(or what men say, and what they really mean)

(read: too knackered and lazy to write anything decent so katy scabbed this from her inbox for you reading pleasure)

What men say: Let’s be friends
What they mean: I fancy all your mates

What men say: Let's try something different tonight
What they mean: I want a threesome

What men say: I think of you as a sister
What they mean: I try not to think of you at all

What men say: I think things are moving to fast
What they mean: I wish it would grind to a halt

What men say: We’re going on a romantic holiday this weekend
What they mean: I got drunk last night, cheated on you, and now feel guilty

What men say: You’ve got lovely eyes
What they mean: You’ve got lovely breasts

What men say: You’ve got lovely breasts
What they mean: Can I play with them please?

What men say: Do you fancy a drink?
What they mean: I’m going to ply you with alcohol until you fancy me!

What men say: I’m not going to be back in time for dinner
What they mean: I’m watching a footie match in the pub with my pals

What men say: I’ll call you tomorrow
What they mean: I’ll think about it for at least a week

What men say: I think we need some time apart
What they mean: You're dumped. I’m off

What men say: Of course I love you
What they mean: I haven’t given it any thought whatsoever

What men say: I enjoy spending time with you
What they mean: The PlayStation’s broken

What men say: I’m tired. Let’s go to sleep
What they mean: I can’t get it up

What men say: I fancy a takeaway tonight
What they mean: Your cooking makes me want to hurl

What men say: I’m wrong
What they mean: Anything to shut you up

(or we got snow!)

How cool is that? Lookee here, that's what I saw when I looked out the window this morning. That's our garden, covered in lovely, powdery, gorgeous snow. If you look really closely at the pond (click for full size version) then you can see little wee pawprints from where the fox who visits us has padded his way across the frozen water.

Now, a lot of you may be all 'ooh, big deal, snow', but this is the most snow we've had since 1981, so it's pretty darned cool as far as I'm concerned! We don't really get snow in merry olde englande - at least, not in these here parts. The best we can usually expect is sleet - black and slushy, and fairly icky. But this is real live snow!

Admittedly, even good snow does have its sucky side. Such as the roads being all buggered up meaning that your plans to go out with your mates are scuppered because you can't get where you need to be. But who cares, when there's loads of funky stuff to get up to with snow, baby!

Cool things I like to do with snow include lying down and making snow angels, the obligatory snow fights (and shoving handfuls down people's backs), building anatomically correct snowmen, and, my favourite of all, sledging. Of course, there are other, erm, things, you can get up to in the snow, but some things are just better in the warmth, if you catch my drift. Drift - geddit? Oh dear, things are really going from bad to worse...

But, one of the all time best things to do on a wintry day - snow isn't obligatory for this, but it does help - is to come in from the cold, and snuggle up in a cosy sweater, drink hot chocolate and eat lots of comfort food. Mmm, sound good?

So, without further ado, I think I'm going to go and roll around on the lawn before it all melts away. Mwah!

(or yet another Christmas has passed us by)

I may explode. You see, I've survived another Christmas, which means another Christmas dinner. In our house, this is no ordinary meal. Oh no. This is the mother of all meals, to supercede and exterminate any other meal which dares to contest its hegemony.

Such are the hazards of being a Jewish family at Christmas. Aside from the whole doing-Christmas-without-doing-the Christmas-bit, and having a Chanukiah as your decoration, there's the matter of having a Jewish mother doing the cooking. See, eleven for dinner doesn't mean food for eleven people - even moderately hungry people. A Jewish mother will try and actually feed the five thousand. And you will be expected to eat this gargantuan meal: on pain on death or torture. It's damn good food - I mean, a foodaholic like me doesn't sniff at an amazing spread such as my Mum laid out on Christmas Day. But even a little piggy such as myself has her limits. Sometimes you just have to say no - but this isn't an option for the Jewish mother. Nuh-uh. "Aren't you going to have another potato?". "Go on, have another slice of turkey, you're not really full". "Nooo, I'm sure you can manage another kilo of stuffing, there you go". "Don't you like the parsnips? Well, there you go, another seven to be going on with".

Don't even think about saying no. Jews own guilt - Catholics just rent it. Refusing the twelfth helping of the offering that your Jewish Mum has lovingly prepared is a crime you just don't dare commit, or risk having some kind of fatwah taken out on you. You're offered that food, and dammit, you'll eat it!

And so it goes. So I'm now feeling incredibly full 'n' happy, I've watched a lot of really, really bad telly, and even squeezed in a redesign. Merry Kitschmas to you, one and all!

PS: It was a terrific meal. Love you loads Mum. xx
PPS: Yes, it's another redesign. No-frames (praise the lord) and sharing a l'il bit of love all around
PPPS: Bo Selecta. Respect.

(or what a load of crap you can get)

Lookee! The SF Chronicle did a special on The 12 Days of Kitschmas - When Taste Takes a Holiday. And it's so very true. What is it about the holidays that brings out the utterly tasteless in even the most discerning individuals?

I mean, they happen to show some really quite cool stuff. Like this mini-disco ball. How much would I love to receive that, for my very own l'il disco diva boudoir? Or this fresh 'n' funky flower glow lamp? I love 'em!!

But normally, the rest of us aren't so fortunate. I mean, what could we have possibly done in a past life that was so bad as to mean that we deserved to get a set of matching oven gloves in the shape of a chicken and a shark as a gift from some decrepid relative? Or a pair of decidedly revolting paisley socks? Or a jumbo box of Meltis Newberry Fruits/Eat Me Dates? Does anybody in the world actually like these goods? What could possibly be going through their minds that they would conceive that we would be delighted to receive them? Or is it just their chance to have a good old laugh as they watch us squirm?

But, let's face it - Christmas is all about kitsch, really. I mean, why else would we find ourselves, year after year, collapsed on the sofa after stuffing ourselves silly, watching some G-d-awful programme like Noel's House Party, or some dire film like Ernest Saves Christmas - or worse: Home Alone? I mean, Christmas wouldn't really be Christmas without the tacky factor. Wouldn't it be a real disappointment if you sat down and watched something really mentally stimulating, and felt throughly invigorated?

So, as you can tell, I'm planning on vegging out and being utterly braindead (for a change). What are your plans?

(or my history study gets really boring sometimes)

Because my tutors are all just that kind, and decide that the best engagement for us over our Christmas holidays is in revising last terms' work for the exam that will be waiting for us, and preparing next term's work for the shedload of essays that will also be waiting for us, I've been knee-deep in some fascinating (yawn) tomes on Medieval Latin Christendom. And you know what? There was some pretty funky shit going on.

I'm not even going to touch the whole Crusade thing - but you just have to see some of the names to know that they had some kick-ass vibe going on. You see, you start off with your plain old Robert the Pious, and Edward the Confessor - and you might even have the odd Fulk the Good in there. But when you start noticing that the figures in your history are called (and I quote) Wilfred the Hairy and Charles the Bald, you realise that actually, they had it going on.

I mean, how many people do you know with the same names whose personality you then qualify with some characteristic trait of theirs? Like you might have Tall Pete and Scottish Pete. Or Nick and Evil Nick. Or Scouse Anna and Blonde Anna. And so it goes....

So wouldn't it be great if we all took on extra qualifying names? I mean, there's no mistaking which Ethelred you're referring to when you know he was the Unready one. Admittedly, you probably know you mean the Hun when you say the name Attilla, but some people are just unique. This way we'd always know who we meant.

You might have Meg the Nut, and Meg the Not So Soft. But why should you go without even if you don't have anyone to confuse yourself with. Strike out - define yourself!! You might be, oh, I don't know, Heather the Jezebel, Jess the Dink, Elise the Saucy Tomato, Firda the Wannabe - anything you want baby!

Me? What do you reckon?

(or watching late-night digital TV, flicking through the bhangra music channel)

One thing about being back chez parents, at the family home, is watching TV. It's something I've not really done for over two months, being at Uni, and since I was last home, the behemoth that is Sky Digital seems to have sprouted about seventy new channels. And dear lord, there are some monsters.

First of all, there's GOD channel - which consists of either a TV evangelist screeching 'praise the lord!' a lot, and asking for money, and having some weird country and wester singers marching up an down singing lots of 'wow lord, you're a really cool guy' type songs.

Then there are a dozen or so shopping channels. Last night I think I skimmed through the Joan Rivers Diamon Collection, a solar-powered hedge strimmer, and a bread-kneading machine.

And the best - the absolute best - are the foreign language ones.

The Chinese ones are pretty good. Seeing a Chinese courtroom drama - where the prosecutor had on the traditional wig and cloak type garb - was mildly amusing. Especially if you do your own voiceovers over the top. OK, I'm a deeply, deeply sad individual who's watched far too many episodes of that sketch on 'Whose Line Is It Anyway?'. I admit it, dammit!

But my all-time fave is Bhangravision, where you get hours upon hours of Indian bhangra music videos. The gist of every single one, I'm reliably informed by my good friend in the know, Jigna, is that the girl and her mates sing and dance around on one side of the screen, whilst the bloke and all his dodgy-looking mates jive around on the other side. And every song, is, without fail, about them wanting to get it on, but it being a forbidden love, because their families won't allow it. But the most amusing thing about it is that the girls are all absolutely gorgeous, attired in the most amazing and ornate traditional saris and gold jewellery - yet the blokes all look like 80s throwbacks, doing the time warp in some bright blue polyester shirt, with a really manky quiff, and often with a really Wham-like single earring. And they *really* ming. Especially if they wear coyboy-style fringed jackets and stetsuns.

Play that funky music Asian-boy!

(or why I've always been a bit dubious about skiiing/snowboarding)

It just doesn't seem right to me. I mean, what on earth is natural about going all the way to the top of a hill, strapping yourself to one or two plank-like objects and then plummetting down said hill at lots of miles an hour to the bottom - and then go all the way back up again to repeat the experience?

It's all right if you're a svelte, incredibly well co-ordinated, athletic, Gucci-clad, ooh-don't-I-look-sexy-with-the-wind-whipping-through-my-hair, type of skiier, who can effortlessly zip down a black run, swishing from side to side with apparent ease - and still look disgustingly cool. But if you're one of those much more unco-ordinated, wind-burned, ooh-bollocks-I-can't-see-a-sodding-thing-with-the-wind-blowing-my-hair-right-into-my-face, type of skiier, who gets incredibly knackered on the nursery slope, crashing into every possibly obstacle en route (and being knocked over by some filthily skilled two-year-old who's been skiing since he was out of nappies) and finally collapses in a heap at the bottom - you really look the epitome of all that is disgustingly uncool, and feel like absolute shit at the end.

And the chair lifts! The little button lifts can be quite groovy, as they're just like a kiddy ride at the playground, and riding those is quite fun. But the great big metal dodgy metal gates, in the fashion of a concentration-camp-esque portcullis, designed to give you a margin of about one and a half seconds to disenbark the sodding chairlift before you get trapped in the aforementioned portcullis, and then end up being whizzed round again - for all eternity. Well, they're clearly the work of Satan.

Jealous? Moi? Well, maybe just a little bit......

(or some classic bloopers from two legendary British sporting commentators)

(read - Katy is too tired and lazy to write anything herself, so she's cribbing it from the Sunday Times)

David Coleman

• His great strength is his strength



• If that had gone in, it would have been a goal


• This evening is a very different evening from the morning we had this morning


• The pace of the match is really accelerating, by which I mean it's getting faster all the time


• Moses Kiptanui - the 19-year-old Kenyan, who turned 20 a few weeks ago


• For those of you watching who do not have television sets, live commentary is on Radio 2

• The battle is well and truly on if it wasn't before, and it certainly was


• That's twice that has happened in the recent future


• Do my eyes deceive me, or is Senna's Lotus sounding rough?


• He's won more Grand Prix than anyone without actually winning one


• There are going to be six laps left at the end of this race


• There's no damage to the car . . . except to the car itself


• The atmosphere is so tense you could cut it with a cricket stump


• Martin Schanche's car is absolutely unique, except for the one behind which is identical

(or sitting through Meet The Parents)

When confronted with an appallingly dire line-up of films currently showing in every cinema in Central London that neither of us had seen, Tom and I, being the film freaks that we are, didn't react by thinking 'well, let's sack it then'. Instead, we thought 'well, what might be good trashy, instead of f***ing awful?' And dear lord, did we pick the wrong film.

I can't remember having wanted to get up and leave the cinema more than I did during Meet The Parents. It was so very, very bad. And when I say bad, I don't even mean mildly amusingly bad. I mean, wanting to gouge your own eyes out of your sockets so that you aren't forced to watch such dreck. Or ripping open your chest, tearing your own heart out, just so that you have something to throw at the screen.

It wasn't that the acting was particularly bad - it wasn't. It wasn't even that there were particular lines that you could pin down as being especially awful (although on second thoughts, I bet I could find a few...). But it's that kind of 'ooh let's laugh at others' misery' kind of humour that just isn't in the least bit funny. Very Candid Camera-esque, or something on 'You've Been Framed' / 'America's Funniest Home Videos' where you watch a home movie of some poor bugger tobogganing down a hill, only to careen crotch-first into an unfortunately-situated tree, as we all fall about laughing at the fact that he's ripped his bollocks open, or something equally hideous.

And this had two actors whose work I have really enjoyed in the past. Ok, Ben Stiller was, admittedly in There's Something About Mary, with similarly scatalogical humour, but he was also in the highly impressive Keeping the Faith, so he's someone I'd not consider a C-grade, write-off actor. And Robert De Niro! How could the acting god of classics such as Raging Bull, Taxi Driver and Casino put a turn in at this?!

If you want to avoid wasting 120 minutes of your life, I urge you not to see this film. Do anything. Anything. But don't see it. You'll thank me one day...

(or my mature playthings of choice)

Ev pondered on what toys kids preferred in the 21st century - and I have to say, as one giant big kid myself, there's nothing better than the old classics.

I grew up on a diet of My Little Pony, Barbie, Lego, Hotwheels, Transformers, Matchbox Cars and Etch-a-Sketch (I have a younger brother, hence easy access to some wicked boys' toys). And let me tell you, they still totally rock.

Yes, I freely admit, one of the best perks about babysitting and so on is getting to play with the kids' toys - there's nothing quite like building a lego fort for your two hundred and sixty one Micro Machines, then bringing along the monster truck to destroy it and.....

Sometimes I get get a bit carried away, it seems. 'Cause they're really, well, fun. Not that it do it often, mind, but sometimes it's quite nice to have a good old game of Kerplunk. And get that game of Operation out, and I'll have him prepped and on the table before you can say "aren't you a little old for all this kiddy malarky?!"

And that's to say nothing of the fun you can have looking at kids' games through the eyes of adults. Take Twister, for example. Just think of the interesting situations that can arise when you're straddling three other people, with your head tucked under someone else's neck and your hand dangerously close to another person's crotch...

Excuse me, I have to go and help Action Man take over the world. Don't worry, I'll be back in time for a cup of hot cocoa and an early bedtime - I'm a good little girl you know!

(or my first live rugby match)

I confess, I'm a footie type of gal. My supporter-sport of choice is football (yeah, OK, soccer), and I managed to make it through nineteen years of my l'il life having only ever passed a cursory glance over one of our national sports: rugby. So when the opportunity arose to go to Twickenham, the national rugby stadium, to see the Oxford vs. Cambridge Varsity match, I jumped at the chance. Let me enlighten you, for those who were as in the dark as I was...

Rugby is like American Football, except that it's about ten times more violent with no big wussy padding. And muddier. I was being a total girl at a sporting even by not having a sodding clue what the rules/anything of the game were - I just knew which end the Oxford team were going for, that they were in the navy shirts, and that we wanted our score to be bigger than theirs. Simple, really!

And it was seriously cool. You get all these guys who are built like tanks, charging up and down a field attacking each other. By which I mean, tackling isn't just tackling. You bring the guy with the ball down, and about 9 or so of the opposing team's members all pile on top of him, the combined weight of which must be approaching that of a small hippopotamus. And you get to kick their heads in, and stuff like that. Well, I don't think you're supposed to be re-enacting a small massacre, but I saw quite a lot of that happening, and it was definitely quite fun to watch...

And we won!! Yes, it's quite cool to see your side manage not only to come back from a losing score, but to manage to trample on a lot of the opposition team in the process. And these guys have been playing for so long that they seem to be totally immune to the fact that they're being attacked by four seventeen stone, 6'5'', men of steel. It's kind of like playing battles with toy GI Joes and that - you can do what you like to them, and then pick them up, and they're fine.

Rugby rocks.

(or why I like life in the fast lane)

I did the unthinkable today. I attempted to try and do some Christmas shopping on Oxford Street - which as anyone who's ever been to London around Christmastime will know, is like entering the fifth circle of hell.

Bloody pushchairs; sodding couples that walk arm-in-arm and can't let go of each other for a single second; damn santa-hat sellers and all you really *really* dawdly walkers - BEGONE!

So that's why I welcomed this measure, whereby a pedestrian fast lane would be sectioned off along the length of the pavement It's not that I have a total abhorrence for all pushchairs and smoochy-walking-couples; I'm not that intolerant (although the streets would be clearer without them *g*). But I don't like hanging around unnecessarily - let me zoom in and out, around wherever I need to be and get on with it, instead of shuffling around at approximately 2 and a half miles an hour!

However, I do foresee some hidden dangers. You'll get the boy racers in the fast lane, who are so darned keen to get where they're going, and will have been so efficient in their shopping that they'll have five bags in each hand, that they'll whip down the pavement like a bat out of hell, bags flapping and flying wildly, and successfully decapitating small children and exceptionally short people as they wend their merry way to their next destination.

And what about overtaking? Can you duck into the fast lane to overtake one particularly slow person, and then drop back into the slow lane to leisurely meander home? The logistics are mind-boggling...

So take my advice - if you're going to be all shuffly and so on, get out the bloody way!

(or why I refuse to break my neck in the name of style)

According to today's Observer, women are looking for some 'sexual heeling', because, as we all know, 'size does matter': let me clarify for you - this was an article about shoes

So apparently, a pair of killer heels can be not only fashionable and flattering, but empowering, invigorating, foxifying and give you the sexual allure you need to hook that alpha male because it "makes the buttocks undulate about twice as much as walking in flat heels, with correspondingly greater sensation transmitted to the vulva'. Phew. And here was I thinking that a nice pair of sling-backs would just look good!

But the article does touch on one, very important, yet often overlooked fact about these style statements. Whilst you might look dead sexy when you're sashaying along the street, tripping up, snapping your ankle, and tumbling arse-over-tit isn't quite so classy. And hence the problem. You can't actually move, let along walk in these sassy little numbers. Those Manolo Blahnik heels are all well and good for the movie star who can:

a) afford them
b) get chauffeur-driven so she doesn't have to walk

But they ain't so crash hot for the rest of us mere mortals who have to actually use our own two feet to get around!

Now take your nice, reliable trainers. Oh, ok, sneakers for you yanks. Now, I admit that maybe even the trendiest pair of Nikes or Acupuntures doesn't have the sophistication of a nice pair of prada kitten heels, but you can run to catch the number 10 bus in them without doing yourself serious damage.
And when you take the diversion on the way home after a hard night out via the kebab van for the all important post alcohol cholesterol fill-up, you know that not only can you walk there without falling over ten times (well, you might do, but that'll be the beer, not the shoes), but you can even stagger back home fairly intact.

And that, my friends is why you will never * see me in said shoes - I value my ankles too much!

* that's a lie actually. on very rare occasions, I'll break out the killer black pointy numbers. sssh! it undermines the point!!

(or how to completely confuse your family when you return home for the holidays)

So there's a new study out, documenting the voice of today's yoof, explaining the mysteries of student slang to all those parents who sit there not knowing what the hell their beloved offspring are banging on about, because they can't understand a frickin' word. Enter the student world guide to student-speak.

Dad: " So what do you get up to during your term at this fine establishment then, young daughter?"

Me: "Well, after faffing round all day, most nights, if we're not having a sesh in the library, we'll have it large, have a big fuck-off night out in some skanky dive, get completely mullered (Tequila suicides, mate!), someone will usually go on a mission, and end up parking and riding with a complete munter who ate all the pies, for which we then totally rip the piss out of them when they walk the walk of shame, and then stop off for a bab and a bevvy on the way back."

Dad (bemused): "Ah. Please pass the potatoes."

Parents drop off sweet, naive child (eh?) at university, and wave goodbye to the last shred of innocence their darling son or daughter will ever have. The creature that will return at the end of term will bear little or no resemblance to the person they left at the start of term. They will be belligerent and tell their parents to 'stop trying to run my f*cking life' at every conceivable opportunity. Personal hygiene may or may not have gone out on the window - it varies from person to person - but you can virtually guarantee they will have accumulated enough dirty washing to clothe a small nation. They may well have learned the art of wearing underwear both right-way-round and inside-out to double the wear, and halve the amount of washing that needs to be done (yes, I have actually seen this - it ain't pretty). Food standards will have dropped to the non-existent: if they've eaten Uni food, or cooked in Uni kitchens, you can pretty much guarantee they will eat anything. Anything. They will consider anything less than 6 pints to be a 'mild night', and may well have become immune to the effects of the Tequila Suicide** or the Aftershock Double Burner.***

And the language. Ah yes, the language. You won't be able to understand a frigging thing they say. It's slang designed so that students nationwide can understand each other (and obviously thereby maximise your pulling chances, by failing to pull people from other universities, as well as those from your own), and so that you can talk safely without your family penetrating your secret code.

And then student-world go and blow our cover, darnit! We would have gotten away it if it wasn't for those meddling kids...

* I have since been informed by both Nick and Tom that Tom uses this phrase all the time. I stand corrected. hmph.
** snort the salt, chug the shot and squeeze the lemon in your eye. yes it f*cking hurts.
*** a regular shot of aftershock, but you can't down it: you have to hold it in your mouth for as long as you can before you pass out or lose all sensation in your head. or both.