Apologies for absence

Dear Down-Turned Smile fans...hello! How are you? I hope you're all well! Many apologies for my absence on this blog, but I've been rather up to my eyeballs in some online dating exploits which you may or may not be interested in...if you are, then please mosey on over through cyberspace to www.52FirstDates.com and have a little look at what I've been writing about. The clue may just be in the title. Anyway, I do hope you like what you see, and I hope to be back on this blog sometime soon when I can think about something non-date related. Thank you for listening. I mean reading. You know what I mean...

Poppy Power

Remember remember the 11th of November. It's hard to forget when there are so many poppies knocking around at this time of year. And rightly so. However, I have one irksome gripe about the situation.

You wear your poppy with pride don't you? Well if you don't, you should. And every year we buy another same-old same-old traditional paper and plastic poppy and donate for a worthy cause, even though you've probably got 10 or so knocking about at the bottom of your wardrobe. Because that's what's done, that's traditional. It's not fashion, it's not cool, it's not value for money, but we do it.

But there are some people, SOME PEOPLE prancing around sporting a big-old fat-old fuck-off uber-mahoosive super-posh fancy-designer poppy. And this annoys me. A lot. Are our paper poppies not good enough for you? Not swish enough for you?

I am trying to fathom why some people decide to go to such ostentatious efforts for Remembrance Day, and this is what I've come up with:

1. So that everyone else with a normal poppy feels morally inferior.

2. So that everyone else with a normal poppy gets posh poppy envy.

3. So that everyone else with a normal poppy feels like a cheapskate.

4. So that everyone else with a normal poppy feels like they're not remembering enough.

5. So that it matches their outfit.

5a. So it not only matches their outfit, but makes an attractive yet topical focal point.

6. So they don't have to bother donating each year, their one off contribution was clearly sufficient.

7. So they're 'saving the trees' by not using that little bit of paper each year.

Well I say screw you and your ginormous poppies. They might be big, but they are not clever. I'm perfectly happy with my small modest effort thank you very much, as I'm sure the other 99% of the population are.

So on Remembrance day, wear your poppy with pride. Because it's not the size that counts, it's the sentiment. So remember those poor opium farmers. Thanks for everything. We'll never forget you.

My top 10 albums of the last 10 years, reviewed in only 10 words

Someone sent me the challenge of coming up with my top 10 albums of the last decade, with only 10 words to describe them. So here are my choices, in no particular order - what are yours?


1. Florence and the Machine - Lungs
The Ronseal of albums - what a girl, what a pair!




2. Muse - Black Holes and Revelations
Sexy, sleazy, symphonic and super sweet. Purely ecstatic aural erotica.




3. Editors - The Back Room
Editors run through my veins: that's where my critique ends.




4. Radiohead - In Rainbows
I'm a reckoner this album is pure perfection incarnate. Fact.




5. Mystery Jets - Twenty One
I'll go Behind the Bunhouse with these boys any day.




6. Panic! At The Disco - A Fever You Can't Sweat Out
I'll happily admit to being emo for one album only.




7. The Arcade Fire - Funeral
Breaking boundaries and thinking out of musical boxes. Beautiful brilliance.




8.The Go! Team - Thunder, Lightening Strike
The audio equivalent to eating candy floss made from MDMA.




9. Green Day - American Idiot
Anthems to unite youth and flip the bird to Bush.




10. Bloc Party - A Weekend in the City
Rousing, raucous, political and poignant. Pretentiously under pretentious and pure.

Dietribe

Dieting. It must be the bain of

most normal girls' lives. Why does fat

taste good yet skinny tastes so bad? Why

is it I seem to spend my life either on diets

or between diets or planning diets; never at

the end of a successful diet. Relentless guilt and

fat-fear and yet zero joy and success. And I know

I am not alone in in my midriff misery, despising my

thighs and bemoaning my bum. But I am experiencing a

body phenomenom: a frightening change in my shape is afoot

as I throw myself into the tenth annual diet of my life: each time I

gain weight, it gets lower and lower, earthward bound, and each

time I lose weight it goes from the top. So soon my boobs will be

concave, and my legs and bum will be convex. I am becoming a

human Weeble. Yes, I may wobble, but I won't fall down.

Still, at least I'll not fall over in high winds. Every cloud.

Vagina Dentata

I owe this little parody to one ropey comedian, and one very misunderstood heckle.

Why, when I was a young mam'selle,
I weren't no normal damsel!
I found my downstairs lacked a certain appeal,
I would have to brush twice after every meal.
I'm a sensitive soul, but my boyfriend was mean,
When instead of KY he applied Listerine...
And oh, the shame!
What this issue became!
But he got a real shock,
When it bit off his...
(Sorry, not in front of the kids!)

Vagina Dentata!
What a terrible phrase
Vagina Dentata!
It's a frightful malaise
It means no coitus
For the rest of my days
It's not problem-free.
No bonks for me!
Vagina Dentata!

Vagina Dentata!
Trapped in the oral phase
Vagina Dentata!
Woe betide it decays.
When I try flossing,
It can take me three days.
Cos I got dentistry,
Gynaecologically,
Vagina Dentata!

I say "Vagina"
You say "Dentata"

Mika Makeover

At a recent festival, I had the displeasure of catching part of an utterly ear-and-eyeball-aching set by curly king of camp and cringe, Mika, namely his aural abomination 'Grace Kelly'. Some might say I'm doing this musical mucusoid a certain disservice, and maybe I am. So before this turns into a thoroughly libellous character assassination in the first degree, I pondered how could I provide some 'constructive criticism' on how I might make his music better / beneficial / bearable. And my conclusion was subject matter. Take Grace Kelly for example. Yes she was an icon, yes she was an idol. But she parted this mortal coil 27 years ago, so methinkst our Mika need pick someone more contemporary: a modern day hero, someone aspirational, someone to inspire the youth of today to great things. So I have decided to try my most unmusical and lyrically-challenged hand at rewriting 'Grace Kelly' with a greater idol in mind. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give to you: 'Bruce Parry'.

BRUCE PARRY
Do I attract you?
Do I repulse you with my talk of the Nile?
Am I too skinny?
For Papua New Guinea?
Ever eaten crocodile?

I could be rugged
Not to be buggered
Guess I'm a pretty fit guy
Why don't you like me?
Cannibals like me,
Without making me into pie

Hello, my name is Bruce Parry
I turn my knob inside out
Find a wee tribe lass to marry
I am a big bad boy scout

Swim in a bog
Suck juice from a frog
And make me high as a kite
I'm always green
I'm ex marine
And I could win in any fight
Got beaten black
Been painted blue
Holes in my face like a Zulu
Why don't you like me?
Witch doctors like me,
When their potions make me spew.
(Using voodoo doesn't solve anything)

How can I help it
How can I help it
How can I help what you think?
Hello Swahili
Hello Somali
Give me some ox blood to drink.
If don't you like me
Why don't you bite me
Like a vampire bat on heat
Scantily clad,
Should I feel bad just because I ate zebra meat?

You could be just like Bruce Parry
Give tribal life a whirl
I make Ray Mears look like Aunt Sally
And Bear Grylls like a girl!

I punch piranhas
I thump hyenas
I'll poke a lioness with glee
Wedgy gorillas
I've met Godzilla
Candiru do not scare me!
Gotta be tough
Walk round in the buff
With just a nut for modesty
How can you fake it,
Stark bollock naked
When you're hiding in a tree?

Say what you want to satisfy yourself
But you only want to be like me because I'm a fucking hero

Encephalitis
Gastroenteritis
I caught the plague in Peru
I've had ebola
And variola
Laugh in the face of Swine flu
Been to Bhutan
Stayed in Sudan
Travelled to far Timbuktu
If you don't you like me?
Don't try to spite me
Cos I'll set my tribe on you!

Play Me, I'm Yours

Having discovered one of these pianos at Liverpool Street as I was wending my tipsy way home last night, and played it in front of a crowd of drunken McDonalds munchers, I can confirm that this is one of the best ideas ever:

http://www.streetpianos.com/

Thank you Luke Jerram, you made my childhood dreams of becoming a concert pianist true for 15 minutes, even though my audience was half-inebriated, half-hamburger.

Give me an A

As proud as I am of my initials, I'm sadly bereft of a middle name (contrary to popular belief that my parents clearly had some sort of grudge against me, and wanted to call me Travers). This has been troubling me for some time now and I've been thinking how life-affirmingly delightful it might be to have a middle initial so my initials actually spelt something. As there's only the 5 possible vowels to squeeze between the C and the TS, I reckon A is probably the one to plump for. So I've been doing a straw poll to find what middle name I should adopt to turn CTS into CATS. These have been the suggestions so far, and I'm welcoming as many as I can until someone comes up with a right royal stonker, and I shall potter along to the Deed Poll office faster than you can say Princess Consuela Banana Hammock:

Athena
Almond
Albino
Axminster
Axel
Anthrax
Annia
Argos
Alonso
Alberta
Ariadne
Antipodea
Archipelago
Aspidestra
Amelie
Ardingly

Votes / suggestions / sympathies all open-armedly welcome. Except from my best buddy and fellow acronymist TJ, who suggested ursula Nadine. Bastard.

Claire, Queen of Condiments

They say you can tell an awful lot about someone from the contents of their refridgerator (although I might need further clarification on exactly who the bejesus 'they' are, fridge facists maybe?). Well if is so, what might they make of mine? Instead of cleaning the kitchen (if you're an avid follower of the School of Procrastination manifesto as I am, you'll understand that this is a rather appealing past time), I have decided to do an itinerary of my sauces, salsas, chutneys et cetera; a sort of condimental roll call. Bearing in mind I am the sole occupant (?) of this fridge the results speak for themselves:

HP Sauce (normal shaped bottle)
Mrs Balls' Chilli Chutney
Heinz Tomato Ketchup (industrial size bottle, bottom squeezing)
Levi Roots Reggae Reggae Sauce
Pizza Express House Salad Dressing
Branston Pickle (smooth, squeezy bottle)
Kikkoman Teriyaki Marinade
Mint Sauce (supermarket's own)
Fresh French Dressing
Hellmanns Mayonnaise (full fat, squeezy bottle)
Hellmanns Mayonnaise (light version, bottom squeezy bottle)
Nando's Hot Marinade
Thousand Island Dressing (light version)
Sweet Chilli Dipping Sauce
Roasted Garlic Deli Mayo
Dijon Mustard (supermarket's own)
Tahini
Yellow Piccallili
Thai Green Curry Paste
That Red Curry Paste
Lovingly Homemade 'Orange You Sexy' Marmalade
Tomato Puree (jar)
Sharwood's Mango Chutney (jar)
Mango Chutney (supermarket's own, squeezy bottle)
Branston Hot Chilli and Jalapeno Relish
Heinz Sandwich Spread
HP sauce (yes, another bottle...this time bottom squeezy)
Old El Paso Hot Salsa
Old El Paso Mild Salsa
Apple Sauce (supermarket's own)
Maple Syrup
Sharwood's Dark Soy Sauce
Worcester Sauce
Professor Phardtpounder's Colon Cleaner Hot Sauce

Verdict? I clearly need to get me some proper food! Bridget Jones would be proud. Does anyone really need that many sauces in their life? I do, clearly. Anyone fancy coming over for a Ready Steady Chutney?

Stars

I might not be the brightest star in the galaxy,

But when night falls, if you're afraid of the dark,

You'll be pleased to see me.

Word to your Malt Loaf

Here's a little tribute to two of my favourite things:

Stop, collaborate and listen,

I gotta hop with a brand new addiction.

Something, a-sweeter than green jelly,

Come a'honey eat me, dee-light your belly.

Gonna have a chew? Boo! I dare you.

Try take a chomp, chump, it's like glue.

To the extreme, it's like a dream when it get me,

Butter it up and get a cup for my Tetley.

Use that tongue and let your tastebuds roam,

Filling your gut like expandable wall foam.

Tasty - when your teatime is heavenly,

Anything less for your guests is a felony.

Love it or leave it, you'll never gain weight ,

Raisins hell-raising, don't hate, underrate.

If there was a problem, yo, I'll solve it,

Gimme a loaf and ensure you malt it!

CHORUS

So- So- Soreen, delicious

So- So- Soreen, capricious

So- So- Soreen, it's vicious

So- So- Soreen, nutritious

Yo man, let's go to Tesco

(Word to your malt loaf)

Ode to a Night Bus

When the night is dark and cold,
And I am all alone,
There's no-one there to hold my hand,
You'll always guide me home.

At any time, be dawn or dusk,
I know you will be here.
So long as I've prepaid my fare,
I'll travel with no fear.

From Oxford Street to Stepney Green,
My love for you has grown.
You are the bestest bendy bus,
That I have ever known.

Oh twenty five, oh twenty five,
Because of you I'm still alive,
I call your name, then you arrive,
My darling, twenty five.

My world is now my Oyster card,
I swipe it with such joy.
My love for all your bendy bits,
No-one can e'er destroy.

Your body is a haven safe,
For passengers inside.
You give the hobos all a home,
And let them freely ride.

Everyone to see you pass,
All wave you down with glee.
They cram and crush and clamber on,
To ride your majesty.

Oh twenty five, my twenty five,
It's thanks to you that I've survived,
Those drunken nights in dingy dives,
My dearest, twenty five.

That smell you have, that noise you make,
The way you so incline,
To accommodate those wheely chairs,
Just makes you so divine.

The London Lite, the smell of shite,
A pocket freely picked.
Someone's kicking up a ruck,
Some boozy bint is sick.

The driver shouts at lager louts,
A drunken punch is thrown.
But none of it will matter now,
We're on our way back home.

Oh twenty five, sweet twenty five,
No other bus I'd rather drive,
No finer bus I could contrive,
My favourite, twenty five.

When I grow up...

When I were a children, my dearest mama and papa oft asked what would I be. In truth, I wanted to be all of the following:

A waitress
A brain surgeon
A lollipop lady
A stand up comedian
A princess

Now, under the 'guise' of 'grown up', I work in television - bonafide media whoreybaggage; TV, she is a fickle, fankless beastie that uncontented with flogging the (pond)life and soul(man) out of me, leaves me with a consistant cumulonimbus of doubt above my heed as to how to keep the proverbial wolves of Whitechapel away from my door. This has left me a-pondering another career choice. So before pop-a-lopping off to some over-priced, under-whelming careers counsellor, I have decided to re-evaluate my first ever choices of occupation to debate their feasibility. After all, they say your first instinct is often the right one. Right? Wrong...

Waitressing: Given that I have the co-ordination of a dyspraxic with Parkinson's on a power plate, this has to be ruled out at the first hurdle. No-one wants Penne a la Hairdo, nor Lasagne A La Lap, so for this reason alone (and a hefty one at that), I shall have to leave my meal-serving services reserved for close friends and family only. Well, just the ones who don't mind wearing it before eating.

Brain surgeon: Herein lies the irony - how can I fix that which I lack, or at least have declined working function of…I also refer you to the co-ordination metaphor of 'Waitressing', and would ask you the question, would you trust me putting scalpel to your scalp? Thought not. Well I say 'thought', although it's sometimes difficult to tell…

Lollipop lady: This has potential. I do, even if I must say so myself, look rather fetching in hi-vis. And I reckon I could work a 'pop with all the flair and finesse of a mediaeval knight on horseback, raising his lance aloft and commanding the crowd. However, not sure what Health and Safety would make of my jousting mid-road, and the fact that the job probably would only use a maximum 2 hours of my entire day (plus school hols off - I could still work, but it'd be for the love rather than the pay) probably would not be enough to cover running costs of keeping my 'pop polished.

Stand up comedian: Distinct disadvantage - girls just aren't funny. At least, tis a rarity in the stand up world. For some reason, pop a chick onstage and no-one chortles. But stick a embollocked sort onstage, and it's humour a-go-go. I mean, why is mirth anti-mammary, and pro-prostate? Is our funny bone only tickled by testicles? It's a synechdoche for the sexes in general: everyone loves a funny bloke, but a laughable lass is a leper. Why is that? 'Funny'' is just one arena that us lady-folks just can't crack. And given the tumble-weedy, groan-worthy successless efforts of my public speaking to date, I would rather die a thousand deaths in private than one gargantuan effort in public.

A princess: If ever a job was to have apparent perks, it's being a monarch (unless you ask one particular royal, without whom the Daily Express would have nothing to print - although there might be a small technical hitch in trying to contact her, so might not be worth trying). All you need do is bag yourself a royal (and I understand there are a few doing the rounds at the moment) and Prince Andrew's yer uncle, it's tiara's a-hoy. Not a problem. However, given the fact that my language can be colourful at times (to be kind) and tourettic at others (to be truthful), I can't foresee being invited to (m)any official (or unofficial) birthdays when "shit the bed, Lizzie, that corgi crapped on my Converse" could involuntarily make a guest appearance at any moment. For me, thrones will quite simply never be on the cards. Except my very own at home, genuine porcelain.

So what is left for me now? Working at the bar or propping up a bar? Handing out jobs or handjobs? Lord only knows. So for now, the callous cruel fiend, the evil mistress Television has me remotely under her thumb, whilst everyone else has their thumbs on their remotes. But t'will not be forever. Mark my words, one day I'll be a grown up, with a grown up job. A professional grown up.

Commuterrorism

For most people, work is the daily grind. You work for 'the man' to pay the bills and then you die. I don't mind work, work is fine, and 'the man', whoever he may be, leaves me to my own devices. But what really can make or break my day is the commute. And I'm not just talking about the delays, because let's face it, if you live in London, you should be well conditioned to the fact that TFL couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery, and your ETA anywhere is going to be a lottery.

As 'very British' commuters, we don't talk to each other, and keep ourselves to ourselves. But even with this ridiculously impersonal and unfriendly social stigma, why is it you get some co-commuters that can just spoil your trip, the rest of my day, and could in the future (if I see them every day) ruin my life just by being themselves. Okay, so I'm prone to a touch of the old hyperbole, but you catch my proverbial. So here, for my list-making sanity, are some of the common offenders to crap on the clean windscreen of my journey into work:

'The Lovers' - So you have just spent the last 12 hours rutting like something from the Trials of Life, and fortunately for the rest of us you both happen to share the same route into work. How delightful. But can you not keep your paws to yourself for 15 sodding minutes? What doesn't help is that the carriage is packed so tightly, the only thing preventing your girlfriend from conceiving is my handbag! You'd better hope you get off the tube before I do or things will definitely get messy. Get a room, or I'll start fitting my Mulberry with mantraps!

'The Hunter Gatherer' - Normally a construction worker or well-dressed businessman who clearly forgot to eat breakfast, due to the urgency and zeal with which they forage around their nostrils, before sampling the fruits of their labours. Your average bogey contains 5 calories and about a squillion bacteria. You'll never eat enough to fill you up without dying a thousand nasty deaths first so don't even try it. It's minging.

'Pit of Death' - Speaking on behalf of my fellow under-five-foursians, a common problem is getting trapped under the 'pit of death', a toxic armpit in need of ventilation, not immediate contact with someone else's face. Do you not wash? Do you not spray? Do you not have a sense of fucking smell? You honk! If I held a lighter under those you'd rue the day you poopooed antiperspirant. Note: these offenders often suffer with the associated 'Breath of Death': an odour of equal toxicity, originating from the mouth.

'The Diver' - So you're squashed nipple to nipple with complete strangers as it is. The train pulls in at the station, and there's no more room at the inn. Most people would wait for the next tube. But no, not 'the Diver'. This particular breed of commuter waits for the doors-closing beep, slides briefcase in between ankles, and propels themselves headlong into the packed carriage so that gravity can find them standing room. If you've ever been flattened by a flying 40 year old merchant banker, you'll know what I mean.

'The Scoffer' - There's always someone in the vicinity eating something particularly smelly. Given that the maximum duration on any tube line is an hour, surely you're not in such a life and death situation through starvation that you have to pong out the entire Piccadilly line. If you're diabetic, have one of those nice, sugary and scentless sweeties. They'll not only save your life, but the noses of your fellow passengers. But it's never plain crisps, a cream cracker or a breadstick. Oh no. It's Subways' infamous Stink'o'sarnie: seven layers of pepperami, stilton, onion, olive and gherkin stuck together with garlic glue on a cheesy ciabatta. Please sir, can I have somewhere to vom?

'The Teeterer' - I'm sure we've all done this, but when I spot the signs in someone right next to me, I get instant Teeterphobia. The cold sweats, pink eyes, the unsteady stance and the pervading perfume of noxious booze. This person is standing at the top of the White Cliffs of Nausea, and it'll only take a glimpse of 'the Hunter-Gatherer's' spoils or a whiff of 'the Scoffer's' fodder that will push them over the edge. I beg of you, please don't paint me puke. Choose 'the Lovers' instead - that'll ruin the moment.

At the moment I am content to blog about my commuting misgivings. But it is only a matter of time before reach the end of my tether. I can see it now: driven to distraction by the tube-induced OCD that has compelled me to hate the entire human race. Drastic measures are in the offing, something must be done. I look around me at a packed carriage full of offenders. I reach towards my carefully-packed and fully-loaded rucksack. I am about to unleash hell and make you all pay, pay for the mornings of misery and evenings of evil you've all put me through. Oh yes. Today I fight fire with fire, all guns blazing. Today, revenge will be mine. Today, I eat my tuna sandwich on the tube. With cheese and onion crisps.

Screw you Central Line, I'm a commuterrorist.

Dilemma of the Day 3

Would you rather:


1. Spend the rest of your life looking as you are, and smelling absolutely amazing.

Or

2. Spend the rest of your life looking like the world's hottest model, but with the breath of Satan's anus?

Birds vs Babies

Recently I have been weighing up the pros of cons of birds versus babies. The reason being, I already have two, and am currently contemplating a third. Parrot that is, not child. I have come to the conclusion that for years now I have been unconsciously channeling my maternal instincts bird-ward, and have, in fact, been a mother for the last 6 years without my knowing. Given that sprog-dropping is not on my current agenda, I have decided to put forward my case as to why avians beat infants, in some vague and vain attempt to justify my current position as a sad and lonely bird-mother.

1. You can play football with parrots without having to go out in the rain. Just with a very small ball.
2. Parrots cost considerably less money to keep.
3. You know any backchat you get from a parrot, is something you've had to repeat to it, so if you get it back, it's your own silly fault.
4. You don't get called into school because your parrot nicked another parrot's Wotsits at lunchtime.
5. Parrot poo is smaller, easier and less smelly to clean.
6. Parrots will never grow up to resent you.
7. You don't have to worry about your parrot taking drugs, unless you carelessly leave your stash within beak reach.
8. Parrots sleep throughout the night, and don't wet the bed.
9. You never have to take your parrot to the doctor to get the morning after pill.
10. Parrots always think you're cool. Or you think they think you're cool. They'll never tell you, so go with the supposition.
11. You can call your parrot a ridiculous name without it getting the shit beaten out of it at school
12. Parrots don't need new clothes buying every week.
13. Getting a parrot does not involve anything remotely as painful as childbirth.
14. You can teach your parrots to ring like the telephone.
15. You can win a parrot's heart by giving it a biscuit.
16. You can wear parrots as an accessory to pirate parties.
17. You can train then to savagely attack intruders. Either that or just tell them to fuck off.
18. You can use their moulted feathers to re-stuff flattened pillows.
19. Parrots don't appreciate Christmas and the ever-increasing need for the newest toys shown on the television.
20. Parrots can fly. Babies can't.

Coming soon, 'why parrots are better than partners'. Shortly followed by 'why oh why does no-one want to go out with me?'

Wrong but Right

Ironic as it seems, there are just some things in life that on paper are just not meant to work. And yet very occasionally, they turn out to be something really rather super. Here are some examples, the first of which I made today, and initiated this whole wrong-but-rightness:

Beetroot Brownies. I am the first to shirk the earthy purple stuff because anything that tastes like mud and turns your pee pink has got to be a wrong 'un. But when baked with walnuts, dark chocolate and other cakey staples, it makes nothing short of brownie magic.

Microwaves. Now I'm no scientist, but these bad boys employ some kind of nuclear technology that has to be dangerous if something small goes wrong. The theory that things keep cooking for a certain time afterwards surely means that you could potentially barbecue your innards if you're a little impatient? However, you can reheat, defrost, nuke and warm your tea in minutes if not seconds, and still have time to do the washing up. Genius.

Hollyoaks. This show on paper has no redeemable features. Bad acting, girls that are so attractive they provide the unrealistic benchmark for 99% of the male race, impossibly implausible plots, a disgusting token box-ticking of every cultural, racial and sexual stereotype, and, most disturbingly, a cameo by Andrew Lloyd Webber. Yet the two and a half hours spent watching the omnibus is often the best spent time of my weekend, and the cure all of my hungover woes.

Hairless cats. They look like something from a Jim Henson film, are way too sensitive, need some kind of knitwear to stop them developing hypothermia and are, quite frankly, the ugliest thing on the planet. But they are just so goddamn cool, for no reason other than they look like Mother Nature fucked up and left them live for an in- joke.

Coca Cola. We all know it rots your teeth and insides, and contains no discernible ingredients other than sugar and 'vegetable extracts' (incidentally what vegetables are the exactly? Beetroot perchance?). But when you've got a poorly tummy, it makes you better. If you're tired, it makes you better. If you're hungover, it makes you better. I'll wager I'll risk the odd dentists bill in favour of a magical medicine that will cure most of my anatomical woes. Plus, at least it wasn't invented by the Nazis, like Fanta. Fact.

Alcohol. It rots your liver, makes you sick, gives you headaches, can make you pee/poo yourself, makes you make inappropriate comments / confessions of love / declarations of hatred, causes memory loss / paranoia / arguments, is a highly addictive substance and costs a bloody fortune. Yet, it's brilliant stuff. i just don't get it.

Now, where's my vodka and coke?

.

Dilemma of the Day 2

Would you rather:

1. Spend the rest of your life surrounded by a large flock of sheep, 24/7

or

2. Spend the rest of your life with a small tree growing out of the top of your head.

Sense and Sensitivities

I'd like to use this blog to say thank you. Thank you to the few people I have encountered recently going about my daily business who have made me feel a little bit (and unnecessarily) awkward, embarrassed or downright ridiculous. Thank you to those who have reduced me to the size of an ant just from being a little bit unsubtle and thoughtless. This is my verbal equivalent to the Oscars, BAFTAS or Grammys. Only not as prestigious. Not even remotely so. So here's to you, insensitive bastards.

Thanks to the deaf receptionist at my doctor's surgery. Picture the scene. A nervous lady (moi) approaches the desk in a heavingly busy reception. Dialogue ensues. Very quiet dialogue at that...
'I'd like a nurse's appointment please'
'What is it for?'
Like I need to explain myself to the receptionist. Do you care? Does it make any difference? No. All appointments take 15 minutes no matter what you're looking at /poking at / tittering at so bog off nosy bitch.
'Erm...I need to book a test with the nurse'
'What sort of tests'
'Tests...you know'
Come on woman, can't you see I don't want to tell you in front of seven ailing pensioners, two child-clad mums, a handful of coughing, spluttering locals and a dodgy-looking guy with cock rot.
'Sorry, what test?'
Go on, take a wild one: my driving test? An AS level in quantum physics? A Jungian personality test?
'I was told to come and book a test with the nurse'
'I didn't hear you, what test would you like?'
I didn't tell you as you don't need to know.
'A SMEAR TEST!!!!'
If there was a record playing, it would have scratched off at this point. Certainly everyone in the room decided to stop talking to listen at that point.
'Oh', replied the receptionist. Clearly she didn't need to know. Shame, because now she did. As did at least 15 others. Thanks.

Thanks to the young shop assistant at Sainsbury's, who on putting my shopping through, decided to inspect and comment on the contents of my basket, like she was Gillian fucking McKeith or Trinny and sodding Susannah.
'Clearasil face wash isn't as good as Neutrogena you know, really sorts out your spots'
Thanks for that. I take it you don't think my current cleansing regime isn't up to scratch. Thanks Dr Spot.
'Thick black woolly tights - my mum always gets hers from here, she gets really cold legs in the winter'
Brilliant, I have the same taste in hosiery as your mother: a fashion revelation I could possibly / probably live without.
'Multipack of Doritos. Are you going to eat them all yourself?'
Erm, yes, I live alone, so probably will do. But not all at once. But the fact you've taken one look at me and reckoned I'm that the sort to sit and scoff 9 bags of crisps in one sitting, thanks. I may as well eat the whole goddamn lot now to cheer me up.

And thanks to the nurse who during the aforementioned arranged 'intimate' examination asked me 'what size' I am. Like I regularly go shopping for internal accessories. Yet I felt astonishingly awful for not knowing my own internal vital statistics. As if small talk whilst semi-clad and akimbo wasn't awkward enough. My response? 'Errrr.....God knows! Take a wild punt'. And punt she did. And wrong she guessed. And for some reason her miscalculation led me to feel even worse for not meeting her precise expectations. Thanks.

These are just a few examples. But there have been many more and probably will be. until I cease to leave the house and integrate with the general public. But the moral of the story is: stick to discussing the weather. Not implied food habits or vaginas. Thanks.

1 Way to Love Your Liver

1. Don't drink. Simple.

50 Ways to Leave your Lover

As that old song goes, breaking up is hard to do. But according to that other old song, there are 50 ways to do it. But quite frankly, Mr Paul Simon, your song is rubbish. You promise 50 ways to leave your lover but only actually list 5. And 5 rubbish ones at that, hop on the bus Gus? Give me a break! So I have taken it upon myself to amass the definitive 50 ways to leave your lover (or get them to leave you), which I hope you will find useful in your time of romantic need. This will be a work in progress, and if there are any tried and tested techniques I have missed out, do let me know.

1. Fake your own death
2. Text message reading 'Welcome to Dumpsville, population you'
3. Graffiti a bridge they pass on their way to work with the word '[insert dumpee's name], you're dumped. From [insert your name here]
4. Write, record and release a song naming them and listing all their bad habits, and promise the proceeds to charity to guarantee radio plays and media coverage
5. Hire the Red Arrows to write a short, sharp dumping message in the sky above their work
6. Take them to a romantic spot eg. the Eiffel Tower, get down on one knee, pull a ring box out of your pocket and open it to reveal the words 'you're dumped'
7. Emigrate without telling them
8. Get your mother to do dump them for you
9. Murder them
10. Wait til they're due home from work, take off all your clothes and let them catch you in a compromising pose with their cat / dog / hamster / parrot / gerbil / iguana
11. Start wearing their clothes instead of yours
12. Change your name by Deed Poll to something inappropriate like Ivor Luffovkidz so they're too embarrassed to introduce you to any of their friends
13. Draft a doctors letter telling them they have raging syphilis, and be there when they open it
14. Make inappropriate passes at their grandmother / grandfather over Sunday lunch in front of them
15. Return from a holiday in Las Vegas wearing a wedding ring and tell them you got drunk one night and got married to a complete stranger, but you want to try and 'make your marriage work'
16. Change your Facebook status to '[insert your name here] dumps [insert dumpee's name here] for being a [ad lib petty insults about sexual prowess]'
17. Have 'you're dumped' waxed into your nether regions
18. Train your pet parrot to say 'you're dumped' to them when they come round
19. Take a restraining order out on them
20. Change your Facebook profile from 'in a relationship with...' to 'single' without telling them
21. Hijack the Goodyear Blimp and doctor the writing to say 'Goodbye xxxx'
22. Write 'you're dumped' on the inside of the toilet seat lid and feed them some dodgy chicken
23. Send a strippergram to their workplace with a customised G-string sporting the words 'you're dumped'.

My Least Favourite Things

Right Maria Von Whats-Your-Face, I'm sick and tired of your permanent cheer. The hills might well be alive with the sound of music where you come from, but my ears are totally and utterly bored of your eternal optimism. Who really likes copper kettles, other than tedious antiques experts? Who on earth enjoys watching geese flying at night? Apple strudels and schnitzels will only make you fat, and brown ponies are far superior to cream ones. I think it's time you heard a few home truths...

My Least Favourite Things
Free London papers and charity muggers,
Really slow walkers and loud-talking buggers,
Hangovers hurting and waxing that stings,
These are a few of my least favorite things.

The chavs on the corner that beat up each other,
People that say I sound just like my mother,
When Jeremy Kyle speaks and Bedingfield sings,
These are a few of my least favorite things.

When I'm cold-called,
When the bank rings,
A smear with a male nurse,
I simply remember my least favorite things,
And then I feel even worse.

The fatty that sits on my lap on the train,
The hair cut that’s far too much work to maintain,
The chafing you get from La Senza G-strings,
These are a few of my least favourite things.

People that laugh at the late Joey Deacon,
The pimple that glows on my nose like a beacon,
King prawns and cream horns and those Kraft cheese strings,
These are a few of my least favorite things.

When there's tube strikes,
When the milk mings,
When I've lost my purse ,
I simply remember my least favorite things,
And then I feel even worse.

Dilemma of the Day 1

Would you rather:

1. Wear a pair of trousers made from Shredded Wheat

or

2. Wear a shirt made from honey-roasted ham

Barack is the New Black

In celebration of the momentous historical event of the USA choosing a President that is infinitely less likely to blow up the world by pressing the wrong red button, and a President who bears a striking resemblance to the one in 24, I have decided to create a mix tape of tunes to pay tribute to this pivotal occasion.

A-Side
Barry Manilow - Copa Cobama
Take That - I want you Barack
Shaggy - O Carobama
Run DMC ft. Jason Nevins - It's Like Democrat (But That's The Way It Is)
Girls Aloud - I'llanois Stand By You
My Chemical Romance - Welcome to the Barack Parade
Michael Jackson - Black or White House
Culture Club - Obama Chameleon
Peter Kaye - Is This The Way To Amarillanois?
N-Sync - Bye Bye Bush
Gina G - Ooh Ah-bama (Just A Little Bit)

B-Side
Rednex - Cotton Eye John
Snap - Republican Is A Dancer

Carl Douglas - McCain Fu Fighter
Mint Royale - Singin' In The McCain
Kylie - Republican't Get You Outta My Head
Wyclef Jean - John Til November
Lynard Skynard - Sweet Home Arizona
Fatboy Slim - Right Wing, Right Now
Britney Spears - Oops I Did It McCain
Beck - Loser

Important Safety Information

Thanks Sainsburys. I clearly owe you my life.
.

An Addict's Confession

I have been wrestling with something very dark and very personal to me for some time now, and I have now turned a corner. I can now say four words. And we all know admission is the first step to cure, right?

I am an addict.

And because I am taking this big brave step towards resolution, I will say it again, - for affirmation - this time in not just italics, but bold as well.

I am an addict.

Fuck it, once more with feeling (and CAPS LOCK), in case anyone in the back row didn't hear.

I AM AN ADDICT.

This is something that has been building for a couple of years now and now it's at it's zenith. I can't go on anymore. I can't keep feeding this need, this curse, this addiction. What started off as a small dalliance, a playful titillation soon spiralled out of control.

First it was a rush, a small burst of adrenaline. But then the next time, it took more to slake my lust. Ever more insatiable, nothing was ever enough. Then the cravings started. Then the sheer pleasure, ecstasy and thrill. But then there were the comedowns, the burning fire in my gut, the crippling cramps, the hot flushes, the tears - oh so many tears. Then came the guilt that soon, when these horrific feelings had passed I would soon enough be hankering for another fix.

It has to stop, and today is the day. I am renouncing my addiction. Tomorrow, I start again. I will no longer be dependant. I will no longer be enslaved to my addiction. Tomorrow, I will be free.

I am, of course, talking about jalapenos. Those devilish little beasts that light up your taste buds, rouse a fire in your belly and even worse on their exit. I just can't get enough. But this habit is out of hand. It's expensive and it's painful. When you get through a jar a week, your bowels growl at you on a daily basis, and your shopping list reads like a Mexican guest list, it's time to give up. It's going to be a slow process, but it has to be done. For my sanity and my digestive tract.

Scoville, I am no longer your slave. Just say no, jalapeno.

Lost Lunch

The remains of someone's lunch I found on a bench on the Southbank. The food was untouched but the brandy had gone.

Hats for Hutton

I have a mission. The mission is to find my dear friend Hutton a hat. To the naked eye, this might seem like a ridiculously simple task, as her head doesn't look abnormally large or small, nor has any awkward lumps, bumps, nooks, nubbins or nobbles. But as you will see, this mission is considerably harder than you would first think. But until then, dear friends, our search goes on to find a cap that fits.

What To Watch This Halloween

For the Eyes of Top Deckers Only

View of a bus stop from the top deck of the 205.

Fuck Tanning

Fake tanning. Now here's one elusive boat I've been missing. To be honest, I've never been brown in my entire life. In fact rarely ever had I been a shade over 'Paler Shade of White' in the Dulux colour chart. And apparently the English Rose / Caspar the Friendly Ghost look is not particularly foxy. So, for once in my life I decided to remedy my eternal whiteness. And the real sun stuff we all know isn't good for you (especially when you only have to close your eyes and think of sunshine and your skin turns a fetching shade of lobster thermidor), but in retrospect, I have discovered, fake-tanning is a burden!

So, UV aside, what were my options? I'm not of the financial persuasion to opt to have my chassis fully resprayed by some pram-faced beautician. Nor, more importantly, do I want said stranger spraying my china white keyster whilst I'm sporting nowt but a pair of paper pants. I also am loathe to fork out £40 for a DIY rub / mousse / spray job that will only result in me tanning my surroundings, whilst missing the majority of my personage, with the exception of a few mysterious ginger patches only visible in broad daylight when I'm already halfway to work. Oh no. The sensible plan to me was to plump for a certain brand of tinted moisturiser to up my shading one iota at a time. How could that possibly go wrong?

The thing is, the results aren't instant, which can lead to one being a tad over-zealous with their applications. Especially after a night out on the lash, bowling home and being rather slapdash in low light conditions. And even more so from a girl whose portion control is errant at the best of times. This, my tan-worshipping friends, can only spell disaster. I woke up the other morning looking like the bastard child of Chris Evans and the Tango Man, who hadn't washed for two months. Sexy? No no no. In an effort to remedy the situation, I persisted with further lashings of the aforementioned lotion, but to no avail. Even grubbier and even gingerer. Bugger.

For those who haven't seen me in the flesh recently, now you know why. I am currently enduring a rough de-tan / re-pale period that has left me with a rather patchy personage. So much so, a passing GP suggested I got treatment for my raging vitilligo. i did have to tell them I had no discernible fear of heights, but thank you anyway.

Anyway, this is one lesson learnt. Unless I can come up with a cost-effective, fool-proof, ginger-less, cancer-free, booze-friendly was of tanning my ass, I'll be glowing in the dark until the day I die. So fuck tanning.

Caught Kipping - Work in Progress

The moral of the story is: never fall asleep on public transport

The Trials and Tribulations of a Not-So-Domestic Goddess

I awoke today with a hangover and an overwhelming urge to clean every square inch of my flat. this feeling doesn't come along all that often, so I decided to embrace it with both arms, don the Marigolds and get stuck in.The trouble is, I ended up falling at the first hurdle, prey to a controversial trap known to domestic engineers as 'sheepskin rug-gate'. Let me explain.

In an attempt to pimp up my boudoir, and to cover carpets which can only have been thrown out of hell for being, quite frankly, vile, 3 months ago I bought myself a lovely sheepskin rug. The trouble is, it was cheap. And I'm now not entirely convinced it's 100% sheep's wool either, for the simple reason it smells rather like off goat. And it sheds. Like a woolly mammoth in Marbella in fact. Within hours of being in my flat it was spreading it's fluffy offspring into every room like the red weed from War Of The Worlds. And now I can't fucking get rid of the damn stuff! But I digress...

As I was going about my usual cleaning routine (which is usually 15% cleaning, 30% watching the Hollyoaks omnibus, 10% snoozing and 55% Facebooking), on encountering the rug, my precise thoughts were 'Fuck me, What-A-Mess has died on my floor'. Without giving it a second thought, I bundled the corpse into the bath, filled it with water and a variety of Barry Scott-endorsed cleaning products, and scrubbed the bejesus out of it. Retrospectively, a schoolboy error.

Because as we all know (at least some of us know NOW), wool is very absorbent. And it was only once the sousing and scrubbing was open, I discovered I couldn't lift the bloody thing. It had single-handedly soaked up enough water to bathe a Geldof-ful of African children (Geldof-ful I believe is the proper collective noun). Now, I can't even lift it up to dry it out. So, I now have this soggy shedding goat carcass occupying my bathtub and I'm grimly facing the prospect of having to shower with it until the end of my tenancy.

And it creeps me out...because I'm sure it's got eyes (in the same way you know Old English Sheepdogs have eyes, you just can see them) and it's eagerly awaiting me lathering away. So Mrs Beeton, wherever you are, HELP! Unless their are some burly weight-lifters around.