Okay, okay, so I know we keep going on about this, but our property managers really are SHIT. They sent us a letter yesterday because I forgot to pay my rent.
'Please call us within 24 hours to let us know how you plan on sorting this out.'
Huh. They didn't call us back within 24 hours after our complaints about the many issues with our house, oh no.
Thing is, I don't actually think that thier maintenance department exists. Maggie did a fantastic impression of what their offices must be like:
"Hello, Roberts. Please press one if you'd like to speak to a barbie doll/girl who's had a lobotomy. Press two if you'd like to be put through to George, although he's usually never there. Oh, wait, he died last week. He's still taking calls, though. Some people say he's even more efficient than usual. Oh, can I just point out that actually, our offices don't exist. So press three if you'd like to be put through to the abyss. Thanks, goodbye.
I HATE THEM.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Taaroff.... an article by Martin
I’ll taroff your mum for five camels
I have a housemate, bless her soul, who insists that she is of Persian ethnicity, which, unless she was born over a hundred years ago, would make her Iranian. Apparently, there’s a cultural reason why she does not claim to be from the land of Iran, maybe something to do with the corrupt totalitarian government, but whatever the reason, ‘Persian’ undeniably sounds a little more exotic.
Exotic? These people are more than just a little exotic. Cow tongue is an appetising dish, they always have endless supplies of figs, dates and pistachios, and grandma will insist you eat a lot of these said items every time you visit her.
But the cream of the Persian Culture has to be the bizarre practice of ‘tarof’, whereby you might complement one's possessions by saying "Ooooh, I really like your painting/rug/priceless ming vase", to which one would immediately reply "Take it, it's yours." (much like the tax credits advert). The tarof has begun.
A word of advice if travelling to Iran or visiting a Persian friend: try not to get involved. It will last forever and you will inescapably offend the individual you are addressing – either way you can’t win. This is how it works:
After the item you so politely admired is offered to you, the conversation will then alternate between timid refusal from the admirer, to stubborn insistence from the owner, of said priceless ming vase. This, so I've been told, can go on for hours. What a sensible way to pass the time. My housemate once taroffed (I don’t think the word can be used in that context, but hey let’s Westernise it! Yeah, destroy culture!) with her grandma over food. Last Christmas, on the weekly visit, she made the mistake of innocently complementing grandma’s beautiful spread of authentic Persian cuisine. Grandma, as usual, offered her the food. As she had just wolfed down an entire four-bird roast, she was in no mood for a spot of dol-meh (spiced meat in vine leaves), so turned down the offer. Unfortunately grandma was in a mood for a bit of a tarof. Well a three-hour tarof. By the end of it, grandma was practically forcing figs dates and pistachios into my housemates mouth. At this time, the poor girl gave in and stuffed down a few fatty vine leaves just to make grandma happy, after which grandma told her she should go on a diet. And all she went round for was to pick up her weekly fifty quid.
So even real authentic Persians aren’t so hot with the whole tarof business. But me, well I'm certainly no expert. Upon arrival to my housemate's family residence, I immediately picked up on a CD that I wanted for ages.
ME: "Wow I love this CD, I've been looking for it for ages."
HOUSEMATE’S MUM: "Take it, it's yours."
ME: "Are you serious?"
HOUSEMATE’S MUM: "Yes, take it, I insist."
ME: "No, I couldn't possibly...
HOUSEMATE’S MUM: "Really, you must take it."
ME: "Alright then."
All hell breaks loose. Apparently you never take a taroffed item. It's fucking rude. Yeah? Well don't bloody INSIST on me having it then. I'm hatching a plan to finance my next car purchase. I can just imagine the conversation:
ME: "Ooooh Shallah Jun I just love your new Bentley."
SHALLAH: [through gritted teeth] "Take it, it's yours."
ME: "Thanks! Seeya!"
Now that’s how to tarof the English way. By being a twat.
Long live Persia.
I have a housemate, bless her soul, who insists that she is of Persian ethnicity, which, unless she was born over a hundred years ago, would make her Iranian. Apparently, there’s a cultural reason why she does not claim to be from the land of Iran, maybe something to do with the corrupt totalitarian government, but whatever the reason, ‘Persian’ undeniably sounds a little more exotic.
Exotic? These people are more than just a little exotic. Cow tongue is an appetising dish, they always have endless supplies of figs, dates and pistachios, and grandma will insist you eat a lot of these said items every time you visit her.
But the cream of the Persian Culture has to be the bizarre practice of ‘tarof’, whereby you might complement one's possessions by saying "Ooooh, I really like your painting/rug/priceless ming vase", to which one would immediately reply "Take it, it's yours." (much like the tax credits advert). The tarof has begun.
A word of advice if travelling to Iran or visiting a Persian friend: try not to get involved. It will last forever and you will inescapably offend the individual you are addressing – either way you can’t win. This is how it works:
After the item you so politely admired is offered to you, the conversation will then alternate between timid refusal from the admirer, to stubborn insistence from the owner, of said priceless ming vase. This, so I've been told, can go on for hours. What a sensible way to pass the time. My housemate once taroffed (I don’t think the word can be used in that context, but hey let’s Westernise it! Yeah, destroy culture!) with her grandma over food. Last Christmas, on the weekly visit, she made the mistake of innocently complementing grandma’s beautiful spread of authentic Persian cuisine. Grandma, as usual, offered her the food. As she had just wolfed down an entire four-bird roast, she was in no mood for a spot of dol-meh (spiced meat in vine leaves), so turned down the offer. Unfortunately grandma was in a mood for a bit of a tarof. Well a three-hour tarof. By the end of it, grandma was practically forcing figs dates and pistachios into my housemates mouth. At this time, the poor girl gave in and stuffed down a few fatty vine leaves just to make grandma happy, after which grandma told her she should go on a diet. And all she went round for was to pick up her weekly fifty quid.
So even real authentic Persians aren’t so hot with the whole tarof business. But me, well I'm certainly no expert. Upon arrival to my housemate's family residence, I immediately picked up on a CD that I wanted for ages.
ME: "Wow I love this CD, I've been looking for it for ages."
HOUSEMATE’S MUM: "Take it, it's yours."
ME: "Are you serious?"
HOUSEMATE’S MUM: "Yes, take it, I insist."
ME: "No, I couldn't possibly...
HOUSEMATE’S MUM: "Really, you must take it."
ME: "Alright then."
All hell breaks loose. Apparently you never take a taroffed item. It's fucking rude. Yeah? Well don't bloody INSIST on me having it then. I'm hatching a plan to finance my next car purchase. I can just imagine the conversation:
ME: "Ooooh Shallah Jun I just love your new Bentley."
SHALLAH: [through gritted teeth] "Take it, it's yours."
ME: "Thanks! Seeya!"
Now that’s how to tarof the English way. By being a twat.
Long live Persia.
Technological Wizardry - not always a good thing
The following entry is by friends of mine who write a column for my magazine... you saw it here first!
Is it Me? Or is Everything Just Shit?
If I wanted to be hassled electronically I would have driven to a farm and paid a farmer a fiver to give me a leg up so I could take a ride on his electric fence. But I don’t need to do that do I? No. I just have to exist in this wonderfully advanced modern world of technological wizardry. Call me an old grunter but what happened to good old-fashioned face to face conversation?
Don’t even get me started on becoming a Facebook member. After taking a considerable amount of time selecting a photo of myself that showed my best side, ensuring an agreeable representation of me on my profile, I was truly over the moon to see that ‘friends’ of mine (yes real ‘friends’ not just Facebook ‘friends’) had been kind enough to utilise their time uploading photos of me in a shit faced mess and proceed to rape my profile with them.
And another thing - stalkers must think all their Christmases have come at once. I changed my relationship status to single the other day and then logged on.
“Rosie is now single” it reported, with an icon of a broken heart at the end. Thanks, Facebook. I’m glad you feel the need to print your ‘cute’ little heart icon and announce to the rest of the world through words AND pictures (for the benefit of those who are too retarded to read) about my heartbreak. Seeing as it’s so necessary to print my most intimate details, why not just display my medical conditions? “Rosie has got a yeast infection.” I could even create myself a nice little group “Yeast infection sufferers” where we could all talk openly about the treatments that worked best for us.
Oh and whilst your there, Facebook, my gran’s dead. Here’s a suggestion, why don’t you design an icon for it? I’d say a dinky little gravestone with ‘RIP’ in small letters would be most appropriate to kick me while I’m down. On the other hand, there is the wonderful mixed up world of MySpace, where if you don’t have any other ‘friends’ you can always count on Rupert Murdoch’s bum chum Tom who will always be there if you need him. Did I mention Tommy boy made $580 million by selling MySpace? With that wedge in his bank he can afford to buy all his ‘friends’ a drink – make mine a Bloody Mary and don’t go scrimping on the vodka or I wont be your friend no more, you tight bastard.
And now, thanks Tom, I can’t even go down the pub without popping a Valium or two beforehand, because I can’t remember the last time I spoke to someone to their actual face. What do you propose I do when they say something “funny”? I can’t type ‘lol’ and sit there with an emotionless brain-dead open-mouthed glare like usual, so what do you suggest I actually do...laugh? What happens when a ‘rotfl’ moment happens? My fucking dry cleaning bill is gonna go through the roof. Sweet mother of pearl Tom, why did you not think of this?
It’s this whole ‘communications revolution’ that’s making me rile. Supposedly, with all this new technology, we have the power to communicate more efficiently, but what really happens is that we lock ourselves away in a dark room and avoid human contact like the plague. Mobile phones – wherever you hide, they will find you. When having a conversation with someone you are actually with, we always feel obliged to answer a phone if it’s ringing. To the person standing next to you, you might as well be saying “I’m quite frankly bored of looking at your face, I’d much rather speak to someone who isn’t here.”
And a most strange phenomenon happens when people use mobile phones in public. Users momentarily become convinced that no one can hear what they are saying. I was recently on a National Express bus journey and there was someone in front of me talking about her visit to the STI clinic. By the end of the journey, everyone knew that she had chlamydia and that ‘Mish’ was ‘gonna get a beatings’ because of it.
She was on that thing for over two hours - hopefully long enough for the microwaves to cook her temporal lobes and that important part of the brain that controls her breathing.
Yes, we all love technology, but I’ve been getting increasingly grouchy every time a new one surfaces, and apparently it might not just boil down to me being a cynical twat. Scientists deduce that all the countless gadgets around your home emit an electronic, and therefore magnetic, field; which contributes to an environmental pollution known as electronic smog. This smog can cause depression, miscarriages and, guess what, cancer. Not good news eh? But to be fair, everything causes cancer. Even bananas.
Is it Me? Or is Everything Just Shit?
If I wanted to be hassled electronically I would have driven to a farm and paid a farmer a fiver to give me a leg up so I could take a ride on his electric fence. But I don’t need to do that do I? No. I just have to exist in this wonderfully advanced modern world of technological wizardry. Call me an old grunter but what happened to good old-fashioned face to face conversation?
Don’t even get me started on becoming a Facebook member. After taking a considerable amount of time selecting a photo of myself that showed my best side, ensuring an agreeable representation of me on my profile, I was truly over the moon to see that ‘friends’ of mine (yes real ‘friends’ not just Facebook ‘friends’) had been kind enough to utilise their time uploading photos of me in a shit faced mess and proceed to rape my profile with them.
And another thing - stalkers must think all their Christmases have come at once. I changed my relationship status to single the other day and then logged on.
“Rosie is now single” it reported, with an icon of a broken heart at the end. Thanks, Facebook. I’m glad you feel the need to print your ‘cute’ little heart icon and announce to the rest of the world through words AND pictures (for the benefit of those who are too retarded to read) about my heartbreak. Seeing as it’s so necessary to print my most intimate details, why not just display my medical conditions? “Rosie has got a yeast infection.” I could even create myself a nice little group “Yeast infection sufferers” where we could all talk openly about the treatments that worked best for us.
Oh and whilst your there, Facebook, my gran’s dead. Here’s a suggestion, why don’t you design an icon for it? I’d say a dinky little gravestone with ‘RIP’ in small letters would be most appropriate to kick me while I’m down. On the other hand, there is the wonderful mixed up world of MySpace, where if you don’t have any other ‘friends’ you can always count on Rupert Murdoch’s bum chum Tom who will always be there if you need him. Did I mention Tommy boy made $580 million by selling MySpace? With that wedge in his bank he can afford to buy all his ‘friends’ a drink – make mine a Bloody Mary and don’t go scrimping on the vodka or I wont be your friend no more, you tight bastard.
And now, thanks Tom, I can’t even go down the pub without popping a Valium or two beforehand, because I can’t remember the last time I spoke to someone to their actual face. What do you propose I do when they say something “funny”? I can’t type ‘lol’ and sit there with an emotionless brain-dead open-mouthed glare like usual, so what do you suggest I actually do...laugh? What happens when a ‘rotfl’ moment happens? My fucking dry cleaning bill is gonna go through the roof. Sweet mother of pearl Tom, why did you not think of this?
It’s this whole ‘communications revolution’ that’s making me rile. Supposedly, with all this new technology, we have the power to communicate more efficiently, but what really happens is that we lock ourselves away in a dark room and avoid human contact like the plague. Mobile phones – wherever you hide, they will find you. When having a conversation with someone you are actually with, we always feel obliged to answer a phone if it’s ringing. To the person standing next to you, you might as well be saying “I’m quite frankly bored of looking at your face, I’d much rather speak to someone who isn’t here.”
And a most strange phenomenon happens when people use mobile phones in public. Users momentarily become convinced that no one can hear what they are saying. I was recently on a National Express bus journey and there was someone in front of me talking about her visit to the STI clinic. By the end of the journey, everyone knew that she had chlamydia and that ‘Mish’ was ‘gonna get a beatings’ because of it.
She was on that thing for over two hours - hopefully long enough for the microwaves to cook her temporal lobes and that important part of the brain that controls her breathing.
Yes, we all love technology, but I’ve been getting increasingly grouchy every time a new one surfaces, and apparently it might not just boil down to me being a cynical twat. Scientists deduce that all the countless gadgets around your home emit an electronic, and therefore magnetic, field; which contributes to an environmental pollution known as electronic smog. This smog can cause depression, miscarriages and, guess what, cancer. Not good news eh? But to be fair, everything causes cancer. Even bananas.
Wo(Man) Flu
I'm feeling particularly tetchy today, mostly because I'm ill and I don't tend to cope with it too well. Anyway, I've decided to compile a list of things that really piss me off, because at times like this they really get to me, more so than usual.
1) People who can't (or don't bother) to spell relatively simple words correctly. I got a text today (from someone who was my boyfriend for a year and a half) who had spelt 'tired', 'tiered'. I mean, honestly. You'd think that by your third year of University you would know how to spell. On these occasions, I tend to text back something along the lines 'fyi, it's spelt tired, you retard'. Not appreciated by most, but then thier lack of spelling skills isn't appreciated either. Apologies to those with dyslexia - at least you have an excuse.
2) Parents who can't discipline their children. If I misbehaved in public, I'd almost always at least be drawn to one side and told that I'd get a smack if I didn't stop behaving like a twat. Not anymore. No, it's acceptabe for children to behave like apes swinging in trees.
3) People who spend the majority of their time on their mobiles. Hopefully, it'll result in them frying their brains, which will serve them right. But for now, we have to put up with listening to half their conversation... as if I want to know about their recent night out 'mate, I was so fucked I couldn't see.'
I can't actually think about anythiing more to write... I'm feeling like shit so my brain is not functioning very well... beep beep... shutdown....
1) People who can't (or don't bother) to spell relatively simple words correctly. I got a text today (from someone who was my boyfriend for a year and a half) who had spelt 'tired', 'tiered'. I mean, honestly. You'd think that by your third year of University you would know how to spell. On these occasions, I tend to text back something along the lines 'fyi, it's spelt tired, you retard'. Not appreciated by most, but then thier lack of spelling skills isn't appreciated either. Apologies to those with dyslexia - at least you have an excuse.
2) Parents who can't discipline their children. If I misbehaved in public, I'd almost always at least be drawn to one side and told that I'd get a smack if I didn't stop behaving like a twat. Not anymore. No, it's acceptabe for children to behave like apes swinging in trees.
3) People who spend the majority of their time on their mobiles. Hopefully, it'll result in them frying their brains, which will serve them right. But for now, we have to put up with listening to half their conversation... as if I want to know about their recent night out 'mate, I was so fucked I couldn't see.'
I can't actually think about anythiing more to write... I'm feeling like shit so my brain is not functioning very well... beep beep... shutdown....
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