Amaze Balls

I would like to share with all of you, the search phrases which are directing people to this here blog:

Bullying for beginners Don't know why Not talking about the The demon which I was hoping You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar It all makes perfect sense. I do apologise for my absence. I've been in Scotland for a week in St Abs (or as I've affectionately named it, Stabs). Population - 3. They don't really know about mobile phones over there, so mine didn't work. AND the real shitter, was that I couldn't even get on Dream Zoo. I know. Apparently if you write a blog about your stay, which they like, you can get money off your next visit. I really hope they don't mind being referred to as Stabs. To be fair, I didn't get stabbed once, unlike in Nottingham where our favourite activity is comparing bullet scars. One day, we all went out to try and find dead things. Because this one time, when we all went to Bamburgh, we found a dead rabbit, and it's become a sort of cosy tradition. No dice. I also cooked a big fish pie, and didn't poison anyone (against the considerable odds). Yay for me. Ginger Beard forced me to go on a cliff walk in high winds, and during our Fresh Prince of Bel Air duet, he got some of the words wrong, and it was a real disappointment to be with someone, with such a pathetic grasp on their childhood. I nearly pushed him off, but realised my blog would be considerably duller without my mocking of him. So, he lives. We played poker. It turns out I suck at poker. I lost all my fake money, and consoled myself with pretzels. I also didn't win Balderdash, with is essentially a game of lying. I mean, I lie all the frigging time. There's barely a spot of truth about my person. It's an outrage. I vow to be even more full of shit in order to remedy this.  Oh, did I meet someone famous, hiding at the end of the world from the paparazzi?!! No, no I didn't. But, did I spend most of the time missing my zoo, drinking Baileys, and reading terrible books. Why yes, yes I did. The glamour never stops. I'm having a massive party this weekend, and anticipating that we'll do crazy things, like drink through straws, and laugh, loudly. I'll let you know.

The Thailand Journal - Part two - Once bitten, always bitten

6/11/11

The Blue Bar across the road only plays Craig David, one album on repeat. At Coco Loco the green Thai curry tastes exactly the same as the one they serve in Ban Thai in Morley (but it costs about a pound here). Tonight, a lady gave us connect four to play while we waited for our food. We were the only customers. She helped me lose.

8/11/11

Everyone here is a jack of all trades. They taxi the guests around the island, cook in the kitchen, and clean the leaves from the pool. Why do all of the men have such long fingernails? It creeps me out.We need to get to 1 of 4 piers today, the only one which has a ferry to get us to Ko Samui. Ginger Beard is going mental, because we can't figure out which pier it is. I pick the one I like the sound of - Big Buddha, and tell him we should wing it. This does not go down well. He stomps around with a red face. In the end we don't have a choice, because no one understands us, and we don't understand them. It makes me happy, and laugh a lot. Big Buddha turns out to be the right choice.

Ginger Beard is also a bit grumpy because he has just turned 30. Luckily this is the 5* part. We're staying for two nights in a two jacuzzi villa. We sit in our kimonos drinking cocktails, and eating the surprise birthday cake that the staff have made ('Happy Birthday Mr James').

10/11/11

It is worth coming all the way to Thailand for the Saraan Spa. We drank honey tea, and went upstairs, where Ginger Beard had to don some striking netted, tight black pants, for his full body massage. I was told to strip to my pants. We were instructed to come through when we were ready. We would never be ready. We looked like a cheap 80's porno act that would do anything for the right price. We bickered:

Ginger: You go first.

Me: No, I've got my boobs out!

Ginger: Everyone can see my balls!

Me: So? Man the fuck up son. Do you love me or not?

Ginger went first.

It was just us, and two thai ladies. Fifteen things were lovingly applied and removed from my face. Cucumber strips sat on my eyes. Alarmingly (for it was at first), I then received a full body massage! It's not nice when your face is frozen with clay, you're blind, and a stranger starts rubbing your toes. But I reasoned that the sheer sight of me in my current state, would drive most people to cop a feel. And I let it be.

We drank Ginger tea. I have never felt so at peace. We keep smiling. The staff were smiling. It's unnatural, and frankly disturbing, but I'm so bloody happy.

Later, I OD on coconut. It is actually possible, when you spend two hours, scooping the stuff out and gobbling it. Have very long lie down to recover.

Indian head massage with oil. It was a bit over zealous for my liking, but there's a lot to be said for attention, even if it takes the form of pain. What is awesome, is that she tied my hair up, and when I put my kimono on, I looked in the mirror and thought, 'I am giesha'.

The Bite Chart

Looking at the below pictures, you're going to realise two things. One, it's almost criminal that I didn't pursue a career as an artist, and two, that is exactly, exactly what I look like without my clothes on.

This is my personal bite chart, tracking where the Mosquito bastards attacked me, during my lovely holiday. Ginger and I had a competition, and I won, totalling 24. The writings a little small, so here you go:

*Massive itchy
*Betty Bojangles
*double teamed near the tush
*This ones getting really fucked up
*Right on the cankle

The Thailand Journal - Part one - Pancakes

3/11/11

Ginger Beard says you can never be too sanitized. He is carrying round a travel sized sanitizer and using it every 5-10 minutes. He insists that I receive sanitation before we hold hands. He has many cuts on his face from shaving, and as such, is not at his aesthetic optimum. This makes me question our relationship. What am I doing with someone addicted to sanitiser who can't shave?

5/11/11

Determined to get my money's worth, I get stuck in straight away with the in-flight movies. If I'm smart, I can fit in 12. It would cost approximately £96 to see these at the cinema, and as such, is definitely worth the effort. Cue the worst turbulence I've ever experienced. Ginger makes it 6 minutes into Harry Potter (not literally, don't be vile), before turning yellow. But I am fricking staying the course! If I stop the film for a bit, I might only have room for 11 films! Eventually the stewardesses came round, and gave us some proper dodge food. I didn't eat it because I felt so, ridiculously sick. It's quite frustrating that so many scenes in Harry Potter are at night, because you can't see dark things on those tiny, shit screens. But I got the gist.

Eight hours later, Dubai Airport. I'm having to run to the toilets a lot for a good old dry vomiting session, but I did fulfil my film quota. And it's important to get your priorities right. I threw up just before take off, in one of those darling plane cubicles. A nice Thai lady told me I should drink Ginger Beer, but she didn't understand that this was a price I was willing to pay, and that I had already raked back £24.

I was unconscious for the next seven hours, only waking to wipe my drool away. On Emirates planes, when they want you to wake up, they put all the lights on, and play some man singing about what a beautiful day it is. It's not a beautiful day. Quite frankly it's complete wank, and 10pm, and you've woken me up to give me minced chicken with a slab of cheddar on it's face. Thanks.

Arrive in Bangkok. What a glorious start to the holiday. Let some people take us to an over-priced hotel. Think am hallucinating, but the taxis here are actually bright pink. A young boy carries our bags to the room, and shows me where the hairdryer is. Don't know what to tip. Do not understand currency. Awkward. Fall asleep. Wake up at 4am. Third plane to catch. Why did not pick Butlins? Can suddenly see the many merits of a Butlins holiday. Crave camp entertainers, pissed-in pool, and feral kids.

Realise Bangkok Airport looks like the Turd on the Tyne (Newcastle's Art Gallery). Weird. Sit on plane, eat cashew nuts. Do not desire to live anymore. Find it amusing that people jealous of our holiday. Nothing to be jealous of.

Taxi to the resort is 1:30. BUT the driver has a screen at the front of the car. Am still game for squashing in as many movies as possible. He doesn't ask, but puts on Micheal Jackson Live. Is lots of crying girls being restrained. Do not understand entertainment value.

Arrive at Talkoo Beach Resort, a child drives us to our room in a golf buggy. Why are these children not in school? Are obviously learning how to identify hairdryers and drive, through employment, but is not same as proper education.

No one else is here. Just me, Ginger and stray dogs. In our local Newsagents (One woman, a fridge with some milk in, and a freezer full of cornettos) there is a crazy amount of kittens. Ginger says I can't touch them because I'll contract rabies and die. It's a real shitter. They're sleeping amongst the merchandise, and I'd be happy to spend the rest of our vacation here. No dice.

Thai people here don't speak any English. You don't tend to get the food you order, but we try to enjoy the surprise. They're also very clever, and make you think they can understand you, by repeating what you say.

Me: Can I please order a taxi for tomorrow morning?
Reception: Taxi
Me: Yes, for 10am if that's okay?
Reception: 10.
Me: Good, so is that booked?
Reception: Booked.

And then you rock up at 10am, there's no taxi, and you nearly miss the ferry. But it's all part of the EXPERIENCE kids.

We went off to hunt some pink dolphins with a man, and his mate. I learned pretty quickly that nothing would make sense, nothing will be explained, and that's got to be just dandy. Which is why we drive around for a bit, head back, swap drivers, set off. The whole time they're having an animated, hilarious conversation.

So we get in this boat with a Thai couple, and chase this one bumpy dolphin. And these special jumping, silver fish are flying beside the boat, and every now and again, one slaps you in the face. It's a wholly pleasant experience. The woman put one hand on top of the other over and over again, and said 'Pancakes.' Fantastic, a day out at sea, followed by pancakes. Turns out she was talking about the rock formations. And this is why language barriers are harming people everywhere. Because I don't know if you've ever thought you were going to get pancakes, and had those hypothetical pancakes ripped away, but it's fucking upsetting

Into the Wilderness

I think my mental health is pretty apparent. I've just spent twenty minutes searching for the after sun. I gave up, and returned to my nest on the lounge sofa, where I discovered the after sun. Turned out my previous task (I'm operating like a Sim, with actions lined up in the top right hand corner of my brain) was to find the after sun. Chances are, that in five minutes, I'll decide to go search for the after sun.

No people, this is not the consequence of recreational drugs, this is the aftermath of an Oxford-based festival, and ridiculous amounts of driving. Also, my RSI is being a whiny little bitch. But I'm typing regardless, because I serve the desire of the people, not my own never-ending, excruciating pain.

(Break to destroy flat in hope of Ibuprofen, and also to find out how to spell said drug).

Do not find ibuprofen, do find that the massive bag of food we'd brought back is now full of squashed blackberries and purple juice. Very glad that Ginger decided to put the tupperware box my mother gave us in here. Remember to thank him when he comes home. But for the time being, set all ruined food out in kitchen, and have a nice chuckle to self; he thinks I'm at home cleaning. When really I'm still in my dressing gown, listening to the top 40 hits, nestled within a comfy pile of socks.

Anyhoooooo, Ginger and I, in an obviously desperate attempt to like, totally live a little and experience life outside of Blockbuster's five DVD's for a fiver offer (which by the way is fabulous), headed to The Wilderness Festival. With the postcode in the Sat Nav, we calmly set off, the car weighted down with cosmetics, tangerines, and baby wipes. You can imagine how chuffed I was to be told by the patronising female voice that I had arrived at my destination. No one was here yet! We were the first! I was ecstatic. It was then we noticed, that even the festival had not arrived. I smacked the Sat Nav, and we went off to find the festival, like two pissed teenagers, fingers outstretched in the dark.

Hurrah! Festival! Sit in car for an hour behind other cars. Feel such an extrovert. Am perched on the cusp of adventure. Am wearing a bright vest, and looking forward to character building experience of disgusting toilets and promised grime. No one knows what's going on, or how long we'll have to wait. I frantically battle my control freak tendencies and full bladder. We're at the gate, and branded like cows, with our festival bands. Informed by security that if we have alcohol, we have to bring it in now. Horrendous! Send Ginger to car to decant rose into squash bottles. Walk with all my stuff, his stuff, and lovely, heavy tent. Do not get far. Fall to floor. Throw poles and pegs at tent. Wait for Ginger to arrive and do man thing with tent.

Because of my quick thinking, we are very close to the exit, but very far away from the festival. We will get a lot of exercise, what a bonus! Once in the action, we sit on a haystack and ponder our options. Nothing is really ready yet. The band we are expecting to watch, have not turned up, and men on stilts and bunny ears tell us to go back. I think their message is correct, but they do not understand that we cannot get a refund at this venture. The majority of those in attendance are painfully fashionable posh girls, who address the staff as 'Cider boy', and 'Beer man', and desperately suck on cigarettes, eccentrics who have waited their whole lives for an opportunity to explode with oddness, and people like Ginger and I, somewhat dazed, disappointed in our comparative plainness, in non-descript cardigans.

At the banquet, we were fortunate enough to sit opposite one of the directors and her best friend, who were high on their own 'success'. Due to her ear piece, it was much like having dinner with someone who can't get off the phone. And as everyone visited them, sat on their laps, and was fed food from their plates to try, it was like staring through the window at a really good party. No, you are not invited. Luckily, they did manage to start a fight with another guest and his wife, over who would have the last edible flower. Unluckily, they were running the whole shebang, but getting drunk on red wine. Cue feelings of optimism and faith.

We're off to a party in the woods! Security get mighty offended when you stray somewhere off limits in search of it, but that's okay, because it's in a secret location, and thus is your fault. They shined many a torch light at our wrists and proclaimed us 'wrong'. At one point, we thought we really had found it; the trees were lit up, there were flotations, but wait, no, it's just a sect of club 18-30, fresh off the ferry.

Back to the tent we went, tired, disheartened, nauseous on apple cider. I thought we'd have a good old sleep and be fresh faced for what tomorrow had in store for us! Sadly Raf, the drug dealer next to us, was off his face on MDMA, and so were all his friends! Surely at some point they'll need sleep, or at least set aside some time for breathing between words? NO, NEVER ACTUALLY.

Day two, a few hours sleep, crouching in the tent naked, just below the flies and spiders who have decided to join us, baby wiping the depression away. Off we go again! Thankfully we find some old, wooden boats, and due to the lack of any health and safety procedures, we can just jump into them and fuck off. So we do. I make Ginger hunt swans, until they hiss at us, and Ginger whispers, 'Oh My God, we have to get away. They are going to kill us.' I have photographic evidence of this melt down, which continued for some time. Highlight numero one.

Other highlights:

- Ginger pushing ahead in the queue for sweets out of frustration, and paying for the other peoples sweets as an apology.
-Queuing for half an hour for a macchiato, which is in fact, just a shot of coffee.
-The camp site erupting in ten minutes of shouting 'Alan?!'
-Laura Marling, which made me so serenely happy. The best singer-songwriter I have ever heard.
-Jumping to Gogol Bordello's 'Start Wearing Purple'.
-Putting make-up on Ginger for the masked ball (a surprising allowance, becuase last time I made him look 'like a whore').
-A shower on the third day! We queued for an hour and had to listen to thin women talk about how desperate they were to make it in time for morning yoga.
-Coconuts, which a guy took a machete to, so you could carry it around drinking the milk. We were one of the first groups to catch onto this craze, and it was the only time we experienced any form of popularity/jealousy.
-Philosophers on stage debating the merits of cannibalism and pornography.

Tragedies:

-The masked ball was held in a massive tent, where despite the flammability of the whole thing, smokers turned up in their hundreds. We walked in, we walked out.
- Every other stall being a bar.
-Insects, which although an integral part of camping, were rife, and we have the bites to prove it.
-The toilets. The main problem being that they're already disgusting when they arrive on site. Ginger developed a compulsive addiction to hand sanitiser.
-The pot luck talent of the acts.

In summary, we became rather drab in the face of so many outgoing people. It is definately one for groups, where your sole purpose is to get battered. We all make mistakes, but they're normally not quite so expensive. Having said that, I would do it all again just to see Laura Marling, who thankfully sang the mob into a a respectful, swaying bunch. Next year, I think we'll give it a miss. I'll just put my ipod on, play with a spider, pointlessly carry an anorak around for three days, queue for things I don't really want, sit on deer poo, stick a feather in my hair, refuse to fall asleep, and hand you a £200 cheque for the pleasure.

Living in a skip

There's nothing like a picnic in the park, with the sun shining, and what? What's that? Two remote control planes? Fabulous.

Can't they do it in their lounge, and fly them low in slow circles?

Or can we tax them? Flight tax?

It wouldn't be so bad, but we'd walked really far to get away from the children and ended up at an airport. Of course it's the one thing that constantly bonds us together, our general intolerance for most of society. We're like two, whingeing pensioners, 'it's too loud, too crowded, too warm'. And as I get older, I find more things to be annoying, and the previously annoying things, even more annoying. I need to re-learn that child-like acceptance of everything. When we were content with a stick and some mud, and nothing could distract us from the simple joys in life.

I spent a bit of time at the weekend poking various beetles and spiders with sticks under the vise of putting the washing out. And I realised how incredibly satisfying it was to be bigger than them and terrorising. I had to check myself, one step away from boiling the kettle, and seeking out ants. But for most of the weekend, we cleaned. I'm so glad to spot that the start of my twenty-fourth year is off to an experimental, and frankly dangerous start. The two of us, getting high off dettol and bleach, playing music at a moderate volume! I tell you, it's a bloody good job we've got Thailand in November where we'll die/nearly die, because we are craving a shake up.

The only real outcome of spring clean, is that I managed to answer the age old question, 'Where does all my money go?' Turns out it's on all the shit I own. Shit I'd forgotten about and abandoned. It's amazing what you can find when your boyfriend forces you to 'sort your crap'. Unfortunately another of our shared traits is becoming incredibly passionate about a hobbie, only for it to bore us a week later. Which is why we have boxing gloves, and a gardening set, two poker sets, tennis rackets, badminton rackets, ping pong bats, five unused cook books, how to read palms, how to read body language, how to psycho analyse yourself, tarot cards, and seventeen lip glosses in slightly different shades of red (Ginger Beards).

Car boot anyone?

Scaredy Cat

Hello world, I've grown quite fond of you. How's life these days?

I found myself, quite recently, with the unavoidable mission of negotiating the London subway. Although for the most part, my hand was held and led by a friend, I still felt ravaged by terror. It's the lack of certainty. It's the need to get from A to B without any comprehension of the journey between. A kind of panic that sees me hopping from foot to foot in front of the departure board wishing myself a little less cowardly.

On the way back (alone) I drank coffee for bravery. Caffeine never fails (when consumed in large quantities) to turn my pupils giant, and plant a great, impatient desire for adventure. I spent a lot of time in Kings Cross, fuelled by mocha, face in the local paper, craving all the London-based fun on offer. I love it all, well, all the limited places my infrequent visits have led me: London Bridge, Richmond, Camden markets, Spitalfield, Brick Lane, the list goes on. I want to eat all my breakfasts in Patisserie Valerie, and be part of the commuting, buzzing flux. In London, I feel like a writer, an identity I have all but lost. First and foremost these days my prime label is 'office girl'. I have decided to live, as Dolly Parton once sang, from nine to five. I make excuses. I type my way through months, imagining more, bigger, bolder, better. But I rarely change anything.

And of course it would be a group of strangers, accompanying me on my train between Leeds and London, who would chide me, and make me ashamed of it. We were drawn together over the book Sheila, the dermatologist was reading, 'Three cups of tea.' I was writing about my grandad, and my childhood, growing sick in the face of the speeding view. But soon it was kindles, and politics, autobiographies, Anne Frank, London's merits, the NHS. I got off the train feeling charmed by the randomness. I guess one thing my job is teaching me to do is talk, talk like words don't always have to hold great worth. I am quickly becoming an exemplary small talker. They said they would wait for my book, look for my name. Like the English Teachers before them who believed in me, like the glorious friends who flash in and out. And yet I'm 24 tomorrow, and have done very little, it would seem, to try.

Come on then son, get your finger out.

Kill me now, if you'd be so kind.

I'm so chuffed that God read my last blog. He rolled up his sleeves, looked me square in the eye and said 'Right then.'

And so, initially, it was filling the car with crap for the skip, driving around unable to find the skip, and unloading the car, back at home, of the crap intended for the skip. Throw in a couple of traffic light stalls and this:

"Ginger Beard, something's not right."
"Huh?"
"Something feels weird."
"Does it?"
"Oh my God, you're driving on the wrong side of the road!!!'

And you've got yourself a nice Saturday afternoon.

Cue torrential, Noah's Ark downpour Sunday, and we decide to be a bit cultural and head for the new Hepworth Gallery in Wakefield. Now, I did promise myself that I would never go back. That I would never again expose myself to the tracksuit bottoms tucked in sock goers of The Ridings, or every shop fronted by bargain baskets. Luckily, we got lost, and after reuniting myself with all of Wakefield arrived a good hour longer than anticipated. LUCKILY, the exhibit was things with holes in. Which I happen to love. Some of the holes had string in, and were painted. And, being middle class, which a penchant for upper class sensibilities I was able to realise that strip of iron stapled to the ceiling represented the ongoing battle of the human condition, and that putting balls on top of other balls commented on our relentless pursuit of hope. I knew it wasn't a good start when I touched (barely) what I assumed to be a nicely decorated bench and a stick-up-her-arse attendant told me off.

"Hi, how are you, yeah so, you can't touch the art."
And because I am incredibly mature, I gestured wildly to the rampage of sticky fingered children and proclaimed, "Everyone is touching the art." Then I looked at her in such a fashion, as to suggest that I intended to be violently sick on her face.

I decided to sit in each room, by myself, guarding our umbrellas, whilst Ginger Beard looked around, and through the objects with holes. I was at one point engulfed by a tour guide and her group, which was very upsetting, and meant I had to listen to the claim that this wooden ball was about the relationship of the water and the land. I've never been so furious in my life. What. A. Horrific. Lot. Of. Bollucks. Is this legal? Putting pins in my eyes would've hurt less.

LUCKILY, we then got lost tracking down somewhere to eat. And then LUCKILY, got some mild food poisoning, to finish off what I can only describe as the kind of weekend that instigates a loaded gun to the temple.

Locked out: Castaway pt 2

It begins with denial.

I can get in. I can bloody get in. I fashion a lock pick from a hair clip. How hard can it be? We ring every doorbell. We press our optimistic faces to the glass. I play with the green flies. Ginger Beard makes a start on the rations.

We keep track of the days my marking crude lines on the ground.

We take an Easter Egg, and make a face on it with our blood. It's christened 'Milson.'

The Morrisons shop begins to petrify.

What would Tom Hanks do? We sharpen sticks in preparation of fox hunting later.

The local natives offer us tea and their mobile, but the landlord is not answering.

We will not survive much longer. I hope the people I love, know that I love them. The sun burns. We have ten bottles of J20 but no bottle opener. Yoghurts, and no spoons. We could pour them into our mouths, but we're not yet savages.

Ginger Beard goes off, following a mirage. I give him up for dead.

I've been stuck in the same clothes now for an hour. Alas! Hope! The landlord calls, and although not even in the UK, will breach confidentiality laws and give up the number of a fellow tenant. A tenant who promises to play hero, and arrive in thirty minutes.

I celebrate. And then I remember that Ginger Beard is lost. I eat a cake. Things seem better.

Then who should come ballet dancing through the door, But the Beard himself, who has scaled fences and walls to save the day. (I cannot divulge the full details in case Burglars Anonymous read this).

The true tragedy, is that while we're safely inside, feeding our withered bodies, our other selves are still waiting. The tenant has not arrived. After another hour and we're pissed. Our poor other selves, we sympathise, still out there, still believing.  Another hour! Oh, vulnerable, dying other selves! We would be freezing, and sad, and have made a start on one another's limbs. It is now four hours later. The tenant is not coming. Our other selves have passed away. We hold a short, but touching ceremony.

How did you spend your bank holiday? Was it quite as good as this? Can it get much better than this?

I don't think so.

P.S I hate you

Anyone know the definition of 'A walk?' I'm pretty sure it's a casual affair, at a considerably leisurely pace, which involves the inhalation of scenery and clean air. Unfortunately, a few friends of mine mistook 'walk' for mountain climbing, for wilderness survival, for army bootcamp. It's a miracle I'm alive. And what a loss that would be for the world - like losing J K Rowling, if she was slightly less famous, and was poor again, and hadn't had anything published.

It's lucky one of them was asthmatic. I stole his inhaler.

And you know what the conversational topics we covered were? Just your usual young professional banter: yawn rape, acid, pushing your other half off the cliff as a slightly less confrontational method of ending a relationship.

One of them gave me a creme egg and then hit me in the face. They all laughed.

I stepped in a bog. I tore my leather gloves on a rock. I had my focused face on and was labelled a 'sour faced cow.'

We went to a pub, starving, clothes torn, blistered, we ordered, salivating. They'd stopped serving food.

Thank God the weekend is picking up. Ginger Beard's only decided we're watching P.S I Love you. l think I'll just cry my way to Monday.

Hysterically yours, WriterAtLunch