I know I write about letting agencies and landlords A LOT. This is because they are the lowest form of scum living on this planet.
Our latest agency has not returned our deposit after two months, nor are they taking our calls. We get told we'll be called back, that Twatface* is in a meeting, that she's on the phone, that she's left. She even pretends to be someone else when she answers the phone.
Twatface: Hello, Crap Letting Agency, how may I help?
Me: Hello, may I speak with Twatface please?
TF: I’m afraid she’s not here.
Me: Well I’ve been trying to get hold of Twatface all day.
TF: I’m sorry, it’s been really really hectic here all day. And Twatface is in a meeting tomorrow.
Me: What, all day?
TF: No, of COURSE not.
Me: Well I’d appreciate a callback as soon as she gets out of her meeting.
TF: I’ll pass on the message.
Me: Just to let you know, we will be calling until we speak to her tomorrow.
TF: Ok, thanks, bye.
*Not her real name
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Bestival 2008
I know it’s been a week since Bestival, but I’ve literally only just finished cleaning the mud off me. Seriously. Okay, maybe not. But it did take a long time and I have also sadly reached the conclusion that perhaps I am not as young as I used to be because it took me a good three days to properly recover from three days of fun, mud, music and random happenings. Still, that doesn’t stop me from wanting to buy my early bird tickets for Bestival next year.
So, after my copious amounts of fruit smoothies and milk thistle tablets to get me on the mend, I can finally positively reflect on what was a bloody awesome weekend. After a comic session of wading through the mud-river that was the road to the campsite and then setting up our tents in an equally hilarious manner (to any onlookers not hiding in their tents) we gave up hope of ever being dry and warm, and sat and got drunk on rose boxed wine instead.
Monday night started off poptastically perfectly with Alphabeat, and continued with Chromeo. We were gutted when Sam Sparro and Black Kids were cancelled, however. Something about the BBC Introducing stage being too muddy – um, what? Why not cancel the whole festival then? Bloody squares. (I later found out that Sam did do a set to a small crowd at the X-Box tend, but with no way of communicating this to the crowds, we all missed out.) Anyway we tottered along to CSS instead who were awesome, (although I think sound technician was on acid) and then we headed to the Bollywood tent for a DJ set.
Saturday was never going to be dry so we decided to hide in the Restival section instead and after a few games of Shithead, we were treated to some brilliant poetry performances from Hammer & Tongue. Seriously, if you live in London or Brighton or somewhere where they perform regularly, check them out. It’s a night you won’t forget.
Why I even bothered wasting my time going to see Amy Winehouse on Saturday, I don’t know. Hot Chip were awesome and well worth pushing our way to the front for, but after that we had over an hour of waiting for Miss Amy should-go-to-Rehab-immediately Winehouse to pratt about on stage and manage to sing about 4 recognisable songs. It was pretty funny at the time, but looking back, it meant that I was so knackered after standing around in the cold I had no energy left to dance.
Miracle of miracles, it didn’t rain on Sunday and we made the most of it by finding all the places we hadn’t been to. Bramble FM was a highlight – a seemingly imaginary radio station which appears at all the festivals and gets the crowds dancing around in a circle or cheesy tunes – true story. And actually, it was awesome fun. Which is what festivals are all about – being just plain silly sometimes.
We kept our blood pumping after a brilliant set by Six Nation State by heading to the ‘come dancing’ tent and showed ourselves up by being the only ones dancing to RnB. After the organisers realised that no true festival goer lowers themselves to enjoying RnB music, let alone dancing to it, they started a dance lesson, teaching us the ‘cha-cha’. That got everyone on the dance floor and after working up a suitable sweat, we watched a performance reminiscent of an early Skunk Anansie by cocknbullkid.
As it had finally stopped raining, we actually managed to have a meal outside our tent for the first time all weekend, and refuelled we headed to the main arena, having a bit of a boogie in the X-Box tent (Bournemouth clubs come to Bestival – hurray! – please note the sarcasm) and then checked out the Cockney Knees Up tent, which was supposed to have some drag acts on, but was actually just a bunch of trannies dancing around to eighties music. Not really what we were looking for.
The Rizla arena was awesome, and we ended the night in true Bestival style by meeting some randoms and bringing them back to our tent for pointless conversation and more alcohol.
Getting off the island was less than pleasant – after a muddy session of packing up our tents we struggled with our backpacks up numerous mudslides and eventually made it back to land of solid ground.
So, after my copious amounts of fruit smoothies and milk thistle tablets to get me on the mend, I can finally positively reflect on what was a bloody awesome weekend. After a comic session of wading through the mud-river that was the road to the campsite and then setting up our tents in an equally hilarious manner (to any onlookers not hiding in their tents) we gave up hope of ever being dry and warm, and sat and got drunk on rose boxed wine instead.
Monday night started off poptastically perfectly with Alphabeat, and continued with Chromeo. We were gutted when Sam Sparro and Black Kids were cancelled, however. Something about the BBC Introducing stage being too muddy – um, what? Why not cancel the whole festival then? Bloody squares. (I later found out that Sam did do a set to a small crowd at the X-Box tend, but with no way of communicating this to the crowds, we all missed out.) Anyway we tottered along to CSS instead who were awesome, (although I think sound technician was on acid) and then we headed to the Bollywood tent for a DJ set.
Saturday was never going to be dry so we decided to hide in the Restival section instead and after a few games of Shithead, we were treated to some brilliant poetry performances from Hammer & Tongue. Seriously, if you live in London or Brighton or somewhere where they perform regularly, check them out. It’s a night you won’t forget.
Why I even bothered wasting my time going to see Amy Winehouse on Saturday, I don’t know. Hot Chip were awesome and well worth pushing our way to the front for, but after that we had over an hour of waiting for Miss Amy should-go-to-Rehab-immediately Winehouse to pratt about on stage and manage to sing about 4 recognisable songs. It was pretty funny at the time, but looking back, it meant that I was so knackered after standing around in the cold I had no energy left to dance.
Miracle of miracles, it didn’t rain on Sunday and we made the most of it by finding all the places we hadn’t been to. Bramble FM was a highlight – a seemingly imaginary radio station which appears at all the festivals and gets the crowds dancing around in a circle or cheesy tunes – true story. And actually, it was awesome fun. Which is what festivals are all about – being just plain silly sometimes.
We kept our blood pumping after a brilliant set by Six Nation State by heading to the ‘come dancing’ tent and showed ourselves up by being the only ones dancing to RnB. After the organisers realised that no true festival goer lowers themselves to enjoying RnB music, let alone dancing to it, they started a dance lesson, teaching us the ‘cha-cha’. That got everyone on the dance floor and after working up a suitable sweat, we watched a performance reminiscent of an early Skunk Anansie by cocknbullkid.
As it had finally stopped raining, we actually managed to have a meal outside our tent for the first time all weekend, and refuelled we headed to the main arena, having a bit of a boogie in the X-Box tent (Bournemouth clubs come to Bestival – hurray! – please note the sarcasm) and then checked out the Cockney Knees Up tent, which was supposed to have some drag acts on, but was actually just a bunch of trannies dancing around to eighties music. Not really what we were looking for.
The Rizla arena was awesome, and we ended the night in true Bestival style by meeting some randoms and bringing them back to our tent for pointless conversation and more alcohol.
Getting off the island was less than pleasant – after a muddy session of packing up our tents we struggled with our backpacks up numerous mudslides and eventually made it back to land of solid ground.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Attack of the chavs
Bournemouth’s a relatively safe town, and as I don’t have a car (environmental but mostly economical reasons thanks to New Labour) I tend to walk most places as the buses in Bournemouth are pretty crap if you don’t live in Charminster, Winton or Town.
When I was a student, I was mostly walking with friends so I didn’t notice it as much, but over the last year or so I’ve been walking on my own to and from work.
Now I need to make a point here. I’m young, I’m not fat and I like to wear pretty clothes. Mostly dresses when I can get away with it. Usually I wear leggings under these dresses unless it’s exceptionally hot. I try not to dress like a slut if I can help it although sometimes I do misjudge my neckline on occasion. Not often, though.
So when I walk to work, I do NOT expect to be treated like a cheap prostitute doing my nightly rounds. This treatment includes:
Hooting (I recently discovered that even my boyfriend has been known to do this. Obviously, now he’s with me all other women are vile in comparison so he doesn’t do it anymore. Also, I told him not to.)
Shouting ‘Hello darlin’ out the car window
Wolf Whistles
Asking ‘how much?’ – this on an occasion when I was wearing jeans
And my favourite one: ‘Cheer up darling, it might not happen.’This one is particularly annoying because
a) my face just looks like that when I’m thinking about stuff and
b) maybe it just did you stupid, fat, bald, ugly twatwithatinypenis
I have to say, I have become surprisingly accustomed to such behaviour from the male species and although I find it annoying, I suppose I’ll have to start worrying when the hooting stops. However, on Saturday I had a little incident which really was the last straw.
It was partly my fault. Saturday was very hot, and I was wearing a short dress.
However, I don’t think I deserved having a little chav call after me – and I quote - ‘I’d like to bone you all night long darlin.’
I turned around. Oops, there were six of them. About fifteen. All drunk. Probably all stupid. But harmless enough – or so I hoped. I’d committed myself now (they’d stopped walking and were staring).
‘Do you little pricks have nothing better to do with yourselves than harass women walking on your own?’
Evidently not. They responded by jeering something in a language that can only be described as Chavglish (sparse use of consonants at the end and in the middle of words with more than one syllable)
‘Calm down darlin’ said the perpetrator. ‘Come ‘ome wi’ me’.
I pulled myself away. ‘You know what?’ I said.
‘I bet you’ve all got tiny cocks’.
How very mature of me. They jeered at me again and crossed the street, but despite the childish nature of my retort, I smiled the whole way home.
When I was a student, I was mostly walking with friends so I didn’t notice it as much, but over the last year or so I’ve been walking on my own to and from work.
Now I need to make a point here. I’m young, I’m not fat and I like to wear pretty clothes. Mostly dresses when I can get away with it. Usually I wear leggings under these dresses unless it’s exceptionally hot. I try not to dress like a slut if I can help it although sometimes I do misjudge my neckline on occasion. Not often, though.
So when I walk to work, I do NOT expect to be treated like a cheap prostitute doing my nightly rounds. This treatment includes:
Hooting (I recently discovered that even my boyfriend has been known to do this. Obviously, now he’s with me all other women are vile in comparison so he doesn’t do it anymore. Also, I told him not to.)
Shouting ‘Hello darlin’ out the car window
Wolf Whistles
Asking ‘how much?’ – this on an occasion when I was wearing jeans
And my favourite one: ‘Cheer up darling, it might not happen.’This one is particularly annoying because
a) my face just looks like that when I’m thinking about stuff and
b) maybe it just did you stupid, fat, bald, ugly twatwithatinypenis
I have to say, I have become surprisingly accustomed to such behaviour from the male species and although I find it annoying, I suppose I’ll have to start worrying when the hooting stops. However, on Saturday I had a little incident which really was the last straw.
It was partly my fault. Saturday was very hot, and I was wearing a short dress.
However, I don’t think I deserved having a little chav call after me – and I quote - ‘I’d like to bone you all night long darlin.’
I turned around. Oops, there were six of them. About fifteen. All drunk. Probably all stupid. But harmless enough – or so I hoped. I’d committed myself now (they’d stopped walking and were staring).
‘Do you little pricks have nothing better to do with yourselves than harass women walking on your own?’
Evidently not. They responded by jeering something in a language that can only be described as Chavglish (sparse use of consonants at the end and in the middle of words with more than one syllable)
‘Calm down darlin’ said the perpetrator. ‘Come ‘ome wi’ me’.
I pulled myself away. ‘You know what?’ I said.
‘I bet you’ve all got tiny cocks’.
How very mature of me. They jeered at me again and crossed the street, but despite the childish nature of my retort, I smiled the whole way home.
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