his lunch, and with his best "East End" geezer, I'm a cockney lad I am, voice, the threw me a tenner and said "er' you go luv treat yourself to something nice".

So I did. I bought myself some £99.50 per kilo, still on the bone, hand carved in front of me, Jamon. Aka ultra expensive, cured, beautiful, would eat this every day if I could afford it, ham from Brindisa.

And it was dead tasty. I love how it says on the label "Eat Within 3 days". I scoffed my 5 paper thin slices within 3 minutes. Flat.

Proof I eat things other than nutella and white bread!

32.5

Dr D and I went to the Magic's house to watch movies and eat pizza on his ma-hussive hi def projector on Friday night. Magic and I went to shops so I could get some coke, and other high calorie food, like Strawberry Cheesecake hagen daaz ice cream, 3 packs of chips, and 5 cans of assorted pop. The man at the cash register gave us this look of "this is what you're eating?", so I felt the need to tell him "oh don't worry, this isn't the only thing we're having for dinner tonight. We're having a salad as well". (By salad I obviously mean thin crust pepperoni pizzas..)

After we'd scoffed our "salad", drinks and crisps, I went to the bathroom (not to throw up) and was riveted by a weird looking set of scales. Now, The Magic is a man of many gadgets, and when it comes to bathroom scales, it is no different. When I questioned the weirdness of his bathroom paraphernalia, Magic told me they calculated a persons body fat percentage. So naturally being geeks, we all bundled in the loo, socks off, to see how fat we were.

Holy sweet baby jesus, these scales are harsh. Their ratings go underweight, normal weight, over fat, and obese. That's it. You're either normal or fat. And the difference between normal and obese minuscule. So when Dr D and the Mag found out their percentage was their 20s, it came as a bit of a shock to all concernted that this translates to "obese". When I got on the scales, I thought "well, it'll be high, but hopefully, maybe...". I nearly fell off when it said 32.5%!

Naturally being the sensitive and caring creatures we are, we're all now taking the piss out of each other, with comments like:

"Is that a chocolate spread sandwich you're eating?"
"No. It's marmite"
"Really? "
"Yes"
"Marmite?"
"Yes"
"Notice how I've said marmite with my tone going up? Much like that 32.5%..."
"Shurrup"

It's nasty but I love it

On Monday, a very stressful day forced me to go the local shops near work so I could get my chocolate fix. In the store, whilst meandering around, trying to take as long as I possibly could, I noticed the holy grail of sugar fixes: a jar of nutella. Oh god how I love nutella. But it's the sort of thing I try to steer well away from, because it's a dirty, bad, nasty, in motel rooms kind of love, not a wholesome, meet your parents, sing you sonnets from afar sort of affair. Unfortunately, this day was bad, and like a junkie I found myself unable to walk away. I threw my £1.98 on the counter, before scurrying quickly away back.

Now, a jar of nutella at my work would not go down so well.. Why? Because everyone at work eats responsibly like an adult. I'm the one who owns the Kellogs Crunchy Nut. Everyone else has organic muesli, shredded wheat, cardboard cut into little squares with added fiber. It's all salads and bags of fruit, wholemeal, locally sourced, organic, with added nuts, ultra low fat. Naughty things like nutella have no right to an existent in our work kitchen.

Worse still, I only like my nutella, thickly spread, to the very edges, and folded in half, on nutrionally neglibable white bread. Oh yes - no wholemeal, whole wheat, whole boring brown bread with my ultra high in sugar, low in anything else, nutella. Like a criminal I have to sneak off to the kitchen, get my jar of sugar and cocoa out from the back of the top shelf of the cabinet (where I've hidden it behind all the jars of green tea that no one drinks), sneak my white bread out of the fridge (out from behind the salads and couscous). And I'm off: quickly and silently make myself up a sandwich that only 5 years old these days are eating. Once it's all put together, I only have to try to avoid any disaproving stares, appologise for the lack of fibre in the bread, and pass it off as an ultra thickly spread, zero fat marmite. Hurah! Am practically a resistence fighter. Though resistence to responsible eating doesn't quite have the same tone as covertly fighting an invading regime from taking over your country...

And you know what: my dirty, nasty love is even tastier knowing that everyone would shun me like a scarlet woman and disapprove.

Bag Envy

I have bag envy. It's not very often that it happens, and I'm not really a big "clutch" handbag girl. But I lurve this one.


It's not Dior or Chanel or Prada. It's not Louis Vitton or even Hermès.

It's The Gap. Yup. I have bag envy from that mass produced, made practically by slave trade, every 3rd person in the world can buy it, Gap. Though I feel slight shame in wanting something from The Gap so badly, I do hope it comes to London... cause I really want it. And I don't even often want girly girl things either.

What is that smell?

A friend of mine in Sydney has this theory about the laws that attract men and women. She thinks it has little to do with people having having things in common, or people enjoying each others company. She's not even that convinced it's about fancying the way someone looks, and no, it has nothing to do with someones subconscious knowing that someone elses subconscious is a perfect match. Subconsciously.

No, my friends theorem is that attraction to the opposite sex is all based on their smell. She thus sees a correlation of the rate of divorce and the number of perfumes and aftershaves sold in the world: someone smells different to what they really do, you may inadvertently fall for them because they smell like CKOne (or Christine Aguilera, hey who am I to judge?), have a whirlwind romance, get married, then the inevitable day arrives when your partner gives up making an effort for you and stops wearing that scent that made you see them as the future father of your child, and you realise you have in fact nothing in common at all with this beer swilling, TV watching, Ed Bundy, belching lout.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't actually endorse this at all. In fact, I actually think her theorem is a load of bullshit. However, what I do believe in smelling nice and I do fully endorse people wearing perfume, aftershave, what have you. I also fully endorse people wearing deodorant. Especially if you are stuck on an crowded Hammersmith and City Line train, so squashed you are practically in a strangers armpit. It's at that moment that I am a card carrying member of the "Don't Stink" party. If you think you could end up on a train this full, I implore you, for the good of the nation WEAR DEODORANT. Failing that AT THE VERY LEAST WASH AND USE SOAP. Because when a girl is squashed up against you, turning blue because she's clearly NOT breathing anymore, giving you evils, holding her hand in front of her nose, it has nothing to do with you invading her personal space and has everything to do with you giving off the odor of something akin to a small rodent crawling into a your smelly, rancid armpit, dying, and rotting. How can a healthy person make that sort of smell?

Good citizens of London: This isn't the 16th century. WASH. PLEASE. Average height and shorter women all over this big town will thank you for it.

The Four Day Thrilla in Manila

Cause that's how long I was there for. About 4 days. How uber decedent is that? It's not really answering Al-I-Just-Won-A-Nobel-Prize-For-Making-A-DVD-And-Putting-On-A-Rock-Concert Gores Call is it?

I did have a really good time. To not bore you or me with the tiny little details, such as realising I'd eaten pork in one form or another in every single meal (bar one) for the entire 4 days (and I was on holiday remember, so I did actually eat breakfast), here is my holiday, cliff notes style:

Fancy Dress
As I said, I was there to watch my mum get an award, so there were award ceremony dress issues going on. I ended up bringing with me about 3 different outfits for her to choose which she preferred. She said she liked what I'd worn to new years eve (that's me in it in my profile pic). Good news: When I got to Manila, I tried it on again, and I don't know how it happened, perhaps it expanded on the flight over, perhaps we'd flown through some weird time/space portal, perhaps trying dresses on right after I've just eaten a big meal is never a good idea, but it fit! Bad news: Her dress was almost identical, except in a different colour. No way in hell was I turning up in matching outfits. So I ended up going in a skirt C lent me, and a red satin lace up corset that I usually wear to Hollowween parties when I'm dressing up as a dominatrix. It's funny how the lack of a leather choker, short skirt, leather boots and a whip will turn a slutty top into nice formal evening wear.

Shopping
We went to Mall of Asia, which is apparently the largest shopping mall in, yup you guessed it, Asia. This place is massive, chockablock full of shops, restaurants, departments stores, an ice rink! Unfortunately they had all the same shops we get here in London, an in some of the stores they even had the exact same merchandise. I saw a dress in Zara I had bought only a month ago there. I saw winter trousers I had tried on just 2 weeks ago here. Winter trousers. In a country that doesn't get temperatures lower than their mid 20s. Why? Even more bizarely the prices where the same! I can't understand who could possibly afford those things?

So what did I end up buying after 2 hours in The Mall of Asia? Any exciting clothes or shoes or accessories? Nope. Asian Trinkets? Nope. Stationary even? (I have a love affair with stationary). Nope.

No, I went to the Mall of Asia and all I bought was a bag of pork scratchings. Uh-huh. That's it. I really am a crap specimen of a girl.

Pampering Time
I went to get a massage at the hotel health spa, which for a 75 minute Swedish shiatsu mix was only about £15. I love getting massages, and always make a bee line for the hotel massage service whenever I go away, but this. I've never had one like this. The dull ache I was feeling in my shoulders turned into a blinding, sharp, mind numbing pain afterwards. This woman was so painful, that I actually lay there squirming to try to get her to stop. But she didn't even notice! She just kept prodding, kneading, and pinching my skin with her nails. And just when it could get any worse, the woman shocked basic masseuse/client decency by farting. Twice. Loudly. Oh god no.


Top 3 most embarrassing holiday moments
Which brings me delightfully to my top 3 most embarrassing holiday moments. Hey, I was only away in Manila for 4 days. You couldn't have expected me to make a total dick of myself more than that? Right?

Number 3
Being asked to dance at the awards shindig. Why I was asked I have no idea, since I clearly looked much more interested in talking to my mum, her friends, and seeing how much free wine I could score. Not quite knowing how to say no, I got up and danced, only to be rejected one song later after I was asked if I was from San Francisco, and I said no. So much fun having the guy grab his boss or someone old, and say "here you guys should dance", and then watch him run away and grab some other poor girl. Annoyingly, I then got stuck dancing with this other guy for a bit, which did not go well because he tried to do partners dancing, but he did such a piss poor job of leading I had no idea what he was trying to do. He then proceeded to count in a really patronizing way "1 and 2 and 1 and 2 and.." with me grinning like an embarrassed fool, trying not to step on his feet or fall all on my arse. We were both extremely relieved as the song ended, cause we both dropped each others hands, turned and walked away, pretending we had never actually seen each other before..

Number 2
After the awards ceremony, in an effort to not have to dance with anyone else or in fact make contact with anyone else at all, mum and I went to the roof top bar for a drink. Embarrassing moment number 2 comes when the lounge singer, this big bloke with obligatory pony tail singing old time hits, sang a song that my mum requested. That's fine, no problems there. Unfortantely as Time Goes By is a ridiculously romantic song, and right after the "woman needs man, and man must have his mate" he stop, turns and asks mum, her friend and me "So, you have no mates here?". Mum and her friend make their excuses, so he then turns to me and asks (into the microphone no less) "No man eh. So why is that?". Great. Now I'm trying to desperately come up with an excuse that doesn't make me look like a loser as to why I'm single, drinking hard liquor, on my own. I mean, I hear that in your 30s everyone, even perfect strangers, feels that it's perfectly acceptable to openly ask you if you're single and why, but come on I've still got 4 months to go! As everyone in the bar turns to take a look at me, all thinking the same thing "oh poor girl. She's going to be an old maid. I wonder what wrong with her?", I just sit there, praying for the floor to open up so I can crawl inside, away from their pitying, acusational eyes.

Number 1
After the Lounge Singer has finished his song and interrogation of my love life, he then sits next to us (mic still in hand) and demands that I request a song. In my head I'm screaming "NOTHING, NOTHING, PLEASE GO AWAY! THE DAMAGE HAS BEEN DONE AND ALL I WANT TO DO IS SKULL MY MARTINI", but seeing as my mum's next to me, I decide that perhaps that little know trait of tact would be better employed. Now don't get me wrong. I love old time, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, Ol Blue eyes style big band songs. Heck, I even love musicals. But in a spot, with a mic pressed against my head like a gun, my mind goes completely blank. So being all witty like, I say "well, I can't think of anything right now, so maybe you could suggest a song?" to which he goes "Um, are you British or something? You sound like James Bond?". He then goes on to do his James Bond Sean Connery Mixed with Roger Moore impersonations. Oh god. He then proceeds to sing a song I can't understand because it's in Tagalog. I had to physically crush my middle finger so I could look him in the face (and he was being really quite sincere and sweet), but without the pain of my nail digging into my finger, I don't think I could have sat there without laughing my arse off, out of sheer embarrassment.

So that's pretty much it. That best describes the sum total of my little jaunt. 2 20 hour journeys, 4 days, 1 painful massage and loads of pork products. A successful little trip then!

3 hours and waiting

Am at Hong Kong airport, waiting for my return trip back to ol' Blighty, after a fantastic 4 days in Manila! I had such a good time, most of which I'm going to blog about when I get home.

I'm not really looking forward to my flight back. England was playing us Aussies at the Rugby World cup. I walked passed the packed sports bar and we were winning. I went to get myself a little snack, came back, and saw the last 5 minutes. In which time we'd managed to lose. I now have to get on a British Airways flight back to London with a bunch of smug pomps, all pleased that they beat us. By 2 points. I however will not be beaten down by these smug, beer swilling, aussie bashing, one trick ponies. I'll hold my head high on the plane, and will no reneg on my Australianism, by saying I'mBritish. I'll take the grief. Mostly by keeping my big gob shut.

This is the 3rd hour of my 4 1/2 hour wait in Hong Kong Airport. Normally I don't mind waiting that long on stop overs. It gives me a chance to look around, grab some food, check out the local oddities. Only problem is that I've already spent 5 hours in Hong Kong Aiport on my way out to Manila, so I've done everything: I've looked every single shop over. Twice. I've checked out all the restaurants and bars. I've eaten some food (some delicious, some not so good). I've flipped through all the magazines in the news agents. I've even taken a little trip on the train between terminals. Only then did I discover the joy that is free internet access!

Anyway all in all I've had such a bloody fanstastic time on my little stint away. Only problem is that since I wasn't there long enough to get my body clock in check, I've not really slept much in the last 4 days, and right now it's definitly showing. My eyes are blurry, I'm absolutely knackered, and I think I'm doing a little sleep deprivied window shopping. I've just caught myself in a jewellery shop looking at engagement rings. By myself. And believe me, I am as far away from getting married as you can possibly be. The shop assistant must have known that I was single, since the look gave me as I caught myself mesmerized by the big sparkly solitaire diamonds was so filled with distain that I might as well have been flinging myself on the counter, pulling my hair and wailing: "You're RIGHT, you're right, I know you're right!! No one is every going to marry me. I'm so loooonnneeeellllly".

Oh dear. I blame this totally on the sort of torturous sleep deprivation that drives prisoners of war insane.

Ok, only an hour left to go.. I'm off to see if I can blag my way into an executive lounge, and on this flight I am dose up on G&T's and go to sleep, so that hopefully I don't arrive in London, well frankly, pathetic.

Oh No

Calv lent me his Radio One: Established 1967 cd, which I'm listening to gràce à Li. It's a cd produced by Radio 1, with number one's from every year since 1967, covered by bands like the Foo Fighters, Stereophonics, Groove Armada, etc.

So picture this: here I was at my desk listening to "A Town Called Malice" by The Jam, covered by I had no idea, my feet are going all akimbo and me literally chair dancing at my desk and then I realise I'm bopping to Mc-Bloody-FLY!!!! McFly!! The "we're a real band, even though Mummy and Daddy have probably paid to produce our album". The "we're a real band, even though we're as fake as the Spice Girls". A band which morally I despise for everything they stand for. NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! The shame. The head in my hand, painful, ugly shame!

Damnit!!

Ok, now i am off on my hols.

Impulse

We've released our software! It's all done, and this is how we celebrated:


Yup: Bollinger. 5 bottles of Bollinger. And sweet lord was it delicious. I'm a pretty big fan of champagne, but this champagne is possibly the best I've ever tasted. It could have something to do with the fact it was mixed with the sweet taste of knowing 2 years of work was finally finished. It could have something to do with the fact it cost £52 a bottle. Who knows? All I know is that between about 4 of us we had almost 5 bottles of the stuff, and I did not have a hangover the next day. Not sure if I can keep sticking to the expensive stuff but for that one night it sure was worth ti.

Saturday a bunch of us trundled off to Oxford for the weekend for the Great British Cheese Festival, where we ate lots of free cheese (yum), drank lots of cider (yum!) and sat around on the grass having a good natter. The wierdest thing there was a guy in the cider tent on stage singing in his purple one piece jump suit. I think he might have been singing to the wrong demographic since everyone just sat there trying not to make any eye contact with him whilst he wailed about how much he missed Sebastian, his perfect guy. Then he sang about how much he hated cheese. Then he wafted on about some guy on the telly and how he wanted to go out with him, but he was on the telly. It was really, really, really random..

Speaking of random, everyone here is taking a few days off post release. Dr D is at home today and tomorrow, I presume sitting on his couch, replaying Halo 3. I on the other hand, am off to Manila tonight! My mum, who is a travel agent, has won an award with Phillipine Airlines, so has got an awards ceremony on Friday night. I've managed to wangle my way along as well, so I'm having an incredibly short holiday in the Phillipines, staring from today! Hurrah!! Warm weather! Hurrah! 5 star hotel! Hurrah! Flying 13 hours to get there! CRAP DAMNIT!

Unfortunately, the ceremony dress code is "formal", so I've had to go and find my New Years Eve dress. Which naturally doesn't quite fit me anymore (that's an exageration. It really doesn't fit me anymore. WAAHHH!). So when she called me last night to ask how my packing is coming along I casually quizzed her on what I should wear on Friday night "oh you know, nothing fancy" (Phew) "just a cocktail dress or something" (Crap. Cause I have loads of those lying about. In fact, I mopped the floors in one just last weekend) "Oh I know, the one you wore to new years eve!" (Ah. Fuck). So C and I spent about an hour going through all my clothes, many of which were inappropriate, and some which didn't fit. Damn it. Stupid body getting fat. I have to learn to STOP EATING (she says tucking into her turkey bagel).

So I probably won't be around for the next week. This holiday will either be loads of fun or just painful, with me and mum trying not to annoy each other, and me feeling like a massive heffer in Manila. Hmmm.. not sure now..