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.
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.
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.