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?