Late Night Waiter

Heard in a late night cab home:

Me: "So if I make cakes for work and people don't want to donate money, then that's ok too. I'll just say 'well Jesus will judge you'".
Calv: "No, you should say "your god will judge you""
The Magic: "So would Einstein judge me for not paying for a cake?"
Calv: "Einstein's your god? Really? I'm a bit disapointed in that"
Dr D: "Yeah me too. Not Carl Sagan?"
Me: "Yeah Mag, Einstein? Really? I would have you thought your god would be much more impressive and unknown than that"
The Magic: "Well, to be honest guys he's not. I just thought I'd pick a name you might all know".


BAH-ZING. Magic was our waiter that night. Cause we got our arses handed to us.

2 years on and 14 days left to go

That's right. 2 years ago yesterday, I started this blog out of sheer boredom. Ah, it's great to see the quality of writing is still as rubbish, with content still as random as ever.

On a secondary random note, I currently have 14 days, (well 13 days and 20 mintues but who's being pinicky), of my 20s. I realised recently that I've been cheating myself out of my 29th year by constantly forgetting I'm not actually 30 yet.. I find myself reading lots of "now you're in your 30s" articles on the net, miscalculating people's ages, and generally, forgetting how old I am. I actually have to keep reminding myself that I'm 29. Well, I at least get to do that for the next 14 days...

So how do I feel about that hitting my 30's? I'm not sure yet... Part of me has resigned myself to the inevitablity of getting older, that it's just another year, and it probably won't make much of a difference to my day to day life..

And part of me is seriously FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.

30. In my 30's. Three. Zero. No longer 20's. No longer late, late 20's. In mah early 30's. And that's just a slipperly down hill slope to my 40s.

ARGGHH.

Seriously, double Makauley Culkin Home Alone screaming: AAAAAAHHRRGGH.

30.

The only plus side to having only 14 days left of my 20s is that we're well into Birthday Season! For the uninitiated, Birthday Season is the 19 days before my birthday, where I get to do pretty much anything I like. Why? Cause it's Birthday Season. How does it differ from every day life? Cause I get to say "but come on, it's Birthday Season!".

We (not the royal We, but The Magic, Dr D and I) started it off with a bang last Friday with pints of finest ale, 2 bottles of champagne, many mojitos and ameretto (which I haven't drunk since my mid 20s, which kinda makes sense since the guy who keeps buying ameretto is turning (in his words) the "Big 2 5" (ah shut the fuck up)). Birthday Season then proceeded with lovely hangover at orchestra on Saturday, and an afternoon watching Superman II (the Donner Version - it's freakin random) on the Magic's MASSIVE HD Wall of Cinematic Beauty, lying on his couch, eating fish and chips. Ah so good.

On a quick random aside, Christopher Reeves when he is arguing with Marlon Brando about wanting to run away with the cool Louis Lane (not the whiney annoying Kate Boswell, yuck) is seriously, seriously hot. Don't believe me? Check it out for yourself: Superman, angst, cuteness, petuently arguing with this Dad about why he can't quit his caped life and go get some. ANGST. So cool. You can keep your Batmans and your spideys. Superman rocks. (Ok, seriously: I'm writing about Superman being cool. How can I be mature enough to be in my 30s in 14 days time? Honestly? There should be some sort of test you have to pass before you leave your 20s to check if you're emotionally and mentally ready..)



Tonight C & I (who's also celebrating her own birthday season), went to a private opening of the British Science Museum, where we got a tour of the Age of Computing exhibition, (yes, I was kinda excited about it, yes cause I'm really quite sad). We got to see Charles Babagges Difference Machine 2, and a picture of Ada Lovelace to which I wanted to whisper to C "she was boffing Babbage you know. It's in all the computing science books. First time uber nerds got to shag ever, so it's all the university material, as a beacon of hope to nerds universally that some other geek will find your own brand of sadness endearing and sexy".

So there you go. Birthday Season, 20s, 30s, Superman being a total hottie. Here's to another year of total Panda randomness....

Another restaurant struck of the list

Where have I been? No where in particular, just busy. Cook alongs, Australia Day BBQ parties/house warming parties, work... I have some posts I have to finish, but to make up for it, I offer a wee tale of embarrassment that happened to me last night, to keep you all amused...

I have a knack of getting myself remembered at restaurants (like the Yo! Sushi I go to where the waitress seems to think I work or live or huddle in a gutter nearby seeing as I eat there so often). Well, it seems I've done it again.

Our local Chinese is fab. I know that buffets are not peoples ideas of haute cuisine, and having had some amazing Chinese food in China last year, this is not exactly up there with the greatest chow in the land. But it's good. And it's 2 minutes from our front door. And a young male waiter is always really friendly with us, and when we walk in, he'll automatically bring us chop sticks, a diet coke, 3 Tsing Taos and know we'll herd ourselves to the family feedbag that is endless crispy duck with pancakes.

Well now he has another reason for remember who I am...

Last night I went out with our work Social club for our annual meal (and to be honest, free piss up). After our thai food, much debate of the events this year, the budget, gossiping about whom we don't like, and 8 bottles of wine between 5 of us, I went home a little bit, well, smashed. Unfortunately my ability to keep the crazy in doesn't work so well with that much white wine sloshing about, cause when I got off the bus, I passed our local Chinese restaurant, and saw all the waiters and chefs inside their little gated bit next drinking tea, smoking, and generally relaxing after a hard night of work. I then saw the waiter who is always really nice to us. Now remember, the crazy is spilling out everywhere, so I stop, and say in probably glass shatteringly loud levels "HELLO!! IT'S YOU!! YOU'RE FINISHED FOR THE NIGHT EH?! HELLO!!!". (oh the shame, the shame). So he gets up, cigarette in hand, opens the gate, speaks to me for a bit, asks if I want to come join them inside, to which thankfully I managed to mumble "no thanks, I'm stumbling home", then totter myself down the street.

So when Dr D suggested (and I'm sure his motivating factor was not the endless supply of spring rolls) that we go there for dinner tonight I flatly refused. I am not going back, as I will die of shame and pray that the ground opens up and swallows me whole.

Well, at least until the calling for crispy duck is too great for me to turn down... So I give it a week?

So Sincere

Me: Wow, I can't believe this time next week she'll be a mother! I'm so excited for her
Dr D: Yeah. Woo hoo. Excited. Yup
Me: God you're so sincere aren't you?
Dr D: Yeah. Course I am. You look nice today. See. Sincere me.

When you need to find a new sushi place

Whilst at the register at Yo Sushi! paying for the bill:

Waitress: "That'll be £30."
Me: "Ok"
Waitress: "Excuse me, but do you work for Shell?"
Me: "Um.. no?"
Waitress: "Oh ok. But you do live around here don't you?"
Me: "Um.. no?"
Waitress: "Oh ok. (Pause) So why have I seen you so many times in here?"
Me: "Um... I like sushi? (mumbles) I'll probably be back here next Tuesday..."

So is it time to find a new Yo Sushi!? Or is it cool that my sushi restaurant is becoming like Cheers, where they all know my name and my order of Hairy Prawns and Ikura Gunkan? I'm not sure yet...

What NOT to say at a vegan festival

When working at a vegan festival (remember, no animal products of any kind. No meat, no dairy, no eggs, no leather, no honey) here are some things you shouldn't say to customers. Definitely don't say any of these, then fall over yourselves laughing about it. (Oh I'll never be asked to work the stall again!)

1) Hmmm hammy
"This lady wants to know what are these shoes called?"
"Parma"
"Oh, you mean like the ham?"
"Um... more like the city...."

2) More baby seal skin
"So can you tell what the differences are between these two pairs of boots?"
"Well they are very similar, both water proof, both very sturdy, great for walking, so they're almost exactly the same. Well, except this pair is fur lined.... "
(me thinking: "oh shit!")
"Um, not mink though!"
(Me getting stern look)
"Um.. not fur of any kind... You're absolutely right sir, that wasn't funny at all..."

3) Beeatch
"So being a vegan means they don't believe in cruelty towards animals right? But cruelty towards humans is totally fine? So like that old bat being a bitch just now? That's completely within her ethos huh?"

4) The Colonel
"So what are you protesting about today?"
"The terrible things that KFC have done. It's an outrage and an abomination"
"You know you're right! It is an outrage they stopped doing hot and spicy chicken. I love that stuff, it was the best. All crunchy on the outside and spicy inside... And it's never quite been the same since. But still, an abominations a bit heavy going don't you think??"

You'll wish you'd never said that

Retraction: Following a little hissy fit by the eminent Dr D, I've retracted this post (well the offensive word he called me).

Conversation between me and Dr D:

Me: "Did you run in to work in that shirt?"
Dr D: "Yup"
Me: "Hold on, didn't you wear that shirt yesterday?"
Dr D: "Yup"
Me: "What did you sleep in that shirt too?"
Dr D: "Um...." looking sheepishly "yeah, I think I did!"
Me: "You know, when someone asks you something you don't always have to tell the truth!"
Dr D: "But I find that honesty is the best policy though, wouldn't you say so Ch(ed: deleted to keep the peace)*?"
Me: "Oh you're going to pay for that"

And so it starts for yet another week.

* - due to overwhelming screeching, the actual phrase used by Dr D had to be removed.

What not to do when someone is really hungry and tired

Me: “When you get to Benugo’s can you buy me and eggs florentine?”

Dr D: “If they don’t have that?”
Me: “If they don’t have that, then an eggs benugo, or the other one with the salmon. In fact, buy me anything to eat, I’m really exhausted and really hungry.”
Dr D: “So basically, we could just get you some roadkill, wrap it up, add some sauce, and you’d eat that you’re so not fussy today.”
Me: “Don’t be mean. I’m very tired”
Dr D: “ You know, I have half a mind to not buy you anything at all, even if they do have what you want, just to see you sit there and cry.”
Me: “hmm.”

Don’t be mean to the girl with the blog, and the finickiness to blog you being mean.

Overheard in a music store

Why is it that people who play random instruments seem more often than not a insanely posh? I was standing in this tiny music store to return a cello case, and a woman was being served, who must have played the harp, based on how she was going on about this harp tuner and that piece of music, but I realised how unposh I am (especially in my jeans and trainers) when the shop keeper and the woman had this conversation: (now remember: You have to read this with the west london, sloaney fake Gwyneth "I'm English" accent:)


Shop keeper: "Oh I promised myself I wouldn't eat anything today but I'm getting frightfully peckish now"
Harpy Woman: "I do know what you mean! I have to go to a gastly nibbles party tonight, so I'll have to pop out and get myself a bite to eat soon. Did you know that my 9 year old son was told off in his IT class for listening to Elgar. So I thought I'd buy him some music so he can have a bash about at it!"
Shop Keeper: "That is lovely isn't it! And of course he'll be able to play some of it naturally"

Gastly? Bash About? ELGAR? Playing ELGAR at 9? I mean I like Elgar but I'm 29 and the Elgar pieces I like I can't even play it! What sort of freak at 9 is this kid? Enough to make me feel inadequate! If you'd like to see what I mean, check this out from youtube:



I can not play like this and I do not do any of these uber serious facial expressions, unless she starts to manically giggle whilst playing which I'll admit, I do do sometimes. Usually when I've just fucked something up...

First post as a Brit

Yes, here it is. My first post as an Aussie-Brit (sorry, I just can't get myself to say my nationality without sticking "aussie" in there first).

I've been insanely busy for the last week, which is not much of an excuse for my slackness with my blogging, but it has meant that this is the first time in 7 days I've managed to get time to sit down and write. This mostly has to do with my ruddy job. Stupid salary paying job. Expecting me to actually work for a living. Bastards.

The Citizenship ceremony:According to the website, the British citizenship ceremony is supposed to be something to mark the occasion of becoming British with a memorable event. This meant that we all had to get dressed up, go to the local town hall, and stand in front of which ever mayor (past or present) turned up, who came into the main room, all dressed in her ceremonial robes. The ex-mayor who presided over us was this woman so short and small I actually thought she was a midget. Turns out, it was a bit deceiving because the man in front of her, holding her Mayrol stick (used for changing the TV channels or for poking the people pealing her grapes I'm guess) was such a massive circus freak of a giant, it made this petite woman look look like a 3 child. I almost burst out laughing when I saw her. Not very stoic and British of me. After some speeches, we all had to individually say our names, and swear the oath to "give my loyalty to the United Kingdom" and to Liz. Next came the "singing" of the national anthem (well, I say "singing" in the loosest possibly term. Almost everyone mumbled their way through it, except for the comedy duo act of Calv and Dr D, who were on the balcony yelping their guts out, albeit slightly off key. I've been told that singing God Save The Queen without having your arms raised in the arm, excepting to see football players (be it rugby or soccer) try to murder each other and screaming "COME ON EN-GER-LAND!" afterwards is very strange indeed).

The whole thing was actually really fun. Calv, Dr D and C came to watch me take the oath so I can now go and live in France if I want without need of any visas. It was very weird, but everyone who was there, all 40 or so of us, were all grinning from ear to ear. I guess we all must have been thinking about the hard slog we had to endure for 5 years to get to this point, and if you've been here so long, you must have embraced some of the country (heck, they make you pass a "Life in the UK" test before you can even apply to check you know something about Britain) so by standing in that room, you were saying you too wanted to be part of it .

During the ceremony, I am ashamed to admit, but at one point I almost cried. I found that my mind started to wander, and I started to think about how long it had been since I'd lived in Sydney, and about everyone I left behind, especially my mum and dad, and what sort of life I could have had back home. The two options I think would have been still living with my folks, without much having changed since I was 21, or married, squeezing out sprogs. Would I have been happier? Who knows. What I do know is that I'm glad I stuck it out, because this is what I'd wanted from the moment I realised that my sponshorship lead straight to that little maroon passport at the end of it all. So all the homesickness, and missing friends and family, and leaving everything familiar I guess has been worth it. Plus, I do have an amazing network of people around me, which has seriously kept me sane (though barely!) for the last almost 2190 days in England.

As for my gift: I've been asked about this already. No, to my great disappointment I did not get condoms or a AK-47, which I think really would have captured the spirit of South East London. No instead I got this delightful passport holder, emblazoned with the Southwark Councils crest, and a little "Southwark" on the bottom. Just in case immigration in some foreign country ever wanted to exactly where in London I'm from. I'm actually a bit disappointed. Not that at this point in time I'm ever going to need one, but you know, a pregnancy test with "Your Courtesy of Southwark Council" would have been more apt for the area...

And finally, after the ceremony the two most hilarious, classic, only in Britain, racist things happened, (which are actually quite funny):

1) The compair was congratulating us all, and asking how we all feel. Then he said "OK, so now
you're all British, you have to go home and start eating roast beef, and roast spuds, and Yorkshire puddings. Remember, that means no more peas and rice OK!"
2) When I went to hand in my form to the photographer so he could send my pics back of me shaking the ex-mayors hand, he asked me:

"ok, you're the girl from New Zealand right?"
"no, I'm Australian" (me thinking 'there weren't even any New Zealanders at the ceremony!')
"Oh, that's right. Ok, I'm just going to write something on your form down, you know, just to help me remember who you are, and make sure I send you the correct photo"
"Um ok"

He, with a perfectly straight face, writes down: Australian. Chinese Looking.

For some reason, that made me laugh my arse off. Not in the least because I don't even look Chinese... What a welcome to Britain eh.

Humph

People constantly bring goodies from their holidays into our kitchen at work, for everyone to enjoy, and to show off the fact they've been on holiday, and not in our damned office. Today, someone brought in nougat and biscuits.

When I went this afternoon to try my first bit of nougat, someone walked into the kitchen just as I was about to put a piece in my mouth, and said "You know the first place that's going to don't you? Straight to your hips".

Humph... I know I'm carrying a little bit of holiday weight, but honestly...

Could anything else go wrong?

I asked the Flatmate to go pick up the keys for my new place this afternoon at 5pm. I was wondering why he was only leaving the house at 10 past 5, but heck, I don't want to be accused of "reminding" him about his time keeping techiniques, so I was keeping my trap shut.

So on the phone to him just now, he's just said "ok I'm on a bus on the way to your place"
Me: "My place? Why? You're supposed to go to Canary Wharf!"
The Flatmate: "Canary Wharf? Why?"
Me: "You're getting them from the estate agents"
The Flatmate: "What? I thought I was getting them from your flat? I was just about to knock on their door and ask for the keys"
Me: "What the hell would you do that for? I said the estate agents! That's why you could get them at lunch time when you were in Canary Fucking Wharf"
The Flatmate: "Oh... bugger eh".


For fucks sake. Can anything go smoothly with this fucking house?

End of week insults

Dr D is texting a "girl" on his phone, smiling his little "ooh baby" smile, and looking quite smug.

Me: "Oh look at you, with the big grin, trying to look all intelligent now"
Dr D: "I don't have to try to look intelligent, it's a given. So there lower IQ girl, since mine is higher than yours"
Me: "Only by 1 point you know"
Dr D: "Yeah but a point's a point, and I'm smarter so nyer".

Deadly Flannel

Me, walking past Calv's desk at work, spot a flannel shirt, very similar to one I loved when I was in high school (hey! I know what you're thinking, but in the early 90's flannel rocked. Just watch reruns of "Party of 5". That dude from Lost isn't so cool now is he).

Me: "Oh look, I used to own a flannel shirt just like this" (pick up "shirt")

Me: "OH MY GOD, IT'S NOT HIS SHIRT, IT'S HIS BOXERS!!! EEEEK"

Me: Run to the bathroom to wash of the boy germs of my hands, because those boxers have been under his desk for the last 4 years, and I don't want to catch cooties.

Painfully time between Christmas and New Years

Painful not emotionally, but physically, soley due to eating too much roast pork, smoked salmon, m&m's, rolos, Christmas pudding, Christmas Mince Pie Ice cream, cream in general, roasted spuds, crackers, cheese and chorizo. Unfortunately, none of my pain was booze related, for I couldn't try as I might, muster up any desire to drink. I hope I'm not getting old.

I'm currently gripped in the horror of realising I've eaten too much over Chritmas and am now carrying a fair old chunk of holiday weight, right in time for a New Years Eve. And, as you can see from the following conversation, I'm taking it very, very seriously:

K: "So do you want me to bring over a curry or chinese take away for dinner tonight"
Me: (slightly indignantly) "Neither thank you very much. I'm trying to not eat too much before New Years, because I have to fit into a dress, so I intend to eat either very healthily, or nothing at all, for the next 3 days"
K: "Oh ok. Um.. Are you eating right now?"
Me: (Not so indignant now) "Umm.. yeah.."
K: "What are you eating?"
Me: (in a very small, embarrased voice) "Big slice of cold roast pork, wedge of stilton cheese and a couple of crackers"
K: "You sure you don't want a take away then?"
Me: (resigned) "Oh, go on, bring us a large fish and chip then"

I'm hoping to be back before NY's, but if not, I hope you had a lovely Christmas, and a fantastic New Years. I'm off to a hotel in Kensington with 15 good friends, dinner, dancing in a ball room, and the dress above that I might need to be sewn into because I've chubbed up a treat in the last week!

Random Conversations on My "Friday"

1. Quote The Flatmate: "But surely any type of fisting can't be good?"

2. Upon opening our advent calenders today 6 DAYS LATE:
The Flatmate: "ooh my milkybar advent calender today says 'Santa's coming'"
me: "Eww.. and it's white!"

So very childish. So very funny.

Today is "Friday" for me. I've got Friday off. I'm doing sweet fuck all tomorrow. Tools down time everyone. Tools down.

My Perfect Guy

I am the sort of geek that loves a unix text editor called vi. You can keep your Word's or notepad's or whatever. Give me my text based editor that scorns mice, and uses only keystrokes to do everything. It rocks so much that I even wrote my thesis using it. But even as a sad geek, I am quite ashamed of this conversation today:

Me: "Why don't you pipe everything to a text file, and use vi to globally replace the commands, make the file executable, and run it. Loads easier"
Guy at work: "That's not a bad idea.. god you love vi don't you?"
Me: "Yeah, I do. If vi where a guy, I'd marry him. "
Guy at work: "Really?"
Me: "Yeah, and if vi were a guy, he'd be hot and everything. I'd definitely ask him for his number, go out for a date, romance him a bit, then marry and have his kids"
Guy at work (clearly losing any tiny bit of respect he might have had for me): "hmmm... ok.. that's pretty geeky"

Cruelty Free With Added Punches

Calvin's sister, Li, who owns and runs veganstore.co.uk, asked me to help her on her stall at the Cruelty Free Christmas Fair yesterday. I jumped at the chance, because for years I'd listened in wonder of tales of the crazies who go to these shows, and I wanted to see them for myself. Plus I secretly quite like playing shop.

Once I got over my paranoia that people would be able to tell that I enjoy barely cooked steak and wearing leather just by looking at me, I really, really enjoyed myself. And whilst I knew being vegan isn't at all easy, with so many things being on the no-no list like meat, diary, or KFC Bargain buckets, I never appreciated all the little things someone who wants to be cruelty free can't eat, like fudge, jelly babies, white chocolate or marshmellows. And it's because Li sells all these things, and especially the little tuck shop bags of sweets, that meant we were completely swamped all day. We started the day with nearly 1000 bags of mixed, gelatine free lollies like licorice all sorts, jelly beans, dolly sweets, and within 4 hours had sold out completely.

At the end of the day, Li sent me home with loads of vegan chocolate and a couple of bags of vegan soya based cajun bacon flavoured jerky. Being a fully fledged meat eater, I feel strange about eating something I know is completely cruelty free, so I in order to keep a balance in the universe in check with the amount of cruelty I inflict on animals when I normally eat something, I am forced to punch the Flatmate everytime I eat a piece of the delicious dark, milk free chocolate. And to bring balance to the force, after a day spent being at a vegan fair, when I got home the Flatmate made me a lovely dinner of net caught tuna and pasta, with added dolphin for flavour.

As for the crazies? Unfortunately I didn't meet any of them, as every one was just incredibly friendly. Though, I did have a very wierd conversation with one wide eyed woman about soya milk:

Lady: "Do you sell soya milk? I'm looking for soya milk".
Me: "Soya milk? No, but we do have this vegan whipping cream, just in time for Christmas"
Lady: "Whipping cream? Cream is made with milk."
Me: "No, no, this is vegan whipping cream. It's made with soya "
Lady: "Cream? No I want soya"
Me: "This is soya."
Lady: "You said cream? This is a vegan festival you know"
Me: "No, this is whipping cream made of soy. It's completely vegan"
Lady: "No, I want soya milk, not soya cream. Didn't you hear me? Do you sell soya milk?"
Me: "No" (me thinking: oh go bugger off.)

An analogy I'd never imagined could have existed

At orchestra on Saturdays, we're forced to endure 45 minutes of music theory, where we learn about key signatures, timing, scales (minor, major) and crap like that. Why? I guess it's supposed to make people better musicians. Me, I just wanna play. Whilst this sounds painful and boring, it's not nearly as bad as The Magic's class, where he has to endure patronising git conductor forcing them to read out load from a book like they are in primary school and who a few weeks ago, threw a pen at him for texting in class. The Magic is in his 30s. How you can throw a pen at a man in his 30s for texting in a music class I'll never understand.

Anyway, in our class, we have lots of really posh, annoying git's, who say things like "Oh the minor 7th! I can always recognise the minor 7th, because it's the beginning notes from Tristan and Isole" (which has me thinking "Tristan and his ol'? Tristan and his ol' what? Dog? Wig?)".

This culminated into the most random analogy that a middle aged, white haired, posh, tory loving, poor people hating woman came out with this week:

Old Bat: "Oh I do try to write in the trebble clef, but I find it awfully hard"
Teacher: "Well, why not just write in alto clef then?"
Old Bat: "Oh I couldn't do that, that's just would not be acceptable! It would be like being an immigrant to this country, and not learning how to speak English"


Holy fuck. My eyebrow could not have gotten any higher as I looked at the floor in front of her with sheer disbelief mixed with a good dash of repulsion. That people like this actually exist amazes me.

Shocking the old biddies with dogs

The Flatmate and I discovered a documentary called "The Aristocrats" last night, which we had to keep flicking to and from, because I honestly don't think we could have watched it in one go. Made in 2005, it's a documentary about the infamous longstanding dirty joke told amongst comedians, where the premise and punchline are the same, but it's the joke's midsection which the teller reworks to be anything they want, as long as it's completely improvised, is how this is used as a mental stretching exercises. The language and situations described are as foul and nasty as the dirtiest joke you've ever heard, but the shock value is only half the joke. The other half is how cleverly the comic can mix an mix the scatological material with the ultimate perversions. Blood, vomit, incest, bestiality, group sex, necrophilia, etc. are all blended together into a 'shock' joke as extreme as the teller can make it.

The joke involves a person pitching an act to a talent agent. Typically the first line is, "A man walks into a talent agent's office." The man then describes the act. From this point, up to (but not including) the punchline, the teller of the joke is expected to ad-lib the most shocking act they can possibly imagine.

In this documentary, about 100 comedians reminisce, analyze, deconstruct and deliver their own versions of the world's dirties joke. Each story is different, some of which are absolutely hilarious, some made us cringe, and some forced us wrestle for the remote to try and change the channel as soon as possible before the last vestiges of decency got sucked out of our bodies. Watching Carrie Fisher explain how her "mother was the queen of golden showers" was particularly disturbing, especially if you've ever watched "Singing in the Rain".

At our usual morning coffee break in Benugo, I was trying to explain this film to K and P from work, when I noticed this middle aged, extremely middle class, Daily Mail reading posh woman standing next to us, unconvincingly trying to look like she was wasn't eavesdropping on our conversation. Normally trying to freak out middle aged women is not something I do, but this old bat just got on my nerves so I started graphically explaining some of the film. To her credit she stuck around for the incest, group sex, defecation parts, but it was when I said "You know dog-fucking and arse fisting seem to be a very popular topic amongst these people", that she finally gave up, looked at me with a shocked "you working class, dirty, common slut" look in her eye, and ran for her life out the Benugos. She especially didn't seem to appreciate it when she looked back at me in the window and I beamed her a big old smile and a wave.

Ah, who says that TV is a bad influence?