Sunday, 25 May 2014

Disco Cat

I've managed to hold off for a while, but it's time to blog about cats again. The little cat I am currently living is like an eccentric old lady. If I don't let her sit on my lap, she will sit on my wrist or my elbow, my shoulder or my laptop.

(I know what you're thinking and no, I don't change my bedding very often. Also, I haven't forgotten about Rushdie. I really hope he is happy and having a lovely time. I miss him a lot.)

Sometimes I have been sat there for about an hour, gradually losing all feeling in my arm, until the woman I'm lodging with gets up and says, "For god's sake, I love her but this is ridiculous. She's just a cat" and she moves her away for me. This is more due to the fact that, for the first time in ages, I am really, really allergic to this little cat.

But she loves to come in my bed and get under the covers with me! And curl up next to my neck! Twice I have woken up and the whites of my eyes have turned to jelly, bulging around the iris and threatening to spill out of the sockets.

I don't think my eyes would ever spill out, but that's what it feels like. They look like watery eggs that haven't been cooked properly. What's that pudding called? Bilbiblub? Ooh I like that, it's almost onomatopoeic. Her eyes had turned to bilbiblub. I've had to go to work a couple of times looking like a swamp monster with two bulgy eyes, half-closed. 

I'm trying really hard not to let this little cat into my room. That meant listening to her meowing outside my door this morning for what must have been a solid hour. She's very persistent. I know you are fascinated by cats as much as I am so here is the transcript:

Eeow :(


Eow :(
Eowwwwwww :(
Eow :(





At that point I leapt out of bed and let her in. I went downstairs to make a cup of tea and she followed me (then overtook me, so she could stop on each step and yell EEEOOOWWW again when I tried to step over her). She led me to her empty bowl and I felt a bit bad- she just wanted food.

I am such an egomaniac.

Let me quickly talk some more on cats. Next door have SEVEN CATS. Now we all know I love cats and I love the number seven (everything is seven, TC told me the other day that after my birthday- the 7th of the 7th, there are exactly 177 days left in the year!) but even I think seven cats is too many cats and not a great use of the number seven.

The seven cats dig up my landlady's garden and poo in it, plus they are like a family gang and they attack her poor little cat, making her too scared to go out of the house alone, so understandably my landlady chases them out of her garden yelling death threats. She urged me to do the same, but I'm too embarrassed to shout at them, so I just run at them.

The other day I ran at them and went back inside the house, then turned around to see their little faces peering round the corner of the hedge like a cartoon, to see if I had gone.

They are a bit scary to be honest.

Sometimes I'll see one looking at me through the window and the next thing you know, three of four of them have snuck in the garden for a poo or a casual sit down. They're crafty. And somehow, even though I chase them away, they know I don't mean it and two seconds later they are all back in the same position, either pooing or casually sitting down, reveling in their feline power.

Spot the cat through my bedroom window:

I've just realised I have written quite a long blog post about cats, and I wanted to write about last weekend before I go out. I'm going to a daytime disco rave today. I know I link everything back to Paris but it reminds me of last year, when me and Kayt went to Coco Beach.

God, just read the old blog post and Coco Beach was actually the end of April. But it was so hot and sunny! Talk about looking back on things through rose-tinted glasses though, on the way home from Coco Beach we were chased back to Kayt's by a pervy horrible man- literally chased, we were running really fast and so was he. His mates just hung around as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

But that was then and now is now and today I am going to be... a disco dancer.

Saturday, 24 May 2014

You Kip

When I was having a wee before, I could hear the Arctic Monkeys through the window. They were playing a gig in Finsbury Park and it's so close I could every lyric and every whoop from the crowd (hope this doesn't give my Top Secret Location away).

They sounded alright actually and I don't really like the Arctic Monkeys. I liked them when they first came out- I used to love bopping about to You Look Good on the Dancefloor in indie clubs (£1 vodka red bull in hand) but then Alex Turner shrugged off his spotty teenager image and now seems to be a bit of a dickhead. I cringed at his Brit's speech in February:

Wow Alex, I don't think rock n roll fans assumed their beloved genre of music was dead, just because the Arctic Monkeys hadn't released an album in a while.

In completely other news... it looks as though anti-Europe party UKIP have gotta lotta lotta seats in European Parliment.

It's so, so sad.

People are so, so stupid.

This week, a girl I went to Primary School with posted an image on Facebook, made up of a photo of a man wearing a KKK hood, emblazoned with the St George cross; and three women in burkas, one giving the finger to the camera. Letters stamped across the image read:

"If you walked down the street like this (meaning KKK hood) you'd be arrested and called a racist."

Yes, correct.

"Yet if you walked down the street in this (meaning burka) it's called freedom of expression"

Erm... I'm not sure how much 'freedom' women in burkas have but yes, ladies can walk down the street in burkas if they want to, in the same way that, if I want to put a blanket over my head and creep down the street pretending I'm Harry Potter under my invisibility cloak... then I NOBODY CAN STOP ME.

"What's the difference? Stop the double standards. This is racist to us British."

Obviously a very angry and strange person created this 'graphic' (on Paint, I think), but I don't think the girl who posted it really understood it... I've not spoken to her for years, but from her posts she seems like a nice person. Sometimes she posts pictures of her terrifying-looking bull terrier, along with the tagline 'my sexy dog' or 'my pretty diva' and once she linked to a group that insists 'any dog, any breed, can be dangerous. Ban bad owners' (yes ok, but she would also ban toddler-mauling breeds of dog, just to be on the safe side) but other than that she seems relatively normal.

I commented on the photo:

Evil Dog Lover*, the KKK burn people alive and take people from their homes and murder them. Ladies wear burkas because they want to cover their face, it's been part of their culture for hundreds of years.

Now I know burkas aren't smiley rainbow head garments of gender equality (and that's putting it lightly), but come on... the KKK are the KKK. I'm rrrrreaally hoping this girl didn't recognise the KKK hood. Anyway, a few of her friends liked it and she didn't reply with an angry YEH BT I HATE BURKAS or anything, so I'm guessing that means she was confused and/or (hopefully) enlightened.

If you think I'm being smug and patronising...

Am I being super smug and patronising??

This is my blog, I can be sumg and patronising if I want to!!

Now I'm doing that face annoying people do where they smile and squint their eyes as they tell you something you already know in a loud voice.

I just feel like this is the end now, things are wrapping up. If our civilization was split into chapters, then this is the beginning of the end.

It seems as though a lot of people in Britain HATE Europe and they HATE poor people and they HATE people who can't get a job and they HATE immigrants and they HATE people who have weight issues.

When did that happen?

I thought we were supposed to hate rich people who avoided their taxes, but no. Gary Barlow has been in the news recently (you know when I say things like this it's for anyone who might be reading my blog in America or France or New Zealand, not because I think I'm the only person who keeps up with the news) for cheating the UK government out of MILLIONS of pounds in tax and everyone said: 'Awwwwwwwwwwwww, we still love him though."

Whereas when they made a program about poor people on benefits (Benefits Street), people were calling for the 'benefit scoungers' to be hung and shot.

YES!! Let's kill all the poor people, great idea. Let's round them up and fucking shoot them because they're POOR and it's disgusting to be poor and it's doubly disgusting to be poor and fat, so let's kill the them ones TWICE and then we'll go for the immigrants and then we'll cut our ties with Europe and float away into the Atlantic.

Do you know what else annoys me? Xenophobic Brits say they hate immigrants is because they're scared they will lose their English culture... Why don't they do Morris dancing? Seriously. Morris dancing is dying out. Not many young people are involved, so soon there could be no Morris dancing at all and it dates back to the 1400s.

Oh sorry? What's that? Morris dancing not the part of English culture you were referring to? You were referring to the part of British culture that only involves people of British origin? That Britain hasn't existed since THE IRON AGE.


Oh I've just gone on a massive rant and I wanted to tell you about when my mum came to London because we had such a nice weekend. We stayed in the nicest hotel I have ever stayed in and probably ever will stay in. I'll put up the photos tomorrow- the views from our window were amazing. I got a bit carried away. One evening I actually stood in front of the huge window, looking out at the starry cityscape and wearing the hotel dressing gown, and I did an evil laugh and I rubbed my hands together and I said,

"Let's kill all the poor people!!!!!!"


No I didn't.

I did order room service though.

I need to get some kip now. Which reminds me, have you seen the quote from UKIP spokesperson that is taking the internet by storm?


*Obviously that's not her name. That's not anybody's name

Thursday, 8 May 2014

Don't you want to be...?

Quoi de neuf ?

Ah. Let's cast our minds back to Mizmiz Man for a moment (who would often use the above phrase to open up a romantic dialogue about NOT MEETING UP, in case you didn't get the connection and why would you, unless you're reading this from a little perch inside my head).

Only this weekend somebody asked me at a BBQ- after I'd finished telling them about how I came to live in Paris for three years*-  "Tell me about your sexy Parisien lover then!"

And it was sad, so sad, because as we all know, there were no sexy Parisien lovers for me. Only strange men, who asked me if my daddy was hairy and Smelly Charvver who wore a puffa jacket, although actually- and LET US NEVER FORGET- it was smelly as in 'he smelt lovely'.

The Cheryl Cole of Paris, he was. On account of the fact he had cute dimples and couldn't read or write.

(I'm not saying Chezzer can't read or write- me and Kayt used the comparison to suggest he was cute as a button and not from a privileged background.)

(I'm sure Chez can read and write just fine.)

(But it probably isn't her strongest asset.)

(She's a good looking kid, she doesn't need to worry about literacy.)


It's a shame Mizmiz Man never got the chance to show me his true, horrifyingly bizarre colours in the privacy (or sinister seclusion, depending on which way you look at it) of his bedroom.

Am I being crude?

There's a reason, honestly.

I was watching a TV program before about the British Empire and I got a bit hot and bothered about their description of a 'fat, greedy, powerful sultan', then the presenter who had MASSIVE HANDS was picking up a long sword and saying things about manhood and strength and I thought 'This is bloody obscene! What are the BBC playing at?' and then I realised...

I've got Mass Boy Hysteria.

(If you don't know what it is, read up here quickly- there's a strong possibility you might have it!)

It's hit me later this year, I think the teeny tiny exposure to menfolk I had when I first moved to London kept the M.B Hysteria at bay, but now it's come over me all of a sudden and-  It's very distracting miss, I can't concentrate.

I would get the old Casual Sex Motorbike out for a spin, but I can't find it.

Seriously, I've been running around whipping the dustsheets off bike-shaped objects, but each time there's just a pile of crap underneath, shaped like a C.S Motorbike but not actually any bloody use to me.

Tempo change.

Last weekend we went for a meal for Lauren's birthday and afterwards we went to a pub in Bethnal Green called The Palm Tree and it was GREAT- really traditional, like something out the first ever episodes of Eastenders, carpets on the floor and old cockneys at the bar.

There was a really old swing band playing and me and Claire fell for the main singer in a big way, even though he must have been in his seventies... He still had it.


He was so charming and cocky, you could tell he was a #LAD when he was younger. We might have, erm, yelled out TOP LAD quite a few times throughout the night, while we spun around the dance floor with our Guinness. (I feel as if I should mention Anna and Beth in case they're reading as they were both there but they just weren't into the whole yelling TOP LAD thing as much as we were.)

The next day I was at a BBQ, hosted by somebody from my internship (yes, the very same BBQ where I was asked about my Parisien lovers) and somebody told me The Palm Tree is a gangster pub! It's full of ex-cons and old gangsters who used to work for the Kray Twins. (Google them if you don't know and if you're interested in London crime... If you are interested, may I ask why?)

Obviously we're going back there as soon as possible, but I won't be leaping about shouting TOP LAD this time- gotta play it cool.

It's weird because earlier on in the week, Lauren texted me the plan for her birthday meal and she said
it was booked for 7pm, for seven people, plus I could get the number 277 bus to the restaurant. She knows how much I read into the number seven. It was going to be my lucky night, I knew it...

And guess what.

It wasn't my lucky night, it was my lucky day, because at my internship I got called into a meeting and the meeting was about offering me a job!


Junior copywriter.

im ded gud @ witring!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In three months I'll be a 25 year old 'junior' which I'm not sure will have a nice ring to it, but at the moment I am just so happy to have a real job!!

And a writing job.

Who'da thunk?

On my way to work that morning, I was a little bit hungover and I was crying as I walked to the tube, just bawling my eyes out because a song came on that reminded me of Paris.

I still miss Paris, but I've got a job in London now and so that's what I'm doing for the foreseeable future.

As Britain's hottest up and coming politic talent Bez from the Happy Mondays (currently running for MP if you didn't know) would say:


*I must say this sentence about four times per social engagement and NOBODY can stop me. I will only stop saying it after I've moved somewhere more exotic than Paris and- for someone from Fallowfield who has pehaps lived in Stockport for a small, very brief period of time [but that is my secret shame which must never leave this blog]- that will be hard because Paris is DEAD EXOTIC. 

Saturday, 3 May 2014

Swiss Clara

Last Friday I went out with MY NEW FRENCH FRIENDS Marianne and Margot*- I know Marianne from the pub and Margot is her old chum from the South of France and now her London flatmate.

They live in a really nice flat close to the pub, right in the centre of London. I guessed that their parents must be paying for it as Marianne told me the rent is £800 a month each and she just works in the pub once or twice a week, while Margot 'looks for jobs' all day. My suspicions were confirmed when Marianne asked me how to cash her 'pay cheques' from the pub and I realised she was talking about her pay slips. 

"Nobody gets paid by cheque in England, " I said. "They're just pieces of paper that say how much money you've been paid. Your money is already in the bank Marianne..."

I assume she hasn't been living off traffic fumes.

We don't speak exclusively in French, but we switch between the two languages which makes me feel very Smug and Cosmopolitan.

Last Friday we went to Shoreditch to a bar someone had told them about called Nightjar. We queued up for a long time in the cold and while we queued, I asked the girls if I could pretend to be French for the night.

"No... not French." they said. 

"Swiss?" I offered.

"Oui!!!! Suisse! C'est enorme!"

My name would be Clara. 

We finally got into Nightjar to find it was less of the sausage fest they had clearly been hoping for and was instead a very elegant cocktail bar, with table service and jazz music. It was full of couples and the girls hated it, so we left after three minutes, even though we'd been eating the free popcorn as we debated staying or not. As an Awkward English Person I thought we stay for an expensive cocktail even though we didn't want to;  as Swiss Clara I flounced out with Marianne and Margot with my held high (I walked VERY fast so that the waitress wouldn't see us).

We ended up at The Old Blue Last as it was the only place around that looked busy.  I've been before to The Old Blue Last before- it's just a pub really, owned by Vice.

Margot was a lot harder to please than Marianne, who was thrilled to be in what she called 'the real London', but eventually she warmed up as we got chatting to three English guys. Obviously I spoke to them in my Swiss accent, even when we somehow split off into three different conversations. I think it was the best performance I have ever given. To make it convincing we pretended that I was the one who spoke the least English- sometimes I would cock my head to the side, smile and say, "Sorry?" and Margot would have to translate for me.


In the end I decided my performance was so good that I wanted, needed, demanded praise for it. I told the guy I was talking to that I was actually from Manchester and he loved it- he was really good at accents so we spent ages talking to each other in our favourite accents- Welsh, Scottish, Scouse- and I told him not to tell his friends I wasn't actually Swiss.

(In the end he did tell them and I after we'd all had a laugh I told one of them that Margot was really from Birmingham which BLEW HIS MIND because he couldn't work out if I was joking or not.)

The French girls chain smoke and I inevitably ended up outside smoking with them. While I smoked my cigarette silently in what I hoped was an enigmatic Swiss manner, three new boys the French girls had been talking to suddenly mentioned they worked for Vice.

"I love Vice!" I said, "I love ze documentaries!"

"Really? Well he's just come back from Syria." one of them said, nodding to his mate.

I really wanted to talk to him about his work and I couldn't be arsed with the accent anymore, so I told them I was from Manchester- and they were really pissed off and walked away!

Now I feel like I'm not allowed to watch Vice documentaries or read their articles, because I pretended to be Swiss and they hate me.

I feel really embarrassed and sad.

Vice hate me.

Now every time I go on the Vice web site at work I feel guilty, as if I'm going to get caught out.

"No Vice for you Clara! If that's even your real name?"

(Uh oh. Shall you tell them, or shall I?)

I cheered up later when a really, really drunk French man approached us and we had a conversation in French and he really thought I was Swiss. To be honest I mainly made a lot of French noises in between smoking- beeeeeen, fin. Beeeeeeeeeeeen, oui ch'pa**, tssssk, oui, oui. Beeeeeeeeen... ch'pa- but it still made me quite proud. I lived in France for three years and I can convincingly make funny noises like a French person!

Stick that in your pipe and fume it!

So- Swiss Clara is cool and interestig, while I'm a raging lunatic with multiple-personality disorder. What else is new?

The day after was another disastrous attempt to stay in with Claire and Jen. We started off sitting on the kitchen counters, having a chat, discussing the night ahead, what's going on here lads... Lauren and Ben went to bed very early when they have should have stayed up and supervised us.

We had a very candid talk about how we are top lads and we raised the question: Why don't more boys do interesting things with their boy parts?

I said that if I was the owner of such a member, I should like to make mine little waistcoats and Claire or Jen- I can't remember who and it is such a good idea that I must credit the author- said they would definitely paint their little pal like a horse and have a laugh pretending to be ride it in a race.

They are like little pets, aren't they? Snug as a bug down there, I imagine.

We spent the whole evening dancing in the kitchen and somehow Jen still ended up outside while Claire tipped a humongous vase of soapy water over her, to teach her a lesson for something or other. I played them Vehl by Kidnap Kid and we listened to it about eight times. 

Future Garage is one of those things like Deep House, Minimal Techno or Post Dubstep that when you first hear the name, you think 'Ey?' and then you hear a Future Garage track and you go:

'Ahhhhh....Future Garage!'

*For all intensive purposes...
**That's je sais pas said very quickly, if you don't know.