Monthly Archives: October 2011

Laters, taters.

My lord. I have never needed a holiday any more in my LIFE.

The past few weeks have been full of work-related stress coupled with work-related ennui. I generally loathe most humans but it feels like recently they’ve been doing their UTMOST to fuck me off. Personally. They are doing it just to make my days that tiny bit more crap.

And so, this little post should publish itself when I am roughly half way to Edinburgh, for a blissful night on my own in my favourite city. The following day I shall join my bestest bestie and her Fiancé in Inverness, for a week of non-stop eating, adventuring and joy.

It’s going to be utter bliss.

Normal, whinging, whiny introspective bullshit will continue on my return.


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A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment.

I’ve said it before, but I often struggle with the fact that I’m a huge contradiction. I spent my teenage years rebelling against the hideous stereotype of pink-wearing, kitten-loving, boyband-listening girls that I knew, in favour of listening to metal, being a (quite shit) goth and apparently only liking boys with mental problems.

Obviously this was the daft naivety of a teenage idiot, willfully defying one social group to pigeonhole myself in another. I’m a lot happier now I’m grown up (ha!) but I still really struggle with admitting my girlyness. I’m secretly ashamed when I get giddy over buying a new handbag and I can only tell my very bestest friends that I actually watch Don’t Tell the Bride, let alone tell them that I cry watching it (Oh. Fuck). For a long-time I consoled myself that my new-found love of 50s style dresses was offset by the fact that they look considerably less feminine when you accessorise it with a pint and some piercings. Cue borderline alcohol problem.

This is why I’m slightly perturbed by my growing fascination for men in period costume. I’ve steadily noticed my interest climbing in this very predictable and time-honoured female tradition, but didn’t pay it too much attention, for fear of truly becoming a stereotypical woman. However, it came around and smacked me straight across the face when watching the new adaptation of Jane Eyre last month. I’d completely stopped paying attention to the film and clearly my brain was only interested in this:

Why hello there Mr. Rochester. Is that a love letter for me? Oh you're too kind.

Michael Fassbender has been in a crapton of cinema releases this year but I’ve never batted an eyelid at him until he was trussed up as Mr. Rochester and storming round Thornfield in his breeches. (It’s telling that I typed “under him” instead of “until he” in that sentence. OBSESSED)

Obviously, my still defiant brain screams “NO! Don’t be one of the hysterical chatting mass of women cooing over Mr. Darcy… No! You’re better than that” but yet, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to not give into indulging myself.

So difficult in fact that I spent all of Saturday watching the BBC Pride and Prejudice series, partly because I’d promised to watch it with a friend who’d never seen it, but mainly because I wanted to do some good old-fashioned ogling. And ogle I did. In fact, I think I might have scarred my friend for life with my overenthusiastic sound effects.

Darcy and Bingley 3-way? How could I possibly refuse?

I thought perhaps I just enjoyed a well-dressed man. I mean, when modern men are all scrubbed up nicely for weddings and whatnot, they look pretty handsome. Everyone knows how fond I am of a kilt. But it occurred to me that even the trampiest of period drama men (peasants etc) win hands down in the style stakes when ranked against a scabby man in trackies nowadays.
It’s certainly not the facial hair (which is another thought I had) because I heart beards and sideburns all over the shop. I don’t think I could ever be without a stubbly faced gent. So it couldn’t possibly be that.(Although sideburns with a ruffled Victorian shirt are hard to beat). I even attempted some brief googling to see if I could half-inch some interesting snippets of discourse. But that got boring quite quickly, and I decided my time would be much better spent looking at nice pictures of men.
When did I become such a babbling mess of a woman? I do not know. Will I ever reconcile my new-found girliness with my need to make myself atypical? I do not know. But perhaps, oh random stranger of the internet, you might like to leave your tuppenny’s worth and let me know precisely why men of the olden days look megahot?

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I fucking love dinosaurs.

I’ve been having a bit of regression back to my childhood recently. It sort of began when I found out they were re-releasing Jurassic Park at the cinema. I was batshit mental about dinosaurs when I was 7 – I remember shaking with excitement waiting in the queue to see it with my dad. I was hell-bent on being a palaeontologist until I balked at having to studying Chemistry at A-Level. Ugh.

So, with JP back on the big screen and the surprise at being able to unearth all my old JP toys* in my parents treasure trove of a loft, it made sense to pay a visit to the Natural History Museum and do some dinosaur hunting for Caz’s birthday.

We started off with some beer martinis for breakfast:

And a hunk of lovingly prepared birthday cake (made by ME *proud*)

We then spied Michael Jackson at the station…

This particular specimen never fails to amuse me…

You’d have a sore-arse too.

One of our party had a problem with the famous giant blue whale in the museum. A problem in that she goes all wobbly whenever she sees it because it’s JUST SO BIG.


Oh the hilarity.

It was blatantly obviously from our earlier giggling at the two-wang-osaurus that this wasn’t going to be a particularly mature gathering. We TRIED to appreciate the historical artefacts with dignity and maturity, but then we saw this:

Ha! Penis!

The only solution to penis-induced giggling is to go and buy a fuckton of stuff you don’t need from the gift-shop. Expenditure was exacerbated by the ridiculously beautiful sales assistant. FIT.

So that meant that I bought a duck.

Because you know. Ducks are birds. Birds are dinosaurs. True. Etc.

We then knocked back wine, as well the advances of a big issue seller (“Do you want to come back to my cardboard box and make love? I promise I won’t cum inside you”) and shovelled curry down our gullets until we couldn’t move.

All in all it was a BLOODY GOOD DAY. Even if I did find a grey hair that very morning… *dies*

*one of which was still roaring after 17 years. Impressive. My dad then proceeded to help me change the batteries in another, much like a child. It was sweet, yet slightly humiliating.

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Partners in Neurosis

A very drunken game of ‘never have I ever’ brought us together. A mutual love of mischief, naughtiness and geekery cemented us. We call each other female-genitalia related names with alarming frequency and the greatest affection.

We’ve known each other for seven years and are significantly better behaved and grown-up than we once were. Nevertheless, we have excellent tales to tell of our misbehaviour. In our first week of friendship she managed to throw up in my hands as I very tenderly held her mane of hair back. To rival that, I once sought revenge on her ex via the means of my own piss. Her recklessness and wild abandon was the perfect antidote to the stuffiness of most of the people we met at Uni, although it did leave our gang a bit troubled when she’d disappear in the middle of the night.

It takes very little effort on her part to make me guffaw, whether with her or at her, and there are no topics of conversation off-limits – which can be unnerving for an outsider. Essentially, the dirtier the topic, the better. We had a 3 hour-long conversation about every minute detail of delivering her daughter. I know her intimately, in the crudest sense of the word.

That’s another thing – she’s a mum now. A very good one at that. For all her posturing and self-deprecation, she needs reminding of just how good she is at her new job. I fully plan on corrupting her offspring with our drunken tales and relish the prospect of embarrassing them with our inherent geekiness. But for now it’s a joy watching her with her daughter and I’m secretly very proud of her – she’s not had the easiest time of it.

We’ve caused all manner of chaos and mayhem, nursed crushes and hangovers and broken hearts. But the crux of our friendship is the fact that she understands better than most, precisely what it’s like to be neurotic, depressed and manic. Completely and utterly without judgement. Sometimes this means we’ve not been there for each other when we ought to have been, but it has also meant that we’ve not needed to apologise for our absence either.

I bloody love her and her mental little head.  Even if I’ve been exposed to way too many of her bodily fluids.

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Let’s go to the park. Why? Because it’s THERE

Kids are heartbreaking right?

I had the pleasure of looking after my friend’s kids this weekend, whilst they were over visiting for a very oddly timed barbecue (hello October sunshine). In an attempt to wear them out, a very sweaty trip to park was undertaken (on which I did NOT play on any of the equipment, oh no) before heading back for MEAT.

A little while later, we were cuddled up with the kids, watching a film and the subject of dogs came up.

My flatmate used to have a dog – a big soppy old rottie called Holly. She was fabulous. Technically, she belonged to her ex-boyfriend, but he’d left her behind with Caz, to shack up with a newly pregnant girlfriend (He’s a charming fellow). When Caz came to move in with me, we couldn’t bring Holly with us, as the Landlord so decreed. The new girlfriend didn’t want the dog anywhere near the new baby, so poor Holly was in need of a new home. After several heated discussions (which I won’t go into here, for fear of haemorraging) Holly was re-homed. Happily, with a family, with all the fuss she bloody well deserved.

So, after our canine visitor joins the throng of babysitters and kids on the sofa, one of our more softly spoken visitors pipes up, apropos of nothing.

Boy: “It’s sad that you had to give Holly up”

Caz: “I know sweetie, but she’s happy now! She got a whole family to fuss over her, play with her and feed her.”

Boy: [pause] “I know, but she was happy with you too.”

Cue a couple of very stiff upper lips and very wobbly bottom ones.

Kids. Saying things adults can’t bring themselves to say since the dawn of time.


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