Nahoonblog

Customer Service - or lack thereof

2009-10-16T03:38:00.000-07:00

You know it's going to be an eventful holiday when you've booked the wrong coach tickets. And it's nearly one in the morning, and there are no more coaches to Gatwick apart from this one, and you have no money in the bank because it's the day before payday, and all you have is Euro's.

So, we booked the wrong coach. We were a week late for it, in fact. It's an easy mistake to make, but when you're confronted with a smug National Express Driver who stands and holds your ticket for what seems like HOURS, and then, very cheerfully informs you that 'your ticket is worthless, love' , well it's basically fucking annoying.

When I asked very politely if there was any way he could possibly let us on anyway, taking into account the circumstances, he repeated 'Your ticket is worthless, love. Worthless. It's worthless'. I was on the verge of saying 'shut up, you dumb prick, I heard you the first time', but Ben had seen my face and gripped my arm. Swearing at this point would make us miss our flight.

Resigning myself to the fact that we were going to have to shell out for another ticket at twice the price of an advanced ticket, I politely enquired whether they took card. You'd have thought I was Ricky Gervias. 'Hahahahaha' he chortled. 'Card? Where am I going to swipe it?' He turned around, indicating his massive rear end. 'Here?' I suppose he thought it was funny. It was not. In fact, a few minutes later when I recovered from the shock, I realised that it was fucking rude. But all I said in reply was 'that's not funny'.

Ben ran to the cashpoint, hoping that our payday money had come through. All we had was Euro's, having emptied our bank accounts to buy currency. He came back empty handed. I turned back to the smug faced driver, whose face was becoming more slappable by the second.

'Look, all we have are Euro's. We don't have any cash, we're waiting to be paid. We'll miss our flight if you don't let us on. Please can you take this int...'. He interrupted again. 'Euros! I ain't never heard of Euro's! What's Euro's?'

'Of course you know what Euro's are, you stupid prr....' Ben slapped his hand over my mouth. Fortunately, a man interrupted us before the coach driver realised what I was about to say.
'I'll exchange some Euro's with you.'

I could have kissed him. We did the deal, paid an extortionate £60 for one-way tickets and I spent the rest of the journey swearing quietly under my breath.

I did send a complaint into National Express (explaining the swipe it in my arse comment was particularly tricky) and was very surprised to receive a very apologetic email, saying that the driver would be disciplined and that I would receive a refund. It arrived a couple of days ago. So well done the the Customer Relations department. Perhaps they should become drivers instead.

X-Factor

2009-10-15T08:29:00.001-07:00

Now don't get me wrong. I love X Factor as much as the next person. And I don't care what anyone says, you all bloody love it. You love cringing, laughing, marvelling or crying at the auditions, you keep tissues for the Judges Houses and feverishly press the red button on your remote control on the Live Shows. X Factor for me is the run-up to Christmas, my Saturday nights sorted, and an excuse to slag off Louis Walsh (although at the moment, poor man, I do feel for him.)

Anyway, as I was saying, I love X Factor as much as anyone. But what does really irk me is the incredibly repetitive music choices. EVERY week they play Take That. Usually it's 'Greatest Day'. You know, the one where they have it playing in the background and then they fade up to 'AND THE WORLD COMES ALIVE' and cut to shots of people running towards each other in tears because they're through to bootcamp. Another one - 'Have a little patience' - usually when someone gets rejected by the judges. 'Shine' is usually used at the start of the show. I mean, really. Get a new band.

If trains could be improved...

2009-07-03T05:36:00.001-07:00

I got the train back from Wimbledon the other day. In an attempt to save money, we'd booked way in advance and only paid £19 for a return from Bournemouth to London. The issue with advance tickets, however, is that you have to, no matter what, stick to the train you've booked. Yes, even if your nan is in hospital and your left leg is about to fall off.

Anyway - we booked the last train back to Bournemouth but arrived about an hour earlier. By now, I'd had about 3 hours sleep in 48 hours and had had enough. We asked two guards politely whether we could possibly get on an earlier train.

It was as if I'd asked whether we could travel standing naked on the roof of the train. 'Oh, no' one of them sniffed. 'No, you can't do THAT.' Of course, the reason was 'well, you just can't, you buy that ticket, you have to travel on that train'.
'But it's not causing any problems, if we just get on this train.'
'That's not the point'.
'Well what is the point then?' Of course, the point is that people like train conductors are taught to never take initiative or use their common sense, and not take risks that are more than their job's worth. But I let it go, and resigned myself to getting our original train.

I don't know if you've ever got a train late at night, when you're tired and wouldn't mind a kip. Well, don't try sleeping on the train. First off, the air con is so cold it rivals the training conditions for the antarctic race, the announcements are so loud that they could wake the dead, and the lights are so bright that your sunnies wouldn't go amiss.

Therefore, I suggest that the following practices be put in place on trains travelling after 10pm:

Turn the lights on low, issue cushions to passengers, allow passengers to have a wakeup call before their stop instead of announcements, and play soft classical music or the Harry Potter audiobooks to ensure restful sleep.

attention-seekers r us

2009-05-22T15:09:00.000-07:00

Pretty much every time I log onto Facebook, I have the overwhelming urge to update my status to 'seriously, I really REALLY don't care.'

I know I ranted a while ago about people updating their statuses with exciting news like 'just swam with turtles'. I've changed my mind about those. Those are FINE. At least they're using their status for the purpose it's meant for - making people jealous or letting people know what you're up to, or maybe sharing something interesting like a good link, or at the very worst, expressing your frustration at a company or the government.

In my not-so-humble opinion, that's fine. What really gets my goat is the whole 'so and so is extremely annoyed'. Or 'my heart is broken' or '...just had an overwhelming sense of anxiety+ loneliness come over me....I can't do this.'

Seriously. If you're having that much emotional trouble, please don't post it on facebook for everyone to see. It massively embarrassing. Talk to your psychologist please, not your online community of whom 50% actually pretend to give a shit. Possibly even worse than this is couples who have an online 'status war'. They each update their status with 'cryptic' phrases, in an attempt to piss each other off, and their oh-so-lucky 'friends' get to watch the whole sorry show. Just have a fucking conversation please. Don't involve us in your childish, boring soap opera excuse of a relationship.

Okay, I'm done for now.

4:45pm · Comment · Like

Two sides to every story - or is there?

2009-04-03T09:58:00.000-07:00

I've been following the G20 protests with interest this week. Part of me really wishes I lived in London, or thought ahead to take the day off and join in the protests. The other part of me is glad I didn't. Scary scenes of violence on the news made me feel relieved I'd missed out on that.

But what's really got me thinking is - who was at fault for the violence?

Various accounts on independent media state that the police violently attacked peaceful protesters at the Climate Camp around 7pm and again at midnight on Tuesday, held in the the middle of Square Mile this week. Video evidence can be found in various YouTube videos, including this one .

Other reports speak of police cordoning in around 4,000 protestors outside the Bank of England on Wednesday - this was not mentioned in any reports by the BBC.

In fact, watching BBC News at Ten on Wednesday night, it was suggested (not ever said outright - after all, the BBC is always balanced) by the coverage of the event, that the protesters were at fault. All the footage showed protestors kicking in RBS, protesters behaving violently, and the police keeping them under control.

While I don't agree with violence, I do wholeheartedly support and uphold the right to protest, and it is entirely possible, likely even, that police antagonised protestors into behaving violently.

The more I look around me, the more I see a state turning into one not at all dissimilar to George Orwell's Oceania, a society where the Thought Police rule.

However, despite laments from those politically active during the 60's and 70's that today's society is apathetic, this week's events showed that we are not.

PLEASE STOP PATRONIZING ME

2009-03-24T02:35:00.000-07:00

I recently started a new job, which is pretty much exactly what I was doing last year but a little bit different, and it really, really, REALLY annoys me when people (who, in their defence are probably only trying to be nice) come into my office and make comments like 'picking it all up then?' and 'a lot to learn, isn't there?'. I smile and nod and make noises as if to say 'well, I'm coping, silly little me' when all I really want to do is look at them sarcastically and say 'I can do this job in my sleep. It's not hard, I'm not stupid, so will you please fuck off and leave me alone. Thank you.'

Of course, I can't really do that. But it really irks me when people assume that because I'm young looking (I often get mistaken for a student, and as I work at a university, that's usually not a good thing) that I'm also foolish and incapable.

I very often don't get taken seriously in meetings and it takes time to establish myself as organised, efficient and amazing-at-my-job. This is normal, I know. But I'm an impatient kind of person and I want that respect now. It doesn't help that I have authority issues, and when a particuarly pricky senior member of staff comes into meetings and starts lording it over me, I usually imagine taking my pen and stabbing it repeatedly into his face. Did I mention I have violent tendencies? Of course, I smile and nod as he vents his ridiculously formulated opinion which matches his super-inflated ego, and write notes to myself like '(enter name here) is a prickface'. Not particularly grown-up, I know, but I've got to live up to that 'bright young thing' reputation of mine somehow.

The other thing that really pisses me off in my job is that the people who are in senior positions are usually quite shit at their jobs, and are getting paid a crapload to sit at their desks and make poor decisions. How these people were ever employed by anybody, ever, in the first place, is a total mystery. It's always the minions like me and my counterparts who take pride in their work and have to stay long hours to make sure the job is done to a high standard, while those in the golden tower get all the credit and sit about congratulating themselves on being such clever, lazy fuckwits.

Anyway, it's probably time I stopped sitting around and venting and actually got on with some work. Looks like someone else is about to pop into my office with their patronising comments. Now, if you'll excuse me...

March fashion

2009-03-23T02:45:00.001-07:00

It never ceases to amaze me how the sun in March seems to have magical properties. Sun in January, while almost non-existent, cheers us up marginally, but we still button up our coats and don hats and scarves to keep out that winter chill.

Sun in February might prise our mittens off our hands, but we're still wearing our knee-high boots and polarneck jumpers.

Sun in March, however, is a miracle worker. Jumpers are frivolously discarded. Scarves become obsolete, and flip flops the order of the day. Despite the fact that it's only about 2 degrees warmer in March than it is in February, girls have their legs out. Blokes have their legs out too. Even swimming in the sea becomes a recreational activity, not a charity fundraiser.

It's nice to see such optimism, however. It's as if we're all just waiting for the chance to celebrate summer, get into our bikini's and soak up the sun. Sadly, in reality, it's really not nearly as hot as we perceive it to be, and we all catch cold for being so very silly.

But it's not long to go. Soon we'll be wearing the latest summer gladrags and forgetting all about the nasty winter that preceded June. Until then, keep your spring coat on. Patience is a virtue, after all.

Deposit Blues - AGAIN!

2008-09-23T01:40:00.001-07:00

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

Bestival 2008

2008-09-15T06:19:00.000-07:00

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.

Attack of the chavs

2008-09-01T03:33:00.000-07:00

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.

Nanny state and sob stories

2008-08-27T06:27:00.000-07:00

There are a number of things that have annoyed me this week. One of them has actually been annoying me for a while, but came to a head on Saturday when I was selecting a book as a birthday present. It's the kind of books that actually now are so numerous that they have a special section in Asda. Yes, the 'tear jerkers'.

These are books that are written by people who have been abused as children. Now I know child abuse is a horrible and horrific thing, but it does seem to me like everyone is jumping on the literary bandwagon and spaffing out a book about their horrid existence as a child. Maybe it's therapeutic for them to re-live their most sordid moment of their lifetime, but there's no denying that it's also a massive money spinner.

What annoys me even more is the un-imaginative titles given to these books which leave nothing to the imagination, per example:
Don't tell Mummy
Ugly:The story of a loveless childhood
Not Without My Sister: The True Story of Three Girls Violated and Betrayed by Those They Trusted:
Please, Daddy, No: A Boy Betrayed

And so on and so forth. It's trite voyeurism and shouldn't be encouraged.

The other thing that's got my goat is the government's intention to reclassify cannabis.

No, I'm not one of those heavy weed smokers who claim that it makes life worth living, I just hate the way that illegal drugs have been segregated from legal ones, and the judgment that is bestowed upon them as result. The concept reeks of small-mindedness, policy over practice and of course nanny-statism (if that is a word) that every day seeks to violate our freedoms, our rights and our decisions:

Their reason for reclassification is this: Mental illness linked to the heavy and frequent use of the drug. Now, everyone knows that drugs, be they legal or illegal, are bad for you. Smoking can cause cancer, heart disease, emphysema, decreases your taste and smell sensation and makes you a social outcast (unless all your friends smoke, which means you can all die an early death together - everyone's a winner).

Drinking too much gives you a hangover. It also increases heart disease, and alcoholism makes for broken families. Oh, and drink driving can kill.

So let's look at tobacco and alcohol policy: It's bad for you. So what do the government do? They put up the tax - and hide behind the pretence that it will discourage over-indulgence. The same goes for smoking, although at least with that we know that second-hand smoke causes health problems too. Perhaps the one good thing they've done in the last five years or so.

They can't up the tax on cannabis so they reclassify it, making the prison sentence change from a 2-year to five-year sentence. My opinion: If you want to smoke weed, do it in the knowledge it might make you go a little crazy, that you might get caught, but the risk is yours. And you know that without the government spoon-feeding you all this classification nonsense that really, doesn't mean a thing to dealers or regular users.

Damages

2008-08-15T03:19:00.000-07:00

The latest American legal drama to hit our screens, Damages is without a doubt the best TV drama I've had the pleasure of watching.

A star-studded cast guarantees its success, (Glen Close, Ted Danson, Rose Byrne) but the writing in itself is first-class. Damages takes you on a rollercoaster of emotions and assumptions, and delivers a gut-dropping twist in every episode.

It begins at the end. Hot-shot young lawyer Ellen Parsons (Byrne) is found covered in blood, and her finace is found dead in their bathtub at home. They don't give too much away, but by the end of the pilot, we assume that Ellen's boss, hugely successful litigator, Patti Hewes is behind it.

It's not even that interesting a case. Billionaire Arther Frobisher is being sued by his 500 employees who have lost everything after an accouting fraud bankrupts one of his many businesses. The twist is that Frobisher took his shares out the day before the company went under. The case falls on one weekend in Florida - where it is thought by Hewes that he met with his Broker. Prove that, and win the case.

Even though it's a complicated lawsuit, it's made in such a way that the viewer understands every turning point, every significance and that's what makes it successful. Perhaps more importantly though, are the characters. We see their every side, we make assumptions, we're proved wrong, we make new ones, again, we question our thoughts. Glenn Close, as always, delivers a fantastically chilling performance as Hewes and Danson makes a very convincing Frobisher.

If I go on about it too much I'll ruin it, but do yourself a favour and watch it. You'll be marking the time until Season 2.

Spooks:Code Splat.

2008-08-11T00:48:00.000-07:00

I was delighted to see an advert on BBC 3 yesterday afternoon advertising the beginning of a new series of Spooks. It's one of the only BBC dramas I make a point of watching, but as the advert progressed, I noticed that there was a new cast, (younger, pimplier, and most importantly, missing the nothing short of gorgeous Danny Hunter) and a new location - Manchester. Call me a snobbish southern-dweller, but MI5 dramas just don't work in Manchester. When the London Eye is missing from the skyline, it's not MI5.

But I decided to give it a chance anyway - it was a Sunday night after all, and the Olympic coverage for the day was over. Five minutes on, as always, I was proved right.

Script: Optional. Narrative: Non-existent. Acting Ability: None whatsoever.

Set in 2012, the story goes something like this. Olympics-Bombs-Mass Evacuation of London - recruitment of younger spies-who typically save the day. With lots of guns, blood and fast-paced plot collapse, Spooks Code 9 falls flat on its face in terms of being the next big thing.

Perhaps they set the bar too high by twinning it with Spooks. If you've got a good series, don't do a spinoff. This has only worked once in history - and that was Cheers, and Frasier - which had a character in common. Code 9 has nothing in common with Spooks, and is more of a 'Grange Hill with Guns' (Jordan, 2008) which could work quite well if it was marketed as such.

Writing for the sake of it

2008-08-07T02:36:00.000-07:00

I've decided to exercise my writing muscle a bit more, and start posting every day (well, every work day at least). It's the only thing that will keep me sane in what is, at times, a very frustrating job. I am counting down the days to my Egyptian holiday and then Australia. Three months with no work is going to be the best thing in the world.

What if no one worked? What if we all worked on the land, ploughed the fields, milked the cows, drank the cows milk and lived happily ever after? There would be no offices, no mobile phones, no need to slave away day after day at what is a completely pointless job, if you really think about it. Sometimes I'd really like to live in a commune. And with rising oil prices, fuel poverty and the credit crunch, it looks like it may even be a viable option.

But then I think about it some more. What, no facebook? No endless updates of who is doing what, who is enagaged to whom? No Ebay? No pointless searching for concert tickets that I can't afford, no selling of things that I have no use for (and probably no one else does either). And most importantly, no mobiles? Yes, I know I've just wished for an existence without them, but the truth is that my relationship with my mobile is a love-hate one. I feel helpless without it, yet hate that I am contacable at all times.

Switch it off, I hear you say? Well, see, you don't have a mum like mine. She'll assume the worst (car accident followed by kidnapping, then rape, followed by being hung naked from a cliff on the Isle of Purbeck) so I need to have it on. At least if it rings she assumes I'm alive. Then again, if I take an hour to reply to a text, my boyfriend worries about me too. I'm obviously someone likely to have got myself into some kind of predicament of some sorts, with all these people worrying about me all the time.

I seem to attract this kind of attention actually. For example, take this morning. My friends mum (and my landlady as it happens) insisted (by this I mean she practically dragged me by my hair to the kitchen table) that I eat pancakes. 'I give you lift to work. You eat,' she said, beckoning to the stack of pancakes. It was hardly an offer I could refuse. I think she thinks I don't eat.

Anyway, back to the mobile phone debate. The worst thing is, when you get back to your mobile phone after leaving it on its own all day (poor thing) to find that NOT ONE person has called or sent you a pointless text message. NOT ONE! That is the definition of rejection. But then again, mobile phones have other ways of making you feel rejected too.

Lynne Truss (the best, most grumpy author ever and I hope to be exactly like her in about ten years) in 'Talk To The Hand: The complete and utter rudeness of everyday life' sums up my feeling about mobiles in about three pages (I have a lot of feelings about them)when she explains the problem of them ringing when you're with someone else. It's just plain rude to have a conversation when someone else is there. It's like saying 'I'd rather talk to someone I can't see than have a face to face conversation with you'. Now that's rejection.

Speaking of which, I have to go. My phone is ringing.

Boys (and their obsession with toys)

2008-08-06T01:50:00.001-07:00

What is it about men and their insatiable appetite for the latest Playstation, TV screen, drumset, Macbook? I mean honestly. When a woman wants something, she goes out and buys the damn thing. No browsing for hours on the internet, no humming and harring about the best deal, no. We go out and get the damn thing. Yes, we may not know anything about the brand apart from the fact that it's a 'red one' (to use the old cliche) but we're happy. In short, we don't waste time.

Men, however, are a different kettle of fish. My dearest boyfriend is a prime example. Buying things is his favourite thing to do it seems. But it's not only the buying of objects, but the entire process itself. Firstly, he gets it into his head that he wants a particular item. A new duvet, for example. Not a particularly manly example there, but he likes his creature comforts. Now that's all very well, but he (and this is no joke)took about three weeks from the initial process of research, pricing, reading reviews on whether a duck feather duvet is better than a goose feather one, (and emailing me constantly at work to ask my opinion) to actually buying it. He finally settled on a good old M&S combi duvet. You'd think it would have ended there. But no, he then proceeded to get excited about the fact that it was a combi duvet and proceed to demonstrate it to me for the first three nights we slept under it.

He does this for everything. TV's, TV brackets (he actually sent me a link so I could see it, asking me my opinion. I replied 'it's a lovely bracket dear') and actually, anything you can think of. He's the internet shopkeeper's dream come true.

I had to buy him a duvet cover the other day. Guess what happened? I went to the shop, saw one that looked nice and bought it. Simple as.

My Military Conversion

2008-05-27T00:13:00.000-07:00

I called my boyfriend yesterday morning. 'I Hate You' I said, as he answered with his incredibly cheery, (and very annoying) 'hello darling!'. 'I really, really, really hate you'. He laughed. 'Well I'm not making you do it - go on - stay in bed, watch telly all day, it's fine. I don't mind,' 'Now I really REALLY hate you' I said, and put down the phone. I walked over to the window. Yep - still the same. Pouring rain, howling winds. Bank holiday monday, perfect for curling up in bed with Sex and The City, but instead I was being made to go outside and walk in the rain with a bunch of marine reservists and their supportive girlfriends. Ugh.

However, I knew it meant a lot to Soldier Boy that I go with him, and it was too late to back out now. Sighing, I got myself ready and waited to be picked up. Soldier Boy jumped out the car with a huge military waterproof, listened to me complain for ten minutes while he pulled and prodded, and fitted the jacket to me. I surveyed myself in the mirror, and almost sort of liked the way I looked in uniform.

'You do know that I look like a massive lesbian, don't you?' I said. Soldier Boy just laughed. Actually, that's how reacts to most of my moods which is even more annying than him getting annoyed with them.

So anyway. We set off to the New Forest. Soldier Boy and his friend had plotted the route on an ordinance survey map, and were improving their map-reading skills by following the bearing - or something. There were eight of us in the group, with two 'navigators'. We started walking through the forest - and yes, it was still pouring with rain. Luckily, the wind had stopped howling and my government-issue waterproof was doing its job - unlike the sods who issue it. But my combats weren't doing so well. As we clambered through kneee-high shrubbery, I got more and more soaked from the waist down, but concentrated on keeping my feet dry.

Then we came to what was marked on the map as a 'stream'. Obviously with the overnight rain, this little stream was now a raging torrent. Without a bridge, there was no way of crossing it without getting soaked - so we had to walk up along the stream and cross where it was possible. Which meant that we lost our bearing and our place on the map. We eventually found a big log and clambered across it, but now we had to find out where we were.

And so we continued. But now, in addition to the pouring rain, we had to stop, for what seemed like every five minutes, and watch while Navigator 1 and Navigator 2 examined the map, pointed their compass around, walked one direction, then stopped, looked at the mao, walked another direction, and so on. Every time Navigator 1 decided on a direction, Navigator 2 called him back, ummed and arred, checked the points, argued the toss and then proceeded in the same direction. I was getting more and more grumpy, and wet, and Solider Boy had noticed. 'Morale low? he asked. 'It's the rain, isn't it?' I glowered at him.
'No, it's not the rain, Solider Boy. Stopping every five minutes and examining that fucking map for half an hour - that's what's making my 'morale' low.'

To top it all off, as we started making track to the pub, we came across what can only be described as a swamp. Disguised as a grassy patch, I step right in it. 'Squelch'. So there go my feet, wet as can be, for the next two hours of the trail.

But it did get better. It stopped raining for one, we reached the pub where I changed into dry socks and trousers, and we started finding our way a bit better as well. The sun even came out.

Not that I enjoyed it, mind you.

Food For Thought

2008-05-21T02:59:00.000-07:00

I've been looking into different kinds of social networking recently, Twitter being my latest fad, and it's started me thinking about what all these networks actually mean for us as a society. Looking back on the Facebook trend that, for me, started about 18 months ago, it was a novelty. MySpace came before it, but didn't have quite the same impact that Facebook has had. I remember being a little creeped out by the fact that I could stalk everyone's activities - who they spoke to, where they'd been, what they'd been doing, and how they were feeling at the particular moment in time - if they chose to share it with the world, that is.

Now Facebook has become a way of life - well for my generation at least. We plan parties on it, we entertain ourselves at work on it, share photos and basically let it run our lives. It has proved to be a very useful tool for my close group of friends to keep in contact with each other despite the fact that two of us are in different countries at the moment. In a way, it feels like they've never gone.

While, when you think about it, it is a bit weird to be so closely connected with each other's lives - knowing who's doing what, and more importantly, who's doing who, it's not actually all that different from society a few decades ago. We used to live our lives quite openly - people would drop round for cups of tea, women would gossip openly about their neighbours, and there was a real sense of community in neighbourhoods and schools. I don't think you can say that this is true today - we hide behind our front doors and drawn curtains and in our cars, and it's not a rarity to know nothing about your neighbours. In this new society, we choose to interact in other ways - instead of face to face, we sit in front of screens and show a virtual picture of our lives. We're selective about who we interact with, but we're as open as ever... go figure....

Child Support

2008-03-17T15:38:00.000-07:00

My friend Sahar has been getting random money into her account from the government for the past few months. Being a sensible and good citizen, she called them, and told them that she had hundreds of pounds of government money in her account and can she please give it back.

Of course, they had no idea what she was on about. And it didn't help that her Jewish mum of Persian descent was sitting in the corner of the room shouting 'You shouldn't tell them you stupid girl, you're stupid, you know, you're stupid!'

I find out today that the mystery was solved, via an email from Sahar on a Facebook thread:

'Woe i have no money either, it turns out it was my mums money from Child support years ago and she took it all off me in a flash... didnt even leave me a penny of it!
In fact she literally dragged me to the bank demanding i take it out for her and then just left me there as she sped off in the car to meet her friend...twas such a sad day.'

Meanwhile, Rosie was getting her own back.

There's a lady who Rosie works with who we refer to as 'Never ask for Satnav'. This is because years ago, Rose did work experience at a certain production company. She asked for satnav because she was told to go to a certain place in a hurry and couldn't map read and drive at the same time. Bitchface wrote 'never ask for Satnav' on Rosie's appraisal form and gave her an E in 'self-motivation'.

So turns out Rosie is now working with satnav again - and guess what, she's still a bitter old cow. But apparently, karma does exist - as i discover when I get a text from Rose today:

'Burriliant. The bitch PM has had her her 'done' - think awful highlights/dye job-mutton-dressed-as-lamb which is straightened at the front but straggly at the back. Done by a health and beauty student who was trained, apparently, by Helen Keller.'

Now that is what I call a fair trade.

Builder's Tea

2008-03-02T04:38:00.000-08:00

This is just one, of a long list of stories, from my dearest Persian-bred, London-born friend, that never fails to entertain me.

She's currently working in TV, and she's in between contracts, so spends much of her time doing, well nothing. One day she's sitting at her computer and gets a call from her dear friend Kessie. The rest of the story will be in her words, relating the conversation, as I just can't tell it like she can:

'Sahar are you on the internet?'
I say, 'why yes I am'
She says, 'some guy at work asked me to make a builders tea, can you look it up for me?'

I didnt know what the hell she was on about so i googled it and told her I'll ring her back when I find out.
5 mintues later i ring her back and apparently there's an actual brand called 'Builder's Tea' (in a black and yellow box) so I said,

'Kessie, yr work place must have bought the tea brand, 'Builders tea' so find it and just make him that'
......then a long pause....
'Kessie? ..... Kessie? ..

Nothing.
Kessie? you there?

Then she finally speaks....'Oh woe, i couldn't wait for you to ring back so I had to take a guess and made him a herbal tea with 2 sugars..'

I don't care about your status, please keep it to yourself and leave me alone

2008-02-16T01:32:00.000-08:00

I have been growing increasingly annoyed by the 'status' tool on Facebook. Possibly because there is now a sidebar that updates you every time one of your friends changes their status.

Let's bear in mind that a large amount of people on my Facebook are not, in fact,my friends. They are all people I know, all people I have met, in fact, but that does not mean that I am friends with them. They are merely acquaintances. Thusly, I do NOT wish to know whether or not they are 'having a great time in Australia but are upset because the seal trip was cancelled'. Nor do I wish to know that someone is planning a romantic meal for two. especially when that person is a lizard-face bitch who never handed an assignment in on time at uni (on a JOURNALISM course - a profession known for the importance of DEADLINES?) and still passed with the same grade as me.

Even updates about my true friends can get a little tiresome. For example, I don't really want to know my cousin's baby is 'jumping around'. That's the other thing that gets to me - it's like she's the only person in the world who has ever been pregnant ever. Pictures of her bump. Drawing attention to the fact that she's pregnant by refusing to eat anything but apples. Typically, she's the perfect granddaughter in the family - first to get married, has a medical degree and is good at doing things like crafty cards and metal work. I, however, am somewhat of a disappointment. I've had way too many boyfriends in the last four years, all of them called Mark, I've got a British accent and I'm untidy (I prefer to call it creative but that's essentially what it is). Never mind that I've got a degree in Journalism, I'm extremely well-read and I'm up to date on political affairs and that I have my own opinions, no, that simply doesn't cut it with my extended family. Women (well, women/girls my age anyway) are meant to supply beer, help around the house and not express a political view on anything, according to my uncle, anyway.

But I'm moaning for no reason, really. I've got a fantastic family, who have always listened to what I have to say, encouraged me to argue and question, and are incredibly supportive in whatever I want to do.

Back to Facebook. I also really hate when people upload their amazing photos of traveling because it just makes me jealous and bitter. And then when they have the audacity to complain about things, like being stuck in a bus station in a tropical country. Being stuck in a bus station in Leeds would be excusable. But Brazil? Shut up already.

I Lick My Cheese

2008-01-21T15:31:00.000-08:00

I don't actually - this is the title of a book given to me by a very dear friend who is possibly the funniest woman I have the pleasure of knowing. It's a very 'her' gift and it's all about flat sharing. As you may have come to realise, I do live in an interesting house with a lot of interesting people, but often these interesting events get a little bit tiresome, and sometimes make me wish to write notes such as this:

Dear ....

Hope you don't mind me cleaning your damp wank rag off the table. It's just that I was expecting friends round for dinner and they probably think that it's a fucking disgrace that someone would have the audacity to wank in my living room, then wander off like they'd just finished work for the evening. This note serves to close your grubby little episode. It's also your notice to leave the house. In the meantime, put one foot wrong and I'll set fire to your stuff, not even kidding.

Fortunately for me, I haven't had to deal with this sort of shit. However, it comes pretty damn close. Take this evening, for example. I'd been away for the weekend, I'd spent the weekend relaxing, cooking and eating. I also spent a little part of it cleaning up - yes, I'd helped my boyfriend clean his house and do the washing up after having friends round for dinner. Isn't that nice of me? Aren't I a nice person?

Well, no, not really, I just have a bit of decency. Something that, surprisingly, a great number of people seem to lack. I grew up with someone cleaning up after me, which is probably why I am quite a messy person. However, I do know that it's common courtesy to clean up in someone else's home when you make a mess, or at least offer to. Which is why I was pretty pissed off when I got home tonight to find the lounge looking like a modern art exhibition - in a bad way. Dry muesli, bits of Connect Four, empty Subway bags and, strangely, sultanas, were scattered all across the living-room floor like it's the perfectly normal place for them to be. It wasn't my mess, but I cleaned it. It wasn't my other housemate's mess, but she did the washing up. That's normal. What's not normal is to completely ignore the fact that the lounge that YOU or YOUR FRIENDS left in a mess has been cleaned by SOMEONE ELSE and not even bother to acknowledge them.

And here's another note I'd like to write:

I pay the bills. What do you do? This isn't a doss house so could you give me the rent.

It's fair enough to struggle for money when you're a student. You're too busy putting off doing your dissertation and painting props for your student film project to get a job. That's obvious. But when you're a graduate, it's just a little bit pathetic to a) not be working or b) not be actively seeking a job. And, hey, there's always option c) - go on the dole. Yes, I hate it as much as the next guy, but not as much as I hate not being able to pay my electricity because some idiot can't be arsed to do anything constructive with his life.

I actually do love my flatmates (some more than others, admittedly) but it's true what you say about never living with friends. While it's not always a disaster, it's better to stick with what you know, live with people who you've lived with before, people you can scream and shout at and know that they'll love you anyway. And living with people who have been brought up to respect other people is essential too, but sadly, in my four years of experience, a rarity indeed.

Edible Science

2008-01-14T02:54:00.000-08:00

In an attempt to educate myself in the matters of science, I have started reading New Scientist. This new hobby is borne of having a boyfriend who knows everything about everything, and I am sick and tired of asking what he terms as ‘stupid questions’ (well I can tell that’s what he thinks anyway) about the scientific realm, which, as it happens, covers most things.

Never mind that I know everything there is to know about Noam Chomsky, the Frankfurt School theory, Political Economy, Liberalism, our good friend Karl (Marx) and coached two of my best friends for their politics and media law exams because I was the star student. They didn’t too well, but I don’t take it personally – my beautiful but incredibly ditzy blonde friend was surprised when I gently informed her that ‘no, Hayley, John Major was not Margaret Thatcher’s son.’

Anyway, I digress, as usual. I’ve been attempting to read up on science so that M and I can have interesting conversations about the latest life-changing scientific breakthroughs. (He’s not interested in Media Theory). But to be honest, it all goes a little bit over my head. Although I did find it rather fascinating that, according to research in Indonesia, Male macaque monkeys are apparently ‘paying’ for sex from females by grooming them for a certain amount of time. I also learned that certain crops lock carbon away for years, thereby cutting greenhouse gas levels in the atmosphere and averting us all from, it seems, a certain death.

Apparently, crops such as wheat and sorghum are the thing to grow. However, one of the problems I can see is this: With more and more health scientists (okay, Gillian McKeith) telling us that wheat is ‘bad’ for us (well, bread), less people are eating it. This may be total rhubarb, but it does lead me smoothly onto my next point: Stupid diets. Yet another of my housemates has succumbed to the ridiculous idea of becoming a vegetarian. We’ve already got one veggie, another one who doesn’t eat ‘carbs’ (she doesn’t know that carbs are short for carbohydrates, incidentally) and another one who eats only chicken and fish. However, we do have two boys who eat anything that’s put in front of them (and then steal from other people’s plates when they haven’t yet finished their dinner.) Their most common way of doing this is ‘have you finished that?’ while simultaneously picking up the last piece of chicken on my plate and putting it in their fat gobs.

However, that’s not the worst eating habit. No, what takes the cream is people who prefer not to eat with their mouths, using the teeth and saliva that God gave them to chew and masticate their food. Instead, they blend their food into liquid (usually made up of horrible green strange vegetables) and then place it into a bag and, get this, administer an enema. Yes, that’s right – they take their food up the arse. Quite literally. In fact, they even have ‘coffee’ enemas and take that up their bum too. I didn’t catch the beginning of the programme, so I didn’t find out their bizarre reason for doing this, but my conclusion is that they are sick. In the head. Following closely with weird eating habits would have to be the hippy mum (a bit like Marcus’ mum in About A Boy but weirder, and less depressed, although heaven knows why) who feeds her children on a diet of raw food. She also doesn’t give them bread. She does, however, give them pollen and plenty of strange looking things in jars, that are apparently very good for them. The poor kids have never had a cooked meal or sandwich in their lives.

Speaking of which, I’m off to make one - a big fat ham sandwich with lots of cheese. Wheat, meat and dairy all in one. Right after I’ve finished reading the rest of New Scientist.

Christmas Newsletters

2008-01-03T05:32:00.000-08:00

Don't you just hate those sickening round-robin letters that people write to all their friends and acquaintences, telling you all about their wonderful year, their fantastic children and their newly acquired possessions? Well, I do, anyway. And with the dawn of email it makes it even easier for people to invade your inbox and attach disgusting photographs of their daughter's wedding and their son's new car. I mean, honestly. Some people have no shame.

But imagine EVERYONe wrote a round robin letter over Christmas. I would probably enjoy the letters then. You'd get letters like this, for example:

'2007 has been an interesting year. Our wonderful son Noah has told us he was gay and has since been introducing us to countless boyfriends, most of whom last about a week and are from northern europe. Meanwhile, Sarah has turned to heroin as an escape from her mundane job at Tesco and has been impreganted by her pimp. However, he is very suportive and comes round each morning to inject her eyeballs with the highly addictive substance. Dennis is having an affair with our window-cleaner, who is a transsexual, and I'm currently undergoing therapy after I tried to jump down three flights of stairs. My doctor sent me straight to the shrink after I explained the incident by saying 'If it was good enough for Princess Di, it's good enough for me.'

However, being the hypocrite that I am, I will be subjecting you to a little 'round robin' of my own, by telling you all about my Christmas holiday. So here goes.

The usual family time is always good. I then embarked upon a trip up to Essex, to spend an entire week with my long-distance boyfriend. This was going to be a tough one.

It started off swimmingly when he gave me a 'Global Warming Mug' for Christmas. This is a rather charming little gizmo that has the ability to depress you when you have your morning mug of tea. How it works is this: You pour hot water into the mug and watch as 'valuable seafront property disappears before your very eyes'. M was incredibly impressed by his gift and spent the rest of the week demanding he be served tea in it every morning. Thanks babe.

On the plus side, he did buy me a Banksy book (now out of print) and also the new Russell Brand DVD and he even pretended not to mind when I visibly dribbled while watching this comedy genius do his stuff, so I guess I'm a lucky girl, really.

I was also treated to what I now term as 'lectures of the day' which usually involve M spouting off about something or other (global warming/George Bush/the evils of capitalism/all three if I'm extremely lucky) and must say, learned quite a lot.

We also attended a mud race. Mad dogs and englishman sort of event, rather entertaining and rounded off with a very good lunch of turkey pie. Yummy.

My obsession with Brand

2007-12-18T09:11:00.001-08:00

He’s been referred to as a ‘showman, shaman and sex-machine rolled into one’ and he backcombs his hair. He’s been addicted to heroin, rolls about onstage in a bath and always wears the same attire – black jeans so skinny they’d put an anorexic to shame, a fitted black shirt (unbuttoned, revealing the tiniest glimpse of hair) and a vast array of silver chains and elaborate belts, not to mention the boots. Oh, those boots. Yes, it’s the one and only Russell Brand.

Born in 1975, Brand careered onto the public scene with his stint on the Channel Four show Big Brother’s Big Mouth. For anyone who comes out in hives at the mere thought of watching a big-haired, foul-mouthed, sex-crazed hooligan discussing the shenanigans of the poor sad souls who are so desperate for z-list fame that they’d choose to be filmed whilst locked up in a house with 11 other similarly pathetic beings, please give Russell another chance. He’s deeply intelligent, is a master of the English language (despite being from Grays in Essex – in fact, he pulls his regional accent off rather well. My boyfriend remains convinced that the only reason we’re actually together is that he has an Essex accent, similar to that of my beloved Mr Brand) and to top it all off, he’s just so darn sexy.

He’s referred to himself as a ‘beta male’ and repeatedly pokes fun at the many perilous predicaments he manages to land himself in. As with all great comedians, it’s the way he tells it. In his own words: ‘‘My life is just a series of embarrassing incidents strung together by telling people about those embarrassing incidents.’’

His showmanship is remarkable – I was lucky enough to be taken to see Brand’s new standup tour ‘Doing Life’ at the Roundhouse in Camden. Despite being tight-fitting, the signature jeans don’t hinder Brand’s ability to prance about onstage and demonstrate what he refers to as his ‘shagging techniques’. A self-confessed sex-addict, Brand has no qualms about sharing sex tips and recommending threesomes - as well as describing to his (slightly shocked) audience some rather unsavoury sexual preferences.

But perhaps what makes Russell stand out most amongst Britain’s plethora of talented comedians is this: He’s unstoppable. I’ve attended quite an array of comedy shows in recent years, and while they’ve always been fantastic fun to watch, it is possible to drift (albeit very slightly) into a world of your own and miss one or two of the gags. But you can’t take your eyes off Russell when he’s on stage. His height (accentuated by his eccentric hairstyle) may be a factor, but it’s also his unique mix of physical comedy interlaced with an impeccable command of the English language that draws you in, and when you’re spat out at the end, you feel exhausted and exhilarated all in one.

What’s also fabulous about him is that he’s everywhere – and still you just can’t get enough. Download the podcast of his BBC Radio2 show (which airs on Sundays) and you’ll be in stitches – a word of warning though: don’t listen to it in public unless you fancy receiving some strange looks. He appears more and more frequently on television – on chat shows, political satire programmes and he’s recently hosted his own show on Channel 4 – Ponderland where he discussed an array of topics including childhood and science. He’s also on the shelves in the form of his autobiography entitled ‘My Booky Wook’ and of course, there’s the DVD releases of his stand-up tours which guarantee over an hour of fantastic entertainment.

Brand is set to go down in British history as one of its greatest comedians, but while he’s climbing the ladder to superstardom, enjoy the show.

The joys of being a Graduate

2007-12-14T04:47:00.000-08:00

I am now a fully-fledged graduate. I go to work, wake up at 8am and go to bed at a sensible time (well, mostly). As nice as it is having a transfer go into my bank account at the end of every month, it's a confusing time.

For example - is this it? Is the rest of my life going to consit of waking up in the morning and going to work until i retire at 60? Unless, of course, I decide to have a baby and I then have to dedicate the rest of my life to looking after him or her. Which, to be honest, doesn't appeal either.

Therefore, I have decided to embark upon a different career - that of the French Novelist. Okay, first major flaw in the plan is that I'm not French. Hell, I'm not even European. But, I've decided that this isn't too much of a problem, provided that I live in France, in a cottage, in a village in Provence. Problem solved.

My activities as a French Novelist will include: Going down to the local bakery to buy bread, and consume lots of olives and truffles and whatever else it is the French eat - oh yes, cheese. Reading late into the night. Lounging by the pool (my cottage will be a rather large one equipped with a pool and sauna). Making trips to Paris where I look at lots of art galleries. Of course, these activities will not leave very much time for writing novels, but I'll squeeze it in somehow.

For some reason, I feel a lot better now. Even though I have done absolutely nothing at work all day apart from write this blog and check facebook repeatedly.

more house blues

2007-10-03T06:37:00.000-07:00

Yep, it's been a while. I've had a lot more things to deal with, unfortunately, so my writing has suffered. However, it is definitely time for an update.

Perhaps the most amusing turn of events has been the way in which our newly refurbished house has been handled. Firstly, we didn't move in on the moving date. Yep, that was because they hadn't finished. A few days before we were due to move in the house was still occupied by deceprit builders who had taken to leaving olives in the sink and chicken carcasses on the carpet. Oh, no, not the carpet. That hadn't been fitted yet. I mean the concrete floor. We realised that, of course, the house wasn't quite ready to move into. So it came as no surprise when a certain someone from the letting agency called to let us know that our date had changed. A mere three days before we were due to be in the house. Ta for the notice, love.

Me: Hello?
Her: Hi, it's twatface (not her real name) here from Total Ripoff Plc here.
Me: Hi.
Her: Right, well, unfortunately your move in date for the property has changed due to the fact that all parties have not yet signed the tenancy agreement.
Me: Pardon?
Her: All parties have not signed the...
Me: No, I heard what you said. I don't know what you mean. We told you that not everyone would be here to sign it and we were told that it wasn't an issue. More of an issue, perhaps, would be that there are still builders shitting on our floor. (okay maybe I didn't say that exactly, but it was words to that effect)
Her: Um, err, well, I don't know about the house situation but according to the paperw..
Me: Um, what do you mean you don't know about the house situation? You mean you don't know whether it's ready or not? isn't that your job?
Her: Um, well, not exactly, My job is to sit here and lick windows. Not stamps, cos we don;t have any of those cos we prefer to charge our clients for postage, anyway my job is to sit here and be paid to do fuck all. Great, isn't it?
Me: Yes, do let me know when you have any vacancies available.

Anyway. We moved in a week later. Needless to say it took them weeks to sort out basic issues like hot water and heating. But there's nothing funny about that so I won't turn it into a story. It was rather amusing however, to watch the shitforbrains buidlers walk around the house for a day feeling the radiators to see if they were working, and then watch them realise at 7 o clock that the radiators in fact needed bleeding, and then watch them for the next hour put water all over our new carpets while they sorted it out. Which they didn't actually sort out because it still wasn't working and all it took was one guy with a brain the next evening to sort it out.

But that wasn't the highlight of it, oh no. The turning point was most definitely the day when the landlord came over and insisted that the bits of broken wardrobe he had brought round weeks before had been in one piece.
"It was fully assembled when I brought it over" he insisted.
We looked at him icnredulously.
"So, we woke up one day and decided to take it apart, did we?" I said. "We thought that instead of hanging clothes in it it would be of far more use to us in pieces around the hallway? Really?"

Of course, I didn;t say this, we merely politely remakred that of course it was in pieces when he brought it round and could he please get us a new one, thanks.

as if 3 grand ain't enough

2007-08-19T10:04:00.000-07:00

I registered to graduate today. Thought I'd be organised for once in my life and get it all sorted. Except instead of it being an exciting and fulfilling experience, I felt like I'd been mugged in the park by two snotty-nosed chavs wearing adidas jumpers and wielding a kitchen knife.

The first shock came was when I was asked to pay for my parents to attend the ceremony. Attending the damn thing should be punishment enough. Paying £20 to sit through hours of meaningless names being read out and gowns going across the stage, back and forth, back and forth etc etc etc just for the pleasure of seeing your own child getting a scroll (that has probably cost you at least ten grand over the last three years) is just taking the piss a little bit.

Then I clicked onto the next section: Graduation Accessories. First I had to measure my head. Never done that before. Okay, 55cm. Does that sound big to you? I thought so, but apparently it's the third smallest size. Interesting. Once I'd filled out the rest of the details, the bill popped up. £37. What? So, as if paying ridiculous tuition fees wasn't enough ('tuition' being the loosest sense of the word - perhaps they should use 'mild supervision fees' instead) I now have to shell out £57 just to walk across the stage in a twatty gown in front of my parents.

After that, I thought I would move onto the fun stuff. Graduation Meal. Oh, that's £40 please. For food that's obviously cooked in bulk, tastes bloody awful, probably gets to your table cold, and also comes with the fun of having to sit with the rest of your year group, most of whom are total twats. Call us snobs, but we've decided to boycott that particular aspect and go to a restaurant instead, one that doesn't rob you blind.

Finally, I paid for my grad ball tickets. £17. Now, really. I could complain more about that, but I've just realised that I'm probably gonna shell out at least £100 on a gorgeous black dress and equally lovely shoes, and not even think twice about it. Well, a girl's got to have her priorities straight...

Landlords

2007-08-12T14:01:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I have written - but it's high time I started again, I've come to the conclusion that writing is like therapy, it certainly kept me sane while I was doing it, so I'll begin again.

Let's review. When I last left you, I was writing my shittertation. Surprise, surprise, my negative attitude resulted in equally negative results. I have to admit, I don't even think I deserved a 48% mark.Ah well, that may be down to me being a total cretin or perhaps partly due to my tutor being a cretin. Maybe both. Who cares, I got a 2:1 anyway.

Our letting agents have been great as well, by saying we can have one weeks rent back in a 'goodwill gesture' to say, sorry we were twats and didn't sort your boiler out for four weeks. Apparently the landlord doesn't feel that by getting seven quotes, arguing about spending money to replace our boiler, leaving us with no heating in November, ignoring all our other requests all year and generally being a tight bastard, didn't put him in breach of his contract. Thanks for that £200 back, twatface, I bet that'll mean you can't go out for dinner tonight. Gutted. Never mind, you can go on holiday with our deposit as planned.

Signs that your housemate needs to be institutionalised:

2007-04-24T07:58:00.000-07:00

I've nicked this idea from Maggie. Thanks babe.

1) Turning her bed into a massive tent. This stems from the need to get back to childhood and have a place to hide from the real world that has scary things like, to mention one, dissertation deadlines. The tent is often a place that once inside, one cannot leave and spends hours in, watching Heroes.

2) Watching trash TV reruns such as The Simple Life and wank BBC2 documentaries like 'Too fat to walk' and 'My dog's as fat as I am'. Oh, and not to forget the teen transexual doco where the boy/girl/whatever gets a vagina for her birthday. Her 18th birthday consisted of five of her friends sitting in her lounge, her crying a lot and then saying 'this is the best birthday ever'. Oh DEAR.

3) Obsession with facebook. facebook. facebook. facebook. check facebook. and again.

4) Pretending it's already the summer and making loads of excuses not to do work and have fun instead. EG: making a cake for a friend's birthday in the image of said friend. and spending twenty quid on it. Or doing buckets and watching Aladdin on a WHOLE new level. Whilst unable to move or look in mirrors for fear of tripping out.

5) Complaining when woke up at 12pm. That's NOT a social hour don't you know.

6) Refusing to come back to Bournemouth cos London is just so much nicer. Only because you don't have to cook and clean and be around the dissertation hype.

7) Writing about this rather than writing dissertation.

Sign me up. I want the valium and the prozac all in one.

God Hates Fags

2007-04-09T09:22:00.000-07:00

Yep, he does. Oh also, he hates soldiers, the USA, swedes and everyone else. That's according to the Westboro Baptist church in Kansas. What a bunch of fucking nutters. Louis Theroux did a documentary on them a few months ago and ir was aired last week on BBC2 but my housemate wasn't far behind him. We shot his major last weekend, entitled 'God Hates Fags' which was kind of a film of a documentary that wasn't actually a documentary. Whatever. It was fun and I starred in it alongside Tess and Martin. As myself. I still had to act though. It took about twenty takes for me to get anything right and when watching back the rushes, I crack up after every take. I'm not a natural actress, it must be said.

Saturday was hilarious. We recreated uni to be a protest scene and got some aspiring actors and friends to act like crazy members of the Westboro Baptist congregation. We also made signs - 'God Hates Fags'. 'You're Going To Hell', 'Too Late To Pray', 'Die Fags Die', 'Aids Cures Fags'. You get the idea.

The film will be up on YouTube soon, I'll post a link. We also had a fun wrap party. We behaved like animals and trashed the house. Woo hoo. Just wait till the dissertation handin party.

A typical scene in our lounge version 2

2007-03-18T16:28:00.000-07:00

"Maria, we've planted some carrots in the garden."
"eh?"
"Yeah, we thought it'll probably be cheaper to grow our own. You know, if we have a carrot tree. It's your turn to water it, FYI"
"What, we growing our own carrots?"
"Yep."
"And I have to water them?"
"Well, tomorrow. It's your turn."
"Ae you sure you can grow carrot trees?"
"Yeah, definitely."
"Oh, okay. Well, I'll water them later."

"I think we should all go to bed."
"Why?"
"I don't know, we just should."
"Well, I'm going to bed in a bit."
"Oh okay, well can I borrow your macbook then?"
"Sorry babe. I'm watching Prison Break on it."
"Are you actually?"
"Yes, I am.."
"But are you actually?"
"Yes. Anyway, even if I wasn't, it's still mine."
"well, that's your ideology."
"What?"
"It's your ideology that your macbook is yours to use."
"but it is mine to use. It's mine."
"It's your ideology."
"You're an ideology."
"No, I can't be an ideology. That's stupid."
"Shut up. I'm going to bed."
"So are you using your macbook then?"
"Yes. And if I wasn't, it's still mine to use and I only lend it to you because I'm kind."
"Yeah, that's your ideology."
"Oh, fuck off."

"I'm really worried about my dissertation."
"You're always worried about your dissertation, Mags.."
"But I don't feel like I've DONE anything yet."
"You've written 2500 words."
"Yes, but I haven't DONE anything today."
"Well, you have."
"But I haven't. I've just sat in the library with foreign students who TALK in the silent study section."
"But you've read stuff."
"Well yeah, I SUPPOSE. We really need to pay these bills." (This is said every week, it's never happened yet.)

Screentest

2007-03-06T12:59:00.000-08:00

My housemates Maggie and Martin are horrendously more talented than me, and they were nominated for some student film awards this weekend. We fancied a weekend away and carted ourselves a few miles west to enjoy the cultural hub that is Bristol.

And onto the festival. There's a saying about student films: They're either too long, or much too long. We were subjected to both. We thought it would be good to take in a few animations and music videos, as they surely couldn't be more than five minutes, right? Wrong. One of the gems was an 'animation' that was made by walking through the streets of Canterbury and filming it on high exposure and making the lights strobe. For eight minutes.

We breathed a sigh of relief when it came to the comedy bit. Well, until they put on a lovely little number called 'Genre'. The premise itself was okay - exploring the different genres of film through comedy. Problem was, it wasn't funny in the slightest. Unless you're about eight. And have no brain. Also, the technical quality wasn't fab either. Two words: Audio Optional.

The cast couldn't act, the cuts were bad, editing was horrendous. And the worst of it - it was 28 minutes long. 28 MINUTES!! 28 minutes of hell!

The awards themselves were fantastic. We got completely slaughtered on free cobra beer, Martin won an award and thanked our media school for spending all our kit bidget on plasma media screens, and we drank more beer. fantabulous.

However, it couldn't last forever. Maggie's film lost to a wank film about a man who eats nothing but carrots alll day for four days... he turns into a carrot in the end. he called it vegetise me. how original. it wasn't funny and it wasn't clever. twat.

we spent the rest of the night attempting to steal expensive software, but then got a conscience when we were actually successful and gave it back. Martin later threw up on the bar and managed to get away with it. That was about the height of the excitement, but I'm still moving to Bristol at some point. One, it's a very lovely cultural city, and two, the blokes are much much better looking than the ones in Bournemouth. And they don't highlight their hair.

Hello, Robert Lettings... please press 1 if you want a lobotomy

2007-02-25T08:53:00.000-08:00

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.

Taaroff.... an article by Martin

2007-02-22T15:14:00.000-08:00

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.

Technological Wizardry - not always a good thing

2007-02-22T15:10:00.000-08:00

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.

Wo(Man) Flu

2007-02-22T14:56:00.000-08:00

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....

Gym Bunnies

2007-01-28T14:51:00.000-08:00

So, this whole fitness fanatic thing is great... I'm starting to look less pregnant now, which is nice. Martin's brainwashing 'no one is every going to love you if you stay this fat forever' seems to be working. Only thing is, the gym classes are a little taxing. Not because they're tiring, more that I'm a bit special needs when it comes to staying in time with the moves. I'm sure I provide much entertainment for not only the instructor, but the whole class as I try to keep up with their endless coded aerobics steps.

I bet they make them difficult to understand on purpose, to confuse newcomers with no co-ords, like me. Imagine my embarassment when the instructor shouted out something incomprehensible and the whole class surged towards me. Obviously, I try to copy them, only for them to move to the other side, so that I bump into the tanned blonde girl who clearly attends every class in existence and knows the moves with her eyes closed. She's scantily clad in some little black shorts and a crop top, and gives me a look of disgust.

Anyhoo, what I'd really like to comment on today is Big Brother. I know, I know... but this has to be said.. what was with all the fireworks? They must have cost an absolute fortune. Which is fair enough.. I guess Endemol is minted enough to afford it. But then again, that's not surprising seeing as they pay their runners £50 a day.... a shift that starts at 9am and ends at 1am. So, what, that's less than minimum wage then. They get around it by writing into the contract 'your hours are 9-5 but you're expected to work outside these hours.' Well done, Endemol, you tight bastards.

SingStar

2007-01-25T07:36:00.000-08:00

We've found a NEW obsession in the house... no Nintendo Wii as yet, so we now play Sing*Star*. Anyone not familiar with this game, well, you're lucky. Otherwise you'll become a crazily competitive singer who actually can't sing, even though Sing*Star* tells you that you can. Like Maria... bless her. She's provided hours of entertainment with her lack of singing skills. And Martin keeps getting in a strop because I tend to beat him, even though I 'can't sing for shit', apparently. Yes, well, tell that to Sting*Star* who tells me that I'm a 'rising star' and tell Martin that he's a 'wannabe'. ha!

The other exciting news comes from Roberts Letting Agency... they've decided to charge us for unblocking our drains. When I called the manager to discuss it, she told us she'll ring us back. She still hasn't done so, so we're ignoring them now. We've even considered recording a voicemail message specially for them:
"Hello. Welcome to Woodend. Please press one for administration issues and two for payment.'
"Thanks. If you'd like us to pay our bill, please wait for us to connect you to Martin."
"You are now on hold. We'll keep you on hold for approximately five hours, during which you can listen to annoying music telling you how great we are. Please note, this call costs £170 per minute, to account for administration fees. These enable us to do f*** all for you all year and is a very necessary charge. Thanks for your patience."

Thanks Roberts. I've also come up with a good idea for a Chrstmas card to send them next year, somethiing along the lines of 'On the tenth day of Christmas, Roberts gave to me, ten ceilings leaking, 9 boilers breaking.... and so on.

It's far too cold today.

why I hate automated voice systems

2007-01-17T07:36:00.000-08:00

We've let our bills pile up on top of the fridge, and they're not disappearing. So, I, having lost shotgun (as I do EVERY time) was chosen to sort it all out. The first two bills were paid over the net, and weren't too problematic. However, our water bill wasn't quite so easy...

bournemouth water: 'hello, and welcome to bournemouth water. this is an automated voice service. Do you want to pay your bill?

me: yes

bw: did you say yes?

me: yes

bw: let me check that again. did you say yes?

me: YES!!!

bw: thank you. please give me your reference number

me: 5649023

bw: did you say 734020?

me: no?

bw: let's try that again. please state your reference number.

me: 5649023

bw: did you say 8165430?

me: NO!

bw: okay, please key in that number using the touchtone keypads on your telephone.

me: why didn't you tell me that in the first place?

bw: did you say 7999988?

me: No, I said you're a stupid cow.

bw: okay. pleae key in your number now.

I key it in.

bw: okay. please give me your bank details.what is your account number?

me: 7895727829

bw: thank you. did you say 8997928882?

me: no.

bw: okay. I am unable to process your request. I will put you through to one of our operators.

me: thank goodness for that.

(ring ring)

bw: I am sorry, none of our operators can take your call at the moment. Please leave a contact number and we will call you back.

me: 01202736737

bw: did you say 8363739391010?

me: Oh, for heaven's sake! (slams down phone)

I recovered myself and called an hour later. this time i figured out the system and paid. they then asked for my contact number in case of any issues,

me: 07965391099

bw: did you say 802716263?

me: no.

bw: okay. sorry, my mistake. let's try that again.

me: 07965391099

bw: did you say 80271628272?

me: NO!

bw: Okay, let's leave that. Goodbye.

good news... bills paid.

things that drove me crazy today

2007-01-16T14:47:00.000-08:00

firstly: big brother: jade goode belongs in a cage. she's ugly, she's vulgar, she has no personality, she's annoying and she's a complete bitch as well. BB is everything that is wrong with British Society today... my housemate insists on having it on, thus I hear what is going on. sounds like hell.

secondly: perverted men in swimming pools who do more staring than swimming.

thirdly: old people who natter in the pool instead of swim. it's a pool, not a bingo hall

fourthly: orange. they are the worst customer service phone company IN THE WORLD.

fifthly: roberts letting agency. need we say more? they charged us for fixing our drain. but george is quite nice.

rant over... i have finished my draft dissertation so i am happy, for the next few days anyway. feel quite chilled, so far, anyway!

A typical scene in our lounge

2007-01-12T12:21:00.000-08:00

The news is on.
'Well done, Tone. I'd like to see you strung up by a rope, hanging from my ceiling, you miserbale, tax swiping old...'
"Dear, don't be ugly. it's not very Christian-like."
'Well, neitehr is he, is he?"
My mother sighs and continues to squint into her laptop screen. A few moments later she reads aloud an amusing story. Which is nice, but it's in Afrikaans, a langauge which I have almost forgotten. I nod and smile. 'Yes, very funny."
"Tell Wardar to bring his troops forward so they inteconnect with Nurofens. I hate cherbils. They always bring my health down.'
'J?"
"Yes, sister?"
"Shut up. You're so loud and I cant hear the TV.'
He grumbles and continues to mutter into his headset about a world that doesnt actually exist.
"Is it okay if I take the car tonight?'
"Sure." My mum says,
"Where a you going? No one told me you were going out. Where are you going?" My dad does this a lot.
"Out. With friends."
"Who?"
"Um, Phil?"
"Phil who?"
"Phil phil, you know.'
My dad turns to my mom. "Who?"
"You know Phil dear, the one you didn't like."
"No. What's this rubbish on TV? Lost? Change the channel."
We ignore him and continue to watch.
"I hate these kinds of programs. So unrealistic."
He continues to mutter,
"So, why are they on the island. Who is he?"
"He's the doctor, dad."
"Why does he have a tatoo like that? Why do they have to type in that code?"
"To stop the end of the world, Dad."
"Who is she? Does she like the blonde guy - what's his name?"
"Sawyer, Dad. I thought you didn't like this programme?"
"I don't. So why is that guy still so fat? i thought they had no food?"
And the scene continues...

New Year, New You -and a boring update

2007-01-05T16:09:00.000-08:00

I'm usually quite cynical about that whole New Years resolution thing, but I really feel that 2007 is a new start for me this year. For various reasons, 2006 wasn't the best of years but I have a feeling that this year will be a lot better.

I saw out the year in true style - Honeyclub in Brighton held a masked ball, and though it wasn't that well organized, we had an amazing night anyway. Managed to sneak five of us into the hotel, stumbled into the breakfast suite at ten the next day still wearing our black dresses and black eyeliner (now streaked across our entire faces) and shocked a few families... ah well.

I'm now working at DHL, which isn't too bad, apart from the fact that I have to walk across the docks and endure a lot of attention from middle aged men who act like they've never seen a girl before. One more shout of 'allright, luv?' and I wil not be responsible for my actions, I swear.

We told our electricity supplier that we can't pay our bill because we've bought a Nintendo Wii instead - speaking of which - it's amazing! They weren't too happy, but Eric (the nice man on the phone) did say that he didn't blame us, and that if we pay online we get a big discount, and can we please pay it soon because he'd hate to see a Nintendo Wii not being used if they cut off our electricity... oh. yeah. good point.

My beautiful, amazing housemates threw me a mad hatter un ubirthday party which was amazing. In fact, the whole week was pretty amazing apart from the little tiff me and martin had in the club whcih involved in us smacking each other in public. oops.

I had a little tour of the country and went to visit martin and maggie in their various abodes.. which was much much fun... we played cranium with martins parents which was hysterical.

i'm boring myself now.. sorry guys. oh - the last important news. I am now in love.. with the guy from prison break. isn't he just amazing? any lookalikes, please email. or wentworth, if you are reading this, please understand that I am fully serious when I say I want to run away with you forever and have lots of sex... but no babies please... love love, all.

Scrubs

2006-12-18T11:30:00.000-08:00

There should be more TV programmes like Scrubs... it's got that whole wicked combination of being hysterically funny, off-the- wall crazy and poignant at the same time. I always feel a little low at the end of the term, but watching tonight's episode put it all in perspective for me - the quote 'nothing worth having in this world comes easy' is one that I have heard before, but it really struck me this time, and made me realise that it's completely true. Relationships, acheivements and all that jazz definitely don't come easy, and you're only going to get there with a lot of work and a bit of bravery, too.

It's very easy to give up striving to be the best person you think you can be, and just act like everybody else, drink away your problems and take mind-altering drugs that make you stop caring. It's incredibly tempting to escape reality, but you can't do it forever. Soon enough it's going to trip you up, and that fall is going to hurt.

I generally hate new year's resolutions as a concept, but I do believe in self-improvement, and I do know that I've gotten a little side-tracked the last few months. So it is time to change that, and focus on what is good and get away from what is bad for me.

5 songs to make it all okay again

2006-12-09T15:26:00.000-08:00

Just like a cup of tea often seem the answer to everything, music has the ability to heal the soul. I've come across 5 songs in the past few weeks that I've noticed have been able to uplift or comfort me whenever I have felt down. So, if you need a little perspective, I recommend you check these tracks out:

1) Let Go - Frou Frou. As featured in the stunning cult film Garden State, it’s an incredible tune with soaring melodies, guaranteed to lift your spirits!

2) Move On Now – Hardfi. It’s not always easy being told to move on, particularly, when you don’t want to. However, this track soothes and comforts you and makes moving on seem almost appealing, and definitely the right thing to do. Perfect if you’re in the middle of a break-up.

3) You Only Get What You Give – The New Radicals. They may have only released one album, but there’s something about this song that just makes you smile.

4) Jamiroquai – Canned Heat. Sheer brilliance. Just makes you want to get up and dance. Guaranteed to jolt you out of any bad mood. I personally think they should make a musical base on their tunes. Oh, and JK is on my list.

5) Heartbeats – The Knife. A brilliant band in anycase, Heartbeats has to be possibly one of the best tunes ever.

Dissertations are a pile of....

2006-12-05T04:01:00.000-08:00

I hate research. I don't want to read or write about Jurgen Habermas in his coffee house. Shouldn't he just drink coffee in a coffee house, not create an entire media theory surrounding it? And then people write books such as 'After Habermas' - as if we need more information about what people talk about whilst having coffee. Get over it. They have coffee, they slag off Tony Blair, they go home. There's a media theory for you.

Ok, ok. I know I should really be embracing this opportunity to expand my mind and write academic crap. But I can't do it. I have the attention span of an ant. Ok, maybe not an ant because they can actually follow a trail all day. I've watched them. I can read for about two minutes and then I start thinking about other things. Like getting a coffee. And the last thing I want to talk about when actually drinking my coffee is the state of the world today.

See, I'm already bored of writing this. How am I going to concentrate for long enough to write 10,000 words on The New Public Sphere? It's just not going to happen.

Pointless Assignments

2006-12-04T07:56:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I admit that I'm using more time and energy complaining about this work than actually doing it, but seriously. What is the point in writing stupid placement reports and production analysis essays??? I would rather jump out a window, but it's raining. I also have to leave my cosy (heated - yay!) house in a minute to go to a completely pointless lecture where I never learn anything. I'm in a really tetchy moody today, no idea why. Just want to complain about EVERYTHING.

Hot water, and everything!

2006-12-01T15:41:00.000-08:00

'Morning, Roberts.'
'Hi, our boiler is broken. Can we have it fixed, please?'
'Sure, no problem. FYI, we're gonna send some 12 year olds round to look at it, but they won't be qualified, so then we'll send someone else round a few days later. He'll say he doesn't have the parts. Then the landlord will decide he wants someone else to look at it. So he'll send three people round for a quote, after which we may eventually get something done. That ok?'

The day arrived. We were all relatively hungover as it had been Maggie's birthday the night before. Lucky Maria managed to get a shower in before they turned the water off (without telling us). The rest of us weren't so lucky. I emerged eventually to find six plumbers in our kitchen. that's right, six. Word had obviously got round the plumber's world about the saga of our boiler. I think they were sitting round, drinking tea and exchanging stories about what day they'd been round to look at it.

"Yeah, I was here Tuesday. Had right keruffle with it. It wasn't happy, I tell ya."
"Really? Well, I was here Thursday. Gave me a headache, it did."
They seemed to be having a brilliant time at their little convention. Ha. Just fit the boiler, please.

And then, miraculously, it was done. The radiators were hot to the touch. The kitchen tap could be used to run hot water for the washing up. Bliss. We sat in front of our telly, without three layers on for the first time in weeks, marvelling at this new luxury of heating.

'Shit!' Martin jumped up from the couch. "Something dripped on me!"
We gazed upwards to see droplet forming on the lounge ceiling, directly below the bathroom.

Brrrilliant.

Thoughts on living the city life

2006-11-23T13:15:00.000-08:00

I’ve been in London for the past two weeks. Work experience. Which has been fun – and the whole London thing is beginning to grow on me. At first I found it quite depressing, getting in when it’s dark, spending far too much time holed up on the tube and battling masses of people, all as intent in getting to their destination as you are.

However, I also love the lights, the action, the sense of urgency, which is both as addictive as it is exciting. That said, I could never live in the big smoke unless I was utterly in love with my job. And paid a lot to do it.

Give me a London which lets me go for long walks in Richmond Park or along the Embankment every weekend, and gets me out and about the city during the week, taking photographs and speaking to interesting people. Give me a London that doesn’t consist solely of staying in a tiny flat on the weekends, recovering from the mother of all hangovers.

Not that I’m against partying, though. Not at all. In fact, give me a London where I can go to gigs at least every month, and visit the Ministry, Pasha, Koko or Fabric as often as possible. I want to visit exhibitions and shop to my heart’s content at Camden market.

Thing is, the poor man’s London can become nothing more than a blur of subways, hours at the office and a few small hours at home in front of the telly watching I’m a Celebrity – please kill me before I make more of an arse of myself, or subject you to truly awful TV.” Or something like that, anyway.

Our Boiler

2006-11-19T02:52:00.000-08:00

Our boiler is broken. We could have told Roberts that this was going to happen. In fact, we DID tell them that it was going to happen. Oh, but I don't think I've yet mentioned our glorious letting agency, Roberts. Well. Let's see. We paid £700 in fees/deposit before we even moved into the property, and then found out that NOTHING worked. I'm going to post an article my housemates wrote about just how shit they actually are, because I can't be arsed to go into it myself.

Anyway. So, we wrote them a letter explaining that the boiler is dodgy, and then on Friday we discovered that our heating had packed up. Fab. Only on the coldest night of the year, mind you.

Saturday morning I ring them THREE times to find out just what they're going to do about it. Eventually 'Oh, did we not tell you. Yes, the plumbers will be round soon."
Thanks for letting us know, you silly cow.
Two 12-year olds arrive at our door an hour later. Apparently, they're the plumbers. Well, one of them is. The other one is work experience boy, and a gormless looking one at that. Seriously, neither of them looks old enough to drive the van that they've just parked (rather badly, might I add) outside our driveway.

Maggie walks into the kitchen just as they take the cover off the boiler. Both the boys stare at it. There's water dripping EVERYWHERE.
"Well, it's not 'appy" says the plumber.
Really? We could have told them that. They're not being paid £50 an hour to tell us that our boiler isn't happy.
"Well, what's wrong with it?" Maggie asks.
"I dunno. But it's not 'appy." Work experience boy nods gormlessly in agreement.
After a lengthy examiination, the plumber pronounces our boiler fucked.
"It's gonna need a real expensive repair job, or a new boiler" he says sagely.
Well done, Captain Obvious. That didn't occur to us, at all.

We ring Roberts again.
"Well, basically the plumber isn't qualified to fix your boiler," the woman says. No surprise there, love.
"So, you're gonna have to hold on till Monday for the electrician to come round."

I'm writing this wrapped in my flannel pj's, gown, wearing two pairs of socks and have a hot water bottle to boot. Thank goodness I'm going back to London tonight. It might be a rat-infested, smoggy, overcrowded, with a shit transport system that NEVER works, hellhole, but at least it's warm.

London Calling

2006-11-17T19:16:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I officially now loathe and detest London transport. I am now going to be a full HOUR late because they build the fucking lines so far apart. Did I mention that I was carrying the heaviest suitcase in the world as well as my macbook? And there are just so many damn people who don’t move out the WAY so it takes twice as long to get anywhere. So, missed my first train back and then had to wait haf an hour for the next one, which was late. I spent most of the wait on the phone, however, which made it go quicker. Patience is not my strong point.

It’s the magazine launch tonight and I’m going to be late. Never mind, I’ll just swan in fashionably late. Oh, but wait. You’re forgetting this is me. I’ll probably trip on the stairs on my way in, spill my drink all over someone and then attempt to kiss someone I shouldn’t. Nevertheless, I’m very excited to see the mag, Apparently it’s the best one yet.

Last night was pretty amazing though, to put a positive spin on things. One of the good things about being in London is meeting the girls after work. I’ve really missed living with them. We started at a little bar called ‘Jewel’ Picadilly which was pretty swanky, although there were quite a few old men there who attempted to chat us up and lure us in with wine. It didn’t work – Hayley started talking about her ponies (that don’t exist) and that was kind of the end of the conversation. They were mortgage brokers, though. They even tried to sell us a mortgage. Charming,

We were starving by this point, and having learned my lesson (don’t drink if you haven’t eaten!) we made our way down Regent Street and found this amazing bar that had eastern food and had sheisha’s. Sold! Two bottles of wine and some overpriced but delicious bar snacks later, as well as a cherry-flavoured sheisha, we were suitably fed and watered, and stuck for what to do next. Conveniently, we happened to be next to the Ice bar, which, funnily enough, is made of ice.

We had to wear these thermal coats with fluffy hoods and posed with loads of ice statues (even the bar counter and the walls were made of ice!) It was COLD man. But really, really fun.

Hayley launched herself on some poor unsuspecting boy on the way home, but apart from that the rest of the night was generally uneventful.

I’ve managed to calm down slightly now, so the next mission is to find a friend to have a day of fun with me in London on Monday. Any suggestions?

Cabbages and Queens

2006-11-02T05:08:00.000-08:00

Our house has bee turned into a recording studio. Martin is working on the track for his minor film project, which is all very well, just not when you have to listen to it about fifty times A DAY!

I'm awoken every morning by a strange buzzing noise. I soon come to realise that it's the obscenely loud baseline that he insists on playing at a ridulous volume because 'I can't hear it properly otherwise.'

Well, then invest in some bloody headphones, you idiot. We dont want to listen to the lyrics about ' two dodgy looking men' ad nauseum. It's all very nice and a well produced record, well done, but as wonderful and as talented as you are, we're a little sick of it by now.

My Day in London

2006-10-30T06:31:00.000-08:00

'Hi, I'd like a travel card pleae.'
'Sure, that'll be £7 please."
"Thanks."
"FYI, none of the tubes are currently running today, so you'll have to get our replacement bus services."
"Right. So, why didn't you tell me this before I bought a ticket?"
He looked back at me, a deadpan expression pn his face.
"Ok. Anyway, so can I have a refund?"
"All our tickets are non refundable, I'm afraid."
"OK." I was running late. "Where do I get this bus, then?"
"It's the number 226 and it's about five miles up the road. Not far. Just keep walking. Oh, and there will be queues of people by the way, so you'll probably have to wait for the next bus. They come every hour."

I sighed. This was not a good start to the day.
Our auditions for two drag queens were not gonna be good. A few people dropped out, we drank a lot of tea, found our 'Walrus' and our 'Carpenter' and decided to attempt to get home.

Once we'd had an amazing meal at a little vegan chinese restaurant, we hotfooted it Victoria Coach Station. Slight problem - Martin didn't have an up to date ticket. He'd doctored it and changed the date, but had failed to change the reg number. Sure enough, Mr J. Obsworth saw that it was the wrong code, and had clocked us. We legged it from the coach station as they had his details on file. Much easier to blag a free lift on the train. Or so we thought.

We weren't particularly cosiderate on the train - at this point we'd reached delirum and played the soundtrack to the film ad nauseum on my macbook. Don't think the other passengers appreciated that, much. When the ticket lady came down to find us, we were far too delirious to care about the money. Penalty Fare, anyone? That'll be £66 pounds please. Thanks.

OCD

2006-10-22T05:53:00.000-07:00

Our house has been struck down by a severe case of OCD, also known as 'Obsessive Casting Disorder.' All three of my housemates are in the middle of sorting out their minor film projects and have advertised on various websites to get struggling actors to work for them for free. You'd think that actors wouldn't want to work for students who pay them nothing and treat them like shit. But Maggie's idea apparently appealed to a lot of women, so much so that she had over 200 applicants apply for the role.

The repsonses came through the post every day. Masses of brown envelopes containing big black and white photographs and CV's, all with a covering letter:
"Dear Maggie, I'd love a chance to audition for the role of Kate/Anna/Becki. I really identified with the script."
"Dear Maggie, please consider me for the role, I've acted for the BBC/ITV/rarara" (If you're that good love, why are you still doing student films, eh?) Not that we're not grateful, or anything.

Anyway. I digress. So, every day Mags would go downstairs and find a big pile of envelopes at the bottom of the stairs. First she would scream, then she would cry.
Now the symptoms of OCD begin:
1) Taping up the letterbox
2) Repapering your walls with actor's CV's.
3) Chanting the names of actresses in your sleep
4) Having a nervous breakdown when you check your email -("what? MORE applications?There can't be MORE! I've had 500 already in the past hour!")

There's more, but I won't go on too much. She's finally decided who she wants to audtion and made a schedule. So that's the end of the disease for her, but Martin's just posted his advert and has already had about 40 responses in the past hour. This sickness is catching...

Reasons not to leave your MySpace Account open

2006-10-19T14:36:00.000-07:00

My housemate left her MySpace account open the other day, so we had some fun meddling with her blogs!

Dixie

"Musseltof! I'm worried about Dixie I think my mum (her name's Marie) is trying to fatten her up so she can hold a big jewish party and feed her to the guests."

The guy at the gym

"So there's this guy at the gym. He's kinda cute and has got a 'fro. He likes to talk to me. I can't tell my housemates cos they'll take the piss. The other day he walked past me and accidently stroked my thigh, I liked it though. So much a bit of wee came out."

Don't leave your account open!

History Day!

2006-10-17T04:39:00.000-07:00

I've just been informed by my father (Happy Birthday Dad!) that today I have to write about history, and how it has affected me. Well, bit of a silly question, really, because history affects us all, whether we like it or not.

I always loved history lessons at school. My teacher, Miss Rose, instilled a love of history in most of her pupils, through her enthusiastic story telling and wry sense of humour. We were always encouraged to ask 'what if?' and 'how come?' We learned about the Renaissance, both World Wars, Vietnam and the Cold War, all of which has proved incredibly useful for me today, doing a journalism degree.

However, I have discovered that whilst I may have a good general idea of world history, there is a huge amount of people at my University who have absolutely no idea about what went on in the world twenty years ago, let alone earlier in the century. I won't refer to my housemate of last year as an example, because I think she is a rather dramatic exception rather than the rule - for example, she thought that John Major was Margaret Thatcher's son. She does a politics unit as part of her degree. I rest my case.

However, last year I did a unit called 'Global Perspectives.' Basically, looking at world history and how it has affected the state of the world today. The amount of people who had no idea about the Middle East Crisis or the Cold War completely astounded me. It was like it was compeltely new information to them that the world had been at the brink of a nuclear war. What on earth were they taught at school?

I won't bang on about this too much, because I will sound too much like my dad. However, I am very grateful to both him and my high school history teacher for giving me a great historical education.

Monday Blues

2006-10-17T04:38:00.000-07:00

Best way to start the week - NOT with a dissertation tutorial. The word 'rising panic' springs to mind. I was on the verge on bursting into tears and running away. Why did I decide to do a degree anyway? In fact, it's not the degree that's the problem, it's all the other things that I committ to doing - editing footage from our Leggit: Mission Impossible trip, for example. That was this weekend gone, when I could have actually got other things done. I know in the grand scheme of things that it's gonna be awesome and it's worth every tedious minute, but still.

I've already eaten half a packet of choc chip cookies. I'm meant to be on diet. But stress makes me want sugar.
Feeling slightly calmer now so am going to continue with my lovely research and hope that something will come of it.

Fish Seeks Bike

2006-10-17T04:36:00.000-07:00

I went to a night out in Bournemouth last night called 'Fish Seeks Bicycle.' It's hard to explain, but basically it's one of those very VERY alternative nights where they have random bands playing random music. For example, one of the bands was playing Irish jigs. The lead singer got naked. Bit of a shock, but once you've been to enough of these nights, nothing really shocks you anymore.

There's always a fancy dress code, and this time it was 'showdown.' Basically, dress as weirdly and wonderfully as you can, and truy outdo everyone else with your outfit. There were swashbuckling pirates, a man dressed as a carrot and a LOT of big blue afro's. I decided to do the Vogue thing and wear a black vintage drss with leggings and pull out all the stops on the dramatic black makeup and bedhead hair.

Naturally, there was the usual loved-up atmosphere that comes with those nights. Despite atrocious queues for the bar, (I blagged my way to the front every time!) nobody seemed annoyed and there was none of the aggression that usually comes with a Saturday night out in Bournemouth. No men grabbing my arse, no one spilling drinks on me, and no fights.

The tunes got better and better as the night went on. Bring on more nights like this one, and less nights where you queue for hours for a taxi, admist people being sick in the street. Fish Seeks.... everytime!

My Blog!

2006-10-17T04:26:00.000-07:00

My dad has been telling me for some time now that I, as a trainee journalist (hate that title, by the way) should really have a blog. Thing is, I'm ridiculously busy all of the time because I tend to try and do too many things at once. Therefore I end up spending all of my time running around and never have a spare minute to do anything else. However, decided that enough is enough and I will create a blog whether I like it or not. There, Dad, Happy?   
In all seriousness though, I think writing is a really important and relatively self-indulgent thing to do, and as I don't spend enough time on myself, maybe blogging is a roundabout way of doing it. So - a bit about me. I like this bit, talking about myself. I'm a third year journalism student/receptionist at a sports and arts centre/editor for Nerve* Magazine (www.nervemedia.net - download the latest version NOW)/ editor/film crew for Nerve* TV/sales assistant for Student's Union (occassionally, might I add) and I think that's all.  
As you can probably tell, I don't have time for a boyfriend and all the complications that come with that, although I do spend a fair amount of time obsessing about why a particular guy doesn't want to be with me, which is ridiculous really because I don't particularly want to be with him... or maybe I do... or not. Anyway. I'm obsessing. Again. I love to write, take photos of my friends, design magazine pages, and am trying to teach myself graphic deisgn which isn't going very well so far. I enjoy going out, but only with people who don't bore me (that happens easily) and am most happy at alternative music places like Consortium, 176 and Sound Circus.   
Hmmm... what else... I would say my philosophies in life are pretty general and I try to follow them most of the time: friends and family come first, don't have regrets, don't hold grudges, take life one day at a time, be open-minded but also hold fast to your morals, and don't judge. There. That was fun.