All that Glitters is not (comedy) gold
Inevitably, the Photoshoppers have been out in force. Just received this:
I laughed. I am going straight to hell: do not pass Go, do not collect £200.
Daft Racialist
David Bowie’s 1983 hit China Girl is one of my favourites.
But what on earth does he think he’s doing 1.13 minutes into the video?
You’ve Come A Long Way, Baby
Do you ever wonder where the people you went to school with ended up?
Thanks to Facebook and its evil ilk, much of the mystery has been smash-and-grabbed into oblivion with hourly updates such as, “Lily has just given birth to twins and is not sure the surgeon ’stitched her up like a virgin’ as requested.”
However, there are some sensible souls (and I am ashamed I cannot count myself as one of their number) who never signed themselves up for social networking in the first place. And thus, they remain an untapped source of, ‘Oh my God, she was always so shy at school!’ influenced shock/awe/disgust.
So imagine my glee when I stumbled across the life path of one such former classmate.
Guess what she does? She’s only office bitch for a Page 3 girl agency in the heart of London’s Soho. Given that I know where she comes from, this career path certainly indicates a fall from grace.
Mummy must be sobbing into her cashmere pillow.
…And So, The Weekend Cometh
Good God. A whole week has gone by. Just like that.
*Makes Formula 1 racing car noise for effect*
I watched Atonement t’other night. For those of you who haven’t seen it and would not like me to ruin it for you, skip the italics…
To the rest of you, it was bloody good stuff but hand me a noose, it turned me a freshly bruised shade of melancholy for nearly 24 hours. I know the ending is redemptive, blah blah blah, but I’d recommend you read the book for a slower drip-drip-drip on the sadness. Rather than full-frontal glumity.
Right, are we all back in the room? Gooooood.
I read in the Metro today that Kylie invited a stack of people to her Brits party at wank-fest Movida, but then snubbed them while she swanned around drinking some 35k cocktail in the VIP area. Erm, call me a bitch (and many have) but it just confirms what I’ve always thought*: Ms Minogue is a stuck up priss with negligible talent. Never mistake sticking power with ability. Especially when it sounds like a chipmunk sucking on helium.
Vitriol done.
*When the pint-sized popstrel was still dating Gallic walking erection Olivier Martinez (the first time round), my cousin and I were dining in Nobu when the two of them were shown to the table next to us. (Eyes were rapidly placed back in their sockets, while pointy fingers were slapped down reproachfully.) Kylie alternated between whining to the waiters and sending food back, and moody silence. Then she kicked off her shoes, wound herself around Martinez like a baby python and started whispering in his ear. I don’t give a fuck who she is: inappropriate behaviour at the dinner table is unacceptable. And so is acting like a clinging, whinging eejit of a girlfriend. No wonder he dumped her.
Later: Ladyshambles is heading straight to hell for that last comment. But quite frankly, my dear, she doesn’t give a damn.
Truth hurts, innit?
Wodge You Looking At?
Perfidious issues have colluded to make me slightly less delightful company than usual. Variously:
1) My hormones are performing world class histrionics. I predict all out warfare by the end of the day.
2) Tanya who sits downstairs is about to have her first book published, which confirms what I always knew: I’m a lazy underachiever, saddled with a gross overconfidence in my own abilities. Oh, and I’m also terminally covetous because I want someone else’s success, but am clearly far happier sitting on my backside eating smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches, instead of going out and grabbing my own slice of glory pie. Thus confirming my aforementioned indolence. Are you with me so far?
3) Usually I have a wave in my hair that I’m very proud of and when time permits, I like to overindulge it with lashings of curl-enhancing product. Well the fucking wave’s deserted me. It’s given me up for Lent and I’m left flat, bereft and ultimately follicly challenged. It’s as though all my bounce left through my cranium and took the wave with it.
4) ¿Donde esta el sol? Answer me that, Sian Lloyd, with your budget Dusty-Springfield-impersonation hands.
5) Other stuff in varying degrees of shittiness. I shan’t bore you though - I’ll stick to the trite stuff above. I’m not in the business of taking you all down with me. (Yet.)
So the answer to all this self-indulgent woe was a restorative trip to Mango at lunchtime. I am now the proud owner of one pair of perfectly cut black bootcut jeans. They’re all treacley and touchable. And they ticked all the boxes:
- Pockets positioned so as to make derrier look deceptively diminutive? Check!
- Long enough in the leg to look good with flats and heels, but not so long that I look like a gnome? Check!
- Right shade of black and not purposefully faded on the thighs in manner of cheap crap sold in New Look and brethren? Check!
- Natty crease down the front in manner of smart woman of the world? Check again!
We have a full house.
“Bejesus!” I announced smugly to my reflection, “For the pauperly sum of 25 quid, I have acquired the king of jeans!”
“Indeed,” replied my duplicate. “Now be brave and check to see how the tummy is looking above the perfect new jeans. Go on. It’s only appropriate.”
“Are you sure?” I peered suspiciously at my alter ego. It was becoming apparent that leave had been taken of senses. “I’ve seen the damage a new pair of starchy jeans can do up there. That torturous squishing that plagues all women, before you’ve had an opportunity to perform a sequence of bizarre lunges and squats to stretch them into shape.”
“Yes, yes.” The crazy in the mirror cajoled. “Just get on and do it. You’ll be fine. Promise.”
Then she winked at me. Always a bad sign.
So I gingerly lifted my t-shirt and who do you think greeted me?
The Pilsbury fucking Doughboy.
And if you’d like to see the jaunty jig the piss-taking little bastard used to mock me, go here.
Forgot To Mention…
Two other things happened last night, aside from the main spectacle (as described below).
1) I touched a snake, even though it grossed me out. There was a lady in the restaurant who comes round showing off her orange and yellow reptilia to the diners. One was coiled neatly round her rainbow coloured dreads. She was nice; the snakes not so much. Call me irrational, but they make me feel icky. One of our party was so freaked out by them she had to go and hide in the toilet. And this is called entertainment.
2) I fell over in wank-fest private members club Shoreditch House, right in front of a bunch of braying, coked-up media whores. Actually, it was more of a theatrical slide over because the fucking floor was like an ice rink, but that’s irrelevant detail. The end result was the same.
My dignity is, once again, in tatters.
(And I have a cut on my knee. Poor me.)
Snot On
This morning, while tubing my way to the office, I turned into one of the people I despise.
I turned into a sniffer.
My mother was, and still is, a tissue zealot. The ringing sounds of, “Blow, don’t sniff!” echo perpetually through the corridors of my childhood. That and various stern entreaties to get my elbows off the table and eat like a human being, not a cement mixer, but that’s another post altogether.
Sneezes, coughs, germs and diseases were treated equally in our house and an approach bordering on fascism was adopted. Sniffing, particularly when accompanied with the dragging of one’s sleeve underneath dripping nostrils, was in the Top Five ways to rebel against the Administration. Particularly when accompanied by a defiant glare.
And quite right too. Sniffing is rude, irritating and more than vaguely disgusting. Thank God I was taught to be a blower and a habitual paper hanky junkie. Such is my irritation at the general population’s inability to blow their noses, I have frequently resorted to impatiently waving a tissue under the worst offenders’ noses, with a look that says, “Blow, or else.” No one has objected.
But this morning, I was left with no other choice than to join in the snot-fest after running out of tissues. The Northern line was just too damn quiet to hide the shame of snuffling like an out of tune brass section, so thank Christ the Victoria line is so frickin’ noisy you can barely hear yourself think, let alone sniff.
The problem is that boarding warm and stuffy public transport after freezing your proboscis in the chilly November air, is like applying super effective plug hole unblocker to the offending orofice. The resultant over-enthusiastic inhalation leads to some quite special hocking and coughing. You’d be forgiven for thinking you were travelling to work on a mobile TB ward.
So to all you sniffy travellers, remember this as you go about your business sans hankerchief. Next time a tall brunette with a fanatical glint in her eye offers you a fistful of tissues, take them and don’t argue.
I’m watching you.
Yours without mucus,
Ladyshambles (Sponsored by Kleenex)
Out Angried
I thought I was cross because of the flapjacks.
Read this; The Girl’s got a excellent point, well made. But now I look like a beautific, over-fed Nigella Lawson next to a firey and fuming Gordon Ramsay.
I wanna be Gordon. About time I got all riled up like I did here.
I’ll go home, get a bit shouty and see whether something pisses me off tomorrow. It probably will, especially if The German forces me out of bed at 7am to go running.
Outraged of London, coming soon…
Airborne Defecatory Blessings
I still haven’t won the lottery and this harsh slither of financial reality brings me to an episode that took place a fortnight last Friday.
I’ve always laboured under the impression that if a pigeon relieves themselves directly upon your person, it’s terribly good luck. Ergo you bag 14.6 million squillion spondoolickas; ergo you can kiss goodbye to 3am panics concerning unsupervised Visa activity; ergo you are filthy rich and the world becomes your diamond encrusted playground.
So. Back to a fortnight last Friday. It was a long old day, given the port I’d been tucking into the previous evening. (The German received a right posh crystal decanter for his 30th, hence port is the current tipple of choice in our household.) It was nearly 3pm before I felt ready for solids, so off I went in search of something comforting to eat with a plastic fork.
I didn’t have to go far as Leon is just around the corner. I like it in Leon. They have healthy, tasty, cheap food and pictures of a pretend family smiling benevolently down at you as you tuck into your lunch. I know it’s all the cynical imaginings of a PR person, but it works. I’m such a sucker.
It’s always busy down at Leon. Queuing out the front they were. I sidled up to the end: eyes down, focus, don’t fall over, don’t look too special, don’t breath or sweat port on anyone.
And then…
Aim, FIRE.
Pigeon poo. On my shoulder and alarmingly close to my ear and therefore my skin, people.
Totally gross and more importantly, totally embarrassing. The woman next to me leapt three feet in the air and screeched, ‘Eeewwwww!’ at the top her voice, thus rendering me the helpless focal point of multiple pairs of curious eyes. I love to be centre of attention, but really, this was too much. Thank you very much screeching lady.
I immediately dart into Leon, muttering death to all pigeons. I grab a fistful of napkins, decamp to a table and attempt to remove the messily distributed gift from above. Except it won’t do as I ask. It just spreads, literally multiplying in length and breadth until I’m feeling a bit girly and flappy of hand, and want to screech ‘Eeewwwww!’ myself.
But I don’t because I am a woman of substance and calm. Thus, I march to the counter, order my dinner and march right back out again, sans soiled cardigan and braving the cold.
As I head back to the office, enquiring eyes still boring into my back, I remember with glee that it’s alright, this shit is good luck! So I resolve to buy a lotto ticket. Not just one - I want the National, Euromillions, the works. Gimme, gimme, gimme.
Picture the scene: Saturday night, sweaty paws clutching paper passports to riches.
And then…
Nothing, nada, zilch. Eamonn Holmes did not deliver the good news I wanted. There was only one thing for it, and that was to hit the decanter with renewed resolve.
So let’s be straight here. Next time a bird craps on you, this is not good luck. It is merely disgusting and embarrassing. Someone will make a comment, there will be staring and there will be no friendly hole in the pavement to swallow you up.
Crucially, there will be no cash windfall. But what you can count on is one smug bird and a ruined cardie.
Romance: Pronounced Dead On Tuesday Evening
The German caught me dying my tash the other night. It just adds to the catalogue of cringe this poor man has had to witness. I’ll name a few of the other ones less likely to illicit shrieking and a mass exodus in the direction of the hills.
1) Not shaving my legs for a whole month. Understandably, he refused to touch them after day 12.
2) Picking my feet. I know it’s gross, but it’s absent minded and it hardly ever happens. It’s not like I’m hacking at my big toe every evening.
3) Sniffing my own armpit. I thought it was surreptitious. Clearly not covert enough.
4) Sobbing uncontrollably throughout the entire duration of Forrest Gump. (Justified I think, given that I’d just returned from a three day bender in Manchester. However, so appalled was The German by the state I came home to him in, that his exact words were, “You’re never visiting that fucking city ever again.” And I haven’t since, actually.)
5) Busted me singing into my hairbrush infront of the mirror. Which isn’t that bad in the great scheme of things, unless you’re half cut, half naked and miming to Dido.
Oh, the intolerable shame.