So here it is...

The Last Day of My Twenties.

I know I'm harping on about it but honestly, 30??!! When did that happen? Last time I checked I was still 25.

I guess there's only one way to get through it. Bartender? A daiquiri if you please!

Eh?

Reasons to be grumpy this December morning...

1. December insomnia. Every year, without fail, I am awake at stupid o'clock throughout December. I have no clue why, but I've got a pretty good idea that it's something to do with Christmas and paying for stuff with money I just don't have. Today, I was up at 6.20am, and I give it about a week before I'm watching movies and writing Christmas cards at 4am. The one advantage of December Insomnia this year is that I might actually get out of the house and into the gym before going to the office, although I couldn't do that this morning because...

2. I can't hear anything. Not in a temporary deafness way, more a kind of cumulative deafness way that has got worse over the last few years. Given my line of work, this is a Very Bad Thing. So I made an appointment with the nurse to get my ears syringed, as so many people, bored with me asking them to repeat everything, have urged me to do. For the past 4 days, I have put up with the quite frankly icky sensation of dropping oil into my ears to soften the wax before getting them degunked. And the nurse peers into my ears to ascertain how manky they really are, before telling me that they're perfectly clean and that syringing them would make no difference whatsoever and that I should probably go and see a proper doctor about it. Great.

3. I am nearly 30. Why then, am I suffering from a worse acne outbreak than I ever had when I was in my teens? Why? I have one particular beauty, just inside my nose, that has no head, hurts like all buggery and has given me, quite attractively, a fat lip and a trout pout. At this rate all the photos from my party this Friday will feature me doing my best impression of Leslie Ash whilst pissed on tequila.


Reasons Not To Be Grumpy...

1. My rodents still love me.

Communication

Scene: My flat, this morning, 8am.
I walk into kitchen wrapped in towel, Ignorant Kiwi is ironing a shirt.

Me - Hi
IK - Hi
Me - Shower's f*cked
IK - What's up?
Me - Hose has gone
IK - I'll do it today
Me - Ta

As you can see, the art of conversation is flourishing in South West London.

34 Shopping days Left Til Christmas!!

Oh my god!! How on earth am I going to get it all done in time?!

Erm, there's 34 shopping days left, that's how. Every year some smug tonker likes to brag about how they've got everything bought and wrapped by the 1st December. Do these people not have lives??

I'm a big fan of shopping for others, and not just in the comedy supermarket sense. I get a buzz out of finding the perfect present for people, and don't even get me started on how much I love doing my christmas wrapping - for me, heaven is a branch of Paperchase.

But there's also a part of me that is intensely amused by the deeper meanings of what you give and receive... it speaks volumes about what you think of people, and in return what they think of you, and in some cases it reveals how little they really know you at all.

Last year my ex-boyfriend's wife gave me a trinket box. Shaped like a shoe. That was too small to fit any actual trinkets in. And had zebra stripes and fake diamante on it. As one very straight-talking friend commented upon seeing it, "God, she really doesn't like you does she?". And the Understatement of the Year award goes to....

One relative (a close one) buys me all sorts of crap, without fail, every year, and gets in a strop that lasts til Easter if I don't go into orgasmic paroxisms of delight at each and every one of them. Over the last five years I have faked it over an Iron Maiden video collection, Doctor Who playing cards, a DVD about fans of Lord of the Rings (yes you read that right, about the FANS of LOTR...I mean come on, every girl needs a little Viggo in her life. SHELL OUT FOR THE ACTUAL FILMS), and a collection of miniature pots of jam. I know, I know, it's incredibly ungrateful of me and yes I really should say that a) I haven't listened to Iron Maiden since I was 13 and b) I only watch Doctor Who because I fancy David Tennant but I have to weigh up the consequences of the ensuing sulk, and to be honest it's not worth it for the 5 seconds of satisfaction I'd get out of asking "Do you actually know anything about me at all??!!".

Because, as vomit inducing as it sounds, it's the season of goodwill. It's not the season of point scoring, or upsetting relatives, or arguing over who's eaten the last of the Ready Salted Pringles. And yet every year, I find myself getting stressed over stupid things and fantasising about taking out at least 2 family members with the carving knife. So this year I'll be celebrating the Baby Jee's birthday with friends in London - the only way I can ensure that I'll still be talking to my family on Boxing Day. Peace on earth and goodwill to all men.

My ex's wife is still getting a shit present though.

Vive la France.

I'm not going to bore on about it here, if you want to hear about HOW MUCH I LOVED PARIS then give me a call.

BUT

I think I may have found the right thing to cure me of my addiction to scruffy Irishmen.




French men.

Je m'appelle Badger

Off to Paris in the morning with Bezzie Mate, to celebrate the fact that we're 30 and our livers haven't ejected themselves from our bodies yet ...

I've been so busy that I haven't really got myself organised (I only remembered this afternoon that I broke my suitcase in Amsterdam and really need a new one) and it's just dawned on me that in Paris, I'll be expected to speak French.

No biggie really, except for one eeny weeny fact. I am really bad at speaking French. I have embarrassed myself on more occasions than I care to remember with my complete inability to grasp this beautiful, beautiful language. I once asked for "2 glasses of shit and a coffee" in Corsica, and in Morocco asked for (in a really terrible french accent) "le menu de dessert sweets". The english policeman in Allo Allo has got nothing on me.

Merde dans la plage!!

Grumpiness, thy name is Badger

I hate mondays.

I especially hate mondays when you wake up in the morning and for a split second think that it's saturday.

What's that all about?

Hahahhahahahahahhahaaa

Is this the most deluded family in all of Christendom? This story really made me laugh on the way to work this morning. NOT ONLY did they encourage their daughter to audition for the X Factor, whereupon she was unsurprisingly shot down in flames for having all the talent of a lump of gerbil sh*t, they've been evicted and are now living in their car in a supermarket carpark. Not, as you may imagine, because they've had 130 complaints lodged against them by neighbours, nor because of the other arguments and disturbances they've caused. Ho noooooooo. They've been targetted "because of their size".

Well, excuse me.

Fat bastards they may be. You can almost smell the rancid turkey twizzler and sweat combination coming off them as you look at their picture, but being evicted cos they're overweight?

That's bollocks. I'm overweight. Being fat has never got me evicted. It's got me into some slightly embarrassing situations at dress fittings but that's about as far as it goes. Yes we may live in an age where obesity is a massive health threat, but it's become too easy an excuse for a microcosm of society who are too stupid to do anything but blame others for their own shortcomings.

Wake up and smell the full fat latte, Mr and Mrs Chawner. You were evicted because you are noisy, rude, and probably hell to live near. Not because you're salad dodgers.

Willy Wonka wouldn't do it.

Ok, someone really needs to have a word. They're destroying our chocolate bars.

I've just had what can only be described as the world's worst breakfast - coffee and a Double Decker, and something just wasn't right. They've messed with the crunchy bit. It's different, and it's not different in a good way. The texture's all wrong, and it's totally compromised the integrity of the bar. It's not fun to eat. It didn't make me feel naughty and a weeny bit wrong, it just made me feel dirty on the inside.

The poor old Double Decker has now been relegated to my list of chocolate bars that used to be great, but have been 'improved' by the manufacturers, so that now they're just horrible.

Twix? A playground favourite now rendered inedible by its 'new, crunchier base'.

Curly-Wurleys are smaller than they were when I was 10 and I can't help feeling ripped off.

Toffee Crisps were ok until they monkeyed about with the rice crispies in the middle. Have you tried one recently? Rancid.

Kit-Kat almost achieved a stroke of brilliance by making the Chunky version and then took it a step too far by introducing its vomiticious Peanut Chunky cousin...not cool guys. (That's probably a little contradictory given my obsession with Reese's Peanut Buttercups and their hangover busting brilliance but I don't care. They should have just stopped at the Chunky)

I could go on. But you get the point. The chocolate bar I feel really sorry for is the humble Penguin. Penguins are brilliant. Until some bastard introduces you to Tim Tams. Like a Fosters-swilling magpie in the biscuit aisle, the Tim Tam is what the Penguin would be if it went to the gym and took some steroids on the side. As Graham Norton discovers, you can do things with a Tim Tam that are better than sex.

Yum.

Age is but a number...

Just in case I wasn't depressed enough about turning 30 at the end of the year, I've just found one of those lists of things you should do before your 30th birthday and have decided to see how many I've got left to do...

- Be sick on your shoes
Yep, my 20th birthday... was also sick in my bed, in the kitchen sink, outside my bedroom and on my favourite cuddly toy. It was a very proud moment.

- Have a stupid accident which necessitates a hospital visit
Note the interestingly shaped scar on my right arm- it looks like a dwarf's hat.

- Get lost in a country where you don't speak the language
2008 - the dirty smoking drinking western girls visit Marrakech.

- Get drunk on Absinthe
Noooooooooo way, I value the little sanity I've got left. Besides, I'd rather watch the Black Books episode where Manny drinks *all* the absinthe: "Bernard! Bernard! I...I.... I ate all your bees!!!"

- Eat bizarre foreign food
According to one man, my diet is made up exclusively of bizarre foreign food. But then he likes Fray Bentos Tinned Pies, so his opinion means NOTHING.

- Unwisely revisit an ex
Much to the disappointment of, well, virtually everyone who knows me, this is a habit I have yet to grow out of.

- Dial 999
Yes and I've still not forgiven the dirty thieving bastard who nicked my stereo whilst my Gin Blossoms CD was still in it.

- Get a pension
Yes. Through my last job. It's got about £10 in it. That's if Gordon Brown hasn't nicked it to buy his shares in HBOS.

- Have a three year relationship anniversary
Does stalking count?

- Date against type
OK, my 'type' criteria are very basic -
1. Have a pulse
2. That's it
so draw your own conclusions.

-Dodge a fare
Many, many times. Take *that*, South East Trains!

-Travel to at least one really cool place
Marrakech was cool. It was baking hot, but it was cool.

-Fall in love.
No comment.

-Do something physically challenging
I do something physically challenging every day - it's called getting out of bed.

-Go on a blind date
I refer the honorable ladies and gentlemen to 2006, the year of the internet dates.

-Have sex al fresco
Yep, hehehehheh.

-Have sex in a car
Yep, hehehehheh.

-Have sex at work
Yep, hehehehheh.

-Have sex in a public place
My mum's right, I really am a little bit of a slut, aren't I?

-Dye your hair
What do you mean, dye your hair? This is natural blonde. Honest.

-See a stripper
Ho yesh. What elsh ish there to do in Amshterdam?

-Kiss someone against your sexuality
Errr, yeah. But only to get past the clipboard Nazi at a really cool gay club.

-Go on a rollercoaster
Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Yeah! I love rollercoasters

-Rock in a mosh pit
Smashing Pumpkins, Glastonbury 1997. Having drunk a bottle of rum. ROCK! (*insert appropriate hand gesture here)

-Get arrested
No. But I'm sure I would have been if I'd got caught.

-Undergo pubic depilation
To wax, or not to wax, that is the question. The answer being, ALWAYS WAX.

-Ride on a motorbike
No. But I do think they're really cool.

-Sleep under the stars
With a tent over me, yes.

-Move out of your parent's house
Oh yes. And very relieved they were too. Don't think they're so impressed that most of my things are still there though.

- Get on telly
One of the singlemost embarrassing moments of my life, thank GOD no-one had cable in those days.

Well, that's not too shabby I guess. I can greet 30 safe in the knowledge that I didn't waste my reckless years with my head in a book, drudging away in a dead end job, doing a passable impersonation of a nun. My parents must be so proud.

Help yourself but hurry up about it

Ok, still a bit rage filled today, so you'll have to excuse me. But seriously, what is wrong with some people??

I went to the supermarket yesterday afternoon and always tend to go to the self checkout afterwards... It's quick, it's easy, and no checkout person can judge me for having chocolate, wine and weightwatchers products in the same basket. (I'm just waiting for the day that someone says to me that if I didn't have the chocolate and wine, I wouldn't need the WW stuff). But yesterday, it seemed that the world and his wife all wanted to do it themselves. This is fine, except for the fact that NONE OF THEM COULD WORK OUT HOW TO USE THE EFFING CHECKOUTS. It's not difficult, you scan the barcode, you pack the shopping, you pay. It took me ages to get out, and my patience was at an all time low yesterday (Ignorant Kiwi's fault, there's a surprise), I'm surprised I didn't get kicked out of Asda for beating someone over the head with a packet of prawns.

Then, THEN!!!, this morning, whilst late for work and with only a couple of minutes to get my ticket (Ignorant Kiwi's fault, are you spotting a theme?), I had to queue at the machine. If they handed out Olympic medals for speediness at the ticket machine, I would get gold. I've got it down to less than a minute....unless some fuckwitted eejit can't work out how a) what ticket they need and b) where their card goes in. Tip: It's the big old slot with CARDS written next to it.

Seriously people.... if you can't do it, GET OUT OF MY WAY.

I am woman, hear me roar.

Absolutely EVERYTHING is irritating me today. It's a superbrillopads combination of lack of sleep, hangover, PMT and stress. All those hormones and chemicals having a great big party in your brain - I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Literally.

Although, I have found a fantastic new hangover cure: Reese's Peanut Buttercups. Obviously not that fantasic if you've got a nut allergy but great otherwise. Give it a whirl next time you decide to abuse your body with the classy combination of beer, cocktails and wine that I treated mine to last night. Particularly if you were caining margaritas.

Mmmmmmmmmmmm Margarita. I'll never learn.

I'm a classy Londoner, innit?

There's been an email joke flying around for years that goes something like this...

You Know You're From London When:
- You have never been to The Tower or Madame Tussauds but love Brighton.
- You can get into a four-hour argument about how to get from Shepherd's Bush to Elephant & Castle at 3:30 on the Friday before a long weekend, but can't find Dorset on a map.
- You believe that being able to swear at people in their own language makes you multi-lingual.
- You consider eye contact an act of overt aggression.
- You're paying £1,200 a month for a studio the size of a walk-in wardrobe and you think it's a "bargain."
- You pay £3 without blinking for a beer that cost the bar 28p.
- The UK west of Heathrow is still theoretical to you.
- Your idea of personal space is no one actually standing on your toes.
- £50 worth of groceries fit in one paper bag.
- You have a minimum of five "worst cab ride ever" stories.
- You don't hear sirens anymore.

The last portion of it is:

- Your cleaner is Russian, your grocer is Korean, your deli man is Israeli, your landlord is Italian, your laundry guy is Chinese, your favourite bartender is Irish, your favourite diner owner is Greek, the watch-seller on your corner is Senegalese, your last cabbie was Pakistani, your newsagent is Indian and your favourite falafel guy is Egyptian.

Now, I can't vouch for the grocer, the deli man, the landlord, in fact for any of them past the cleaner, who is an amazing Bulgarian lady who has been looking after me, my flat and my plants for the past 4 years. But as all good things must come to an end, so Dari has found a new job and given me back my keys.

Some may say I'm lazy for even having a cleaner when the flat is the size of a postage stamp, but if you live with other people, then it's the quickest solution to any arguments about whose turn it is to clean the bathroom, and when you work all day and often spend your evenings out with clients, then on a precious night off the last thing you want to do is come home to pull hair out of the plughole and mop the floors.

Gay Best Friend and I have been having an ongoing argument about cleaners, as his husband has just employed one for them. GBF is worried that this makes him middle class, when he's spent 35 years toiling under the illusion that he's working class. I say to him, it's not the cleaner that makes you middle class, it's the rich husband, the posh apartment and the fat dog that does it! I've never been able to claim to be working class: I may have spent my teenage years working as a fruit picker but I've also got an A-Level in Latin. So I have no shame in admitting to people (even my mother) that someone comes to clean my home, I'm just fed up that I've got to find a new one. Goodbye Dari, and thanks for everything.

Welcome to the Twilight Zone

So I'm back in my flat, with the rodents, and the Ignorant Kiwi is back from his travels. Predictably enough, it was an absolute fecking tip when I got in, but I was expecting that. What I wasn't expecting was for him to say he'd organised drinks with all our upstairs neighbours on Sunday afternoon at 5pm... I mean, him, voluntarily choosing to spend time with me around other people? That's just plain weird. The best way to describe our rocky relationship is to liken it to John and Mary on Father Ted - the married couple who, in front of Ted, are loving and happy, but the minute his back is turned start bashing each other over the head with frying pans. When Ignorant Kiwi and I are together in public you'd imagine that not only do we like each other, but we actually get on very well. There's banter, there's in-jokes, we could be the next Morcambe and Wise we're so goddamn funny together.


5pm Sunday rolls around and I start to tart myself up a bit (ie, get out of my pyjamas, make a vague attempt to tame my hair) and head over to the bar, fashionably (almost an hour) late, expecting to see Ignorant Kiwi surrounded by the coterie of adoring females, who all think I'm really lucky to live with him. I figured I'd just have to be sociable and make funny for half an hour or so, so they wouldn't think I was a rodent breeding hermitfreak, then I could slink back to my pit to watch Strictly Come Dancing. So imagine my horror when I walk in and there are no neighbours, just IK nursing a solitary pint. It took all my self control not to run, yelping, back to the safety of the sofa: I'd actually have to sit in public and make conversation with him. Damn.


At the end of the day it turned out ok. We had a couple of drinks and the conversation only paused a couple of times - he even said that when he got back from holiday and neither me nor the rodents were there, he was really worried. After we headed back to the flat we talked for a bit, watched Top Gear together and then I demanded to watch Strictly Come Dancing so he ran away to play on his computer game in his room... but he still came in to say good night like a normal human being.

Oh shit, this doesn't mean we're becoming friends does it?

Thank Crunchie it's Friday

Mmmmmmmm Crunchie bar.....

Why god why

Isn't this man my bank manager???

Best advice I've had in ages

The 1st October marks the first anniverary of the Badger and Kiwi business, which we undertook after copious amounts of red wine and a crappy pay review at our old work place. It's been a fun year, but a tough year, and many's the time I've asked "Why on earth did we think this was a good idea??!". I mean, why would anybody in their right mind walk away from a secure, relatively well paid job with a respected company? And not even into another secure, relatively well paid job with a slightly more respected company, but into the wilderness of running your own company, with fuck-all security, minimal wages and only a funky logo to get you any respect? There are hundreds of reasons, none of them terribly interesting to anyone who's not my mum, but reading an industry magazine this morning, I came across an interview with Mark Roalfe, who set up Rainey Kelly Campbell and Roalfe/Y&R (and yes, the receptionist does have to say the whole name every time she answers the phone). He was talking about the first couple of years running RKCR and offering advice to people just setting out in advertising, and his last words seemed to sum up my past year, and the main reason we took that step out on our own:

"The early years were the most exhausting, nervous, sleepless, poverty-stricken and terrifying of my life. Which leads neatly to my final piece of advice: fuck it, you only get one chance."

B*gger

Typical pose for me when I can't put my hands in my pockets is to clasp them and put them under my chin. It's always reminded me of someone else who does that, and I realised last night who it is.


It's my pet rodent. Damn.

Go go Glo, or "One Fag and His Hag"

Wembley Arena, last night, the Cuban disco goddess that is Gloria Estefan.

5.30pm - meet up with Gay Best Friend at Baker Street. Drink beer, eat crisps, talk work. So far, so hetero.

6.30pm - jump on tube to Wembley. Discuss our favourite Gloria tracks, try and guess what she's going to sing. Discuss Dolly Parton's hair, and slag off Madonna (but only a little bit, because we love her really). Getting gayer.

7.30pm - walk into the Arena. Baulk slightly at the number of Fag/Hag combinations. So camp you can hardly breath.

8.20pm - Glo gets on stage. The crowd goes mad. The Happiest Man in the World is dancing with his hands in the air down near the front row. She does all the classics, and I'm ashamed to say that I shed a little tear at Anything for You, because it reminds me of being 16 and heartbroken when my first boyfriend dumped me for the girl I sat next to in English.

10.40pm - 2 encores later, and we're out and on our way home. A brilliant night. Gloria, we salute you.

Solitary Confinement

The Ignorant Kiwi has pissed off on holiday, and by some quirk of fate at the moment I am looking after my workmate's pets. So I'm the only human in a house otherwise inhabited by the lesbian rodents, a juvenile delinquent rabbit and a spoiled and rather tubby cat, who seems to think he's meant to have his breakfast at 6am (he's been disabused of that idea *very* quickly). Am I missing the human contact? Not really. Let's weigh up the pros and cons:

Pros:
1. Not having to make conversation with a man I regularly fantasise about hitting over the head with a blunt object

2. 4 furry companions who don't answer back, who are always pleased to see me and think I'm brilliant, solely because I have opposable thumbs and can open the pet food.

3. Being able to play Bruce Springsteen at 8 am and not getting laughed at. Actually, better make that one being able to play Bruce *at all* and not getting laughed at...

4. Being able to watch whatever I want on the telly and always being in charge of the remote.

5. Not having to make sure I'm fully dressed at all times to save Ignorant Kiwi the embarrassment of having to look at a body that's not the best of friends with the treadmill.

6. Hey, there's always the telephone if I'm desperate to have a conversation (and let's face it by the end of the day do I ever want to do that? Erm.....Not so much)

Cons:
1. Being a hair's breadth away from being a mad catlady who smells of wee.

2. That's it.

To be honest, I know I'll be going a bit stir crazy by the end of the week, and sweeping up rabbit poo really is about as much fun as it sounds, but until then I'm cranking up the Bruce and dancing around in my pants. Brilliant.

Dear oh dear oh very dear

NKOTB are back. Straw poll reveals that still finding them attractive isn't the most wrong thing in the world ever. Thank god for that.

Thank god for that

August was pretty shitty. As well as being International Month of the Baby (3 christenings and 1 baby shower - not a lot of fun for your slightly single and slightly broody badger) it was Being Broke Month (mainly down to the Kiwi), Get Rained On Month (nothing new there then) and Just Being a Bit Bloody Miserable Month.


So it's with great joy that I welcome the 1st September. As the alarm started squawking at 6.30 this morning I bounced out of bed, hit the ground running, and am now bouncing off the walls in a state of euphoria that's not entirely caffeine induced, motivated, energised, and, well.... happy.

Bring it on!

Ding dong the witch is dead.

Ignorant Kiwi Guy will soon be moving out of my flat.

I'm meeting people next week to vet their flatmate potential.

Wonder if i should tell the Kiwi??

Today I are mostly

In a fantastically awful fucking mood.

Various reasons for this:

a. It's Monday
b. I forgot to get any sleep on Saturday night
c. Yesterday's baby shower was such a lovely day that today could only be rubbish
d. Banks suck
e. I'm not entirely convinced that the prawn sandwich I had for lunch isn't going to give me food poisoning.

Mouse in Manhattan

The best Tom and Jerry cartoon in the world ever? Discuss.

Cheesy Pops

I'm listening to a compilation of ABBA, Jane Wiedlin and Journey. Does life get any better?

All hail the National Theatre

Went to see The Revenger's Tragedy with Furious Piglet at the National last night and I have to say, it kicked about 7 shades of arse. It was fantastic! Moody, sexy, imaginative, and I didn't look at my watch once, which for me, is something of an achievement.



It's part of the NT's Travelex Season, where all the seats are £10, which is such a great deal. My sister and I are currently debating which West End show we're going to take our mum to for her birthday, and we can't get any seats for less than £30 each - and they're the crap seats at that. One of my favourite rants is how British Theatre (specifically in London) has become so elitist - whereas it used to be a cheap form of entertainment for the great unwashed, it is now an overpriced attraction for tourists and the well-off: for a family of four to go and see, say, The Lion King at the Lyceum and to have dinner somewhere afterwards would probably cost around the £200 mark (and that's a generous estimate, I'm not including souvenir programmes, drinks in the interval, maltesers to keep the little darlings quiet when they start getting restless...). And non-musical theatre is no better: producers are so desperate to get bums on seats that they'll stick a celeb in the cast and bump up the ticket prices... Daniel Radcliffe in Equus? Shite. Ticket Price? £35. Seat right at the back of the upper circle with a partially obscured view? Yes. The Globe's got the right idea with it's £5 standing tickets....kind of. If I'm going to see Hamlet there's no way I can stand for 4 hours, and if I want to sit down it costs me a hell of a lot more than a fiver.

So what's the answer? Answers on a postcard, someone, and quickly, because we've got a new generation of kids who have never been to theatre because it's cheaper to go to Blockbusters. And that's a shame, because they'll never get to see the kind of brilliance I was watching last night.

More money than sense

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/itn/20080805/twl-booger-the-pit-bull-is-back-all-five-41f21e0.html

Some Californian woman's dog died. Very sad I know. But why the f*ck would you sell your house so that you can go to Korea and get the damn thing cloned? Why?? Christ on a bike, it's horrible when you lose a pet. I'm convinced one or other of the rodents is going to shuffle off this mortal coil with a squeak before long, but getting them cloned?? Why why why would you do that? Get a grip.

Unsympathetic? Yes. But it's an attitude like that which reassures me I'm not going to evolve into a scary woman who has seven cats and smells of wee.

Bad Parenting

I'm a bad parent. I offered some treats to the rodents this morning and they went after them like a pair of crack addicts... that's not good. I'm going to have to make them go cold turkey over the weekend. And that's just cruel, they're only little, it's not their fault they're addicted to fruit shaped biscuity stuff.

Simple Maths

Cocktails + champagne + beer + red wine = a really bad idea.

I'm sitting in the office with my shades on trying to type quietly, wondering why at almost 30 I still don't know any better....http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=b4QgxMqQzYk

What makes an Angry Badger not angry?

Just to prove that I'm not always grumpy, some things that make me happy, in no particular order...


The rodents. Sunflowers. My squidgey niece. Having a laugh with the girls. Cheese and baked bean toasties. Making biscuits. Eating biscuits. The smell of fresh washing. Watching the sunset from Waterloo Bridge. Watching the sunset from pretty much anywhere. Watching movies whilst huddled under my duvet on the sofa.

Feeling nauseous yet?

The peace lily in my kitchen has died. Ominous...? Ignorant Kiwi Guy has left food wrappers on the living room table, on the sofa and in the kitchen, and wonders why we have mice. I'm rising above it today, as a) I have more important things to think about, and b) It's not nice to mock stupid people.

Say what now??

What, it's good for you all of a sudden??
http://uk.news.yahoo.com/itn/20080714/tuk-nicotine-linked-to-memory-boost-dba1618.html

Is it me?

I hate my flatmate. Like, really *really* hate him. At this moment in time I can't think of enough nasty adjectives to describe him, and I'm only one post-it note away from becoming one of the mad twitchy people you read about in the Daily Mirror and Take A Break. Gahhh. As my friend Furious Piglet and I sat by the Serpentine yesterday, we discussed all the various miscreant eejits I've shared homes with. Back when I was at college, there were the 3 girls I shared a house with. We haven't stayed in touch, I can't be friends with people who spend that much money on glitter. When I first moved to London, there was the insane cousin I rented a room from (fair dos to me though, she really was a looper, she snuck into my room once and nicked the bottle of ouzo Furious P bought me back from Greece, then put the empty bottle back in its box after she'd guzzled it). When I moved to SW London, there was was a brief period where everything was good, in that I moved in with someone who was pretty much like me, we drank similar amounts of red wine, and shared a hatred for all things Richard Curtis. Then she bought her own place, and Brummie Girl moved in. BG used to stare at me as I watched TV, and ate so loudly I could hear her 3 rooms away. And now I have the ignorant Kiwi Guy there. It all started so well, too..... he was charming, good looking (not my type though, nowhere near Irish enough) and he baked cheesecakes in his spare time. And then it all started to go wrong: he was charming only when he was trying to charm the knickers off the laydeez, he baked the cheesecakes only when he was being charming, and his laydeez of choice were skinny and exotic pieces of fluff who were none too bright (a piece of cheesecake and you whip your pants off? Seriously??). It's getting worse too. When I go away and ask him to feed my darling little rodents, I come back and they're half dead from thirst and starvation. He leaves cereal bowls on the side for over a week. He's a slob. He's rude. And now he's trying to get into the aged pants of our upstairs neighbour. I mean, like, ewwwwwwwwwwwwwww. But as Furious P pointed out , I can't be so unlucky that nearly every person I've lived with has been a pain in the a*se, maybe it's me and my inordinately high standards that are the problem?

So on the urging of many friends, who are bored of listening to me whine about the ignorant nobhead, I'm looking for somewhere small for me and the rodents. It shall be my haven, where nothing shall glitter, no booze will disappear in mysterious circumstances, all food shall be consumed quietly, and no cheesecakes will be baked for seduction purposes. Hurrah.

Ow

My back hurts and I don't know why.

Nicotiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeee

I know all the reasons not to smoke. I know it's dangerous, unhealthy, smelly, expensive and it's not big or clever in any way. But today I reeeeeaaaalllllyyyyyyy want a smoke. It's no fun feeling like this, because you think that everything will be better if you just get a lungful of lovely toxic, tarry goodness. And that's bollocks, of course it won't make everything better, in fact it will make everything worse because on top of all your other stresses you then feel like a total bloody failure with all the willpower of an anaemic mosquito who's given up bloodsucking for lent. Rubbish.

Erm

Actually, that was a bit random for a first ever blog posting wasn't it? Sorry about that. So. Why Badger and why so Angry? Badger cos I think they're funny and Angry cos I spend many a minute of many a day being pissed off about something or other. Today I was mainly pissed off about being tired and having a crick neck. Also about dreaming about smoking when I gave up 3 weeks ago (gave up says she.... ok so I've had a couple of lapses). And why start a blog? Don't know about that really. Spent a lot of time whinging about people who write blogs. But haven't done anything creative for bloody ages and figured this was quite an easy way to flex my writing muscles again. Not really sure who's going to see this but hey, it's all good... At least if it's rubbish there won't be many people to tell me that.

Horror Scope

I'm such an idiot. I had one bad horoscope this morning and spent an hour trying to find a decent one to cancel it out. Note to self. Stop wasting time with horoscopes when you should be doing work.