Welcome to Hell.

Oh would you look at that, I'm back on the blogosphere! I'd love to say I've been on holiday or been busy doing things of great excitement but the reality is I've been slaving away as a retail whore, hating life and trying to find an excuse to register as retired. I did however manage to squeeze in one or two exciting things. Yesterday I went horse riding for the first time in years and now my thighs are paying the price. On Tuesday evening, I went to a comedy evening at Reading University with a friend from work, expecting a night of funnies from John Kearns, Tom Deacon and Joe Lycett. Reading University had other plans for me.

Lily and I decided a good way to make the Comedy Central Live experience just that little bit more of an experience would be to sit on the front row. I've also sort of been thinking about trying my hand at writing some stand up stuff so I thought what better way to learn to deal with f'row audience participation than if I am a partaker in the.. erm.. "bantz"? This was all well and good, I was feeling brave, up until the dreaded words "And there's been a change to the line up today so please welcome to the stage Matt Richardson!" came out of a wig-wearing John Kearns.

This would not be a problem if I hadn't gone to see Matt Richardson live a few weeks ago in Maidenhead and if I didn't regularly send him abuse on Twitter. I met him after his gig in Maidenhead and he recognised me as his "troll" but reassured me that my tweets were refreshing after multiple "ooo00OOomgGgggGggGGG follow me back plzzzzz!!!111xxxxxxxxx" tweets from the gaggle of 12 year old Directioner-reject fans who continue to send me hate whenever I send anything vaguely insulting to him.

So there we have the background of where the terror stemmed from when it was announced he was performing on a stage hardly a metre away from me. Naturally I turned to my friend Lily with my hands covering my face and continually repeated a phrase similar to that of "Holy mother fucking shitballs fucking wanking cock and ball shitting fuck" under my breath whilst she laughed at my misfortune like all good friends should.

Thankfully, THANKFULLY, rather than see me as a prime target for front row bullying, eye contact was avoided for the majority of the gig but I was well aware that I'd been clocked. I was ready for the shit to be ripped out of me as pay back for what I find to be hilarious abuse on Twitter but either he actually thought I'd be as witty(? .. or just abusive) in real life or he was too scared that I was some form of stalker who would lap up any attention I was given. Either way, I'm glad I avoided that.

My favourite part of his set was the end. Because I was terrified. Lolz. Next was a really young comedian called Elliott who was pretty good but I was there for Joe Lycett who we were told by John Kearns would be on after a ten minute break. So nerve-come-down wees were had and then Lily and I were back in our seats ready for Joe Lycett. First we had a bit more of John Kearns though, and thinking I'd got away with no Matt Richardson prosecution I had relaxed a bit now. ERROR.

"Has one of you two here seen Matt before?" Fuck. It begins. I was not drunk enough for this. As in stone cold fucking sober with only a packet of gingernut biscuits as confidence fuel. Rather than confidence they just provided me with stomach discomfort helped along by the tension from sitting through Matt Richardson's set with held breath. I admitted to having been at a previous gig. So my only front row participation was as follows:

"Yeah he said he recognised you, did you sit at the front before?"
"No."
"How does he recognise you then?"
"I met him afterwards."
"Did you get a picture with him?"
"No."
"Do you want a picture with him?"
"No."
"That would be a bit awkward to be fair, do you want to meet him now?"
"No, I've already met him"
"HA AWKWARD MATT."
"Soz."

SO MUCH FOR GETTING FUCKING INSPIRATION AND WHATNOT. WORST NIGHT EVER. But also really good too. Just not with Matt Richardson ruining my life with his fucking existence. Joe Lycett was brilliant as I expected hoped and knew. I was in the audience at Sweat The Small Stuff a few weeks ago when he was on and he is fast becoming one of my faves. Delightfully camp charming and creepy all in one; perfect.

I need to go and massage my destroyed thighs after their horrific equestrian experience last night now and to continue trying to clean myself of the shame that Matt Richardson probs thinks I'm stalking him. Aca-awkward. Until next time, fuckers.

.x

Smokin' Hot

I have had a few days off recently, and rather than acting like a normal 22 year old girl; out partying, taking drugs, having one night stands and twerking all over the place, I spent most of my time online looking at photos of women that I really wish I was. Namely Alexa Chung. Part of my brain is convinced that if I look at photos of her for long enough our faces will morph together and I'll have enough of her in me to make me attractive and she'll have enough of me in her to make me less upset that I'm not her. Y'know?

On my travels around the internet looking at photos of her and various other attractive females (I'm really bad at this whole convincing-people-I'm-not-actually-a-lesbian thing) I found that some of my favourite photos of women featured them smoking. I KNOW - SO BAD OMG REBELZ. And this made me question something that we're always being told is not true, and that is whether or not smoking really is "cool".

The simple answer that I wish I could say I thought was true is "no", because - in reality - you're just inhaling a load of weird leaves and grit and horrible stuff and voluntarily subjecting yourself to a really burnt throat. We all know the dangers. But something about these photos is striking, and there is a majestic quality to smoke in the way it dances in the air that I just cannot resist.


You cannot deny that Alexa makes this look supremely "cool". There are some women who perhaps can even make smoking look elegant or classy - think Audrey Hepburn in *that* photo. Maybe it's just my own opinion of who I find to be attractive or cool or whatever that makes me think this though. I can't say I find photos of Holly Willoughby puffing on a cigarette outside television studios very admirable, nor do I look at middle-aged women who smoke on their way to work every day and think "wow, you are living the dream".

This post has far less meaning or moral story to it than you (or I) may have hoped, but fuck it, I can write whatever I want and I think smoking can look pretty. My only problem with people smoking - specifically girls smoking - is men who say "Oh it puts me right off a lass if she smokes". The same goes for tattoos. Fuck off. Sorry to get all Lily Allen on yo ass but bitchez can do what they want. Maybe they're not doing things for male approval all the time, just a thought.

Anyway here is Lilah Parsons, Cara Delevingne, queen of cool Olivia Newton John as Sandy, and a bonus bit of Alexa, all breathing their way to cancerous deaths. S'later y'all.



.x

Hair There & Everywhere

Something very odd happened to my hair yesterday, and I think I liked it. It resembled a lion's mane, an 80s Babyliss-style crimping disaster and very delicate dreadlocks all in one. OH WAIT! This is  what happens every day. But yesterday it was particularly Miley-esque in that it could not be tamed. It stayed pretty wild all day and this was what was so odd yet brilliant about it.

My hair is probably my greatest conquest in life. I have battled with it ever since I got it all lopped off when I was 10 years old so I didn't have to wear a swimming cap in our school pool. In hindsight this haircut did look quite good, but girls in year six can be really quite mean and being bullied for having a boys haircut isn't one of my fondest memories. But hey, fuck you guys, I still to this day have never suffered the indignity of wearing a swimming cap, I win.

As is the case with most haircuts; they do grow out. And in my experience, they like to grow out in the most hideous ways possible. Fringe curtains, grown out "feathering", Phoebe from the Magic School Bus end-flicks (only a select audience will relate to this reference but as I'm sure you're growing to understand, I'm really good at alienating the majority of human beings that I meet). Not to mention dodgy dye-jobs, especially ones that have been a result of the packet saying it would leave my hair a rich brown but leaving it scabby red. Because we're worth it my arse.

The point I'm aiming towards here is this: I have awesome hair now. Really awesome. But it's been a long time coming and wouldn't be as great as it is without a fair bit of routine followed pretty strictly. You want a voluminous wave in your hair? Say goodbye to good sleep because wearing your hair in a high bun is the best (cheap) method I've found to date. You want your hair to look good from day till night? Make room in your handbag for hundreds of cans of hairspray, you're going to need to keep topping up on the root spritz. You want that sexy I-don't-give-a-shit dishevelled look? Prepare for an onset of matting and or dreadlocking because you better commit and stop brushing your hair every five minutes, bitch.

So they are my tips for the best hair you could ever possibly achieve, if you are me. Bun it, spray it, but be prepared to look like Hermione Granger circa Philosophers Stone when the volume and frizz collide. It's a risk I'm always willing to take though.

.x

BEHOLD, THE HAIR.

Hello.

So. It appears I have a blog now. I think this is the most self-indulgent form of social media I'm to buy into so far, but Whatever-Minger. In my head I did that with the hand movement. If you don't know which hand movement I mean with the W and the M shapes, and if you didn't yourself do it in your head too, then I don't think you belong here. You probably shouldn't continue reading, this probably ain't gon' be yo jam.

I expect (and hope) no one will ever have the misfortune of stumbling across this platform for shit spouting, and I feel I've done a stellar job of setting the tone so far. I like to swear. I like to make jokes that no-one finds funny, not even me. I like being highly inappropriate. I like looking at pictures of pretty women far too much for a straight female to really be able to justify.  I like spending hours applying make up and styling my hair and dressing myself in order to look like I have made zero effort in my appearance. I like hating everything that I am. I'm essentially the worlds biggest hypocrite and dickhead combined. What a catch.

Despite all that I am quite interested in sensible and serious stuff too. Current affairs are great. Even the pop culture ones. I'm pretty all rounded. I like animals and saving the world and recycling and all that tripe. This is what I mean about the hypocrisy; I'm probably contributing to 90% of the ozone layer deterioration from the amount of hair product I use alone in one morning. The frequency at which I spend consecutive days not even getting out of my pyjamas hopefully makes up for this in some way though.

Anyway. This is just going to be an outlet for many a rant about personal dilemmas involving idiot friends, idiot me, idiot Miley antics and idiot everything's. (Does an apostrophe belong there? Will we ever know? Don't tell me. I don't really care. This is a blog not an academic masterpiece. Soz.)

I can't predict what I'm going to write because I'm just so kooky and unique and off the wall. To prove exactly that I'm going to go for an afternoon nap now with the dulcet tones of Countdown acting as my lullaby. So you can go shave your back now. Bye Jason.

.x