Monday, October 20, 2014

Reasons not to dine in the dark

I really want to tell you what happened.

If nothing more, it will serve as an educational piece. 

But I don't think I can handle the truth.

It would be inaccurate to believe that what happens in the dark, stays in the dark, and much more accurate to say that when you leave the darkness, you find yourself changed in horrible ways and forever damaged.
No, this is not a Guillermo del Toro film.
Goddamit, this is my life.

Basically guys, don't think it's a good idea to get intoxicated and then head down into the pitch black with twelve of your friends, and your blind guide Christina, for a three course meal. And if you take nothing more away from this blog, at least take that.
The most significant sign that you're making a mistake, is if you fall down the stairs of the restaurant, when the lights are still very much on. I'm not going to say who did that, but it definitely wasn't me. I bruise like a peach.

I've devised a list of what not to do, if you're stupid enough to attend this event:

-After falling down the stairs, don't sit at the table silently, until your neighbour says, 'Are you okay?' and say, 'Well I've been crying for a bit, but I think I'm nearly finished.' 

-Don't down wine like it's juice, just because the experience of not being able to see anything is closer than you've ever felt to your own inevitable death.

-Don't decide not to eat the food, just because it tastes disgusting. You will pay £75 for this evening, and all that wine on an empty stomach leads to some pretty humiliating decisions from you later. Eat up.

-Don't encourage the men getting their penises out at the dinner table. Or submit to the kiss rapists, running around trying to get some. In fact, don't even notice this is happening, until debrief the following day.

-Don't fall over in the road. Again, this wasn't me. Who could fall over and cry twice in one night? Someone else, that's who. Don't let everyone crowd around you while you hysterically howl and then to the question 'Is it one of those things where your upset at the shock, and you're actually fine?' admit 'Yes, I think you might be right.'

-Don't get taken home by an equally paralytic GingerBeard, devastated over your skinned knee (are you ten?), sob for the full journey, alternating between shouting 'There's something wrong with me!' and 'My tights are ruined!'

-Don't throw up on the platforms of three different tube stations.

-Don't walk around the flat you share with six strangers in your bra and pants.

-Don't spend all of Sunday throwing up and trying to understand the story your cuts and bruises are telling.

-Don't admit the above to your mother. Then don't write a blog so that everyone else knows about it as well.

In my absence, the below occurred, and I think you can agree that without me, the night went downhill:

A dwarf was rescued. I don't know from what. I've only got second hand snippets for you. Presumably one of them had to rescue the dwarf from another one of them.
They tried to break into a pub.
Laundry was done
Someone developed amnesia
The depravity which was born in the dark, continued into the light, inside numerous taxis and bars.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Spending time with Ginger

I stepped off the tube with GingerBeard last week and he said:

'I can't believe that guy just told me to shut-up.'

Me: 'What?'

GB: 'This guy wouldn't let me get off to the tube, so I said, "Step back", and he went, "Shut-up, shut-up. shut-up."'

Me: 'Tall guy, white shirt, sunglasses?'

GB: 'That's the one.'

'Don't worry,' I consoled, 'I hit him, hard'

Because he wouldn't let me get off the train either, so I used my sports bag as a weapon, and went for a thigh shot.

And that's why we are the best team ever. I like to think that as a rule, Ginger antagonises people, and then I come out of nowhere, and take them down.

Only one person gets to bully this Ginger Beard, and that's me.

Although it's a tad worrying that he seems to be imitating my behaviour with relish.

Par exemple (that's French):

Yesterday he elbowed a sitting man in the face, whilst trying to take off his coat. Said victim cradled his head, but didn't look up.

Me: You didn't apologise.

GB: I know. He's sitting forward.

Me: So?

GB: Everyone has their allocated space, and he has chosen to invade mine.

Me: Wow.

GB: Exactly.

I saw him in a different light. Like, previously I've stated that if he went to prison, he would quickly become the girlfriend of not one, but several men. I'd like to revise that, and suggest that he would be the guy scrambling across the cafeteria benches to stab someone in the eye with a plastic fork. That's certainly who he's becoming at any rate. I guess it's good for our relationship, in the sense that he would likely retain his sense of masculinity and stay faithful to me, but bad in that he would have several back to back life sentences and I'd never see him again.

Lots to think about there.

It looks like this rampage of harm, doesn't just stop at others. This happened earlier:

Me: You look really nice.

GB: Thanks. I guess I won't kill myself today then.

What a catch.

Friday, October 10, 2014

Crowd control

Something bad has happened in London.

And no, I'm not talking about the zillions of bad, commonplace things that happen every day (someone please get me out of here). I'm talking about the rain.

And not just any rain.

But rain that seems to have nourished the filthy London streets, encouraging the rapid growth of more bastard Londoners.

Where have they all come from?

Cyclists. Cyclists who are afraid of a little water.

I say, that you are only allowed to have one mode of commuting transport, and that you must commit to it, come rain or shine.

Either that, or every year, there's a series of obligatory tests, and if you fail too many, you die.

Did someone say, Hunger Games?

I mean, it's not like I watched the first and second film, thinking, wow, what an ingenious method of population control. But, think about it.


Because I'm concerned that I'm on some kind of internet watch list for overuse of words like 'die, death, murder, stabbing', and my much cherished phrase, 'punch them in the face,' I'm going to quickly try and save myself by writing:

Kittens, sunshine, tupperware, peace, cuddles, M&S and love.

There, that should do it.


I overheard this great conversation between a Putney Posho and her young son. I've given her a name but I'm pretty sure it's her real name.

Marabelle: 'Tell me Ridley, what is the presentation actually about?'

Ridley: 'Well, we each have to talk about a charity we believe in, and convince others to believe in it too.'

Marabelle: 'And what's your approach?'

Ridley: 'I'm going to talk about how rubbish the other kids' charities are.'

Marabelle: 'That's ridiculous. That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.'


Marabelle: 'What's your charity?'

Ridley: 'Old people. Because loneliness is the most terrible thing that can happen to a person.'

Marabelle. 'It's really not. And I don't think children care about old people. They only care about animals, so I think you should change your charity.'


I mean, not in a creepy way, but in the way that I would throw my TV away if they promised to move in, and be invisible and quiet apart from the times that I request them to entertain me with their conversations.

Tuesday, October 07, 2014

Murder me this

So I went for a hungover run at the weekend back in my hometown Shottingham. It's the best kind of run going. Mostly you just drag your dry retching self around for 3-4k, have a bit of a cry and take numerous, almost constant breaks.


I passed a girl who was having a nose bleed onto the reeds. A bit later on, she lapped me.

But it's alright really, because from what I've seen, there are only two other runners in Shottingham, which means I win bronze.

And it's great, because they have this thing there, called space. It allows you to move about without being struck by an over-excited dog/child/cyclist/person. Come to think of it, I've been hit by all of those things.

On the way back, when I was walking, my mum pulled up in the car, and I was like, 'Hey, you've just caught me during my warm down, my post run warm down.'

And she was like, 'Sure.'

Because she knew, that my purple face was more a product of the numerous French Martinis, than of actual, physical effort.


Also, I've started fighting with some of my flatmates, because they are being complete tards.

Partial tard, I could handle. But you can't continue to be a complete tard and expect nothing to happen.

It started when I reached for a kitchen knife and got:

Chump:Oh, you can't use that knife.

Me: What?

Chump: We will be using that knife in a bit.

Me: Honestly, I can use any of the knives.

Chump: How long will you be?

Me: I'll just use another-

Chump: How long with the knife?

Then I stabbed her twice in the gut, wiped the blade on her apron and said, 'All done.'

I'M JOKING. It's called wishful thinking guys. In this specific example, what I'm saying is that I would really like to commit a murder, but I'm restrained by the criminal justice system and a fear of being too pretty to be safe in prison.

Last night, we went to put some fish in the oven and:

Chump: Oh, can you not put that in, because it will make my food smell.

Me: No it won't. It's covered.

Chump: I'd really prefer-

Me: It's fine. *Put fish in oven*

Chump tutted at length. But I think she could tell that I'd had a bitch of a day, and was willing to forgo previously mentioned fears of stabbing fallout.

 Then Chump got her chumpy boyfriend to empty the bins whilst we were cooking.

Luckily, Ginger and I were heading out to watch Gone Girl, in which there is a significant amount of actual murder and staged murder. It really helped ease some of the tension within.

It's making me think - maybe I shouldn't be around knives, like, at all. Can someone please sedate me before I cause harm to others/myself?

Or pay for me to attend a meditation retreat?

Or kill for me?

Friday, October 03, 2014

Still firmly in the zone

The zone face is back!

It's a bit of a surprise really, because it was a fun run.

Am I having fun here?

Or here, where I've decided to close my eyes?

It's hard to say.

From the low quality of these pictures, it appears that I have horrendous sun burn, or (one could assume) I am red faced from the sheer exertion. It's just paint guys! No one has ever called my physical fitness into question!

Maybe my little glum, pissed off face is simply a reaction to a shit event. I bet my good friend Carly wasn't enjoying herself either.

Oh, guess she was.

Luckily, I pull it back right at the end, and they have caught my 'I will not die here today, not like this' expression perfectly:


It's a shame about my disfigured hand. I wonder what happened there. My hand looks alright at the moment.

Friday, September 26, 2014

Oh, I don't think so sunshine

Very much enjoyed the overheard conversation this morning. I say overheard, but he was willingly sharing it.

Knowing London, it was probably improv theatre of some kind.

I especially liked how the posh Putney folk ran away up the platform in panic, but Ginger Beard and myself leaned in.

'I'm not spending a single second with that fucking evil bitch.'

'I will no longer dance to all of her tunes!'

'I can't go round there Mum; I'll kick the shit out of her family.'

Lovely man. And a real treat to get the impression that he is single. Unfortunately I did not have an opportune moment to request his number.

So unfair.


Yet again, someone has fallen asleep around Nia Edwards. Nia - I can only assume that you use up all of your fascinating conversation on me.

This is Maurice. I've made him massive. He's probably also made himself massive.

A few things are going on here.

1) He's just been to an all you can eat buffet and consumed twice his weight in chicken wings. Throughout, he cleverly swiped the occasional chicken wing into his bag. He is now hugging his booty closely for numerous reasons:

A) Warmth
B) To keep the great memories of lunch close
C) To remind himself how great dinner will be.

2) The woman to his right is moment's away from fully kicking off that shoe, and seductively caressing his shin with her bare foot. She can smell the chicken, and she's hungry.

But look at him; Maurice ain't sharing that chicken with anyone.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Don't kiss me please

I'm writing a novel!

Okay, maybe not right this second.

And maybe I found it in a folder entitled '2009' and have spent the past few hours merely editing, but still.

I'm sure that at some point I'll actually write a new bit.

And I'm not remotely paralysed by the possibility that the best writing I'll ever produce was born in 2009, and will forever remain in 2009, not at all.

Why are you so judgey all of a sudden, huh?


I've signed up for a one day writing retreat in November. The jist is that you get locked in a room for seven hours with no internet and lots of cake, and you have to hand over your mobile.

I'm pretty sure you can leave when you want, but I'm going to pretend it's like prison.

I'm optimistic that by forcing myself to face my biggest fear - the bright, white blank page (or worse - my own writing closely resembling a Dan Brown novel - eek) I will find out whether or not I really want to do this anymore.

Because maybe I want to be an accountant instead, or a retail assistant, or something equally interesting.

Hopefully not.

I don't know if any of you lot have a dream that you only ever talk about, and never actually work for, but it's really, really hard.

There's a chance that I'll head to the retreat, throw up and go home. Maybe I could write a story about it!


I was recently in Berlin, and Ginger Beard got shitty with me, because I kissed him in the Holocaust Memorial.

Is that bad?

I'm not talking a frenchie.

I'm talking a peck.

Can you not peck when you're learning about genocide?

Is it possibly my mother's fault for not raising me properly?

It made me wonder about what other inappropriate things I've been doing, maybe things that no one has flagged.

Like, I've started yawning and putting an open fist over my mouth, instead of laying my hand flat. Do you see what I'm saying here? I'm basically creating a tunnel for people to see into my mouth.

I'm also the only person I know who was thrown out of The Brownies. Apparently it was for stealing. I didn't get a fair trial. I actually think it was a cheap plot by the other brownies, who were intimidated by what a great brownie I was.


I used to think my manners were pretty top notch. But maybe I'm just a disrespectful thief?

It's not like I kissed him in Dubai.

If I'd kissed him in Dubai, he'd be naked in the shower block of an all male prison, with a group of stocky males asking if he wanted to be friends.

I'm pretty sure that was inappropriate. Sorry.