A tentative step back in to the blogging arena

What up, y'all. It's been a long time, a month as Eric @ Opticynicism rather pointedly noticed. I'm a crappy blogger, I know. I was on holiday for two weeks and then I was rolling-around-on-the-floor-crying levels of depressed about NOT being on holiday anymore for another two weeks. Where did I go, you cry? I went to Turkey. Yes, that's Turkey right next to Syria, right next to ISIS, now the actual frontline against ISIS -Turkey. Ya know, because nothing says 'great vacation' like the thrill of knowing a terrifying militia of murderous fucknuts are trying to invade.

Relax, it was fine - I was over 1000km from the Syrian border. I did post something about how I was gonna be away for two weeks so expect no usual idiotic dribbling and ranting from me but then I took it down... because burglars. I know the only people in my town that know about this blog are close friends, but they're also shifty bastards and cannot be trusted to not rob me. Welcome to the North.

I will do an actual post about my holiday in Turkey at some point because it was a confusing mix of wonderful and bizarre but I just wanted to do a short 'WHAT UP BITCHES! I'M BAAAAACK' post to get me back on the rhino (fuck horses). However, to apologise for being so lame I figured you deserve a little somethin' somethin' so here's a very short holiday video. We travelled to the deepest, darkest corner of Europe/slash/Asia and we bring you back the answer to the question that has long since been on everybody's lips. That question, as we all know, being: Is the Macerena still a thing? It turns out, in Turkey, it totally is. And here is proof... poorly filmed, dark and drunken proof:

"I KNOW THE WORDS!"

Finally, I was inspired by Eric's recent Shit Denise Says post so I'm going to finish by ratting on my boyfriend because last night was a classic 'What the hell is wrong with you' moment. I don't know if anyone noticed but the moon was a funky shade of yellow. John, seemingly thrilled by this, rushed in to the living room where I was trying to work (read: piss about on Facebook, same-same) and exclaimed, "JADE! Look at the moon! It's all yellow!" When I went over to the window to see what the crazy bastard was yelling about I could see that it was, in fact, yellow. Hmm. John then said, "It thinks it's the sun!" (WHAT?) Then shouted, "YOU'RE NOT THE SUN, YOU STUPID MOON!!!" Yes, my actual boyfriend shouted at the actual moon last night... for being stupid.

On that note, I bid you farewell for now (hopefully not another month).

Story Time: The List of My Desires by Gregoire Delacourt

Basically: Short, bittersweet and beautifully written.

I don't know how to go about this. It wasn't long ago I was wanging on about depressing books driving me crazy and this is a pretty depressing book… but it’s also so really fucking good! It's about a simple woman living a simple life with a simple husband. Her husband, actually, comes across as a bit of a selfish arsehole and I found myself thinking, "God, why do women stay with losers like this?" But she is happy, she loves him regardless of his (many) faults and fuck, isn't that beautiful? Much more beautiful than my previous view, ‘This human thing is broken, fetch me a better one!’

So happy is this woman with her small-town life and comfortable marriage that when she wins the jackpot in the Euro Millions lottery she doesn't tell anyone. She doesn't even cash the cheque! Most of us would be boarding planes to tropical destinations shortly after becoming millionaires but this woman stays put, slowly and quietly contemplating how best to deal with the cash and compiling the list of her desires. It’s a very refreshing and unusual response and you find yourself unable to decide whether she’s mad or inspirational. But then… well, I won’t ruin it, other than to say that Jocelyne is not rewarded for her love for her life and the people in it.

Delacourt has created an incredibly bittersweet tale and it’s hard, at first read, not to think the final take-home message is, ‘SUCK IT, NICE PEOPLE, life is gonna get you in the end!’ However, a more positive person might reach a different conclusion. They might decide that actually, the book is simply saying that money changes your life and your relationships, and not always for the better. For those of us struggling through austerity and praying for a lottery win because we haven’t had a paid rise in years, can’t seem to find a better job and just don’t know what else to do, this book is an excellent reminder that money does not solve all problems. Happiness is a choice not an increase in funding. Happiness is in simple things, like pride in your work, or a book, or a smile - not in being able to afford a bigger house or a nicer car.

Verdict: Well worth a read.

How to Manage Your Stylist - A Lesson in Hindsight

So this weekend, in a fickle free-spirited attempt to inject some sort of change or drama in to my life I had a fringe cut in (that's bangs to y'all 'Muricans). It's a really thick fringe but the back of my hair is still really long. I'm not going to lie to you or play this down – it’s basically a mullet. I pretty much walked in to that salon looking like Kristen Stewart and I walked out looking like Rod Stewart. As far as transformations go, that is the mother of all fuck-ups. I can’t even tie my hair back and wait for it to grow out because then I look like this...

Lesbian chic

Yeah, 1980’s rocker mullet or man-boy singing sensation – they are my basic looks now. I think you'll all agree they are two VERY strong looks. Strong for a boy, sure, but whatever, I'm not going to be tied down by your antiquated societal gender norms or trends, okay?! Plus if I wear huge trailer-trash earrings people can still tell I'm a chick so it's fine.

Now I know I could cry and scream and blame the hairdresser but I know, deep down, this was my own doing. I was completely unprepared. And you know what they say, “Fail to prepare, prepare to end up with a mullet.’ So to save anyone else from ever having to leave their hairdressers with an unwanted mullet or otherwise looking like a complete tool, I'm going to give out some basic tips based on my own experience. You can look elsewhere for the usual 'Styles to suit your face shape' BS because that's just witchcraft anyway. This is a guide to managing your experience when opting for a drastic hair transformation.

Step 1 - Think about your style IN ADVANCE

When I walked in to the hairdressers on Saturday morning I made an impulse decision to change my look. ‘Fringe’ popped in to my head and ‘Fringe’ is what I asked for. But the second the stylist made that first tentative cut to the front of my hair and about 12 inches of hair fell off in to my lap I started to hyperventilate. I hadn't thought it through, what if it looked terrible? What kind of fringe did I even want? Front, side, long, short? WHY COULDN'T I ANSWER THESE QUESTIONS?!? How could she get this right if I couldn't even tell her what 'right' was??? Having given extensive thought to your change in style will enable you to avoid crying on the pavement outside the salon, beating the ground with your fist, screaming, "WHY GOD? WWWHHHYYY???"

Step 2 - Have a picture to show your stylist

Take a photo, a magazine or a picture on your phone, something physical that you can point to and say, "Make me look EXACTLY like that." Words are subjective, style is subjective. So while you might say 'fringe but long in the back’ and be thinking  Zooey Deschanel a la New Girl, your Stylist might be thinking 'fringe but long in the back' like David Bowie in Labyrinth. There's a big difference and you don't wanna get caught on the wrong side of that confusion.

Only Bowie can pull this off

Step 3 - Ask for a countdown 

As I mentioned above, the first cut to my fringe made me recoil in horror. My stylist asked if I was okay and whether this was what I wanted. The only words I could gasp around my desperate breaths were, "Well it's a bit [INHALE] fucking late [INHALE] to say 'No' [INHALE] now, isn't it?!" If you're making drastic hair changes and you're still not sure about it when you sit in the chair - Ask for a countdown. What do I mean? I mean tell that bitch to grab the first bit of hair that's going to be chopped super short and say, out loud and in advance, "Okay, I'm going to cut ALL OF THIS OFF in 5, 4, 3, 2 aaaaannnnddd gone." That way, if you need to chicken out last second, you can. And you're now the person who 'Just had a trim' instead of 'That chick with the mullet.' You're welcome.

Step 4 – Examine, adjust, repeat 

There’s a weird chunk of hair that’s longer than the rest, it’s got something of a rat tale quality to it. Find it, point to it, request alteration. Do not worry that your stylist has been whinging her bag off about being run off her feet and how her next appointment should have started 10 minutes ago. Their inability to stick to appointment times is not your concern, living with an unwanted bowl cut/mullet/rat tail IS your concern. Any thoughts along the lines of, 'Oh I'll just tidy this up myself at home' are foolish and you will end up looking like Noel Fielding. This is fine if you're a Camden Town hipster... not so much if you're a small town girl that works in an office.

Noel Fielding - Hair Sensation

Note: That last tip only works when: the cut isn't short enough; you can see uneven layers or length; or excessive thickness where you requested thinning out. This tip can and should be ignored if the stylist has cut too much hair off and/or she's already made you look like Noel Fielding and you suspect she may be drunk or high or simply an evil psychopath. If this is the case just start crying immediately and demand to see a manager.

Is it just me, or is my boyfriend insane?

I’ve thought for a while now that my poor, sweet boyfriend may actually be insane. For today’s post I've put together a few of his more recent quotes that I am hoping are simply evidence of comedic genius, rather than a giant cry for psychological assessment. I’ll let you be the judge of whether I need to call the men in the white coats or not…

He recently told me that if I was a smell, I would be bacon. To which I responded, "Umm... thanks, I guess." His reaction was a little OTT:

"What do you mean 'thanks, I guess'??? I've just bestowed upon you the greatest compliment known by man or beast! Fuck Bastille wanging on about filling soul holes! And Bedingfield can shit right off for being impressed about having hands that fit together!* NO, DOUCHBAGS! Your lyrics are worse than ear AIDS! It's all about smelling like bacon. Well, not actually smelling like bacon, but letting you know that if you were a smell (rather than a human woman), you would be the smell of bacon. See?!" 
* These crazy outbursts are based on song lyrics, just FYI.

The other day he emailed me to tell me how work was going:

"I've just had the most cringey meeting with a sales moron from a waste company, she said, 'Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me'; 'You're obviously very clever,' and 'Ooohh, what a lovely portacabin you work in,' about a million times. I wanted to shout 'You're here to try and get your grubby hands all up and about in my products so just tell me how much coin you're gonna pay and then fuck off!" 

 He later calmed down and reassessed said sales morons excessive niceties:
 "I'm beginning to wonder if maybe she had Tourettes but she's trained herself to say odd pleasantries rather than things like 'CUNTING PISS-FLAPS?!’" 

And a recent favourite, upon asking boyfriend how his day was going and whether he was getting a lot done, he replied with:

"I've just done a bit of staring this afternoon really, not at anything in particular, I've just stared 'a thing' for a while and then, when I thought I'd stared long enough (i.e. just before the point of drawing attention to myself) I'd turn my head a bit and stare at something else."

So, on a scale of one to very, how worried should I be?

Story Time: Any Other Mouth by Anneliese Mackintosh

You're going to need a stiff drink

In short: Errrrrrrrrr...

First up, this book is not a novel. It's a collection of semi-autobiographical short-stories which the author admits are 68% true, 32% not-so-much. That's an unsettling balance when you actually read the thing because the author tackles an array of harrowing subjects from mental illness to grief to rape.

The stories are written using an impressively broad range of writing styles, voices and tenses so I can't fault her ambition and prowess. That said, I'd be lying if I said I liked this book. It started off so gripping but by the end I was pretty sick of it and really forcing myself to turn the pages. Every single chapter seemed to be depressing and bizarre. I couldn't relate to the protagonist, in fact if we were Facebook friends I'd probably block her updates from my news feed.

There's a point in the book where the lead character is stroking her stomach and cooing "baby, baby, baby, baby, baby." Aww, that's quite a sweet thing for a pregnant woman to do. Yeah, except she's not fucking pregnant; she's not even trying for a baby. She's just being melodramatic. AGAIN. Like another time where she fingers herself whilst thinking about that oft-overlooked mastermind of erotica ANNE FRANK (yes, Nazi hunted Anne Frank). Yeah, that happens.

There's only so much of this kind of crap that any one book should contain. This book shoots way past the limit and there comes a tipping point where everything goes from being intimate and thought-provoking to just sounding like some drunk chick at a party talking about how many guys she's fucked in gory detail in a desperate bid to show how cool and edgy she is. As much as I applaud the author’s efforts for tackling difficult subjects with style and imagination, I can’t honestly say that I enjoyed reading it.

Verdict: Leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

"Oh, I'm fine. It's just that life is pointless and nothing matters and I'm always tired."

Quick note: I stole the title for this blog post from Parks and Recreation. Please don't sue me, Andy Dwyer.

HELP ME! I can't stop reading depressing books. I never at any point sat down and thought, "Do you know what's missing from my life? Lots and lots of books about schizophrenia and depression and people cutting themselves. Yeah, that's what I need right now." Nope, I never decided this but for some reason, the past 4 or 5 books I've read have involved someone with a mental illness who at some point thinks about suicide or hurting themselves or hurting someone else. These books should come with warnings attached. I'm not sure what kind of warning exactly. Something like…

I'm halfway through yet another gut-twisting gloom-a-thon of a novel but then after that I'm switching to rom-coms and comedies, I swear. I know that is exactly what most addicts sound like ("Just one more... this is the last time... I promise...") but honestly, it's true because every time my boyfriend is out I’ll wind up reading for just a few minutes and then I find myself on the floor, curling in to the foetal position with the bloodshot crazy eyes of a woman who just realised life is meaningless.

I'm a bit unstable as it is, I'm usually surfing a knife edge of normalcy and at any moment I could fall off the edge and either go right in to the 24 hour fun factory complete with clowns, cakes and a giant bouncy castle made of Haribo gums where every day is Saturday (WOOOHOOO, BACON SAMMICH DAY!) OR left in to the cold, grey pit of despair and anxiety and paranoia (That guy I don’t even know just looked at me funny, HE MUST HATE ME!). Trust me; you’d be better off being stuck in a lift with that creepy kid from The Ring than with me on a bad day. I should really only be allowed to watch shows on Comedy Central and read books by Helen Fielding for this very reason. Sure, it means I sing a lot (badly) and dance around a lot (equally badly) and yes, it's like having an ADHD riddled toddler around - but it's way less depressing than seeing me mope around the house like a bad fart that just won't dissipate.

Case in point: Yesterday my boyfriend was out and I knew I needed to cheer myself up so I went to the supermarket for some comfort food. I bought three ready meals for one and a small mountain of profiteroles. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself and looking forward to getting home and basically diving face first in to those sweet, sweet profiteroles. That lasted for a full five minutes, right up until the lady at the checkout looked at my ready meals, then looked at me, then looked at my profiteroles, then looked back at me and then gave me this sort of weak and pitying smile that 100% said, 'Oh, you poor girl.' And just like that I was back to being a fart again. I should really be used to this sort of thing. One time I had the house to myself for a weekend, so I rocked up at my local Asda for multiple pizzas and as much cake as I could possibly carry and this exchange occured:

          Checkout lady: "Ooooh, getting ready for a children’s party or something?"
          Me: "Nope."

But at least that was a good day, so I was confident in my 'nope' and didn't feel like I had to justify my dietary choices to total strangers. Yesterday was a bit different, I almost wanted to blurt out, "I don't live by myself with an army of cats or anything, I’ve just had a bad day, IS THAT OKAY WITH YOU, JUDGEY McJUDGERSON?!" I didn't though. I was too busy being a fart, and farts don’t talk.

Anyway, in summary, that is why I have to stop reading depressing books for a while, which is a bit disappointing because some of the depressing books I have been reading are really good. Anyone got any recommendations for good books that WON’T turn me in to a fart?

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Also, I’d like to give a big shout out to the wonderful, the fabulous, the profane Eric at Opticynicism for checking up on me via Twitter and making sure I wasn't dead, which was really very nice of him. Check out his blog, it's way less farty than mine.

Pleb's Countryside Highlights

I recently took a trip to the Lake District for a bit of fresh air and nature frolicking and it was incredible. There’s something about being out in nature that gives you a wonderful sense of calm and contentment, which, if you've read this blog much, you’ll know is not my natural state. If like me you’re a little tightly wound, here’s my top 5 reasons for ditching the sofa and heading out in to the wild for a few days.

1. Advertising

Ahhh nature, advert free since ‘83 (actually advert free since forever, but that doesn’t rhyme). Advertising is huge pet peeve of mine and if it’s not one of yours, let me tell you why it should be. 1. It’s relentless: it screams at you from billboards as you commute to work; it lurks at the side of every website; it rudely interrupts you viewing pleasure as you watch tv – there’s no escape in the modern world! 2. Advertising consists mostly of condescending, idiotic nonsense. By way of example, the current Müllerlight Desserts advert drives me crazy. You know the one, "If I had 3 wishes, I'd wish for a bubble bath, a fireman and for this [mousse] to be 99 calories." Why would she make such insubstantial wishes?! And if she must, why would she not wish for zero calories?!? Or even negative calories like celery?!?! 99 calories is not even low, Aero chocolate mousse is only 94 calories. And don’t even get me started on Nicole Scherzinger faking a "müllerlicious" mouth-gasm, again in the name of flogging us yoghurts. Luckily, as yet, the bastards have not taken to stamping ‘EAT THIS FUCKING YOGHURT’ on the rolling hills of Cumbria, and so a brief spell in the Lake District offers much needed relief from the constant barrage of mental abuse.

2. Exercise

I work in an office, which means the most exercise I get all day is when I get out of and then back in to my car. By the time I've finished my eight hour sit-a-thon and completed the forty-five minute drive home, stretching my stiff mannequin-like frame out in to a standing position seems like a Herculean accomplishment. The idea of then going to the gym or for a run just seems insane. I've already sat in a place I don’t want to sit all day, I'm now going to a different place I don’t want to be for a run?! No thank you, fitness freaks. However, heading to the picturesque hills of the countryside for long treks, hopping across river stepping stones and clambering over styles like I'm fucking Heidi or something, now that’s something I can get on board with.

3. Wildlife

There must be something about being an office drone that makes me more prone to outbursts of unexplainable excitement but there really is something about seeing an animal in its natural habitat that makes me crazy happy. I once saw a shrew, this was my reaction: ‘A SHREW! A FUCKING SHREW! DID YOU SEE THAT SHREW! IT WAS RIGHT THERE! OHHH MAAAA GAAAWWDDD! A SHREEEEWWWWW!’ I guess I need to get out more, but as you can see, I'm working on that.

4. Clean Air

For forty hours a week I sit under an air-conditioning unit that hangs there just sucking in everyone’s germs and then spewing them back out at me. If you can relate, I can promise you that there is other air out there. Air that hasn't already repeatedly been inhaled and exhaled by all of your virus-riddled colleagues before reaching you. That air, my friend, is out in the nature. Go get some, it’s sweet and fresh and probably even has magical powers… (unless it's ‘muck spreading’ season and then it just smells like shit).

5. This…

 Sure you can see views like that on your tv, but trust me, it’s nowhere near as satisfying. 

Story Time Special Edition: A Tribute to Graham Joyce

Graham Joyce died yesterday. He had cancer, it was the bad kind, the kind people don't often win the war against. He wrote a beautiful blog post about it which you can read here. I’m immensely saddened by his passing, I loved his books, in fact, my first ever blog post on this silly little site was a review of one of his books. So when I found out the news today, I felt compelled to write something. Something that doesn't necessarily fit with the usual tone of this blog, but as it is my blog, I decided I can shift tone if I want to. My story time reviews are usually quite silly and giddy but Graham Joyce was such a truly wonderful writer, it just doesn't seem appropriate to write a tribute in my usual profane waffle. Also, please know, when I say he was wonderful, I'm not just saying it because he died yesterday and that's what you say when people die. I'm saying it because I was completely in awe of his beautiful prose and his impressive ability to create and capture a place or time in such perfect detail alongside the mystical and the fantastic. I believe really good fiction doesn't feel like fiction at all, no matter how bizarre the subject matter. That's what Graham Joyce's books were like. He threw you in to another world; he made you believe it was real.

So far, I have read three and a half Graham Joyce books. I make no claims to be his biggest fan, my Graham Joyce journey began only recently. Before Christmas 2013, I had no knowledge of him at all, but as fate often aligns to give us exactly what we didn’t realise we were missing, that Christmas my clever boyfriend took a punt on a book he thought I would like. When I tore away the festive wrapping paper to reveal 'Some Kind of Fairy Tale' (“SKFT”) I was instantly in love with the cover and intrigued by the blurb. I started the book as soon as I could find time between visiting family and eating turkey. My enthusiasm was not misplaced, the book was so enjoyable that I finished it in a few short days and felt a pang of grief when it was over. I was so excited by the book that I talked my boyfriend, my dad and many friends in to reading it too.

So why is this book so special? Graham Joyce once said, "I am less interested in ghosts than in people who see ghosts," and I presume he felt the same way about fairies. SKFT is less a fairy tale than it is a tale about the reappearance of a long lost girl, Tara, and the effect it has on her and her loved ones. Her family were shattered by her loss, her boyfriend was accused of her murder, the authorities were at a loss to explain and Tara herself had to survive an ordeal that was unlike the fairy stories we are often told as children. When she returns twenty years later, the old wounds of those closest to her are not healed but opened and Tara has to learn to adapt to a world, and a family, that has long since left her behind. It’s the unexpected but completely plausible responses and interactions of the characters that make this novel so intriguing, so unlike anything else I’ve read before.

I recently checked out Amazon to see the reviews for SKFT. It had 32 reviews when I first read it, there are 86 now, by rites there should be thousands. The book has a 4 star average with a very small number of 1 star reviews. Being nosey, I had to check out the 1 star reviews. They were exclusively complaints about foul language and sex scenes. So on that note, I'd like to add a caveat - Graham Joyce does not shy away from sex or profanity. But Jesus Christ, it's hardly ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ or ‘Trainspotting’! He writes about interesting characters in realistically fraught relationships and situations, not prudish dullards who throw uneventful tea-parties and exist in a controversy and conflict free zone. Why would any even want him to?! Although, as the old saying goes, 'you can't please everyone.'

After reading SKFT, I started buying up his other books. I read ‘The Silent Land’ next and was equally thrilled with it. It’s one of those unusual stories where you will likely work out the ending fairly early on but what keeps you reading is the mystery of how the characters will arrive at and react to that end. It focuses on a young couple on a skiing holiday who get caught in an avalanche and when they finally manage to free themselves, their resort has been evacuated. They spend their days enjoying each other’s company whilst waiting for a rescue, but things are not quite as they seem and they are plagued by mysterious events and strange figures. Like SKFT it’s incredibly well written and a joy to read but that is about all the books have in common. At this point I began to realise Graham Joyce was an imaginative force to be reckoned with and I was excited to continue reading his work.

My next Joyce book was ‘The Tooth Fairy’, which is another not-quite-fairy-tale. As with SKFT, the fairy is not exactly what you would expect and in fact, is rather grubby in appearance with a cruel and unpredictable nature. The story is focused more on the boy, Sam, and his friends growing up over the course of ten years, than it is with the supernatural element of the tooth fairy. This is considered a modern horror classic and I admit there were parts where I had to keep reading rather than put it down at bedtime because it was so creepy. I did, however, find the book less gratifying than the previous two. I feel like if I had read this one first I would have enjoyed it more because it doesn’t quite live up to the genius of the other two. It is every bit as imaginative, but ever so slightly less well constructed. That said, it is still an excellent read and it didn’t do much to deter my Graham Joyce fanaticism as I then bought ‘Smoking Poppy’ and the ‘Year of the Ladybird’* soon after. I am currently half-way through Ladybird so no doubt a review for that will be forth-coming.

I didn’t know how to start this post and I am equally baffled about how to end it. As I mentioned before, I am well aware that after three (and a half!) books I cannot claim to be his biggest fan, I cannot tell you everything you need to know about his work and I cannot give him the tribute that he really deserves. All I really wanted to do was share with people how much his work inspired me and made me fall in love with reading again, and maybe inspire a few others to seek out his work and see if he has anything of value to offer them too. And as he wrote in his last blog post, “why can’t our job here on earth be simply to inspire each other?”

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* Note: 'The Year of the Ladybird' was published as 'The Ghost in the Electric Blue Suit' for y'all 'muricans and annoyingly the cover is a bit cooler than the British version.

I Bet I Can Make You Miserable

I haven't written anything for a while because, well, because "I am completely miserable, San Diego!" Don't worry, I'm not dying, I'm not even clinically depressed, I’m just miserable. I'm one of those lucky, lucky chicks who gets hit by PMS like a train and all of a sudden I can hardly do anything. Not always, but a few times a year. And when it happens I pretty much turn in to a walking talking mess of profanity and blind hatred. I hate work, I hate people, I hate inanimate objects, I really hate mirrors and I probably even hate puppies. I don't want to leave the house and if you make me you better make damn sure you hold my hand otherwise I may well jump in front of a bus.

I'm slowly coming through the other side and have decided to get the hell back to work, blog work anyway. I don't write when I'm grumpy because I'd probably just write "Oh please just fuck off world" over and over and over again and the internet deserves better than that. Not much better, but definitely a bit better.

So, what a week to miss! Russia is totally invading the Ukraine but no-one's really talking about that, I'm sure it's okay though and they'll probably totaallllyyy behave once they get their way just this one time. I mean if History has taught us anything it’s that… oh, actually… wait. Also in the news, uppity prudes everywhere took to the media to tell female celebrities that if they don’t want their naked photos stolen then they should just NOT TAKE NAKED PHOTOS. Also burglary victims could help out by just not having houses and in fact victims of all crimes should just not exist because existing is just asking for trouble and if y'all could go ahead and juuuust kill yourselves, that'd be super and the world would be a much safer place.

In news yesterday, Prince William has blown his royal load in to the royal vagina and knocked up Princess Kate again... I assume in a desperate attempt to evoke some national pride and woo Scotland in to not leaving us in that little referendum thing they have coming up. Because nothing says, “We understand you’re pissed off about being minimum wage slaves for rich tyrants,” like bringing yet another freeloading Overlord in to the world for them to curtsy to. In seriousness, if there are any Scots reading, please don't leave us. We know you're angry and we know we've let you down, but please, give us another chance. If you leave, you abandon us to a Tory Government for, well, the foreseeable future until the end of days. I know we did bad at the last election, we didn’t mean to, we thought we were voting Lib Dem, we didn’t know that meant we were voting Tory. Please, give us another chance and I promise you that will NEVER happen again!

In other news, Islamic State and...... Oh who cares, we're all doomed. DOOMED I SAY!!!

(P.s. See how much fun I am when I'm PMSing?)

Confetti, Wedding Bells and Swollen Bellends

That's a mighty fine looking bush you have there.

Ahh, weddings, a time for laughter, a time for romance, a time for acting at least ten times classier than you really are. And for most people, a time for being on time. But I am not most people. Nope, I'm more like a fucking wedding-ruining cyborg developed by mad but undoubtedly lonely love-hating scientists. As a result, my boyfriend and I rocked up at the church a full fifteen minutes later than we were supposed to. Luckily for us, the bride was also running late herself so the doors were still open. Unluckily for us, when the Priest saw a cab pulling up directly out front, he naturally assumed the Bride had finally arrived and told the organist to start playing. Consequently, I had to enter the church of a wedding that was NOT MY OWN and totter awkwardly down the aisle while the organist played, 'Here Comes The Bride' and the guests stood and turned to look, before tutting and sitting back down again. Even for me, that's pretty damn ridiculous.

After a glory-stealing start, the real bride finally arrived (although not before the groom had managed to work up a really nice cold sweat) and the service got going. I haven’t been to a church wedding for some time and I forgot about all the praying and hymn singing you have to do. This was a little uncomfortable for my boyfriend and I, given that we don’t know any hymn’s because we are dirty non-church-going sinners. I just had to hope nobody was paying attention as the cheeky bastard late-comers mouthed silently, “Words and more words and Jeeeessusss soooommmeeethiiiiing.” If God was watching I’m pretty sure we just definitively made his Naughty List. Hymn awkwardness aside, the service was beautiful. Although, I've realised I’ve got a bit of a strange fixation on the part where they say, "With my body I honour you." There's something really enjoyable about watching two people subtly make reference to stuffin' the muffin in front of their parents and grandparents. Teeheheee, I’m an adult.

All aboard the Knight Bus, pip pip, cheerio, lads

After the church service the guests all hopped aboard the incredibly British Wedding Bus (which was probably used in at least one Harry Potter movie) to the garden party reception. Man-servants in waistcoats buzzed around handing out champagne and calling me “Miss” as I made immature garden puns to concerned looking strangers. Despite the rough start, the socialising was going pretty well, right up until some tiny but inherently evil woman decided to ask why my boyfriend and I weren’t married. Just a heads up married people, that is not an okay thing to ask total strangers! ‘Are you married?’ - Fine. ‘Why aren’t you married?’ - Not so much! And it’s particularly unacceptable to refuse to drop the subject when the people you're talking to look uncomfortable. LEARN TO READ THE ROOM, ASSHOLE!

Here’s how far this woman took it:

      Her: Are you guys married?
      Us: Nope.
      Her: Why not?
      Us: Erm… that seems… inappropriate.
      Her: Have you not talked about marriage?
      Us: Er... no... well... wait-.
      Her: Don’t you think you should have?

This woman was like the fucking Terminator of wedding guest botherers and I found myself feeling genuinely defensive about my marital status. Luckily, my boyfriend is not so easily fazed and he leaned forward and said, “We've only been together 18 months, it’s a little soon for that.” But he said it in such a blunt and scathing tone that he explicitly implied, “That is the end of this conversation, or else you will receive a kick in the snatch.” Ahhh, my hero. 

The food came, was awesome and was quickly scoffed. The speeches were cool, the Groom’s was practically a drinking game as he asked us to raise a toast to; the parents of the bride (sip), the canon who performed the ceremony (sip), the photographer (sip), family (sip sip), friends (sip sip), guests who’ve travelled from afar (sip), the caterers (sip), the band (sip sip), the dj (sip) and of course his beautiful bride (gulp). By the end of that I was shit-faced and ready to throw some shapes but I had to wait until after the first dance, which was the usual sickening lovey-dovey bullshit... (I kid, it was totes classy).

Not just for keeping keys together...

The rest of the evening was a blur of wine refills, God awful dancing and chatting drunken nonsense. Although I do remember one last thing. As a Tarantino fan, I was pretty upset to have missed the chance to twist to 'You Never Can Tell' by Chuck Berry BUT at the time it was playing, I was engrossed in conversation with a Fireman who was telling me all about this one time when he got called out to a hospital with bolt cutters to remove a small, metal ring from the person of an elderly gentleman. Remove? From where? Come on folks, I think we all know. Do you really need me to say, explicitly, that this poor, wizened old man got a metal ring stuck around the base of his poor, wizened old penis and that it was so swollen that it looked more like an aubergine than a dick? Great, now you've totally ruined the whole tone of my beautiful wedding post.

GBBO #Bingate - Is nothing sacred anymore?!

Outrage Level: BOSS

I was in a rare good mood yesterday.* So much so that I resolved to avoid the news and it’s unceasing doomsdaymageddon BS for a single day and focus only on shiny happy nice things for a change. So, what did I do? What EVERY sensible British person does at this time of year, yup, watch the Great British Bake Off ('GBBO'). My first ever episode, in fact! I bought cake, I had a friend over, I made us tea. The evening was set to be downright delightful, like something out of a Beatrix Potter book but with less talking animals and more giggling at silly food names (“Massive spotted dick” – teehehehe).

For those who don't know, GBBO is a cooking competition set in a white tent in the beautiful grassy green of the English countryside. It's hosted by Mel and Sue, two daft women who pull funny faces and delight in terrible food jokes. The judges, Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood are so sweet and charming that their criticism gets about as vicious as, "Well that looks, er, interesting." Call a spade a spade, guys, it looks like something a virus-riddled vulture vomited up. But no, they never would, because this is GBBO gosh darn it! GBBO is light-hearted fluffy fun, it's a nationwide cake break from all that is wrong with the world.

Until last night, when doddering old lady/super-villain Diana took fellow contestant Iain's Baked Alaska ice-cream cake out of the freezer and left it on her bench to melt in to a puddle of broken dreams. Upon finding the dripping dairy disaster and realising his hopes for the show were lost, Iain slammed the ice-cream cake in to the bin and stormed off set. And who can say they'd have done differently under that amount of pressure? It's a timed competition, you can't just start over. So... how did the judges respond to what appeared to be a blatant act of sabotage? THEY. DID. NOTHING. In fact, they voted Iain off the show because he hadn't been able to produce a cake for the final round. And did they deal with Diana? Nope, not even a slap on the wrist as far as the viewers could see. 

Lady Justice lay down on her floor and she wept.

I’ll take a minute to address those of you who may be thinking, 'Jeeez, this bitch is crazy, why is she so upset about a baking competition, it's only cake for God's sake!' WELL IT'S NOT JUST CAKE! IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE THE BASTION OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND RIGHT AND SWEET WITH THE WORLD. IT'S A BEACON OF HOPE IN AN OTHERWISE GREY AND DISASTER FILLED EXISTENCE. If I wanted to see that life is unfair and horrible, I'd be paying attention to real fucking life, okay?!? 

What the hell were the producers thinking when they included the #bingate footage but failed to have the judges comment on it? I can only assume (with my now completely cynical mind that may never trust again) that maybe the show needed a bit of a ratings boost and the producers decided to fabricate a bit of controversy to get us talking? Well GBBO, if that's the plan then why stop there? Why not make the competition more interesting by taking the bakers loved ones hostage and threatening to cut off their nipples should you come in last. And why not bring in Gordon Ramsey to start asking the bakers what the fuck they were thinking when they presented a plate full of toxic waste disguised as cake? And hey, instead of simply voting the bakers off, why not line them up and have an ex-marine kick them face first in to a puddle of bile and faeces?! This is all golden if we're changing the format of the show to make it more Twitterageous. If not, maybe sack off the controversy and stick to cakes so that we poor fools have one thing we can cling to that doesn't make us totally lose our shit on Twitter?

-----------------------------

*Why was I in a good mood? Because the lovely Eric over at Opticynicism had given me some much appreciated blog-loving. It’d be bloody lovely regardless but the fact that his blog is hilarious and waaaaaay more established than mine made it extra special. You should definitely check him out here.

Just like Hemmingway...

This weekend my boyfriend abandoned me to attend a Stag Party and illness prevented me from doing much with my days so I resolved to have a nice relax and to catch up on some housework and book-reading like the absolute girl scout that I am. Boring but Yay me and my good girl ways, right? Because I am an ADULT now. Hmm, well, it turns out, when I get the house to myself and have total freedom, I don’t exactly feel motivated to cook, clean and otherwise behave like a good little wifey. In fact, I get a bit Hemmingway… If Hemmingway wore face masks and ate too much cake, which I’m sure he did.

Here’s what I had planned to do with my free weekend:

1. Get laundry out of machine and hang to dry on drying rack, outside if sun is out. Put another load of laundry in machine.
2. Take the boyfie’s trousers to dry cleaners because he got sick on them at that wedding we were at last month… (Wonder whether I need to explain and apologise to the laundry lady about the sick or just shrug and say, “Open bar.”)
3. Wash dishes in kitchen and clean up in there because I am not a student anymore!
4. Catch up on some reading like a proper literati, consider calling father or Godfather to discuss serious literary works that have been read.
5. Write highly intellectual blog post which gives a clear solution for peace in the Middle East or similar.

Here’s what I actually did with my free weekend:

1. Through practical experimentation and charting of emotional responses, assessed why peeing with bathroom door open is so strangely satisfying.
2. Went to supermarket for fresh produce to create healthy meals for the weekend, somehow managed to leave supermarket and return home clutching only wine and a childrens party's worth of cakes.
3. Changed in to PJs and remained looking hideous for entirety of the weekend. Improved ridiculousness of the “look” by wearing a face mask to watch TV. Enjoyed not having to hide in the bathroom with it on like when boyfriend is home. Realised that, actually, when hiding in bathroom for 10 minute face mask it probably just seems to boyfriend like I’m taking a huge and painfully difficult dump which is considerably more troubling and less attractive than just Beyoncé strutting through the house with a massive mint green face. Resolve to no longer hide in bathroom when wearing face masks.
4. Ate all the cake, drank all the wine. Felt a bit sick, pushed through it, because I AM A WARRIOR!
5. Thought about how liberating it is to be home alone drunk in the day time, like Hemmingway or Jack London. Then thought I’m probably not exactly the same as Hemmingway when I find myself singing Foreigner power ballads in to an empty wine bottle microphone (“I WANNA KNOW WHAT LOVE IIIISSSS! I WANT YOU TO SHOOOWW MMEEEE!”) and lying on floor, re-enacting Jack and Rose in water scene from Titanic ("I’ll never let go, Jack!" but then totally let go because Rose is a fucking liar).

Number of chores completed: 0.
Number of books or enlightening newspaper articles read: 0.
Sum total contribution to anything outside of the inevitable destruction of my mental well-being: 0.

Oh, I also let the stray cat that I claim to hate in for a cuddle.

Parents of the world, I salute you!

As a woman in my (very, shhh) late twenties, I am sort-of-almost-getting-there ready to have kids… at some point… in the future… when I’m a bit more ready. This may not sound like the definition of ‘broodiness’ but it’s a frog leap forward from just a few years ago when I thought babies were mini shit'n'vomit machines that destroyed otherwise delightful lives. I held on to that view for probably longer than most, but like I said, I’m over it because I’d quite like a miniature me to mould in to a happier, stronger, more intelligent version of me. Me 2.0, if you will (we can debate whether this is an acceptable reason to have children another time). That said, I don’t have any nieces or nephews or very young cousins so it’s not like I have any experience of the thing that I sort-of-almost-don’t-fucking-rush-me  want. That was, until the weekend just passed, where I got to spend my weekend with, not one, but TWO toddlers! Yep, three year old twins to be precise. I was kind of excited. I was extremely naive.

Ring-a-Roses; Like Caveman Training, only harder

Upon arrival there was already much running, screaming and giggling from boy-twin and girl-twin as they zoomed between rooms like whippets on amphetamines, but they seemed to calm down when they realised there was a scary stranger in their midst. They peaked at me coyly and referred to me in hand-cupped whispers as “that lady”. It was pretty cute and I was pretty smitten.

A long walk to the pub, an evening meal and a trip to the park were planned to be adventure enough to tire the little whipper-snappers out before bedtime [hindsight lolz]. The meal itself was pretty impressive, I expected much throwing of food, screaming and refusing to sit still but there was none of that. They sat, they ate, they chatted. I’ve behaved worse at meals myself after a few glasses of adult grape juice, if I’m being totally honest. Post civilised feeding, we ventured on to the park where the twins were pushed round on things, swung up and down on things and then quite literally ran in circles for a good ten minutes. The journey home was expected to be a quiet one… [More hindsight lolz].

On the walk home I watched as my boyfriend picked up and swung round boy-twin and I felt a pang of nostalgia for when my Dad used to swing me around too. I wanted a go! Not being swung round, I’m in my (very, shhh) late twenties, for God’s sake. I wanted to be the swing. So I got involved with picking up, swinging round, throwing up in the air and, after a paltry 5 minutes, I was exhausted. The twins, however, did not share my exhaustion.

    -    “AGAIN! AGAIN!”
    -    “I can’t, boy-twin, I’m too tired, my arms are going to fall off.”
    -    “No.” [No further explanation, just “No” and an accusatory frown]
    -    “Yes, they are, look.” [Waves arms around as if somehow demonstrating tiredness through the medium of mime]
    -    “Noooo.” [Accusatory frown]

So I kept going until I was at much more serious risk of a dislocated shoulder. It was the frown that got me, on that bloody adorable face! Seriously, it was like what angels would look like if they wore Batman t-shirts. (I sure as hell hope my future kids are fuck-ugly so they can’t control me like that.)

Playing dead to get a few seconds rest

Once home, the demon seeds, I mean children, were still full of beans despite the adults all needing serious naps. When the time came for them to be put into their PJs they had to be caught and grappled in to a state of nudity in a scene that closely resembled a pig wrestling competition and made me genuinely nervous about ending up on a register! And once nude, the children thought it would be hilarious to curl up and contort themselves in to solid shapes like dead spiders (MADE OF IRON!) and refuse to be clothed. All the time giggling while farting like pros, gleefully filing the room with toxic tear-inducing gases as we wrestled them back in to clothes. Honestly, it was kind of hilarious, but the idea of doing that twice a day – Yikes.

When they finally went to sleep I was full of unaskably stupid questions. Like how come the human race had not died out? It’d been one day… barely a day, in fact! Half a day! …and I felt like I needed a week long retreat at a spa hotel. Am I just really, excessively precious?!? How have more parents not dropped dead of exhaustion, leaving their offspring to escape in to the wild and grow up feral? Is that how Peter Pan’s Lost Boys got lost? Are there parent training classes you can go to where you’re limits are tested, pushed and exceeded prior to being given a baby? Is it the cuteness that keeps you going when you’re running on empty? Or is there some inherent strength that comes from knowing that these are YOUR babies and if they want to be picked up and swung round, then by God, they will be picked up and swung round even if it means losing an actual arm?

My head is spinning with the mission impossible that seems to be everyday parenthood and I just wanted to write this post as a way to say to any parents out there: ‘High five!' Seriously, high five for all the nights you probably fall asleep with your face on a plate of food or pile of Lego. High five for all the days you keep going when all you want to do is lie down and smoke a joint. You guys are like marathon runners, but better, because you do it every day and you don’t shit yourselves in the street. (I presume). So high five parents, high five for keeping the species going… unlike those lazy bastard pandas.

CLICK-BAIT COULD BE KILLING YOU! Click here to find out how…

Hello my fellow rage-monkeys,

Today we’re going to talk about click-bait. Don’t know what click-bait is? Click-bait is when writers and marketers use desperate and underhand methods to get you to view their content (like this title does – forgive me). Don’t get me wrong, click-bait is not always bad. There’s harmless heart-string plucking click-bait from sites like Upworthy.com. You know, like, when you see an ad or video in your Facebook feed titled, ‘This homeless alcoholic found a kitten in a tiara, what happens next will ASTOUND YOU.’ Meh, what harm does it do? Other than lie to you, of course, because you might chuckle or crease up and “Awwww” at the video but I doubt you’ll rock back on your chair and clutch your head, screaming, “HOLY SHIT! THAT WAS ASTOUNDING!” But ultimately, your day and emotional well-being will remain unchanged.

AWW HELL NO

Then there’s another kind of click-bait. The rage-inducing kind. This is the kind I hate, because it makes me fucking angry… See, I’m livid right now. This kind of click-bait is intended to upset you, to tell you that the world is a horrible, hate-filled place and boy should you lose your shit about it right. now. I’m talking about articles about say, some Z-list celebrity calling Robin Williams “selfish” for committing suicide. It provokes anger that someone could be so judgemental without having a single-fucking-iota of insight in to Robin’s personal struggles and at the same time contributing to the already overflowing sea of ignorance surrounding mental health issues, especially in men. Ya see kids, for some whey-protein-brained thunder-cunts, it’s still considered unmanly to be depressed, to feel incapable of carrying on, ‘Men should be strong and selfless alphas… Like War Machine.’

Do you see what I did there; I went off on a rage-induced rant, because click-bait made me angry about something that really, I shouldn’t even have known about. I did the same thing when I found out Westborough Baptist Church plans to picket Robin’s funeral because he sometimes played gay/gay-friendly characters. That rant went like this: SERIOUSLY! JUST FUCK OFF YOU UNGODLY SCUM-SUCKING CAVE-DWELLING INBRED MEDIA-WHORE FUCKTARDS!

Then I thought, whose day was ruined here? Whose emotional well-being was disrupted? Yep, MINE. And maybe yours too if you had a similar (but probably less profane) reaction to these stories. And why? Because some media fucknuts decided to make it “news”. Some asshole saying something assholey does not need to be news, but it sure does sell more than dweeby so-called “proper news.” If a website can create a title that upsets and angers us it makes us more likely to click through to the article and, by default, increase their site traffic. This means they can report back to their evil advertisement overlords that they get ‘X number of unique visitors each month’ and ‘Y numbers of clicks per minute’.  So they’re peddling hate for monetary gain, wouldn't that make them kind of like Satan's little helpers? Yes kids, yes it would.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is this: Maybe the next time you see a headline that makes you jerk forward with your best AWW-HELL-NO face on, ask yourself, ‘Is this really something I need to see? And if you do, ‘Does the injustice justify the rage?’ For articles about terrorism, war, miscarriages of justice, media and political corruption, etc then the answers should probably be ‘Yes Pleb, of course, you derp!’ But for articles about barely-even-famous-anymore folks saying douchey things, maybe they should be No. The less we read this tripe, the less they’ll produce because it will no longer be financial viable. So instead of clicking, why not carry on living your awesome life? After all, the Twitterati will respond to Twitter douchery with counter-vitriol and politicians and the police can deal with douche groups in their local community – and all that can be achieved without assholes being given a global stage for their assholery and upsetting our otherwise beautiful days.

Story Time: ‘The Girl With All The Gifts’ by M. R. Carey

Like spreadsheets and paperwork for your imagination

The low-down: The front cover claims this is "the most original thriller you will read this year." I counter-claim "YOUR FACE IS MADE OF LIES!!!"

[Warning: Spoilers a plenty]

Review: Marketing People! I’ve had it up to here with you! I feel suckered and lied to, how can an industry be so unscrupulous??? What am I going to find out next, that there’s no such thing as Russian talking meerkats?!?!?

These scum-bags pretty much repeatedly kick you in the face with the message that this is not your average zombie novel. Well, let’s explore that for a second shall we?

What a typical zombie story looks like: Flat, clichéd characters forced to trek through zombie-infested territory, with little hopes of survival.

What this story looks like: Flat, clichéd characters forced to trek through zombie-infested territory with little hopes of survival but with the added twist of a sort-of-but-not-totally-batshit-feral little zombie girl along for the ride.

Hey Scum Bags - ONE ORIGINAL ELEMENT IN A SEA OF CLICHÉS DOES NOT AN ORIGINAL STORY MAKETH!!!!!!!!!!

It starts out well, there’s these kids on this army base and they're kept in cells and have to get strapped in to wheelchairs by soldiers before sitting in otherwise normal school classes so at this stage you’re all, ‘WTF?’ Then there’s this mad scientist cow who experiments on the kids too and you’re like, ‘WOAH! NOT COOL!’ Between the teachers, the students, the scientists and the soldiers there's an interesting range of characters and relationships to be explored. But at this point I sigh big because if the book had just stayed here in army-base-wtf-world it could have been quite fascinating. But, shoot forward just a few pages and we’re out in zombie-land with a rag-tag bunch of walking clichés.

Let's Meet the Team:
  1. Jane Everywoman, the try-hard-to-be-badass-but-actually-kinda-lame heroine who’s not perfect but who’s doing her best, gawd dammit!
  2. Captain Army Archetype, solider hell bent on survival cos aint no-one gonna die on his watch. Says ‘shit’ a lot, you know, like all manly soldier men do.
  3. Mad-scientist woman, will stop at nothing to be generally villainy in the name of science. Also pretty incompetent to boot because if you've cut a dozen kids brains open and not found anything useful then maybe it’s time to admit you suck at science and just put the scalpel down?
  4. Corporal Cannon-Fodder, the pissy pants young soldier with a heart of gold and a sad barely-passes-for-back-story back-story. You know why you’re here, kid. Go get eaten already.
  5. Then there’s Melanie, the girl, you know, with all the gifts? She’s actually okay and not all cliché and boring. So that's something. Although her "gifts" extend as far as 'can have conversations' and 'can manage to not bite people when she tries really, really hard.' So similar to that of any normal toddler, basically.

Each character has a back-story of pretty much one thing that happened to them ever and nothing else, so there are wanted men on Crime Watch that are easier to relate to than these walking, talking bits of cardboard! Apart from Melanie (ironically) none of the characters seemed like real people and I found it really hard to give a shit about any of them, in fact, by about halfway through the book I was hoping for a swift massacre.

The book also makes zero sense, often making tenuous leaps in a matter of pages from something like, 'We have to avoid the cities, that's where all the zombies are!' to 'We have no choice but to go directly through London’ you know, THE UKs LARGEST CITY? So basically a Homer Simpson level-of-lazy attempt at building some drama there then? Yeah, pretty much.

Then there’s the 'Hungries,' the books super-original word for ‘zombies’ because, you know, this is totally not your average zombie novel? These supposed death monsters can be outwitted by simply being veeerrrry quiet and walking really slowly... oh and some super deodorant called E-blocker rubbed in to your pits and your junk. Some creepy little kiddy zombies show up towards the end and they actually seem pretty dangerous and interesting but they turn up so late in the book that you'll already be too numb from boredom to really appreciate them.

I'm not sure HOW exactly but I've read some rave reviews for this book so if you want to go ahead and tell me how wrong I am, do feel free. I just- Eurgh- I don't know, if you're really in to zombies and stuff then this might be a must read for you, but if you're looking for something fresh and interesting, this ain't it. If you a want heart-warming zombie story then save yourself some time and watch Warm Bodies on dvd instead. Or if you want a truly original gothic novel then check out ‘Let The Right One In’ by John Ajvide Lindqvist. That shit’s incredible.

Verdict: Meh.

Happy Four-Legged Asshole Day

"I left you a present..."

Why do people like cats? Seriously, what’s the deal with that? Dogs will love you more than your own mother could, but cats? Nope. To a cat you're just a big fleshy tin-opener. I've had a cat for barely a week and I hate it. Ok, by ‘had a cat’ I mean, ‘a stray showed up at our house a few times and I fed it and called it Atticat Finch’, but that’s pretty much the same thing, right? I mean, that’s how those indolent groin-licking little brats operate whether they’re part of the family or not, they just turn up when they want some food. So I fed it, evidently because I am so desperate for love that I've turned in to a total schmuck. And how did that homeless bastard repay my kindness? HE TOOK A MASSIVE SHIT IN MY VEGETABLE PATCH! Yeah, just yesterday, right on the potatoes... On the eve of World Cat Day no less!

So to repay that gesture I think I'll personally be celebrating World Cat Day by sitting in my garden with a supersoaker, a cigar and a sign that reads "Bring it!” And if he so much as gets on the garden fence I swear to God I'm going to lock eyes and I'm going to speak to him really slow and husky and menacing, and I'm going to say:

‘I know what you're thinking, punk. You're thinking "Has she filled that supersoaker with water or with lemonade, because lemonade would totally fuck my fur up?" Now to tell you the truth I forgot myself in all this excitement. But being this is a Hydrostorm Water Blaster, the most powerful supersoaker in the world and will drench your fur clean off, you've gotta ask yourself a question: "Do I feel lucky?" Well... do ya... punk?’

Then I'm going to take a long drag on my cigar, casually blow out a smoke ring and then glare at him real sinister like as I whisper, ‘Your move, asshole.’

How Not To Run A Restaurant - A Simpleton’s Guide

This weekend I took my boyfriend away for his birthday because I am lovely that way. I took him for a fancy French meal on Saturday night so for Sunday lunch I found something a little more reasonably priced because what am I, made of money?! I did my research and found a three course Sunday lunch at a hotel restaurant which, because I am an actual saint, will remain nameless. The service, food and atmosphere were so excruciatingly bad that I wish I’d told my boyfriend I was taking him for a Faulty Towers experience lunch because at least then it might have seemed funny. (For all of you lucky enough to be too young to know what Faulty Towers is - trust me, it's a good reference, ask your parents.)

If I was the kind of person who enjoyed lambasting restaurants on Trip Advisor I’d be wringing my hands with glee right now, but I’m not. I do however think that if you are running a restaurant and looking confused as hell as to why no-one wants to come through your doors and those unfortunates who do tend to flee crying and retching afterwards, maybe you can learn something from my horrible experience. So without further ado, here is my guide on how not to run a restaurant based on everything that was wrong with yesterdays dining experience at The God Damn You Are So Lucky I Am Not Meaner Hotel and Restaurant.

Profiteroles... Totally a real thing!

1. If your menu includes '-of the Day' specials, maybe prep your waiting staff so that they have some idea of what these dishes actually are. That way, they don't have to look dumbstruck and scratch their heads like monkeys being arse-probed by aliens when asked, "What is the soup du jour?"

2. Did you store the prosciutto starter next to some roadkill in the fridge? Well don't. It tasted funkier than that one time I licked a frog to see if it would get me high. (Spoiler alert - it did not).

3. If you are serving Sunday roasts, don't cook the meat the day (or week) before and then reheat it to order. I think trying to swallow a whole, live, kicking, screaming cow would be less of a choking hazard than your so-called "beef". 

4. Obscure butter-overkill beige mash which could have been swede (...or carrot... or parsnip) - Did you jizz in that? I bet you did, you fucker. Well the jokes on you because I didn't dare touch it.

5. If you have ‘Profiteroles’ on the dessert menu maybe let your waitress know that yes, this is a real thing, it is quite common and it is pronounced "Prof-it-er-roles," not "Parf-? Prof-? Em, sorry, what does that say?" [Facepalm]

6. Also, profiteroles have cream in them; they do not need to be served with four dessert spoons full of clotted cream just haphazardly slapped on the side of the plate like dairy diarrhoea. It looks gross and who the hell do you think is eating that much cream?!

7. The sticky toffee pudding with custard - did you put cold custard on a cold dessert and then microwave the whole thing? It came with a thick film on top, like a school dinner from the 1990's. What is up with that? In future, instead of dessert, just give all customers trophies and medals for getting this far without sobbing and screaming, "WHAT IS THIS UNHOLY GRUEL, DEMON?!" 

8. Restaurant on the 4th floor, toilets on the 1st floor - REALLY?!?! That's just bad planning, given your terrible "food" I bet there are nightclub bathrooms that see less upchuck than your elevator.

How eating here made me feel

9. Teach your waitresses basic waiting on etiquette. For example, when I ask for the bill, a good waitress does not plonk it down in front of me and then stand by the table waiting to be paid that second. And when I look at them expectantly waiting from them to go away and let me take my time over paying, a good waitress does not stare back at me stupefied like they've just dropped acid and I've turned in to a giant singing vagina.

10. Michael Bublé and other God awful miscellaneous 'lounge music' does not make this place feel upmarket and classy, it makes it feel like Satan's waiting room. I would let an animal piss in my actual ear before I would listen to that music again.

My Image Revamp Advice for the Nasty Party: Don't Mention Anything You've Actually Done

Dear Tory Party,

I read in the Guardian yesterday that you have hired some fancy new "election strategist" who has been fielding advice from fellow Tories on how to avoid the 'Nasty Party' image at the upcoming election. I'll be honest with you, I don't think 'not attacking Ed Miliband' is really going to cover it. People don't think you're nasty because of your campaign tactics, people think you're nasty because of your abhorrent policies. People have killed themselves and starved to death as a direct result of YOUR policies. But hey, maybe us feckless plebs will forget all that if you just don't mention it.

Oh and while we're on the subject of things to avoid, maybe don't mention how you provide slave labour to companies like Tesco and Primark that could easily afford to pay workers, thus taking paid jobs away when paid jobs are already pretty fucking hard to come by, as evidenced by the number of people needing job seekers fucking allowance.

The Desolate North - Fuck that place!

Or that time you trebled tuition fees, claiming that only a few institutions would charge the maximum anyway... oh and now they pretty much all are. But that's ok because you only want the rich to be educated anyway, heaven forfend the fucking proles will learn a thing or two and realise Satan himself couldn't damn them worse than you have.

Oh and definitely don't mention that time you sold off "half the country" for fracking to the highest bidder for what experts suggest will be a pitiful amount of gas anyway because fuck "the desolate North," am I right guys?!

If you really think you're going to need to actually mention some things then maybe you could just jump up and down screaming, "Hey you guys! Remember the Olympics? Good times, huh? Goods times brought to you by The Tories, no less!"

This maybe hasn't been the sort of helpful advice you were looking for but don't worry your fugly little heads about that because I have more chance of winning the next X-Factor with my arm-pit farting routine than you do of winning the next election. But by all means, don't let that stop you from using your inflated campaign budget to shine up Cameron's bloated gammon-face and smear it all over billboards again.

Sincerest regards,

Pleb