Lordy lordy, I have been informed that there was an article on blogs in yesterday's London Evening Standard, with a screencap of the kitschcam. If that ain't going to send them running away with their hands over their eyes, what the hell will? Now the juicy stuff. Anyone have a copy? Purdy please? With a cherry on top? You know I love you. Smoochies 'n' all....
Back to London in about 3 hours, for a spot of seeing friends, playing in the big city, and even drinks with the UK London Weblogging cabal. And I'm still in my pyjamas. What is a girl to do? (get dressed - duh!)
tuesday, august 29
Yet another scary realisation: I start university in just a month's time. It's shocking how quickly the time is flying of late - and this is supposed to be something that only happens as you get older. It seems like yesterday that I was nervously ripping open the envelope to get my A-Level exam results, to see which way my next three years would be decided: would I get the 3 A grades I needed to take up my place at Oxford? Would I miss those, but make the A and 2 Bs I needed to go to Birmingham? Or would I find I hadn't got the grades I needed, and would be thrown into the lot of Clearing? Then it was straight off to the US for five months at FIU, then off to London for six months at the Guardian, and now, suddenly, the year is over. Where did it go? What's happening to my life - is it just flashing by? Am I grabbing every opportunity I can before it's whisked away from me, never able to be taken again? It's a sobering thought, and one that makes me more determined than ever to try and make the best of everything that I'm lucky enough to be given, and earn that which I'm not....
I've just realised that the American expedition is but a mere week away. A shout out to anyone in Washington, Chicago, NY or Boston who wants to meet a nutty Brit blogger and her slightly less nutty, equally Brit, non-bloggery pal, drop me a line, as I'm descending on your city soon - you can run but you can't hide!
monday, august 28
I <heart> Prol - this totally embodies the Bondesque fantasy, and generally rawks
It's Bank Holiday Monday, which like all good Bank Holidays in the UK means we get a James Bond flick on the telly. There's something pretty magical about the good Bond films (read: Sean Connery, Roger Moore, maybe Pierce Brosnan, but not Timothy Dalton) that makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. It's that whole 'I want to be a superhero/superspy who can singlehandedly save the world and get the gorgeous girl (guy)' thing. See, I don't want to be a Bond girl. Sure, they look pretty, but they don't really do much except stand around and provide James with relentless sexual favours. I want to be the female James Bond. The suave, sassy, act with my eyebrows kind of Bond. The super-duper gadgeted type of Bond. The only thing I would change about it would to be to nick the theme tune from Mission Impossible (it's my fantasy, I choose the soundtrack - OK?). That's the old sixties TV show theme, not the crappy Limp Bizkit remake. It's a really exciting, dangerous, wow kind of theme. Just call me Bond. Katy Bond. I wish!
sunday, august 27
Life is full of disappointments. Like the fact that Fortune Cookies give really shite fortunes, that are difficult to get excited about. Even with the traditional 'in bed' tacked onto the end:
"Hand that touch this fortune will receive good news soon"
It's August Bank Holiday weekend, which means that as well as being Notting Hill Carnival, means it's party time in Manchester too. Formerly known as Manchester Mardi Gras, now titled Gayfest 2000, it's the biggest street carnival of the year. Set in Manchester's thriving Canal Street, and spreading all over the city, it's a time of fun and frolics, with the most wild and wacky costumes you can bear in these chilly northern climes. While I was living in the States last year, I missed Mardi Gras '99, but I actually worked at Mardi Gras '98, and had an absolute blast. My job (at the tender age of 16) was to hand out cards for phone sex lines (popup cards) - that year the city was covererd in the little orange and purple cards. I confess that much of the time was spent frequenting the many varied bars along Canal Street, and taking in the floats, drag queens, fireworks, dance arenas, and all the party had to offer. The wonderful thing about it was that whilst it was dominated by the GLBT aspect of it, it really was for everyone - families and groups of all ages were welcomed, and the diversity of every single person there was celebrated.
I am a Freak of Nature Part 1
I am a medical enigma. I actually managed to befuddle the doctor by presenting a problem which made him express utter astonishment, and admit that he'd never seen or heard of anything of its kind, and as such, had no clue what to do with it. About a year and a half ago I woke up one morning to see that my left hand had suddenly started turning a brownish-orange colour in spots. Still holding onto that shred of hope that parents (read: mothers) are the all-knowing sentient beings, and will be able to solve all problems put to them, I showed off my new patterned hand, waiting for an explanation and some household cure. "Urgh! You've got orange blobs all over your hand!". Yeah, thanks Dad, that'll do the trick. Over the coming weeks, my left-hand blobs mysteriously came and went, each time returning with a renewed vigour, concentrating solely on the areas of skin above the joints. The doctor had no clue, and conceded that making an appointment with a dermatologist was hindered slightly by the fact that we didn't know when they would return. It wasn't an allergy, but strangely enough it only happened when I had been sitting at our home computer for extended periods of time. Over the last year, while I've been living away from home - nada. I have been an orange free zone. Then yesterday - bam! Orange spots again. And my Dad related that the one time he sat for an evening at this computer, the next day he too had the left hand blobs. Do I have some kind of weird radioactive PC? Am I actually an alien lifeform just waiting for the mothership to take me home? Or can anyone shed some light on the amazing-orange-blobbiness?
saturday, august 26
People can be such bastards. I'm walking down the high street, when all of a sudden we spot a pigeon trapped between the 'P' and the 'O' of JJB Sports - it's managed to fly into the sign and get itself wedged between the letters. I can't just walk by, and another passer-by has the same idea, so we go into the shop and ask if they have a stepladder to get the bird down. The shop assistant nonchalantly says just to leave it there, as this is evidently not a grave concern of his. It would take about 60 sodding seconds to get the pigeon down, rather than leave it there to die, and he doesn't even have a minute to spare? Someone decides this isn't on, spots a set of steps, and proceeds to march out the shop to gently lift the bird to safety. Quite a crowd has built up: the bird shakes its feathers as it's placed on the ground, and toddles off quite happily. If a crowd of shoppers were worried enough that the pigeon should have been rescued, is it so much to ask that someone in the shop might have had the same interest?
Judge rules that Siamese Twins must be separated against the wishes of their parents - if this isn't one of the worst scenarios you could ever face as a parent, I don't know what is. I can't even begin to imagine the agony they must be going through, because there's no favourable outcome. If they let nature take its course, both babies will die within months, because their shared heart and lungs will not be able to support the two of them: the only hope being separation - sacrificing the life of one to let the other survive. It's a horrible case of medical vs legal ethics; whilst the British courts are duty bound to try and preserve life, is it still moral to bring about the death of one child to preserve the life of another? I'm not even going to touch the medical ethics of it, or consider whether the court or the parents are 'in the right', as it's possibly one of the most heart-breaking situations I can envisage.
When you have the eyesight (or, more appropriately, eyeshite) of a one-eyed mouse, it's never a good idea to lose track of things when you're alone in the house. By which I mean you wake up and your glasses aren't by your bed, they're somewhere in the never-ending bombsite that is your room. OK, finding your glasses might be a distinct problem, but that's OK, you are a resourceful woman, you can paw your way into the bathroom to out your lenses in. Vision schmvision. Only you get to the bathroom and you used the last packet of your disposibles yesterday, and the new box is somewhere in the aforementioned bombsite. Bollocks. And you are dependent on someone with the faculty of sight to actually find the damn things, as you are about as useful as a waterproof hairdryer without either. So I'm pretty much nowhere, as I can't see a bloody thing, and can't see to find the very things which will enable me to see. Argh!
Turn on the game and pop the top off a cold one! You're a true Guy's Girl — the easy-going, baseball-cap-wearing, jeans-and-flannel-shirt type. Hot dogs and chips are an essential part of your diet, and tossing a ball around is second nature. Definitely low-maintenance and very natural, there's still plenty of femininity under your tomboy exterior. Breaking out the little black dress and heels every once in a while knocks your guy's socks off. Besides knowing the latest sports scores and stats by heart, you actually enjoy hanging out with "the guys." In a romance, you're your man's pal as much as his squeeze, and he never has to worry about playing head games with you. The perfect mix of the girl next door and the sporty chick, you're spontaneous, fun, and all-American.
Now, Brits abroad (or for that matter, Brits at home) do not have the most astounding reputation for representing their homeland as a civilised nation. In that groups of tanked-up lads, lagered up to the eyeballs, running around mooning and puking in gutters doesn't really promote the British man to the rest of the world. And boy was Malia no exception. You see, the idea of the European lover being a sensual lothario might well work on the Continent, but my countrymen don't seem to have grasped the art of seduction. I mean, maybe it's just me, but "Get your tits out for the lads!" doesn't quite make me go weak at the knees. Or the smooth and sexy technique or saying "Is your name Penny? 'Cos I've always wanted to come into money", then trying to shove their hand up your top. That said, I'd bet any money that if my friend and I turned round to the guy who tried to lure us with 'Fancy a shag then darlins'?' and said "Yeah, we both want you, right here, right now, stud," he'd run a sodding mile! It's a wonder that the population is on an increase, given that it's hard to imagine that anyone would get sex as a result of those!
Dancing
Yep, shakin' the booty, doing the groove thang, featured highly during the last week. Whether you think you can't dance, know you have the rhythm of a jack-in-the-box on speed, or were crowned Disco Diva six years in a row, it really doesn't matter. Some people like to use poles to alarmingly devastating effect. You get the impression that they might be just that bit too familiar with routines involving poles, if ya know what I mean. Some people like to fling themselves around the dance floor so they're practically bouncing off walls. Some prefer to shuffle around, bobbing around a bit, but generally keeping inconspicuous. It's all good, baby. I am delighted to announce that we danced like devils, schweetie! We even launched ourselves onto the podiums in one club we frequented a few times, though it would be fair to say that we might have been under the influence of a drop or two of grandpa's special cough medicine. It's great to have the energy and the confidence to actually think 'well sod it even if I think I look like a prize pratt I'm going to dance my socks off' Swing your pants, bay-bee!
Nekkidity
Big ones, small ones, high ones, droopy ones - whether you can throw 'em over your shoulder like a continental soldier, one thing you're guaranteed to find in multiples on Mediterranean beaches, is boobs. One of the all-time classic looks I've ever seen was of two Canadian girls arriving at the beach, when confronted with several hundred bouncing pairs of lobster-red appendages staring at them from practically every lounger on the sandy shores: the expression of abject horror was just priceless. Faced with an army of girls and women battling the perils of sunburnt nipples, I suspect they weren't sure whether to join the fray, or to run screaming for the hills. To use a good old northern expression "They had faces like a pair of smacked arses!"
wednesday, august 23
Porn
The mini-marts which lurk between the various cafes, bars, shops and tavernas of Beach Road in Malia, as well as stocking food, toiletries, newspapers and other sundries, are also purveyors of porn. Yes, nestled between the magazines and the sun-tan lotion, we were intrigued to find a selection of Greek porn flicks, some assorted toys, erotic playing cards, some light reading, and a few novelties - including some wonderfully bright coloured phallic candles. I had the delightful mental image of Halcyon doing his grocery shopping, picking up milk, bread, chips, penis-pump, skin mag, ice cream, cookies...
Sunshine
I cannot stress enought how blissful it was to wake up in the morning every day to a constant source of streaming rays of sunshine. Winter depresses me. It's that much harder to get out of bed and get on with your daily routine when you know that it's dark and oppressive outside. What incentive is a grey miserable day? Maybe it's the holiday vibe, but there's something special about seeing bright natural light blanketing the room when you're just not that used to seeing it. And being able to sleep with the door to the balcony flung open, so you get a breeze floating in through the night, is just wonderful. Again, something I just don't get to do at home because, though I love many things about my motherland, frankly, the British climate stinks. Despite my typical foreigner griping when it got too hot and sticky during the midday sun, the weather alone was enough to put a smile on this here face.
What Katy Did - slightly revised version of the childrens' novel and abridged version of Emma and Katy Did Crete '00
Random post-holiday observances to follow in dribs and drabs. Photos (hopefully) to come in the next couple of days: yee haw!
Holiday Stats:
Yummy Greek dinners consumed: 7 Units of alcohol imbibed: too many Banana boats ridden on: 1 Times propositioned by Greek waiters: at least twice per meal Insect bites: one big motherfucker on my calf, and 6 smaller ones Island day cruises taken: 1 wicked cool one Delays: 0 (huzzah!) Times I would recommend you sample Raki (local Cretan Liquor): once and once only Funky henna tattoos gained: 1 emblem of the sun on my left arm. They were out of Little Miss Whiplash ones {pout} Arguments with mate and travelling companion: none (how amazing is this?) Stories to tell: lots
friday, august 18
Yes, I'm blogging while overlooking the sunny beaches of Malia, on a keyboard with lots of Greek letters - isn't life sweet? Things of note thus far:
Far too many luminescent and rather scarily-coloured cocktails with alarming amounts of fruit and umbrellas hanging onto thr side of the glass, with exceedingly dodgy names: these include the obligatory Sex on The Beach, and the rather more interestingly titled Headfucker and the Blowjob. oh yeah, word of warning - they're lethal!
Only the merest hint of sunburn, and some rather impressive tan marks. And finding sand in really interesting places at the end
The biggest culture shock is most definitely encountering other Brits abroad
Dodgy Greek bloke shrieking 'I am sex! Sleep with me beautiful ladies!" at 3am
One really loud slap to the rump from one highly drunken individual at 2.30am
A random bloke professing to us that he had (and I quote) UV pubes
Be good kids!
tuesday, august 15
OK, I'm packed, I'm off soon - ciao dahlings, be good while I'm away, don't forget about me, and expect lots of kitschy bitchy goodness on my return next week!
I have given my Dad strict instructions to tape Big Brother every day, which is deeply sad, pathetic, and rather worrying. As is The Orwell Project - the whole idea behind BB, when you think about the 1984 derivation, is fairly unsettling, and the fact that I'm so into it perturbs me. That said, I'm still going to watch it!
I'm leaving for Crete tonight. Have I packed? Have I bollocks! However, it's lurvely and hot at our destination so I'm a very happy bunny.
One of the good things about being chez parents, as well as having access to a washing machine that lieks to actually get the clothes clean, hot water, and having the odd meal cooked for me is the bid screen digital TV. Aaaah, SKY digital. Ahh, the multi-channels. Not only can I indulge my teenage music fetish by having at least 8 different 24 hour music channels, or 24 hour news, or 24 hour movies, or 24 hour home shopping (get the wonderthighmaster 2000!) but we seem to get weird and wonderful channhes added every so often. Recent additions include:
- the G-d channel: 24 hours of southern US evangelism, lotsa 'praise the lord'-ing, mucho 'Jesus is great' singing and happy-clappy concerts, and general 'isn't G-d great' programming
- Bhangravision: all day every day, the best of cheesy Punjabi macarana-esque dancing and singing. The stories of the videos generaly follow one of two themes: cheeky boy chases coy girl, boy and friends dance and sing on one side of the room, girl and friends giggle and sneak glances at the lads on the other side of the room. Or girl and boy follow forbidden romance, defying their families to see each other. And love triumphs all, as the Indian equivalent of Celine Dion croons in the background
- the one with the chinese soap operas. It's entirely in Mandarin, but so far I gathered today that the dastardly doctor has been having a romance with the rich director's daughter, cheating on his fiancee, and her elderly grandfather really isn't very happy about this state of affairs. A woman keeps running round in a flap about something, shrieking in a very high-pitched voce, but I've not yet worked out where she fits in. Oh yes, and the nuclear reactor is scheduled to blow up in a matter of hours, so I'll have to tune in tomorrow to see if the town is indeed going to be burnt to a crisp...
monday, august 14
Now, I'm not living in Silicon Valley, but I'm certainly familiar with the world-wide prolification of dot-commers, with the highest concentration being in the aforementioned hotbed of techies. And this Salon article on the inability to carry out a coherent conversation with a single person at a Silicon Valley party was particularly amusing:
Me: Hi there. Martini25: What's your name? Me: Tom. Great party. What are you drinking? Martini25: B-to-G. Me: I've never had one of those. Is it a vodka drink? Martini25: Our company's moving out of a distributed, hierarchical B-to-B architecture and into a peer-to-peer, B-to-G back-end strategy that's going to ignite our share price and send it back into orbit. Me: Um, can we back up here? I got lost at B-to-something ... Martini25: Do you have a card? Me: I left them in the car. In my briefcase. Martini25: You left them in the car? You should check out our Web site. It's at www.BtoGeewhiz.com. What's your name?
Observations on a wedding:
The bride will look stunning in her dress. Unfortunately the foofiness of the skirts will ensure it is physically impossible to go to the toilet by yourself. You will need at least one good friend to perform the glamorous task of holding up the dress so you can yank down the tights and pee without dropping said dress in the toilet bowl.
The groom may be an ardent football supporter, but encouraging him to kick the glass he's supposed to smash during the ceremony across the synangogue for an impromptu kickabout may not be the most prudent course of action under the watchful eye of three rabbis
The bridesmaids will all look neat and polished with their hair in matching french pleats. Which requires on my hair about half a can of hairspray, and approximately fifty three hair grips. When neat and polished do is removed at the end of the night, said mane of hair is subsequently roughly the size of Inner Mongolia.
saturday, august 12
Apologies. I'd like to fill this with some rip-roaring link, incisive commentary or hilarious anecdote, but it just ain't going to happen. Am utterly, completely knackered, and have to walk down the aisle looking fresh-faced and joyous tomorrow. Therefore one shagged-out Katy is thinking some serious vegging-out might be the order of the day, away from the computer. Signing off, over and out....
friday, august 11
If you're sick of Big Brother, well, sorry, but this wonderful page, Nico Morgan meets BB, is just hilarious, and everyone should go and have a look. You'll laugh your socks off baby!
So it's the wedding following the now-infamous sexy-toy-Ann-Summers-search, and before the happy couple walk off into wedded bliss, I think it only fair that the world see what the groom got up to on his stag do
The Jewish e-mail grapevine is as speedy as the spoken word, as I received this in my inbox this morning:
TOP TEN WAYS THE WHITE HOUSE WILL CHANGE WITH LIEBERMAN AS V.P.
10) Air Force One to be renamed - "El Al Gore." 9) Tipper to be referred to as "The First Shiksa." 8) Saturday Night State Dinners to be replaced by Sunday Night Chinese. 7) Inauguration to be completed with Breaking of Glass. 6) Problem: Presidential Baldness. Solution: Presidential Yarmulke! 5) Every time "Hail to the Chief" is played, Secret Servicemen Lift Gore in a Chair and Dance Around. 4) U.S. Never to pay retail again for Nuclear Warheads. 3) Federal Employees To Have Saturdays off for Shabbat - but will have to actually start working Monday - Friday. 2) Camp David relocated to Palm Beach. 1) In First Major Trade Agreement with India, New Delhi to be renamed Carnegie Delhi.
Now, it all sounds like a pile of crap to me, but if it's true, it's both hilarious and infuriating. Nick is the guy that's been conniving, sneaky, villanous, plotting, scheming - and bloody successful at it too. It makes for sickly addictive viewing, but at the same time it drives you up the wall. He's not the guy you love to hate, he's actually really messing with people, and it's a twisted voyeurism to see him manipulate others for his own gains. The suggestion was made that he was a mole planted by Channel 4 to spice things up - and if he is, it's certainly working. Not really sure how I feel about it, but I do know that, sick fuck that I am, I'll be glued to the screen come 11pm for the daily dose...
Update: Big Brother find no phone, but fits telecommunications jammer to prevent any signals being received.
So I went to one of those freebie Macromedia 'seminars' (read: product showcase) and saw one fo the first previews of Flash 5. Now, I'm a total Flash virgin, but woof!! Seriously sexy stuff. Also shown off was a forthcoming super-secret Director feature, through a partnership with Intel, offering the most stunning 3D Shockwave-esque movies I've ever seen - and with ridiculously small file sizes. Generally an interesting morning, although the way Dreamweaver was marketed was a little worrying. They demo-ed it, showing off the pixel-precise positioning using WYSIWYG layers as one of its best features - demonstrating that knowledge of the coding isn't essential. I imagine the main danger of that to be (as well as buggy code) that people use absolute positioning wily-nilly, and make pages that look great on their own resolutution, but don't consider making them cross-resolution compatible. Resulting in the need to scroll masssively. I hate having to define tables in pixels: if I had my way, everything would be done in percentage width to give a fluid effect - maybe it's something that worries me unnecessarily. But I can't help thinking that whilst features fo Dreamweaver might be massively time-saving if you do know how to code, it could make for some really horrible errors for newbies.
wednesday, august 9
Argh, I am so hacked off! I'm in my car, just getting off the motorway, and some arsehole's been right up my bum for bloody ages, so as I'm nearing home, I decide to take a little side road to get him off my tail. To make a swift getaway from this wanker who seems to find it amusing to sit right on my rear bumper for ages, I'm going a little bit faster than usual, - maybe 5 miles or so above the limit. I'm so conscious of getting a fine/penalty points on my licence that I rarely speed, because I know I really want to keep a nice clean sheet. But on the rare occasion I am breaking the limit, who do I suddenly see out of the corner of my eye but two sodding policmen hiding in the bushes by the roadside with a frickin' radar gun! So I'll no doubt find out soon enough if I've been 'done' or not, which will mean three black marks on my licence and a fine, no doubt. ARSE!
I need your help, oh loving web people!
So I bought the dreaded teeny top on impulse - now I need to know: do I take the damn thing on holiday, or do I consign it to the sin bin of fashion mistakes forever? I'm depending on you, kids...
tuesday, august 8
Brain Fart for the Day: engagements are the new relationships
It's a sad day when at the ripe old age of 18 you realise you're out of touch with what 'young people' are doing nowadays. But I had one of these tragic epiphanies at the weekend, when it was explained to me that fiancés are the new boyfriends. Yes, the new craze for anyone of between 17 and 22 seems to be that if you've been going out for a respectable length of time, and the relationship can be desribed as 'serious', then the thing to do, dahling, is to get engaged. "But couples have been doing this for years", I hear you cry! "That's a natural progression", you exclaim! You meet, you go out, you meet your S.O.'s parents, you hate their parents, you have the cat/dog conversation, they see you first thing in the morning and deal with you when you're alarmingly drunk and throwing up all over the place, you say the 'L' word, and then you might decide to take it a step further by making a public commitment and pledge your lives together. Nothing new about that!
Aha, not so fast Inspector Clousseau. There's something new about these trendy engagements. Whilst a regular engagement implies that there's some kind of marriage/life commitment at the end of it, this is not the case for the nouveau engagement! No, apparently now it's perfectly acceptable to say 'I'm engaged' but for this to have no real meaning other than to indicate that You Have A Steady Significant Other.
I heard that an old classmate was engaged - her second engagement in the last 12 months, I believe. "Wow", I said, "So are they moving in together? When are they planning on getting hitched, or are they just leaving it be?" "Don't be daft!" was the reply - "they're not planning on getting married, they're just engaged!". Well, duh!
A similar thing happened to another friend. She was chatting to someone at her University, who mentioned that she was engaged. When she politely asked if they'd got any ideas about weddings and so forth, she was met with a frosty glare, and a look that could have killed. Someone later told her "You don't talk about weddings to her - it's not like they're engaged to be married, they're probably not even going to make it to the end of term. It's just, you know, a casual engagement."
Of course, there are still thousands of couples who are deciding to get married, or pledge unions to each other in some form or another - but it was just a revelation (as someone who is about as single as they come) to see that there was a whole new category of relationships. I'm feeling a bit left out. So as it I'm of the right age to have the nouveau engagement (and have no intention of getting hitched), I put it to you, dear readers: Will you not-quite-marry-but-be-engaged-to me?
I just got an e-mail saying that there's an article about blogs, mentioning kitschbitch (amongst others), in CMJ New Music Monthly. Not being in the US, would some kind soul be able to have a wee peek to let me know what it says? I kiss you!
My quest to be uber-stylish, embodying the 'oh I just threw on any old thing and rushed out the house without even giving my appearance a second thought but damn I look good, no-makeup, natural hair, but still looking immaculate and exceedingly fresh and funky' look has gone to pot. I mean, aside from the obvious factors:
such a look requires hours of preparation
the 'no-make-up' look demands trowel-loads of slap
the people who do this look best throw on any old Gucci thing, not any old Target thing
they also have freaky hair that naturally looks good in the morning, not naturally shaped to their pillow
nor do they ever get spots ambushing them on their nose, which require immediate and drastic attention
when the average person tries this, they just look they got out of bed and forgot to get ready to face the world
don't these prettier-than-thou freaks of nature need to shower in the morning? ewww!
So aside from the obvious hindrances to the aforementioned Style Plan, yesterday's purchase didn't help much. My gal pal Emma and I decided to have a gander at the shops for the obligatory pre-holiday schwag, and ended up not only trying on matching denim stetsuns (no, we weren't serious), but actually buying boob tubes. Actually, strike that. Less than boob tubes. Hanky Tops. Basically, the item of clothing will either make me look either:
a) stunningly fabulous b) like a pork pie wearing an oversized kleenex
And possibly, if worn incorrectly, like an extra for Greece Uncovered. What have I done?!
I'm in heaven. Given as I seem to have achieved a certain notoriety for less than ladylike language, here is the ultimate Flash toy - the Swear-o-tron! Anything with the tag 'swear your tits off' has got to be good in my book. (via iBlog.com)
I'm a sucker for a funky slogan, which is why you should never take me round Camden Market, as I will immediately be drawn towards the dodgily-sloganed Ts. While mooching round last week, Tom and Nick remarked that there were lots of girly T-shirts, but a distinct lack of empowering ones for men - so they came up with the brilliant idea for the 'Boys don't have Slogans' shirt.
My local cinema of choice up north shows an awful lot of Bollywood films, as well as standard Hollywood film fayre - the demand is so great that they're now starting to serve poppadums and chutney, as well as popcorn and sweets. How cool is that?
Other notables: My partner in crime, fellow nutter, superb drinker of vodka, dancing diva supreme and general foxy lady, Emma and I seem to have found ourselves going on holiday. We're heading off to Malia, on the beautiful island of Crete, a week on Tuesday, for a week of sun, sea, sand, drink and debauchery. The place we're staying is 150m from the beach, a smiliar distance from the nearest bar/club, and it's scorchingly lovely at the moment. Bring it on baby!
Another bar crawl last night, exploring all the new places that seem to have sprung up around Manchester. Baa Bar, our first port of call, is famed for its many-flavoured and inexpensive shooters , which inevitably meant lining them up on the table, to down them in quick succession. Delights sampled include the Brain Haemorrage (baileys, peach schnapps, grenadine), Cranapple (apple schnapps, vodka, cranberry), Pink (creme de fraise, peach schnapps, vodka), as well as some lovely varieties of suitably naughty-named cocktails: ordering a round of Orgasms raised a few giggles, I can assure you! A good time was had by all, and it's lovely that almost everyone's back together after being flung around various parts of the country (or beyond) this past year. Just a few more friends yet to return from interesting places (Abi, my sweetie, when are you coming back from being a hotshot medico in Paraguay?!) and we'll all be together again...
So I'm sitting at the bar when my friend nips off the toilet, and the guy sat next to her sidles up to strike up conversation with me in her absence. Thereon followed either the most surreal exchange I've had in a while, or the worst and cheesiest chat-up premise in the history of all time. After introducing himself as Tony, his opening gambit is 'What do you do for a living?' After my reply, he reagerly reciprocates with 'I'm a porn star!"after. Refusing to believ this for a minute, I play along, asking what I would have seen him in, or remarking how tough a job it must be. Not actually suspecting for a moment that this guy actually is a porn star, I'm slightly stunned when he continues this charade for a good few minutes, explaining how it's really unglamorous, hard work (no pun intended) and we only see the edited version of three or four hours humping and moaning. If the guy really was a porn star, well, it was a totally out-of-the-blue conversation and more than little odd; if, as I'm inclined to believe, it was a highly dubious, mildly amusing, but awesomely hackneyed chat-up line, well, sorry Tony, it didn't work. Still, it's certainly a new turn-up for the books...
The English *love* to watch 'fly-on-the-wall' television programs
Or the TV companies think we do, and thus feed us an endless diet of docusoaps.
Pepper is the number one ingredient in any meal
Yes if you have something bland and like the taste of pepper. Not universally true.
the class system is very important - some English seem to be pompous, unfriendly snobs
True for some - a minority - of people. Avoid these people like the plague.
the Tube is good when it works - but it is usually held up by a 'security alert' or 'technical fault' at least once a week
Usually at least once a day. And it will always bugger up on your line on the day you have to be somewhere very important extremely punctually.
the weather can be a bit like Melbourne - four seasons in one day
Never been to Melbourne, but yes, typical London weather is absolutely schizophrenic.
Posh Spice and David Beckham dominate the news
Tabloid news, yes, it's utterly pathetic. "Brooklyn Beckham blows spit bubble" is your average tabloid headline.
everyone walks *really* fast
Often true - it's very much a walking city, but if you want to get somewhere, walking purposefully often involves smashing through crowds, and doing so briskly.
newspapers are about as informative as sticking your head in the sand
most things except property are cheaper over here than Brissie (when spending pounds, not Aussie dollars)
Not familiar with the Aussie exchange rate, but London is renowned for being one of the top ten most expensive cities in the world in which to live.
they have advertisements for sex services in telephone boxes
Indeed we do. It's been a fantasy of mine to make kitschbitch.com cards to slip in amongst the hooker cards, to see what kind of response I'd get *g*
it is a very atmospheric city - it really does have a 'feel' all it's own
Absolutely. It's just...alive.
the crowds are unbelievable - line up for everything, and push and shove to get anything
An unfortunate side-effect of the above, seemingly unaffected by above above.
you can buy cold, prepackaged sandwiches anywhere - even the pharmacy
Yes. Though they might not look or taste anything like what the average person would call a sandwich.
the radio plays really crappy music - Brit boy bands and ghetto music
Depends what station you listen as to what you want. There is so much variety, especially if you stary away form the big, commercial names, that you're sure to find something you like.
thursday, august 3
Oh, for fuck's sake, isn't enough that we have to put up with shitty connection speeds, ridiculous phone costs, crappy service, without being penalised for taking advantage of the odd allegedly good offer that comes round. Today's article from the Guardian:
"For a one-off payment of £50, Robin...could surf the net whenever and for as long as he wanted...Or so he thought. Last week, three months after signing up to Breathe's offer, he was unceremoniously disconnected from the service provider's unmetered offering. The reason? He was using it too much."
How the hell are we ever suppose to be anywhere near to keeping up with the age of information, the dot-com explosion, if the service and telecom providers are determined to make it so damn hard for everyone to actually be online for any period of time? I know that our technological capabilities are behind those of the US, but you'd have thought they'd at least try and market themselves favourably towards those people who obviously have a predisposition to surfing the net...
Mmmm. Strawberry Margaritas. Slurp.
I'm sure you've all probably had this in your mailboxes at some time or another, but it made me giggle...
A Girl's First Time (assume you are a girl if you are a boy)
It's your first time.As you lie back your muscles tighten. You put him off for a while searching for an excuse, but he refuses to be swayed as he approaches you. He asks if you're afraid and you shake your head bravely.He has had more experience, but it's the first time his finger has found the right place. He probes deeply and you shiver;your body tenses; but he's gentle like he promised he'd be. He looks deeply within your eyes and tells you to trust him - he's done this many times before. His cool smile relaxes you and you open wider to give him more room for an ease entrance. You begin to plead and beg him to hurry, but he slowly takes his time, wanting to cause you as little pain as possible. As he presses closer, going deeper, you feel the tissue give way; pain surges throughout your body and you feel the slight trickle of blood as he continues. He looks at you concerned and asks you if it's too painful. Your eyes are filled with tears but you shake your head and nod for him to go on. He begins going in and out with skill but you are now too numb feel him within you. After a few moments, you feel something bursting within you and he pulls it out of you, you lay panting, glad to have it over. He looks at you and smiling warmly, tells you, with a chuckle; that you have been his most stubborn yet most rewarding experience. You smile and thank your dentist. After all, it was your first time to have a tooth pulled.
Naughty, Naughty! What were you thinking? PERVERT!
So Ally McBeal is on shortly, and despite the fact that the show is pure evil, and is the work of Lucifer himself, I feel compelled to watch it. Is it because I enjoy seeing a bunch of schizophrenic dolly birds embodying every conservative misogynistic stereotype of the kind of woman we should all be striving not to turn into? Or is it because I like seeing a load of sublimely ridiculous scenarious playing out while people who really shouldnt be allowed to even exist attempt to practise law? That said, it's starting now, and must go watch, and shout a lot at the telly...
At the optician's, waiting for my check-up, I flick through a magazine and stumble across an interview with Thandie Newton. She recounted how amusing it was that she kept being referred to as "African-American", being as she's a black woman, and the PC term in the US is loosely interchangeable with the term 'black'. Except of course she's not American. It's interesting how the PC term has become so widely used that people forget that it assumes nationality. Similarly, I remember reading something where Gloria Reuben, an actress in ER, said it was so funny that she was always touted as an African-American actress, but in fact was neither, being Jamaican-Canadian! It just strikes me as interesting that in our efforts to be politically correct, we blindly use words without actually thinking what they mean. We don't really have an exact equivalent over here - you'll occasionally see the term 'Afro-Carribean' bandying around (though again, that's subjective to geographical origin), but you don't hear people say they're 'Anglo-Indian', or 'Anglo-Chinese', as you tend to hear in the US. Perhaps it's because although we're all effectively immigrants, there are far more second and third generation Americans than Britons? I mean, I often hear people referring themselves as 'Italian-Americans', though their parents may have been born and raised in the US, but I don't refer to myself as Anglo-German, though I my grandfather was born and raised in Berlin. Perhaps its just my personal experience, and it's fairly inconsequential - just something that made me think, I guess.
tuesday, august 1
Heather's lamenting the red tape involved in getting a driving licence in different countries. I came up with a wicked cool idea when I was living in the US, but I'm sure it must be illegal. Still, as I always say with regard to speeding and drugs - it's only illegal if you get caught. Anyway, my plan was this. Though I was not required to get a Florida licence, I though it would be a useful idea. Say I was caught in a speed trap back in the UK, I could show the US licence, as opposed to the British one (it would be a valid licence, no?). Thus I would get a fine, but would not lose points, and would maintain a full, clean licence. Now, is there a law stating that you're obliged to show the licence for the country you're in if you have one? Or would it just be pure obstruction of justice? I'm curious, because it seems such an easy plan - though mildly dubious. Legal eagles, is this a no-go?
Yet Another of Life's Great Mysteries
Could someone please explain to me the point of leg waxing, as it's one of those girly things I've never quite 'got'? Blokes who like to think we're born all smooth and actually look like this naturally without the aid of vast quantities of lotions and warpaint, stop reading now. OK, shaving is fine and dandy, you get hair, you remove it, you keep shaving, you have nice bald legs. Geddit? As I understand it, waxing is designed so that you don't have to keep shaving every day, so you can go on holiday, say, and have semi-permanent baldness. The price for this, however, being enormous pain as hot wax rips the hair from its follicles, and the proviso that you grow the hair beforehand so it's all long and shaggy, giving the wax something to grab onto (mmm, lovely thought!). If this is the case, doesn't that mean that you have to grow all the hair again every time you want to have them waxed? So in fact, you have to go through a sort of wax-on, wax-off schedule, of 2 weeks baldness, and a subsequent 2 weeks recovery period of regrowth? If so, what's the bloody point, might I ask?! See, shaving might be a hassle, but I'm always silky-smooth - can wax-lovers say the same, and if so, how the hell does that work?
Being a girl is cool, because we reserve the right to change our mind every five minutes, not tell you what we want, then whinge about it when we don't get it. The Evening Standard has a wicked article about how during the nineties, the New Man was all we desired, then our attentions turned to the Lad, then the Just-Gay-Enough Man - now we want the He-Man:
He won't whinge about opening doors for you. He will, on the other hand, smash a door down for you, if you think your friend is trapped in there. He won't make a pass at your friend once he's saved her, but he will make a pass at you, despite the fact that you're married with seven children. However, he won't leave you to do the messy business on your own, he'll scoop you off somewhere nice and leave hubby to do boring things like file for divorce...There simply must be something feral about his bearing which suggests that, no matter how diminutive his stature, he could still beat off huge people with only the aid of a small lighter-cum-flame thrower.
It cites Russell Crowe as the example, as he epitomises all that we're apparently lusting after right now. I know very few girls who actually watchedGladiator, not just because it was crap, but because the only thing they were actually concentrating on was the divine guy in the suit of armour, beating the crap out of all and sundry, fighting the good fight. And lest we forget the luscious Mr Clooney, who is just a hunk of old fashioned swoonworthy manliness - now there's a bloke who could put up your shelves for you, look all sweaty and still be sexy, and give you a good seeing-to. So boys, all that sensitive 'we want you to be in touch with your feminine side and learn to cry' business might have been just right a few years ago, but now it seems beefcake is the order of the day.
