Spring Cleaning

Can you have a Spring Clean in December? Probably not, but I'll give it a go. I have to move out of the House of Mold and Mildew for a month while some nice builder types make my home fit for human habitation once more, and need to move my stuff out as well. This means that I need to clear out 6 years of accumulated guff - old bills, all those books I read once and never want to go near again. All the clothes that I never wear (cos let's face it, Penelope Keith in The Good Life probably isn't the best style icon in the world to emulate) - it's all going binwards or to the Charity Shop. Good Karma for the Badger.

And so in the same vein, I think it's time to clear some of the metaphorical shit out of my life as well. Yummy Mummy has often commented that I have no qualms with cutting people out of my life and it's true - I'm far more likely to hang on to an old copy of Cosmo than I am to someone who's pissed me off royally. I don't cut people out without good reason - you've got to be a real dick to make me go to that extreme, but this morning I realised that there's a lot of crap to get out of my own mental little stable.

A Certain Person (naming no names but he's from Leeds and used to live in Amsterdam) found himself being summarily chopped out of every single contact list I have this morning. I've been 'mates' with this guy for about 3/4 years and it's always been a transient kind of friendship - go out every couple of months, shoot the breeze, have a laugh, no contact in between. I guess he's been a Friend with Benefits. He's a bit weird, not someone I'd take home to meet the parents, I've always thought he's maybe a little bit Asperger's: absolutely no internal filter and a tendency to engage mouth before brain, but we usually have a giggle. Although as I sat there last night listening to him listing my character flaws one by one for no apparent reason, I suddenly wondered what the hell I was doing there. I'm well aware of my faults, I don't need them spelled out to me. And certainly not by a hyperactive northern pillock with a receding hairline and dodgy taste in T-shirts.

So, like my Jackie Collins back catalogue and collection of gas bills circa 2005, he's in the bin. And I feel better for it already.

Best TV Show EVER?

Tab Twin #2 said yesterday, as we all sat enjoying bacon sandwiches in front of Murder, She Wrote, that he once saw an episode of MSW that was a crossover with Magnum, PI.

I don't think a cooler episode of anything, ever, on TV exists, ANYWHERE.

It's not you, it's me

I discovered this morning that somebody has 'unfollowed' me on Twitter. Not just me, I hasten to add, he was having a mass cull, but still, I'm sitting here being neurotic about it and feeling vaguely insulted. It's like I've been dumped.

It's no surprise that I'm single really. Maintaining your online persona is as much of a faff as dating, only with the added bonus of not having to shave your legs. Having to mask the real you to the online community, turning the volume down on your inner bitch, having to remember who can see your profiles and then not whine about those people. Of course, you could just make the decision to be a nice person but where's the fun in that? I actively enjoy hating 99% of the world's population. It's what endears me to, well, probably not the guy that blocked my tweets this morning.

His reason for culling so many of his followees (christ, when you write it down it sounds like a cult, doesn't it?) was that he had too many voices saying too many things, a common problem I think with so many forums for the world to spew its verbal diarrhoea... if it's that distracting though, turn your computer off. I have been tempted to sack off Facebook and Twitter, but I'm just paranoid that if I'm not on Facebook, I'll never get invited to anything ever again. Plus I'm so vain that I like to keep tabs of any photos of me that appear on there, untagging the really hideous ones.

I guess in the end I wasn't interesting enough for him. Stephen Fry threatened to quit Twitter last month because someone said he was boring. If The World's Cleverest Man is deemed boring, what chance is there for the rest of us mere mortals? I use Twitter to organise pub trips and to tell the chaps round the other side of the office that there are biscuits on my desk, not to broadcast my latest profound/sarcastic/hilarious aphorism. Oh well, plenty more fish in the sea I guess.

Rise of the Kneehigh Terrorists

"Grumpy", "A bit ranty", "No good without caffeine".

Just a few of the ways I have been described in the past. Another way:

"Yeah, I can't see her having children".

This bothers me less than you might imagine, given that I'm one of the least maternal people EVER. Me, Furious P and TabTwin#1 discuss our lack of maternal instincts on a regular basis. Usually over a glass or 3 of wine. In a restaurant. Without having to rush home for the babysitter. Ha.

Furious P is well-known for her intolerance towards Yummy Mummies who feed their children houmous ('HOOOMUSS!!'), and don't get her started on the Babyccino. TabTwin#1 says she's too clumsy and doesn't want to give up smoking yet. And me? Too selfish and far too intolerant of noisy things that poo innapropriately and keep irregular hours (which is probably why I don't like the Ignorant Kiwi if I'm honest).

I'd be a terrible mother. I'd forget to feed it or something, or leave it on the bus. When I was Squidgy Niece-sitting last week I let her watch Monsters Inc twice in a row cos it meant that she would sit down and eat her toast. That I'd put chocolate spread on. Pixar and Nutella? Bad Auntie Badger.

That's not to say I don't adore my friends' children. They're lovely, on the whole. But I REALLY have a problem with the kids that live near me, and their too-lenient parents. Little kneehigh terrorists weaving about the pavement on their scooters, with mummy squawking into her mobile at the au-pair about giving Buttercup and Orlando organic weetabix. SW15 is rapidly becoming the new Nappy Valley, rather than the Antipodean playground I moved into 6 years ago.

To all the Yummy Mummies and Daddies out there, over-populate the planet if you must, but please, keep your progeny away from me, preferably on a leash. And you probably shouldn't ask me to babysit either. Especially if you don't want me putting a cork up its arse so I won't have to change its nappy.

Not. Playing. Any. More.

I've had it with this shit. I've just spent my lunch hour researching more effective ways to combat mildew in my bathroom and comparing prices of different cleaning solutions online. Last night I had a conversation with the Ignorant Kiwi about taxes and dividends. Yesterday afternoon I threw out at least 50% of the stuff in my room. The day before that I was at a christening wearing an outfit smarter than I usually wear to work, and only got the giggles in church once. I bought lunch with me today because it was cheaper and healthier than anything I could get here. I even offered to look after Squidgey Niece for my sister, and I wasn't being ironic. In short, I've been behaving like some kind of grown up.


So, if anyone wants me tonight I'll be under the duvet watching Labyrinth on VHS with the rodent, eating a Sherbet Dibdab and washing it down with fizzy pop.

An Unkindness of Ravens

OK, the title of this post is a shameless plugging of my mate's band. I won't put a link cos I want you to read this not listen to that but when you've finished go and have a look. I'm not overly keen on them to be honest but what do I know? I was walking through Waterloo this morning and suddenly realised I was listening to Westlife.

Tenuously enough though, I was also thinking about unkindness this morning. More specifically, I was thinking about the dastardly duo that clean our office. Let's call them Beardy and Weirdy. Whilst it goes without saying that they probably have a fairly thankless job, they really don't do themselves any favours...I mean seriously, if your job is to clean, how difficult is it to maintain your own levels of personal hygiene??

Beardy likes to share his conspiracy theories with you. Even when you've got headphones on and are staring intently at your computer screen pretending that you've never seen a more interesting spreadsheet in your life. His theories are mad and delusional, and I don't think I've ever seen him happier than when Michael Jackson died. Ultimately though, he's harmless. Crazy, but harmless. It's Weirdy that you've got to watch out for.

She's like a silent assassin. Sneaking up behind you to empty your bin and wrestle the coffee mug you're still using from your hands, if you aren't talking on the phone then in her eyes you're fair game for a conversation. She'll look to your computer screen for inspiration first. Bank balance open? "Oh, you're skint yeah?". The Ryanair website - "Oh, you're going on holiday again yeah?", a banner ad for Durex - "Oh, you're gonna have sex yeah?". You get my drift.

But more fool you if you make eye contact with her and she can't comment on your web browsing proclivities. Cos that bitch can be VICIOUS. Me and Mrs Kiwi have been told on countless occasions that we look old and haggard, prompting her to bring us green teabags which will help our wrinkly eyes and presumably make us look less offensive to the world. People we share the office with get told they look like shit on an even more regular basis, but can't retaliate. Because this is the genius of Weirdy. She doesn't say these things to be cruel and unkind, she says them because she genuinely thinks she is doing you a favour by letting you know that you have eyebags, or visible eczema, or a second head, cos you can then do something about it. Brutal honesty with the emphasis on brutal.

I put people like her in the same bracket as Sunday Christians, vegans who think it's ok to eat cake and icecream, and my old bosses at Runbynumpties International: if I could be arsed I'd probably want to throw bricks at you. But, unlike L'oreal, you're just not worth it.

That's What It Was

It was a whinge about postal strikes. They're really annoying.

So Annoyed At Myself

I thought of something totally witty, insightful and interesting to write about earlier today when I was in the supermarket buying lunch.

But I've completely forgotten what it was.

Pissing Over The Altar of Slash

Boy, do I feel ashamed. I was happily tapping away at my desk yesterday when the strains of Guns n Roses floated over from the studio we share office space with. I love Guns n Roses. I used to have Sweet Child of Mine as my ringtone.

So why was my first thought "I wish they'd turn that down"? You should never turn down GnR.

As I commented to Bezzie Mate later on, I felt like I was pissing over the altar of Slash.

Very sad badger

One of the rodents died last night so I'm very sad today.


Night night Florence, you were brilliant.xxx

I'm grumpy because I hate you

This level of rage has got to be unhealthy, surely, but I really can't help it.

You would be grumpy too if in the course of 4 days:

- You had DESTROYED your favourite summer sandals
- Broken the lovely handbag you'd ONLY just fixed
- Had a number of bus journeys where the only reason for the wankstain driver's terrible driving was that HE WAS TRYING TO KILL YOU
- Had an ARMY of Polish painters invading the back garden at 8 in the morning trying to sneak a look at you as you got dressed
- Had about 3 hours sleep
- Smiled in greeting at a coworker and had him actively SCOWL at you

For f*ck's sake, this is making me write like I'm a Sun reporter. Find your happy place, Badger.

Oh don't be such a cult.

I said CULT.

Anyone who knows me (well, anyone who has been drinking with me) knows that my tablethumping rant topic of choice after a few shandies is The Cult of Celebrity. I climbed onto that particular highhorse about 10 years ago and I still don't want to get off. I love to wax lyrical about how 'Celebrity Culture' is ruining British Television, the film industry, the aspirations of our 10 year olds. It probably caused the hole in the ozone layer.

I try not to talk about current affairs too much on here, certainly not flash in the pan news scandals (Sachsgate anyone? Dull as f*ck), as they're bound to be old news in no time at all. Also, I'm a total narcissist and prefer to talk about myself.

Today's news topic of choice though, is poor old mad virginal 'Hairy Angel' - Susan Boyle. She's in The Priory apparently, driven to a breakdown by the pressure of being on Britain's Got Talent. Blogger after blogger is jumping on the "Poor Susan" bandwagon criticising the viewing public and our obsession with celebrity for building her up and then doing a classic British U-turn and cutting her down. Now don't get me wrong, I think the British public excels at a post-hype backlash, we hate to see anyone getting "too big for their boots" (well, actually we're seething with jealousy that it's not us being all popular and making money), so I'm not really sure why anyone's surprised that she's been turned on, and I guess I do feel a little sorry for her. However, there's one obvious (to me) point that no-one is making.

Susan Boyle put herself into Britain's Got Talent.

No-one forced her to go to the audition. She went along of her own accord. It's not even as if it was the first series of BGT and no-one knew what it was going to be like, we've had 2 years of this unmitigated shit to sit through. It's not even as if this is the first ever Reality TV show in the world, we know how they work (and if you don't, go and find a copy of 'Dead Famous' and 'Chart Throb' by Ben Elton straight away). She was presumably well aware of the Reality TV Machine when she tooled up and belted out the Les Mis song. So a little of this is her fault. True, no-one foresaw quite how extreme the attention on her was going to get, but the nation being surprised and outraged by it all is a tad rich, to say the least. Week after week we get our knickers in a twist about how cruel reality tv judges are - of course they are, it's what they're paid to do - but nobody forces the deluded, moronic contestants to take part, they know what they're letting themselves in for. It's an entertainment construct, about as close to 'reality' as my wedding to George Clooney this summer.

We're rapidly running out of culture in this country, as TV Stations fill their schedules with cheap entertainment and axe all their drama (which let's face it wasn't exactly highbrow in the first place), and we're turning into a bunch of rhesus monkeys who like to jump on whatever bandwagon of criticism is in vogue, be it Expense Scandals, Gordon Brown Is Probably A Bad Man, or Unibrowed Freaks From Scotland With A Good Set Of Pipes But A Fairly Tenuous Grip On Sanity. Our unhealthy obsession with The Cult of Celebrity is as poisonous as it ever was, but for god's sake do me a favour and don't turn the virgin into some kind of a martyred saint.

Just wondering

Is anyone else bored of Katie Price?

When is a Lolcat Like an Angry Badger?

When there are no pancakes in the immediate vicinity, that's when. Poor moggie.

If Only They Knew

Ahhh, just back in front of my computer after a lovely Bank Holiday weekend, spent mainly in the sunshine and mainly with a glass of wine in my hand. No bad thing at all.

Girly chats dominated much of the weekend, and I can honestly say I haven't laughed so much in an age. All those guys who think we just talk about shoes and shopping, more fool you is all I can say. Topics discussed over the course of the weekend include:

- Bra sizes and how to measure them properly (with 'handy' uplift demo)
- Willies: How Small is Too Small?
- The unfortunate man who frequently pooed himself in bed and how it *may* have contributed to the breakdown of his relationship
- Is sex a more efficient hangover cure than nurofen?
- Bedroom Acrobatics: How many positions make it go from a friendly wriggle to an olympic standard gymnastics routine?
- Why Welsh speaking men shouldn't speak Welsh at the point of orgasm

I love being a girl sometimes.

Broken, so broken

Saturday night was Eurovision night. My favourite night of the year and my favourite tradition - better than Christmas, better than Easter, I'd even go so far as to say it's better than Pancake Day.

The Streatham Jury excelled itself this year - I crawled into bed at 7am on Sunday morning, and on close examination of my camera last night some bastard had taken photos of me passed out on the sofa after the Eurowheel of Doom had delivered up its 89th shot of pernod. I am so broken.

But it's a good broken.

The Fears of a Rodent Breeding Hermitfreak

I've just read a story about a man in a nursing home being eaten alive by mice. It's the stuff my nightmares are made of. What if the rodents escaped from their tank and started on me one night?

Breaking the Habit of a Lifetime

I can be a selfish cow at times.

Specifically, when it comes to restaurants. I like to have a little list of 'best-kept secrets', where you can wow people with your spectacular taste. I thought if I told lots of people about my little finds, they'd become ridiculously busy and henceforth would become ridiculously rubbish.

Well I shot myself in the foot there, didn't I? Two of my teeny gems have closed down in the past 6 months, because no-one was going to them. Nice work, badger.

So, I'm going to break the habit of a lifetime. Last night, the Dirty Smoking Drinking Western Girls recreated their Moroccan adventure here, and very fine it was too. Better than fine, actually. I floated out of there on a cloud made mainly of mint tea and happiness.

Form an orderly queue, everyone, cos if it closes down I'm holding you responsible.

Something I May Never Understand About Myself

Why do I find the name Norman quite so amusing??

The Devil!

As Ignorant Kiwi keeps telling me, advertising is the worst industry in the world to work in, as it's run by Satan himself and therefore I must be one of Satan's little minions. Honestly, give a boy a job at Fresh and Wild and he thinks he's next in line for a sainthood.

Anyway, I only work on the periphery of advertising, and I agree that it's a fairly horrible industry to be in, largely populated by some self important twats who really need to go away and pull their heads out of their sphincters. Also, some of the commercials they produce are pure toilet - Squidgey Niece regularly produces more creative endeavours from her nappy.

So it's always a nice surprise when you see something like this. Original, uplifting, and it almost makes me hate Visa less than usual.

Oh no, it's happening

When I Was 21...
My favourite movie was "Dr Strangelove" - I'd just finished a film studies degree and had the highest of the brows when it came to the cinema.
The music in my CD player was Coldplay, the youngest and funkiest new band around.
If I was going to drink wine, it was the cheapest one I could find in Asda. Otherwise it was lager all the way. I could drink a skinful and still bounce out of bed the next morning ready for work.

Last night...
I asked the Kiwi if I could turn over from what he was watching, to "Shallow Hal" on Channel 5.
I switched my iPod on and The Corrs came blasting back at me.
I spent £15 on a bottle of wine, drank half of it, and woke up with a hangover.

I am OLD

Thought of the Day.

"How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is/To have a thankless child!" King Lear.

Yeah, Shakespeare, whatever.

More on the Pancake Theme.

There was a man in Germany who ate so many pancakes that he exploded. True story. Hasn't put me off pancakes though.

Ar$e Biscuits

Just to share my general dissatisfaction with the world, take this as how I will answer any and all questions today:




RANT RANT RANT RANT RANT

Raindrops on roses....

I am very upset that I didn't have any pancakes on Pancake Day. As I pointed out to Gay Best Friend, that's probably the first time in 30 years that I've not had pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. I'm not religious at all, but I love pancakes. They're definitely in my Top 20 Favourite Things.

Everyone should have Top 20 Favourite Things List. I actually have a Top 100 Favourite Things list, but it's a little out of date. Still, it's good for the soul to compile a list of things that make you smile, laugh or go AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

(Just don't show it to other people, cos there's nothing worse than having to justify why you have at Number 39 "The training montage in Rocky 4").

All fun and games until someone loses an eye

I have a real phobia of eyeballs. They're ICKY. Getting my eyes tested is a big trauma, and don't even get me started on contact lenses. They're the devil's own work.

So going to see King Lear the other night, with its big, graphic "duke getting his eyes carved out" scene (which I'd forgotten about) possibly wasn't the best idea...oops. Fantastic show though, absolutely blinding. (Did you see what I did there?).

And speaking of great tragedies... It's Valentine's Day tomorrow. Every year, whilst pretending not to give a shit, I remain hopeful that there'll be a card waiting on the mat for me, and every year... de nada. Perhaps *this* will be the year that someone sends me a card, a bunch of flowers, anything.... but to be honest I don't think it will be. Most of the men I know see it as a sign of affection when they don't stick your head under the duvet after they've farted.

This year I've been invited to a Singles party in East London. Normally I would shudder at the thought of a) Going to a Singles Party in the first place and b) venturing out of the safety of SW15. But this is no ordinary party, it's being held by Gay Best Friend and his hubby, so not only will it be fabulous, I do actually hold out some hope of there being some halfway decent men there. Hurrah and huzzah and oh god I hope I don't get stuck talking to the weird bloke in the kitchen.

According to my horoscope

I am going to argue with everyone I've ever met today.





Just so you all know.

Dirty dirty dirty Kiwis

I walked into the flat last night, exhausted from a day at the coal face, and entered the living room, looking forward to collapsing on the sofa and staring blankly at the wall for a bit.

The Ignorant Kiwi was playing Call of Duty online on the big TV, whilst simultaneously watching some rather vigorous porn on his laptop.

I almost feel I should applaud the fact that he actually *does* know how to multitask.

Morning has broken (me)

So I've got myself into a lovely little morning routine that really is making the whole being awake at a stupid hour thing a lot easier. It mainly involves getting out of bed and eating breakfast, which I know is what most people generally manage to do without making a whole big song and dance about, but let's not lose sight of the fact that up until last week, my alarm going off was my signal to pull the pillow over my head and burrow deeper into my duvet.

This morning I decided to have a little Breakfast Television with my cereal, and duly popped BBC Breakfast on. There on the news was Boris Johnson opposing the new Heathrow runway. Now, say what you like about Boris the Bumbling Buffoon, but the video footage they had was of him on a panel with Roy Puddifoot and Zach Goldsmith... Puddifoot looks like a gay serial killer from the 1980s, and to be honest, the entire Goldsmith family look like they're direct descendants of Seabiscuit the Horse. I know who I'd rather have as my mayor.

So... I switched onto GMTV, where I was greeted with the hideous sight of Mr Motivator in his aerobics gear. For god's sake man, give it up. I don't want to see your manboobs jiggling up and down as you try to get the nation's housewives fit. Buy a sports bra and GO AWAY.

Switching back to the Beeb I tried to work out if the female presenter was fat or pregnant... she's ever so old if she is in the family way. Then I berated myself for reducing the serious stories of the morning down to my Heat-style, petty observations.

The item that did catch my interest was Jay Rayner plugging his Channel 4 documentary, exploring the quality of supermarket 'basic-brand' food and drink. He's upset that their sausages are made up less of meat, more of crap that will make you ill, steal all your money and shop you to the Inland Revenue for tax evasion. Which is interesting.

I've just finished reading Rayner's book "The Man Who Ate The World", in which he spends THOUSANDS OF POUNDS travelling the world, dining at high-end restaurants, in search of the perfect meal. In one section, he expresses surprise at the notion that people may save up for months on end to have a meal in a restaurant like Petrus. I've eaten at Petrus, it was bloody gorgeous. But at £260, it was the most expensive lunch I have ever eaten, or am likely to eat, and I still experience the occasional shudder of guilt at the sheer decadence of it, despite only having to pay a small proportion of the bill. So I find it odd that Rayner would make a programme denouncing a pack of 99p sausages... Who is he making it for? For the people who buy them? Or for middle class suburbanites, to assuage their middle class guilt and make them feel better about shopping on Ocado?

Discuss.

Ahhhhh

I think this may be the best music video of all time. But then, I generally prefer animals to humans anyway.

Hibernation is a great idea

I'm all for climbing into bed in mid December and not getting out till March. But apparently I'm not allowed to. So Happy New Year everyone!!

New Year's resolutions have to be amongst the most soul destroying things in the world and yet we all make them. Here are mine. I will inevitably fail at most of them.

1. Smoking blah blah blah. This is still ongoing from last year. Trying to work out how to not have that sneaky fag at the bus stop before work and be able to get on the train without killing anyone. It's time to dig out the old inhalator. Cos there's nothing humiliating about looking like you're sucking on a tampon. Really.

2. Booze. Every year, every SINGLE YEAR, I say I'm going to give up drinking in January, for the whole month. This is absolute bullshit. It could not be more bullshit if it rose up from the middle of a cowpat to declare itself as bullshit. Within a week, sometimes less, I am in the pub being egged on by one of the Tab Twins and telling myself that if it's just shandy it doesn't count. This year I have set my sights to a more reasonable level and just decided not to put that bottle of wine in my basket when I go to the supermarket. Cos it's clearly better to go to the pub and binge drink every night.

3. Diet/ Exercise. That old chestnut... OK, it's January, it's -5 outside and it's dark at 6.30am. None of which is conducive to making me want to go to the gym of a morning and actually get rid of the really rather warming extra layer of flab currently residing on my hips and arse. So all I've done is cut out biscuits, cakes, chocolate, crisps, takeaways, dairy and potatoes. You know, the fun stuff.

4. Get cultured # 1. There's only so many episodes of "Friends" a girl can watch. And as I shamefully demonstrated on NYE, I passed that number many, many, MANY episodes ago. So I'm going to switch off E4 and put on Radio 4. And read books that aren't chicklit. Just as soon as I've finished watching "The Most Annoying Celeb of 2008" on BBC3. FAIL.

5. Get cultured #2. Galleries and Exhibitions. Tons of 'em in London, I should go to more. I started off really well with this one, I went to the Liebovitz exhibition with Furious P at the Portrait Gallery. And nearly brained the shortsighted twonks who stood with their noses pressed up to the exhibits so no-one else could see them, but we don't talk about that. The photos were FAB.

6. Get (un)cluttered, period. This will be the year that I get rid of all the old tat currently residing in my flat. Clothes I don't wear, books I don't read (or have read once, thrown across the room in disgust at how rubbish it was and then never picked up again, except to shove it into my bookcase at a funny angle) and I really should think about getting rid of all those VHS tapes that I have no means of watching... 2009 is the year I stop being a hoarder. Or at least, it's the year that I put everything I don't want in a box to take to the charity shop and then leave in the corner of my room for 8 months.

Why do we do it to ourselves? Is it so we can be even more miserable and self loathing in the coldest months of the year, adding "Total failure at keeping resolutions" to Skint and Overweight in the list of our shortcomings? How terribly British.

On a lighter note, 2 things this morning have brightened my day. Someone very kind has sent me a mug featuring a Rodent with a Lightsabre, and another person has just used the word "frig" in an email, which I haven't heard for about 10 years. Brilliant.