I likes a good list, I do.
Someone asked me today what my top 10 books are and the thought kept me occupied all way from Soho to SW15... I mean obviously the highbrow choices would have to go in there - I'm a sucker for a bit of George Orwell or John Steinbeck... but does anyone ever admit to their trashy, guilty pleasure favourites?
I don't know if I should actually admit to loving Marian Keyes, like, properly loving her. Everytime I finish one of her novels I want to hug everyone a lot, and I talk in an irish accent for at least a day afterwards. And before you say anything, no, I'm not proud of that fact.
Top 10 books at a push I guess would have to be, in no particular order: Remains of the Day (Kazuo Ishiguro), Animal Farm (Orwell), Of Mice and Men (Steinbeck), Firestarter (Stephen King), The Amber Spyglass (Philip Pullman); E (Matt Beaumont), Tim (Colleen McCollough), The Time Traveller's Wife (Audrey Niffenegger... ridiculous name), Kiss of The Spiderwoman (Manuel Puig), Dracula (Bram Stoker).
A good mix in there I guess but I always feel I should include more 'classics'. I can't help it though, high brow bores me rigid - when I tried to read 'A Single Man' by Christopher Isherwood it took me 20 minutes to read 2 pages, whereas I sped through the latest Lisa Jewell, all 372 pages of it, in less than 24 hours. The books listed above, though, I can reread at any time and still love them.
It's even harder to decide on my favourite music or movies... I went through Spotify (or Spotty Thigh as someone I know used to call it) today to try and streamline my favourite tracks. Too difficult. Just listening to it now I've got the Foo Fighters on, and it's been followed by The Four Tops. They're being followed by Fuzzbox. I don't think I could honestly give you a definitive Top 10 Favouritest Ever Songs list... although I suspect U2, Sam Cooke and The Divine Comedy would feature heavily.
Movies I change my mind on every week. There are some constants though - I don't think I'll ever get tired of Rocky 4, and I'll eat the Rodents before I take In and Out off the list. And of course I've got my selection of film-studiesesque faves... mainly Stanley Kubrick classics and the odd bit of black n white brilliance. I'll probably never get rid of Superman either... or Empire Records... Or Practical Magic... you see what I mean? I like too many to definitely decide on my favourites.
In any case, it's good to keep changing your mind about what you like or don't like. You can't decide on your Top 10 of anything when you're 16 and never change a thing on that list - if that was the case my favourite movie would either be Reservoir Dogs or The Lion King, and my number one favourite song ever would be THIS.
For shame!
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
Thursday, 23 June 2011
I know, I know...
...I'm weird.
Like any person, I have odd little quirks and bugbears (and funnily enough, hating people who use the word bugbears is one of them): if I actually wrote them all down on paper I'd probably have a list as tall as me in heels.
The biggest one, however, is that I can't bear to hear people eat, not even myself, if I'm honest. It's other peoples noise that really makes me twitchy though. This morning, for instance: there's a lady in our office who is perfectly lovely - generous, friendly, kind to animals, and I like her enormously. BUT- every morning she sits and chows down on a breakfast baguette, right behind me. At lunchtime she has a salad, or soup. She's not an overtly noisy eater, she doesn't slurp her soup or chomp crisps with her mouth open, but I can hear her.... this slow, wet, masticating sound that makes me want to rip my ears off.
I've come across worse eaters but even thinking about them is making me cringe. I mean, I'm sitting here listening to Whigfield right now cos I was desperate to have another sound, any sound, in my ears.
I'm a freak.
Like any person, I have odd little quirks and bugbears (and funnily enough, hating people who use the word bugbears is one of them): if I actually wrote them all down on paper I'd probably have a list as tall as me in heels.
The biggest one, however, is that I can't bear to hear people eat, not even myself, if I'm honest. It's other peoples noise that really makes me twitchy though. This morning, for instance: there's a lady in our office who is perfectly lovely - generous, friendly, kind to animals, and I like her enormously. BUT- every morning she sits and chows down on a breakfast baguette, right behind me. At lunchtime she has a salad, or soup. She's not an overtly noisy eater, she doesn't slurp her soup or chomp crisps with her mouth open, but I can hear her.... this slow, wet, masticating sound that makes me want to rip my ears off.
I've come across worse eaters but even thinking about them is making me cringe. I mean, I'm sitting here listening to Whigfield right now cos I was desperate to have another sound, any sound, in my ears.
I'm a freak.
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
Sometimes It Makes Me Very Happy
When I'm sat with my headphones on, that no one knows I'm listening to Aerosmith.
We've just moved offices, and on the whole the people here are lovely, but there are a couple of guys here who work in recruitment. Oh my god, I thought *I* was arrogant with an overinflated sense of self importance... Was I that much of a twat when I was 25 or does it take a very special breed of wanker?
RecruitmentWankerNumberOne is currently trying to join a members club. It's got a well-known name but it's nowhere near as exclusive as it used to be. For him, getting in will be the Holy Grail and he's jumping through hoops trying to get through the door.... Maybe he thinks Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant actually *live* there and membership will make them Proper Best Friends Forever...? Anyway, the other day he's bragging to RecruitmentWankerNumberTwo about all the questions he's having to answer but how cool it's going to be when he's a member. I suggested that another club around the corner (equally awesome and with a much nicer (read: bigger) roof terrace) was easier to join: RecruitmentWankerNumberOne turns to me, curls his lips as though I'm something he's just wiped off his shoe, and sneers 'Maybe there's a reason for that, yeah?'.
Prick.
I'm still trying to fit in with everyone here and make them like me so the only comment I could make was 'Well, it was nice enough sitting up on the terrace with (Incredibly Famous Person Who Will Remain Nameless) sipping margaritas', not the 'You're a facetious little prick aren't you, RecruitmentWankerNumberOne?' I wanted to throw at him. I could see he was visibly trying not to look impressed about the Incredibly Famous Person.
Seriously, what a prick.
I know I'm not cool. I love terrible music and I'm not interested in going to Boujis, and I don't give a shit whether my trainers are Converse or Primark. I don't care that I'm not cool. A pair of jeans are just as good from New Look as they are by 7 For All Mankind. I do however care about the fact that this jumped up little prat thinks he can sneer at me and make me feel bad about myself.
He'll get his just desserts, oh yes.
We've just moved offices, and on the whole the people here are lovely, but there are a couple of guys here who work in recruitment. Oh my god, I thought *I* was arrogant with an overinflated sense of self importance... Was I that much of a twat when I was 25 or does it take a very special breed of wanker?
RecruitmentWankerNumberOne is currently trying to join a members club. It's got a well-known name but it's nowhere near as exclusive as it used to be. For him, getting in will be the Holy Grail and he's jumping through hoops trying to get through the door.... Maybe he thinks Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant actually *live* there and membership will make them Proper Best Friends Forever...? Anyway, the other day he's bragging to RecruitmentWankerNumberTwo about all the questions he's having to answer but how cool it's going to be when he's a member. I suggested that another club around the corner (equally awesome and with a much nicer (read: bigger) roof terrace) was easier to join: RecruitmentWankerNumberOne turns to me, curls his lips as though I'm something he's just wiped off his shoe, and sneers 'Maybe there's a reason for that, yeah?'.
Prick.
I'm still trying to fit in with everyone here and make them like me so the only comment I could make was 'Well, it was nice enough sitting up on the terrace with (Incredibly Famous Person Who Will Remain Nameless) sipping margaritas', not the 'You're a facetious little prick aren't you, RecruitmentWankerNumberOne?' I wanted to throw at him. I could see he was visibly trying not to look impressed about the Incredibly Famous Person.
Seriously, what a prick.
I know I'm not cool. I love terrible music and I'm not interested in going to Boujis, and I don't give a shit whether my trainers are Converse or Primark. I don't care that I'm not cool. A pair of jeans are just as good from New Look as they are by 7 For All Mankind. I do however care about the fact that this jumped up little prat thinks he can sneer at me and make me feel bad about myself.
He'll get his just desserts, oh yes.
Friday, 17 December 2010
I Don't Know What's Sadder...
That someone felt she needed to email me to tell me she'd seen this and thought of me, or me emailing her back to tell her I already have one.
Thursday, 16 December 2010
Lawks
It's nearly Christmas and this is only my 4th post for 2010: I *am* a bad blogger.I didn't intend for this to happen: it may be a sure sign of getting older that I'm saying this but this year has FLOWN by. Why, it feels like only last week I was packing up the Flat of Mould, whining about the Ignorant Kiwi's sexbangs and spoiling Mabel the Gerbil with treats in a way that only the single and childless can with their pets.
Fast forward (almost) 12 months and IK is no more than a distant, distasteful memory, Mabel's joined Florence in the great big gerbil tank in the sky, and the Flat of Mould is, well, still mouldy.
But it's not all doom and gloom: in their place we have Saffa Sid, who cleans the bathroom, has made the back garden into a thing of astroturfed wonder, and closes the door when his girlfriend's over, and Fat and Little - the Gingerists - tiny little ginger entertaining bundles of silliness.
2010's been an interesting year, it's had its ups and downs. I may prepare a review of the year (don't count on it though) but it'll be a largely self indulgent (what? me? surely not) list of toot that'll be of no interest to anyone but me and possibly my sister. However the fact that it'll inevitably turn into a rant by the end may be amusing.
*goes off to ponder*
Fast forward (almost) 12 months and IK is no more than a distant, distasteful memory, Mabel's joined Florence in the great big gerbil tank in the sky, and the Flat of Mould is, well, still mouldy.
But it's not all doom and gloom: in their place we have Saffa Sid, who cleans the bathroom, has made the back garden into a thing of astroturfed wonder, and closes the door when his girlfriend's over, and Fat and Little - the Gingerists - tiny little ginger entertaining bundles of silliness.
2010's been an interesting year, it's had its ups and downs. I may prepare a review of the year (don't count on it though) but it'll be a largely self indulgent (what? me? surely not) list of toot that'll be of no interest to anyone but me and possibly my sister. However the fact that it'll inevitably turn into a rant by the end may be amusing.
*goes off to ponder*
Monday, 1 February 2010
Commitment!
I've just received a catalogue this morning from our stationary suppliers, informing me that it's our 2 year anniversary, as it's been 2 years since I first place an order with them.
This may well the longest relationship I've ever had.
This may well the longest relationship I've ever had.
Monday, 11 January 2010
Time for Bed, said Zebedee
I'll never learn.
Why, why, WHY do I still not know that if I have a drink on a Sunday, I am going to feel minging on a Monday?
It's 8.20pm and I'm about 10 minutes away from going to bed. Squidgey Niece stays up later than me and she's TWO YEARS OLD. Rock and roll, Badger, rock and roll.
Why, why, WHY do I still not know that if I have a drink on a Sunday, I am going to feel minging on a Monday?
It's 8.20pm and I'm about 10 minutes away from going to bed. Squidgey Niece stays up later than me and she's TWO YEARS OLD. Rock and roll, Badger, rock and roll.
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
New Year, New Badger?
I feel my first post of 2010 should herald the fact that as of 5 days ago, the Ignorant Kiwi was no more. He has taken his PS3, his morning sexbangs and his piles of unwashed dishes, and f**ked off to make someone else's life a waking nightmare. Woo, and indeed, Yay.
And I can tell our friendship is going to last, I really can. I walked passed him at London Bridge station yesterday morning and we completely ignored each other.
So. New Year, New Badger. Or rather, New Year, Slightly Modified Badger. I've decided to stop beating myself up over failed resolutions this year (mainly due to the fact that because I needed to leave the Flat of Mould for a month and find temporary accommodation, I have broken, trampled on and let the rodent poo over what was meant to be last years Lifechanging Resolve). I'm going to enjoy 2010, and to totally bastardize a quote from John Hurt, I'm not going to have Guilty Pleasures, I'm going to enjoy my sins.
And I can tell our friendship is going to last, I really can. I walked passed him at London Bridge station yesterday morning and we completely ignored each other.
So. New Year, New Badger. Or rather, New Year, Slightly Modified Badger. I've decided to stop beating myself up over failed resolutions this year (mainly due to the fact that because I needed to leave the Flat of Mould for a month and find temporary accommodation, I have broken, trampled on and let the rodent poo over what was meant to be last years Lifechanging Resolve). I'm going to enjoy 2010, and to totally bastardize a quote from John Hurt, I'm not going to have Guilty Pleasures, I'm going to enjoy my sins.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
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.
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.
Monday, 23 November 2009
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.
I don't think a cooler episode of anything, ever, on TV exists, ANYWHERE.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
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.
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.
Monday, 12 October 2009
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.
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.
Monday, 5 October 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Monday, 14 September 2009
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.
But I've completely forgotten what it was.
Friday, 31 July 2009
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.
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.
Friday, 3 July 2009
Very sad badger
One of the rodents died last night so I'm very sad today.
Night night Florence, you were brilliant.xxx
Night night Florence, you were brilliant.xxx
Thursday, 25 June 2009
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.
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.
Monday, 1 June 2009
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.
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.
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