Thursday, 22 October 2015

Paris Paris Paris

I miss Paris so much. It feels like I never lived there at all!

Tuesday, 20 October 2015

WHP my hurr back and forth

I went to Warehouse Project (WHP) a couple of weeks ago with Kayt and Laura. The last place I raved with either of them was Paris - in March with Kayt for her birthday, and I can't even remember the last time I was on a ravey night out with Laura. Maybe the time we went to Showcase with Olivia and got crushed on the way to the loos. (What a horrible horrible club.)


Everyone always assumes I've been to WHP because I'm from Manchester - it's a bit embarrassing that I've never been. Kind of like if someone lived in Paris for three years and never went to the Louvre... Ahem.

(Well, not exactly like that. I imagine you don't get Manchester students with their bum cheeks out doing poppers in front of the Mona Lisa.)

For the second time - ANYWAY.

I think WHP would have been a very different event in its heyday. Although, as it's always been put on from September to New Year's Eve, perhaps it's always been full of students? Not that there is anything wrong with students. But even when I was at uni I didn't like going to nights targeted at uni students.

The weird thing is that WHP insist everyone gets in the entry queue by 10.30pm latest, so you can't show up after all the idiots have had enough and taken themselves home.

It was absolutely packed when we got inside. People were constantly moving through the crowd in long snakes of hand-holding friends, and they were not polite when they needed to get past. Girls (in a uniform of denim hotpants and bumbags) were elbowing, kicking and shoulder-barging us to get past. At one point I thought a man was trying to climb on my back and I started bending towards the floor. Turns out a very tall man was just wading through the crowd and I was just a fat blade of grass he thought he could squash under his massive feet.

We kept walking between the two rooms, trying to find a spot to dance in, but it seemed as though everywhere was just getting busier and busier. Then, whilst queueing up for the portaloos, we witnessed a nasty fight between a boyfriend and girlfriend. They were arguing heatedly and then they just went for each other. Bouncers pulled them apart and chased after the girl, who ran away into the crowd.

It was not a very relaxing atmosphere.

It was so bad that Kayt decided to go home after about an hour, because she wasn't feeling it. Me and Laura decided the only option was to stay and lose our minds.

Later on the crowd thinned out and it was hard to believe we were in the same venue. We had so much room to dance. The music was brilliant - Hannah Wants was headlining but I hadn't heard of ANY of the other DJs - I am so out of touch. In Paris I used to discover new music all the time, and now I mostly listen to Tina Turner and that song that goes EVERY FREAKIN DAY, EVERY FREAKIN NIIIIIGHT.

Anyway. (Can I say that a third time?)

I loved the music. By the end of the night, there was only a small number of people left and we were all dancing like people who should have gone home two hours ago. One man loved the music so much he marched over to us and said to Laura "I'm trying to enjoy the music and all I can hear is YOUR VOICE", because we were chatting as we were dancing.

He was clearly lying, as I could barely hear Laura above the music. Either that or he had just tuned in to her Glasgow accent and was MADLY JEALOUS.

When it ended at about 6am, we didn't want to go home so we asked the promotors where would still be open. They told us to go to a club called VOID on Canal Street. It took us a while to find it, and when we got there they turned some people away, saying it was 'regulars only'.

After walking down a long stairway, down into the VOID, we saw why they didn't want to let too many non-regulars in. There was a man running round in nothing but a willy pouch. Everyone needs a place where they can run around in a willy pouch without fear of judgement from non-regulars.

He even came into the outside smoking area for a bit. Laura asked him if we could buy a cigarette and he said "Where would I keep it darling?"

Where indeed?

We said we wouldn't smoke, but at 7am in the morning we decided we needed to and tried to buy cigarettes of people (note: we wanted to buy not steal). Someone made us a rollie and because I am such a super cool badass smoker I accidentally INHALED the filter and had to thump my chest to make it shoot out again into my hand.

We made friends with a big group of lesbians and hung around with them for a bit, until they ditched us when we went to get a drink. We thought they'd left the club, but then we saw them standing in a different part of the dance floor. They were not our friends at all. Our only other friend was a strange man who kept pinching my bum and trying to drink our pints, so we decided it was time to call it a night.

And that was that!

The light is so dim in this room, my eyes are killing me. I might go and make some lentils for my tea. It is literally lentils for breakfast lunch and tea until I get paid next week.

Happy lentils everybody!!

Tuesday, 6 October 2015

The PM Puts His Sausage in a Dead Pig and Other Stories

I think little and often should be my new blogging motto - words tumbling round driving me mad in my head,

sometimes falling into focus on my tube journey home,

falling fast into sentences as I walk through Canary Wharf in the rain,

then I walk through the door and the idea of sitting at my laptop,

after spending the day sitting at a laptop,

knowing that tomorrow brings another day of sitting at a laptop,

is overwhelming.

I need to blog so for a quick fix I will bash out some thoughts on recent events. Like a big bumper special of the news, broadcast to all the teeny tiny people nestling in my head. Not headlice, just the little audience I imagine when I write. I used to imagine actual regular readers but alas I fear the heady heights of (BLANK)* page views a day are far behind me...



If you're reading this and you don't know what I'm talking about - good. I thought everyone in the world knew about the PM's alleged pork-bothering past and I am delighted to have found someone who will listen to my story in amazement.

Basically someone who knows David Cameron has written a biography of the chap, and in it he says that the Prime Minister placed his willy into the mouth of a dead pig as part of an initiation ceremony for a posh drinking society at Oxford.

The real story is that nobody is really surprised, because David Cameron has the face of a man who sneaks his snake into dead pigs' heads. We always knew what he looked like, but nobody could put it into words until Lord Ashcroft gave them to the world.

Image from

When asked 'Are you surprised to hear that David Cameron put his flacid grey wormy willy** in a dead pig's mouth for a laugh?' most people respond 'Not really no'.

It's really not that weird. What did you think the Prime Minister was doing aged 21? Dishing out soup for the homeless? Reading to underprivileged children in a run-down community centre?

Don't be ridiculous, he was slipping his mottled purple penis** into animal corpses and then getting WANKERED with the LADS LADS LADS.

But we all know posh people are disgusting - see this film on The Aristocrats joke.

Actually, maybe it's more of a university thing than a posh thing - when I talked to my friend about this, who isn't particularly 'posh', she told me at uni her brother had to stick a lubed carrot up his bum when he joined the rugby club.


Every yang needs a yin. Mr Corbyn has basically said that he doesn't like nuclear weapons and that he wants to tax big corporations instead of individuals.... Big businesses and nuclear holocaust enthusiasts have not responded well...

Need to tidy my room now, peace and love.

*I was going to write the actual number for LOLZ but then I realised some people might not realise it is a small readership for a blog, and you might think I was trying to number-drop to impress you and that is not LOLZ at all.
**I have no idea what his willy looks like I am just using my HORRIFYING imagination.

Friday, 28 August 2015

London So Far

Everything has changed again.

I've moved in with Lauren,  who I've know since sixth form colege, her boyfriend Ben and Jen, who I met at uni. (They let me move in even though my name doens't end in 'en'.)

I have Claire's old room, which is small room and has a single bed. The slats slip out all the time, so sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night as I turn in my sleep and part of the mattress plummets to the floor.

The room does however have a huge mirrored wardrobe and I found some mini disco balls when I moved out of my last house, which I've hung from the lighting fixtures - sometimes spots of light sparkle on the ceiling.

I've moved so many times since I've lived in London. Besides all the friends who let me stay with them when I first arrived (I even stayed in this house for two weeks)...

There was sharing a flat in Finchley with Nat - a cute little flat in the leafy suburbs with a garden and a lovely cat - but mouldy walls and damp...

Then there was lodging in Manor House, close to the park and Turkish bakeries, and apparently violent gang wars between Kurdish and Turkish kids, although as the lady I lived with pointed out, it was purely between gangs... It didn't feel like a rough area to live in at all, I loved it. And if I ever find myself with a shipload of heroin to get rid of, I'll know where to offload it...

Next I moved to Bethnal Green. I met Mon at a party and afterwards my friend Sharris told me she was looking for a housemate. She'd lived with a guy called Phil for years and he was moving out to live with his brother, and save money. It was a huge house for two people - the kind of house everyone goes back to for after-parties. Fun on Sunday morning at 5am, god-awful on Sunday evening at 5pm when you wake up to a house littered with empty bear cans and fag ash...

I loved walking home through the market stalls on Whitechapel Road, fruit and veg sellers calling out in Bengali - and one white ginger man too, who Mon told me had learnt the language just from working on the market for years. I also liked Bethnal Green market down the road, and Pellici's café for coffee and breakfast, run by the same Italian family since 1900, which is amazing.

I used to go in the Blind Beggar pub  a lot too round the corner - it's well-known because the Kray Twins shot someone in there in 1966 - and Needoo Grill for spicy lamb chops. (Two weeks ago I went with Nat and ate so much lamb and drank so much white wine that I was sick in my mouth and had to get a taxi home. Disgusting.)

And now everything's different again. 

In the mornings I walk over the water at Canary Wharf and battle against the stream of dark suits coming up from the tube station, to get into the station instead of out like everyone else. When I exit at the other end, I have a nice little walk that takes in Westminster, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. It's weird seeing those sights every day. Not too keen on the Houses of Parliament, to be honest.

Every morning in the house now feels like we've had a massive sleepover, with Lauren Ben Jen and me (even though I'm a copywriter, I will never write 'and I' because DATS NOT 'OW I TALK) making tea and chatting to each other, sometimes plus a friend of Jen's or my boyfriend Phil.
I wish I'd blogged more over the last year, as the story of how I met Phil could have had a neat little ending - he was Mon's ex-housemate and I moved into his room. 

Anyway, something pretty monumental has changed too recently...

My cousin Chloe (who I've just remembered lived with me for a month in Finchley after Nat moved out, before deciding London wasn't for here and moving back to the Lakes) has had a baby girl! She's named her Aurora. 

Imagine if she'd stayed in London, imagine if she hadn't moved back and met her boyfriend and had a baby and found a place to live near Beatrix Potter's cottage...

I've got the day off today and it's pay day and I'm going out to buy Aurora a TEENY TINY OUTFIT!

On another note - I wish I was in London 15 years ago, so I could have gone to the garage clubs. 
They might not have let 11 year olds in though I guess...

Friday, 7 August 2015

Vogue Offends

I love Vogue, a lot, but I have two things to say on the September issue.

First of all, as soon as I ripped the white covering off (my boyfriend bought me a year's subscription for my birthday) - I frowned at the copy:

Voice of a generation

Is she?

Is a young millionaire who could have probably jumped on the property ladder aged 12 really the voice of a generation crippled with debt and doubting whether they'll ever be able to buy a house?

Secondly, inside I found a photoshoot to celebrate the season's opulent mood - luxe fabric and intricate detailing, layered to look like the collection of a Victorian adventurer. You can imagine the clothes spilling out of a heavy trunk, in a townhouse filled with exotic artefacts collected from far-flung travels...

The AW15/16 collections were heavily influenced by the Victorian era - high necklines, long skirts, Gothic black, Chinoiserie, print inspired William Morris designs etc.

I like it, but I think Vogue have allowed themselves to become too swept up in the theme. The editorial - entitled The Shining - reminds me of creepy photographs from the 1800s, showing indigenous people in tribal dress, staring glumly at the camera. (Although I've just Googled the photographer Paolo Roversi and that's his style- I've seen his sepia-toned photos of Natalia Vodianova before. She looks like a wild mermaid, dragged from the sea and put on display in a Victorian freakshow).

Next to the shot of a model sporting a tall, wrap-around headscarf, huge earrings and layered necklaces, the copy reads:

Regal meets tribal: it's all in the mix at Marni - elevated by Paula Galeeka's porcelain skin.

Thats strikes me as quite thoughtless. Thoughtless as in nobody thought that sliding the word 'elevated' between 'tribal' and 'porcelain skin' could be construed as culturally insensitive. It's basically like Vogue are suggesting tribal dress becomes fashion once it is taken from the Africans and put on a white face.

I don't think they're really saying this, but why didn't someone say 'that sounds a bit colonial, let's tweak it to be on the safe side'? Don't they worry about seeming old-fashioned and offensive?

I don't get what it means anyway. It's not much of a styling tip for the new season is it? Have porcelain skin. What's that got to do with fashion? It's not the 1800s and it's not the 80's either. Vogue is my favourite magazine, but if they're going to talk about skin colour, or the voice of a generation for that matter, they need to have something relevant to say.

Wednesday, 29 July 2015

Not-so-private Dancer

I'm writing this sitting on the edge of my bed, wedged between a huge suitcase and a shoe box overflowing with tatty bits of paper. I'm moving again. Only up the road, to live with Jen, Lauren and her boyfriend Ben. I'm taking Claire's room, because she's moving in with her boyfriend.

We are the two worse people at packing. Claire texted me yesterday to say she was about to start packing and was not looking forward to it. An hour later she messaged me again to say that she'd decided to burn down her room and everything in it.

Moving day isn't until Saturday, but I feel I should do something... So far I have put some clothes in a bag for the charity shop. I already know what I want to take out - my purple Esmerelda skirt, which is too small for me. But I now have a white Esmerelda top to go with it. I must keep it and squeeze into the skirt and flounce around in the mirror. I would only ever wear it in the privacy of my own home - obviously I would never (again) practice such vulgar cultural appropriation in public.

I got it for my birthday from you-know-who*.

Yes, my birthday was this month - the 7th day of the 7th month, of course.

Ah, gone are the days when I would blog for days and days about My Birthday and My Birthday Monster. Although maybe for old times sake...

This year I went to Manchester and the Lake District for my birthday, the Lakes are so beautiful. My cousin and her boyfriend are living in the same village as Beatrix Potter's house and they pay the same rent for the entire three bedroom cottage as I pay for my room in London.

Also, they told me there is an old man in the village who remembers Beatrix Potter and he tells everyone she was a Bad Dick.

It was drizzly and grey the whole time we were there - just how I like the Lakes. We walked up to Orrest Head. The walk to the top, which takes you through heavily-scented woods (I think it's fairy country, but it's fine if you step quietly), only takes 20 minutes from the main road, but when you get to the top the view makes you feel like you're on top of a mountain:

I woke up in the Lakes on my birthday, then we went to Manchester and it poured with rain, the type of rain where every window looks like a waterfall and there's nobody on the streets. That night I had a meal in West Didsbury with my mum and family friends,  my mum's boyfriend and my boyfriend, Kayt and her boyfriend, Amy and her boyfriend...

It's funny how now everywhere I go you can't move for boyfriends.

Then that weekend, back in London, Lauren asked if I wanted to go for a drink. We went to the pub on Saturday afternoon, but it was such a sunny day that I suggested going to Victoria Park after having just one drink. We got some beers on the way to the park and drank them by the river (it's more of a stream I guess, but you can boat on it),

After about an hour, the sun had gone in, so we went to find a sunnier patch and as we walked across the grass, people started singing Happy Birthday and for a second I thought it must be for someone's birthday and I wished it was mine and then I realised it was for MY BIRTHDAY.

My Gentleman Friend had organised a surprise birthday party for me. I've always wanted a surprise birthday. My little Birthday Monster literally exploded with self-importance and I've not seen him since. Perhaps he thought 'my work here is done' and went to live in Birthday Monster Land where every day is a disco and every word is a birthday wish.

And they all wear fabulous fringed cloaks.


The reason I wanted to blog is that I had my work summer party on Friday... and I woke up the next day and was reminded of the morning me, Claire and Jen woke up after our friend Chesh's wedding and Claire said 'I'm in a bed of shame', because Chesh had told her off the night before for performing a spectacular chair dance that upset the groom's religious parents.

I felt a bit like that, only instead of chair dancing, it was something worse. It took me all day to realise why my neck was hurting so much. Then I absent-mindedly starting singing a Tina Turner song and I laughed and told you-know-who that I was dancing to Tina Turner a lot the night before, and in fact singing quite a lot and actually wasn't I trying to dance and sing a lot like Tina Turner and then I threw my head back to demonstrate and it was SO PAINFUL.

That's when I knew I had done myself an injury from shaking my head about and growling along to Tina Turner. The thing is I remember doing it again and again, walking up and down the dance floor doing it and entertaining myself.


I must move on from the flashbacks of me stood with my knees apart, with my hair all over my face, going WHENYA-DA...DA-DA-DA...NANANANA-YOU-WAAANT because I don't actually know any of the words to Simply the Best.

I won't let the past hurt me.

Oh god it's hurting me quite a lot - as in I am wincing a little bit in actual pain.

Moving on.

I'm excited to move out! I'm sad to leave my current housemate and the nice big house we share, and I love living five minutes away from Brick Lane, and being able to have everyone back to mine at 4am for Tina Turner impressions and cloak-wearing...

But I'm moving in with Jen and Lauren - and Ben! - and their house is nice too.

Also it's a lot cheaper. I worked out that at the moment my rent and bills take up 61% of my monthly income - the old rule is that 30% of your wages should go on housing and even though rent has gone up a lot since they made that up, wages should have gone up too in relation surely?

When I move, rent and bills will take around 40% of my wages, so that's an improvement. Also it's next door to a Lidl, so I will be able to eat for £5 a week and spend all my money on kimonos and prosecco! I mean pay my credit card bill off.

In less positive news, I have now developed a strange kind of tick. At least four times a day, a husky choking sound comes out of my throat and if you listen closely, it sounds like the words: 'I'm your prrrrivate dancer, dancing for mon-eh...'

*My boyfriend, not Lord Voldemort.

Wednesday, 1 July 2015


Guess what.

On Sunday I went to my first ballet class in over ten years and now BALLET IS MY LIFE.

I love it. The teacher was a really camp Australian guy who kept yelling 'beautiful, beautiful work guys!' and after each exercise he'd pick someone to tell off in front of the class. But everyone still loved him.

I was pretty hungover and got quite mixed up when we were doing the tendu exercise.

"YOU young lady!" he yelled, sweeping across the studio towards me (he was smiling though; yelling in an extrovert way rather than in anger... I hope), "Where does my foot go back to?"


"Where does my foot go back to?"

"Er... first?"

"Where does my foot go back to?"

"Erm, the other foot?"

"Where... does my foot... go back to?"


This went on for some time. (The answer was: in front of the other foot. Oh how I wish he had revealed the answer after my first 'erm' and saved the entire class a five minutes of awkward boredom.)

There was another new person in the class and she looked bewildered throughout. When half of us were told to move away from the barre and stand at the side of the studio (so that the remaining students would have room to fling their legs around), she tried to run away in panic. He brought  over a regular student to stand in front of her and show her the movement.

"My first time!" she protested.

"I know babes, it's going to be fine. I've even got someone to help you - YOU'RE WELCOME."

We all laughed but unfortunately the little Chinese lady didn't speak fluent English. She looked offended. I don't think she'll be coming back...

But I will!

I went with a girl from work. I found the class ages ago, but haven't managed to make it (ie. every time we  planned to go I accidentally spent all my money on gin and crumpets the weekend before) - so she's been a couple of times on her own, and told me how good it was.

If you've been daydreaming for years about taking up ballet - do it. You really can spend the whole class pretending to be a ballerina. Most of the women (and two guys) in the class were wearing leotards and tights. One woman was wearing a see-through tulle skirt. 

I wore leggings and a vest top, with socks instead of ballet shoes... but it's only a matter of time before I am prancing around in a tutu, I just know it.

The only sickle in the soubresaut (it took me a few minutes of scrolling through an online ballet glossary to come up with that... not sure it works, but it's sounds terrific doesn't it?) is that, with all the mirrors, it's hard to pretend you're a prima ballerina on stage in Moscow or Paris...

You're holding your arms high above your head, perfectly and beautifully curved, and extending one leg behind you, high in the air with toes pointed, and you feel like a lovely swan...

Then you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and your arms are forming a hut-shape just above your scalp and your leg is one inch off the floor.


It is only matter of time before I start improving and then I will probably be able to audition for the New York Ballet.

So it will all be worth it.

The music is lovely - gentle piano pieces that sounded really familiar. I soon realised I was listening to, not classical music, but Colours of the Wind, I Will Always Love You and Tomorrow from Annie.

Where can I get the album?

On that note, let's all go and practice our demi-pliés to this:

P.S  I feel I should mention this, as I used to blog about Sudocream A LOT and it has now been barged out of the way by a new wonder product...

Coconut oil.

You can cook with it, moisturise your body with it, swish it round your mouth and remove plaque with it, take your eye make-up off with it, condition your split ends with it, and even rub it on scabby coldsores and it HEALS them.

Sorry Sudocrem - but these days you won't catch me going anywhere without a bit of coconut oil either on me or inside me...