When Will The Summer Arrive?! :(

Writing

If you find yourself clutching onto a hot water bottle as if it were a life-saving hand at the top of a cliff which had your death sealed on it. Then you must only be in Northern Ireland in the height of its scorching summer at 14 degrees Celsius (on a good day).

 

Yes today is the day of the whinge, I haven’t seen the sun in 6 weeks, and I’m starting to have major withdrawal symptoms. So desperate am I to feel its rays caress my casper-like skin that I’ve started layering on the factor 50+ at midnight and adorning the sunglasses while peering at the moon from my french-bay windows begging it to metamorphose into its much hotter cousin. 

 

Where art thou sunlight? Summer in this country occurs for one day, and one day only. Normally in May, whilst you’re waiting in the healthcentre for them to check if the bed sores you are developing are caused  by a serious medical condition or just because you’re too lazy to walk your mutt in the piss-pouring rain.

 

 As you uncomfortably sweat from every orifice in your being as the sun plays peek-a-boo behind the cumulonimbus for all of about 4 seconds, you second-guess whether you should get the shorts on and the BBQ lit when you leave the cesspit of infestation a.k.a. the local healthcentre we all love to hate. 

 

The ‘Great British’ weather really isn’t all that great. It’s always essential to dress for all 4 seasons in the one day. So that means a crop top, flip-flops combo, coupled with a raincoat and set of hat, scarf and gloves all being sported before you’ve had your morning cereal. 

 

And with this, it’s time to throw on the Ski-jacket and cycle shorts for a trip to the soggy beach!

I’m Motivated At Being Unmotivated

Writing

I’ve become really unmotivated lately. I find sticking to schedules more painful than the thought of chewing shards of bottlegreen glass as if they were cornershop penny chews. 

 

Working remotely at my 9 to 5 is doable, but it’s the goals I have outside of this (as we all have) which I feel completely uncompelled to partake in. It’s so frustrating, here I am at 1 minute past 5pm, I should be jumping for joy at the thought of going for a workout in the garden or getting better at my language learning. 

 

Yet instead, much to my disappointment, I find myself crawling into the pyjamas and making the greasiest pile of shite for dinner, followed by a helpful dose of ‘Botched’ for dessert. (If anyone has watched this show, let me tell you now, do not eat a damn thing mid-watch. For it’’ll be hitting your ceiling via projectile vomit well before you have even had  a chance to take a second bite. Let’s just say the graphic scenes in this reconstructive surgery show would make roadkill look like a pageant Queen. And with that, I’ll say no more). 

 

Anyway, as I allow the daylight hours to fall through my hands like sands at the seaside, the guilt begins to wash over me – normally around 1am when my head hits the pillow. I’ve just wasted yet another day’, unfortunately this is the all too familiar opening dialogue of my monologue rant that I play through most nights of my very lack-lustre days. ‘Why didn’t I try harder, do I not care enough about succeeding, do I not have enough passion for these so-called ‘goals’ of mine?’  

 

I fall asleep under the waves of annoyance and frustration. Forgiving myself monetarily as I work at the dayjob only to start the cycle all over again as the sun begins to set. Why do I bother having ‘goals’ if I can’t be bothered to put in the effort to achieve them?

 

Are they really not things that I truly want? Am I just trying to achieve them to impress other people? Do I have too many goals simultaneously and perhaps the pressure of this ask is too much that my subconscious simply rejects them all in a desperate attempt to keep my cortisol levels mildly below fFreaking the f*ck out’? Who knows. I wish I had the answers. 

 

I spend alot of time thinking, and not enough time doing, Maybe perhaps this is the real crux of it all. The cure to all of my problems, and much much more. Human beings – procrastinators sitting pretty in their suits of skin and bone. So perfectly imperfect, we have the minds to create goals, and the minds to prevent them happening. 

 

Where the f*ck is my self-help book off Amazon, I think it’s perfect timing for a read of the blurb as a bit of light bedtime reading before I pass out whilst skimming over the introduction about the author.

 

I hope you’re achieving your goals as I sit and blabber about the fact that I’m about as far away from mine as the 2 poles are from eachother on this Godforsaken planet. Or then again, maybe knowing that you’re struggling too will give me a sense of sweet sweet schadenfreude as I stare aimlessly through my bay windows sipping unsweetened tea when really I should be working on my tax returns. 

 

Either way, goals can be achieved, and they can be unachieved. Formed and removed. The choice is mine. Today I may choose to not put effort in, and tomorrow I may choose to do the opposite. Outcomes change, when I change my actions. Actions change when I change my attitude. My attitude changes when I change the words I tell my own mind. 

 

And with this it’s time to put away my tiny violin if only for a moment, and put these words into action (tomorrow ofcourse :p). 

The Catcall Chronicles

Writing

**Disclaimer  – no man, woman or dog was hurt in the making of these chronicles, this is aimed to be lighthearted and is not intending to stick the knife in further to the topics of rejection or gender roles in relationships in any way. If you are of a sensitive nature then I suggest you turn away now. And never read my blog again.

 

If you’re still reading this then I appreciate that you have identified yourself on the side of (in)sanity. And with this, let’s begin:

 

 

We are all served our fair share of unannounced and unwelcomed wacko encounters, right? Whether you are in the shops getting bread, or bending down to tie your shoelace, sooner or later you’ll find the local clown leeching onto your waist all whilst  whispering sweet nothings into your ear canal.

 

If this is a rare occurrence for you, then let me tell you I am jealous, for my daily interactions with particular members of the general public would make  even the most paranoid and parodied narratives of life look lack-lustre, let me tell you. 

 

This time, let me introduce you to just one of my many types of unsavory encounters – ‘The Cat Calls’

 

Can I just start by saying –  don’t tell me to be flattered by the offensive and obtrusive interjection of a sweaty handshake or gummy grin from a bozo pursuitor. There’s utterly nothing about banal meet and greets that get me all ‘hot and bothered’ I can assure you of that. 

 

 

So with that being said, let’s say hello to the men of my monotonous walks home from work:

 

Mr. Comedy Club – This guy made my dad look like a schoolboy, let’s just say that I never 

knew geriatrics had such taste for juveniles. 

 

Mr. Russia –  ‘We will meet this weekend. You will shag me  for dessert. Simple.’

 

Mr. Burrito – A burrito in exchange for a list of STD’s a prostitute would be proud of sounds like a fair deal, right?

 

The Copiously Copulating Co-workers – Let me serve this food real quick, and then I’ll be right back to grope you, cool?

 

Mr. Stalker – ‘It doesn’t matter if you have a boyfriend, just send me some nudes’ the stranger expels in exasperation after unnanouncingly  chasing me down the street like the predator he was. 

 

You will have plenty of time to get acquainted with each of my Mr. Wrongs, but first it’s time for Mr. Comedy Club to step up to the mic:

 

Mr Comedy Club

 

This guy made my dad look like a schoolboy, let’s just say that I never 

knew geriatrics had such good taste in juveniles and such bad taste in jokes.

 

 I don’t know what was more jarring, the outreach of sweaty hand that looked like it had spent a lifetime on his genitals doing allsorts. Or the lick of his sweaty lip as if he was about to take a chomp out of mine. Both actions, as equally unsettling as he approached me on that busy evening on the Strand, London. 

 

At first I thought he was asking for directions, and naively, 23 year old me failed to abide by the ‘stranger danger code’. Instead I  proceeded to indulge in shaking his nut-scratching hand that little too long, as he interjected my evening jaunt back to my cesspit for a night of netflix and not much else. 

 

“Hi, I’m Paul…nice to meet you, and you are….?

 

To which I obliged and answered startlingly, giving him every detail under the sun.  My full legal title, the 4-digit pin to my debit card, even the code to the safe. But before I could tell him where I was hiding the dead body he rudely interrupted to chuckle goofily and ask me if I ‘lived around here’? 

 

Fuck sake, if I lived around here, doing the maths, I would need to be doing the ‘spread eagle’ for atleast 40 sugardaddies on a daily basis. This was ‘the Strand’, not ‘Old Kent Road’. He really was as dumb as he looked, I thought internally, as I prised a wry grin from my pursed lips. 

“No, no, not far though”, I seethed through gritted teeth, in desperation that this babbling baboon who was bamboozling me would get the memo and leave me the f*ck alone. 

 

I may have given him the code to the safe, but he wasn’t getting the address to the house. Serial killers lurk amongst us, afterall. 

An awkward pause followed my icy blunt response.  Time had legitimately stopped, his beady perverted eyes twinkled as he keenly waited for me to finish my cold reply with an address of where he ultimately thought he could make love to me from dusk till dawn before hiding my wispy body in a ‘hand-luggage sized suitcase’. 

 

A ground-trembling ‘beep’ of a road-raged taxi driver’s horn from the nearby road hastily brought me and Mr Comedy club’s little love affair tumbling back to reality. No sooner had I tried to step away inconspicuously from this car-crash of a conversation  than was this geriatric proceeding  to ask me if I had any ‘hobbies in the vicinity’. The choice of wording made it feel more like an interrogation than a flirtatious fondling of phrases. 

 

I almost threw up in my mouth, but managed to keep it down as the words ‘I like comedy clubs’ spewed out in substitution. A mistake which still haunts me to this day, 2 whole years, 10 months, 28 weeks, 10 days, 23 hours, 3 seconds and 1 millisecond later (now 2 milliseconds). 

 

With the uttering of these four words from my mouth, came a stark change in this man’s behaviour, like a shark smelling blood he latched on with no mercy. In a flustered frenzy he forced up every sound somewhat synonymous to that of ‘comedy club’, and how he ‘coincidentally’ loves every single one that  I go to here in London. Go figure!

 

As he went off on his spiel about all things unfunny, I had somewhat of an outer body experience. I pictured myself flying to the moon and back on the tusk of a baby narwhal, I pondered over whether to have fajitas or fishcakes for tea. I calculated exactly how many minutes of my life I had so far lost to his gibberish gabbling before ultimately, momentarily ofcourse, expelling my soul from my body via passing-wind (everyone’s favourite method). And indulging in a quick soul-flying whizz around The National Portrait Gallery. Before checking back in with my poor self who was now standing motionless as Mr Comedy Club was passing his phone towards me for my number, a surefire way to sign my soul away to a life of pure misery and doom as his 3rd wife-to-be. Thank God I zoomed round the gallery at lightning speed, for as I came back to life I swatted his phone away like the dirty bottle-green fly it truly was. But let’s be clear, this is no fly around shite, this is a perverted paedophile droning on and on in my face about wanting to take me out to a comedy club and then have some real fun afterwards. 

 

One was not amused at this proposal. And finally, as a true woman, who can multi-task, I coupled the batting of his phone with a ‘no’ head shake any nodding Bulldog on a dashboard of a Mini-Cooper sport passing over speed ramps would be proud of. 

 

My pupils now dilated in rage, nostrils flared from smelling his bullshit for one minute too long. He got the memo. His nut-scratching hand proceeded to place his mucky mobile phone back into his very shallow back pocket as his tail tucked coincidingly inbetween his legs.

 

 I had just rejected him. 

 

And in the process gained a new lesson for myself.

 

Don’t talk to strangers. 

 

Numbness now awkwardly introduced itself, filling the void of silence that now enveloped both him and I. My irritation dissipated from my body like waves drifting out to shore, only to be replaced with an overwhelming feeling of guilt.  

 

As he beckoned away from me guising a facial expression signalling simply regret with an edge of sadness, I too had felt sorry for my actions. 

 

Nobody had the last laugh here.

 

**Next time I get sent some love from Russia. 

The Gym – Satan’s Second Home

Writing

Not much of the athletic type, the only way you’ll get me running is in the opposite direction from you if you start going into a long-winded spiel about the weather or how you’re deeply madly in love with your cousin twice removed for that matter.

With that being said, I think my wispy body has been in desperate need of a bit of toning up, my mind continuously screaming out for a hit of dopamine, the kind only garnered after you’ve expelled every drop of blood, sweat and tears out of every orifice in thine very body. In other words – exercised.

With the intrinsic pep talk echoing in my ear one evening after I found myself binging my way into a diabetic coma, I decided to finally muster up the courage to face the embarrassment and shame of my noodle arms shaking under the tremendous pressure of a 5 lb dumbbell, (heaven forbid I tried deadlifts). I remember that first night as if it was yesterday (really it was a week ago but who’s counting), entering the gym felt more like entering an amphitheatre full of lions. Men built like bison, muscles bulging through their over-washed teeny weeny v-neck vest tops. I couldn’t place a bet on which would be first to rip, their crop tops or the vein in their thick thick necks from the gargantuan amount of strain which could have only surmounted in weight to easily 102.5 of my very self. A double take at that weight-lifting carry on was enough to have me retreat as any gym newbie does, by scuttling to the corner of the gym and onto a treadmill. From which I’m reaching for the oxygen tank like a chain smoker on death’s door, after all of 10 mins on the thing. I’ve gotten better though in my 5 days of attendance so far. I no longer use the treadmill, I attend the classes, which is the best solution if you’re like me and don’t have a clue how to use any of the gym equipment and don’t feel like losing a limb in the process of trying to use a weight machine only to find out it has a second calling as a modern day guillotine. If you don’t believe me watch the move – Final Destination 3, I’ll say no more on that front.

So far I’ve done yoga, and a spin class, which tallying it up now sounds pretty lame, but considering the most exercise I ever did prior to a week ago was holding the door open for a tailgater in my apartment block, then I’m doing quite well, don’t you think?

Next up is barre and Afrobeats, the dancer truly truly lost within me will be be buzzing for these. I better bring my sweatbands. Wish me luck………….

She Threatened To Smash My Face In

Writing

Who walks into a shop to buy some Christmas baubles for their tree and instead has ‘you’re a f*cking b*tch’ screamed into their face as ‘Jingle Bell’s’ plays in the distant background? Only yours truly ofcourse!

Nothing reminds me more of the season of giving than being on the receiving end of the odd curse word, tirade of insults and that all too familiar tsunami of spit. It’s never a dull moment if you’re me in the shops I can assure you of that.

Let’s rewind for a moment, it’s Friday, everyone loves a Friday (unless of course you work weekends, then it sucks to be you). And what better way to kick off the start of the weekend, and the start of your Christmas shopping, than with a wander around overpriced shops? Doing exactly this, last Friday afternoon was rather boring, yet in doing so, I was content within my mundane little bubble until it was abruptly popped by an aggressive ram to the back of my Achilles heels by a stranger’s pram. The force so strong it made the Trojan Horse look like ‘My Little Pony’. I ignore this ‘accident’ from a fellow shopper, perhaps they had a spasm, slipped on a banana peel, had a moment of utter delusionment and unknowingly forgot their manners. And thus, giving them the benefit of the doubt, I continue to rummage through the tat on the shop floor.

No sooner had the pain dissipated from my heels than had it returned again, like an unwanted smell wafting, which you somehow find yourself consistently down wind of. This time I grit my teeth, crumple a pasty paper mache angel decoration in my palm to a pulp and turn to the perpetrator of this unforgivable act.

I thought pigs couldn’t push prams? I say internally as I give the doting new mother a look like she’s just killed my family pet. No amount of make up disguises an ugly personality, with her overlined lips she seethed through gritted teeth for me to ‘not bother giving her dirty looks as she said ”sorry”. To which I blankly stated ‘I wouldn’t, if your pram push wasn’t intentional’. And to this she erupted like a flantulent St Helens. Hotheaded and rough af, she proceeded to storm around the shop like a bull in a china shop spitting verbal abuse at me from left, right and centre. ‘F*cking b*tch this, f*cking b*tch that’, I wish I’d brought my swear jar for this lovely lady.

Before I’d even had a chance to register what was even being said to me, I watched in shock as other shoppers stood from a distance with both caution and concern at the behavior of this show up. I look around me, I too am in shock at this individual’s escalation from 0 to 100, afterall she was the one who rammed me. Eager to diffuse the situation, my attention turned to try and find the shop assistant before matters truly got out of hand. I spotted the manager but on first glance thought she was a mannequin thanks to her lack of expression, concern or action for what was unfolding before her vacant eyes. I pleaded for her to call security as I truly feared for my safety as the headless chicken of a mother hen rampaged through the store, a hurricane chicaning, refusing to relent. The shop manager,  to my utter astonishment, proceeded to flat out tell me that I was making the situation worse. ‘How could a mother with a pram do you any harm? I’m not calling security’. Was her phrasing. I’m sorry but just because you’ve a pram doesn’t making you bloody Mother Theresa. You can’t judge books by their covers. With this I was truly deflated, my safety means nothing to nobody. Had this aggressive individual spoke to the manager or one of her colleagues how I was spoken to, getting up into my face at a point,  I’d like to hope she would’ve had the respect and decency to call security in that instance. But for me, just a ‘shopper’ I’m somehow the problem?

‘Well Merry Christmas to you ya filthy animal! Your shop sells cheap tat anyway!’ I should’ve said, yet with an overwhelming feeling of disappointment and sadness at the event which had just unfolded I left the shop several minutes after my aggressor stormed out at the sound yet unfortunately not the appearance of ‘security’ at my request.

Sitting on a nearby bench to the shop I reflected and wondered had my actions caused such an explosive aftermath? Or can you truly be caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time? Should I have just not turned around when she bumped into me? Was it really an accident?

How can you not turn around if you feel a thump to your legs? If it was an accident why did she do it twice and at such force? Besides from the way she reacted to my turn around said it all. She was quite simply someone with no manners. If she wanted passed, couldn’t she have said ‘excuse me’? But at the end of the day it’s not my job to teach someone manners, and unfortunately the reality is is that sometimes you may find yourself on the receiving end of this. With that aside what hurt me the most was the lack of consideration given to me by the shop manager. Whether I’m a customer who enters your shop to buy a £1 item or £1,000 item, shouldn’t I be treated with the same respect? Isn’t that what all companies looking your custom want to portray, so you shop with them? That they care for you? The takeaway message from that event is that you need to take care of yourself. Not in a  selfish way but have some respect for yourself and your own well-being. Know that how you handle difficult situations says alot about your character aswell as the others involved.

I hope you don’t have the experience I had too often, and that Santa brings you something a little better than a chorus of cussing this festive season.

Merry Christmas! x

 

 

 

P*ss Off Christmas!

Writing

No sooner has the Grim Reaper even had a chance to pull out his scythe from under his cloak for the Halloween happenings than has every man and his dog cracked open the bottle of eggnog whilst covering outdated Christmas carols in the key of ‘sounds like I’m being choked out in a headlock’.

Christmas comes sooner and sooner with each passing year, and with that, my patience gets thinner and thinner!

Not content with keeping the festivities wrapped up in the comfort of our own homes, as low and behold the shops are at it too! Their plethora of pompous plastic propaganda is quite simply preposterous! Crowing their untimely festive ‘hello’ in the form of silver tinsel, shiny baubles and ofcourse the Christmas cards which you gift to the neighbours you don’t so much as blink an eye at the during the other 364 days of the year.

As the Santa sign with his harem of reindeer in tow swings carelessly above the heads of the unwitting shoppers who stock up like apocalypse preppers below, the shelf stockers are fast replenishing the sold out supply of extra wide aluminum foil and the Christmas crackers that do the toenail clippers. Cheery Christmas jargon is sprawled across the shop floor like your aunt across the king-size during the night of your cousin’s conception. Mid-November really has that festive feel about it, doesn’t it?

Sing along shenanigans, sherries, shandies,
Family fights, half necked-back brandies.

It’s all kicking off in Autumn 2019!

Not that I’m yearning to be the female version of Scrooge this year but is there really anything wrong with wanting the festive cheer to not start early? If Christmas can start early then why can’t the purge?

Can Christmas really start too soon, I hear you squeak? Yes! When it leads to a country’s recession! Starting Christmas that little bit earlier means putting your hand into your pocket that little bit deeper. Which means you’ll be giving up that kidney to the black market that little bit faster. And let’s face it, we all need as many kidneys as we can get our grubby hands on during the later months of the year.

Blowing your pension fund on secret Santa presents is all good if you’ve recently won the lotto or bumped off your wealthy mum and dad to gain access to their will, but for the rest of us unlucky law abiding citizens, Christmas just puts the ‘Christ’ in our mouths everytime we pull out our wallets.

Soon the case will be that Christmas officially ends on the 26th Dec and officially starts again on the 1 January the following year.

I might as well wish you a Merry Christmas now, in advance of Christmas 2020 for the way things are going, so here:

 

Merry Christmas ya filthy animal!

 

Review: The Aeronaut

Writing

Not to be confused with ‘the astronaut’ this eccentric public house also doubles up as a theatrical extravaganza. From circus to stand up comedy and everything inbetween, why be on the moon when you could be poking somebody in the neck with a pickled frankfurter?

 

Atleast this is what I came to realise on my recent escapade to the Acton based watering house this Friday passed. Voted ‘best pub in west London’ by event ticketing website ‘design my night‘, I thought I’d pay it a visit to see if it really did stand up to this accolade.

 

Strolling up on that dark Friday evening with my lovely friend from university – Leo, we entered with great anticipation. Inside, it appeared to my eyes to be something similar to, if you know the scene, in Harry Potter when Professor Slughorn holds a glorious Christmas party in an outdoor tent. Well, this place, with arguably the same amount of magical enchantment donned a similar decor. With crimson and canary pinstripe material draped  throughout the walls of the main theatre area. And as if the outdoor beer garden wanted to adopt this lively pattern too, a continuation of the vividly coloured striping within each heated little cabin in the garden area took form also.

In the main bar section to the left of the theatre area was a spooktacular salute to all things Halloween. I could see clouds of cobwebs as thick as smog, so dense it put my own home’s to shame. I also spotted pumpkins carved into everything under the sun, from self-portraits to spinal cords. Stumbling further through the zany labyrinth I became aware of the volume of two mens’ voices, they were becoming distinctively louder, also equally alarming to the volume was the words they were saying with such conviction. Something like ‘shoot em’ again, shoot em’ again’ I almost froze in fear, if curiosity hadn’t got the better of me I probably would still be standing there now. With my beady eyes and increasing paranoia I turned the corner of the corridor of the pub expecting to see a crime scene infront of me, yet instead the real crime was done on my eyes as I seen before me the cumbersome movements of two grown men banging into the walls and eachother in such animated fashion. Turns out they were wearing VR (virtual reality) headsets playing what looked like some simulated version of Call of Duty.

With the investigation solved, Leo and I returned to the theatre. No sooner had we entered than were we greeted by a granny named Maggie, conversing with us in a thick brogue straight from the highlands of Scotland.. Little did I know soon Maggie would be taking to the stage to do her comedy act.

Before Maggie was to crack a few knock knock jokes, another lady came round to the table Leo and I claimed as our own for the 2 hour performance about to unfold. She asked us how exactly we were related to Maggie. At first her question bewildered me and then I realised oh it’s an interactive comedy, and that’s when the meatsweats started. Maggie the old bat, was part of the onstage comedy trio who would be performing a sketch inwhich the objective of the storyline was that some of the geriatrics would compete against eachother to be lead event organisers of their carehome, and it was our job their audience, soon to be mock family members , to take part in the ‘competition’ also on behalf of our elderly relative.

Leo naturally piped up saying with great conviction that we were to be Maggie’s grandmother, which is obviously a realistic family member to be to an 80 year old. So no sooner had we taken our seats than had the show began with the aim of the game being Maggie’s family would compete with Arthur’s family (the other old guy) in a range of interactive tasks in a bid to help their elderly relative win the coveted role of event planner.

The interactive activities included seeing who could wrap their partner up in a full roll of cellotape the fastest, guessing whether sausage or a finger poked you in the back of the neck (I had the pleasure of taking part in this one,  getting poked by some stranger’s sausage), putting tights on your partner without them using their hands the fastest and then consequently seeing how many objects you can stuff down those tights on your partner (someone got a chair leg in and suspended the chair in mid air, that must’ve hurt the crotch).

The winning team at the end got a bottle of Prosecco, and the fact that we went away empty handed is evidence that Arthur’s team won.

Would I go back again for a rematch? Definitely!

 

The only thing is, which is both good and bad about The Aeronaut is that their lineup of performance acts can vary so you may not see the same act twice. I guess what they give is a taster, an exhibition of quality talent, that if it impresses you enough you’ll go see them again wherever they perform.

I’ve booked my tickets for their upcoming comedy night, called ‘sketch n scratch’. Reminds of another saying involving scratching……

If you’re ever in Acton give them a chance to make a fool out of you, I’ve no doubt you’ll thank them for it!

 

And So It BEGINS

Writing

They say as one door abruptly closes another is but slightly ajar, waiting for you to unwelcomingly force your way through it. 

 

Atleast this is how it feels when it comes to the jobhunt for me. 

 

Coined the ‘portfolio generation’, I ask myself, is there really anything wrong with having more jobs than I’ve had hot meals? The sane amongst us may think yes, but who really aims to be prudent with their short time on this planet anyway?

 

Off I go again, diving into the deep dark murky depths of the unknown. More sweaty handshakes and shaky throats await me in the not too distant future. That is ofcourse if I even manage to muster up the might to make an application. And even then if luck would have it, I be summoned for a session of scrutiny before the inevitable ‘no, you’re sh*te’ is sugarcoated in the all too familiar automated rejection email. 

 

With the thrill of opening my monthly jobseeker’s allowance packet ripe in my mind, I thought there’s no better way to keep the humiliation going than with a few common blunders that others have experienced on their quest to sell their soul to the rat race:

 

Resume/CV Mishaps

 

  • Candidate stated the ability to persuade people sexually using her words.
  • Candidate wrote résumé as a play – Act 1, Act 2, etc.
  • Candidate wrote “2001 summer Voluntary work for taking care of the elderly and vegetable people”
  • Candidate wrote “I’m intrested to here more about that. I’m working today in a furniture factory as a drawer”
  • Candidate included family medical history.
  • Skills: “I have integrity so I will not steal office supplies and take them home.”

Source job mob

 

Job Interview Mistakes

1)Interviewer: What’s your greatest weakness?

Candidate: Women. That’s kind of why I’m looking for a new job. I had an affair         with my boss’s wife.

2) Interviewer: What makes you think you’re right for a job? (McDonalds – burger flipper). 

Candidate: Well, I’m great with animals.

3) “I had a video interview for a very large company. The computer would ask a question and record your answer to send to management.

You had 30 seconds, no more no less, to answer the question.

For one question, I ran out of things to talk about so I decided to stand really still and not blink for 15 seconds to make it look like the video froze…

4) While I thought I wrote “I can hardly contain my excitement about the possibility of working with your organisation,” auto-correct changed “excitement” to “excrement.”

Source Coburg

 

*I hope you haven’t made too many blunders on your career quest!

When Will This Nightmare End?!

Writing

I feel like the whole world and its dog has chewed me up, sh*t me out and then sh*t on me that little bit more this last month. Yes, I  don’t just want you to cue the violins, I want you to cue the whole damn orchestra.

 

I think we all have times in our lives where life itself can momentarily get ontop of us. August has been a fine example of this for me. From moving homes, to fallouts with foes and everything inbetween, if ever I believed I was cursed, this past fortnight has been the time to prove it. Honesty, I thought this to  myself on several occasions inbetween the grossly overt wailing I would sporadically and wholeheartedly break into throughout random moments of the day. Sometimes even waking in the middle of the night to shed but a tear on my bedroom pillow before falling back to sleep by counting on my fingers the amount of money I owe relatives who pitied me in my debt-stricken days of 2019. 

 

Have I walked under a ladder, looked at a black cat the wrong way? I really wondered wtf have I done? You may think I’m being overdramatic but, you try having a month of the following:

 

Dusting Away Cobwebs Is Costly Work

Can I just start by saying this is animal cruelty, anyone who wants to whisk up a cobweb with a feather duster like it’s candyfloss on a stick needs to check themselves. Anymore cleaners try and eradicate the spiders, I’m calling animal rescue. You’ve been warned!

So basically having recently moved out of the other property I lived in for 2 years, we had to pay for professional cleaners, which definitely wasn’t my choice, but a contractual obligation put in subtly by the landlord and co. 

Anyhow, I know I’m not the tidiest but one thing that can be said is that I did everything humanly possible apart from clean the floors with my tongue when it came to making the place we were leaving look ‘presentable’. With this thought ripe in my mind I get a report and invoice quote from the cleaning squad or shall I say money launderers (hehe see what I did there).

In summary, the main issue with the cleanliness of the flat came down to ‘dust’, and the bill was over £350. I’m sorry but the last time I checked, a bit of dusting may give you a touch of tennis elbow but it certainly doesn’t warrant making you £350+ richer! Can I just add, before you start thinking I’m some filthy tramp, that dust was a common feature of the flat. This was due to the fact that, how can I say this, in comparison to this flat you would say there’s more ventilation in a vacuum. I’m surprised my lungs haven’t collapsed yet from the lack of air, thanks to the shitty perspex panel which basically prevents the opening of all bar one window in the living room. Hence dust gathers. You could dust the place at 9am tomorrow and by 1pm it’s looking like Pompeii.

Not because you’re a diabolical duster but because dust bunnies love a lack of oxygen. 

So at the mo I’ve basically got the boxing gloves on against the money launderers, demanding they reduce the cleaning fee. Wish me luck with this one, will ya!

macro photography of brown jumping spider

Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels.com

Late For Work Everyday This Past Fortnight

It’s one thing being late once or twice while trying to figure out your new route to work when moving homes, but it’s another thing making a habit of it. It’s not like I’ve actively went out of my way to sashay into work 20 mins after I should’ve for atleast 8 of the last 10 working days. I just didn’t realise that I’m such a slow (stroller) walker when it’s a sunny day and my route to the station involves a meander through a leafy park. I definitely need to pull my finger out with this one or I won’t have a job much longer. Then I definitely won’t have time to stroll through that pretty park as I’ll be queuing at the job centre instead seeing the not so pretty sight of the unpolished bald head infront of me in line. 

 

woman wearing white tank top sitting on bench

Photo by Artem Beliaikin on Pexels.com

How The F*ck Do You Work The Hot Water?

One thing I hate more than loud neighbours when moving into a new place is trying to figure out how to use the heating system, be it for radiators or hot water. The manuals make me more confused after skim reading them than before. When it comes to electricity and bills I always have this unshakeable paranoia looming over me, like a dark cloud, that if I fondle one too many buttons on this heating system I’ll be forced to sell a kidney on the black market just to pay for the bill I’ve racked up by somehow setting the system to ‘on 24/7’.

 

My hair has never been as greasy, honestly it felt like I’d dipped my head in a vaseline tub for the past week. But not to worry, I managed to get the hot water working, I dont think its working correctly but at least I got hot water out of the boiler. Can’t wait to see the number of noughts on the electricity bill at the end of this month. 

Image result for royalty free picture of surgery

Good Will Jobhunting

So I’m currently doing maternity cover, from March this year till December. Great timing I must add, just in time for Christmas. Which means my family are getting f*ck all from me this festive season. 

Back on the grind I go, making my CV look painfully eager in demand for attention to match an overtly egotistical cover letter.

I don’t know what the most challenging element of the jobhunt is. Is it wording a good lie to make it semi-truthful on the CV? You know the one we all do like – ‘I spent a week watching others make pie charts on excel in my aunt’s workplace‘ that somehow evolves to the suped up statement on the CV of ‘advanced proficiency in all microsoft packages including excel, powerpoint and word.’ Hahah we’re all a bunch of Bullsh*tters! Or is it the cover letter which catches you out more? It’s one thing writing big bollocks sentences in bullet points onto a pdf, but it’s another finessing those words into a narrative which screams as the tinder version of the job world –  ‘you want me’.But before you make your choice, let’s not forget the old faithful to alot of employers – the job interview. Asses clenched, palms sweaty, we’ve all been there. I always hate when they ask – ‘so what attracted you to the role’ – ‘eh money you f*ck’ we all think to ourselves as we force out the blatant lie that we have a deep subliminal connection with this no-name startup.  

 

Speaking of awkward job interviews, I came across this poor geezer’s excerpt on reddit saying the following:

 

 “In a job interview I shook the employer’s hand and said ‘Hi, how are you?’ (exercising my assertive social skills) which would’ve been fine except that I said it at the END of the f–king interview.” — brend0ge

I mention this one and others on my radio show, if you wanna check those embarrassing stories out click here.

So as you can see from the above, life is going swimmingly, yes swimming in treacle really is a great way to pass the time. The above scenarios are  just the tip of the iceberg, and I’m sinking faster than the Titanic, infact faster than Jack did in the Titanic as he let go of the floating piece of plywood (we all know he could’ve held on let’s not kid ourselves). 

I hope your life is going well, that you aren’t in the middle of a job hunt or worse racking up a heating bill that forces you to sell your soul to the devil in a months time! I really do!

 

I’m Done….

Writing

If sweating out of every orifice in your entire being is your cup of tea then you should’ve joined me in my gallivanting across the city of London with what could’ve only been described as the weight of a life-sized 10 year old on my back in the form of a gym bag and a suitcase-come bodybag with actual human weight included! Yes stunting my growth wasn’t just a choice I made in the 30 degree heat over the weekend, it was an experience which almost had me in a vegetative state by midday. Having your skeleton permanently positioned into the shape of the letter ‘C’ I’m sure has its advantages but why did this past weekend have to be my moment of awakening to this?

 

If I can momentarily pause from speaking in cryptic code (I’ve been watching alot of Sherlock Holmes these passed to days, thanks to my bed-ridden state), and indulge you in as to why I have found myself in such a mess. The reason behind my misfortune was thanks to ‘moving homes’. I move more than nomads. 4 times in 2 years, is that alot? I get bored easily.

 

If you’ve been following any of my perils this past month you will have found yourself on my bandwagon with a one stop tour of poppycock, peasantry and pettiness just as August comes to  close. From living on £30 over two weeks here in the UK’s capital, to despising the whole world and its dog on public transport, you can really tell that I want you to come to this city and have as fulfilling a time as I.

 

So just before I roll out of bed to crawl to the pissy pot in the corner of my darkened cluttered room I thought I’d keep you updated on my ‘goings ons’. 

 

Hope your life isn’t as shite as mine. 

 

 

Week 1 – The Menu of A Moron

Writing

So if you’ve been anticipating this update based on the post  I made a few days ago, let’s just take a moment to celebrate that week 1 is almost up, on a scale of 1 – 10 (full to the gills) – (about to turn cannibal) my hunger level is a solid 9.987. If you’ve ever been in this position you’ll know it’s at this stage where you realise things have taken a sudden turn for the worst. When you’re sitting at your desk at work and your stomach is squealing like a pig about to be brought to slaughter. When fellow workmates start looking like personified everyday food items and when you start Googling ‘ways to fill yourself up with air alone?’ And ‘how to copy that Jesus fellow and make that picnic with the fish, bread and wine?’ . 

 

Yes hallucinations and hunger-driven questions are just the tip of my iceberg of misery as I scraped together the pennies to see me through this fortnight. You’ve heard about my public transport shenanigans to save costs. Now let me open your eyes and your mouth to the world of  eating sh*te (trust me, what I made this week I’ve no doubt tastes worse than eating real sh*te (not like I’d no first hand or anything but…..let’s just move on))!

 

If you want recipes which are bordering on inhumane then keep reading:

 

Day one was as filling as it got, with out of date eggs and bread (the cheap white kind that embodies cardboard when toasted) for breakfast.

 

Lunchtime made for a real treat with a baked potato that was indecisive as to whether it wanted to be poisonous or not, it had that green like hue which makes a person with half a brain cell lob it as far from their being as possible so to not ingest it as I did. I cut off the sprouting parts and slathered it in a slab of butter. That really elevated the dish, I must say. 

 

Dinnertime was the other greenish potato, because one a day of those things just isn’t enough.

 

Days 2 and 3 pretty much mirrored each other, unwilling to stomach another expired egg I instead chose to try and choke myself to death on a nibble of some Ryvita biscuits. Absolute deathtraps they are. Coupled with some trail mix, and this combo made for a coughing fit at 9.30am in the office for two consecutive mornings much to the enjoyment of my coworkers.

 

Lunch – I resorted to boiled rice, sweet chilli sauce and a generous scattering of onions for a treat. This  became dinner also as I struggled to east more than a measly few mouthfuls at 1pm that day.

 

Day 4 I figured I can’t take another wholegrain husk, I’ll have to for the first time this week stick my hand very deeply into my pocket for a few coins to spare on cereal. And in doing so made the whole breakfast experience somewhat more pleasant for the remainder of the week. 

 

That was ofcourse the plan if I didn’t feel like I was the host to an unwanted tapeworm. I fearfully theorise that this parasitic pest has perversely made  itself comfortable within the lining of my little intestine. Because the level of hunger I feel some days knows no bounds. Surely it’s a tapeworm, or else I’ve ate my twin in the womb who’s now doing jumping jacks in my duodenum.

 

So with cereal not quite pacifying my aggressive enfamishment, and being now £1.25 down I had to resort to desperate measures. Yes, for lunch it was time to bring out the pasta no sauce recipe. A real one for any bargain hunter out there, simply boil some spaghetti that you find in the back left of your kitchen cupboard under the tin of beans. Boil that, in some salt water, and sprinkle with pepper to serve. You’ll be crying yourself to sleep for weeks after a bowl of this trust me. Lunchtimes for day 4 was truly one of the highlights.

 

Dinner for Day 4 – my saving grace, beans on cardboard  toast.

 

Day 5 –  run of the mill cereal first thing in the morning.

 

Lunch was whatever was in the kid’s lunchbox sitting in the seat infront of me on the bus to work. Kidding, lunch was soup that looked like the declogging of a dishwasher. It was begging for another go in the blender I’ll say that much. 

 

Dinner – Nothing, I went to sleep early to try and preserve energy. 

 

After this week’s ‘meals’, if you can call them that, I truly fear for what lies ahead in week 2. Pray for me.

 

I thought I’d be feeling like this by the end of the week:

4AkiO

When actually je suis:

Just throw me in the damn spaghetti water Peter, willl you!!

voldi

The 24th of August couldn’t come any slower!!!!

I Hate Public Transport With A Passion

Writing

If you’ve happened to be following my journey on the misery train so far, you’ll know that my belief firmly holds – trying to live in London for two weeks on £30 will make climbing Mt. Everest look like a walk in the park in comparison.

 

My hands are already physically shaking as I type due to my inner yearning for anything sucrose, glucose or dextrose based before I become comatosed by the end of this post.

 

So before I’m induced into a diabetic coma, I just thought I’d update you on day 3 as I don’t know if they’ll still let me write from my prison cell once I’m taken in for stealing a loaf of wholemeal from my local Saino’s. Either that or I’ll be lying under a park bench looking like the voldemort baby I presented to you in the other post. So with that being said, I better pull my fingerS out and start typing just that little bit faster.

 

Ayway, where was I? Oh, yes, I was about to break into a song and dance about how much I deteste everything and anything to do with public transport. Speciifally the red buses here in London, as I’m too poor to use the tube I’m forced to sit reluctantly on the slow-coach bus. With the simple learning lesson being ‘money really can buy you happiness’. If the last 3 days have shown me anything, it’s shown me that my level of hatred is a bottomless pit. Yes, just when I thought I couldn’t despise something anymore, I come to the stark realisation that my hatred has a basement.

 

Let me tell you for why:

 

 

1) Buses are magnets for the people you cross the street (3 times) to avoid

 

Just when I thought the tube had the biggest share of the wannabee murders, rapists and tax evaders, the red buses of the city of London quash this idea in a heartbeat. Honestly I  would quite willingly hang off of the roof of the double decker by my hair than sit next to another person simultaneously, grinding their teeth and frothing at the mouth from their morning dose of listerine all while indulging in a sing-along of the old favourite ‘Kumbayah My Lord’ whilst rocking back and forth hugging their knees to their chest. (And there’s me thinking men can’t multitask).

 

2) The Loudly Obnoxious & The Obnoxiously Loud Phone Callers

I don’t care what you’re having for tea, that your boyfriend dumped you for your sister, that your gerbil croaked it (ok maybe this one). I don’t care, and neither does any of the other psycho passengers on  the bus. So why then do you feel the need to tell us all about your boring life at the top of your wheezy lungs? And while you’re doing that at the front of the bus we have your second cousin in the back trying to shout above your shouting on the phone, yelling to us all ‘thank Jesus that I’m a good person, no one else matters only me’. Seriously the amount of people I hear gloating and boasting about their delusioned sense of self is truly sickening. I thought this country had a problem with depression not self obsession?! Perhaps the 2 really are linked. I don’t care if you think you’re God’s gift, you certainly aren’t mine so clear off!

 

3) Petty Thieves

Why should I work my ass off all day in a 9 to 5 for some thug to hop on the bus without swiping his oyster, contactless or donating a kidney at the very least? Point being, time and time again I see these thieves jumping on the bus not paying, instead heading straight up to the top deck and not being stopped or questioned by the bus driver once? Seriously why should I pay for them to have a seat on the bus? They aren’t paying my rent, bills or travel, so why should I cough up on theirs? If I still have the moral decency to pay when I have literally nothing left at this stage, why can they not pay the fare when they are almost certainly not in as dire a place as I at this moment in time?

 

Ok,  I need to stop now, I’m getting heart palpitations. Let the story continue another night.

Why Are We So Messy?

Writing

If you’re a messy son of a b*tch like me then you should be shouting that fact from the rooftops, hilltops and every other kind of top out there. Wear your messiness like a medal of honour my friend. Let me tell for you why:

1. It boosts your immune system

Yes mouldy pots and pans are breeding grounds for bacteria. Which means sparring grounds for your little friend – the immune system. Exposing it to all types of bacteria will do you a world of good. If you’ve never had food poisoning in your life then thank your messy kitchen habits, don’t blame them!

Moving on!

2. You have time to do the important sh*t  

Why scrub the floors in your marigolds when you could be throwing ball with your son or catching up with old friends? Leave the spillage where it is! If someone falls on their ear, fate made it so, not you!!

3. Your blood pressure will thank you 

Anytime guests come over you won’t be running around like a headless chicken picking up the crumbs of the all butter shortbread you’ve just gave them with their cup of tea. If they drop a crumb it’s all good, the dust bunnies will nibble on it later. 

4. It feels more homely

 A home is meant to be a home not a live-in museum! Why would I want any guests feeling like they have to walk on eggshells for fear of accidentally knocking over my 16th century antique crystal? I want them to put their feet up and relax, nothing says relaxation like an already stained sofa, right?

“Embrace the glorious mess that you are.” – Elizabeth Gilbert

We All Do This…

Writing

Creatures of habit, copycats, primitive minds, call us what you will. The bottom line is that there are just some things we all can’t deny we’ve done atleast once in our lives, wouldn’t you agree with the below:

 

  • We’ve looked away so abruptly that we’ve almost given ourselves whiplash, so to make it obvious that we aren’t watching the person ahead of us at the checkout entering their pin number into the card machine.

 

  • We’ve let one go out in public and purposely played it off by giving our neighbour daggers so nobody thinks it was us. 

 

  • We’ve scurried around the supermarket aisles like some badass ninja playing peek-a-boo, all to avoid that formidable awkward encounter with the person from work/school who we don’t really like.

 

  • We’ve agreed in our own minds to completely avoid a person for eternity all because we didn’t have the balls to ask them to repeat their name for the 3rd time, so we’ve concluded that ever having to say bye to ‘mr. anonymous’  would just be too awkward.

 

  • We’ve all had to reread what we’d just read because we weren’t paying attention to what we were reading.

 

  • We’ve all been freaked out at night when home alone, don’t deny that you haven’t checked the doors are locked and looked under your bed for the serial killer. 

 

  • We’ve all used our fingers to do simple arithmetic.

 

  • We’ve all followed google maps on our phone, only to quickly realise it’s bringing us the wrong way. Haven’t you tried to play it cool by pretending to look in a shop window before abruptly making a u turn? Or are you one of those people who just attack the right-turn with conviction while muttering how sh*t google maps is under your breath?

 

It’s safe to say you’ve done at least half of the above, if not you’ve lived a very sheltered life and I feel sorry for you. 

 

Raves: Are They More About The Visuals Than The Music?

Writing

Step over the threshold of any sketchy dilapidated warehouse these days and you find yourself either having the time of your life, or fighting for it. If it’s not the epilepsy inducing strobe lighting making your childhood disco look like a piece of trash then it’s the pounding synths from the Deadmau5 wannabee on the decks giving you tinnitus before your 30th birthday. Welcome to the rave.

 

Do you believe raves are more about the visuals, the audio or an equal combination of both? If you’re answer is C please leave now for noone likes a fence-sitter. I believe it’s A and here’s why:

 

When’s the last time you’ve been to a club and not had to do the matrix under a passing fluorescent green lazer beam? Point proven. Adding further to this, do you think raves would be half as popular if they didn’t sport the latest lava lamps. fresnel lanterns or giant mechanic spiders (think Arcadia Spectaular)?

 

Would you really start throwing shapes down on a dancefloor lit with just your common old tungsten bulb? Ofcourse not! It’s the equivalent of sitting in your edgy friend’s bedroom as the two of you become entranced with their efforts to scratch the complete sh*t out of the mixer discs. Fun to watch but not exactly a ‘big night out’, right? Now, add a few disco balls and the odd fibre optic light and you’ve got yourself one hell of a club night no doubt.

 

Let me be clear, I’m not trying to take the credit away from the DJ in creating a great rave, pressing play on the laptop isn’t an easy feat to master (kidding :p). I’m just putting the question out there, would you feel like you had the same night out if clubs/ festivals didn’t put on quite as a magnificent  lighting display?

 

 

Truth is I’m just jealous I can’t be a DJ or lighting technician. Full props to both of these talented types of people. Clubs need both of you just as much, you are eachother’s  yin and yang and the reason why clubs/festivals are so popular as you both provide great entertainment!

City Life: The Love/Hate Relationship

Writing

Originally from a town of  several thousand you can see why I may feel like a fish out of water here in London. Living in the UK’s capital for 2 years now has taught me alot about other people and alot about myself.

But I’ll save that for another time, here are some reasons why I’ve developed a love/hate relationship with the ‘most vegetarian friendly city in the world’ I’ll have you know!

 

Cons:

  1. The Tube Journeys – if you want to develop claustrophobia and a strong affinity for your own personal space then I suggest you take the oh so hectic trip from Kennington to Angel. According to the Londonist, the Northern line was the busiest line in 2016/17 with customers making an eye-watering 294 million journeys that year on this underground line alone. But don’t start thinking you can cartwheel up and down the carriages of any other lines anytime soon, a close second was snatched up by the central line, where any cursed commuter of this line will know the need for an oxygen tank and full-faced mask is real.
  2. Shackled By The Chains – I don’t have anything particularly against our well-known high street chainstores, but there are a specific handful who lurk on literally every corner of this damn city! Is it so wrong to want to see a family-run business with some fresh produce in the city centre instead of yet another mass-producing brand?
  3. The Fresh Smell of Exhaust Fumes – if you didn’t have asthma before getting here, then hold on to those precious memories of gasping without coughing and sighing without wheezing. For that’s all they’ll be, little flashback’s in your mind’s eye as you drag another breathe from your new best friend – the inhaler. If I’m not out of breath in 5 seconds of brisk walking then I’m blowing clumps of soot from my nose. Mum and Dad – London life is great!

 

Pros:

  1. Events Galore – the most excitement I’d get back home is from winning the bingo in the local care home down the road, now it’s gigs, festivals, club nights and freebies every night of the week (I wish)! London offers some of the best events in the world and don’t we know it! Whether it’s soaking up the atmosphere at Ronnie Scott’s or celebrating Chinese New Year with thousands of others, you’re guaranteed to have a great time.
  2. A Melting Pot of People – London naturally draws people from all over the world, it’s fascinating to meet people from such a range of cultures and backgrounds. From food to music, language to fashion, you have the luxury of experiencing this richness right on your front doorstep.
  3. Endless Opportunities – If you want to make something of yourself, London is the place to be I feel. With so many companies flocking here, you have as a result an abundance of skilful minds which can collaborate to make great things. Ofcourse you can make anything happen wherever you are if you push hard enough but there’s that added advantage of being able to physically walk in to the office of your dream agency or mentor which may not be accessible in your village in the high hills of the Isle of Arran (I love this place, so scenic).

 

Have you ever been to the London, what do you love or loathe about it?

How To (Not) Celebrate New Year’s Eve

Writing

Not to sound like the village idiot or anything but am I the only one who doesn’t get all giddy inside at the thought of celebrating on New Year’s Eve?

 Sure celebrating the fact that I’m here to see yet another year through is grantable but is the off key singing of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ into my face by the word-slurring stranger at the local bar really warranted? Not to sound like a party pooper but I’m sure you’ll forgive me for giving the folly a miss in replacement for the priorities below:

  1. Washing My Hair

At the top of every hermit’s list no doubt, the moments between you and your hair are precious and need no disruption from partygoers. As the clock strikes 12am, you need only 1 thing – a deep conditioning treatment for 15 minutes exactly, no more and definitely no less #birdsnest.

  1. Counting The Coins In The Piggy Bank

 

January is bills month for most of us unfortunates, so taking a hammer to Mr. Porky couldn’t come at a better time wouldn’t you agree? With a grand total of £3.25 that’ll be more than enough to pay off the mortgage.

  1. Playing A Friendly Game Of Solitaire

No better way to welcome in the New Year than whooping Mr. Chang’s ass in a quiet game of solitaire, minesweep and let’s not forget pinball.  Mr. Chang is currently serving time in prison for accidentally falling on and consequently crushing his dearly beloved wife and their pet dog Tofu. He’s a great guy.

  1. Binge watching ‘How It’s Made’

If you’ve never heard of this show, then you must live in more of a metaphorical bubble than I do. Have you never wanted to know how cactus pear puree or racing pulley systems are made? Shame on you! Join me tonight in watching my favourite one –‘ How It’s Made –  pre-packaged sandwiches, traffic signal poles and Teflon pans’.

  1. Try Out The New Pickle Popsicle Recipe

Sure to tickle your pickle with this salty treat, briny gherkins are bad as they are in their natural form, and probably worse when frozen, so perhaps I should put this theory to the test on this final day of 2018.

While you’re cackling with the crowd of drunken and doped, I’ll be the one having the last laugh!!! (Or not)

Kidding, I love celebrating the night with none of the above I must emphasise!! Hope you have a great New year’s Eve too!

Happy New Year!

5 People To Avoid at the 24/7 petrol station:

Writing

We’ve all been in this position, you’re travelling late at night, maybe coming back from the airport or from burying your noisy neighbour once and for all, when you suddenly get a little peckish. Pulling over to the nearest fuel station seems like the wisest thing to do and you begin dismounting your 4 by 4 truck as you wipe off the last remaining wheat field sediment from your brand new Levi’s.

Upon entering the shop you are hit with the stark realisation that things just don’t seem right. You only came in for a snickers and a bread roll but instead you meet the gaze of these 5 freaks below:

  1. Microwave Meal Guy

Not that there’s anything particularly wrong with microwave meals but you know if you see someone with a basket stocked sky-high with readymade roast dinners and lasagnes, they’re either lazy af or mentally unstable. Probably an equal measure of both. Don’t you know how to cut a bloody vegetable?!

  1. The Exhausted Single Mum

Feeding 5 kids as a single parent isn’t easy, and doesn’t it show on the face of Sandra. 3/5 Kids have developed some midnight cravings, and Sandy, being the natural night-owl that she is, decides to indulge in her kids requests for pizzas, pop tarts and chocolate ice cream at 1am in the morning. Help her find the reduced in price curly fries please.

  1. The ‘Checkout’ Guy

Don’t bend down for the washing detergent to swiftly or you’ll find the watchful eye of the hormonal adolescent upon you. Really they should be at home playing Call of Duty but their parents thought it much wiser to have them bleep through beer cans and packs of tobacco in the wee hours of the morning to learn some sense of ‘responsibility’.

  1. The Guy That Stocks The Shelves

Look at him the wrong way and you’re getting stocked in the freezer next to the frozen petis pois that’s all I will say.

  1. The Serial Killer

Murdering people is heavy work, and sometimes a Happy meal just doesn’t suffice, you’ll always find them lurking near the Twinkie aisle with a hand full of bleach and marigolds in one hand, and a packet of beef jerky in the other. Quickly, give him the secret handshake, grab your soft mints and get out!