Christmas

It's nearly here. It's 5 days away. Have I finished my Christmas shopping? No. Do I hate everyone who has? Yes. However I'm not too worried about any of it, because in my household, Christmas is no longer an event to be celebrated. It's an event to be avoided. The first rule of Christmas is that we do not talk about Christmas. Not the decorations, not the presents, not the meal, not the family, not anything.

It didn't always used to be quite so Grinch-y up in this hoooo' (lol, ho, santa, funny - fuck off) but the past few years have been all a bit of a muddle and as a result any occasion which seems to put pressure on you to be happy or to be in love or to be a pleasant human being doesn't go down very well. Birthdays are another struggle. There's a lot of attention on you as an individual to have friends to buy you presents and cards and be appreciative of your existence. At least that's where I get the impression the joys of birthdays are supposed to stem from. Apparently, celebrating that you are "one year closer to death" is not the point. But whatever.

New Years. Another big fuck you to everyone suffering from long-term misery in their lives. Oh great! Another year! New start? Why of course not! You're just going to face more of the same shit but in a year that ends in a different number. Ace! Fireworks! Friends! Alcohol! Nope! I'm going to sit at home in my pyjamas, kiss my dog at midnight (if I'm not already asleep by then) and eat every last remnant of Christmas food. Though, let's be honest, that will probably all be gone just one or two days after Boxing Day. Hashtag fatty.

I did do something this year that I have not done in a while though. I'm afraid to say that I did see some Christmas lights and call them "pretty". Normally, I see those lights and they only serve to remind me of the misery that is to come in the festive period. I even took a photo! In fact, this 'season' I have taken two photos of Christmassy scenes! TWO PHOTOS! I have not, however, seen any reindeer and this sort of counteracts the leap in progress I have made in terms of festive joy. Last year I saw some reindeers and I thoroughly enjoyed their weird furry antlers and horsey/cow-type noses. Yeah, technical terms there.

So this post is just here as a friendly reminder that all that festive cheer is, to some people, a mask to hide their deep-rooted misery, and inside their souls are crumbling. Or, there are those like me, who don't even bother to pretend anymore. Have a wonderful day!!!!!!!!!! Note the ironic exclamation marks.


.x

Gatsby Theme and Self Esteem

There is no hiding that I am an incredibly awkward human being. It doesn’t matter if I’ve never met someone before or if I’ve known them for years, I’ll make my discomfort visable no matter the situation. Throw my bumbling personality into a situation whereby the words “work”, “Christmas” and “party” are slung together and TAH-DAH we have something to blog about!

Let me set the scene for you. This party has been plagued by the theme of Great Gatsby and is taking place on a boat. Not a stable, moored boat, but an actual moving down the river in the dark boat. Quick word of warning, don’t say anything along the lines of “It’s a waste going on a boat in the dark we can’t observe the scenery!” when you’re surrounded by young, retail bitches, it will do nothing to improve their opinion of you.

Everyone looked quite impressive in their Gatsby gear but someone forgot to tell some of the girls that wearing a dress or a playsuit that showcases your vagina isn’t quite inkeeping with the 1920’s theme but never mind. Saying this, I was wearing a heavily embellished top and a triple-layered maxi skirt so I spent the entire evening broadcasting how sweaty I was, so maybe they had the right idea after all. The boys looked dapper in their suits and tuxedos, but there was one male in particular I did have my eye on.

Now, only two of my colleagues know of my attraction towards said attractive male, because even the very idea of revealing that I fancy someone – even to a friend – leaves me crippled with embarrassment. Keeping THAT in mind, I now had to face 4 hours on a boat trapped with two girls who knew I liked someone, with that someone also being on the boat with us. This would have been far less of a problem if one of the girls I told wasn’t very comfortable and proud of what a “slut” she used to be in her first few months at university, and how keen she is for me to follow in her footsteps.

The Attractive Male (TAM, we shall call him from now on) and I do get on quite well as has been proved by various staff room conversations we’ve engaged in that other members of staff have listened in on and asked “what the hell are you two going on about?” which, to me, is the greatest sign of friendship. To me, this means I am probably considered a fellow male rather than a prospective girlfriend type or anything, but this appeared not to be my slut-friends own point of view, so she took it upon herself to push me in TAM’s direction wherever he moved on the boat.

I should say now that I had consumed far more alcohol than my friend had, and as a result was completely oblivious to any action she made manoeuvring me, though in fairness I could have been sober and I still probably wouldn’t have read into the situation. My memory of all of her work nestles down to me quite frequently being stood in a circle of people that did involve TAM.

Later in the night when we had returned to dry land, a few of us went on to a dingy pub in town and although TAM and I walked together there, I have no recollection of any conversation we had but rest assured our chat and walk did not go unnoticed by other people. When I mentioned that I was heading home, a colleague asked why I was leaving when TAM and I had been talking. I brushed this off because even in a drunken state I still manage to remain suitably awkward when it comes to any romance-related questioning.

I got home, I pretended to be sober when talking to my mother, I got into bed (drunk in your own bed: weird, and not meant in as slutty a way as it sounds), and woke up the following morning with an ache that stemmed from the pit of my soul. It was only after checking my phone that I was even made aware that I had been “wingwomaned” by my friend. Obviously to very little avail, but apparently the reasoning was largely due to the fact, as she had found out during her duty as wingwoman, that TAM was seeing someone. “Not serious”, according to someone else, but that someone else is known as a bit of a shit when it comes to his relationship with girls so perhaps his ideals aren’t quite the same as TAM’s.

My main reason for writing this long-assed blog post is to point out the fact that not only am I incapable of flirting by my own accord, but I cannot even allow someone to do it for me. And, AND! I am not even aware of when they are trying to help me, because an awkward barrier goes up like a visor and I instantly friendzone myself in all situations. So Merry Christmas to me, I am going to die alone. I think that’s the right mindset to come away with from any work ‘do’, am I right?

I’ll see y’all next time for whatever misadventure needs documenting. Love.

.x

Ducking Hell

Last night I was lucky enough to attend the press night of The Duck House at the Vaudeville Theatre with a cast including greats such as Ben Miller, Nancy Carroll and Simon Shepherd. And then there was Diana Vickers. Not quite in that "greats" category yet. Probably not ever.

The play, as the name implies, revolves around the politicians expense scandal and is written by two of the guys behind Mock The Week and Have I Got News For You, which I think is quite evident in some of the one-liners and quip remarks. Ben Miller's character, Robert Houston, is an MP and is desperate for a seat in parliament; so desperate he is willing to swap sides. His family - wife played by Nancy Carroll and son by James Musgrave, get caught up in the whole debacle as they face a visit from fellow politician Norman Cavendish played by Simon Shepherd, and have to hide all the things in their house that they have claimed for on expenses.

I'm not a great fan of farcical plays, and it's a wonder I found any enjoyment in this one at all given it was a farce times a farce times a farce times a farce... SO much farce. But there were a few subtle jokes in the script that felt more intelligent than the obvious, slapstick, door-slamming-mistaken-identity farce "classics" that made the evening bearable. Ben Miller's background in comedy made for some wonderful timing in the delivery of his lines and Nancy Carroll is respectable enough to find some reality in an otherwise unbelievable character.

There was too much screaming in despair for my liking and not enough build up but whether that was in the directing or the writing I'm not too sure. I'm glad I got to go and see it as I would never have chosen to watch it (or been able to afford to buy tickets) but it's not something I would particularly recommend to other theatre-goers. Not unless they're looking for some very simple humour. Oh, and Diana Vickers prancing around in almost no clothing; a great distraction from the distinct lack of acting ability. MEOW.

.x

Slavery.

Oh retail, how you make me hate humanity. I'd like to look into the employment background of people who become serial killers because I bet a large percentage of them have worked in a shop. Or maybe just the shop I work in. Bloody hell.

The thing is, as a customer walking around doing a nice spot of shopping whether it be for yourself or for gifts or for whatever reason, you completely forget that those poor minions with the lanyards round their neck are REAL LIFE ACTUAL HUMAN BEINGS. There are so many things I've been asked to do in my nearing half a year of working at a high street store that no one really expects a member of staff that they can actually see have to do. I know I thought lots of things were done in the factories or warehouses or wherever the hell our stock comes from. But no. It is we poor things on minimum wage running around doing everything that wasn't mentioned in the job description.

Today I spent 3 hours writing out and stapling "NOW £4!" labels onto the existing labels of hundreds of items of clothes. Previous to that I spent an hour going through every item of clothing in a section of the store to make sure they had security tags on. I've stuck sale stickers on clothes, I've held the limbs of mannequins as they're dressed and re-dressed, I've refilled air humidifier units with buckets of water. These are all tiny aspects of why I hate working in retail as much as I do. I won't even mention the types of people I'm working with. Let's just say; it doesn't take too many brain cells to work a stapler. One colleague still managed to staple her own hand today though.

One thing that is keeping me going at the moment, is how quick the turn around has been in terms of my "life plan" this year. In March I was at drama school. Between April and September I was sitting at home all day every day earning no money, wasting all my time, but really quite enjoying it. Now I have two jobs, I'm starting to realise there are things I want to achieve and I'm trying to work on achieving them. Things are going in the right direction somewhere, even if I am stuck in a dead-end job for now. But this is a stop gap. I'm not someone who's life ambition is to be the manager of a high street store and I know that now. Not that I ever thought I was, but there is a thick black, permanent marker style line through that one now. Who'd have thought my love of playing on toy tills when I was little would turn into a reality and be something I resented.

Some aspects of the job are okay. As I said, it's PISS EASY. Tiring at times, because it's so fucking dull, but there's always a trusty energy drink to help with that. So for now, it'll do. But only for now.

 

.x

Welcome to Hell.

Oh would you look at that, I'm back on the blogosphere! I'd love to say I've been on holiday or been busy doing things of great excitement but the reality is I've been slaving away as a retail whore, hating life and trying to find an excuse to register as retired. I did however manage to squeeze in one or two exciting things. Yesterday I went horse riding for the first time in years and now my thighs are paying the price. On Tuesday evening, I went to a comedy evening at Reading University with a friend from work, expecting a night of funnies from John Kearns, Tom Deacon and Joe Lycett. Reading University had other plans for me.

Lily and I decided a good way to make the Comedy Central Live experience just that little bit more of an experience would be to sit on the front row. I've also sort of been thinking about trying my hand at writing some stand up stuff so I thought what better way to learn to deal with f'row audience participation than if I am a partaker in the.. erm.. "bantz"? This was all well and good, I was feeling brave, up until the dreaded words "And there's been a change to the line up today so please welcome to the stage Matt Richardson!" came out of a wig-wearing John Kearns.

This would not be a problem if I hadn't gone to see Matt Richardson live a few weeks ago in Maidenhead and if I didn't regularly send him abuse on Twitter. I met him after his gig in Maidenhead and he recognised me as his "troll" but reassured me that my tweets were refreshing after multiple "ooo00OOomgGgggGggGGG follow me back plzzzzz!!!111xxxxxxxxx" tweets from the gaggle of 12 year old Directioner-reject fans who continue to send me hate whenever I send anything vaguely insulting to him.

So there we have the background of where the terror stemmed from when it was announced he was performing on a stage hardly a metre away from me. Naturally I turned to my friend Lily with my hands covering my face and continually repeated a phrase similar to that of "Holy mother fucking shitballs fucking wanking cock and ball shitting fuck" under my breath whilst she laughed at my misfortune like all good friends should.

Thankfully, THANKFULLY, rather than see me as a prime target for front row bullying, eye contact was avoided for the majority of the gig but I was well aware that I'd been clocked. I was ready for the shit to be ripped out of me as pay back for what I find to be hilarious abuse on Twitter but either he actually thought I'd be as witty(? .. or just abusive) in real life or he was too scared that I was some form of stalker who would lap up any attention I was given. Either way, I'm glad I avoided that.

My favourite part of his set was the end. Because I was terrified. Lolz. Next was a really young comedian called Elliott who was pretty good but I was there for Joe Lycett who we were told by John Kearns would be on after a ten minute break. So nerve-come-down wees were had and then Lily and I were back in our seats ready for Joe Lycett. First we had a bit more of John Kearns though, and thinking I'd got away with no Matt Richardson prosecution I had relaxed a bit now. ERROR.

"Has one of you two here seen Matt before?" Fuck. It begins. I was not drunk enough for this. As in stone cold fucking sober with only a packet of gingernut biscuits as confidence fuel. Rather than confidence they just provided me with stomach discomfort helped along by the tension from sitting through Matt Richardson's set with held breath. I admitted to having been at a previous gig. So my only front row participation was as follows:

"Yeah he said he recognised you, did you sit at the front before?"
"No."
"How does he recognise you then?"
"I met him afterwards."
"Did you get a picture with him?"
"No."
"Do you want a picture with him?"
"No."
"That would be a bit awkward to be fair, do you want to meet him now?"
"No, I've already met him"
"HA AWKWARD MATT."
"Soz."

SO MUCH FOR GETTING FUCKING INSPIRATION AND WHATNOT. WORST NIGHT EVER. But also really good too. Just not with Matt Richardson ruining my life with his fucking existence. Joe Lycett was brilliant as I expected hoped and knew. I was in the audience at Sweat The Small Stuff a few weeks ago when he was on and he is fast becoming one of my faves. Delightfully camp charming and creepy all in one; perfect.

I need to go and massage my destroyed thighs after their horrific equestrian experience last night now and to continue trying to clean myself of the shame that Matt Richardson probs thinks I'm stalking him. Aca-awkward. Until next time, fuckers.

.x

Smokin' Hot

I have had a few days off recently, and rather than acting like a normal 22 year old girl; out partying, taking drugs, having one night stands and twerking all over the place, I spent most of my time online looking at photos of women that I really wish I was. Namely Alexa Chung. Part of my brain is convinced that if I look at photos of her for long enough our faces will morph together and I'll have enough of her in me to make me attractive and she'll have enough of me in her to make me less upset that I'm not her. Y'know?

On my travels around the internet looking at photos of her and various other attractive females (I'm really bad at this whole convincing-people-I'm-not-actually-a-lesbian thing) I found that some of my favourite photos of women featured them smoking. I KNOW - SO BAD OMG REBELZ. And this made me question something that we're always being told is not true, and that is whether or not smoking really is "cool".

The simple answer that I wish I could say I thought was true is "no", because - in reality - you're just inhaling a load of weird leaves and grit and horrible stuff and voluntarily subjecting yourself to a really burnt throat. We all know the dangers. But something about these photos is striking, and there is a majestic quality to smoke in the way it dances in the air that I just cannot resist.


You cannot deny that Alexa makes this look supremely "cool". There are some women who perhaps can even make smoking look elegant or classy - think Audrey Hepburn in *that* photo. Maybe it's just my own opinion of who I find to be attractive or cool or whatever that makes me think this though. I can't say I find photos of Holly Willoughby puffing on a cigarette outside television studios very admirable, nor do I look at middle-aged women who smoke on their way to work every day and think "wow, you are living the dream".

This post has far less meaning or moral story to it than you (or I) may have hoped, but fuck it, I can write whatever I want and I think smoking can look pretty. My only problem with people smoking - specifically girls smoking - is men who say "Oh it puts me right off a lass if she smokes". The same goes for tattoos. Fuck off. Sorry to get all Lily Allen on yo ass but bitchez can do what they want. Maybe they're not doing things for male approval all the time, just a thought.

Anyway here is Lilah Parsons, Cara Delevingne, queen of cool Olivia Newton John as Sandy, and a bonus bit of Alexa, all breathing their way to cancerous deaths. S'later y'all.



.x

Hair There & Everywhere

Something very odd happened to my hair yesterday, and I think I liked it. It resembled a lion's mane, an 80s Babyliss-style crimping disaster and very delicate dreadlocks all in one. OH WAIT! This is  what happens every day. But yesterday it was particularly Miley-esque in that it could not be tamed. It stayed pretty wild all day and this was what was so odd yet brilliant about it.

My hair is probably my greatest conquest in life. I have battled with it ever since I got it all lopped off when I was 10 years old so I didn't have to wear a swimming cap in our school pool. In hindsight this haircut did look quite good, but girls in year six can be really quite mean and being bullied for having a boys haircut isn't one of my fondest memories. But hey, fuck you guys, I still to this day have never suffered the indignity of wearing a swimming cap, I win.

As is the case with most haircuts; they do grow out. And in my experience, they like to grow out in the most hideous ways possible. Fringe curtains, grown out "feathering", Phoebe from the Magic School Bus end-flicks (only a select audience will relate to this reference but as I'm sure you're growing to understand, I'm really good at alienating the majority of human beings that I meet). Not to mention dodgy dye-jobs, especially ones that have been a result of the packet saying it would leave my hair a rich brown but leaving it scabby red. Because we're worth it my arse.

The point I'm aiming towards here is this: I have awesome hair now. Really awesome. But it's been a long time coming and wouldn't be as great as it is without a fair bit of routine followed pretty strictly. You want a voluminous wave in your hair? Say goodbye to good sleep because wearing your hair in a high bun is the best (cheap) method I've found to date. You want your hair to look good from day till night? Make room in your handbag for hundreds of cans of hairspray, you're going to need to keep topping up on the root spritz. You want that sexy I-don't-give-a-shit dishevelled look? Prepare for an onset of matting and or dreadlocking because you better commit and stop brushing your hair every five minutes, bitch.

So they are my tips for the best hair you could ever possibly achieve, if you are me. Bun it, spray it, but be prepared to look like Hermione Granger circa Philosophers Stone when the volume and frizz collide. It's a risk I'm always willing to take though.

.x

BEHOLD, THE HAIR.

Hello.

So. It appears I have a blog now. I think this is the most self-indulgent form of social media I'm to buy into so far, but Whatever-Minger. In my head I did that with the hand movement. If you don't know which hand movement I mean with the W and the M shapes, and if you didn't yourself do it in your head too, then I don't think you belong here. You probably shouldn't continue reading, this probably ain't gon' be yo jam.

I expect (and hope) no one will ever have the misfortune of stumbling across this platform for shit spouting, and I feel I've done a stellar job of setting the tone so far. I like to swear. I like to make jokes that no-one finds funny, not even me. I like being highly inappropriate. I like looking at pictures of pretty women far too much for a straight female to really be able to justify.  I like spending hours applying make up and styling my hair and dressing myself in order to look like I have made zero effort in my appearance. I like hating everything that I am. I'm essentially the worlds biggest hypocrite and dickhead combined. What a catch.

Despite all that I am quite interested in sensible and serious stuff too. Current affairs are great. Even the pop culture ones. I'm pretty all rounded. I like animals and saving the world and recycling and all that tripe. This is what I mean about the hypocrisy; I'm probably contributing to 90% of the ozone layer deterioration from the amount of hair product I use alone in one morning. The frequency at which I spend consecutive days not even getting out of my pyjamas hopefully makes up for this in some way though.

Anyway. This is just going to be an outlet for many a rant about personal dilemmas involving idiot friends, idiot me, idiot Miley antics and idiot everything's. (Does an apostrophe belong there? Will we ever know? Don't tell me. I don't really care. This is a blog not an academic masterpiece. Soz.)

I can't predict what I'm going to write because I'm just so kooky and unique and off the wall. To prove exactly that I'm going to go for an afternoon nap now with the dulcet tones of Countdown acting as my lullaby. So you can go shave your back now. Bye Jason.

.x