Birthday Blog!

So....

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.

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.

ALSO

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.

THANKS.

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.'

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?

I went to see the BACKSTREET BOYS and FIVE and MCFLY and BUSTED and SCOUTING FOR GIRLS.

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!

Sorry.

ALSO

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

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

Back it up, back it up.

It briefly occurred to me yesterday that I could start a running blog, and sort of smush (smush is a word) it into this blog. But then I realised that to profess a level of expertise over something to the point of creating a blog on it, you really should:

-Know something about the subject

-Be good at what you’re advising on

-Do the thing your suggesting

And that’s why I won’t be writing a running blog.

Most of my recent runs remind me more of running’s second cousin –walking. But I do move my arms a lot, and I think that needs to count for something. It’s like, I start moving, and I realise, wow, I’m so tired, this is so hard, how does anyone actually keep this shit up?

I think it’s the heat. It’s got nothing to do with my mental stamina and physical ability

.

I’ve spent a good year believing that everyone was better and faster than me. I’ve recently worked out that if there was anyone slower and shitter than me, I wouldn’t know about it because I can't see them. And they say the ability for us to learn drastically reduces as we age – what tosh! Thus, there are probably loads and loads of people, even more inept than me. THUS, I am a truly awesome athlete.

Thanks for listening.

In the massive gap since we last spoke, I have achieved many great and wonderful things, including (but not limited to):

-Walking into a cactus in Croatia, which ripped off the sleeve of my favourite holiday t-shirt.

-Been pushed into a traffic cone and fallen over it during the Electric Run (only my pride was injured).

-Started dieting with Ginger. Each night we share the same exchange. 

He says, ‘You’re looking better for it.’ 

I say, ‘Thanks, I’m starving.’ 

It’s really lovely.

-Shared out brioche between my battered colleagues mid pub crawl. (Have I now surpassed my middle-class roots, and bashed head first into the elusive realm of upper class? I THINK SO.)

-Realised that I can’t EVER spell ‘absolutely’ properly (yes, I’ve just had this little bugger spell checked to make him right.)

-Thrown up in front of a family beside the Thames after inhaling a swarm of midges.

-Made no progress whatsoever on my patchwork cushion (a project I started to expand my abilities and creativity). Looks like I’ll just stay exactly as I am.

-Started reading a book on what happens inside people. Learnt a lot about urine and mucus. I’m not going to share. Read it yourself.

-Remembered how funny it is to freak out Ginger Beard by

                              Talking to him using the Salad Fingers voice.

                              Trying to draw the cross on his chest whilst saying, ‘I bless you in the name of the Father, the spirit….’

                              Picking off my nail varnish and leaving it on his side of the bed. Despite telling him it’s a gift, he gets super Geordie.

I’VE DONE SO MUCH. BLIMIN ECK!

I'm now going to do much, much less.

Sleep of the week: Marcus

This week's Sleep of the week has been kindly donated by Nia Edwards.

Nia Edwards is awesome.

But can anyone ever be as awesome as Marcus?

Marcus is not messing around.

He was born in London, and thus, he is fully prepared.

I really want to know how this is packaged. I like to think that he never removes it, as it provides so many benefits:

-Retaining heat in the neck and jaw
-Preventing attacks to the neck and jaw

He has a very smug sleep face. Of course he does; will you check out the frigging cushion.

I bet he's a chiropractor. His glasses look serious, and he's wearing them in a very serious way. The shirt/jumper combo was a brave choice.

Unlike Todd from last week (remember Todd? Bless him) Marcus probably does have a special someone; a wife, who is never allowed to leave the house.

From the looks of it, no one is sitting directly to his left. Good decision. But on his right, you can just make out the stiff collar of Sherlock's coat.

And that's this weeks, Sleep of the week!!! (imagine jingle).

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

Face Off

I met a very nice chap on the tube this morning.

I could tell, by reading his ID badge, that he was a temporary contractor for Harrods in the field of '3 way displays.'

Early on in the journey, he decided to use my leg, in order to display his bag of shoe boxes. And although it's quite possible that he, nervous about his first day, was using the commute to warm up, I was left rather displeased.

In order to point out the obvious health and safety failing, I pointed to the bag and said, 'I think that's going to fall over,' and displayed this by moving my leg, and letting the bag fall over. My display it turns out, was much better than his.

He said, 'sorry', correctly interpreting my utterance as, 'Move you fucking bag.'

It used to be that other people on the tube scared me. Now, I scare myself.

ALSO

I recently hooked my umbrella on the back of a chair in a pub, and then went to sit in a different part of the pub for approximately two hours. A responsible (probably) amount of wine later, I returned to rescue it. By this point a man was sitting there, with his coat and bag over the chair. I said:

'Sorry to interrupt. Can I just get my umbrella? I don't want you to think I'm going through your bag.'

And his girlfriend was like: 'What?'

And I was like: 'My umbrella.'

 And I lifted the jacket up to show them that my umbrella was there, and he said:

'Why are you going through my bag?'

They're very lucky that I didn't beat them to death, but I'd gone to so much effort to get the umbrella back, that it seemed a real shame to break it.

I think I'm coming across as a very violent person, but lucky for you, this has only recently materialised as violent thoughts. In the past I have:

*Dropped a rock on a frog. Mum put in the bin, after pronouncing it dead at the scene. But in the morning it was hopping around the patio with a mashed in face. What a relief!

*Thrown a boy's watch into the road. His Mum came to my house, and had a massive go at my Mum. I sat on the stairs with a  glass of orange juice crying.

*Ran down a hill, jumped on a girl's back, and started slapping her cheeks. In my defence, she did insinuate that I dyed my hair (I did), and we were quickly toppled my another girl who then jumped on my back. Karma.

*Scratched my brother between the eyes and scarred him, after he put gum in the sleeve of my favourite jacket.

Is that it? I think that's it.

I've just noticed that aside from the watch, they're all facial. In my presence, no ones face is safe.

PROTECT YOUR FACE