Horrrrifying weekend

I am not exaggurating. I am still a little shellshocked.

I may blog about it when I feel less distressed.

Then again, I may compress it into the farthest corner of my mind and forget it for evermore.

I will keep you posted.


Or not

Party pooping portaloos

Riiiight... slight change of plan on the party front owing to the fact the universe is stacked against me and the campsite i was planning on booking is bloody expensive and wants you to bring your own portaloo...

Yes. Your own portaloo.



Do any of you own a portaloo?



I thought not.




So new plan: we go out for eating and drinking in marlborugh, then we camp in my back garden for more drinking. Yes, its a bit shitter than the woods, but at least there will be toilets. Also, a nearby trampoline can replace my dreams of a bouncy castle in the middle of a dark forest. Not quite as awesome of course. But still bouncy.

Also, can you all bring lots of torches? Cos its quite dark at night this time of year.
Who knew?


P.S. And tents.

Birthday and braindeadnesinjsgylafueygdfb

Its my 18th Birthday tomorrow. I feel oddly underwhelmed, and also skull-crushingly tired.. I should really shop going to bed at half twelve on school nights, because Family Guy, although the most hilarious thing from America since the speeches of George Bush, is just not worth it. My party is next Saturday.. Jems has already covered that pretty adequately on her blog. Bring booze and lots of blankets. And tents and space heaters and large bouncy castles if you have them. And giant inflatable penises, because you can't have a party without one of them, and I misplaced the one I found at the mop :(

Now I had a large archive of witty anecdotes and hilarious stories (in my mind) to share in this post, seeing as I haven't posted in a month (:O) ....... but i'm too durrn tired for it right now, I would never do them justice. So 'til next time children.






P.S Should I do a Jems and demand Happy Birthday messages from you all to make me look popular? Is it worth it? Abandoning all my dignity and self-worth so close to the anniversary of my entrance into this world?









P.P.S Yes.

What else is Facebook good for?

:D

Tiredness and weekend rampages, or something.

I am tired.

I say tired, actually I feel like I have been turned into a human sponge, filled with water, wrung out repeatedly and then sentenced to a weeks hard labour in a juvenile sponge camp. And just so you know, that means i'm very very tired.

The reason for this tiredness possibly stems from my ridiculously busy weekend which went something along the lines of this:
get up at seven on Saturday for my waitrose induction day, iron everything and make breakfast, burn breakfast, make toast, do hair, do make up, quickly check waitrose letter to check the exact time I have to be there, realise I don't have to be there til half ten, realise I could have had two hours longer in bed, fling pillow across room in frustration, watch X factor reruns in frustration, go into waitrose for proper time, watch a million ridiculous training dvds and answer multiple choice questions about fire safety, leave waitrose, go to carnival, get monumentally pissed, engage in various stupid activities such as falling off a wall, riding in a drunkenly driven car, ill-advised snogging and tripping off every pavement I was stupid enough to set foot on, go back to friends house, go to bed at around 2, get up at seven, go into work at the bar with a hangover to end all hangovers, work like a sloth on slow pills (I dont think anyone noticed the difference), drive myself home, stall at a roundabout, get home, have some dinner, watch X factor, go to bed.

Now if you felt faint exhaution and/or nausea while reading that, imagine how it felt living it. My inability to go to bed at a sensible time on school nights has not helped this, and for that I blame Family Guy. I could be at a party tonight, and I should be on a school trip, but..... my bed is for once looking surprisingly attractive. At least, it will do once I clear it of uni prospectuses and empty pom-bear packets.

So on that note I bid you all good night. You, my faithful seven followers. For now, i'm going to ignore the fact that one of the seven is me. I'm not actually sure how that happened. But I luff you all. I do.






*nods wisely*

The haunted playground and other tales

Friday night was, as they say in France, a proper larf (or 'un rire approprié', according to babelfish. This translates back as 'a suitable laughter'. But you get the point). My friends BJ and Ewan (see any posts about drunken antics, as I don't know how to do the clever linksies thing) came down to stay, as well as Jems and my friend Cadi from swindon who I havent seen in forever. We all went out on the town, but could not get completely shitfaced because a) I had been on medication all day and apparently this does not mix well with alcohol and b) everyone else was broke. So we all got double vodka and cokes and made them last a few hours under the watchful eye of the pervy head waiter, who gives many underage girls free roses out of the kindness of his heart (read: trousersnake). Of course, this is as long as they give him a kiss in return, as we found out the friday before when we were in the same place for a friends 18th. I assume that a bunch of them would cost at least a blowjob, but although I like roses, I am not willing to find out, so alas I went home roseless..

Anyways, afterwards we all made our merry way off to the kiddies park (because we are too cool for clubs, alright?) where we indulged in some chav-baiting by pushing the swings until they swung jerkily by themselves, spinning the roundabout into a slow, creaking orbit and making the bouncing horse rock spookily on its spring before standing outside the park gates in awestruck/frightened silence (which was ocassionally broken up by some pretendy terrified shivering, stifled giggling or 'videoing' the sight on a mobile phone) until our prey, a single tracksuited chav taking a moonlit stroll ambled along and stood beside us looking confused.
'Look mate. They're all moving by themselves. Thats wired isn't it? Creepy.' promted Ewan. Trackiebums mumbled an incoherent response, probably something along the lines of 'innit', before fleeing to the public loos nearby to snort coke or rock himself to sleep, or whatever it is chavs do these days. Cruel maybe, but it bought us much amusement.

At around midnight we went back to mine, made ourselves a nice little mountain of junk food and watched 'Donkey Punch'. Jems has already adequately covered the utter shitness of this movie in her blog (http://reckoner97.blogspot.com/2009/09/donkey-fudging.html), so I don't feel I need to go into too many details. What I will say however, is if your a quite thick, fake tanned slaggy type, who cannot even shave your armpit without bleeding half to death (see first five minutes of movie), what makes you think you will survive a night on a boat with four creepy posh guys hell-bent on killing you with dodgy sex-acts/ rusty chainsaws they happen to have lying around on their million-quid yacht? That is the moral of the story. Armpits first, single-handedly tackling four killer-perverts later, but not all in the same film because that is bordering on ridiculous. And i'm really not sure weather i'm aiming this at the director, the quite thick slaggy type or you guys, or weather i'm in fact making any sense at all, but listen to me because I am wise.

On a less rambling note, I went to work today and finally handed in my notice, as i'm starting at waitrose next weekend. I'm not really sure weather i'm actually allowed to quit though, because when I told the boss about my plans to run away and never come back I was met with a vaugue respone and something about coming in for a 'staff meeting'. What?! I am a part time waitress. I am not 'staff'. But anyway, they sent me home early because all our customers had mysteriously disappeared for several hours, which was nice. I should probably be disappointed that I lost £12 pay through this and no one had given me lunch, but honestly I couldn't give a flying fuck. I have lost all interest in that job, and I think the only reason I really show up anymore is for the constant supply of free milkshakes and the amusement of pissing around in the pot room with Annie and Roxie. Our mini-waterfights have so far gone unnoticed, I think.

Plus I went and got a better lunch at Waitrose after I left. Waitrose is the future. The End.

Dreams of the not-so-distant-future

Today is the last day of August. Therefore if I do not blog today, I will only have blogged twice in the whole month, and that, even for me, is truly shameful. So join me on this quest to fill my small allotment in cyberspace with more of my useless nonsense and bewildering anecdotes.

Which reminds me.

I had a dream the other night. And it sticks in my mind because, unlike most of my dreams, it was shockingly normal. It almost could have happened in real life. Basically, in my dream, I was sat in Costa (See? Costa! Not a siberian brothel, or the inside of an elephants anus. Utterly, bizarrely normal) talking to a friend who is about to bugger off to uni for the best years of his life. He wasn't very exited though. In fact, he said he was really nervous about making friends, and asked me for a few good conversation starters to use at freshers week. After rejecting my best ones ('Fancy a shag? Go oon, it won't take long' and the ever sucessful 'Like me, please like me, oh god why won't you like me?!') I lost my patience and asked him what the hell he was so nervous about. He looked at me like I was a twat in a furry cowboy hat. Which, to be fair, was half right.

'I'm going to UNI. I know nobody. No one knows me. No one knows each other. I've reached the top of grownupiness, yeah? But basically, we're all a bunch of clueless teenagers who are gunna be stuck together in a bunch of rooms sharing a kitchen and all trying to pretend we're grown up, when actually we all really really miss having our mums wash our socks. And more to the point, what if we don't like each other? Theres no going back now. I spent ages filling out that bloody UCAS form. And my mum would kill me if I backed out now, kill me like a bug. And then refuse to wash my socks.'

I looked at him blankly for a second, then told him (in what I like to think was a sympathetic manner) to stop being such a pussy and pack his socks. Shortly after, I woke up, marvelled at the normalness of my dream, and fell back to sleep only to have a nightmare involving train-jacking carrots.

The dream did get me thinking though. In one year, if all goes well in the results and financial departments, I too will be buggering off to uni. I have looked forward to this ever since I understood the concept of uni (the concept being there are no parents and no one really gives a shit if you skip lectures). It is, to all teenagers who managed to scrape the results for sixth form, the shimmering dream on the horizon of shite that gets us through A levels, parental screaming, teachers nagging and the all round annoyance of not being quite 18. University is freedom.
But!
What if you get to freedom and it turns out to actually be a little bit wank? What if you have to share a bathroom with a posh girl who moans about missing her cat, and it rains all the time, and you have no money for booze? What if you start your course and realise it actually isnt what you want to do with your life? What if run out of money for accomodation half way through your second year and have to give up and go home?

Of course, I don't really expect any of this to happen. In my mind, university will be fucking great no matter what because i'll be truly doing my own thing for the first time ever. And if I have to share a bathroom with an upper-class cat-lover and take out loans i'll need to leave the country to escape then so be it. But nevertheless, the dream has made me start looking at university a bit more realistically (i.e. not as a giant 3 year party/solver of all my problems) which I suppose can only be a good thing.

Plus, I have to get in there first. Hmmm.

Results and Robots. And Waitrose.

I have been offered a job at Waitrose. This surprises me a bit, partly because it is neither the position nor hours that I applied for, and partly because the group interview I was made to attend was one of the single most baffling experiences of my life, and I was fairly sure I had exposed myself as a bumbling incoherent nincompoop in said interview. I mean, I was made to 'sell' a pot of spanish saffron to my interviewer and the rest of the group. It went something like 'Er, well this saffron is Spanish *long pause* And its made in Spain! So really Spanish, you know, not anything from um.. China. Or Taiwan. These days you get a lot of artificial... overseas... and um, mass produced. Or something *second long pause* Also its recycleable!'

Well ok, it was a bit better than that, because I threw some posh words around. But you get the idea. I also had to give a presentation on myself, and we had to do a bunch of 'team exercises' which involved making posters and getting in line according to date of birth etc. and watch an extremely happy (bordering on brainwashingesque) Waitrose promotional dvd, starring a fat man with the scary enthusiasm of a cult leader and the bald shiny head of a skin-coloured bowling ball. And the attractive too-small green shirt of the waitrose corporation.

But anyway, i'm happy I got the job even if the hours are a bit shitty. It means I can FINALLY leave waitressing! FOREVER! And soon hopefully, before they realise that they keep accidentally paying me for one hour more than i'm owed, or discover CCTV footage of me secretly eating their biscuits behind the shelf in the pot room. Or more to the point, actually notice how phenomenally shit I am everything waitress-inspired, fire me, and call every shop in town to warn them about me.

In other news, I got my AS level results a couple of days ago. All Bs. I was actually thrilled with this - the voice of doom in my head had been telling me for a long time that I had definately failed psychology, and i'd been having some quite disturbing dreams about recieving my results. These dreams ranged from your simple get-to-school-and-find-out-you've-failed-everything dream, to one in which I got all As, but a large hamster in a beret (that was for some reason my brothers new pet) ate my results and no one would believe I'd passed. Consequently I had to sit my exams again under the supervision of large chrome robots who kept stealing my pen and laughing at me. Robots can be very cruel. Then I was sent to work at the new sainsburys that had opened up next door to school, because all the distractions had ruined my career prospects and rendered me incapable of doing anything other than bagging groceries in a shell-shocked manner.




But everyone has wired dreams like that right??

Pimp or gay wizard?

This morning, my younger brother came up to me wearing my fluffy pink dressing gown.

'I think I look like a pimp. Mum says I look like a gay wizard' he told me folornly

Then he walked off.




I don't know why i'm even surprised.

The time has come...

for me to blog about the bizarre events of a drunken last friday. Unfortunately, Jems has beaten me to it (that outrageous filthy skank) and has probably revealed all the best bits, so it is up to me to conjure up a poor imitation of the blog she has already written on the subject - which is, regrettably, hilarious.

Also, she seems to remember a great deal more than me.

At first, all I could really recall was cracking open the tequila and rum, fuzzy details of laughter and a toilet bowl, then waking up. However over the week, details are slowly returning to me. And much like a previously-comatose-recently-recovered detective trying to recall details from her own life after being run over by a large bus for the elderly, I shall attempt to put them into some sort of order.

8.30ish: We open the tequila. And some amaretto. And beers. And some extremely random fruit juice mixers. And rum. We commence drinking.

9ish?: There is a lot of laughing. A lot. Ewan goes to fetch some cards - he is more sober than the rest of us and thinks we should play a card game. The cards have naked ladies on them.

Later: Ewan and Jems exit the room. I hear a lot of shouting - something to to with 'Have you seen Ewans HUGE cock?!'. Jems insists she said clock, ('CLOCK with an L!') I was not so sure... until the morning when I saw it. He does indeed have a bloody huge clock. Kudos.

Even later?: Ewan brings in an orange snake. It is his pet. I am so drunk at this point that this does not even seem bizarre - it is in fact, regular. Mundane. And also, I forget to be scared. I touch the snake - it is warm and squishy! Are snakes meant to be like that? I ponder aloud at the health of Ewans snake.

Could have been any time: 28 days later is on. BJ annoyingly tries to explain the plot, but he is the drunkest and his explanation makes very little sense. He also talks at length about how 'nice' everything is - this night, us, him, our drunken togetherness, the film, nipples, Ewans curtains...

Sometime after midnight: The boys decide we should take a walk through the dark streets of WB to 'clear our heads'. We get outiside... the boys are not wearing tops. I am not wearing shoes. The night is very cold. We take a walk.

1-3AM: General fuzziness... more laughter. BJ lies spread-eagled across Ewans compost heap outside, groaning. I laugh at him. Then I retire to the bathroom and lie by the toilet groaning. At some point, me and Jems collapse in Ewans bed. A few hours later, we wake up.


The end (I think..)


Disclaimer: I'm actually quite a nice person really. I don't do this sort of thing a lot. But I do reserve my right to fulfil the stereotype of drunken british binge bitch-wino occasionally - after all, the rest of Europe need something to tut about while they make clocks and nod approvingly at their high standards of education and superior foodstuffs.

FurtherDisclaimer: I love the rest of Europe. Exept that Mario guy from the pool in that campsite in France - Mario, if your reading this, go away no one likes you. And those were not real speedos.


I am off to the lake district with Jems tomorrow for more hilariarse antics (in our heads anyway) so shall not be blogging for a while. However, you are never far from my mind. Whoever you are.
Au revoir.

'My feet have a brain-freeze!'

I think I just spilled mousteriser on my knee. It feels cold and mousteriser-ey, and the bottle is now on the floor. But I don't want to look.

In other news, yesterday was a bunch of larks which nicely broke the monotony of recent dark times. Me and Jems faithfully turned up to social studies for the second time in two weeks running!!! We are practically running the thing. Of course, we shouldnt have bothered... our glourious leader (otherwise known as the Portly One, Pieman, or Doc H) only wanted to show us a bunch of slides of the new school and ramble at length about each one. This is all very well, but the new school is barely half finished, so he was basically just showing us pictures of rooms in derelict building, decorated with the occasional cement mixer, and giving us five minute speeches on what wonderful media rooms/canteen/boys toilets they would some day become. It was hard to share his glowing vision of the sixth form common room when we were staring at grey concrete, metal beams and a grumpy dude in a flourescent jacket ('Thats our project manager! Bill!').

Anyways. When he'd finally finished, practically begged people to ask questions and waddled off, beaming, to a chorus of unenthusiastic applause, we were free to bugger off wherever we wanted. So bugger off we did, and me and Jems both crammed on my bike (which has seen better days. And better arses - Jems was on the saddle. LOL! Sorry Jems, i'm feeling playful) and wobbled off to the rec near my house. Where we stripped off our shoes and socks, rolled up our jeans and paddled in the privately owned river in the rain, like the rebels of nature we are. We also sang, and stabbed our feet on rocks, and screamed, and laughed, and nearly fell over A LOT. Good times.

But very, very cold.

The best part however, was when we rescued a tiny weeny frog from er.. his home. We called him Alex James, and he looked a bit like him as well. Maybe he loved cheese too. We will never know, because we set him free to join his friends - Damon the goldfish, Dave the watersnail, and Graham the otter (nb. aforementioned friends may not exist)

And tomorow we're off on another exiting adventure, although sadly, this time it doesnt involve frogs. Me, Jems and Lily are off to stay over with some friends in wooton bassett who I havent seen in aaages - very exited. We are bringing pjs and a bottle of tequila. That is all.

The sun is missing. This makes me sad.

Recently, i have been wishing a lot that I could either be on holiday or drunk. Preferably both, as I hope will be the case when I go to the lake district with Jems in a few weeks time, hopefully with a few bottles of vodka hidden between our wetsuits and knickers (not while we are wearing them, obviously. That would be vair uncomfortable. And awkward to explain).

The reason I have been wishing for one of these two things is that they are both nice ways to escape your situation and forget about shit. I would like to do this very much at the moment. My family are driving me insane in all their special, different ways, and I am sick of turning up to school where I waste away any lessons I actually have either chatting to friends about how much we wish we weren't in school, or staring into space, wishing I wasn't in school. When I'm at home I hole up in my room to escape hearing about how useless/selfish/irresponsible/pathetic I am (courtesy of my dad, my dad, my mum and my sister, in that order. Provoked mainly by me forgetting to empty the dishwasher) and as much as I have always defended the mess in my room, im beginning to feel like the walls are closing in on me. I have not done any homework in over 5 weeks. I can tell teachers no longer believe my excuses, and I don't care. I should. But I don't. I smile at the polite disbelief and downright scorn (depends on the teacher) in their eyes, and make my excuses stupider and stupider for my own amusement. Meh. I'll try harder in September, but now, despite what the shitty English weather is trying to tell us, it is summer... we do not belong in school like caged animals (caged animals with uniforms and copies of Othello.)

We need sunloungers and swimming pools. We need bottles of something flourescent and alcoholic, with a little umbrella in it. We need large inflatable animals, rocket ice lollies from one stop, bottles of 'tinted mousturiser' (my arse) and all those other stupid, strange-looking and vaugely ridiculous things you only buy in the summer.

Anyway. I think you'll all agree, we need a holiday!

You can't BOO Damon!

Last night, I was severely trampled on by several heavy, sweaty, stoned men. My hair was given a beer shampoo. My shoes (not to mention my feet) were labelled write-offs after being trampled on for four hours straight. A bottle of piss, kindly thrown by some stranger I would like to kill, exploded up the side of my leg. I was pulled, pushed, shoved, crushed, headbutted and grabbed in every direction.

No, I was not assulted. I was in the unofficial mosh-pit of Blurs comeback concert in hyde park! Despite being covered in about 10 peoples sweat, beer, urine, and hell, probably fan-shit by the end of the night, words cannot describe how awesome it was - but seeing as words are pretty important when writing a blog, I shall give it a go.

We got to hyde park at about 2 (we being me, Jems, James and ermm... we'll call her Rosie) and after I had an experience I would rather forget in a portaloo, we stampeded to the front of the park and ended up only about 5 rows back from the stage. The actual stage. Where blur would be playing. Guitars. And drums. Damon Albarns feet. Would be on that stage.
You get the idea.

We had a bit of a wait ahead of us though. The entertainment started at about fourish and we saw this weird chinese band, who sang in what I can only assume was chinese and chucked a rubber ball about on stage. They were.. interesting, in an I-don't-know-what-the-fuck-these-nutters-are-singing-about-but-ok-lets-dance way. Then Florence and the Machines came on and they were freakin' awesome! They were followed by this African samba group, and Vampire Weekend wrapped it up for us. They did 'A Punk' which I was very glad about.

But by this time the crowd was getting pretty restless to see blur. Most us had already been there for about six hours.. bottles started being chucked about all over the place, sporadic chanting and 'woohoo!'s rose up into the air, the sun kept on getting hotter and a little Aisan guy in front of me tutted pissily as the enourmous drunk bald guy in front of him fell on top of his wife. Everytime we thought Blur were about to come out there would be an unbearable pause while everyone screamed and cheered... before another cheesy sixties number started again over the speakers, and we groaned collectively. Finally the music stopped comletely. Smoke started blasting out across the stage, and Blur appeared walking through it in a bizarrely Charlies Angels moment and launched straight into their first song.

The whole place went mental.

I can only describe it as trying to keep afloat in a massive tidal wave of hot, sweaty human bodies (while at the same time trying to cling to my bag, that I'd stupidly bought with me): while people crashed into me from all directions, I tried to keep my head at a resonable angle in order to be able to see Damon, who was wielding the mic like a god, and scream along with the lyrics. This meant doing my fair share of leaping, shoving and kicking, which was actually extremely enjoyable. However, despite my best efforts, me and Rosie were separated from Jems and James in a matter of minutes when we barrelled backwards by a bunch of guys who I think were attempting to make a human pyramid.. with no one as the base.

By the time Blur had started 'Coffee and TV' I was jammed in between two guys, both irritatingly tall, Rosie, and a hysterical blonde girl who kept clutching my elbow. And I mean literally jammed. If you wanted to put your arms up, that was it, because you wouldn't be able to get them down for a while. Also, this very tight situation meant that the guy rammed in behind me seemed to think he could grope my ass without me noticing (at least I think thats what he was trying to do... very hard to tell with so many limbs in such close proximity) and I was far to squashed to turn round and tell him to fuck off. But it was around this time that the afore-mentioned bottle of piss flew out of nowhere and splattered up my leg, at which point I thought fuck it, that must be the worst that could happen, may as well just get right into it now.

And so I did :-D despite the bruises and achingness this morning, exellent, exellent night. Damon Albarn is a god. Alex James likes cheese. What more could you possibly want from a band? It would be hard to pick out a best song from the set - for some songs I was so busy trying to stay afloat in the crowd that I didnt completely realise what they were - but 'Tender' was bloody good. It was kind of a relief to have the crowd relatively still and swaying for once.

And of course, Song 2 was amazing.

Achh, meine manshaft!!

Today was quite amusing. I learnt of a new drink called, I shit you not ... 'man shaft'. This may not be how its spelt. I think its actually a German drink (probably spelt 'manschaft' and meaning something to do with team sports) and entirely unrelated to the male genitals, but still. It provided hours of hilarious innuendoisms for me and Jems, while Mark woefully insisted that it was actually a very good energy drink, and we shrieked 'Can I have some of your man shaft?!' and 'What is wrong with me? I have no man shaft!' (as well as the classic 'Mmm, a bit of man shaft perks me right up!'). Granted, we were the only ones laughing. But not everyone can have the sophisticated and developed sense of humour that we possess.

In other news, I have taken up a new hobby. You may all find it surprising that this hobby actually doesn't include toffee waffles or the naming of random cows... I have taken up jogging. Even more surprising, I am not doing it as an attempt to punish myself/kill myself/lose weight... i'm doing it because I enjoy it. Call me crazy, but I like the feeling of running fast towards something. I like the screaming inner protest that comes with pushing yourself further each time, forcing yourself to keep going when you feel like collapsing and the exhausted satisfaction you experience afterwards, as well as the feeling that you've been cleansed in some way. I like waking up in the morning feeling stiff (not in that way, you pervs! I have no man shaft!!) and I like discovering the fact that I love something I always thought I'd hate.

Also, I really really like making myself new running playlists on itunes :-D. They are mostly made up of music I dont usually choose to listen to, but that I deem to be 'energetic' enough. Like the black-eyed peas, who are well known for
1. Their very upbeat beats
2. Their very shit lyrics
3. Their general annoyingness

But still. I like making them. And as much as I love Radiohead and Jon Mclaughlin, they are not really bouncy enough to do the job.

And well, that is all for now my friends. I will try to keep you updated.

peace x

Marlbro lites and novelty hats

Today Mark gave me a present. It was a giant, novelty union jack hat that he'd bought off a polish woman in London. Its large, tacky and velvet - it is perfect. I'm wearing it now, and enjoying it almost as much as I did embarassing Mark by wearing it everywhere all day. I got some very strange looks in waitrose. They were clearly all jelous.

I went to Jems house after school, where we had chinese food, which is my favourite kind of food in the world. In fact my ambition is too some day move to China (where they just call it food) and grow fat on it, thus lapsing happily into an obese and oriental old age. Although I may have to get the hang of chopsticks first, as I don't want to be fat and rude.

Jems had also found half a packet of cigarettes on the bus this morning, so we washed down the chinese by smoking a couple in the field behind her house, like the cool loser-kids we are... I must say, smoking now seems even more pointless to me than before. Aside from the fact that it stinks like my old science teachers beard (I can still smell it in my hair, my throat now feels like sandpaper and true story about the beard by the way), and a few packs can be bought for the same price of a decent pair of shoes, and it fucks up your lungs and makes your tongue go all furry, and eventually gives you a laugh, that sounds like a cough, that sounds like an under fed goat on crack etc. ........ you are basically just sucking on a small tube filled with tar! Often while standing outside a pub, most likely in the rain, which you have been exiled from on account of having a disgusting habit. And what in the name of arse is so cool about that?!?!??

Point made, I like to think. Mini-rant over.

In other news, check this out!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i5dap5HfPfY

Be warned, though. You have to be in the right mood for it, as it will either make you laugh hysterically or want to stab your computer screen with a blunt instrument. For me it was the former, but my giant novelty hat has put me in an unusually good mood and I am finding quite a few things funny.

Hahahahahaheha. Novelty hat.

byebye x

'Take that crime, you shit!'

I thought AS levels were hard... it turns out the A2 syllabus is harder. Much harder. Bloody Shakespeare has a lot to answer for, the swine. I just read the first scene of 'Othello', and I only realised 20 minutes in that the characters were going on about interraicial sex. I had assumed, confusedly, that they were talking about... well i'm not really sure what I assumed.

Gardening sprung to mind.

Billy Shakespeare wasn't really all that big on making much sense, was he? That is all I will say on the matter, because the amount of homework I already have after only two days back is depressing me muchly.

On a brighter note, Me, Mark and Jems revisited our cows today. Mark pushed me to their field in a stolen waitrose trolley which was exellent, if a little bizarre. People glared at us. I screamed 'Onward!' and pointed a lot. That probably didn't help.

Anyway, the cows looked fine. Clarences arse even seemed cleaner, although at first we were a little scared he might have eaten Mayhew. But Mayhew was just having a little nap, I think.

Its nearly 11 and I'm very knackered so excuse this post for being short and stupid. I promise a longer, wittier (and possibly even intelligent-er) one soon. And I will try to stop going on about cows so much.

but for now

buhh-bye folks x

P.S. If you are in any way confused about the title of this post (which unless you are Jems, you will be) check out 'The gay adventures of burnt face man, episode 1' on youtube. Highly amusing shizzdib.

A waitresses war-wounds

So today I went to work.

This may not sound like it is on a par with a death sentence to most people, but I am an underpaid waitress at a very crowded sports bar, and on top of that, I am extremely crap at my job. This is no exagguration. I trip over chairs, I drop things, I always bash my hip on the snooker table, no matter how many times I internally remind myself its there and I forget to put the lid on the smoothie maker before blending, resulting in rasberry-and-banana flavoured carnage.... I generally wander around like a confused and stressed chicken with a tray (but no head), desperately asking everyone in sight if this cappuchino belongs to them. Roxie will confirm this.

Lucky for me though, our scary supervisor Freya was not there today. She had her friend Kara taking her place and acting as her spy, but thankfully Kara was extremely hungover and not in the mood for too much screaming at the minions. Also, my boyfriend Mark came in to see me which was nice, although a little nerve-wracking when I realised that our boss and owner of the bar had decided to pay a rare visit, and Mark was standing in the washing-up room chatting with me and cheerfully criticising the bars supply of tea-bags. Not a very professional look. Also, the boss would be outraged to hear his tea-bags being mocked. I made Mark sneak out and run away as soon as the boss had his back turned, which I now realise made us look rather suspicious to other customers.

Now I'm back home and, as always, feeling knackered and wondering what the point of life is. Wanting to quit, but at the same time trying very hard not to get fired.

In conclusion, waitressing is shit, never do it. Do not fall into the soul-sucking, low-fat latte-making trap. If your tempted, just don't. Go somewhere else. Anywhere else. Stack shelves. Pack boxes. WORK IN A NICE QUIET SHOP, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!! This is all advice I wish I could have given myself five months ago, but its too late for me ... save yourselves!

Bye now. I'm off to make a sandwich.

Cars, unreasonable anger and bicycles-made-for-one-but-seating-two

I've just got back from a driving practice which, for some reason, involved both of my parents coming along. It was terrifying. Mostly for them, but my dads screaming, swearing and incoherent noises of outrage from the backseat weren't easy on me either.

All was going well until we were a full ten metres from our house, when I stalled. They both groaned and started on at me with two very separate, but very loud, different peices of advice. I stalled again.
'Give it some gas, you need more bloody gas!' my dad helpfully interjected. I ignored him, which is my default response whenever he says something. I stalled again.
'Gas, i said GAS! Listen to me!' - so I started the engine again, floored the accelorator, and sent us shooting off at twice the national limit, mounting the pavement and very narrowly missing a bush.
'Jesus! You nearly fucking KILLED us!!' screeched my dad ... he had a point, but this was not helpful for my concentration in steering away from the badly placed bush. Long story short, by the time we reached the end of our road (a further fifteen metres away) with my dad still shreiking in the back, I yanked up the handbrake, had a miniture breakdown and flatly refused to go any further. My mum tactfully swapped seats, and the rest of the journey passed in a haze of angry muttering and loud sighing.

Despite this adrenaline-fuelled mood-dampener, the rest of today was actually pretty good. I slept in for as long as I could before my mum woke me with the unwelcome news that we have two dogs who cannot (or will not) walk themselves. After that I cycled into town on my mums embarassing bike (it has panniers, ok? I fear she may soon start adding ribbons and knit a saddle-warmer) and met Jems* and my boyfriend Mark*. We ate things and named three cows - Sebastian, Clarence and Mayhew. Please don't ask. After that Mark went back up to school because, unlucky for him, he is extremely clever and does the IB.
Me and Jems, the lesser intellectualites, then cycled back to mine on the bike. And when I say cycled, I mean I cycled and Jems perched awkwardly on the panniers, clung onto my waist and sung a genius new version of 'bicycle made for two' (in which the lyrics were changed to 'on a bicycle made for one-but-seating-two'). Unfortunately for me, this was quite funny, and i almost lurched into several cars, a tractor and a bewildered pensioner.

I fear that I probably should not be allowed on public roads when accompanied by two or more wheels.

Beginnings and bellybuttons

So I have decided to start a blog. Well, not so much decided as been nagged into it by my already-blogging chums, guilt-tripping me about how lonely they are in cyber-space blogosphere without me. So here I am chums. Thing is, I have absolutely no idea how to begin a blog, so lets kick it off with some facts about me shall we children? Not lame facts about my hair colour and star-sign though (just as well, as I’m only completely sure of one out of two). I’ll try and make these as intriguing/unexpected as possible, sooo here we go:

1. I have my bellybutton pierced the wrong way round. I got it done in a dodgy tattoo parlour… the nice lady with the giant needle asked me if I wanted it above or below my bellybutton as if they were equal and interchangeable options, and well… how was I supposed to know?! I was only doing it to piss my parents off. And in the vague hope it would make my stomach look less like a baby white whale. Anyway, she did it below the bellybutton (incidentally the most painful place to be pierced beside the tongue and genitals, while the ‘normal’ kind is the least painful) and that is how I came to be in the 0.6% of the pierced population with a ‘lower bellybutton’ piercing. It looks really shit.

2. I almost lost my virginity at the top of a multi-story car park in the rain. However, just as we were about to, ahem – ‘get down to it’, I looked up and saw a security camera swing round on its metal neck to watch us, like a mechanical hawk. Seriously, it was horrifying. It freaked me out almost as much as the thought of the fat security guard smiling serenely to himself while watching us in his little camera-den, hands wandering in his large pants, so I used my own wandering hands to start pointing and shrieking. Needless to say, I refused to go any further and ended up losing my virginity in my bed like a normal person. Guess that makes me a prude.

3. When drunk, I try to be reasonable. This makes no sense, as I never make any attempt to be reasonable, level-headed or in any way logical when sober, yet the minute you get some bracardi down me I’m all ‘Guys, maybe we should – WHOOPS – ow! Who put put that bottle there?! Wha.. no I didn’t! Mines over there! HAAAW HA you’re drunk! No seriously though, maybe you should stop drinki- who drew a penis on his face? HA! No, not funny.’

4. I could not live without music, but my music taste varies wildly and seems to confuse people. They’ll be in the middle of ripping the shit out of me for owning all of eminems albums when they discover I also have country ballads by a guy in a cowboy hat. And the soundtrack to scrubs. And several songs in hindi. They hand the ipod back in bewildered silence.

5. I have a strong and deep-rooted hatred for the high school musical films and all associated merchandise. Particularly the soundtracks. This is not helped by my sister playing them loudly almost every morning in the room next door. I have tried to scratch the CDs, but, much like the creepy ‘teenage’ (read: twenty-something) cast who are now all launching solo careers, they are indestructible and selfishly refuse to die. Disney has really let itself down. Remember ‘Dumbo’?! I do, and I for one think Zac Effrons attractiveness (and indeed interestingness) could benefit hugely from a large pair of flying ears. Not a role next to a dragged-up John Travolta in an equally crap film

6. The picture of me on my provisional drivers licence makes me look like a serial killer having an exceptionally bad hair-day. I say this not because it is particularly interesting, but because it is lying right next to me (staring up at me) and I’m running out of spontaneous and entertaining facts about myself.

7. I have officially run out of spontaneous and interesting facts about myself (for now). Peace out (for now).