'I'm Not That Kind of Girl'

Me neither, Anastasia, but that doesn’t mean that I want to hear your transatlantic Janet Street Porter-esque warbling in three shops AND one gymnasium in the space of four hours. It’s just not acceptable.

I’m going to a posh ‘event’ next weekend. For the next seven days I’m going to be entirely preoccupied with finding the PERFECT dress/hair/face/skin/shoes. This means that I’ll have to spend a great deal of time hauling myself round the shops/leisure centres/hairdressers/beauticians like a floundering seal. I hate everything about trying to look good. These establishments pump out motivational music like there’s no tomorrow. Just because you’re playing ‘No Scrubs’ by TLC doesn’t mean that I’m going to purchase some rhinestone-encrusted brown crocheted hotpants or wax my eyebrows off. It’s never going to happen. Besides, I’ve already ingested enough empowering rhythm and blues for one week, thanks.

I think I’ve become immune to the lure of marketing strategies. I don’t give a fuck if Kate Moss or Derek Jacobi or Beverley Craven have ‘designed’ a collection of clothing. This could be why I’m still sans frock. I just don’t like ANYTHING in the shops. I might make one myself out cereal packets and twine. It’s probably already been done.

And I haven’t the foggiest how to go about transforming myself into a ‘real’ girl, even if it’s for one night only. I’ve been told that real girls actually have a skincare routine and don’t just half-heartedly smear a baby-wipe across their faces once in while. Real girls brush their hair before they go to bed. Real girls get pedicures.

Well, they can all cock off. I might get a spray tan though.

On a separate note: why don’t I ever see people sheltering under newspapers when it rains? Is it that less people read newspapers or that umbrellas have become an affordable commodity? Should I even be worried by this?

Fraudulence

So. I am two-and-twenty years of age. It is massively underwhelming. I still employ idiocy in every crevice of my life. I still engage in debates about what type of fish I’d prefer* to be raped by. I continue to be absurd. I no longer throw digestive biscuits at people at parties. I’m forty-seven per cent more disillusioned than when I was twenty-one. By the time I’m twenty-five I’ll be so disillusioned that I’ll lose control over my bladder and have to use a commode.

It’s the London Marathon today. Unfortunately I couldn’t make it this year, so instead ran to the shop to get some bread. It was ALMOST as gruelling. Almost.

The man in the shop was surveying me with pitying eyes. I suppose I looked a trifle jaded. I avoided the ‘With Added Omega 3’ variety and instead opted for something a little less wholesome and a little more processed. I took (right) said bread to the till…

ME: Can I purchase this bread please?
SHOP MAN: But is it bread? You’re telling me that it’s bread…
ME: It’s actually a live chicken. Can you not tell?
SHOP MAN: No, there’s a million pounds in there.
ME: I’m a bit hungover. I don’t think I could deal with the disappointment of opening this bag and there not being money in there.
SHOP MAN: There’s definitely money in it.
ME: If I take this home and it turns out to be a loaf of sliced bread and NOT money, I’ll come back and demand a refund. I’m a citizen. I have rights.
SHOP MAN: That’ll be one pound fourteen pence please.
ME (Handing over correct change): There you go. I’ll be back.
SHOP MAN: Bye
ME: Bye

The contents of the bag were gluten and disappointment.

What a wanker.

P.S. This conversation ACTUALLY happened.
*Perhaps ‘prefer’ is the wrong word. I’m not a sicko.

Brian on the Brain

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It's a Nice Day for a White Wedding (Apparently)

Despite attempting to set the record straight, several of my colleagues are under the impression that I am not eternally single as they may have previously assumed and am in fact MARRIED to a realio, trulio man.


This is only a little bit true…

The ‘priest’ was ordained by a Californian chapel via the internet and the ‘marriage’ venue was a beer garden. My good husband and I have only hugged each other about three times EVER, so the chances of the marriage being consummated are about as likely as Prince Harry joining Mensa. Even after explaining this about five times to my astounded contemporaries, they continued to quiz me on the state of my ill-fated union:

GIRL #1: Are you going to get divorced?

ME: No, because I was never ACTUALLY married.

GIRL #2: If you meet a really nice man and you want to get married, will you tell him about your divorce?

ME: No, because it was a bit of spirited tomfoolery between some buddies and NOT, at any point, a real marriage.

GIRL #1: Don’t you think you were a bit young?

ME: Gah!

GIRL #1: What did you wear on your wedding day? Was it in a church?

ME: I sported a rather fetching towel.

GIRL#1: Really?

It is evident that no amount of reasoning will get the message across. The girl who sits next to me at work is marginally deranged and nothing I say or do will change this. I now have to accept the fact that in the eyes of my lovely place of employment, I am a MARRIED PERSON and should be approached with caution. I can see the undiluted fear in their eyes already - they’re terrified that I might bring up the subject of babies, erectile dysfunction or dinner parties. These, as we all know, are the three main phases of a healthy marriage.

I’ve quite enjoyed my years of wedlock. It’s an open relationship and I don’t actually have to talk to or see the other party. If more marriages were like this then perhaps there wouldn’t be such a high divorce rate in this country.

The Peculiar Case of the Vanishing Money (And Other Woeful Tales)

So it transpires that NatWest are indeed fuckfaces and have completely raped my finances without a second thought. There’s a reason why ‘banker’ rhymes with ‘wanker’.

Now I have no money to go and visit the famille de Ville this Easter. Instead I shall be left rotting in a call centre where the lift smells like bad sandwiches and the drinks machine serves tea with granules of coffee floating on the top. Delectable!

While we’re on the subject of tea, I URGE you to go out AT ONCE and purchase yourself the biggest big box of Whittard’s Spice Imperial tea you can find. It is quite possibly the most lovely cinnamony, orangey, vanillary, clovey beverage that will ever pass your lips. I only have four teabags of this stuff left and this makes me very sad. And afraid.

I'm a fool for yooouuu

Yes, yes. It is April fool’s Day. I neglected to forge a grand scheme of trickery, and instead had to settle for a few prank phone calls in the wee hours of this morning. Most of the recipients were either too chicken to answer a withheld number or were just asleep. And besides, I am rubbish at both concealing my ‘distinctive’ (read: nasal) voice and getting through a sentence without giggling profusely. If you got an answerphone message from South Wales police last night then chances are it was from me. Yes, I am both big AND clever.

I’m hoping that NatWest are playing an elaborate and cruel April fool’s trick on me. Mr cashpoint and I had a minor altercation earlier when he refused to ejaculate into my hand. When I pressed him further, he revealed that I was one hundred pounds overdrawn, despite the fact that I’ve just been paid AND I haven’t spent any money AND I’ve cancelled all my standing orders. In the words of the red simpleton himself: Money’s too tight to mention. Every time I think I’m regaining a miniscule amount of control over the untamed money monster, it bites my face off. When this happens, my credit rating slides a little lower. It’s now sunk lower than the earth’s crust and is currently residing somewhere deep in the lower mantle. I’m never going to get a mortgage.

I’m going to ring the fuckers up RIGHT NOW. Fucking fuckfaces.