Promo ho

Last night in exchange for unrestricted access to the Island Records 50th anniversary festival at the Shepherds Bush Empire, I pimped myself in the foyer for two hours handing out copies of the anniversary booklet as people came in.

We had 15 boxes of the little bastards to shift, so I engaged my happy public facing smile and greeted all those coming through the doors with a cheery "Hello there! Would you like one of these?" and shoved a booklet towards them. Some were grateful and thankful for the free gift. Some wanted to know how much I was selling them for (CHA CHING!). Others just glanced my way with a sort of scowling frown, as if I was trying to sell crack to their 13 year old daughter. Some just ignored me altogether (their loss. It was a good booklet).

What I really got from those hours spent in the foyer was two things.

1. The queue for guestlist will always be longer than the one for those with paying tickets.

2. The firm knowledge that British people will never be happy. You can give them free entry to an event which costs anything up to £45 a ticket, you can give them good seats to an evening of bubbling reggae beats and legendary acts like Grace Jones and Tinchy Strider...but ask them to queue up for the pleasure, and what do you get?

"TUT. URRGHH. OHHH. You mean that's the queue for guestlist? URGH. URRRGH. MEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH." *flick of the hair* "For gods sake. Well that's just utterly ridiculous. TUT. URGGGHHH" *flounce*

What! You mean your free tickets don't get you in quicker than those who have PAID?

Cor blimey. There's truly no justice in this world.

The 90s come to East London

Yesterday I found myself sitting on the roof of a flat in Brick Lane with the smells of spicy food drifting up from the streets below, the sun shining down and the towering heights of Canary Wharf visible in the distance.

Three of us had crashed into the flat the night before on the way back from a 90s hip hop night in Shoreditch, where we'd raved hands in the air yelling 'OHHH NOOO!' to tracks we hadn't heard in years. Clutching the remains of cream cheese bagels, we'd tottered down a debris strewn Brick Lane and arrived at the flat, joining it's five male inhabitants and watching Fresh Prince of Bel Air on DVD until the sun came up. Before that we'd watched reruns of The Villa on Sky Three, a match making reality show from the late 90s where horrendous single men and "women" took their high waisted shorts and crop tops to a villa in Ibiza to try and find love. Or just a shag. Class all round.

And that's where we stayed. I caught up with people I hadn't seen since me and the ex broke up and did the only thing possible to do when you've had 2 hours sleep: chill, enjoy the silence of a battery-dead phone and talk incoherent nonsense with friends. Still in last night's clothes, with unbrushed hair, unwashed skin and my feet now covered in plasters from a bad choice of shoes, we finally left late Monday night and walked back through Spitalfields to the station. Three sleep deprived girls in short dresses and flat shoes, ambling through East London, the sun slowly going down on our perfect bank holiday weekend.

"Ehhh girls! You off out tonight? Where you partying?" came a leering male yell from across the concourse at Liverpool street station.

Tonight? We're not back from Sunday night yet. Gissa chance.

Crafty god squad

I'm not at all religious. I'll often thank god, but that's more likely to happen in Kurt Geiger upon finding out beautiful shoes are in my size than in a church on a Sunday. Not that many Christians seem to venture into a church these days anyway. Most of my mates declare their allegiance to the lord having once screamed a church down while having their head dipped into a bird bath as a nipper, but ask them when they last went round his house for a drink and it's a different story. Oh, Christmas Eve eh? Midnight mass after the pub chucked out? Dedication to the cause, that.

So it's understandable that churches might be getting a bit crafty, luring people in with promises of amazing miracles and spiritual well being n all that. Gone are the days of sinister guilt trips and boring incentives. It's all a bit clever now. These days, the church is all about raising a smile and getting all down with the kids.

Or at least our local church in Hull was. They weren't down with the "Jesus Loves You" shiz, no no. They wanted the students to giggle their way through those big wooden doors. So they got their thinking caps on and caught our attention. They'd always use a bit of word play, a pun or two. Sometimes just a question to tickle the drunken insensibility's of students. This photo was on my computer from 2006, entitled "Yes we have!!.jpg" and was taken at around 02:30am on the way back from another successful night at the students' union:



Then a few weeks ago, I returned to my uni town to visit friends and was immensely pleased to discover that 3 years on, and the church is still keeping up its cheerful little marketing campaign. In fact, I'd even say it's upped the ante.



Next week, I'll be heading back up north and you bet I'll be looking to see what little nugget of churchy goodness the Trinity is offering up for drunken worship that week.

I do love a bit of nifty wordplay.

Enjoy le weekend all...

What the stats say

If you're looking at this blog, I know the following things. How you got here, how long you stayed for, what you clicked on while you were here, what ISP you're using, whether you've got an Apple Mac or PC, what browser you use, where you live and the company you work for. Then I can label you and track how often you come back. Scary that, isn't it?

Most of the time, I don't really care who you are or what you're doing here. Those are just the details available to me and most other bloggers. I'm aware that if I go onto someone elses blog, I'll probably be tracked, it's part and parcel of blogging. We do it to be nosey and for a bit of security. As long as there's nothing odd going on, it's just another little bit of code on a website.

I've run this blog for three years and in that time, there's never really been much to worry about. Yesterday, during a little check of the stats, it became clear that someone has been getting here using some very interesting google search terms; they stood out from the randomness that you usually get. Let's just say they were very specific.

I worried a bit, wondering what that person might think and considered shutting down the blog for a bit. Then I thought actually, this blog's not that bad. When I write, it's not a matter of taking cheap potshots at someone close to me, or badmouthing a certain company, or giving shit to anyone other than people who wear luminous trainers. Oh, and Fearne Cotton. This blog has always been about things that affect my life and probably yours as well, it rarely goes into specifics.

In fact, anonymity only really matters to me because it's easier to write to a sea of blank faces, just like anyone who gets on a stage to perform finds it easier to have the audience blacked out.

So basically - to that person with the quick google fingers...re-read the first paragraph of this blog post. You're not onto me, I'm onto you.

MUHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAAAAAAAAA etc

Lets be geeky

See, this is the real purpose of having an anonymous blog. The ability to really indulge your geeky side which spends most of the day clicking about on the internet and gets annoyed - not massively annoyed, not oh lord, I want to throttle you with a strawberry lace annoyed - but just slightly irritated with certain things.

Like Twitter. I know this is last weeks news, but I've only just realised how annoying it is now you can't see other peoples replies. Whereas most people immediately realised the downsides and tweeted about it all day, I didn't really get it. But now I do, so I can have a whinge. It completely does away with any sort of group discussion. Take Monday, when me and a couple of others were trying to have a nice game of Penis over Twitter. The problem was, no one could see what other people were replying to me unless you copied them all in each time. Bloody stupid. What was wrong with having the option? Now a game of Minge and Penis just doesn't reach it's full potential.

Then there's me mucking about with different blogging platforms more out of boredom than anything. At the moment I'm trying out wordpress and seriously, other than being able to make entries private...I'm at a loss with it. It doesn't let you put in simple codes to make stat counters work. You have to use their own one, which is like visiting the stoneage. It's pants. Even the spellchecker doesn't get stuff right; underlining the first two letters of perfectly well spelt words. Numpty.

And do you know what I hate more than people picking their nose behind me in their car, but less than Fearne Cotton?

Fussy websites.

Flash intros are the worst for this. What a waste of time - these days no one has the time to sit through a jamboree of swirling patterns and tumbling pictures. I'm like "SKIP! SKIP! SKIP!" I just want to get straight to the content, no messing. SKIP!

And OH GOD this one really takes the biscuit. When you click onto a website, or blog, or anything that's not your own iTunes and sound seeps from your speakers? Why, did I accidentally press play on a random strangers iPod? No, I don't think I did. I don't care what's in your last fm playlist and if I do, then I'm quite capable of pressing play myself. Why do companies and website and blog owners think it's a great idea to inflict sound on you the minute you get onto their site?

Err, I think that's it. For now. Feel free to add your own internet / blog / geeky irriating confession below. I won't tell the real world you care, I promise.

PDEWYMO is thinking "save it for someone who cares"

Most Facebook statuses are absolute tripe. Little nuggets of implied meanings, subtle digs, outright boasting, inane, day to day information or D) all of the above, which serve no purpose other than to tickle the interest of the bone-idle masses.

How their authors yearn for a thumbs up, the "I like this" seal of approval, a heartfelt sympathetic comment or some words of agreement. A good status has an intriguing, interesting hook and results in instant gratification and reassurance from the online community. A better one has four or five comments from other people, possibly some in-jokes, banter or flirting; a public show of forged friendship and shared experiences.

Then there are the deluded ones. The permanently morose. You know the ones: always ambiguous, hinting at some larger disservice, always verging on bitchy - but they never allow themselves to really scratch the itch. More often than not, writing a subtly implied status is much more effective and guarantees more interest and responses than stating the facts. These ones are like a soap opera plot; they never give you the whole story, just little snapshots of a wider Who Dunnit.

They're deluded because the writers of such statuses, in the rare event that they garner any interest at all, believe that the "What's wrong?" or "What's happened?" from enquiring "Friends" actually has its roots in genuine care, not just a insatiable hunger for gossip. In fact their real friends are mostly absent, no longer around to listen at the end of a phone. The only interested ones are online, separated into links and lists. They're just distant donkey acquaintances, teased by a dangling carrot of ambiguity.

When it comes to getting your point across, having a moan, despairing at the state of the world and all those who litter it's grubby little pavements, there are much more effective ways to do it. Facebook is no substitute for picking up the phone and being able to rant to someone who really understands. In reality, 140 characters doesn't even scratch the surface of the things that really matter.

So whenever I log on (rarely more than briefly once a day any more) and catch a glimpse of a status that is wallowing in the muddied water of self pity and bitchiness - I don't feel anything but embarrassment on behalf of that person; the one with 200 friends and none of them available for a really good chat over a bottle of wine to get it all off their chest.

It's not a date

A few weeks ago I stood outside Brixton Academy at 3am; my phone battery was seconds from dying and my sister was still stumbling around inside, giggling manically and trying to remember how to walk. Our other friend had gone home and the venue was emptying rapidly, a sea of people spilling out of the doors and onto the pavement.

"You look like you need a hug" a tall bloke walked towards me with a concerned look on his face, arms outstetched. Oh well, I thought, when in Brixton... and gratefully accepted the slightly damp embrace. His friend appeared and so I hugged him too. They wondered off, and I continued to wait.

A few minutes later, they came back, more hugs were exchanged and we started chatting. "Blimey," I said. "You're tall" before instantly regretting it. Of course he's tall. He knows he's tall. How annoying must it be when people point out the obvious? "Sorry, you know you're tall. I bet that's really annoying when people do that"

At that moment, having remastered the art of speech and mobility, my sister appeared, bounding out onto the pavement. "FUCKING HELL! Alright up there? What are you, about eight foot?" before bursting into hysterics for about an hour. Meanwhile, the rest of us carried on chatting. Ladies and gentlemen: don't do drugs.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that he accepted my drunken "Let's be friends!" offer (really) and we swapped numbers. Since then, sporadic texting has ensued. Very sporadic. As in, I'd get a text asking if I wanted to go for a beer, I'd reply saying yes, when? And get nothing back for over a week. I'd pretty much written it off - after all, what do I know about this bloke? He's 24, really tall and lives in Clapham. He climbed Ben Nevis a couple of weeks ago, probably in one stride. He likes the Prodigy. Err...oh, and his sister has a cat.

Then late on Saturday night while watching one of the worst DVDs I've ever contributed £0.70p towards, my phone beeped.

I went back to Brixton tonight to see The Specials. Top gig. You out n about?

No, I'm mourning the last 90 minutes of my life which I'll never get back.

Was it superbad? I'm home watching a film too. May have a frankfurter. Thursday..beer?

Thursday I can do.

Let's have that beer somewhere central. See you Thursday x

Now, let's get this straight. I just thought this bloke seemed alright at 3am outside a Prodigy concert, five pints down. It's not a date. Plus this whole "lets go for a beer" thing has been going on since mid April, so there's hardly any real urgency on either side. It's just a meeting between two people who actually don't know a thing about each other. He could be a murderer or a mentalist for all I know.

Also, when's a good time to let him know that I don't actually like beer?

"I'm getting my colours done"

You're getting your what done?
"My colours"
What you on about, colours? Hair?
"No, clothes"

Up in my mum's room at the moment is an immacualtely dressed 40-something woman, clutching a piece of paper with different coloured squares on it. I can hear the words "Geranium", "wishy washy", "ever worn it?" and most worryingly, "have you got any bin bags?" flying about the place. There's a mountain of clothes heaped on the bed, we're talking 3 ft high, and they haven't even started on the drawers yet.

I stuck my head round the door about five minutes ago and surveyed the process. I think I finally understand the term "shock and awe". My mum's hired the female equivalent of Gok Wan for the afternoon to work her magic all over her vast, overflowing wardrobe. By the end of it, every item of clothing left in those cupboards will be there because it suits her skin tone and she's likely to wear it: they will have survived the great clothing cull of 2009.

"Have you had your colours done?" Mrs Gok demanded, seeing me staring open mouthed at the door.
"N-n-o..." I stuttered before backing away, slowly, and shutting the door to my room.

I'm already panicking about what she might do to my collection of Karen Millen dresses and that body hugging size 6 Miss Selfridge number that I haven't worn since I was 14.

Somehow, I don't think Mrs Gok would understand the concept of "I keep it, you know, just in case".

Network, network, network.

The Writer is taking me along to a media event with him tonight. The objective is to meet other journalists, editors, PRs and men make contacts, thus furrowing a little inward tunnel into the travel writing world.

What that actually translates to is two hours of standing around, drinking wine until I lose that manic, forced grin I seem to acquire when I'm in an awkward social situation where I don't know anyone, following the writer from group to group getting introduced to people whose name I will probably forget as soon as they've told me it.

I will then drift into my more charming persona, the one which pronounces all its T's and looks really very interested in everything you are saying. Smiling, nodding, agreeing, laughing, regaling those around me with choice amusing anecdotes - before winning a huge prize in the raffle, which I will gracefully walk up to the front and collect with an embarrassed yet endearing smile; making myself instantly memorable to everyone in the room.

Haha. Ahahahahahhaa. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAA. Bahahahahhahahahhahaa. Haha. Muahhahahaha. Yeeaaaaah. So anyway, what actually goes on at these things? And it's just a jeans and heels jobby, yeah?

Word gets around

I don't mind real life people knowing I have a blog - I just don't want them knowing where it is. Most of my good friends know I have one, it makes for interesting conversations; they are intrigued about this secret online world where strangers offer anecdotes and advice to each other, where pseudonyms are the norm and hardly anyone - writers or blog characters - go by their real name.

Access is on a strict need to know basis. It was never a question that my boyfriend would have to know about it (now, I'm not so sure. Would I let a new boyfriend read about life with and without the old one?), in fact, I practically forced him to read it. I'm proud of this little space, how it's grown over time - it was nice to be able to share it with someone else.

The problem with giving your boyfriend access to your anonymous blog is that when you break up, you may be able to take back your belongings, but you can't erase a web address from his head - or internet history. Whilst he's assured me that he no longer reads, and I believe him, I can no longer be assured of him keeping it a secret. It's not like I can royally bollock him for such an offence any more, is it?

"So, I hear you have a blog" began the conversation at the bar with one of the boys on Friday night. Someone I definitely hadn't told. Someone I'd only met a handful of times before.
"Yeah...how do you know?"
"[Ex boyfriend's best friend] told me"
"And how does he know?"
"[Ex boyfriend] told him"

When I'm the one doing the telling, the information is restricted, I know what you'd need to type into google to find this place and can limit what I say accordingly. All he'd have to do is open up a webpage and tap in the address in front of our mutual friends and the cat would be out of the bag and scurrying round everyone's feet. On speed. Drinking red bull. Growing wings.

The cat belongs in that bag. It loves the bag. The bag is where the good shiz iz. Let's hope he knows how to keep a secret, eh?

Another journey well done

Long time readers will know that my habit of mixing hangovers with the public transport has, err, "thrown up" some interesting journeys in the past.

Recently though, I've been alright on that side of things. I've managed, with an intense combination of Berocca, Nurofen, toast, water and sleep, to stave off the all encompassing "oh shit, I'm going to vom" aftermath of a messy night out. However, for the hangover prevention to really work well, I have to return home after a night out to where the kit's kept. But as discussed the other week, getting home from central London is expensive unless it's a shared journey to the same neck of the woods.

Which is why lately it's a given that if I go into central London for a night out, I'm not coming home. It's no longer "what time will you be home?", but "will you be home?" as I leave the house. Now don't get the wrong idea. I'm not a dirty stop out, I'm a pikey one. Basically if there's a spare (unoccupied) bed, sofa, rug, (occupied) dog basket or floor space to be had, I'm nabbing it, saving my pennies and doing that journey home for £2.20 the next day.

So when me, Ben and a few other uni mates emerged, blinking and shielding our eyes against the daylight from a club in south east London on Saturday morning, I had two options. Wait 20 minutes and get the first tube, or hop into a cab with the boys back to their house and deal with getting home in the morning. Being a pikey stop-out, I chose the latter.

Somehow, I reasoned that daylight would cancel out any alcohol that was consumed in the club, so I didn't drink water before bed and just went straight to sleep in Ben's spare room. When I woke up a few hours later, the head thumping began. Then it got worse. After flopping around the house for a while, I knew I had to get the journey over and done with. I felt queasy just looking at TFL's predicted 1.5 hour journey time. Then I realised Camberwell is not a place served by a tube line, in fact, the nearest tube was a slow, crawling, Saturday-traffic laiden bus journey away in Elephant and Castle.

I head to the top deck, and it's packed. The sun is hot through the window. I'm breathing deeply, fighting the urge to BLEUURRRGGHHHHHH on the floor. I look out the window to distract myself from the nausea, and instead see a bloke throwing up on the grass next to a children's play area, overlooked by two community support officers. Twenty agonising minutes later and I'm off the bus in the arse end of London, being approached by a woman who wants to know where the nearest B&B is and telling me why she needs one. Seriously, love - move away before I vom on your shoes. Then I head underground. It's hotter. I count the stops to Baker Street. I get on the next train and realise after clocking the noisy red and white clad army on the platform - to my absolute groaning horror - that the football's on. And they're all going my way.

I last five minutes in a hot carriage with fat, sweaty, drunk, chanting, slurring, B.O stinking, rancid, noisy football supporters "OFF TO WEM-BER-LEEEY, WEM-BER-LEEEYY", before I have to get off and spend a few minutes gagging on the next available platform.

It took an hour and a half, one bus journey, three tubes (one aborted), and a walk: but I was finally home. I'd managed to not throw up, but bloody hell; I'd just completed my very own version of the Flora London vomathon.

I got into bed and summoned the energy to text Ben.

Made it home. Died a little bit on the way. Night.


This money saving thing is going to kill me.

Life soundtracks

I've been listening to Jagged Little Pill today. Not because I'm some closet Alanis Morisette fan, I just like that album. It's angry. Some of it's really pissed off. It's perfect for getting your head on straight. It talks about sore points and break ups without sentimentalising them, it just puts everything out there.

Those of you on twitter will know that I was having a bit of musical angst this morning. I was getting very frustrated at my iPod, which was supposedly on shuffle, yet continued to throw up break up song after break up song. Or nostalgic stuff like "Better Together", "Better that we break", "Back to you", and "Ben Harper - Forever". Turns out it was just on normal play, and we'd got to the 'B' section. Bum bum.

It wasn't what I wanted to hear. What I wanted to hear was the music I'd been recommended in a facebook message yesterday. I loved it after the first listen. It was spot on, just my kind of thing. Exactly the sort of album I, or should I say "we'd listen to relentlessly" - which is exactly why I can't listen to it. The music is immediately inseparable from the message that it came with. The recommendation was of course from my ex.

Anyway - it got me thinking. Music's the soundtrack to life, right? They don't even have to be good songs to qualify, they just stick in your head. Like You Oughta Know from Jagged Little Pill is my ultimate song to get angry to. Warwick Avenue by Duffy reminds me of the night of the break up, because it was playing in my iPod on my way home afterwards as I was on the Bakerloo Line. John Mayer's Something's Missing and Back To You plucks some heart strings for me too. My "I'm feeling ok, now" song has to be I Am A Rock by Simon and Garfunkel.

I was just wondering - what are your buzz tracks? Like what song has a real link to an event or heartbreak, or amazing night, awful day in your life? A song or album that you hear and immediately smile, or conversely just start howling like a massive walrus?

HRH Hunchback

With my shoulder giving me jip - once again on a bank holiday weekend (my body has impeccable timing), this time there was no superman on hand to sort it out.

So today, after a weekend of extremely uncomfortable, broken nights sleep and shooting pains down my left side, I hopped on the tube to Moorgate to see my mum's physio. After five minutes with my deformed shoulders, the physio (lovely as she was) said the words that every image conscious girl longs to hear:

"Have you ever noticed that one of your shoulders is higher up than the other?"

Why no, no I haven't. Turns out I've been on a fast track course to Notre Dame Bell ringing school, thanks to my posture and my left hand side's caring nature. Apparently, my left side feels the need to overcompensate for my right. Ahh, bless. What a crippling gem.

Luckily for me, there's a solution.

NURSE! GET ME THE TAPE!



Yeah that's right. I'm taped into place, next stop, Britain's Next Top Model.

Just put all sympathy donations in the bucket, and no prodding me on the tube.

Good morning, you cow

It's half 10 in the morning, I've just got in from my night out. I haven't even got changed yet. I just rolled on in, opened up my laptop and here we are.

Hello, good morning.

Now, I like to think of myself as quite a polite girl; I mean sure sometimes we all slip up and when I do, like if I'm rude, I usually get this strange feeling in my stomach that tells me "you were rude". I don't enjoy being rude to people. I can do it, but it doesn't sit well with me afterwards.

So given that it's 10:30am, I haven't eaten anything but McCoys crisps since this time yesterday, I've had about 2 hours sleep before getting up and going home and I'm still very, very hazy...it's safe to say I was comfortably in a little bubble of stale smelling tiredness on my journey home this morning. I had to get a tube to a station slightly further away from my usual one. Then, so that I didn't disrupt anyone's day, I got a bus from the station instead of calling home for a lift.

I was conscious of being a little bit smelly having been liberally doused with Eau de Hot Club (grimey dubstep, D&B, garage and a load of bassline will do that to a girl) so I just put something nice on my iPod and trundled my way home.

I arrive at the bus stop, where five people were sat down waiting. There was no room for me, so I walked past them and stood near the timetable. The bus came. At this point, I did what any other person would do: the doors opened right in front of me, and I walked forward to get on.

A hand grabbed my arm. Not touched, grabbed.

"Err, we were here before you." said a large woman with what I can only describe as a face like a cow, pointing to an elderly woman next to her.

I woke up and pulled out an earphone.

"Eh?" and I stared at the open doors to the empty bus.
"We've been waiting too. You should let others get on before you"

Now, I didn't really get it. Usually, I'm all for queueing. But this wasn't really a queue, I hadn't skipped to the front of anything - I just happened to arrive 2 minutes before the bus, and chose to stand where the doors opened. Plus I have Oyster, I just needed to hop on, scan the thing and walk on. It takes 2 seconds. The elderly woman was looking a bit baffled. The man next to her was saying "No, it's fine". Yet still the large, cow faced woman glared. I spoke up.

"Eh? But we're all going to get on. It's empty."
"Thats not the point. We've been waiting. You should let us go first"
"Look," I replied, gesturing towards the sky and getting all philisophical, "It's a nice sunny day. Why are you causing a fuss? It's not a big deal. We're just getting on the bus. There's really no..."
"It's called MANNERS".

Woah there cow face. Don't talk to me about manners. I've got a whole blog about manners. While you're banging on about manners, that elderly woman is having to stand for an even longer time while we argue about it, you sour faced old trout.

But I didn't say that - I just let them all get on while this woman continued her mutterings and I reiterated my point that in the great scheme of things, this really isn't a very important thing to get upset about. By the time I got to the top deck, I was angry. This was not how I wanted to complete my night. I'm bloody knackered. I've been out all night. These tights are laced with sweat. I just want to go home.

"You want manners? I'd have quite liked a seat at that bus stop, but unfortunately your massive arse was taking up about 3 spaces on the bench. So while we're talking about manners, let's talk about your immense, overwhelming weight."

But I didn't say that. Why? because I haven't just got manners, I've got restraint.