Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas, all!

I didn't really intend to blog over the holidays, but after about 48 hours of no internet exposure I begin to experience withdrawal symptoms. I'm not really sure how I ever survived without an internet connection when I was a child; my home first got the internet when I was 11, though for several years I had to endure a painful dial-up connection, and the only thing I had the patience to use it for was homework and browsing Amazon's book catologue with lust. (Yes, lust. I loved my books when I was a kiddly-wink.) Now we have Broadband and stupid addictive sites like YouTube, Facebook, Twitter... and, for me, some random game in which you're a cute little bear and you have to knock bricks over with a sword.

All this is beside the point, though. I only came on here to wish you all a merry Crimbo and to tell you all the mundane exciting things I got up to yesterday. Mostly, those things consisted of drink, and knitting. (If anything, at least I'm not predictable.)

I'm not a big drinker (I'll have a glass of champagne for special occasions and maybe the odd vodka and coke when I'm out and feel obligated to drink because everyone else is), and yet I struggle to get drunk when I do drink. The most drunk I've ever been has been room-wobbling-drunk, but it wore off after about half an hour and I didn't even get a hangover. I'm a lucky sod, aren't I? But yesterday all my drink-mixing must've done something to me, because this morning I woke up, looked over at my knitting, and thought to myself, "My scarf looked like it's been mauled by a lion."

Thankfully, my mother is like one of the Shreddie-knitting grannies, and she managed to undo all my drunk-knitting and leave me with a tidy (if slightly thin) scarf. Apparently my tension is tight. You're freaking well telling me.

I think I'll lay off the drink today. People tell you to have a merry Christmas, but no one ever suggests you have a merry Boxing Day.

Seductively picking my nose.

You know those music videos where you've got some guy in his house singing about a woman he's got the hots for, or where the woman is singing about some guy she's got the hots for? Well, why is the woman always lying on her bed half-naked? First of all, if this is happening in the middle of the day, what is she doing still at home in her lingerie? Doesn't she have a job to go to? Or perhaps some errands she needs to run? And if this is happening in the evening, surely she'd be cooking herself some dinner (or at least heating up a Pot Noodle) or watching EastEnders.

Secondly, why doesn't she have any clothes on? Is it hot? Why doesn't she turn the heating down, or open a window, or get herself a glass of water? Maybe she's too poor to afford any clothes, but again, if she went to her job, rather than lazing about on her bed doing random over-elaborate arm movements in the middle of the day, chances are she'd be able to afford some clothes. I reckon she does have the money to buy clothes, though; judging by the state of her bedroom (which looks like a page torn out of the IKEA catalogue - hello, where are the dirty socks on the floor?), she's got a spare bob or two.

Maybe she does have a job, and errands to run. Maybe she does own clothes, and maybe the temperature of the room is perfectly reasonable. Maybe she just makes an effort, once a day, to lie on her bed in a seductive fashion. Maybe it comes right after cleaning the toilet and right before writing out a cheque to her gas company.

Oh yeah, and that whole scenario where a guy's on the phone to a woman, and she happens to be either a) half-naked in the kitchen, b) half-naked in the bedroom, or c) fully-naked in the bath? Yeah, she's probably not doing any of those things. She's probably either a) in the kitchen, eating cake, b) on the bed, picking her nose, or c) in the bath, cleaning it.

Reality is harsh.

Chat-up lines of the 21st Century

I'm sure chat-up lines are getting worse. Yesterday I found myself in a scenario whereby a man was boasting to me and another woman that his ex-girlfriend wore a "600 cup". What that's supposed to mean, I'm not entirely sure, but I think it has something to do with her bust measurement. For the man's sake, I hope he was taking the pee. If he was trying to be funny, nobody laughed; if he was trying to be impressive, we were not impressed (I know the general rule of the thumb is "the bigger the better", but there have to be some exceptions, surely), and if, heaven forbid, it is true that his ex-girlfriend had a bust measurement of 600, I can only presume that she ate A LOT of pies and that the woman has, by now, serious back problems. Him taking the pee out of us is the only feasible excuse for coming out with such a weird confession, I'm sorry.

Things didn't get any better for the poor soul who was trying to being smooth, either, for after making statements about his ex's alarming boobage, he then went on to inadvertently admit to wearing women's clothes - which might not have been such a bad thing, if it weren't for the fact that he didn't look like the most 'secure' of men.

I'm curious, though: is there such a thing as a good chat-up line? Did all the good ones become cheesy clichés, and all the bad ones, by default, become ridiculous? Even my cat has more class than most men these days: about a week ago, our tom demonstrated great chivalry in bringing a leaf in from outisde and placing it at our female cat's paws. This was right before, y'know, he jumped on her back and started biting her neck. But at least he was gentleman enough to bring her a gift first.

Ooh, to be a Gooner

OK, here's one very important thing you need to know about your blogger: she's a HUGE Arsenal fan.

That's not to say that I am both an Arsenal supporter and morbidly obese; rather, the severity to which I am consumed by Arsenal FC is quite huge. For instance, as I sit here now, typing away at my desk, I can see the following:

1. Framed photograph of Arsenal captain, Cesc Fabregas. He was the third man ever to steal my heart, after Michael Jackson (a sentiment I have since retracted ...R.I.P btw) and former Arsenal player, Marc Overmars. He's a quality player, but I fear I may have to take the picture down in the summer, should he decide to go to Barcelona. (And Cesc, if you're reading this, don't go to Barcelona, please. They'll stick you on the bench and you'll be doomed to forever exist in Lionel Messi's shadow. Even though, y'know, you're taller than him and all that.)
2. Tiny replica of the Arsenal bus. But shh: I stole it off my brother several years ago and he still hasn't noticed.
3. Thierry Henry: The Biography, by Oliver Derbyshire.
4. Fever Pitch, by Nick Hornby.
5. A stationery box, upon which I covered with Arsenal stickers when I was about 10-years-old, including the old Arsenal crest and Patrick Vieira's former no.4 shirt.
6. The Arsenal Enclyopedia, I kid you not.
7. Two Arsenal matchday programmes.
8. Vieira: My Biography
9. Three other random Arsenal books.
10. An Arsenal blanket.

Also scattered around this room you'll find an Arsenal calendar, canvas prints of Dennis Bergkamp and Tony Adams, an Arsenal flag, several Arsenal shirts, an Arsenal beanie baby, an Arsenal hoodie, an Arsenal hat, Arsenal gloves, ticket stubs to Arsenal matches, Arsenal pyjamas and a couple of posters of the Arsenal team. Oh yeah, and I'm wearing a 1970s-style Arsenal shirt right now. Not to mention the wallpaper on my phone is a picture I took last year, while at an Arsenal match.

So you get that I like Arsenal, right?

That doesn't mean that if you don't like Arsenal you have to stop reading, though, nor will I hate you if you tell me you support Manchester United (though I will probably roll my eyes and mock throwing up; I should probably warn you now). However, it does tend to mean that I will like you considerably more if you tell me you happen to be a fellow Gooner. I'd make a totally crappy judge; I mean, can you imagine the scene in court?

Me: Mr So-and-so, you robbed seven stores, then ran over a pigeon and left it for dead. I hereby sentence you to six years in...
Defendant: Wait! The only thing I stole from the stores were Tottenham magazines. I was trying to save the small boys and girls the torture of seeing Robbie Keane's judging face staring down upon them as they peruse their favourite comic books. I ran over the pigeon because it called Fabregas overrated, and I only left it there because I had an Arsenal match to get to and I was late. Don't you understand!?!?
Me: Oh. [Long pause] Community service should do it, I would think.

Anyway, there was a point to all this. I'm just trying to remember what it was.

Oh yeah! I went to an Arsenal match last night. Anyone who caught the Arsenal vs. Partizan Belgrade match on ITV1 would surely remember seeing me (the woman looking cold) screaming at the pitch and declaring that "You [the Partizan Belgrade fans] are not singing anymore." Though, actually, they were. At one point one of them whipped off his shirt and waved his pie-gut to and fro, as if it were a football scarf. I'll never know.

[This is my evidence that I was actually there. Don't like it? Well, screw you: I'm a writer, not a photographer.]

I'm beginning to think that fans should get tickets on the basis of how noisy they are. I mean, I'm a quiet person, but stick a football scarf in my hand and chuck a few players on the pitch, and I'll have lost my voice by the morning.

I urge anyone, football fan or not, to get to a match at some point in your lifetime. There's nothing like getting away from it all for a couple of hours, and asking a complete stranger earning 100 times your wages, "Who ate all the pies?"

Let it snow, let it snow... then let it go.

I don’t really get why people like snow. Especially people who, like me, live in a fast-paced city which literally grounds to a halt whenever the temperature drops below zero. I suppose I can forgive the children for revelling in it; after all, they haven’t seen a lot of snow in their lives, making a snowman is fun for about fifteen minutes (five minutes longer than any other activity they might choose to embark upon) and there’s always the possibility of school being closed. But adults? I am ashamed of the lot of you.

Falling over is not fun, being cold is not fun, walking like a constipated penguin is not fun (finally it makes sense why penguins hobble the way they do; if their strides were any bigger there’d be a lot of bruised penguin bum-bums), travelling for hours longer than you should have to is not fun, and having some random idiot chuck a snowball at you from across the road is only fun if you are alert enough to retaliate within five seconds and chuck one back, in which case it is extremely fun. But that is the only exception.

I feel slightly conned. My favourite season is autumn, and with it snowing in November (yes, I’m aware it is now December, but it was snowing yesterday, OK?!?!), my favourite season has therefore been cut short. The owners of all those gas-guzzling 4x4s have a lot of explaining to do. (Yes, I am single-handedly blaming them. It would take too long to cite everyone else responsible.)

Santa's coming... to steal your biscuits

Yesterday everyone was reminding everyone else that there was exactly a month until Christmas. And even though you’d been told five times already in the last two hours, when your partner/ friend/ parent/ sibling/ co-worker/ neighbour/ annoying-person-who-thinks-they’re-you’re-friend-but-whom-you-really-can’t-stand said to you, “DID YOU KNOW... There’s exactly a month until Christmas!” I bet you went, “Ohhhhh yeah. God how time flies. And I haven’t bought ANYTHING yet.”

So you’re fed up of being reminded. I get it. And every time someone does remind you, you panic that there’s not enough time and that you can’t afford all the presents and food and needlessly sparkly outfit for the office party. But y’know what? I’m gonna be comforting here, and remind you of something else today: in exactly one month, Christmas will be over.

Yay.

I’m not a total scrooge, but let’s face it: a fat man slides down your chimney while you’re all sleeping just to come and pinch your biscuits, and we’re supposed to get excited? Because that will be the case this year, young boys and girls. The Con-Dem government has indirectly condemned Christmas by sucking money out of the economy in an attempt to, er... put money into the economy (yeah, I don’t get it either), and as a result Father Christmas can’t afford your ridiculously-priced Buzz Lightyear (which came out about 12 years ago anyway), your Barbie doll that looks exactly like the Barbie doll you got last year, and the bicycle it’s too cold to ride, and which you’ll be too big for by the time the weather improves. Father Christmas is not leaving presents this year; he is coming to steal your biscuits and maybe a couple of quid out of your parents’ swear jars, and before he leaves he’ll probably stick your hand in a glass of water so that you wet the bed and your Christmas is completely effed.

But in a month it’ll all be over. All that money, all that exhausting shopping, all those long journeys taking your children to go and see 19-year-old, uno-browed, bored Santa; all that present-wrapping, all that cooking, all those photocopies of your naked bum from the annual office party... All for one day. And in a month, it’ll all be over.

Wait. This was supposed to be a comforting blog post. Whoops.

Stop

I nearly got run over today.

 

Some idiot in a gas-guzzling 4x4 ran a red light. (I can say with some conviction that they are in fact an idiot because 1) They ran a red light, and 2) People who drive gas-guzzling 4x4s, unless they have something like a million kids, are idiots. No offence if you drive a 4x4... Much.) I was just about to put my foot out into the road when it came screaming past, out of nowhere. If I was a nicer person I might make my excuses for them and say that maybe the driver had a passenger with a stab wound, dying in the back seat, and that it was absolutely crucial that they run that red light and get to the hospital as soon as possible, because if they didn’t said passenger would surely die. But no. I highly doubt that was the case, for these four reasons:

 

1. They were driving a gas-guzzling 4x4, and as already mentioned, people in gas-guzzling 4x4s are idiots. Thus, I reckon, this red-light-running was just another example of their idiocy;
2. The hospital was in the other direction;
3. Running that red light may well have saved the life of the wounded passenger in the backseat, but would have instead inflicted another fatal casualty (i.e. me). I mean, there’s always the possibility that that is what they had hoped, because I know I can be quite annoying sometimes, but murder is a little extreme, and finally
4. Lots of people around here like to think Gran Turismo is cool. They also tend to think that walking down the road like an 80-year-old with arthritis and a broom shoved up their arse is cool. It is not.

 

Unfortunately there are no cameras on the lights around here, so Mr or Ms Vroom Vroom Vroom will yet see many more red lights... in a sort of blurry, blink-and-you-miss-it kinda way.

The Karmamaster

There’s something so quintessentially London about the Routemaster bus. Some people say tourists come to London to see the queen, but I reckon what they’re really coming for is the tea, the biscuits and the Routemaster.

Since the Routemaster bus was practically abolished in 2005, however, tourists have since had to make do with just the tea and biscuits, which is fine (I mean, we may not have the most well-renowned cuisine in England, but we do make some pretty tasty Bourbons), but not exactly something to (literally) write home about. But now, thanks to Boris Johnson’s frivolity with the capital’s money, that dear old death trap of a bus is soon to make its return. It’s had a bit of a facelift since we last saw it, but I’m sure we could all still pick it out of a line-up. What a bus would be getting arrested for, however, I do not know. Anyway, read all about it here.

I have fond memories of the Routemaster.

No wait, scratch that. I have one fond memory of the Routemaster. All other memories involve coming home from school on a jam-packed bus and falling over people’s legs, as I was too short to reach any of the handles that protruded from the bus’s ceiling. (Please offer these seats to those less able to stand my arse.) So sometimes I would stand on the lower platform, next to the conductor, which really you’re not supposed to do, but falling off a moving bus sounded more appealing to me at the time, than having my face squashed up in a sweaty fat man’s armpit.

So there I was, twelve-years-old, waiting on the lower platform for the red light to turn green and for the bus to reach the stop where I always got off. My daredevil personality didn’t really extend past waiting on an open platform, and I had no intention of ‘hopping off’ the bus when it could have moved away from the light at any moment. But the woman behind me had other ideas. Fed up with waiting, she shoved me (a short twelve-year-old girl in her school uniform – hello, rude much??) hard in the back in an attempt to get me off the bus so that she could shave half a minute off her journey. It didn’t work, though. I swooped to the side of the platform, holding on for dear life, and just as the bus accelerated away from what was now a green light, she put a foot out onto the ground.

I’m proud to say that I didn’t laugh as she fell into the road and rolled, several times, down the curb (though the thought did cross my mind). I just watched as the bus sped me and all the other passengers away from her, and the pedestrians who had stopped to help her stared back into my face disapprovingly as if I had somehow been at fault. Oh, but that wasn’t me; that was karma.

Introduction

I’m not gonna lie and go about declaring that I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I mean, putting aside the fact that the dodgy semantics of that declaration would imply that I’ve wanted to be a writer since the dawn of time (which quite simply isn’t possible because, even if I had been born at the beginning of existence, for sure the dinosaurs would’ve gobbled me up pretty quickly), I can’t hide the fact that I had other dreams before I first picked up a pen. I wanted to be a Gladiator, y’know.

No, not a gladiator like the ones in Ancient Rome (dinosaurs and gladiators... you must be thinking I’m really old); I’m talking about that TV series presented by Ulrika-ka-ka-kaaaa Jonsson (I don’t know why I just did that). I used to have a poster of one of the female Gladiators on my bedroom wall; I think the poster was intended for frustrated teenage boys, but when I lay there gazing at it, I preferred to conjure up scenarios in my head whereby Gladiator-whose-name-I-don’t-remember and I would beat up lots of people up together. Bad people, that is. I saw myself as a bit of a 4-foot superhero with dimples.

So you see, I’m not really a cliché at all. I haven’t always wanted to be a writer. The writing thing just sort of happened because... Well, I’m not too sure why, really. It just happened. I suppose my inability to do a cartwheel and the fact that I love cookies too much to satisfy the demands of a Gladiator must have contributed slightly to the change of direction of my career.

So this is my blog. I wish I could give you some kind of indication as to what it might contain, but in truth I never was good at sticking to a plan (as evidenced by the above story). But I can promise that, if you read it, little WTF-shaped clouds will float through your brain occasionally. Be rest assured it’s a harmless side-effect.