Tales of a JunkLady

Champix

2008-04-28T00:31:00.003Z

Ignoring the fact that it has induced random bouts of crying, over-sleeping, depression and erm -- green poo -- I have to give Champix credit where it's due for cutting down my habit of 20 fags a day to around 6 or 7. But wait, that's not the end of it.

For those not in the know Champix has a unique way of putting the breaks on this filthy habit. It makes your brain nicotene receptors happy without feeding them nicotene (plus point), it gradually increases in dosage, insisting that you carry on smoking for a bit, allowing you to slowly turn your legs together for a lovely steady stop on the ice, instead of insisting you dig your blades in making it more likely you'll stumble, trip, hurt yourself, feel like a fool, leaving the ice-rink and needing another fag.
Finally, it trains your brain. You're smoking, but you're no longer getting the rush to your head - smoking becomes pointless.

The doses are as follows:

Days 1 - 4: 0.5mg
Days 5 - 7: 1mg
Day 8 onwards: 2mg

Your quit date should be between day 8 and 14.
I've opted for day 8.
It's the early hours of day 8, just before I go to bed. I'm having my last fag now.

Ignoring the hundreds of complaints governing medical bodies have received about this drug (known as Chantix in the states) and the accusations of increased suicidal behaviour amongst users - ignoring all that - it's bloody good.

Wish me luck!

2007 Top 5 B-List Gay TV Totty Awards!

2007-05-06T20:34:00.000Z

Here are my top 5 totty-men of TV's b-list for 2007:

5. Adrian Lewis Morgan.

Jimmy Clay in the under-rated BBC lunch time soap, Doctors. Wholly underated and often looked over for the big storylines (old ladies over-dosing, HRT, etc), Jimmy seems to have a permanent wince – but this doesn’t stop me from wanting to, erm.. some sort of general practice medical euphemism, I dunno. Jimmi suffers from claustrophobia and OCD. Probably not hung, but, meh.

4. Dominic Littlewood.

Perhaps a little gay and certainly not conventionally handsome, Dom is cocky but not quite hubristic though cheeky enough to bend you to his every whim. For those of you interested in a day-time leather-daddy, this could be your man. Potentially hung.

3. Kristian Digby. Often paired up with Dominic Littlewood on To Buy or Not To Buy creating the sexiest femme/butch relationship since ITV’s The Jules and Lulu Show. Gangly, tall and seemingly intelligent. The downside is: he shaves his chest. And his voice is awful. And his mannerisms.

2. Dan Penteado.

The one on the motorbike in Rogue Traders that doesn’t really seem to do anything. Imaginatively referred to as “Dan the Man” by the unattractive one (Matthew, something or other), his sole purpose seems to be looking pretty, and providing a motorbike. Likes dressing up in wigs to “confuse cowboy plumbers”, yeah. Excellent.

1. Gethin Jones.

Hot totty from Wales, and they’re usually well hung – this being undeniable as in many cases he seems to be in just his pants or tight little shorts whether necessary or not. And his blog is marvellous:

Thank you for all the nice messages you wrote to my Auntie Jean. She doesn’t understand computers so I’ve printed your messages out and sent them on to her. She made me some Welsh cakes to bring into the office for all my friends

Tall, slightly built, but incredibly dim – a winning combination in my eyes!

I wonder if he’s gay? CLUE: Pictured here with Scooch:

Who are your top 5?

We're starting together.

2007-04-01T12:37:00.000Z

As a 25 year old gay male, perhaps Menopause: The Musical, wasn't the kind of theatrical event I'd most enjoy. The audience was 95% female with 50%+ being 50+, so really never before has a musical made me feel so misplaced... (aside from Daddy Cool). Now, don't get me wrong, I liked the 70s pop hit cover versions of songs twisted to the subjects of dragging, dripping, HRT and hot flushes, but they were enjoyed with a certain comfortablenesses as, bluntly, I'm never going to experience the change. I hope. So the main attraction for me was seeing Su Pollard, who is just utterly, utterly watchable.

And this is why I insisted we stay for an autograph. Just a quick one. An "excuse me, sorry, but could we have your autograph please?". Just a little scribble on a picture we''d printed out.

I didn't get an autograph. I got a paragraph.

For forty-five minutes Su entertained myself, Amy and Kieran, rambling on about anything and everything from her recent trip to America to shopping on Carnaby Street. She pulled on my piercing, admired Amy's shoes and turned around to the bar, proclaiming loudly, to everyone, that we were the "THREE MUSTY QUEERS" - just make sure every had heard this she repeated it. Three times.

Unstoppable. Eccentric. Embarrassingly lovable. And loud. Very, very loud. She told us where she lived, we spoke about the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, she chatted about stealing flat caps and her Rear Of The Year award, and we were introduced to her friends - though, in all fairness, they could have been passers-by, as she puts in a lot of effort into being social - a thought echoed by the barman whilst we were waiting who said: "no, she's not here yet which is odd, as Su's usually first to the bar". Quite.

She was a real delight to meet. More charisma in her glasses than Nicola has in her entire body.

Dame Amy, Su Pollard & JunkLady
(matching flat caps NOT planned)

The signed photo of Su in her Hi-De-Hi days is to go on the pub's main wall, in between Mink Stole and Peter Sutcliffe. She'll keep them in check.

It says:

"with much luv to everyone at the vauxhall griffin - can't wait to visit. much luv from Maplins & Peggy & Su Pollard, too x"

When acquaintances say "I'll pop in soon" you tend to take it with a pinch of salt. With Su, I feel it's a very real danger.

What I did at school today...

2007-03-21T20:19:00.000Z

Well, the edges need touching up a bit, but I don't think it's too shabby an attempt! Certainly a lot nicer than the turquoise mosaic it covers. Later in the week I'll add Mario and perhaps the odd Space Invader or two, round the corner. All on display, at the pub, The Vauxhall Griffin.

Shame it might be covered up by a board in 4 week's time. Meh.

What do you reckon? Too tatty? Should it be glossed over? Or do you think the shabbiness just emphasizes my love of retro arcade action over a lack of any actual artistic talent?

You, dear sir... you decide.

St Patrick's Day Quick Pop Quiz

2007-03-17T18:09:00.000Z

I made this up for DJ MetalChick and her Rocktronica night. Loosely based Irish pop music quiz. The prize on offer tonight is a lovely bottle of wine - oooh. Rose I believe.

I'll post the answers on Monday.

Lead us not into temptation...

2007-03-16T01:37:00.000Z

And to think...

2007-03-15T15:27:00.000Z

After the RSPCA failed to reach him, help was sought from two council wardens who tied a number of hamster ladders and Curly Wurly bars together...

..this is only the third funniest line in my favourite news story of the week: Link.

Poor little mite...

2007-03-14T16:49:00.000Z

...pitiful, isn't it?

La Vie En Woes

2007-03-14T09:54:00.000Z

Why? Why did I end up going to the Ghetto at five minutes notice?

I'll tell you why.

There's a guy that I seem to pull in 18 month intervals, having met him in 2002. I was working at Flip then, but you probably don't remember that place. Retro Bar Wendy's basement club. Now the new Ku Bar.

The last time I saw him (and his friend) was early 2006.

Guy's Friend: There are more hot guys in here than usual.
Guy: Yeah, but the one that's interested in me seems to have gone.
Guy's Friend: Rob? Oh well, he did look better two years ago.

Of course the toilet cubicle remained shut until they'd returned to the dance floor and I kept my discretion... for all of fifteen seconds. His friend turned white and scurried off when I mentioned that, in my defense, I had hit gay middle-age.

Fun night. I even danced to Kelly Clarkson and the Scissor Sisters - all I've ever stood for has been destroyed.

Busy month or two...

2007-01-02T01:42:00.000Z

I'm still here. Gimme one sec while I light a ciggie...

Ooh, it's very new. Can anybody tell me what to do?

2006-11-07T03:08:00.000Z

Hiyaaaz!

Ahem.

I went to a secret, intimate Girls Aloud gig at Harrods on Saturday, courtesy of Rob and his competition winning abilities.

Plus points: they were sexy and confident (and womanly) enough to sing live.

Low points: personally introduced by one of Mohammed Al-Fayed's lackies. Having to applaud Mohammed Al-Fayed's generousity. The "Innocent Victims" statue near the entrance: a bronze Dodi and Dido releasing a dove into the air, glee on their faces, INNOCENT VICTIMS emblazened into the stone beneath them (that may as well have been chizeled in the Comic Sans font).

I like Girls Aloud. I like the fact that they’re essentially reasonably talented non-entities, bouncing around prettily to some of the best pop music written in the past decade. I don’t want them have personalities. The only thing I know about any of their private lives is that it’s joked that Cheryl (and I couldn’t tell you which one that is) Tweedy married Ashley Cole possibly to quash the rumours that she was a racist (she was charged with racially aggravated assault) and that he was gay (The Sun insinuated that he was involved in some sort of gay footballer orgy).

I like it this way. I don’t need them to be anything more than the faces of a fluffy girl group.

They seem to enjoy it this way too… well, all of them except (I’m reliably informed this is her name:) Nicola.

All the girls looked so happy and excited in the photos I managed to take. All except Nicola.

Having said that, it was 9.30am on a Saturday morning. The girls were later seen puffing away on a balcony . I’m nothing before a cup of tea and a Malboro Lite either.

Poor Nicola.

Hot as a holocaust...

2006-11-02T03:37:00.000Z

So, first celebrity to die of HIV complications, Klaus Nomi. My choice for a Halloween outfit at the "dead popstars" themed party. Thought nobody would recognise him. I was wrong. I won the fancy dress. To be fair, the effort I put in was humungous, and the result... fabulous:

And if you've no idea who Klaus Nomi is... you really should find out:

He deserves more recognition than he gets.

God gave Rock 'n' Roll to you...

2006-10-31T12:45:00.000Z

You know, I like to think we live in a predominantly secular country that (despite tabloid sensationalism and a few fanatics) is relatively tolerant and encouraging of other peoples' beliefs whether they're Christian, Islamic, Jewish, Homosexual, Transexual or fans of Keane. Britain is more of a melting pot than any other country on Earth and that's why I'm proud to be British.

I'm also proud of the fact that we have free speech and are enabled to poke fun at ourselves and others.

So when myself and ThePirateKing took 2 photos of us, with Jesus, doing BryanBoy's (Phillipino new-moneyed blogging superstar) hangbag glamour pose after the rock 'n' roll jumble sale, we didn't quite expect the large backlash from the far-east catholic community. Whoops.

Click here to see the pics and blog entry.

"europeans should go somewhere else so they can spread their aids diseases elsewhere. they are not welcome in this catholic country!!!!"

"europeans don't have any morality or values they are evolving backwards. look at all the countrys with gay marriage. their land is full of homosexuals, perverts and pedophiles."

"homosexuals have sex with each other and they are responsible for spreading the AIDS virus resulting to the destruction of many lives around the world. If they stop having sex the virus will not spread."

Crikey.

A little tasteless, perhaps, and definitely puerile, but, you know, I reckon Jesus would have had a sense of humour about all this, and would have been less pissed off that we hung a handbag on his arm, than he would about the fact that he's been depicted as white.

Am I going to hell? Well, I'm a fun-loving, homsexual DJ, cleptomaniac atheist, smoker of 10 Malboro Lites a day... and a yummy mummy to boot! Course I'm going to hell. I don't need half of the Phillipines to tell me that.

Life, oh life...

2006-10-24T04:16:00.000Z

My life appears to be turning in to a sitcom. Not a particularly funny one, granted. More of a farce. Bumping in to an exboyfriend who vilifies you to all and sundry twice within a week. What a hoot. Second time was the best. On approaching the upper bedroom of a drunken party to find him buried beneath someone else, I was quickly shuffled out by a random saying: "Oh, erm.. nothing interesting's going on, honestly!" - to which I had to reply: "I know - I went out with him for 18 months".

It's moments like that that make life worth living.

Le sigh.

2006-10-18T13:49:00.000Z

I'm 24 years old.

I've just found out they’re not called “pillow boxes”.

I give up.

Oh Madonna...

2006-10-17T13:26:00.000Z

"The Malawian child Madonna is seeking to adopt has been taken to the US singer's London home." [read more]

How many career moves have you copied over the years?

Bowie did this years ago:

Paper towel

2006-10-16T03:56:00.000Z

Not saying where I ended up on Sunday evening. But:

Does everything always have to be about the visuals, a vomit-enducing forced sense of apathy and a not-particularly-random attempt at appearing new and random without any further thought behind anything? The spotlight is shining on you and you're a knock-off version of everything that's been before. What are you offering? Style? Image? Do you have any thoughts? Do you care for anything other than attention?

Now, where's my lipstick...

Four days, four dramas

2006-10-16T02:54:00.000Z

Hello Hooray was fun. Our loyal band of regulars from Windypops! and HH @ Rush didn’t turn up in their droves and our posters were still being stolen as we were decorating the venue, but all in all it was a successful night we can build on. People were dancing from the start. People were dancing to Klaus Nomi from the start. Neither of which happened at our previous venue. We launched straight in.

Second busiest monthly night on a Thursday after Club Myra (though, to be fair, they had Patricia Quinn and Patrick Wolf and opened at 8pm, giving a whole 3 hours of free entry to the punters), but the best mix of music according to Tommy Turntables. Woo. That means a lot to us to get that kind of recognition as Ms Whores Devores and I DJ’d our smelly little socks off. Now we need to build like a Lemming laying one tiny pixilated brick at a time.

On to Friday…

Sacked from Lippy for a second time! Ha! Well, sort of, anyway. This time the RVT management seem to be taking a matters in to their own hands (over the heads of the Lippy promoters) and are employing the lovely Joan Dairy Queen to host the night, and hopefully, bring in a crowd of his own. For me this means I lose a little job that I dearly love, but for the club, well, I dunno. It’s a tricky one.

I enjoy helping out the girls at Lippy, and my job is not hosting, it’s literally just introducing the bands - and that’s because I’m not sure the loyal crowd that’s steadily snowballing needs the kind of “meet and greet” personality that the RVT seems to think will help, because it has been and should continue to be all about the music. I really do think that low-key and back-seat to the phenomenally good DJ Lush and variety of live bands is the way to go. The star of the show is the music and that’s what’s been bringing people back. I hope this new direction helps bring a greater crowd. Lippy’s a great club and the only place I feel comfortable in past 12 on a Friday night.

However, as they say, one door closes, another one opens: the door closing is the dressing room door for me, and the one opening is possibly a trapdoor leading to an oubliette, but maybe not. I can’t say more than that at the moment. Interesting possibilities.

Saturday.

XXL. Now there’s a club with a loyal following, but I’m not a particularly huge fan. It tends to evoke a kind of tribal response when spoken about with larger men:

“It’s great that I can go to a club and really feel I really fit in!”

Yeah great. You fit in to a club with appalling music, over-priced booze and an excessive door charge. Well done. Enjoy your Smirnoff Ice and rejoice at being no different from the twinks at G-A-Y. This need to feel you belong somewhere by tightly pigeon-holing yourself really gets my goat. XXL is a sex club. It’s a club for men looking for a certain type of man. It’s not some wonderful paradise for the cream-bun lovers amongst us and it’s certainly not the “attitude free zone” so many of the punters proclaim it to be. It’s men screwing men with all the trappings of any other of the gay scenes.

Anyhow, after a while it all went a bit PEoP:

Salvador Dali’s favourite bit of animation of all time and my second favourite after Cordell Barker’s The Cat Came Back.

But despite the pink elephants (mostly the fault of drink and drugs) I did manage to have a good time. This may have been because I pulled an extremely cute guy I’ve been chasing for ages, or again, it may have been the drugs (my first pill since a bad experience in New Cross 4 years ago.).

Sunday.

Surreal.

Coming down whilst pretending to be a teacher at the National Teaching Awards ceremony. This was broadcast on BBC 2 the same day. If you look closely enough, you can spot me and Dame Amy in the audience.

I was Mr Holley the RE teacher. I earned £50 for sitting on my bum, monged, for 2 hours. God bless Aunty Beeb.

Roll out your circus freaks and hula hoops...

2006-10-12T03:33:00.000Z

Once again tis the season for making cash by flyering bits and pieces for clubs and events. I'm becomming an odd jobs man it seems, but I need the notes. No one else is going to keep me in Malboro Lites and pickled onion Monster Munch - mores the pity. Having had to drop off hundreds of flyers for my own nights - in gay-pub chain-bars all over London, only to see (as you walk past 5 minutes later) them dumping your thoughtful, paid-for, colourful little adverts in to the trash - I've managed to get flyering down to a speedy art-form.

But this has to be done on Friday, before Lippy, because tonight is:

Doesn't Alice come across as demented in this version? Ace.

Still none the wiser? Clicky.

Faces on posters

2006-10-11T13:52:00.000Z

How's this for an exercise in brand management?

We've had 100s of posters printed for Hello Hooray, with varying designs, all of which look fucking great. Popstarz, last Friday, was covered in them. Completely plastered. Trash Palace and the Retro Bar also got hit.

Unfortunately, they've all been stolen from the very walls on which they were placed. Great compliment, but now we're posterless.

I hope the posters convert in to punters. I guess we'll see tomorrow.

It's a mystery

2006-10-09T17:29:00.000Z

This has been perplexing me all day.

Earlier this morning myself and a friend had coffee in the garden, went back in to the house and thought nothing of it. On returning to the garden 15 minutes later (after watching the end of Cash In The Attic - turns out it wasn't a genuine Turner - and after spending all that time and money on ultra violet tests and ex-rays, I felt for them a bit) we found the ash tray like this:

It had split in half and the two halves were around two inches apart with the ash and ends strewn in between. This doesn't make any sense. I hadn't used the ash tray to put my fag out - opting to flick it over the garden fence. It cannot have been dropped on a hard surface like the floor as all the ash would have been on the ground, not the table.

My Diagnosis: Murder skills ruled out other possible explanations:

The garden gate hadn't been opened (it's been locked since mid-summer) and there's a very large undisturbed cobweb taking up 80% of the entrance to the gazebo which the table is under. So it couldn't have been an intruder and why would somebody do that anyway? It couldn't have been a meteorite or thunderbolt either, as the gazebo roof would surely show signs.

I didn't stub my fag out in the ash tray all though I did flick ash in to it during coffee. Still, even the tiny amount of heat from dead ash surely couldn't cause a perfect split down the exact middle of the tray.

The table on which the ash tray sits is made of cheap metal, so even a considerable drop on to it, wouldn't have caused the damage and even then the ashes would be everywhere. They were not.

The facts:

Ash tray on a table, under a gazebo. Nobody else nearby. Nobody had access to the garden. Ash tray, complete with ashes found split ON the table, not the floor. Gazebo roof in tact. Tray pieces two inches apart.

Is this a second sign from above, after having seen Kylie's logo in a toilet over the weekend? Perhaps the garden is enchanted? Maybe sparrows did it? You read all the time about oddities whereby people enter phone boxes to make calls, hang up, turn around to leave and find it entirely covered in snails. Maybe snails did this?

If anyone has any theories about this and how it could have happened, please leave a comment. I'm worried.

Dilemma

2006-10-08T16:13:00.000Z

I’ve reached Sunday and all I have left to wear are two flat caps and a high-visibility workman’s jacket. Do I...

A) Steal clothes from a building site using existing clothes as a disguise.

B) Do laundry.

?

Au Pairs

2006-10-08T03:46:00.000Z

Some weekends go with a bang, whilst others go with a hefty motion of vomit splattering all around you as far as the eye can see whilst some shitty DJ plays some shitty girl group with the pitch kicked up a few notches.

I need to point out right away: I didn’t intend to vomit. One of the few recollections I have post-Lippy (which was the polar opposite of shitty) is crawling around on my hands and knees in the cubicle of an East London boozer, trying to snap a half-decent photo of a crack in the porcelain that resembled Kylie’s logo from a few years ago. And seeing as I was on all fours in front of a loo anyways, well, I might as well puke.

In retrospect it looks like any other capital “K” in existence ever. I don’t particularly like Kylie and I wouldn’t particularly care to listen even if she was trying to communicate with me through an Armitage Shanks cistern… well, I’d lend a sympathetic ear if she was being all cancery-ill again, but that’s only because I’m a nice guy.

Unfortunately my keyboard is playing silly buggers. It’s taking me far too long to hammer out anything that involves using the space bar. This has turned typing in to a rather stressful, unhappy affair, so I need to stop. Right now. Well, almost. I shan’t carry on with a description of the events at Lippy, instead I’ll direct you to Dawn Right Nasty’s blog.

Lesley Woods (formerly of The Au Pairs) helped me with my lipstick and insisted we did shots.

We did shots.

Hence bog pics.

No smoke without a tobacconists.

2006-10-03T13:18:00.000Z

I really wanted a fag last night, so decided to get some on leaving Trash Palace. But the newsagents I walked in to was actually a Japanese imports shop containing the most amazing kind of rubbish I'd ever seen. Everything, and I mean everything, was a Japanese import, from the food to the toys. And of course, being Japanese, it looked like the future. I didn't buy any cigarettes, but I did buy a toy with the money (as pictured).

I need to go back there to buy an amazing salt shaker I'd seen. Next time I have £3 burning a hole in my pocket, that's where you'll find me.

My second attempt to buy fags was on the journey back home from the DLR station. ASDA informed me that they had stopped selling cigarettes at night due to the crime they were attracting. I explained the ridiculousness of this sentiment to them...

...and then (as seen here in my left jacket pocket) stole a flourescent pink marker pen in protest.

Fight the system!

Pat Benatar lies through song...

2006-10-01T03:49:00.000Z

A beautiful red mohawk. That’s what I used to have. The prettiest peacock I was, and a sexy confident woman to boot. However, things change. My hair has been a shambles for the past 3 months. Not that you’d know – a secret that I conceal beneath a number of hats, caps and beanies.

Today I gave up hats.

After washing my hair I didn’t apply products to the fringe and I didn’t finger my main for forty minutes, trying desperately to shoosh some shape in to it before hiding under a beret. No. I gave up. I’d been listening to Hit Me With Your Best Shot and hadn’t a care in the world.

Well you're the real tough cookie with the long history
of breaking little hearts, like the one in me.
Before I put another notch in my lipstick case.
You better make sure you put me in my place.

YEAH! Fuck hairdos! Fuck everything! I need not worry. I look scruffy anyway. HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT. One random selection on iTunes had set off my sexy, confident woman attitude.

I left the house with a sexy shambles of art-school teacher scruffiness. I reached Canary Wharf with a shambolic crop of matted brown hideousness. The self-doubt had crept in. Granted, my beard looked great, but my hair was shit. Absolutely shit. It was too late to turn back home and Pat Benatar was now 3 DLR stops away. Tricksy, scheming bitch. She knew I’d look like shit but she had coaxed me in to going out anyway.

How's this for a spot of good fortune? I found a flat cap at station. If I’d needed any more proof of a god after my £6 lottery win last week, then this was it. So, after asking all around whether it belonged to them (and subsequently suffering the sniggers when I picked it up) I put the cap on. A proper cap. Not some H&M knock off. This marvelous piece of headwear was worn and floppy. A genuine old man’s cap, from a genuine old man. Presumably.

Par Benatar can fuck off. She’s been removed from my MP3 collection and I’m now convinced in carrying out my plan of wearing hats ‘til 2007, when I’ll have enough hair to cut it all off again, in to a better shape. I feel better.

Now my biggest worries are alopecia and nits. But mostly nits.

And it rained all night...

2006-09-30T06:24:00.000Z

It's relentless, invisible, indefatigable, indisputable. Undeniable.

The picture (really worth clicking here to enlarge) was taken at 06.20 outside Bank tube station. What you don’t see is the lightening or the speeding shallow rapids swishing down the road. Luckily I only had to wait a few minutes for the bus (rail replacement service – joyous discovery that was) before I was on my way. You meet all-sorts at bus-stops. Mostly confused Australians.

0710, approaching my house, looping the bottom half of the Isle of Dogs and considering whether or not to go an extra stop for cigarettes, then walk back towards home. The bus stops but the lights don’t flash. I’m the only passenger. I take off my headfones….

“Do you mind if I nip in to the shops?” says the driver.

Oh, well, I think, “Can I quickly grab some fags then?”

“Yeah, sure mate…”

Problem solved.

0734. At home with a fag. Snug.

Happiness is warm bum.

Student survival guide...

2006-09-28T01:58:00.000Z

...here, for you guys just starting out in London's big ol' world of Academia (and puking up cut-price WKDs,) is my Student Survival Guide...

Sexy, confident woman.

2006-09-28T01:43:00.000Z

"I am a sexy, confident woman".

Sexy, confident hair.

I chanted this under my breath a few weeks ago as I passed on my number to a particularly pleasing punter at work. Now, he hasn't actually called me, but I've run in to him a few times, exchanged a couple of texts and am confident (and sexy, and woman) that eventually we will meet up for that drink. But, see, now that despite not actually being female in the slightest (aside from the lipstick and Silvikrin) I feel that I am a SEXY, EMPOWERED, CONFIDENT, woman, ARTIST and what's more, I'm a very busy, successful lady and I haven't the time for chasing boys anyway! My career comes first. Being a Yummy Mummy comes second. Cock comes right down at the bottom of the list after Sports and Breastfeeding.

Besides, the only men I've been around this evening were the post-work, suited, middle-aged, middle of the road, middle-management, arseholes in the upper bar of where I work. I stood there thinking: all 25 of them, I could beat them at any fucking game in the world. From Kerplunk to a dick size competition.

So, men are off the agenda.

At least until I stop taking lifestyle tips from Loose Women.

Day-time TV has a lot to answer for.

Glorified CD changer

2006-09-25T15:55:00.000Z

See, now to the occasional clubber, DJing looks easy. I was once described as a "glorified CD changer", which, fair enough, has a grain of truth in it. I don't have the skills of a beatmatching hardhouse superstar DJ - but that's because I'm not one. I'm an indie DJ. It's a lot harder to string records together (whilst keeping a dance floor dancing) than it appears. But I'm getting off the point here...

Putting on a club-night looks easy. It should be, shouldn't it? Find a venue, get a DJ, maybe get an act, open the doors. I wish. Trying to organise the transfer of my club Hello Hooray from Rush to Trash Palace has been like pulling Keith (bad pun, I know, as I only know one remotely hot Keith that I couldn't pull and he's worn the same t-shirt everytime I've seen him - which is a little off-putting). Rush was a blank canvas, so creating the right image, getting the publicity and pulling in punters was relatively easy - did I mention we reached capacity twice? Well, Trash Palace is established. It has a crowd. And a website.

If you just clicked on that link (and pulled yourself back out from under the duvet) you'll see the problem we face. Hello Hooray needs to go pro. We need to look the part. You know how when you walk in to a party and feel very under-dressed? Trash Palace is that very party, and it's not that we're under-dressed... it's just that, well... we dress kinda kooky. Are we what that crowd might want?

Secondly, Dame Amy has been trying to get us the Puppini Sisters as our opening act. Now, Amy's friends with one of the girls who had agreed to play for free, 'cept their manager then said "no"... that is until last week when Amy and the girls changed his mind. Fine. Dandy. But now the agent (not the manager) is confusing us and none of these people seem to be talking to one another. Either a definite "yes" or "no" would suffice.

Finding an act is now vital and time is running out. Joy.

Positive things are coming our way. The pressure of promoting this club and taking up the challenges that it poses are really getting me back to my creative best. The set-up at Trash Palace and the experience they have with clubs is phenomenal. It's a great opportunity for us and I enjoy situations like this, where we're pushed for time. Brings out the best in us all and I'm happier than perhaps I'm letting on.

On top of this optimism I was pleasantly surprised by Darren's graphic for our new club mascot:

Now that's not our flyer as such, just something I was messing about with for MySpace, but doesn't the fireboy within the image look excellent?

Glorified CD changer, eh? It's just not that simple. But if you want to DJ with out all the stresses of running your own club come to the Retro Bar on a Thursday night for "Who's In Your Record Bag?" - the open decks night. I host that too.

Heart Wipes

2006-09-25T04:16:00.000Z

What do Gary Barlow, Princess Grace, Elvis Presley and the Vodafone Soham girls have in common?

You Tube tribute videos.

If I die tomorrow will somebody please create a montage of my cock shots using Windows Movie Maker, save it as a WMV file and upload it? Ideally the backing track would be either Klaus Nomi or Grace Jones and I insist that you use Verdana as the font of choice. As for wipes? Heart or diamond shaped ONLY and absolutely no tasteful dissolves or anything.

Typing "RIP" or "tribute" into YouTube really does bring up some awful videos... tributes range from The Pope, Diana and Freddie Mercury to thrown together from TV fictional characters like Buffy, Helen Daniels and Steve Urwin.

It's hard not to cringe at the more personal ones with the images giving an unintentional yet accurate picture as to what might have happened. 18 year old strapping lads; a succession of still photos of them: in a garage. HEART WIPE. Hugging a girlfriend with a bottle of vodka in one hand. DIAGONAL WIPE. Straddling a motorbike. PIXELATED DISSOLVE. Drunk at a frat party. NEWSPAPER SPIN. Polishing a motorbike. JUMP CUT. Some flowers on a curb. HEART WIPE. More flowers on a curb.

Amongst the best (and when I say "best" I mean "worst" or, erm... "funniest") personal tributes are those of cat and dog owners.

I feel I should post the comment that accompanies the following video:

!!WARNING!! This video is very sad but I wanted the world to know about this wonderful kitten. She was a stray on the streets, very young with no one to take care of her. I love animals with a passion, but you would know that if you have been to my website. As I was saying, about this video. We had her for a short time but that time we all spent with her was loving. One morning before we all woke up she decided to be curious. This Video is some of the times we all spent with her.

Hold on! 5-21-05 to 6-06-05??
You had the cat two frickin' weeks. What happened to it? What the hell?

I dunno. It's an odd realm of film to get in to and I can't post the links to the videos that really made me cringe, laugh or think because, well, everyone grieves in different ways. Some people take solace in friends. Others use emoticons.

One video I have to share after my exploration is this...

The Diary of LEGO Anne Frank!

Both intentionally and unintentially brilliant.

Smoking.

2006-06-11T00:15:00.000Z

“I’m never going to smoke and I’m going to make sure that my children don’t smoke either,” was what moralistic wee Rob told his parents all those years ago. Now twenty-four (which, coincidentally, contains the Sister Sledge disco anthem We Are Family) and wrong on two counts; the latter being that I’d ever have any kids to dictate their lifestyles too… though I accept I might also be wrong about that. There are plenty of clucky lesbians.

But in recent years as I spend more time socialising with my parents (something that I didn’t really do aged birth – 18, at least, not by the choice I have now) cracks have started to appear in the veneer of my “I’m not like my parents at all” defense mechanism. I am like my parents. What’s worse is that I’m showing all the traits I intensely disliked them.

I love my mum and dad. I think I’ve been super lucky. Upper-working class, literate, creative, sensitive, no huge genetic abnormalities save the impending arthritis and likeliness of heart-attacks in latter life, but “meh”. All in all: relatively normal.

As kids do, I always felt a bit reigned in. I was allowed to play in ponds and streams, and a blind eye was turned to the amazing abandoned warehouse that contained thousands of “totally wicked” bits of abandoned photography studio kit as well rotted floorboards and rusty nails. But staying out past a certain time was frowned upon, as was hanging around with the motorcycling ginger kids in Radley.

For some reason competitive sports was also no-no.

“You can either go to the fair tomorrow [Abingdon, at the time, hosted the largest street fair in Europe] or continue your judo lessons – but you can’t do both” was a particularly cruel dilemma. I might have been physically active and lithe aged 24 had I not favoured the goldfish and candyfloss.

When you’re younger you just can’t fathom the reasoning behind parental decisions, though on reflection in later life you can pretty much distill every seemingly malevolent twist in to about three catergories: money, safety and time. Time, it seems, being the utmost over-riding factor in the decision making process: “do I spend 3 more hours of my day taking the kids to judo, hanging around and picking them up after I’ve worked an 8 hour shift, got them to school and cooked their dinner – or do I just say “no”?”

Then, when you’re older, you see young kids running around on the edges of the pavement more than 6 feet away from their pram pushing mum and think – “well, that can’t be right, this is a busy bus route and there was a stabbing less than two weeks ago.” A pretty pragmatic response, but a very mumsy thing to think. In all likliness the kids won’t get squished or abducted. Am I just over-reacting like my mum?

But even after figuring out the majority of these commonsensical conundrums post-childhood (“no, you can’t have a Nerf gun, they are dangerous (…and also expensive)”) you can’t help but notice other parental influences creeping in. Completely barmy nonsensical reactions to situations: “No, I don’t like Marmalade” despite never having tried it, or shutting yourself away in a bedroom and wanting “alone time” when the last thing you want is to be alone.

I even sound like my dad. I finish a telephone conversation with a word that can only be best described as “Bye-ee!” with the tone and rhythm of a speeded up Family Fortunes wrong answer blip.

I hang up. I cringe. I cringe even more when I finish a phone conversation with him as we perform the irritating cheerio in unison.

My entire system of dealing with people is based partly on the gloriously disastrous personal relationships that I’ve witnessed whilst growing up and should have learnt from instead of copying. Why is that? No matter how hard we try to change, some things are just hard-wired in to our brains.

Thankfully I’m not a total screw-up, was raised decently and am now an intelligent, thoughtful and fleetingly polite individual. I have a lot of pride in my family and I love them to pieces. But it’s just so embarrassingly human to realise that quite often you mindlessly kowtow to the reactions and feelings leant to you by someone else.

I’ve rambled on for a lot longer than I intended. I just wondered what you all thought.

I’m going for a smoke.

Another day at the office...

2006-03-02T01:00:00.001Z

My boss has ordered that I wear a cat bell. Not a cat collar or anything weird, just the bell. So she knows where I am.

I go to check the stock; I jingle. I wander up the stairs; I jangle. I go to take a tinkle; I tinkle twice.

This incessant tintinnabulation seems like a basic abuse of my human rights.

I’m not part of a union.

I am a fool for not trying new things.

2006-03-02T01:00:00.000Z

I’m very hungry at the moment. The only thing I have, really, is toast.

In my fridge are about 15 little pots of marmalade that I’ve stolen from breakfast tables over the years. Though I’ve never opened a single jar.

In my desperation for food (sweet, sweet food), I’ve opened one of the smaller jars, applied it to toast and munched away.

My god. Why was I a fool to think that marmalade would be vile?

It’s lovely.

Our tune...

2006-02-28T12:49:00.000Z

There was a man… let’s call him “Rob”... whom through out his young life felt as if he was missing something. Something important. Something to store his items in. He’d see other boys and girls walking around with different types of bag: record, sleeping, golf, paper, air, plastic, urostomy… but Rob had none. He was alone. Bagless.

It wasn’t until his 24th birthday party that a mutual friend introduced Rob and a bonny, blue, single strap satchel. She had a gleaming buckle and very deep pockets. To say they hit it off instantly is an understatement. The two became joined at the shoulder and went home with each other that night.

They seemed to be set for life.

Things were going well. The month of February seemed to fly by with long walks in the park together. Shopping trips. Beauty pagents. The things you do together. Whenever Rob felt snotty she’d provide a tissue. Whenever he felt boredom setting in she’d give out a book, a Gameboy or a bottle of poppers. Whenever Rob needed the space to put a pot plant, some boxes or his shoes, she’d disappear in to a crumpled heap in the corner. It soon became a one-way relationship. Though it didn’t occur to him, Rob was using her.

Then one day… let’s call it “YESTERDAY”... Rob took his bag to a nightclub in central London, just behind the Astoria. He was to meet a friend a little later there that evening. The kind of friend who probably wouldn’t appreciate a bag hanging from Rob’s hip all night. Looking around the dance floor there couldn’t have been more than 15 people in the entire room. The majority of them were bagless.
Rob kept her, his bag, on his arm. He didn’t put her away in the cloakroom with all the other bags, if indeed any of those sort of people had brought bags with them. He suspected they hadn’t.

Rob needed her. She felt special again.

Minutes passed. His elbow was nudged, so Rob and the bag shared a drink. They began texting people. They had a laugh, listened to some music. Enjoyed themselves, by themselves. Just like the old times.
Then Rob’s friend turned up.

“Adam” was an old flame. To say the pair had sexual chemistry would be putting it too mildly. Rob and Adam exchanged words. They smiled even though they felt uncomfortable. The conversation was awkward and staggered to begin with. It was a tricky situation. Rob, the bag and Adam were all aware of this. But they weren’t the only ones in the club aware of the situation.
The bag moved further and further down the seating area with its thick strap doubled over like a pair of crossed arms. Rob would occasionally glance back at the bag to make sure that she was OK.

After a few more drinks the trio opened up a little (Rob then un-opened the bag tightly, as a can of deodorant had rolled from her maw to the floor). Making what he thought was the right decision; Rob lunged forward and pecked Adam on the cheek. The peck grew in to a kiss. The kiss grew in to a smooch. The smooch grew hard and Rob gave a cheeky smile on one side of his face. But the smile wouldn’t reach all the way across.

Then came the bombshell…

He looked across the room. She was gone.

His first thought was “perhaps I’ve just misplaced it?”

He hadn’t.

Moments of blind panic followed as Rob asked everyone nearby whether they’d seen a small, plain looking, blue bag with a wonderfully textured strap and adorable gold ringlets.

They hadn’t.

Adam comforted Rob on the night bus home and reminded him that his coat pockets were more than enough for a wallet, some tissues and a small paperback. But it just wasn’t the same. He’d treated his bag carelessly and paid the ultimate price. Rob wonders whether if he’ll ever see that special satchel again. He probably won’t…

This song is for you….

BAG IT UP, don’t drop the baby
BOOT HIM OUT, no buts or maybe
WIND HIM UP and make him crazy

Woooah woooah wooahh YEAH!

:'(

World

2005-12-11T12:01:00.000Z

http://www.odt.org/popvillage.htm

Oh, that again. I hate that stupid… “if Earth were a village of 100 people”... thing.

“68 would not have access to clean running water or pop-tarts”.

If you were in a village that small it would be a lot easier to share things, and personally I don’t think I’d move to such a close-knit resedential area with such high rates of illiteracy and only 7 English speakers.

Then again, New Cross did have good transport-links.

Ahhh.

2005-09-07T13:20:00.000Z

[post deleted]

Frankly, it didn't seem likely...

2005-08-27T12:11:00.000Z

...but Britain's (second) most lovable misogynist, Alf Garnet, appears to have turned over a new leaf when it comes to housework.

Veiled threats to Chris Martin now published.

2005-08-26T01:30:00.000Z

I would like to make it clear that I am not band-wagonning, I have hated Coldplay since shortly after the release of Trouble:

Article from QX Magazine on the White Swan's 20th birthday. Have a read, the drag queens are a lot funnier than me.

It was a great night last Saturday, though the balloon drop was too low hanging. When the DJ announced over the mic: "stop knocking the balloon drop, or else there wont be any free drink and DVD vouchers to grab later" - cue people (including myself and Darren) flicking their fag-ends in to orbit, busting at least 60% of the balloons, showering the dance floor in free booze ticker-tape.

Nice.

Gay-dur revisited.

2005-08-26T00:49:00.000Z

Remember my XXX gaydar whinge post? Possibly not. Well, I sent this note to them:

[sent to support@gaydar.co.uk]
Dear Gaydar,
my profile, " gagging.order " has gone a bit wrong, for you see secondary photograph number 5 (that's picture number 6 along the row) has been given an "XXX" rating, despite nothing more exciting happening than me showing a bit of ankle... or perhaps that's the problem?
Regards,
Rob xx

Well, my suspicions have been confirmed. Gaydar has gone loopy. The reply:

Hallo,
Bedankt voor je email.Je foto's waren nog niet geclassicficeerd vandaar dat ze nog niet te zien waren.Ik heb ze geclassificeerd voor je, dus alles moet nu in orde zijn.Laat het me weten als er nog problemen mee zijn.Groetjes,

Andre.

How helpful. Where did I even hint I came from the Netherlands? Was it the ankle? Is that what it is? I'm so confused.

Dear Andre,

Thank you for your help, unfortunately it's all dutch to me!

Rob x

:/

You have to love iTunes...

2005-08-22T17:55:00.000Z

Or, more accurately, you have to love the person who tagged the following MP3 and decided on its genre. Flicking through the genre-list looking for "soul" I found this un-noticed catergory:

They have a point.

And for the record, the genre "Utter Shit" contains just one MP3 -- Aqua - Cartoon Heroes.

What You Want - When You Want It

2005-08-22T12:18:00.000Z

Well, had you looked at my gaydar profile today you would have seen this:

An "XXX" photo on my profile? Surely not? Well yes! Here is the offending picture in question:

I feel so ashamed now, really I just wanted to HINT at there being a bit of ankle on show, nothing more and on reflection those sleeves are way too short, and a lady should always sit cross-legged.

I am nothing short of a harlot.

I would like to see Harry Potter die of syphilis...

2005-07-16T14:21:00.000Z

...either that, or I would like to stoke JK’s firey arse with a copy of every book, film and TV programme that she’s so callously plagiarised whilst sitting in her sob-story, no-heating, living-room as her kids ran around her un-shoed feet when she was trying to write.

The latter would be broadcast on ITV.

The cow.

You just know that after each and every one of her humble press appearances, she runs to a store-room, backs against and locks the door, wipes the coy look from her face and opens a pot of precious and rare butterflies, madly cramming them in to her face as she splutters and cackles over the obscene amounts of money she is kerchinging-up for old-rope.

Mucky D

2005-07-10T15:47:00.000Z

Leaving my place of work on 23rd June 2005 at 11.45pm (a popular nearby bar) myself and friends popped in to the McDonalds on the Strand for a post-work burger and, perhaps, fries. Things went well.

The service was speedy and I purchased a £1.99 Big Mac as I have done on a semi-regular basis for the past 5 years or so of hanging out in that area of London.
Log and Phil sat down to eat their food too and I was happily munching away until an occasional meat-product problem occurred: I bit in to some gristle. In my experience of McDonalds this only used to happen with McChicken Sandwiches until they changed their recipes a while back. Until now, I’d never found gristle in a Big Mac.

After spitting out the offending lump in to a serviette I approaches the service bar with my half-eaten Big Mac and told the smirking staff member.

“Oh, so you found a problem after you’d half eaten it?” he sneered.
I apologised for not going through the burger piece by piece initially, but yes, I had eaten half the burger before reaching the pip-like lump.

“What do you expect me to do?” was his reply.

In all honesty, I wasn’t sure.
The reason I told the staff was simply because I had a faulty burger. As a bar man it helps to be in the know about customer dissatisfaction, because say if someone complains about the beer being overly frothy or having bits in it I’d go an investigate and make sure that the problem can be rectified or isn’t a reoccurring one. It’s as much to help the outlet as it is to help the customer.

Flummoxed by this response I asked to see the duty manager. A sniggering guy named S******. Again I had the: “oh but you’ve eaten half of it” / “what do you want ME to do about it” spiel. I didn’t want to demand a refund or even a new Big Mac because now I felt as toyed with as a Happy Meal.

After what seemed like an eternity of inane grinning and awkward silence aimed in my direction the duty manager said he’d give me a new Big Mac with as much as I’d already eaten sliced off.
“Umm, OK” was about all I could muster as my brain nudged me with a “yes… he really did say that”.

So, off Seymour popped to the kitchen with my faulty burger and surrounded by crew. I could no longer see what he was doing, only his head and shoulders were visible.
The reality sunk in when he returned with what must have been an eighth of a neatly sliced Big Mac. Grinning he handed me less than what I had handed in.

Embarresedly I slunked off away from the other customers and staff and returned to my seat to tell Log and Phil of my misadventure.
Here is a photo of what I received:

However, on closer inspection of the contents it’s clear that a gherkin had been bitten in to. The teeth marks resemble my own as I have slightly protruding front teeth, meaning I’d leave a more semi-oval shaped bite than the average chomper.

IT’S ALMOST AS IF HE’D TAKEN MY GRISTLY BURGER, CUT IT DOWN AND GIVEN IT BACK TO ME.

So as if they weren’t taken the piss enough already, the whole situation was now a whirligig of micturition spinning out in all different directions. Annoyed, we left to go for a pint in Soho.
On our way we passed another Mc Donalds – one near Leicester Square tube station. I couldn’t resist going in with Log and asking them their policy on food when it goes bad. In a complete inverse of the previous situation, the crew member AND the duty manager were extremely helpful, saying that they would have offered a replacement or a refund and that the Strand branch staff members were totally out of order.
For our trouble they even gave us a Big Tasty and a Deli Sandwich… they were about to close anyway.

So, if you fancy a cheap burger in central London I would recommend the following place:
McDonalds near Leicester Square on account of its bright and helpful staff.

However, if you fancy being laughed at and pissed around with, go to the Strand.
At either place I would recommend you buy one of their new Lion Bar McFlurrys as they are lovely.

Seeing as Richard T Davis can't be bothered to edit down his scripts a bit

2005-06-19T19:43:00.000Z

I've had a go for him...

Doctor: Ooooh, I'm so ANGRY! But also slightly tearful, like a human might be. I guess I should probably die now. I'm afraid I have no amazing survival plans or anything as I just gave my fabulous spaceship away to Billie Piper. I was offered the role of Begbie you know.

*TARDIS & BILLIE APPEAR. BILLIE IS GLOWING*

Billie: You 'orrible bunch of rotters! Stop being so gay.

Dalek Chorus: WHAT IS THIS??

Dalek God: YOU USED SOME SORT OF PLOT-HOLE VORTEX AGAINST US!

Dalek Chorus: TENUOUS! TENUOUS!!!

Billie: I am all the other sci-fi lofty goddess characters combined: I can manipulate time and words!

Dalek God: THAT WOULD EXPLAIN YOUR STRING OF NUMBERS ONES AND THE RELEASE OF A GREATEST HITS PACKAGE HALF A DECADE AFTER YOUR POPULARITY WAINED.

Dalek Chorus: KERCHING! KERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR CHIIIIIIIIIING!

Billie: Shut up! If it weren't for tenuous plot holes NONE of you wud be 'ere. Nah bugger orf! Chris's contract runs out in like ten minutes and nine of those are going to be spent turning you all in to dust! Like the vampires in Buffy or the first episode of Red Dwarf!

Dalek God: CURSE YOU MR DAVIS.

Dalek Chorus: CURSE! YOU!

Billie: Dustify EVERYONE! WoOOOoOooOooOooOOo!!!!!!!!!

*BILLIE GLOWS EVEN MORE AS GLOWY BLOBS OOZE FROM HER GLOWING FACE*

Billie: Lur-vely! Apples an' pears, corr blimey guv! All's well.

*9 MINUTES OF EFFECTS*

Doctor: Yayz! Saved by the Davis vortex!!

*BILLIE AND DOCTOR HUGGLE*

THE END

[obviously I called him "Richard T Davis" to avoid any copyright infrongement... err... *cough*]

Street cred.

2005-06-19T11:58:00.000Z

Finally managed to get credit for my phone (note: 3 mobile are hideously expensive if you're an infrequent user). 36 new messages since March 30th, half of which from my ex, each as painful as the last.

But "Woo!" for having credit.

Err.. yes.

Windypops - Bank Holiday Monday

2005-06-01T14:09:00.000Z

JunkLady did play:

The Arcade Fire – Power Out
Le Tigre – Get Off The Interrnet
Space – Dark Clouds
Bucks Fizz – My Camera Never Lies
Erasure – I Love To Hate You
Fuzzbox – International Rescue
They Might Be Giants – Birdhouse In Your Soul
Pulp – Babies
The Killers – Somebody Told Me
Girls Aloud – No Good Advice
Daphne + Celeste – U.G.L.Y
Annie – Chewing Gum
Britney – Toxic
Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Date With The Night
Supergrass – Grace
The Sparks – This Town Aint Big Enough For The Both Of Us
The Cure – In Between Days
Lisa Lougheed – Run With Us
Bucks Fizz – Making Your Mind Up
Mud – Tiger Feet
Radiohead – Just
Scissor Sisters – Comfortably Numb
Kylie – I Believe In You
Electric 6 – Gay Bar
Gwen Stefani – bubble Pop Electric
Marilyn Manson – The Dope Show
Duran Duran – Electric Barberella
Leo Sayer – I Feel Like Dancing
William Shatner – Common People
Franz Ferdinand – Take Me Out
The Kinks – Lola
The Divine Comedy – Life On Mars
Transvision Vamp – Baby I Don’t Care
Berlinda Carlisle – Leave A Light On
Len – Steal My Sunshine
ELO – Xanadu
Take That – It Only Takes A Minute
Spice Girls – Say You’ll Be There
Rocky Horror – Toucha Toucha Toucha Touch Me

Fairground Attraction – Perfect
Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Maps.

"Trademarks are not nouns" according to Adobe...

2005-05-30T12:10:00.000Z

true enough, but slightly pedantic; an interesting webpage found whilst googling:

http://www.adobe.com/misc/trade.html#photoshop

A little bit of a bargain.

2005-05-23T15:01:00.000Z

Dalek.

2005-05-01T00:39:00.000Z

WHAT IS THIS I FEEL? IS IT... IS IT LOVE? YOUR HUMAN EMOTIONS ARE CHANGING ME. I WANT TO FEEL THE SUNLIGHT ON MY ... sort of, like, eye-face-type-thing... OH GOD.... HUGGLE ME NOW.

Christ. Despite not using "LOL" once, you could tell the Dalek absorbed the entire Internet because he was speaking like a 14 year old girl's blog of poems. Jesus.

Still, a rather entertaining 45 minutes. I'm definitely hooked.

Blondie

2005-04-29T17:00:00.000Z

I just went to make tea. There was a blonde pube in the sugar-bowl. I'm confused.

Thoughts on bestiality (particularly hamsters)

2005-04-28T01:04:00.000Z

You can tell whether or not an animals wants it. For example, this furry fella clearly has a look of worry on his face and probably wouldn't let you touch his waterbottle, let alone anything else.

...and whilst Hammy here looks as if she's presenting, actually she is just trying to leave her cage.

But, when the moment is right, you can tell by the look on their tiny little face that tonight is the night you gonna get to fill that pouch:

Playing coy but clearly wanting it.

Of course, the fetish equiptment necessary in order to lure hamsters is expensive, but more often than not charity shops prove to be a goldmine of inexpensive solutions to taxing problems.

Once you have your suit, it becomes a whole lot easier, and despite their consent in previous encounters, you tend to lose that nagging feeling in the back of your head that chants out "is this rape? Is this rape?"

Now they are gagging for you.

My Woes #43,948 and #439

2005-04-15T03:12:00.000Z

Oh, Rude Boyz was great. Lots of fun. Very fun. Until my wallet got stolen from my pocket... and when I went to report it at the coat check, they couldn't find my bag and coat either. For all intents and purposes there is another Rob Holley walking around London.

Well ENJOY THE LIFE OF A STUDENT YOU FUCKING PIECE OF NOW-ME-LIKE SCUM.

Thankfully credit cards, uni passes, NUS cards, bags, house keys, notepads and coats are easy to replace and nothing of any great monetary value was stolen (unusually I'd taken out my Gameboy, Walkman and library books before going to work tonight), so I'm remaining optimistic about the situation seeing as I've been in London for 5 years and have never been attack, mugged or robbed before.

Last night a Google saved my life.

2005-04-14T00:54:00.000Z

I failed a module in 2002 because I had only handed in half the work. This semester, before I can graduate, I need to retake and complete it. I thought I'd be in for a full night of pre-deadline writing about montage cinema, Benedict Anderson and Battleship Potemkin.

Stumpted, about 200 words through the essay, I decided to use Google Desktop search in order to find my old notes, and lo and behold, it turns out I'd already written the exact same essay 3 years ago but never handed it in! The same essay that fucked me over royally has now returned dividends!

It turned up in My Documents\KEEP\Random Text\DO NOT DELETE\Essays, that I had placed there when I got a new PC over a year ago. Thank fuck I am a hoarder. And I demand you all download this little gem of a lifesaver.

Anarchy in the UK: A Meeting In The Aisle.

2005-04-13T19:33:00.000Z

Because I've slagged myself out to a large corporation, I won £50 for getting 100% on a mystery customer visit earlier this week. "So", I thought to myself, "on the way home I'll buy some nice sausages to celebrate before I make a start on my 3rd Battleship Potemkim essay" -- it's clearly a defining piece of Soviet montage cinema, but you'd think they'd only give us just the one essay, or maybe 2 over the space of 3 years.

Anyway, I stopped off at Canary Wharf and went to (a well-known supermarket that rhymes with) Alfresco in order to buy my bangers. I bought a few other things too. At the check-out, cashier number 3 said "hi", I returned with "hello, just this lot and a pack of 10 Malboro Lights."

"Ahh, no. No smoking for you tonight" he explained.

"Errhuh huh he ha he" I feebly retorted before he started scanning my minced beef.

"You don't really want to pay for those do you?" he said flinging the chillis straight from the basket in to my bag.

"Errm, no" I spewed.

"Geerrranee bluh-terr?"

"Sorry?"

"Got any blow for tonight?"

"Ha ha, errr huh he err oh" I stuttered falsely "no; I wish" - pretending to be quite the machismo-rebel.

He then reached for the fags behind him, flipped them and kind of batted them in to my shopping bag.

"You can have 'em but I can't give you a receipt" he said before making that cheeky-winky, horse-sounding noise that's impossibly to type.

The sheer ANARCHY of the situation. Wow. He was the Che Guevara of check-out 3 and I shant forget his kindness... nor the lugubrious look in his eyes.

So: STICK THAT IN YOUR PIPE AND SMOKE IT MALBORO! YOU ARE GIVING ME LUNG CANCER FOR FREE THIS TIME.

Windypops! Setlist - 11 04 05

2005-04-12T13:17:00.000Z

As you may, or may not know, I co-run a club in Limehouse on a Monday (Windypops!). The DJs last night were: JunkLady, Fallulah and Mr Zebra. Betwixt 9pm and 2am we played the following:

The Cardigans - Carnival

Bearsuit - Tiny Barnes

Pulp - P.T.A.

U2 - Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me

Chicks On Speed - Glamour Girl

They Might Be Giants - Dr Worm

Carter USM - Sheriff Fatman

Madness - Embarrassment

Radiohead - The Bends

The Divine Comedy - Life On Mars

The Sugarcubes - Motorcrash

The Presidents of the USA - Peaches

Air - Sexy Boy

Was (Not Was) - Shake Your Head

Morrissey - First Of The Gang To Die

The White Stripes - 7 Nation Army

The Cramps - Human Fly

Kula Shaker - Hey Dude

Sleeper - Nice Guy Eddie

Prefab Sprout - The King Of Rock N Roll

Prince - Cream

Princess Superstar - Bad Babysitter

Billy Joel - We Didn't Start The Fire

Ming Tea - Daddy Wasn't There

Marc Almond - The Days Of Pearly Spencer

Caesars - Jerk It Out

Erasure - Drama!

Pet Shop Boys - Single

Doves - Black + White Town

Stereophonics - Dakota

Manics - Lost Souls

Portabella - Covered In Punk

Kelly Osbourne - One Word

Jentina - French Kisses

Dandy Warhols - We Used To Be Friends

The Bravery - Unconditional

Sinead Quinn - All You Need

Garbage - Why Do You Love Me?

Joyrider - Rush Hour

A-Ha - Take On Me

Scissor Sisters - Take Your Mama

Blink 182 - All The Small Things

James - Sit Down '98

Annie - Chewing Gum

Gina G - Ohh Ahh Just A Little Bit

S Club 7 - Don't Stop Moving

The Vines - Ride With Me

Moby - Lift Me Up

Filter - Take My Picture

McFly - 5 Colours

Rachel Stevens - LA X

Ace Of Basd - The Sign

They Might Be Giants - Birdhouse In Your Soul

Peaches - Gay Bar

Joan Jett + Paul Westerberg - Let's Do It

The Killers - Somebody Told Me

The Spice Girls - Say You'll Be There

Petula Clark - Downtown

Alisha's Attic - Iam, I Feel

The White Stripes - 7 Nation Army* (*we were bribed to play this twice)

Roxette - Joyride

Pulp - Disco 2000 (7" mix)

Hot Butter - Popcorn

Missy Elliot - Lickshots

The Buzzcocks - Ever Fallen In Love?

Ms Dynamite - It Takes More

Busted - Year 3000

Paula Abdul - Opposites Attract

Aqua - Barbie Girl

Daphne & Celeste - U.G.L.Y (album version)

Michael Jackson - Billy Jean

Take That - Could It Be Magic?

Britney Spears - Opps I Did It Again

Chesney Hawks - The One And Only

Radiohead - Just

Transvision Vamp - Baby I Don't Care

B*Witched - Does Your Mother Know?

Queen - Don't Stop Me Now

Gwen Stefani - What You Waiting For?

Abba - Mamma Mia!

Rocky Horror - Toucha Toucha Toucha Touch Me

Franz Ferdinand - Take Me Out

Chicks On Speed - We Don't Play Guitars

Kate Bush - Wuthering Heights

David Bowie - Magic Dance

My woes #2304

2005-04-08T14:10:00.000Z

So, it turns out that not only do I have to complete a 10,000 word dissertation, several essays and a short film screenplay in the next four/five weeks, but I also have to find a job for when I've finished. This hadn't really dawned on me until just now but I really should be looking for work.

How do you go about finding jobs? Ones that pretty much don't include heavy lifting, excessive photo-copying or price tagging. Is it too late too become a proffessional footballer and/or astronaut? I feel I've missed my vocation somewhere along the line.

2005-04-07T23:27:00.000Z

This is my umpteenth attempt at starting a blog and sticking to it.