Monthly Archives: August 2012

Gail Platt’s face. It’s a bit like a bald owl.

I just worry ITV hired a bird and no-one knows about it except the make-up artist, but now it’s gone past that stage where she can say anything so she just feeds it worms and hopes a shedload of concealer covers up the beak.

Men who shout at women in the street.

I’m just going to be blunt…because despite YEARS of eye-rolling, sighing, looking embarrassed and hurrying down the road…some men still don’t seem to understand that we don’t like being shouted at. At all. It’s humiliating. Everyone stares, we go bright red, then you walk off all happy with yourself. In Croydon, there’s some sort of epidemic. If you’re not being asked to get in cars, you get the local chav-gimp called ‘Trey” cupping your bumcheek for 20 metres while attempting to persuade you to BBM him. I’m not sure whether men are under the impression after a particularly loud “COR, I’d wear you like a HAT love” we’re going to yank our cacks down and mouth “THAAAANKS” with our flaps, but I can confirm it won’t happen. Ever. So just keep walking and save us all a sweaty top-lip moment.

Chris Brown’s Twitter supporters – #teambreezy.

I don’t get this because he’s a c*ntwhippet. Apparently there are a few million teens out there who’d be quite up for dating Chris ‘bitey on the face’ Brown because he, *adopts American accent*, like, just deserves a second chance at life? And like, his haterz don’t do nothin’ but judge him? And like, anyone who hates on him should DIE. Well…we probably all would if we were in his company for more than 10 minutes. He’s on par with a clinker in my opinion.

Women who wear high heels during the day.

Firstly, they don’t just make me all confused in my head, they annoy me. Because they show the rest of us who own vaginas right up. They probably don’t eat crisp sandwiches and find crumbs down their bra hours later either. There’s one woman who I see walking to work every morning, balancing pretty perfectly in a pair of chunky heels so massive, it looks like she’s wearing bungalows. I wear Converse to work, or a nice pair of flats…because otherwise I do this leaning forward thing that makes me walk like my bum’s angry with me. And if I’m not doing that, I’m walking with my hands out to the side like the sort of girls who drive ‘powered by fairy dust’ cars. And if not doing THAT, I’d end up doing a fall over in the IPC lobby like that woman on the insurance claim advert with the shit fringe and face of Matt Lucas.

People who only like one genre of music.

I like house. I like dubstep. I like rock. I like folk. I like some absolutely shocking 90’s cheese. I like jazz. I like French accordion tracks. I like a lot. Nothing confuses me more than someone who says they like music, but is completely closed off to more than a couple of genres. I’d maybe ask that I hadn’t been brought up on ‘Glam Rock Nights’ VHS series 1 and 2, because telling people Gary Glitter’s ‘Leader Of The Gang’ is my childhood song’s a bit awkward nowadays…but I love the fact my parents got me listening to a variety early on. Of course we all have favourite artists/DJ’s that we fall back on, our tastes change, and our choices are heavily influenced by mood…but don’t screw your nose up at my iPod when you only listen to Muse and can’t name any of The Clash.

People who don’t understand “each to their own”.

With a mum who wears multi-coloured tights and a dad who combined a love of Buddhism and getting in trouble with the local constabulary, growing up judgemental was about as likely as Elton John turning his back on David Furnish, marrying a woman called Tracey and starting up as a mechanic. Therefore, it completely baffles me when people have an opinion on something that’s nothing to do with them. Obviously I’m not 100% innocent, I love a gossip…but if someone’s actions don’t hurt me, my family and friends then they can carry on being as debauched as they like. Enjoy asphyxiwanking? Swell. Want to rollerblade while wearing a shellsuit? YOU GO GIRL. Want to poo on my chest? Not cool with that actually, sorry.

Sensible people.

I’m not saying everyone should go snort coke off a tramp’s cock or take a hairdryer in the shower, but it’d be nice if some people lived a little. If you’re excited in public, do a little dance. If you want to army crawl along the toilet floor because it looks all cold and the office air-con’s broken then just do it, you probably won’t become riddled with AIDS. If you haven’t got many pennies but want to go to a festival, then just GO! Eat jacket potatoes for the next few weeks. You won’t remember a really tasty M&S meal in 30 years time, but you will remember being covered in wee while fist-pumping to Deadmau5. Unless you’re off your lid. Just remember…no-one ever wants to have sex with beige wallpaper and why’s that? Because it’s dull. (And also because it’s wallaper).

People who allow their dogs to lick their faces.

They lick their balls and their bumholes and other dogs’ poo and bumholes and sometimes dead birds. What are you DOING.

People who do this;

Me: “See you Monday!”

Them: “Oh, I’m not in Monday, got some family thing, Sarah’s mum asked if we could stay down…but I’ll be in late morning on Tuesday.”

I don’t care! Just say “Yeah, bye!” and do a little talk to yourself in your head that says “I won’t really”. Now, you’ve kept me standing here an extra 20 seconds, I’ll probably have to run for the train which will mean jigging about and making all the coffee in my tummy go up and down. Then I’ll get the poo sweats on a commuter train. And you, my friend, will be to blame.

People who wee on toilet seats and don’t clean it off.

It amazes me that most of us have got yeaaaaars into our adult lives functioning pretty well…not getting run over…not getting so fat we’re part of a Louis Theroux documentary…to then go and piss all over the seat and find it simply too hard to wipe off. If you have been doing a daydream about what it might be like to straighten your hair with hard bacon or have musical piano teeth, then accidentally weed all wonky; fine! No on-one minds! Just. clean. it. off.

Ronaldo’s Adam’s apple.

Touched on this in a previous blog. It looks like he’s swallowed a baby puffa fish.

Double texters

This confuses me more than all other points combined. For those that don’t know, a double-texter is someone who messages the person they’re schmoozing…gets no response…and messages again. In my head, I either presume they don’t want to talk to me, or they’re busy. I will NOT however, text them again because you look INSANE. Not long ago, a guy I went on one date with text a total of 11 times without me replying. Because of this, in my head, he deals in the flesh trade, drinks Yakult and wanks with sandpaper. Put the phone down kids.

1.  You won’t be married and with child by 21.

When I was younger, 21 seemed really old. Reaaaaally old. I had a cracking 5 year plan…get my A Levels, go to uni, get a teaching position at a local secondary school, then be married and preggers before I hit the phenomenally ancient age of 22. I was sure if I didn’t make it happen then I’d be one of those lonely women who wanders round Aldi having a nice little chat to herself while smelling of foreskin that hasn’t seen soap in a week. I was also certain I’d stay in the village I grew up in because I really liked playing football in the park, you could get everything you needed in the local Co-op and there’s a man who runs around in wellies with a dog in a carrier-bag which makes for an interesting watch. My Mum, ever the left-field bohemian, would gently suggest moving away and ‘sewing my wild oats’ a bit. “Go on, go travelling…find a nice curly-haired French man who likes watching black and white films! Have babies if you want, but just bung it in a rucksack and trek through the rainforest and have adventures!” Around the time she got to ‘French man’ I was usually rolling my eyes and sliding my Nike TNs on.

As it happens, the 5 year plan bombed. I moved to London at 22 after realising a lifetime of Dover, marriage and babies could most definitely wait. I’m very much single at 24. And I work for Nuts, which is possibly the furthest away I could get from being a teacher without becoming Hitler or a paedophile or a tractor.

2.  Other fashion exists besides Dover fashion.

When I made the transition from village primary school to town secondary school, I realised that I was pretty f*cked. It turned out there were 2 camps, and you had to fit in to one of them or leave the universe. You could either wear some pretty-darn-hot tracksuits (the trousers of which you would tuck into MASSIVE socks), Elizabeth Duke jewellery and slick your hair back into a bun while bringing down a little slither of hair from each side of your head at the front. Or, you could throw on a lot of black, dye your hair (preferably black again) and head down the skate park. I decided I wasn’t cut out for the tracksuit thing for numerous reasons. For starters, my mum wouldn’t let me wear ANY OF IT because she said it made me look, in her words, ‘like one of those skaffs from the estate’ and I remember crying in Bluewater shopping centre when my dad wouldn’t buy me a Nickelson t-shirt on the grounds that some poor child in India probably got beaten with a stick and lost an eye while making it. I also didn’t want to get drunk at 13, fingered at Evolution (our local underage disco) or stop watching Time Team on a Sunday evening…so I wouldn’t have fitted in. When it came to the other option, I gave that a swerve too because I thought Nickelback were a bunch of bellends (turns out I was 100% correct). Therefore, my first two teenage years were spent hiding from anyone ‘cool’ in town until I could afford to buy myself cheap tat from JD Sports.

3. The girls that you think are cool now, well…..just WAIT ’til you see what happens to THEM.

You know the ones. The girls who are REALLY mean. The ones who say you’ve got a face like a rat and who everyone likes because their Mum doesn’t make them wear Clarks shoes. I wish, wholeheartedly wish, that years ago while being shouted at along the corridor for the 527855327890th time for having a curly fringe that I would have known the majority of the super-popular girls doing it would go on to become lardy, pregnant or both. I genuinely think it pays to be nice, and that karma can come back to bite you on the cock…so it makes me and my friends feel a little bit warm in our tummies every time we see a few old comrades struggling out of the train station with a buggy, under-boob sweat and an Iceland bag. This isn’t about me being snobby…I ate a chip off a kebab-shop floor not long ago. I just think people should be nice. I’ve probably contracted AIDS now.

4. Yes, a boyfriend’s fun but it might be nice if you focused a little bit on those 6 A Levels you’re meant to be passing….

So my friends and I all got boyfriends just as we went into the sixth form, which was really handy because it meant we could use free periods to not visit Malcolm Scott the careers advisor who got caught wanking in the Sixth Form house, and go home and have sex instead. Or go to McDonalds if we couldn’t be bothered with the sex thing. As someone who once gained 5% in an art exam due to a complete lack of effort, ‘breezing’ through school work was as far removed from my life as anal sex is and homophobes…and nothing screams “YOU’RE GOING TO FLUNK YOUR A LEVELS” more, than a 17 year old wearing one of those Ann Summers sweet-thongs while rapping Jay Z’s ’99 problems’ to her boyfriend at 10pm on a Monday night. Not only that…because everyone was at it…there was a weird two-year ‘Sexlympic Games’ going on whereby each couple tried to out-do the other. “Yeah, we did anal last night”. “Yeah well, we tried this new position where she was sort of half in the wardrobe and half on the landing”. “YEAH WELL HE F*CKED ME IN THE EAR. MY ACTUAL EAR. AND GOT A FROG, LIKE…FROM THE ACTUAL GARDEN AND GOT IT TO LICK MY FLAPS A BIT.”. Despite this, I managed to scrape through OK in the end…but could I go back in time, I’d very, very much have liked to prevent myself from going to the local clinic for free condoms AGAIN and sent myself to the library. Even if it was the meeting place for every Romanian immigrant with an odour problem in Dover.

5. Lastly, and while we’re on the subject….don’t hide stuff in your wardrobe you pleb…

My mum’s brilliant. Genuinely, genuinely brilliant. Now, I can’t shut her up about sex, but when I was younger it was very much a taboo subject. I think I stayed at 8 years old in her head ’til I moved out, which was fine…I respected that and kept schtum about everything and anything I did (which in fairness, really wasn’t very much at all). The only time we’ve ever seriously fallen out was when I came home from school to find my dad looking like he’d been caught knobbing the cat and my mum very nearly on fire with a neck vein seriously close to blowing point. After looking around bewildered for a few seconds, I glanced at the dining room table, and there, my eyes fell upon my morning-after pill packet, a pair of handcuffs and a blindfold. She didn’t speak to me or my afore-mentioned boyfriend for two weeks and served me up more broccli than you can shake a nipple-tassle at until she’d got over it. The poor love.

Lastly, I’m even more confused about life and the direction I’m going in than I was at 17, but that’s because being a grown-up can be dull and it’s nice to be a little clueless. And if I do end up becoming that woman in Aldi who’s all alone…I’ll just make sure to talk to myself about really cool stuff like spaceships and turtles, and treat myself to a wash every now and again.