Tuesday, July 22, 2014

In the zone

Sometimes, I get in the zone.

It's a very serious and professional place, which allows me to perform at the top of my game.

Do you know what it looks like, to be in the zone?


Here you go. I like to think of this as my 'zone spectrum'.

And I guess when I say 'spectrum' I really mean 'consistent zone face.'

My expression, upon closer inspection would be more befitting sad news from a close friend or just sheer devastation at having misplaced my keys. The top left face in particular is emitting a kind of throw away plea for rescue, but in my eyes you can see that I know, no one will come.

Can you believe it, I was having a good time.

I'll try and find pictures of what my face is capable of when I'm having a bad time.

Oh, here we go:

 Wasp in the food. Seriously bad times.

Thursday, July 17, 2014

The ugly truth

There's something I've been hiding from you.

And it's preventing us from becoming close.

I had a forceps birth. That's right kids. That's right.

My Mum was too posh to push.


I mean, I don't know, I don't remember. Maybe she's lying when she says it was essential.

The point is that as I direct result I:

1) Have a scar on my parting.

2)Have a flat head at the back, which I fondly refer to as 'The skate ramp.'

I can't wear hats.

I also Googled 'Forcep Birth' to give me an idea of what I went through.

Look what I went through!

Is that even legal? I doubt it.

No wonder my head is weirdly shaped. You try standing in a stables while the staff have a whispered, panic conference on why none of the helmets fit.

People, I did
some research. I wanted to know more:

'Forceps look a bit like two stainless steel salad servers that fit together.'


'Though it may look worrying, any marks on your baby are usually temporary, and will clear up on their own within a week or so.'


I find the story of my birth just as disturbing as I find Amazon reminding me that I was recently shopping for picnic blankets, in the middle of it.

There really is no privacy left in this world. But it is a very nice blanket indeed.


The reason I'm trying to work through these issues with you, is that I recently injured myself by trying to stand up from the bed after eating lunch. I couldn't move my head and thought I'd dislocated my collarbone, as it was suddenly not level.

The Doctor said (and I'm slighty paraphrasing): 'You have fucked your neck up a bit, but your collarbone is fine. From what I can tell, it has always been asymmetrical.' WHAT?

And then I realised - yes - just another horrific injury from Mother's decision to let them forcep me.

'Mechanical Trauma
An external injury can damage the bone tissue, causing inflammation and hypertrophy of a certain part of the collarbone. Every bone injury should X-rayed as there is always a possibility of fracture. Improper positioning of fractured parts can lead to deformation and collarbone asymmetry.'
That's right mother, mechanical trauma. You bastard.
I mean, it does say that it can be normal, but I doubt it.
Readers, I want to assure you that my tiny Mum has made many wonderful decisions in her life. This was not one of them.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Liar, Liar


I'm finding it tremendously difficult to remember important things.

Please consider this your one and only apology for when I miss:

*Your wedding
*Your birthday
*The speech where you tell me how upset you are that I missed something.


Someone told me today that I'm not allowed to use the phrase 'ball ache' because I don't understand what I'm talking about.

I'm pretty confident that my imagination is vast enough for me to imagine having a ball or two, and then imagine that, that ball or two is aching.

Is that weird? I think I just made things weird.

Anyway, the point I was making (stop distracting me) is that I'm pretty much just setting fire to huge wads of cash by purchasing tickets to events that I don't show up at, and for trains I never needed. My current theory is split personality disorder. Where one of my personalities wants to travel to Bristol for an Osmond Brothers Reunion concert, and my second personality is like, 'Woah, I don't fucking think so sunshine.'

Between the two of them, (wait, the two of me? The two of us). Between us, we ain't going nowhere, but we are managing to spend all our money in the process. NICE WORK GEMMAS.

I've been playing my sick card daily to try and reap some of it back. It's a great card. I just didn't create it with this kind of regularity in mind. For you to truly understand, we must go back, way way back, to the birth of the sick card.

A now ex-employer had paid for me to get a train to Birmingham. I was late to the station, probably for an exceptionally valid reason. So I queued up in the hapless queue (for those who are afraid of machines) and psyched myself up to influence my way into a free, later ticket.

That did not happen. What did happen (and this really lends itself to the split personality discussion we had earlier) is this.

Me: "Hi," *Eyes fill with tears* "I'm so sorry. I've missed my train, because I had to get off the tube."

Lady: "How come?"

Me: "To throw up. To violently throw up."

Lady: "Oh dear."

Me: "Yes, I know, all over the platform."

Lady: "Wow."

Me: "Can I please have a new ticket?"

I got a ticket.

Thinking about it, there was this other time in my early twenties where I was late to work, again for a top notch reason, and so I sat on a wall down the road and tried to feel sick. It worked. When I got into the shop they made me lie down and couldn't believe how pale I was. It worked so well, that an hour later, I had to go home sick.

You know, I auditioned for drama school and got rejected.


Does anyone else believe their own lies? Talk to me; it's a completely private space. I promise.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Birthday Blog!


I've been thinking.

And yes, that's a rare and (in my opinion) wonderful thing.

We've got 'Baby on Board' badges for the tube. Sure we have. Necessary. Nice idea.

But picture this, it's your birthday, you live in London. You're commuting. You're standing.

Well, not anymore, because you can slap on your 'BIRTHDAY ON BOARD' badge.

That's right people.

This fucking birthday, is on board.

Sorry for the swearing again Mum, I got overexcited at the thought.

There are a few hiccups in this plan to work out before it's launched by the Government:

1) Who is more entitled to a seat, should it come to it - Baby on Board or Birthday on Board. They have nine months of priority sitting, you have 1 blimin day. But over a lifetime, you could have, like, 80 days of sitting, but then they could have shit loads of children. It's tough. Opinions welcome.

2) Regulation. Who will police this? I suggest that we hire someone to police both badges, seeking out passports to confirm birthdays and performing ultrasounds to confirm pregnancies.

3) I think if someone sits opposite you, they should have to say 'Happy birthday to you!' or they get fined. The same person who checks passports and performs ultrasounds can issue fines. All in all, it's a full time position, which is supporting the economy.

THEN I THOUGHT (And this is where it gets deep), hang on just a teeny weeny second here. Birthday rewards from society.

Let's say that every five years or so, from 18, the Government rewards you for being a good little sheep, for going along with it all. If you've not, you know, robbed a bank, stabbed a stranger, or microwaved a cat, David Cameron recognises your commitment to helping society chug along nicely. Maybe a floral vase, M&S vouchers. Ooooohh money.

AND THEN I THOUGHT, Wow, I should really sleep more.

Wednesday, July 09, 2014

Bench this, chump.

Who's going to put some of their cash into helping me buy a book bench?

If you donate upwards of £5, you can come round to my house and sit on it for free.

I don't have a house right now, but I'll sort that out once I have a bench.

I like this one because it will match the colour scheme in my house, once I have a house.

As she's quite scary, I'm going to put a cushion over her face. I want to be upfront about modifications, so that there are no nasty surprises once you've invested your money (remember - upwards of £5).

Sorry, this blog might be quite short, as I've just spent ten wasted minutes trying to work out how to buy a bench.


I've been forced to create a 'happy' playlist on my Ipod. In order to distract myself from the bottomless misery of an average tube journey, and to prevent my listless body from launching itself in front of a train to make it all just go away, I'm trying to influence my brain with songs of the happy go lucky variety.

 This worked very well indeed when I had a seat, and could say, 'No Ipod, skip past this track, which so reflects my true feelings of anger and deep, deep desolation. Instead, let's rest a while with Girl's Aloud and pretend.'

Unfortunately, when standing, arms pinned to my sides, my Ipod would occasionally run feral and insist, despite being on shuffle, on playing the saddest Coldplay songs in a row. Also known as 'exacerbating an issue'.

And thus, the happy playlist was born. It's definitely not curing the problem, but it is slightly covering it up. Much like a cheap concealer, which although orange, masks something of the horrid situation underneath.

There, I feel better already.

On a happier note, it is my birthday tomorrow. This will probably make you more inclined to donate towards the bench, which is nice.


Thursday, July 03, 2014

Sleep of the week - Dave

This is Dave. He's having a right ol' smug sleep. He's really enjoying the ability to use his second chin as a cushion for his first chin. And that's what I call improvising.

Dave is twenty-eight, but he's been holding on tightly to the student life since he left Uni.

Last night, him and a few of the usual suspects had one too many, got refused by numerous girls with good taste, and threw up their kebabs in Dave's Mum's porch. Typical.

Luckily, he's best mates with his boss, and so taking a day off sick is no problemo.

When he was little, Dave dreamt of becoming an astronaut.

He is not an astronaut.

Dave is a door to door sales rep for Sky.

This one time, he'd made no Sales in a whole week. His boss told him, 'It's alright mate, we all have dry spells.'

That didn't make Dave feel better. But hitting a stranger with a glass bottle at his local did.

And that's this weeks, Sleep Of The Week!!!

*Still sponsored by Durex - 'Protect it, Respect it.'

Tuesday, July 01, 2014

Five will make you get down, whether you like it or not

My brother Facetimed me last night and said:

'Is that....are you wearing....a Backstreet Boys t-shirt?'

And I was like:

'Yes, and you know why? Because Backstreet's back, alright.'

And I think that for the first time in our relationship, he truly respected me. Much like all of you will come to do by the end of this blog post.

What did I do on Sunday you eagerly ask?


And I really was fifteen again. Well, apart from the wine (because it was all about the vodka red bulls at fifteen, naturally).

On the run up to this fabulous day, I'd written it off to many as cheesy fun, something silly.

Little did I know, that in reality, the event would act as a fucking time machine. Sorry for swearing Mum, but I wanted to emphasise the degree to which I felt transported back to a much loved era.

For a long time now, I have stuck loyally by acoustic, folk bands and all but turned my back on the pop world. But that was before the boy bands of my emotion strewn teens were dug up and ushered forth once more. And boy do they look good for the respite. I'm sorry, I know it's objectifying and pervy but I can't help myself. It was wonderful. It was like coming home. Nia, where are you, back me up here!



We ate horrible chicken wraps, and instantly went on a terrifying ride, which afterwards, saw me brace myself against a fence as my stomach deliberated.

Then we got drenched in torrential rain and a security guard tried to dress me in a bin bag.

Then we got a bus into Ipswich town centre so that I could purchase appropriate clothing, and Nia could get cigarettes to help her endure.

I wasn't going to drink. I HAD to drink.

When Five came on stage, the rain stopped, the clouds parted, and the sun bore down. It was glorious. Small children danced. We tutted at them thinking, 'You don't know, you don't really understand how momentous this day is. You don't belong.'

We slam dunked the funk.

And if you don't recognise those lyrics, then you don't belong here either.

The closest I've been to truly BELIEVING (in what? Magic? That life was beautiful?) was when the Backstreet Boys serenaded us from the stage. They played the classics, ballads and base alike. Nia and I, we held each other, we sang it all out, watery eyed and mesmerised, we were teenagers once more. Craving sugary snacks, easily falling in love, slaves to the drama, and giddy with possibility. *Sigh*

And so, I leave you with these wise, BSB words, and with the knowledge that yes, a BSB film is out soon, and you can come with me, if you don't mind the constant stream of elated tears down my euphoric face.

"Am I original?
Am I the only one?
Am I sexual?
Am I everything ya need?
You better rock your body now

Rock your body
Rock your body right
Backstreet's Back alright"