Tuesday, 29 April 2014

Jesus 4 Disco

Ah, I just watched a bit of telly with the Landlord Lady- I offered her a cup of tea (my USP as a house guest, lodger and roommate- I make a lotta lotta tea) and she said "I'm watching Jonathan Creek if you like that sort of thing, it's just started."

So I sat down in the living room with her and watched it. I used to love Jonathan Creek when I was little, my gran and grandad would let me stay up and watch it for a treat. It's quite rude, isn't it? Maybe I just had no idea what was going on when I was little. Maybe the innuendos went over my head. (In your-enndo, lol.) (That lol was sarcastic, obvs.) (The obvs was sarcastic too.) (Sigh.)

Let me take you to a place I know you wanna go....

Last weekend is where you wanna go (surely).


Oh, stop it.

I've met Kimono Kaity once before and since that time she's broken up with her boyfriend, who she lives with. I thought she would have a sad tale to tell but instead she had an AMAZING story about meeting someone new, the kind of story that makes me never want to sign up to internet dating and instead hold out for a mystical magical meeting. 


(I will definitely end up on internet dating, the only reason I'm not on Tinder like a woman possessed is because I don't have an iPhone. And also it uses your Facebook photos and my Facebook profile picture is a cat dressed like a gypsy, so I would shock and surprise people unpleasantly in the flesh.)Later on I went back to Soho to met 'some people' but the time I got there everyone was leaving. I ended up going back to TC and OJ's house and we stayed up talking until very late in the morning. 


Kayt sent me a text the next day saying I'd left her an answerphone message by accident and she could hear us talking about weeing in the street and Kate Bush...


I've got some very very very exciting news about Kate Bush.


Jen used her powers to help me and my mum buy tickets to see her live in September!! It will make my mum's life. I definitely think if she could choose between seeing Kate Bush live and rewinding time so that my stepdad didn't cheat on her for 13 years and behave like a complete psychotic arsehole; she would choose Kate Bush without hesitation.


This is one of my favourite Kate Bush songs: 



Enough Kate Bush (for now).

I was worried Easter Sunday wouldn't be as fun as it always was in Paris (I KNOW I mention Paris a lot but I haven't really done anything since then so it's all I have to talk about, k?) when we would drink a lot of fizzy wine and eat really nice food and sometimes have an Easter egg hunt.I was especially worried when I woke up on Sunday feeling like shit and knowing I had twelve hours of raving ahead of me...


It was Slide on the Terrace at the Prince of Wale with Danny Krivit- originally I'd thought it would be a lovely hot weekend, which would be perfect with the roof terrace, but the Sunday I awoke to was drizzly and grey.


TC lent me a dress and a pair of boots and (then said I could keep them- it makes me feel like a celebrity when people give me clothes for free) I put some red lipstick on, but you can't polish a turd, folks. I might have had a bit of lippy on but I was still shit on the inside.


I met up with Natalie and her friend Susie and we went for lunch at Planet Organic- an organic food supermarket and cafe. I think the vegetable lasagne helped me more than a plate of greasy chips would have done...


The music at the Prince of Wales was so good that I lasted for hours longer than I thought I would. It was disco music and I couldn't stop dancing. If it would have been minimal techno I bet I would have started to feel very sinister and knackered, but because the music was so upbeat I was able to disco-dance my way out of feeling shit.


Although.


There were proper sloppy, drunk boys who KEPT getting in my dancing space and being weird. One of them stalked Susie for about TWO HOURS until I finally got the bouncer to throw him out. It sounds harsh but he could barely stand up and kept standing right next to us, leaning on us and trying to talk but he was just slurring nonsense and then he got really angry when I told him to fuck off.he kept saying, "My wife... my wife..." trying to explain that he wasn't coming on to us. It's so IRRITATING when boys do that, as if the only problem is I think they're coming on to me. As if I'm a MASSIVE BIG HEADED DICKHEAD for not wanting a drunk, fat person leaning on me and falling over and stopping me from dancing.


You can't ruin someone's night by leaning on them and following them around all night...Nobody cared if he was coming onto us or not- we just wanted him to get out of our dancing space.And the bouncer was lovely and very obliging. After that it was a brilliant night of disco dancing. Oh, apart from...


I had a HUGE vomiting fit in the toilets and I thought I'd never stop being sick, it was the scariest thing that's happened to me in a while. Two girls were trying to get in and help me, I heard them talking about me for ages, wondering if I was ok, but I couldn't speak because I was being sick so much and then my throat was all sore and closed up.


After that I was fine, though. The boogie brought me back and it was a great Easter after all. How many fanatical Christians will come after me if I say:


Jesus died for disco?




On Saturday I went to Soho to see what Record Day was about- record stores have DJs playing and everyone crowds round the street, drinking and dancing... in theory. In reality I didn't stay long. I met up with Kat- one of many people I used to mention a lot on this blog and then all of a sudden I stopped talking about, not because I'd done something horrific to her and was trying to cover up my crime, but because we just drifted apart for whatever reason...

We've recently got back in touch and it's definitely the right time, for many reasons.

It was really crowded and as I had plans later on, I wasn't really in the mood for drinking in the street and raving. I went to see my New Australian Friend who I actually met through this blog- we bonded on Twitter over the fact that we both have the same kimono. I might refer to her as Kimono Kaity.

Kimono Kaity loves Paris and goes there a lot, which makes me quite jealous. I can't believe I haven't been back since I left, but at the same time, I'm not sure if I can ever go back. The other day I went to the cinema with some people from the internship to watch YSL and I cried when the first shots of Paris came on screen. I will never watch Amélie  again. If I actually physically travelled back to Paris... I don't know what I would do. I think I would behave atrociously and pretend I was in a film and thrash about on the floor, hysterical, the nostalgia eating me up from the inside. 

Do you want to see a shaky video of the night?

Do you ever!!!!

video

Monday, 28 April 2014

Around

Here I am, blogging from my new location. I've been blogging in my head again and jotting notes down on scraps of paper, it's time to type it up.

This is the first night I've sat downstairs- so far I've been out or in bed in the evenings. It's not really my space to inhabit, is it? I'm lodging in somebody else's house... I'm 'the lodger'. I feel like I'm in a film but for once I'm not the main character (I normally give myself a pretty major role in my own daydreams and delusions). I'm a bit part, seen in one or two scenes perhaps, or in every scene but only just in shot, a running joke with no lines.

I moved in last Friday, as in the Friday before the one we've just had. So not last Friday then, I suppose.

Natalie drove me with all my stuff. As she has a two-seater smart car, we had to do three trips. I have a lot more shit than I thought I had. As usual I didn't start packing properly until a few hours before I had to leave, I've managed to lose my trainers and my heated rollers (which I've NEVER used) in the move, but other than that everything went quite smoothly.

I didn't see Weird Flatmate, she kept messaging me to find out if I was still in the flat. Although the messages were friendly, I get the impression she was as keen on seeing me as I was keen on seeing her. I felt relieved when I locked the door for the last time and shoved the keys through the letterbox, but weird as well: I thought I was sorted and settled- but it was just a six month solution.

The lady I'm lodging with wasn't here that weekend, so it was just her teenage son at home. He said he'd leave a key for me under the doormat, but when I arrived there was just a funny-looking key on top of the mat. It looked a bicycle lock key.

I had to ring the doorbell a few times and call his phone before he answered the door looking like he was still asleep. Each time after that it was his friend who opened the door for me. The house was full of sleeping teenagers but this one boy was wandering around the house with his coat and rucksack on, rooting through the doors and staring out of the window. I wonder what they'd been up to?

After moving in, me and Natalie had a lovely day galavanting about London. We went to Borough Market and got bread, chorizo and Compte cheese to eat by the river (it was a lot windier and colder than we'd imagined) and then went to Brick Lane for afternoon drinking.

We looked round a Vintage Fair and I bought some old Levi's that I've been dreaming of for weeks... They're a bit like 'mom jeans',slightly high-waisted and baggy on the leg, worn turned up at the ankle. In my head these jeans made me look like a cross between Thelma & Louise, Marilyn Monroe, Madonna in the early days and Kelly Kapowski from Saved by the Bell.

In reality I'm a lot shorter and a lot fuller round the thighs than my stretchy Topshop 'jeans' would have me believe.

Oh my god. The mum and son are arguing. I feel awkward and also can't concentrate.

I think I've lost my knack for blogging, but I'll push on.

Moving Day ended with the best lamb chops in the world at Needo's in Whitechapel. I've been reluctant to go back there since I first went months and months ago with The Guy I Sometimes Went for Meals and Private Sleepovers With, because he told me he and his friends go about once a week... But me and Natalie were quite drunk and the lamb chops are sooo good and so I thought it was worth the risk... I could eat those lamb chops every day.

That night I got home very full of lamb and alcohol to an empty house. I was asleep by half ten, then in the early hours of the morning the teenager and his friends came home for an after-party. Judging by the vibrations I could feel coming through the floor, they like a bit of drum & bass. I always suspected growing up that London teenagers were miles cooler than me and now I've had my worst fears confirmed- they're still cooler than me.

But it makes me wonder, if you grow up in Central London and have after-parties in your massive house and listen to drum & bass, where else can you go? What's next for them on the agenda, apart from crack?

The other day the mum picked the butt of a joint up off the side and said, "They leave their bloody joints everywhere, for goodness sake."

I don't know, these bohemians...

The day after I moved in I stepped in a bit of sick and a couple of confused but very polite teenagers in their pants wandered into the kitchen to look for their phones and to get glasses of water.

The family are really lovely. The lady also has a daughter who is only two years younger than me and she was home from uni last week. I chatted to her and her friends for a bit and ate dinner with them, but then I felt really, really awkward and went upstairs before they started playing 'card games' and smoking weed. It was nice of her to ask me to join in and we'd had a nice chat over dinner, but sometimes you've got to quit while you're ahead.

So much more to blog about, don't know if I can carry on or not.

I think not, but I might be back later.

For now I'll leave you with a song that I've just rediscovered. The whole time I lived in Paris I would hear it on nights out and ask everyone what it was called and never remember. I found it by accident this weekend and it's the best feeling ever.

I don't know why, but this song makes me feel like a sleazy lounge lizard, creeping around the dance floor winking at people. I love it!

It makes me miss Paris and The Rex. In Paris I felt like I had license to do whatever the hell I wanted, because I was more anonymous. I could dance by myself for hours, then meet up with everyone a bit later.

"What have you been up to?"

"Just sliding around the edge of the dance floor, being sleazy and winking at people. You?"

"Pretty much the same mate."





Wednesday, 16 April 2014

Couscous Calamity

Fab news!

Do you know my Crapberry, that I sometimes use to take bad photos of cats creeping in my window and that I am still paying for in France except I am not paying for it so really I am just getting in trouble for it across the Channel?

Well. About an hour ago I dropped it in a bowl of dirty washing up water and now it's FUCKING BROKEN.

I fished it out quickly and it seemed to be working, but just to be on the safe side I thought I would put it in a bag of dry rice to absorb some of the moisture, only I didn't have a bag of rice, I had a packet of couscous; so I buried the phone in couscous and two minutes later there were fat, squishy grains of couscous embedded in every available phone orifice.

I think it might be broken. I've found an actual packet of rice now (it was, erm, in my flatmate's cupboard) and left the phone in there. I really hope it isn't broken. I need to cancel gas/water/electric etc tomorrow.

ARGH.

Last week I FINALLY bought some new headphones and downloaded music on to it as well. I haven't been listening to music recently and I'd forgotten how nice everything is when you've got music to listen to- I could just walk for hours and hours, when I've got something good to listen to.








On Saturday I went for a walk and just kept walking, like I used to in Paris. I walked to Hampstead Heath, through wooded tracks that my cousin found when she was here. It took me about an hour and a half from where I live.

It was so lovely, when I walked through quiet woodland I took my headphones out to listen to birdsong. And also to listen out for Creepy Perverts creeping up behind me. Every so often the wooded track would break and there would be an amazing millionaire housing estate, like Desperate Housewives only with mock-Tudor mansions and cottages. Wandering around one of the Millionaire Pockets were three Romany gypsies in tracksuits, they looked really out of place... Not because they were Travellers, but because they were whispering and hanging back all the time, shifting about as if they shouldn't be there.

I suddenly realised that I looked out of place too, in my I Know What You Did Last Summer coat, which looks really scruffy because the hood has fallen off, and in my No Name Trainers and no make-up. Luckily I reached Hampstead Heath before the police pulled me over for being a Suspicious Tramp and or/prostitute. (Like the real prostitutes you see near Manchester Piccadilly, with a scruffy coat on and shit trainers, teeth missing when they open their mouth to talk; not Hollywood Hookers like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.)

I don't really get what Hampstead Heath is. Is it just fields and people playing rugby, or is there an actual heath somewhere that I missed?

Anyway.

I'm supposed to be packing my room up tonight. New Flatmate has moved all her stuff in to the living for Some Reason, maybe to demonstrate the point that some shifting around needs to happen?

It will happen on Friday morning, when I move out. I suppose I could do some now, as I'm working in the pub tomorrow. I thought I had left the pub, then the manager texted me asking me to work on Saturday night... Hmm.

No cat on my bed tonight... I keep thinking he's going to jump in through the window but he isn't. Last night there was a cat wailing outside the back door, I thought it might be Rushdie- come home in a dramatic Homeward Bound-style return after an amazing adventure with wolves and mountains and urban foxes...

It was just Fluffy Tabby from next door, having a right old moan for No Reason. I opened the door to try and entice him in for cat stroking companionship but he ran away. I really feel as if I am part of the local #CAT crew now.

On Saturday afternoon as I set off for my walk to Hampstead Heath, I saw the big scary cat walking down the pavement, just strolling along casually in broad daylight like a human. I walked up behind him, expecting him to run away, but he just gave me the quick once over and carried on. Ha! He's such a badass. I'm starting to have a lot of respect for him.

I wonder how he can be out and about in broad daylight and still be out all night doing his sinister Tomcat Activities (let's be honest- it's raping). Probably he takes a lot of speed.

Just checked the phone- it's definitely fucking broken.

I cannot believe this.

A few hours ago I was thinking about all the nice plans I've got for Easter Weekend and then I thought 'Something will go wrong, it's too good to be true."

I knew it!

I have suddenly cheered right up, these past two weeks. I feel kind of guilty for my friend who has just lost her brother and for my dad's family who I have not spoken to since the funeral, because I was proper miserable and all of a sudden, I'm just not. I'm still sad about what happened, but I feel optimistic and I am starting to enjoy London, which probably has more to do with the fact that I didn't have to pay rent this month- I pay a month in arrears and as I am leaving this month, I don't pay anything- than the my ability to think positively.

It's sad that spending money makes me so happy.

But it makes such a difference, being able to buy drinks and say yes when people invite me out.

Oh dear.

I think I better do some packing, just a little bit. Here's a song they played at work today- it came on and I suddenly remembered dancing to it last Saturday, after Rumpus Party. (I say dancing, maybe I mean side-stepping very slowly in the corner of the room, trying to work out what was going on...)

Did I tell you about Rumpus??? Maybe I will do a bit of packing and tell you all about it afterwards. There was a ball pool and glitter wrestling, burlesque dancers and DJs.

Here's this, for now:



Saturday, 12 April 2014

The Cat That Leapt In Through the Window and other stories

DISCLAIMER: THIS POST CONTAINS CATS. MANY, MANY CATS.

Today I have to say goodbye to Rushdie the cat, his owner Chloe has decided to re-home him permanently. It's not fair to keep moving him around and she won't be ready to take him again until September at the earliest- that's a lot of new people and new neighbourhoods to get used to for a little cat.

I don't want him to go though, he's the perfect flatmate. I wish I could stay here with him instead of New Flatmate. She's hardly been here this week, so every night it's just been me and Rushdie. As I come home, he jumps in through the window, meowing at me about his day. Sometimes he follows me round the flat just meowing at me. I don't understand exactly what he's saying, but I get the general gist of it.

Mostly he is telling me about the local #CATS- the scary black cat with the scarred face and the fluffy Tabby from next door who sometimes pops up at the window and watches me while I sit on the couch, feeling awkward and pretending I haven't noticed...

The downside to Rushdie using the window as his cat flap is that some of the other cats have been using it too. Last Sunday I was lying on the couch like a dirty potato*, when a random cat leapt in through the window. At first he stayed perched on the window, sussing out the situation. Then, when he realised I was in no fit state to move or even make shoo-ing noises, he bloody came in and went for a wander round.

I was recovering from Friday night (which carried on until Saturday afternoon) and couldn't even summon the energy to flap him away. Do you ever get so hungover that you feel as if you've left your body, and you're actually floating a few inches above yourself, like a thick fuzziness, while your body just lies there below you, looking rank and smelling of petrol for Some Reason?

Well it was like that. (Maybe that's why they call it a Comedown, because as the day goes on you gradually descend back into your body until you feel halfway normal again.)

I felt so weak, that all I could do was document the whole thing with my shitty Blackberry camera...

The Cat That Leapt In Through The Window

The cat leapt in through the window.
"Ha!" he said, triumphantly, "Fucking knew I could make that jump"


The cat looked back at how high he had jumped.
 "Not too shabby." he said to himself.


The cat noticed me on the couch, floating above my dirty potato of a body.
"Hang about." he said.


"She ain't gonna do anything." he said, before dropping down on to the window ledge.


Then he stopped for a minute, wondering if maybe he had misjudged the situation.
"Nah, she's fucked." he said, before going into the kitchen to eat Rushdie's food.


THE END
(Any children's book publishers- GET IN TOUCH. I'm thinking Primary School, I'm thinking Literacy... It could be the new Biff and Chip.)

On Thursday I came home to find the fluffy Tabby from next door in my bedroom, having a nosy between my bed and dressing table. I love how whenever I surprise a random cat in my flat, they look at me, alarmed and outraged, as if I have walked into their private abode uninvited.

The freakiest one is Twilight Cat, who is sometimes sitting on the window ledge in the living room when I get up in the middle of the night with Rushdie. I don't know why Rushdie makes me get up in the middle of the night to watch him jump out of the window, but he likes to meow in my face and sometimes bite my elbow to wake me up, so I always obey.

It's really surreal wandering into the living room with Rushdie behind me, to see another cat sitting there. It's happened three or four times. Maybe he is a magic cat.

Actually...

Looking at those pictures, I think Twilight Cat is the same cat that came in on Sunday.

I realised I have been talking about cats for a very, very long time. I'm hungover and so there is no limit to the nonsense I could write. I could literally sit here all day, typing out every mad thought that comes into my head.

Why did I start writing this post?

Rushdie!

I'm going to miss him. He sleeps on my bed with his paws over my leg, or else he curls up next to my head, meaning I have to squeeze against the edge of the bed. I would happily squeeze up forever though, it's nice having a little cat in your bed.

Every night when he senses I'm about to get into bed, he jumps on the covers so he can sleep next to me, or he settles down on top of me if I lie flat. If I leave the room to brush my teeth, he sits up and looks at me as if to say, "Where are you going? I thought we were going to bed."

Perhaps I am becoming a bit obsessed with Rushdie.

Last night I drunkenly posted two photos of him on Facebook, accompanied by a misspelt caption about much I 'lobe him' and how I will never 'roget him'. Then I posted the same photos FOUR TIMES with different captions, because each time I thought it hadn't worked.

I woke up at 6am this morning in a panic. Last night I got really drunk with people from work and couldn't remember if I'd done or said anything embarrassing. I was definitely doing my Liverpool accent... and laughing insanely loudly- probably at my own jokes.

Eurgh.

I should go now. My New Flatmate is hovering around with some bread I asked her to get for me.

Sigh.

She got really drunk last night and was sick on herself. Her girlfriend who is ten years older than her now isn't speaking to her. I've got no time for 'couple shit'.

New Flatmate has found it really difficult to replace me, because her girlfriend doesn't want her to live with another lesbian- 'in case they sleep together; a straight boy- 'in case he tries to sleep with her'; or an attractive straight girl (her exact words)- 'in case New Flatmate tries to sleep with her'...  She's only allowed to live with a gay boy.

So what am I then, New Flatmate? A gay boy or a hideously unattractive straight girl?

Fucking grow up.

Oh god. I better get dressed and hunt out Rushdie's cat box.





*one of those ones that comes caked in dirt and no matter how hard you scrub it, it still tastes a bit gritty when you eat it)

Friday, 4 April 2014

SUPER BLOG 2

I've broken the fucking kettle.

The lid was jammed and now I've jammed it some more by trying to open it. Plus I have now broken the filter inside the spout, so it's doubly-broken.

But I still feel like blogging. Also, my New Flatmate isn't home and when she's in I can't do any work because she plays Lady Gaga really loudly and asks me questions about the boiler that I don't know the answer to.

Before tonight I would have said that My New Flatmate was ok- she pecks my head a bit and we've very different (I made a JOKE about cocaine when her friends were round which went down like a lead balloon)- but we'll have a chat if we're both in the living room at the same time...

Now however, I am definitely Not Keen on her, because I've just realised she's taken mine and Natalie's glittery reindeer head off the wall and also removed the two sparkly bauble wreaths I made to cover up random nails on either side of the reindeer.

Why would she do that???

Where is our glittery reindeer head???

She left an unopened parcel on the table the other day and inside it was a canvas with a dog printed on it. If she thinks that's going on the wall she can, she can...

She can hang it on the wall, let's be honest- I'm not going to say anything.

It's so weird living in close proximity with someone I don't know. I can't be arsed. I'm moving soon, but I'll tell you more about that later.

First I need to tell you about Punch Drunk.

I've wanted to see a Punch Drunk production since I learnt about them at uni- they do interactive, promenade performances where the audience is invited to explore and discover the drama for themselves. I can't tell you how excited I was to go and see it. I hadn't seen any posters for it or anything, but OJ and TC went to see it and they said it was amazing, so me and three of their friends (who I've met before, I wasn't being a creepy) booked tickets to go and see it.

I wrote loads of notes on it at the time so I could do a long, detailed blog post on the production, but I don't think I should reveal too many of the show's secrets.

It's called The Drowned Man and is set in a film studio in the 1950s. When we went into the venue- a huge warehouse building near Paddington Station- we were told to put white masks on. Masks make people feel uninhibited. Wearing a mask makes you feels anonymous- you can see but you can't be seen. It's voyeuristic.
At first we walked through black corridors, so dark I couldn't see anyone behind or in front of me. It was so exciting, because we had no idea what lay ahead. Literally no clue.

We entered a lift, where an actress told us about the evening ahead. We were guests of Temple Studios, she said. We would be welcome in the bar on the third floor and to join in the celebrations at the end of evening. We could walk around the studios freely, she said. But be careful of the town that surrounded the film studios, it was run down and dangerous, she said.

She stopped the lift at the film studios and told us we were all getting out, but after two of our group had stepped out of the lift, she slammed the lift shutters across and pressed a button that took us down to another level. She told us we were in the town and told us to be careful, then we all got out of the lift.

It looked like a town out of a cowboy film- there were shop fronts and motels along a wooden walkway and in the middle the ground was red with dust. It looked deserted, apart from the audience members walking around in white masks.

You could look at everything. Me and Katie stuck together at first- wandering in to a hut with a bed inside and furniture. There was a large mirror on the wall and letters on the table. I read the letters, looked at the photos, touched the pillows on the bed. I had no idea the set would be so detailed. I thought we'd be running around a dark, empty warehouse that was like a giant blackbox theatre, but it felt as if we'd been transported to a town in the Western reaches of America.

We made our way through the huge gates that marked the entrance of Temple Studios. Inside I saw my first scene of the evening- a very choreographed scene between two casting agents who were flicking through photos of prospective actors.

When the scene had ended and the actors disappeared, some of the audience members watching them ran after them. I realised after a while that it was because they were scared of getting lost and left behind. I soon lost Katie- it was easily done, when everyone was wearing white masks- but at first I relished having my own individual experience.

I wandered down a corridor of dressing rooms, quite alone, no other audience members around. Most of the time there was music playing, making me feel as if I was in a film. I went into one of the dressing rooms and sat down in front of a mirror, surrounded by lights. I touched the 1950s lipsticks and compacts. It felt like going back in time.

Back in the corridor, I saw a producer talking to a potential actress on the telephone. She was at home and he was watching her through a two-way mirror. She was in the room I'd been in at the very beginning, in the town.

I won't describe every scene I saw, just my favourite one.

I suddenly found myself in a forest with huge trees towering above me, wood chip on the floor. The ticket price was worth that moment alone. There were caravans for actors in the forest and two young men were stood outside. Suddenly an actress in a red glittering dress appeared and all three actors performed a contemporary dance that conveyed the characters and scenario perfectly. I loved it because it was clear and effective; when people take the piss out of contemporary dance it's because it's confusing and it's ambiguous, but this scene was so succinct.

After two hours of wandering around, I started to feel really tired. Sometimes I would be lost without a scene, going round in circles and not being able to find any drama. It felt lonely and sinister. I watched a clown dancing in sand dunes and afterwards, when everyone else had walked off, I stayed to watch him. He was just sitting on a chair. Just as I about to go, he turned at looked at me, then licked his fingers slowly one by one.

It was uncomfortable, and thrrrrrilling (to risk sounding like an Enid Blyton character). I felt my face heat up behind the mask.

The top floor of the venue was a wasteland. There were rows of scarecrows sat in front of a coffin. The music was eerie and the lighting was dark. In the distance was a sand dune with a neon sign half buried in it. I kept ending up there, like a bad dream, opening a door or going up a staircase that leads you back to the same, nightmarish place.

Luckily, just as I got fed up, I saw Katie. She recognised me and clung on to my arm. The last scene we saw had nothing to do with any of the other scenes I'd seen. This isn't necessarily a bad thing- I enjoyed every scene for its own merit, but I do wonder what the actual narrative was. It's tempting to go back a few times, to see everything and experience every story line, but at £50 a ticket few people can afford to see it multiple times.

It was an amazing experience and I would urge anyone to go and see it... but be prepared to see fractured pieces of the complete performance you're expecting to see. You might not get a coherent narrative. I think the themes of the piece are more important- how the studio controlled and created and how the actors were trapped, abused, ambitious... At first the wasteland and the town felt unreal and dreamlike, while the studio felt the most realistic... gradually as I made my way around the space I realised how everything was really the same thing- in one dressing room I walked into racks and racks of trousers, which went on and on, winding round corners until I was back in the desert town.

If you like theatre, you need to experience it. Get tickets here.

So that was a couple of weeks ago. It's funny because, even though I've been Fairly Miserable recently, I've been going out a lot more and keeping busy.

On Monday night I went out for tea with Lauren, Beth and Jen and we ended up drinking a lot, then going back to Jen's office to try out the slide. She has a slide in her office- from one floor to another! It's a metal shoot, like the ones you used to get at Wacky Warehouse only they were plastic, because they were for kids. This one is metal because it's for adults.

I came shooting out the end of it 'like a sausage', according to Jen, who was stood at the bottom when I flew out and bore witness to me smacking my head and scraping skin of my elbow. I enjoyed it though.

The next day I was hungover, so hungover and slowly but surely The Fear stretched over me like a nasty grin. People were talking to me... but everything they were saying was a metaphor for something else. I couldn't hear what they were really trying to say because I had to understand what the metaphor was. I know this sounds mental but listen.

On Monday night Lauren and Jen were explaining to Beth's boyfriend what the phrase 'gegging in' meant. They said it was when someone tries to tag along, or to butt in to someone's conversation- to get involved when they aren't wanted.

I went hot all over, then icy with shock as it dawned on me that they were actually saying to Beth's boyfriend's that he shouldn't have come to the pub. I couldn't believe they were being so mean and I was worried he would notice, so I quickly started to say that 'gegging in' can also be a nice thing- like when you 'geg in' on a present for somebody. I hoped he wouldn't notice what Lauren and Jen were slyly saying!

OBVIOUSLY I realised afterwards that I was letting my imagination run away with me, but then people started to do it to me.

I know this sounds like I have been dropping tabs of acid for brekkie every morning, but it really is just the alcohol. And also maybe I am a bit paranoid.

I like talking about things because if I don't talk about them I will just keep on thinking them. I told Amy and Kayt on the phone tonight that people have been speaking to me through riddles and as soon as I said it out loud I realised I was being insane.

But not 'insane' insane, just hungover insane.

Like I have said in a post before (and a girl said it really helped her which proves I am being sensible here) when you are a bit para and, let's be honest, a bit desperate for everyone to like you, the key thing is not to stop being paranoid, because sometimes people DO talk about you behind your back and take a disliking to you. The key thing is to not care, then you won't need to worry.

At my internship there are some girls that everyone slags off because they are really bolshy and rude, but do you know what?

They are fine, they don't give a fuck if anybody likes them or not. They probably have their friends at home and families who love them. I bet they don't scrutinise every word anyone ever says to them to see if it is loaded with snide remarks (although, they probably should tbh).

By the way.

Remember when I said fairies are real?

Here's some evidence. If anyone even breathes the word Photoshop to me, I will scream.



Thursday, 3 April 2014

SUPER BLOG

Lately I have had the strangest feeling (with no vivid reason here to find... if you don't know what song I'm referencing here wait until you get to the end of this post- you're in for a  treat*) that The End Of My Blog has come to pass and it's made me sad. I've loved writing this blog for so long and it has become quite a large part of who I am.

The other day I was lamenting the fact that it all had to end, thinking how stupid it would it be if I suddenly snapped and deleted the whole thing in a moment of sadomasochistic spite and then I thought:

'Just write another blog post then ya madhead and don't accidentally-on-purpose on delete it.'

So here I am.

I know I've only just got started, but do we have time for a wild tangent? It's an ANALOGY.

Or maybe it's just a VAGUELY SIMILAR SITUATION.

Or perhaps it's A COMPLETELY UNRELATED MEMORY THAT JUST POPPED INTO MY HEAD...

I'm not hot on technicalities.

We move on...

When I was little, I had a really pretty doll with brown ringlets and a little hat and a frilly dress. I remember it being one of those 'special possessions' that I loved so much it had an aura around it (like how I feel about my kimono and my cloak today).

One night, for No Reason, I drew all over the doll's face in permanent marker pen.

As soon as I'd done it I sat back in horror. I regretted it. I couldn't believe what I had done. Using my highly-developed intellect, to stop my mum from ever finding out what I'd done, I put the doll face down on the bed and got in the bath.

Five minutes later I shrank into the corner of the bath as I heard my mum yell in surprise and anger.

HAAAA.

I have actually just burst out laughing at the thought of my mum casually pottering about my bedroom, turning my pretty doll round and seeing her face tattooed in thick black scribbles.

The point is...

My blog is a bit like that doll. I love it, yet feel like scribbling all over it and banishing it to cyber limbo.

(I wonder what happened to that doll? I hope she wasn't stigmatised for her facial tattoos. My dad tried to clean the pen off with white spirit or whatever it's called, but it never completely faded. Oh my god. Poor Maria- just remembered that was her name- what did I do?)

To make up for my absence, I am now going to write a SUPER BLOG POST filled with all the crap I can think of.

Let's go back to last Friday, when I went to Manchester for the weekend. At lunch time, everybody in the internship went to the pub and as the Big Bosses stayed there until 3pm, it meant everyone else could do. I felt tipsy, but everybody else looked kind of tipsy too. There was a box of props left over from fashion shoots and people were trying them on, laughing hysterically and shouting across the office.

When I worked at the pub I used to marvel at the office workers that came in and drank gin and tonics at lunch- I wondered how they got any work done. Now I know that they don't get any work done. At 4pm it was time for everyone to start drinking again from the office drinks cupboard.

By the time I got on the train to Manchester- with two unnecessary cans of M&S G&T in my bag- I was too fuzzy headed to read my book and I slept for most of the journey. When I woke up I had one thing on my brain- chips and curry sauce.

Amy and Chris met me outside Affleck's Palace because I knew I'd get lost, trying to find my way to the Northern Quarter. I feel like I don't know Manchester at all.

Amy and Chris have got less than one week left before they leave for Australia, so it was kind of a leaving drinks thing. We went to Trof, where Kayt and Adam were waiting, as well as two of Amy's friends from Liverpool- Jess and Steph- and one girl Amy worked with in American Apparel.

Have I told you the story of how American Apparel were absolutely foul to Amy and she lost her job because of a horrible bitch with lego hair who hated her?

Boycott American Apparel. They're a horrible company and they try to advertise clothes by showing teenagers in their knickers. I don't get it... Do any of these images want to make you buy clothes?






 I believe it's called 'Hipster Sexism'. I don't have a problem with ladies getting their rudey bits out, but I don't like the way these ads have a menacing subtext, as if you can hear the man behind the camera saying "Now bend over, now open your legs..."

EUW.

Just in case any smart arses out there are thinking smugly that perhaps I'm the sexist one for not realising that the women are pulling these compromising poses because they want to, because these women are simply UNINHIBTED and SELF-ASSURED: let me tell you that if a woman wanted to do a 'sexy pose' she wouldn't do a squat or spread her thighs out like a frog...

She'd probably do something that made her bum look nice.

Unless... unless I've been doing it very, very wrong? Is that why my Casual Sex Motorbike has stayed in the shed- under heavy dust sheets- for all this time, because I haven't been squatting and drawing explicit attention to my Lady Garden?

I have gone dangerously off-topic now. Where was I?

Trof, in Manchester. It's really nice, laid back but still 'buzzing', as the locals say (or so I am led to believe), on weekends. You should go if you ever visit Manchester. They do nice food normally, but the kitchen had closed by the time I arrived.

I couldn't wait any longer for my chips and curry sauce so I went round the corner to get some. There was one man sat in the fast food 'restaurant' when I went inside. The place was brightly-lit and the walls were peeling, it was depressing. I got my chips and curry sauce which were ok, not as nice as I was imagining, but then I suppose it is a fairly disgusting dish to order when you're anything less than Proper Fucking Smashed.

I made eye contact with the other lone diner.

How did it come to this, pal?

Back in Trof, I was feeling in a #LAD mood so I sat at the table with Chris and Adam and drank ale with them instead of sharing wine with the girls. I had some shelving ideas I wanted to discuss with my fellow #LADs but they weren't really up for it.

Jess and Steph said they read my blog and they told me I should keep it up. That doesn't really fit in with the narrative of this story but I wanted to say it anyhow.

Weirdly, it was a hip hop night. I assume everything in the Northern Quarter is going to be indie or soul music. We danced a lot and Chris bought everyone tequila. Amy's friend Steph was dancing on a table which was GREAT but I wasn't drunk enough to join her.

I don't know what time we left, but we got back to Amy and Chris's about half three. On the way home we got pizza, chicken and chips and the man who served us was wearing a mutlicoloured plastic hat. He said it was his birthday and then for Some Reason Amy got into a very deep, philosophical conversation with him about Aging and Life. Amy wouldn't let us drag her away because she said he was giving her great advice, so Chris ordered some chicken nuggets while we waited.

At the time I didn't realise how weird it was that Chris had ordered chicken nuggets from a fast food place other than McDo... Later on I bit into one and it OOZED with pinky whit gunk.

BLERGHUUUCH.

I feel like I might vomit.

Quickly moving on...

A strange man got in our taxi. I can't remember what he was saying but I do know I was cackling away at everything he said. He asked us where we were going and we said Ancoats.

"I'm going to Ancoats too!" he said.

When we all looked dubious he reached into his pocket, "I got dolla I got dolla!"

He said me and Amy reminded him of his nieces.

"Why, how old do you think we are?" Amy asked him.

"About 24," he said to Amy.

Then, squinting at me he said, "Not you, you're a bit older... 28."

I like being mistaken for someone older because me feels Incredibly Mature, but if I look 28 now and I'm only 24, I think it's time to lay off the booze for a while.

We managed to run away from him when we got out of the taxi, although we did debate bringing him up to the flat for a laugh. He really reminded me of Bez. I bet he had maracas in his coat pocket.

Amy and Chris's flat was almost empty. All the furniture had gone apart from their sofa and an air bed. We chatted for a while, drinking whisky shaken with maple syrup, before Amy and Chris went to sleep on the air bed and I slept on the couch with a dressing gown over me. It was so weird! They have packed up their life and they are moving to the other side of the world.

I hope they have the best time ever, but I also hope they come back after a year. Too many people decide to stay in Australia, for the weather and the high wages, the wandering around contentedly and the freedom.

I've just realised that if I make this blog post too long nobody will get to the end of it, so that's all for now but I might make a cup of tea and do another one. Quite into it now.



*Unless you don't like Stevie Wonder, in which case no treats for you.