Me in M&M form

Clearly whilst being very busy at work, I stumbled across this from those crazy kids at M&M.

Try it, it's fantastic fun!

For The Flatmate

Whilst watching an episode of 'Friends', Ross' g/f comes in and finds them playing Strip Happy Days, and goes "Ok, I'll catch up" and takes her top off.

The Flatmate: "Damnit! I came in late, and only saw the end of that!"
Me: "Damnit! If only we had a tivo box of some type which was recording what we were watching!"
The Flatmate: "Damnit! And if only that tivo box meant I could rewind and see her in her bra!"
Me: "Well why don't you then?"
The Flatmate: "Well, I would, but if I did, you'd blog it."


The Flatmate - you're so damn right.

Screaming my rebel yell

Since Friday night, roughly 60 hours ago, this is the sum total of all I've eaten:

• Approx 2 dozen pieces of chicken wings. All with hot sauce.
• 2 servings of fries
• 2 x 1/4 massive serving of nachos
• 1/2 a family size bag of corn chips
• 1 whole rack of baby back ribs, fries, and 'slaw
• 1 serve Chinese noodles
• 6 pints of beer (I think...)
• Too many bottles of beer to count
• Cocktails - including shots (too many to count + don't actually remember how many I had bought for me)

A truley mature, healthy and varied diet huh?

This is how the blame is being organised for this weekend of glut:

1. Beer/shots/beer/shoots/first serve of chicken wings: Going out on Friday night after my ex-ex boyfriend told me he was definitely moving to Ireland to be with his g/f, even though he told me he would never leave Australia when I moved to London. I needed all the extra beer and shots to help me fuel me for the inevitable drink and dial I ended up doing...
   
2. 1/2 family size bag of corn chips: Being horrendously hung over on Saturday morning, dragging my sorry arse onto the couch, and finding a pack of Doritos on the table. I had to substitute my coke/corn chip cure for just corn chips and water to try and feel human enough to go to orchestra...
   
3. Beer/Fries/Ribs + fries + slaw/cocktails: Hair of the dog + we were going out for dinner anyway... AND I can't go to Bodeans and not have ribs.. That would just be plain wrong.
   
4. The Beer+Wings+Nachos Blowout: Superbowl Sunday and watching the Chicago Bears bend over and receive a spanking from the Colts.
   

In fact, this whole weekend has just been one big be as naughty as I can possibly be weekend.

Firstly: The ex-ex: I believe that all phones should have the "Don't Make An Arse Of Yourself" feature, where it recognises when you're drunk and if you call a number you KNOW you shouldn't, either blocks said number from being dialed, or at the very least gives you a recorded message with something like "if you make this phone call, you know you will end up waking up tomorrow, realising that you've made a complete tit of yourself, and end up wishing you were dead, because frankly, your now in your late 20's and you're still acting like a fucking teenager".

Damn you Drink+Dial. I don't really remember what I said but I'm sure it contained the words "why didn't you move for me? What the fuck was wrong with me?" and "you bastard", even though I know that this is not this guys fault, and it was like 1000 years ago for fuck sake, and given the choice, I wouldn't have changed a single thing, because we both know it all worked out for the best anyway.

Secondly: C and I bunked off 3rd period musicianship class at orchestra this Saturday, because 1) we couldn't stand listening to Viola Woman drone on and on about crap that has nothing to do with the class, 2) the sun was actually shining, and we wanted to sit and bask in it's cancer omitting rays. I've never bunked off class in high school, and I felt like such a rebel. I was practically Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club (though obviously without the being a boy and smoking dope bit).

Thirdly: HOW MUCH JUNK HAVE I EATEN THIS WEEKEND? I can't add up all those calories because I don't believe numbers can get that big. The Superbowl has the most to answer to for my poor diet. Despite the fact that I know nothing American football, I happily used Superbowl Sunday as my excuse for staying up until 3.30 am on a school night, help demolish 2 massive Pyrex serving dishes of nachos + guacamole, drink copious amounts of beer, and gorge myself on delicious spicy, buffalo chicken wings. The Flatmate and I went to Dr K's and Calv's house last night, where they cheered the colts, and I of course cheered on the Bears.. who lost. Typical. Calv and his friend Mappy were supposed to do a podcast for their website, which I was going to special guest star on, so on Sunday morning, (with another hangover), I boned up on my Superbowl knowledge. I was desperate to say on the podcast how I believed that "Chicago would take a very similar approach to what they did in the NFC Championship game against the Saints, and play a very physical game." And how I thought that "The Bears would try and get as many hits on Manning as they could, whilst their corners would do all they could within the rules to manhandle the Colts receivers and throw off the timing of their passing game." However we never recorded the podcast, and around 2 am, I kept falling asleep, waking up, eating some more chicken, taking a slug of beer, then fall asleep again.

Ok, this week I'm going to be uber virtuous and v angelic. I'm going running and cycling, eating only salads, fish and low fat soups.

OOOHH, someone at work just gave me a caramel egg... Ok right after this I'm going to good.

Who am I kidding, I just can't do virtuous and angelic.. I'd best just go buy myself some eatin' pants.

In Loving Memory

There will be no Friday Moment of Zen this week for 2 reasons:

1) I wanted to talk about the gorgefest that Sunday night will be thanks to the Superbowl. I don't even watch american football, but any excuse to eat nachos, buffalo wings, ribs, and guzzle bottles of beer is ok with me (I'm so classy!). And whilst I do have a full post about Gorgefest Sunday Superbowl, I can not find any pictures of chicken wings that do them justice.

2) Today's entry will be in loving memory of The Flatmates Nintendo Wii.

Which I apparently bricked by sending him an email.

Oh yes, that's right. The Flatmate's Wii, which we got him for Christmas, and which you can not now buy for love or money is bricked. Dead. Fucked. Gone. Bye bye.

Apparently by sending him an email which has loads of html tags in it (who knew that a Eurostar itinerary could so lethal?), I've managed to kill his Wii. It starts up, begins to play the Wii music, then boom. Dead. It just stops working. He's been on the phone with Nintendo customer support, and they've never seen this before, so he's now had to send it back the very same day he bought a brand new controller so we could play 3 player Mario Carts.

Oops.

So to help stop him from topping himself, we took him out last night to get a bit pissed. And in loving memory of the games console that everyone wants, but no one can get, I'm missing out on the Friday Moment of Zen, because for him, there can no longer be zen like state of being.

Embarrassing Kareoke Flashbacks

I've just had the most embarrasing flashback of me standing in my living room, mic in hand, singing my guts out to Belinda Carlise's "Heaven is a place on earth":

"OOOH baby do you know what that's worth?
OOOH heaven is a place on earth
They say in heaven, love comes first
OOOH heaven is a place on earth
You make heaven a place on earth...."

Oh dear.... I thought it was a bit wierd that I seemed to know all the words.....

So here I sit at my desk, blushing slightly, starting off quietly singing, though gradually getting louder and louder, until people start throwing things at me to try and stop the music: "you know we're just beginning, to understand the miracle of living, I know I was scared before, but I'm not AFRAID ANYMORE!!! OOOH BABY DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT'S WORTH? OOOH HEAVEN IS A PLACE ON EARTH!"

I know no shame.

The mother of all parties

We had our 6th Annual Australia Day (now with added Witangi Day) BBQ party on Saturday night for possibly the last time ever. What with The Flatmate moving back to Oz, and me moving into my new apartment, both of us are leaving our current mother of all parties house for much more sensible, grown up, less teenage abodes. Our flat does seriously rock when it comes to throwing a damn fine knees up mother brown shindig, as we seem to be able to make as much noise as we like, make as much smoke as we like from numerous bbq's on the balconies, party on until 7am, play singstar and screech so loud you could hear it about 1/2 a mile away (apparently), and we still know no fear of our neighbours complaining or calling the cops. We think this mostly has to do with the fact that our neighbours aren't legally allowed to live in their "flat" because it's zoned to be an office, and not as a house, and since we hate them, we really don't care. (Childish? Oh yes, absolutely).

As it was a bbq, I prepared all the food on Friday night before going out, so we had tandoori lamb, pork tocino, big fat chorizo sausages and adobo chicken. I figured everyone else would bring all the standard fair of bangers and vege crap anyway. And as it was a celebration of all things antipodean, I made a pavlova (well, two in fact because I started to make it after I had a few drinks and then my friend C and I got the temperatures wrong, and baked it at 250C not 250F... we only noticed it's blackened charcoal like texture when the fire alarm went off... ooh masterchef, eat your heart out!). My friend from Oz C made some delicious Anzac biscuits, and a mate P made lamingtons. It's amazing when you immigrate to another country how it's the little things like snack foods and deserts, which you can get freely in your home country, but after years way, are the ones that make the biggest impact on you.. each bite of a lamington or an anzac brings back feelings of nostalgia for backyard swimming pools, scorching summers in December, cicadas, and friends and family... The humble pavlova is enough to make grown antipodean men weep (and grown antipodean women quake with fear of demolishing the whole cream laden thing and growing sideways...).


This years Aussie day bbq was definitely one of our most successful ones to date. Starting at 6pm, it ended with the last few scragglers leaving our house to a rising sun at 7am.. Loads of drinks, food, and of course the obligatory singstar all made their mark over the 13 hours of parting down.. If it seems that singstar is all we do at our shindigs, well... you'd be damn right. I now seem to own every single one of those damn kareoke playstation games, and they are so fucking addictive! There is nothing more fantastic than watching your friends try to battle it out and out sing each other on cheesy classics like "Gold" by Spandau Ballet, "Little Respect" by Erasure (DAMN YOU MAGIC! He beat me by only a tiny fraction.. i swear that man practices!), and my person favorite "Sweet Home Alabama" (yeehaw!). One of our directors from work came with his wife, and at 5 am, after we'd turned the playstation off, jumped up, mic in hand and said "COME ON GUYS! We have to crank it up! Let's start singing!!". You have to understand, we only started up again because he's the boss, and not because we're sados... Fuck it, I don't care, I'm not proud. I love singstar. What I love about is that it's the people who come over and think that it's going to be really sad and pathetic are always the ones that end up releasing their secret rock god, complete with Pete Townsend style windmilling, finishing songs with a rock and roll arm in the air, head held high, score way down low... it's so much fun!

My top 5 for this year's party is:

1. None of our furniture caught on fire (unlike one year, when ignited absinthe spilled out all over our coffee table!)
2. Everyone who threw up did it either outside or in the toilet (unlike last year.. very very messy... )
   
3. There are reports of people not recovering until 5pm Sunday night
   
4. I didn't pass out, wake up at 5 in my bed, still in my clothes, and think "oh, the party's over! And everyones gone home!"
5. Dr K, who is one of the worst singers alive, who still loves doing it anyway, decided to trash talk one of the girls from work, who was so excited about singstar.. As she warbled away, he yelled out "Come on! Try and sing at least one note!", to which she turned around, screamed "I'm trying my best!" and then threw the mic straight at his head... That really makes me giggle!
   

I'll post some pictures tomorrow, some of which are priceless... Least of which is one of our friends in the "sex hat" (a leather biggles hat someone brought to our place years ago, but which neither the Flatmate or myself can come around to touching to give it back to them, because it really, really, really does look like a gimp mask...), my "high maintenance mask" and pavlova all over his face...

Ah, what a fantastic way to celebrate Australia Day...

Your Friday Moment of Zen: Happy Australia Day....

Well it's Australia Day today, or if you're aboriginal it's "Invasion Day", when white settlers came to decimate your people, destroy your culture, and kill your homeland.

Anyway, since it's Australia Day, and I'm a wee bit homesick, I was trying to find all things aussie related on YouTube.. then I stumbled across this... It's cheesy badness makes it very, very amusing, and for some reason this kid's done a video of the crappy suburb that I come from, Cherrybrook (why is there a wiki page on Cherrybrook??? I really don't understand). If you do watch this, I live just down the road from the roundabout near the shopping centre... I actually think this kids backyard is right near my house.....

If this is not your cup of tea, then I've included this one below, which is a) a timelapse video of sydney b) a shamless advertisment for some guys website.



Just one last thing, I do not actually know the kid who made the cheesy doco, but I do sincerely appologise for his mispronounciation of Nova Scotia... I'm cringing all the way from London.

Friday Moment of Zen: All things aussie and cheesy bad.

Barely Breathing

Some things should come with health warnings: cigarettes, alcohol, intravenous drugs, the Amelie soundtrack.

I've been listening to this for about a week non stop at work. I love Amélie (où <<Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain>>) the movie, MAIS la musique du film... Mon dieu!

Composed by Yann Tiersen, it is a great and quirky soundtrack, with haunting piano solos and very Gallic sounding, 1930's pieces, that work amazingly well with the film to help conjure up the dreamlike world of the main character, and I really do love every single track on the album.. But what I don't understand is how people can review this soundtrack as making them feel good, because all I feel is a sadness so thick that I can barely conjure up the energy to breath, and all I want to do is disappear to Paris for months on end, drinking café's and be by myself.

And here I go, hitting the play button again. Sigh.

Your Friday Moment of Zen: Small Retraction

I blogged the other day that I accidentally picked up a pair of Calv's boxers that were on his desk. Well, I've gotten no end of bitching from him about this, so I am retracting this blog by stating:

1. I picked up shorts because apparently they are not in fact boxers
   and
   
2. He does not have cooties.
   

So to apologise for the fact that his mother called him up and said "why are there things on the Internet about your underpants? What have you been doing?", I've decided to put up this MasterCard advertisement with some dude who plays American football which Calv has been hassling me to post for months now.

Your Friday Moment of Zen: D-Caff.

I dunno, I've had it explained, and while I do get it, I'm not laughing my arse off.

Enjoy!

I didn't fucking buy it on Ebay

I'm just a little annoyed.

I used to like ebay. I, however, have just had one of those annoying ebay experiences, where I've spent all fucking week waiting to bid on particular item. I'd go to ebay every damned day to check if anyone had put a bid on. Then, tonight, as the auction was ending, I very, very, very, paitently waited, much like a guerilla in the jungle waiting for the kill, for the last possible second to bid for my item, constantly refreshing the god damned screen, glowing with the belief that I'd actually won the stupid thing, only get outbid 8 fucking seconds before the fucking auction fucking ends.

Fuck fuck fuck.

So to you Miss Bitch Whore SwissBlahBlah or whatever the fuck your called, I hope you like that god damn fucking book. And I want you to know that because of you orphans will cry. Angels will weep. And it's very likely that puppies, kittens & rabbits will get kicked all shades of blue.

Thanks a fucking lot. Stupid crappy ebay.

Party Games in the Office

Helpful tip: What they don't tell you in the "How-to"'s: if you're going to do party levitation in the office, don't scream when they lift you 2 cm off the floor.

We did this in the office this week, (why? honestly because we can) and since the only other girl in the office point blank refused to do this, I let myself be the levitatee (is that even a word?). The only thing was that the idea of having nerd boys (none of whom leave their boxers in the office) touch me under my knees and armpits made me squeemish, so we decided to just picked the chair up, with me obviously still sitting on it.

I was all up for it, until they decided that there should be a 5th person to stand behind the chair, just in case the whole thing tipped over, and I cracked my skull on the radiator behind me. Only then did I think "what the hell am I doing?". When they started to levitate me and I was literally about 2 cms off the floor, I screamed like the girl I am, they dropped me, and refused to do it again, in case one of our directors came running around the corner to see who'd been killed.

I really want to do it again, but I think I've missed my one and only non-drunk oppurtunity to try this.

Does anyone else do random things like this in their office?

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.

Friday Moment of Zen: Champagne Thursdays + Vomit Fridays + German Country & Western Music = Me Being Almost Human Again

I am horrendously hung over today. I love everything about Champagne Thursdays, except for the inevitable Head Pounding, Neck Throbbing, Holding Vomit Back, Hangover Fridays.

I'm not convinced that I am feeling like shit today because of the whole bottle of rose I guzzled with dinner, or the numerous bottles of champagne a bunch of us shared last night (going out with nerds who work for big investments banks is great when you're a nerd girl, for we are indeed a very rare breed, and they always buy drinks. I'm not proud.). I actually think I feel and look like shit today because of the sneaky cigarette I bummed of a guy at the bar, or possibly the 5 lamb chops I had for dinner.....

So, to nurse my "hangover" this morning, I've had:

• 1 carton orange juice
  
• 1 skim milk cappacino
  
• 1 egg, ham and hollandaise sauce muffin from Benugos (to counteract the low fatness of the skim milk)
  
• 1 paracetamol (because I'm conceeding that I am in fact getting old, and it's possible I might start needing drugs to help my alchohol abuse. Actually I must be maturing a little because I normally start my road to recovery by having a can of coke and a packet of cheese doritos at 9am. Hmm. fruit juice and paracetamol... how novel).
  

However, the thing that is really making me feel better this morning is listening to that crazy "german" band Texas Lightning (I say "german" because I think they are actually from Newscastle, NSW, however they were the german entry for Eurovision last year so go figure). Now don't get me wrong, I am not a country and western music gal (despite loving tunes like "Sweet Home Alabama") but this seriously infectious song is just the dogs bollocks when it comes to fun. Listen to it, I dare you not to smile.

So my Friday Moment of Zen this week is my cure for Champagne Thursdays: Wierd Arse German Country & Western Music. Enjoy!


Update As of 4pm, I've also had: 1 large pepperoni & chilli pizza, and a chunky peanut butter bar + I'm going out for dinner tonight, so soon I'll won't be able to leave my house because i can't fit through the door, and I'll have to wash myself with a rag on a stick.

2007: Year of the Sweet and Sour Pig

According to Chinese Astrology, 2007 is The Year of The Pig, and to celebrate, China Post have issued a new stamp with a twist to celebrate the New Year.

How brilliant are these stamps! Not content with them being dead cute, what with the little piggy pulling it's mum's tail, the designers have added a really bizare twist by making them scratch and sniff stamps that smell like sweet and sour pork AND that taste like sweet and sour pork when you lick them. I'm not sure if that would beat the taste of stamp glue, but I'd be willing to give it a try.

What with 2008 being the Year of the Rat, hopefully China Post won't come out with a limited edition garbage flavoured stamps with pictures of mother rats eating their young. That wouldn't be nearly as cute.

Odds and Betting

I've just come back from watching Arsenal beat Liverpool 6 goals to 3 in the Carling Cup at Anfield. The odds on that must have been massive!

Then, on the walk home, The Flatmate and I found a tennis ball we started kicking about. Near our house is a huge Boots warehouse where late at night big semi trailers come to drop off goods. As we were walking along, we saw a semi trailer coming towards us, so I kicked the tennis ball to the curb, so to avoid it being run over by the truck. What are the odds that the semi trailer not only aims directly for the curb, running over a tiny tennis ball and squashing it flat, but also then reverses to have another 3 goes at it with all the wheels on one side?

Pretty slim of you ask me.

So with this renewed sense of strange odds in the air I'm going to jump onto the Betfair website, and find the biggest odds I can find, and blow some of my soon to be mortgaged to the hilt money on it. Not alot, just a bit. I reckon that tonight's the night kids. Mama needs a brand new washing machine. Come on lady luck. Bring home the bacon.

Update 12.04 am: I've just placed £2 on the Diamond Halo (come on! with a name like that how is that not a sign??!?) to win at £26-1 at Penn, Race 2. It's not the £1000 bet I was looking for, but a girl's gotta start somewhere. If this one doesn't win, then I will go to bed, and sleep. If it does though... oh la la. I might just keep on going until I lose.... stay tuned for my slippery downhill slope towards Gamblers Anonymous!

Update: 12.13am: Well, I'm off to bed then. Nice early night for once. Stupid fucking horse. Hope it's on it's way to make some hefty glue.

Painful Wii

All of us bought The Flatmate a Nintendo Wii for Christmas, which he loves. If you don't know, the Ninetndo Wii have take gaming to a completely different level, and instead of just having a hand held controller which you press buttons on, you play by holding a controller and doing proper movements. So you would play the bowling game as if you were actually bowling, baseball as if you were actually hitting a ball, you get my drift.

Annoyingly of course, because he plays it all the time, he is getting too good for me to even compete against. So tonight, all beered up, I feel for the first time in ages that I could actually beat him at tennis, a feat I've managed to get close to, but never of course actually doing. So watching him, all excited like a child on Christmas, waiting for him to beat who ever he is playing, I stand there, anticipating the joy of victory that only booze can self delude someone into thinking they can achieve. And then he completely smashes my elbow and arm with his hand and Wii remote whilst he's trying to do an ace, leaving me to hobble down the stairs, cluthing my painful arm.

Stupid Flatmate, stupid Wii. Grr.. I hope he goes home soon.

Farewell Sweet Ramen, And Thanks

The inventor of the instant ramen noodle, Momofuku Ando, passed away on the 5th of January 2007 from a heart attack. Faced with food shortages after WWII in Japan, Ando
developed his idea for a quick, convenient noodle product to help feed them masses. And feed them, and me, he most certainly has.

The 2 minute noodle, more commonly known as the "Pot Noodle" or the "Slag of Snacks" in Britain, has interwoven itself in my life as long as I can remember:

It was the 2 minute noodle that, as a 9 year old left at home during school holidays to fend for myself, was one of the first thing I remember trying to cook. I remember standing in the kitchen, with a bowl of noodles in cold tap water, trying to work out why they wouldn't soften. I'd prod them for ages, then give up, until my mum came home, and taught me how they were done. Then she started to cook me proper food to have for lunch, rather than "rubbish junk".

It was also the 2 minute noodle that got me through my final years in high school. Not because I couldn't afford to eat anything else, but because I was too lazy to find anything with more nutritonal value. It was directly due to eating a pack of these practially every day, that I got chunky, and developed a lovely stomach ulcer, which in turn led to the downfall of my guilty love affair for this most sinful of snacks.

So in memoriam of the Momofuku, whose fantastic invention has saved starving people in post war Asia, not to mention thousands of university students, I decided to lay aside the stigma that goes with having 2 minute noodles, and brazenly made one for lunch today, to the looks of disgust from my fellow co-workers. And here is my recipe for the best, most moreish, most delicious ways of 2 minute noodles. Try it once, and you'll be hooked.

• 1 pack, 2 minute beef flavoured noodles (don't get excited about any other flavour. BSE giving beef is the best, though if you must, then don't blame me if you don't like it).
  
• cheese, grated
• tabasco sauce
• 1/2 lemon (well, I like 1/2 a lemon, but that's probably a bit much)
  

1. Break noodles in half, place lovingly and delicately in a china bowl. No plastic cups here thank you very much.
2. Pour freshly boiled water over the noodles, and cover the bowl with plate, to keep as much heat in as possible.
3. Whilst waiting, grate some cheese. Extra mature cheddar is good, though if feeling guilty about having noodles in the first place, the low-fat pre-grated, feels-like-plastic, never -seen-a-cow-in-it's-life, stuff works fine too.
   
4. Fidget around until the 2 minutes is up. Don't be fooled, this is the most important step! Make sure that the noodles do not stand in the hot water too long, or else they'll turn into a soggy mush, which you might as well throw away, because then they are no good to man nor beast. You want nice, still slightly firm noodles.
5. Strain all the water from the bowl, and replace with freshly boiled water, until the noodles are just covered.
6. Stir in flavour sachet.
   
7. Liberally shake, like a British Nanny, the tabasco sauce over the noodles. When you think you've put too much, add another shake.
   
8. Squeeze liberally with lemon juice
9. Mix noodles
10. Add grated cheese to the noodles before each delicious mouthful, so that the cheese is just melting as you eat them.

Oh my god. This is soo good. It's not haute cuisine, but then again I'm not french. And everyone has to have a guilty secret snack, that they know is no good for them, but they can't resist anyway. This and pork scratchings are definitely mine. What's yours?

I'm hungry again just thinking about this, and it's almost 1am. Hmmm.. I wonder if we have any in the kitchen..

Friday Moment of Zen: I don't like cricket

Oh no. Now, thanks to our true blue Aussie boys in green and gold, I LOVE IT!

We annihilated the English cricket team! We creamed them! No, cream isn't the right colour... It's paler than that... We WHITEWASHED THEM! That's right. We won the Ashes series 5-0, a feat that hasn't occurred since the 1920-21 series.

If you think I'm being a bad winner, that's not completely true. Being an Aussie girl in London, who is proud of her nation, I've had to endure the constant ribbing and name calling from my English friends for the last 18 months. And now sweet, sweet retribution has come baby! I've come into work wearing my Aussie football shirt, and my Aussie beanie. The green and gold my friend.

Whilst a more gratious person would politely and modestly praise her team, and honour the fight of the losing side, I am many things, neither of which is gracious or polite. So I say BOO-YA to the English team, and especially Andrew Flintoff, who I've hated since the last Ashes series due to his crowing and arrogance. Who's laughing now eh Freddie? Not you.

So your Friday moment of zen: You might not find this so zen like if you're English, but as an Aussie, this is sweet.

New Years Resolutions

1. Start to try to be a morally better person
Clearly, have already begun the year with a flying start after returning the 50p that I underpaid our local Benugo for my egg/ham/hollandaise sauce muffin. The manager looked surprised and said "wow thanks, how honest of you". Am still trying to repress the feeling of annoyance that he didn't give me a free coffee for my honesty, because I'm sure that's not in the spirit of the whole "morally better person" thing.

Also, have tried to return a lovely white pashmina I found after our work Christmas party to a guy at work, which I thought might have belonged to his girlfriend.

2. Wash clothes on a more regular basis
Leaving clothes to "air clean" for a day to remove smell of cigarette smoke after finding them strewn around my room should not be something someone who is 28 still does. Must remember, I am no longer at university and with looming grown up mortgage/financial death knoll, will at the very least try to have some semblance of maturity when it comes to own laundry.

3. Stop bitching about sales staff in our office
Whenever I say anything like "I can't stand him, and I'm not even going to bother talking to him at his leaving drinks anyway, because I think he's a bit of a c*nt", one or both of the sales staff seem to appear, as if by magic, to walk right past our desk. Maybe in general, start being nicer to people, and remember it is not their fault if they are scummy, as it could be due to some horrible episode in their childhood.

Tricky, very tricky, as unfortunately there are so many people around who I want to grab by the shoulders, shake them hard and scream "YOU'RE A TWAT" to.

4. Learn how to walk in Stilettos
AKA: Try to start looking better. This is purely girly fantasy that this is the year I'll get my act together and start to look glamorous all the time, even if it is to only get a news paper on a Sunday morning, much like Parisian women do. Annoyingly, this is all because I managed to wander unguided into the self-help section at Borders last weekend, and have discovered an endless array of life sucking books like "Busy Girls Guide to Looking Great", "How to Walk in High Heals", "A Girls Guide to Glamour", "The Body Bible: Every Woman's Essential blah blah blah blah blah".. I have not bought any of these books, but they seem to have lots of time saving tips. Have not stooped so low to start looking at books like "Women Are From Mars" or "Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway" (sounds painful), or "Awaken the Giant Within" (eek). Will refrain from going back to self help section again, unless it's to laugh at people reading them. Obviously this goes against resolution 3. Tricky...

5. Actually See a Sunday Morning
No longer just laze in bed all weekend doing nothing but watching ABC1 and endless repeats of "8 Simple Rules" and "Scrubs".

So that's about it really. Nothing life shattering. Nothing that I shouldn't be able to do. Of course, I should mention that Resolution 1 has already had 1 small hick up because the white pashmina does not in fact belong to the gf of the guy at work. Have decided that since I've washed it now, I will just keep it, because the person who lost it mustn't have wanted it that much anyway, or they wouldn't have left it, and besides I lose things all the time, so it's like a cosmic gift for all the single gloves that have disappeared over time. Thanks cosmos.

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!

Christmas party update

Yes, I had a fucking good time. Yes, I didn't care that I don't look like a supermodel. After many years of careful experimentation, this is my personal recipe for a fantastic night out, direct from me to you:

1. heavy self medication on G&T's, red wine, and other fun drinks
2. a free bar that lasts the whole night
3. cheesy good time music
   
4. dancing your arse off with guys who know how to twirl a girl round a dance floor

I ended up wearing a black halter neck top, black skirt, and some heals that for once didn't rip my feet to shreds, and despite my low self esteem, I actually thought I looked pretty good for once. Don't worry, that was just a passing phase :)

The only problem I had with the whole night was that I constantly kept losing my drink! I swear I kept leaving my drinks on various tables and I didn't just skull them. There must have been some cleaning fairies that would just sweep half drunk drinks off tables.. damn them!!

Out of 150 people in our company, our little group of 12 or so were the last ones left on the night, until we got kicked out of The Clink at 2.30 in the morning. And, as is natural, we all ended up in our house for a SingStar sing off.. One of our bosses and his wife came home with us, and as people were singing and drinking, he kept looking really bewildered at us asking questions like: how often do we do this? Do we practice? How do we know the words? and saying that he couldn't believe that people would go to someonse house for kareoke. I think he thought we were all really sad, until he tried it himself. And then we couldn't keep him off the microphones. Kareoke fun? Well millions of Japanese think so, and they can't all be wrong my friends. Our house really is the party corner of South East London. Not only can our neighbours not hear us, but we have more booze than god lying around our house. At about 5.30 am people started going home, and the rest of us who were staying the night, passed out on my couch, voices raw, and eyes bleary.


Once I get some more pictures from The Flatmate and grow some balls, I'll put pictures on my flickr account of us lot, all dressed up, and dancing like it's 1999.

Your Friday Moment of Zen: Being paranoid at office Christmas parties

I've got my office Christmas party tonight, which I've been helping to organise since last February. Finally, after months of work, it's upon us. And I'm really not looking forward to it. At all.

The problem with my work is that there seems to be an abundance of very good looking girls who work in my team. You'd think that that wouldn't be the case since I work in IT, notorious as it is for being a male dominated industry, but there you go. These size 0 girls, who laugh allot in the way popular girls in high school do, and get chatted up by all the guys in my team, means that I end up just standing there like a nigel-no-friends, getting more and more pissed, trying to be funny and interesting to anyone who'll talk to me, in a desperate attempt to compensate for my lack of looks. (Why? Why do I care? Why do I often spend nights in the toilets texting the Flatmate screaming "it's not fair! Why can't I be annorexic. Then I'd be popular" Why? Because I like to eat food that's why. (I know, I know, being annorexic will not make you popular when your a walking skelaton, but from this end of the weight spectrum it sure seems to fucking help)).

Last night I spent about 2 hours in the bowels of my wardrobe trying on every single article of clothing that I own that vagully resembles something dressy to try and work out what dress/trousers/top/shoes/ear ring combination to wear. And since our house is so crap, we do not have one single mirror where you can see yourself in fully head to toe. So to check myself out from my head to my chest I have to go to my bathroom mirror, to see my chest to my lower thighs I have to go to the Flatmates room and look in the mirror on his bedside table, positioned just at the right height to be nicknamed "The Gut Mirror", from there down I'm on my own. This constant circular trek from my bedroom, to my bathroom, to the Flatmates room is exhausting and frustrating. Then I end up moaning at the Flatmate about how unattractive and wide I look , to which he at first replies "no you look fine", however a few hours later, after my millionth costume change and footstamp, he will just roll his eyes and go "I liked the first thing you had on, just wear that. Or just wear ANYTHING, I do not care any more. Please, it's 2 am. Go away".

The party is in 3 hours, and I still do not know what to wear. God damn it. I was going to leave now at 4pm to get home, shower, change and get ready, but then I realised that even though I am heffer like, even I do not need 2 hours to get ready for the ball.

Grrr. So there is no zen like moment today. Just angst and annoyance. Merry fucking Christmas

I'm on DesignSponge!

Well, technically, the building that is next door to my office is on design*Sponge! I read this blog every day, and I'm so excited! When someone famous in the blogosphere has a post that vaguely has something to do with you, you get the same buz of excitement you feel when someone famous talks to you, or looks at you, or just looks in your general direction... Check out her post here.

That's my work, right there on the right side of the photo. The tiny sliver of brown building you can see right there. That's where I am currently sitting, typing away, listening to people talk about work, and the building site next door drilling right next to my desk.

So Bittersweet it's palatable

The Flatmate wanted to show me a few pictures of his niece he got tonight from his brother in Oz. This quick 5 minute digital snapshot exhibit obviously turned into a 40 minute look at every digital picture he'd taken in the last 6 years of our lives in London. I love looking back at how we've changed, not only physically (more hair, less hair, wider, thinner, and back again), but also at all the random things we've done, and mostly how happy we've seemed doing it all. We've spent the better part of the last hour going "oh my god! Look at our old house in Swanley! We literally owned nothing back then! Remember how we were so poor, we could only buy one Christmas decoration a week!" and "yuck! What was I thinking wearing those clothes out? EEK!" and "You look much better with a beard. Definitely. Never shave it off again."

So many pictures are of our urban family - a collection of people, who, according to hundreds of pieces photographic evidence, seem to spend countless hours in pubs drinking their salaries away. None of us have family in London, so we seem to cling on to each other for support (or because we weren't drunk enough that we have to cling to the floor for dear life). Looking back 5 years worth of pictures, we've been such a great bunch of druken louts.

I guess seeing as The Flatmate is going home at the end of February, tonight has left me with a real bittersweet sense of pain. I love looking at these pictures, but I hate how it leaves me with a real deep in my guts, down to the marrow of my bones sadness. Sadness partly at getting older, but mostly because I really like my life this way, and I hate the idea of it all changing. It's almost a child like, foot stamping annoyance and anger that things have to move on, and that I can't make time stop and just keep things the way they are, because I can't see it ever being this good again.

Soon I'll be moving out of my home (finally my draft contract has come through) so I should be moving into my new place sometime in January. And I don't feel excited about this, I just feel scared. And, pathetically, I feel really lonely. This is so stupid, becuase I don't know why, since clearly looking at these pictures tonight, I am very, very, very lucky to have all these fantastic friends, and so I have no reason to feel like this at all. I know that whilst it might feel all dim and low at the moment, eventually, somehow, everything will work out, and I'll come through this fine, and not even understanding how I ever felt this upset.

OK, sad rant's over now. I just needed to vent. Tomorrow's topic: the sheer panic I'm currently feeling about my office Christmas party. I normally don't dread a good knees up mother brown. But this year, honestly, all I can think is eek: I will never look good enough to go to this stupid party, what with all the bloody model like "easy on the eye" girls I now work with, who don't look like they've ever eaten a proper meal. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Oh yes my friend, I am action packed full of issues. Action packed.

You're Friday Moment of Zen: Too much religious chocolate

Having just mentioned our Advent calenders, I thought this would be a great moment of zen. We never, ever eat these on time, or on the days they're supposed to be eaten on, so we end up having about 5 all in one day. I've literally just eaten from the 1st til the 6th of December, and I feel a bit sick now. Nothing to do with the 4 pints of bitter I've drunk tonight.

Advent chocolate. Jesus was born so we could spent chuff loads of money on gifts people don't want, chocolate we shouldn't eat, and turkey that's dry and one one likes. Zen like.

Enjoy!

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"

What a catch! What a catch!

"Crash". "Defeat". "Losers".

These are all words used for the Aussie's win over those pommy bastards in the second test of the Ashes! And I don't care if I am English soon. I'll always be true blue!

Ok, enough of bragging. AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE! OI! OI! OI!

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.)

Your Friday Moment of Zen: Love your pearlies

Last night I finally had "The Teeth Dream". Much like the going-to-school-naked dream, or the not-studying-for-exams dream, this one is pretty horrific and disturbing. It's the one where you lose your front teeth, for no particular reason.

Last night, I dreamt I'd lost my two front ones, plus the ones on both sides. They just dropped out in one clump, and behind my two front teeth I had grown one large front tooth. It was a pretty harrowing experience, because when I looked in the mirror I had the most hideous smile, all gummy, and toothless. And because it was really disturbing and in my dream I'd started crying, it felt really real, so when I did finally wake up, the first thing I did was touch my teeth and let out a massive "YES! Get in! I'm not ready to be photographed for the Big Book of British Smiles!".

So my Friday moment of Zen is a picture of some pretty perfect teeth. Not that mine are, but I sure as hell am gonna start treating them like a million bucks, so that hopefully I'll never have to actually live through that experience.

Dental hygenie. Random Moment of Zen

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.

Your Friday Moment of Zen: Howzaat!

Please don't misunderstand me. I don't really like cricket. However, 2 days ago The Ashes first test started at the Gabba, and us Aussies are doing our best to crush those bloody pommy bastards! 602-9 declared! I only have a vague idea what that means, but I know that it's great, especially compared to Englands score of 53-3. Get IN!

If you don't know what The Ashes are, a good explanation is here. Basically in 1882 following a match at The Oval, Australia beat England in England for the first time, and some paper published a satirical obituary saying that English cricket had died, and the body will be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia. Since then, biennially, Australia and England play five 5 day test cricket series (25 days of bloody cricket), to decide which country will win a tiny, tiny, tiny urn with the ashes of the stumps from the original 1882 cricket game.

The last series, England actually won The Ashes for the first time since 1989 (or something ridiculous), so this time round us Aussies are gonna take it back.

So today's moment of zen (well zen if you're an Aussie, not so zen like for those poms out there) is a picture of yesterday's game when some English batsman got caught out, to end a dismal day for England.

Ah. Nothing like a bit of competition. It's M a r v e l l o u s. Bloody marrr--velous.

RCA Secret 2006

This weekend, the Royal Academy of Arts will be showing their annual RCA Secret, which gives us punters a chance to buy one of 2500 individually created postcards. All postcards are on sale at £35 each, but the real kicker is that the postcard's artist is unknown to anyone until the card is actually purchased, and as some very famous artists contribute, including "Damien Hirst, Tracey Emin, Paula Rego, David Bailey, Christo, fashion designer Sir Paul Smith, musicians Graham Coxon and John Squire", as well as new budding artists from the RCA, you could own your very own very cool original piece for very little dosh. However, you can only buy up to 4 cards, and can only buy them this weekend. No cards can be reserved or puchased before hand, so it's a first come first served basis, which seems pretty fair.

You can have a look at all the postcards on sale here, and they go on sale from 8am-8pm Saturday the 25th, and 10am-4pm Sunday 26th. If you'd like to purchase one, you have to register with them by today (via email) or in person, before Saturday.

I'm planning on going, so hopefully I'll be able to pick up at least one of the pieces I like!

Take a look at treacleDown for a great write up, or the rca secret blog for more info.

Your Friday Moment of Zen: We've got nothing to declare

In honour of the worlds greatest spy being reincarnated and rebooted today, I thought I'd put up one of my favorite Bond moments from The Living Daylights. It is this film that started my obsession for learning the cello.

I'm quite excited about the new Bond film, Casino Royale, despite that fact that 2 years ago, just before they announced Daniel Craig as the new 007, I betted a couple of quid on Betfair (they have a market for everything), on who the next Bond would be. Did I win? Of course I bloody didn't. It's ME after all.

Anyway, I digress. Your Friday Moment of Zen: the KGB chase scene in The Living Daylights. Timothy Dalton's first bond film. I absolutely adore this movie. It's got Timmy Dalton, fantastic cello case riding chase scene, great theme by A-Ha, but because without it, I'd never have known anything about the mujahideen.

Enjoy!

Musical self flagellation

Last night the Flatmate and I went through a sort of "dance down memory lane" by meandering through his iTunes playlists, listening to loads of old,

cheesy, cheesy songs. We sang, giggled, relived high school moments of embarrassment with songs like "More Than Words" by Extreme, pretended to ice skate around his bedroom to our favorite mormon song (Beach Boys' "God Only Knows"), and threw some seriously bad shapes to "Dancing Queen", and "Ice Ice Baby". He ended up giving me loads of crap music (cause I kept shrieking "OH MY GOD! I love this song!!"). Unfortunately, in the cold light of day, now that I'm listening to this rubbish, I'm actually sitting at my desk, red faced with embarrassment, yet unable to switch it off.

All I can say is THANK GOD for the telephone, which has stopped me listening to Boyz II Men's "Down on Bended Knee" (oh yes, it's cheesy, R&B goodness baby). This is such a hark back to days of teenage angst, really bad fringes, logarithm, flannel shirts (hey I thought I looked cool), and sitting in my room, staring at pictures of Dean Cain, with this song on repeat for literally hours. I listened to some awful crap when I was young. Though, who do I think I'm kidding, I listen to some awful crap now!

Oh god no! It's "Motownphilly". OH NO.. If you know my number, for god's sake CALL ME! SAVE ME! Why am I listening to this? Why have I just started to play Down on Bended Knee again? Why? Why?

"Can someone tell me how to get things back to the way they used to be.
Oh god give me a reason, I'm down on bended knee.
I'll never walk again, until you come back to meeeeeee.
I'm down on bended knees".

The Big Three

I'm in the long and drawn out process of buying a house (well, I say "house", it's more 50's ex-council estate flat). I've done all my paper work (for once) and I'm just waiting for the vendor to sign all his stuff and send them back to his solicitors. This seems to be taking forever, as according to my good-for-nothing estate agent, it's not that my vendor has changed his mind, or the house he's trying to buy has problems, it's just that he hasn't been bothered to send back the surveys because he's just "plain lazy".

This lack of movement however has not stopped me from going out and browsing (read gawking) for The Big Three: Washer, Cooker, Fridge/Freezer. So I went to my new house last week for only the 3rd time ever (how wierd, I've spent more time in a cheap pair of jeans, trying to decide if it makes my arse look big before I buy them, than in the house that's going to cost me more money than god) so I could measure the spaces for The Big Three.

In my head, everything is always, well, a bit on the crazy side. In my head, I'd managed to make my new flat seem tiny and dark, with no welcoming or redeaming feature, where I have to always be on my guard in case zombies (or thieves) break through the ground floor windows and get me in the middle of the night. However, when I walked through the front door, I remembered exactly why I loved it.
1) It's just so pretty inside.
2) It's got a fantastic kitchen, which is about 3 times the size of the current 3ft x 2 ft pathetic excuse of a kitchen I cook our meals in.
3) It's got 2 (yup, you read right: two) shower heads in the bath! Water wasting decadence.

Since I've been renting from the first day I moved to Britain (i.e. the last 5 years), I've never had to buy any major kitchen appliances, such as ones to keep food from rotting.
So now that I'm browsing for The Big Three, I've managed convince myself that I am in desperate need of:

* The extra large, 6 burner, gas stove/cooker, with wok attachment, seperate gas grill, seperate fan forced oven, with possibly even a longer 3rd oven on the side
* The extra large double door American style fridge freezer, with water cooler and ice machine attached, which is plugged into the central plumbing. Essential for constant cold water, plus crushed ice, which every girl needs for the essential cocktail making and ice bucket chilling for the soon to be established "Champagne Thursdays".
* Extra large washer with tumble dryer, for fluffy, fluffy towels.

And because I feel some small glimmer of guilt for having such extravagant appliances, they all need to have lowest energy ratings around, thus thrusting their prices into the upper echalons of the spending stratosphere.

Where I'm supposed to get the ready cash for these little beauties I haven't quite worked out yet... I'm thinking about possibly selling non-essential organs on the black market... (who the fuck needs two kidneys anyway?). Besides, what's cash to me these days when I am soon to have a crippling mortgage but little bits of paper that drift in and out of my life like snow?

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?

Never, ever, yawn

A few months ago I started to learn the cello through the East London Late Starters Orchestra. For the last 2 months, I've been forced to see something that I've tried to avoid for years: an early Saturday morning.

Yesterday, we were rehersing the pieces we're doing for our December concert. And since, as a complete beginner, and a 3rd cello (i.e. we mighty 3rd cellos play only 4 different notes, with great gaping rests in the music, where we sit there. Playing nothing). As the conductor was busying himslef hassling the 1st and 2nd orchestra members... I started to look around the room, watching people, being bored, and since I was pretty tired from a stressful week, and lets face it, still hung over from my Friday night, I, shock horror, yawned.

Big fucking mistake.

All the way in the back, me, not making a single peep, and only yawning for fucks sake, managed to get the full wrath of the most arsey, rude, and horrid conductor I've ever met. His head swivelled round, ad stopping mid tirade at the viola section said to me in the most sarcastic tone: "I'm sorry, but am I keeping you awake? Am I boring you?". oh fuck.. I wanted to say "Well yes. You wrote this music, and we have 3 notes. For the whole piece. You are rubbish." But instead, I just hung my head in the shame I'd not felt since being told off in primary school, and kept all future yawns stifled.

Bollocks.

Damned Jen

Damn it damn it damn it.

There is nothing as bad as betting on something, and watching your bet lose. The only thing worse is watching something, writing up your tips for a betting website, not posting it, and then watching that 8/1 tip start to COME IN.

Bugger.

If you're watching "Make me a supermodel" then, Calvstar.co.uk's Pin Girl says "BACK JEN TO WIN".

Come on Jen. Win the fucker. Beat the rest of these skinny arsed bitch whores. Especially Mariane, who when asked her opinion about size zero models in an interview said "well it makes it easier for the designers if all the models are the same size. Oh, and everyone knows that clothes look better on thin people than big people".

So I say back Jen. You know why? Because she's not a bitch, she's not skinny, and she's not thick as two planks.

Gawd Damn

I've not written much in the last week because work has been riding my arse like you wouldn't believe. And no, that is not euphemism for something dirty. For the last week (well, last year really) I've been the go-to bitch for one of our clients. A client, I might add, who've got lots of people working in their IT & business team, all of whom are paid fucking shit loads of cash, none of which can go to help them buy a fucking clue.

So I will again endeavour to post with a frequency that I need to do to help me get through my day. And also because if I don't vent here, I will definitely get fired. Highlighted particularly well I thought after yesterday's little "discussion" with my boss, where at one stage I didn't let him get a word, and I managed to get him so pissed off that he stormed out of the office. Again. You know, I'm quite convinced it's my only talent.

Another Betting Disaster on Four Legs

Yesterday was the Melbourne Cup. The horse race of the Australian calander, which "stops a nation", literally. On the first Tuesday of every November, 23 or so horses race a Flemington Raceway in Melbourne, and everyone puts a bet on. Sweeps from offices to primary schools accross the country are conducted, televisions put in prominent areas, people stop working, and, if you're in Victoria, you get a public holiday. This is a big race.

And this was yet another fine example of how me and betting do not mix. At all. Much like the World Cup disasters here and here.

The multiple bets I had were: "Maybe Better" to win, "On A Jeune" and "Tawqueet" (the favorite in Australia) to place. Did these horses win? Of course they bloody didn't. The two Japanese horses, Delta Blue and Pop Rock (both of which I was contemplating on betting on, but since I'd already spunked £10 decided that I didn't just want to throw more money at the situation) came first and second. And third? Of course. The only horse I didn't put money down to be placed, Maybe Better, came third.

I bloody suck at betting. Close my betfair account please.

You're Friday Moment of Zen: Rivers in Botswana

This coming sunday the BBC will be showing new episodes of Planet Earth which has the most amazing footage of animals, insects and landscape you'll ever see.

This picture of the Okavango Delta in Botswana is really beautiful, so I thought I'd share as a real zen like moment. This picture comes from the collection of wallpaper they've got, which includes penguins, polar bears, vistas of the Gobi Desert in Mongolia.

If you get a chance to watch Planet Earth (especially on a high definition projector at Magic's house), I'd recommend it, as it is an amazing documentary series. If not, catch a load of their clips here.

Enjoy.

Rant. Level: Extreme. It's like being in high school

Rant Warning: This is a pretty angry rant. Won't do you much good if you're offended by the word fuck.
End of public announcement

Fucking fucking fuck.

I started to blog as a way to vent, and I've been wanting to do this for ages, so here it goes.

I'm so sick of all the bloody paraphernalia that goes with blogging. It's (I was going to say "ironic" but NO Alanis, meeting the man of your dreams, then meeting his beautiful wife is not IRONIC, it's just dumb fucking luck). Anyway, it's pathetic I suppose that I'm bitching about blogging on a blog, but there you go. I am pathetic.

It's seems that when I started this blog a few months ago, it was just about the blog. And all the blogs I stumbled across themselves where just about "the blog". Now though it's all about the listings, and the voting, and whose got links to who and who is best "blogging buddies" with whom, and whose blog is "blog of the day" on one of the billion sites that exist now so they can make revenue on advertisement OR make money on auctioning that title. You can't open a blog these days without the 50 odd links to "link sites" or "Vote for me!" icons, or blog rolls, or other fucking crap like that.

I only visit a handful of sites, and few of them are personal ones. The thing is, a couple of months ago, I managed to get linked by a few people, none of who I knew, but I thought "fantastic! someone's reading my crap! someone likes me!". I know that the way to keep "buddies" is to then visit their sites and leave copious amounts of comments. The problem is that I'm just not a comment kind of girl. I like to read a blog, have a laugh at what they've said, then leave. If I really like what they've said I'll leave a note. And because I do most of this (ssshh) in the office, I don't have masses and masses of time it seems you need to do the comments and the chatting and the network, blah blah blah. And this works completely against my favour, because now I'm finding that the people who used to link me have removed me. Cast me aside, and thrown me out, like I'm some sort of insane, rich aunt who used to be good to know because they'd buy you ponies and houses, but now they've lost all their money and their marbles have well and truly gone, so they get ignored and tossed out on the street. For some reason, these people whom I don't even know, have made me feel like shit. Which is SHIT, because, for fucks sake it's a fucking href on a fucking BLOG.

So I'm pissed off. I am really pissed off. I wish I had the time to sit there at night, read all my "buddies" daily posts, leave a message. But I can't. And that's not the sort of attitude that will make you popular in the blogging world is it? No Siree Bob.

The annoying thing is that I like getting comments, I like being read. And because I'm essentially lazy, this has definitely bit me in the arse. Is anyone else out there pissed off about this? The thing is, if I get down the root of the problem, I'm angry with myself for being this upset about something that is such a none event, because my pathetic low self esteem is in desperate need of the approval of people I don't even know. "Can you like me again? oh can you? I'm a bit chubby, and a geek, but pretty, pretty please, if you get to know me, I'm sure you'll like me. " It's just like being in high school again, when you're trying to hang out with a group (who I might add, weren't even the cool group at school), but you end up having one of them tell you they'll race you back to the playground only if you go the long way, and when you get there they're pointing and laughing at you and then they scatter as far away as possible, leaving you there like a sado billy-no-mates. And then you end up crying your eyes out in meditation class, desperately hoping they can't hear you, but knowing they can because they're giggling. And yes, I know that's exactly what it feels like because Emily and her friends in year 7 did that very thing to me. Bunch of bitchy catholic school girls.

Wow. What a rant. I started this blog so I could stop having to pander to all the people in my real life and bottle all these crappy feelings of worthlessness inside until they explode out of every pore like some sort of disgusting disease. So fuck it I'm gonna start doing that again.

And yet, I still know that I'll keep trying to do stupid things like remembering to add "blogroll" to this site. Why? Because I am fucking, fucking pathetic. And there's always room for me to be angry at myself for that.

Guy Fawks

Christ alive I'm pissed off. However I will keep it in and keep it together as I am at work, and because if I start I won't be able to stop and I want to be able to give this my full attention. Plus I've been so fucking busy at work to do a proper post in ages. (Parental Warning: Look away if you're offended by bad language (though that's too fucking late by this stage)): fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck and fuck.

If you're planning on going to a bonfire or fireworks for Guy Fawks night this weekend, I found (despite this being on Capital Radio) this cool site to help you find one.