Strangeways Here We Come

Christmas was... Christmas. I think the festive season somewhere along the way lost its appeal for me. I eat a lot, I get stuff I asked for, am sometimes pleasantly surprised by the things I get that I didnt ask for (hello David Casssidy fridge magnet, Best of Smash Hits, 'Gods Gift' pocket book, watercolour painting set) and then it's over. Now what? Well, as it happens I'm being a right nerd and 'playing with all my new toys' as I am wont to do. This means when I haven't been reading my Andrew Collins books I've been watching the Russell Brand DVD (two days, two viewings and I have a feeling I will keep watching till I know his routine off by heart). (Seriously). (Also, please note, I'm becoming more and more obsessed with radio personalities. When Sazz starts a new hobby she really goes all out). What is so weird about these items is that what I love most is that I can really relate to what these two, ostensibly polar opposite, individuals are talking about (plus, you know, they're GUYS). And yet... I get it... reading Andrew's diaries from when he was 15 makes me feel like I'm reading my own diaries from that age... we didn't even grow up in the same decade! AND HE'S A MAN! Yet it's all very nostaligic for me. It also makes me feel better that I wasn't a child prodigy with language or observation. Andrew gets paid to write for a living now and he was just as self-obsessed and rubbish with words as I was in the crazy, heady days of youth (and, you know, now). Maybe life isn't like in TV when it's only the extremely-gifted-yet-somew

hat-awkward ugly ducklings who grow up to be the self-assured and successful winners. Maybe the average-recognised-as-being-quite-good-at-most-stuff-but-unlikely-to-blow-anyone-away-with-their-talent-yet-somewhat-awkward ugly ducklings ALSO grow up to have their dreams realised. (At some point). (Maybe). (One day). (Hopefully). (Oh god, my life is going nowhere).

Similarly, on the surface I couldn't be more unlike Russell Brand if I tried (I don't backcomb my hair, I don't wear skinny jeans, I don't sleep with a host of different women at every given opportunity) and yet, for instance, when Russell talks about the 'pixie of embarrassment' who, just as he is about to fall into a slumber, comes and reminds him of the painfully embarrassing things he's said and done... I GET THAT! IT HAPPENS TO ME ALL THE TIME! I have this mild tourettes reaction to recalling embarrassing incidents; 'Remember that time in Year 6 when you were sat in the school hall and you were falling off your chair and for some reason decided to haul yourself up by pushing yourself up with your hands, only problem being your left hand was placed atop Paul Gradiges right leg, yet this didnt register until the hauling up process had been completed?' Yes! Shitfuckshit! He MUST have thought I was coming on to him (as much as an 11-year-old CAN think that)! s'barrasing! The other times this happens is when a song comes onto my MP3 player which reminds me of embarrasing incidents and as I am mostly in public when I have my MP3 plugged in I have the double whammy of flushing with embarrasment about the recalled incident AND my tourettes reaction to it." I [insert embarrassing moment here]? OH SHITFUCKHIT I just said 'shitfuckshit' in public, I'm going to get myself a rep as the twat-in-a-hat (I bought a beret, did I tell you that? It's awesome) mentalist girl."

The other thing that confuses me is that I LIKE feeling connected to these two disparate individuals. Just as, when you watch a film or a tv show or hear a song and you're convinced that 'this was made just for me' thus making the feeling of not belonging just an illusion - because, look!, these people have created things that express the same feelings that you feel! Or reference the same cultural points that make you the person you are! You're not alone! If connectedness (its a word) is so important to me then it begs the question of why do I despise conformity quite so fervently? If I could go back in time and talk to my 13-year-old self (the one that was forced to move secondary schools at such an evil age) I would be like; 'Seriously kid, I don't think anyone here is truly happy with themselves. Conformity isn't something you want to pursue in any way really. Make sure you question e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g, from stuff your teachers tell you to pretty much all the guff your peers will tell you. They might pick on you as you stand out a little; you don't know the 'implicit rules of cool'* that distinguish the popular kids from the sad, you're kind of smart and shy [the most lethal of all personality traits at that age], and you don't know a soul here so you have to make a good impression on everyone right from the get-go [never gonna happen] but it really doesn't mean anything. All of this... it means shit. Don't try and impress anyone, like all the things you want to like and don't give a fuck what anyone else has to say about it. But, to be on the safe side here's a copy of 'Strangeways, Here we Come' as well as a list of other bands you will want to become aquainted with BEFORE your 17th birthday, some GHD straightners [if these had been readily available in 1996 my appearence would have been VASTLY improved], and some outfit choices that don't make you look like Karl Howman from Brush Strokes [waistcoats? dungarees? PURPLE cord flares? REALLY?? Sadly the answer is yes]. Now go out there and just... enjoy it as best you can. I know that's virtually impossible but not caring REALLY improves your chances'

It seems I would have quite the wordy diatribe to bestow upon my younger self. If I am honest, up to the age of about 21, everything I did was done to try and be the sort of person that that 13-year-old would be impressed by and less because I actually wanted to do certain things. Now I am the sort of person my 13-year-old self would be impressed by so it seems less important and I can just 'enjoy it as best I can'. A curious chicken-and-the-egg situation.

It's funny, because, even having said all of that I still had a really stong gut reaction upon hearing that Marianna's boyfriend Ricky thinks Chloe and I are weird. It was neither a good nor bad reaction but just utter disbelief on two levels; one - Am I really 'weird'? (Well... yeah) and two - the paranoia that people are thinking what I think they're thinking is true (at least in this case). I kind of suspected he wasn't my biggest fan which was only confirmed further after our house Christmas party (see pics for evidence). However, firstly it shouldnt surprise me because, to a guy like Ricky, I am weird. I've built my whole persona on the back of wanting to appear weird to the likes of Ricky. I don't listen to the music I listen to or read the books I read or wear the clothes I wear to get on the good side of the 'Rickys' in the world (we've already established that all this was done, at least inititally, to appeal to the construct I have of me at 13. Happily it turned out that I do genuinely like all these things). This isn't a personal attack on poor Ricky - he's just not someone I would ever spend any time or effort trying to impress as he is one of those people to whom conforming is just... what you do. Fitting in is the be all and end all. And I guess that's fine if thats how you want to live your life but I DON'T want to live my life like that and, more importantly, I CAN'T live my life like that. I passed the point of no return into 'Weirdsville' and burnt all bridges leading back into the safer land of 'Normalcy' a looong time ago now.

I guess I'm a little reflective (no, nothing to do with the luminous kind of reflective) due to it being the end of the year. This year has been, all in all, pretty great. My state of mind is definately in a more positive place than it was at the start of last year. There's two ways of looking at this - either, the fact that I'm finally happy with myself can only be a good thing, or, the only way from here is down. We shall see.

*The author of the book 'Queen Bees and Wannabees' (which the film Mean Girls is based on) says that, in High School, kids have to follow a strict set of rules laid down by... God knows who... and if these are not followed exactly and to the letter then you will be given a hard time. The only problem is that no-one actually explains the rules at any point. If you unknowingly go against them then you set yourself up as a target for the rest of the kids ire. Anyone who didnt realise that you could only wear short white socks and not long white socks with your black woolly tights in winter should know how true all this is.

Cliff Richard Can Shove It

Ok, so the Christmas present thing is going better now I've freaking got it all freaking well done (thanks Cap'n!). Now I just need to wrap them. I love and I loathe wrapping. Of course this is qualitatively different to the way I feel about 'rapping' which only has positive connotations. Evidenced by my latest composition 'Rush Home to Rusholme' (this is the area of Manc my bro lives in) which is gritty and real. It goes a little bit like this:

Rush home,
Rush home,
We gots to,
Rush home,
to Rusholme.

What do you think? Am I the next Eminem? Only time will tell.

Anyway, the plan this year is to wrap the presents BEFORE 4am on Christmas Eve. I learnt the hard way that doing this does not endear you to any members of your family, especially your mother, when you are so tired having stayed up till 5am to wrap (not rap) that you fall asleep at the Christmas dinner table. But when Trev-the-semi-professional

wrestler invites you and a couple other pals back to his pad after Christmas Eve pub drinks - you go. You go and you have a great time. Thems the rules. But yeah, won't be doing anything that zany this year.

This has nothing to do with anything BUT I love this mulberry sweater dress. It looks awful on me but it's so darn comfy. AND it has front pockets. God I love front pockets (thats not a frightening euphamism).

Anyhoo, a very Merry Christmas y'all.

Geeks required. Apply within.

Does anyone want to do my dissertation for me? Not the whole thing. Just the stats bit. It's doing me head in. I tried to escape it by going to Manchester and watching TV with my brother for three days (there ain't no party like a Mulholland kids party cos the Mulholland kids party don't stop) but I come back and it's all still here. Looking at me. Doing my head in. A bit like Rod Stewart at EVERY SINGLE TRAIN STOP from Reading to Manc AND BACK AGAIN. If you make that particular journey don't sit in Coach C. Coach C appears to be where the train driver likes to be lined up with Rod Stewart posters. Whenever I loooked out the window there he was - sat there, legs akimbo, sleazing his sleazy look, smirking his smirk-worthy smirk, making me be sick in my mouth. Stewart - put it away. For the love of all that is good and holy. Put. It. A-W-A-Y. Or at least take a leaf out of Wogan's book - (ha! LITERALLY). (I crack myself up). All he needs is a witty tagline ['Warning: Contains mild irony'], a lifted brow and a whimsical look to camera. That's what captures my heart Stewart. Not you drawing attention to the outline of your cock underneath your tight, tight trews by crudely placing your knees as far apart as they will go like some cheap hooker trying to drum up buisness. Try and remember that next time mmkay?

Right, ok, it's nearly Christmas. I still haven't finished my Christmas shopping. I am now starting to F-R-E-A-K O-U-T. And not in the 70's disco 'le freak, c'est chic' way neither. Trouble is, I havent got much money. Actually, scratch that. I havent got ANY money (this may or may not be connected to the number of ridiculously priced gingerbread lattes I've been consuming* and party dresses I've been acquiring). But yeah, I want people's presents to count and to mean something, quality not quantity is the aim of the game this year. Only thing is; what the hell do these people WANT? I'm normally the most awesome gift buyer around. This year, more than ever, all I can see is stuff that appeals to me (this does not bode well for the state of my soul). See, these Wonder Woman coasters and Moomin snowglobes are not the sort of thing that everyone covets in the same way that I do. I KNOW! IT'S CRAZY! But it's true! And what's worse is that even for the people who I have got an idea about what to buy them I CAN'T FREAKING FIND IT ANYWHERE. Like, for instance, Papa Mikey (If your name is Papa Mikey stop reading now). I want to buy him some kind of robot building kit. Cos that'd be awesome. Who DOESN'T want to build their own robot? No-one! (Cap't B - I know you're with me on this). Everyone loves robots (as long as they are the kind that are not programmed to take over the world). We've all watched Short Circuit 1 and 2. We all know how fun it is to have a wacky robot pal to gad around town with. Yet can I find a robot building kit anywhere? No! LITTLE BABY JESUS WHY DO YOU PERSIST IN MOCKING ME? He loves making my life harder.

I fear what the brother is getting me. He keeps saying 'I hope it turns out alright' which for some reason has me convinced that he's been making me a macaroni-based collage. Although I did get him a Vin Diesel calendar last year so I suppose this would be what's known in the revenge buisness as 'payback'.

By the way, while we are on the subject - for Christmas can you get me Andrew Collins? He's my new-old hero.

*This does mean I get to see my two new BRAND NEW FOR CHRISTMAS crushes - Wolfman and Owlboy. They are actually barristas in a well known coffee providing chain that rhymes with barbucks* and not a new cartoon crime crusading combo.
*In 'Trev and Simons Stupid Book' that I have had since I was eight and still have (in fact I have two copies as I stole one from Andrew McGregor) they suggest that putting a 'b' in front of all words makes it instantly funny. I'm not sure bow buch I bagree.*
*To be fair, that does make that sentence more fun to say.

Oh dear.

I just ate microwave popcorn out of a saucepan for dinner having spent the entire day playing a late 90's videogame.

It might be time for one of those 'life makeovers'.

Dude, seriously?

Let me get this straight. This new film 'Flushed Away'... am I right in thinking that it's about a couple of be suited smooth-as-ice RATS that through some quirky twist of fate find themselves FLUSHED AWAY down a toilet? I saw about 47 seconds of a trailer about two weeks ago. It's only just hit me now: this is the plot of children's film? Seriously?

However it's not freaking me out as much as this:

Two things:

1. PENGUINS DONT TAP DANCE (unless they are possessed by the Devil one presumes).

2. IT HAS THE COLD DEAD EYES OF A KILLER.

So these are my main gripes this week. I like to focus on the important issues.

Although even they pale in comparison to last night when some man, some swarthy dude, came up to me just as I had entered a cocktail bar and started stroking my hair saying how lovely it was in a very suspect accent. 'Don't worry I'm a haairdresser' he said. Yet, for some strange reason this did nothing to allay my fears. When random strangers come up and start stroking MY FUCKING HAIR whether they are purported hairdressers or not it still somehow I DON'T KNOW WHY but somehow still FREAKS ME THE FUCK OUT. Although that evening I did get three glasses of wine bought for me and I didn't even have to put out. Awesome.

So yeah, it's like December now innit? Jesus. (LOL literally lololololroflaolotflas). For some reason this has been making me a touch grouchy. In many ways I love December; it means I have a semblance of a social life. In other ways, having to be sociable and pretend I care about other people - it's tiring innit? Taylor likes to play my punk card when she knows I'm grumpy. I was told that prodding me was 'like poking a bear'. How often do you think it is advised that you poke bears? It's not. Because doing that makes the bear angry doesn’t it? And yet she persists. Playing 'Mistletoe and [fucking] Wine' in my ear. It's one of her fucking ringtones. Christ. (LOL LITERALLY LOLOLLOL)

I tell you what else; this egg nog business is bothering me. What is it? WHAT IS IN EGG NOG? Does anyone know? I associate it with American 'Christmas special' episodes of sitcoms. That's all I know about it - sitcom characters drink it at Christmas time, always and without fail. That and I'm pretty sure it's beige in colour. I am always, always suspicious of anything beige. Like, it's something that's just trying that little bit too hard to blend in to its surroundings you know? Like the SAS and camouflage. Sort of. Anyway, housemate Emma is threatening to make it for our house Christmas party. I have this overwhelming fear that I'm going to be forced to try it out of politeness and it'll have the consistency and taste of slightly warmed, slightly alcoholic, phlegm. I feel sick just thinking about it.

Procrastination Update

I have four essays due in on Monday. I have now completed two of them. The other two I have done 1000 words each for and typed up all the references I'm going to use - which is the most boring job in the world. You have to get all the commas and full stops in the exact right place...
e.g.
This is right:
Bradley, L. and Bryant, P. (1978). Difficulties in auditory organisation as a possible cause of reading backwardness. Nature. 271, 746-747.

This is wrong:
Bradley, L. and Bryant, P. (1978). Difficulties in auditory organisation as a possible cause of reading backwardness. Nature, 271, 746-747.

Spot the difference? NO COS IT’S A FUCKING POINTLESSY PEDANTICALLY TINY COMMA IN THE WRONG FUCKING PLACE. Jesus Wept.

So yeah. I've gone through all that. That's done. It’s on the table. We can sit back and forget about that and just get on and finish those two last essays can't we?

No.

Have you met me? The answer is of course NO.

The procrastination monster lives on in me. He refuses to let me do my work. He will not let me be until I finally beat Him into submission (normally around 4'o'clock in the morning) (Dirty!).

However, he is quite thoughtful. Today he has:
- Let me go and watch a 'departmental video' on Guns, Knifes and Children. Which was very interesting and He knows I fancy the lecturer who runs these video sessions so it was nice of Him to let me see said lecturer.
- Let me go and see 'A Scanner Darkly' at the cinema. Again, very thoughtful as it's a fucking cool movie and He must have also read my diary and knows I could watch Robert Downey Jr read out the phone book and still be awed by his performance
- Made me go and buy some milk from the garage which meant the garage man could allow me to have free pik'n'mix.

Oh procrastination monster. I can't stay mad at you for long. You only want what's best for me don't you? EXCEPT THE 'BEST FOR ME' IS TO GET THESE FUCKING ESSAYS FINISHED BEFORE TOMORROW SO I CAN HAVE MY FUCKING LIFE BACK.

I hate myself.

I've done all the reading and the note taking and the drafting of these essays. They're all there ready. Ready to be typed up and just done and finished and then I can get on with my dissertation (or just, you know drinking and watching tv). Just type them up Sazz. That's all you need to do. Type. Them. Up. And yet here I am, procrastinating- writing about writing them up - BUT NOT WRITING THEM UP. Just going to get another cup of tea thinking 'ok after this tea, this one now, this is when I will start properly, stop faffing, stop internet surfing, stop finding things to wash up. Just go and sit at my laptop and write up my essays'. Will I? No. I come and write a blog entry. I am physically incapable of getting on with my work. When I spoke to my brother last night he was like 'you have a whole week left to hand them in and you're bothering to do them now?' as I was simultaneously freaking out that I HAVE A WEEK LEFT TO HAND THEM ALL IN AND I'M ONLY DOING THEM NOW. We lead very different lives.

Part of it is sitting in my room, I cannot work in my room. I need my room to be my place to chillax and I need somewhere else to work. The last couple of weeks I have gaily walked into the library every day to be an old-skool geek and draft these essays with pen and paper. Which I did. AND NOW I JUST NEED TO TYPE IT UP PROPERLY. It seems to help if I leave my room as I have much much higher chances of running into cute boys (I rarely trip over such creatures in my room). (Sadly). The rewards of the cute boys seem to motivate me into doing work. Unless I speak to one of them like I have done the last two Monday's in a row and find myself daydreaming about 6 foot tall Greeks that are probably a bit too old for me. But I still manage to get work done even then eventually. And yet now I can't. Today, I haven't left the house all day so I have nothing and noone to daydream about. But I can't get on and finish off these essays. Why why WHY?

I keep thinking of that bit in Office Space where Berg from Sex in the City (I can't remember his name in the film) is telling Dr Cox from Scrubs (I can't remember his name in the film) what his daily output of work is as they are assessing who in the office can be fired. By this point in the film Berg has stopped giving a fuck and doing things like turning up at his desk to gut the fish he caught earlier in the day. Therefore he is brutally honest in his self-assessment. He informs Dr Cox that generally his routine consists of him always being at least 20 minutes late and taking the back stairs to get to his desk so he isn't caught wandering in late by his boss, then he takes an hour or so to sit at his desk and just 'zone out' so it looks like he's doing something but really he's just, you know, zoning out. Berg concludes he probably does 15 minutes of real work, in total, per week. Yes. That's me. That's my life. I do that. I am that person.

This is my life. It hurts my soul.

In order to put off DOING THESE DAMN FREAKING ESSAYS TYPE UP THE ESSAYS DO IT DO IT NOW I'm finding things to worry about. When did I eat all those rice cakes? Didn't I buy them yesterday? When did I become a rice cake fan? They taste of ricey cardboard. How can you eat so many rice cakes? There's rice cake dust on top of your television. How does rice cake dust get on someones television unless they are leaving the ricecakes on top of the television? Why are you leaving rice cakes on top of your television? Why have the number of condiments in your fridge started to outnumber the actual proper food you have in the fridge? I currently own; pesto, sweetcorn relish, red onion chutney, light mayonnaise, cherry jam, dolmio pasta sauce. When did you amass such a collection? Are you Edward Norton's character in Fight Club? His condo blew up and all that remained was condiments? Is that going to be you? Does this maybe explain how you can eat so many rice cakes and not remeber doing it? Do you now have multiple personality disorder?

This is my brain. It hurts my soul.

Elsewhere... I love doing my radio show. I havent found anything I love so much since... well ever. I love every aspect of it, choosing the music and planning it out, designing the posters, and maintaing the myspace for it. I actually get to put my music collection to good use and have as a result fallen in love with music again. I didn't realise I'd fallen out of love with it but all relationships get neglected at some point don't they? You just take it for granted that [music] will always be there and you just fall into a familiar routine with [music] without even realising it and before you know it you're cheating on [music] with slutty [sitcoms] just to add some excitement to your life. But I've rediscovered my love of riot grrl and 80s indie and 60s girl groups - remembering all the things I have loved for years and just stopped listening to - The Fall and Ciba Matto and The Raincoats and The Crystals and Refused and The Slits. When and where and why did these things fall out of my life? How and who and what happened to make that happen?

The only thing is - the other radio station people hate me. Well not all of them. A couple like me I think. They compliment my show and say 'hi' when they see me. That's encouraging right? The others... not so much. 'Hate-filled looks' might be stretching the truth a little but you get the general idea. I seem to have this effect on people. Me and people, we just don't get on.

First eye-stabbing victim of the week

Last night I stayed up later than I have in a while finishing off an essay. When I say 'finishing off an essay' I mean I faffed about looking at different websites and talking to my brother on MSN (choice quote: Me: 'I don't know how to end this piece of shit essay', Brother: 'How about - "So in summary, it was all a bit of a lol"') and watched the latest episode of Never Mind the Buzzcocks online (sidenote: Amy 'Wino' Winehouse kicks ass. She is so funny and sassy and you know I love me some sass). (Further sidenote: Chloe reckons that Amy Wino looks like a cross between me and our housemate Marianna, I can tell you now that if Marianna and I ever DID breed then that would be the coolest fucking kid E-V-E-R. But it's unlikely to happen as my life is not an ill-conceived Arnold Swartzenegger vehicle co-starring Danny DeVito and Emma Thompson). (Sadly). So anyway, there was a point to this OH YES... I stayed up uber late basically faffing (faffing and procrastination are the two things in life that I really excel at. I am trying to think of a job that requires both of these skills but draw a blank everytime as, in all honesty, most bosses just want to get on with doing the actual fucking job they've hired you for and not spending as much time as possible writing out a to-do list of all the things you are meant to be doing and colour coordinating that with miniture post-its that correspond to your folders). (For example) all because I thought I was going to get to have a lovely long sleepy today till the afternoon. Because that's when the gas man was coming to fix our crumbling house of mank's heating. I checked it. I know I'm crap with time but I checked. The gas man said he would be coming on Monday afternoon. I know that because I was slightly upset that I might not be at the library at the time on a Monday when I have seen my crush on the past two Monday's. I asked if anyone else if the house was going to be in on Monday afternoon so I could go to the library and maybe speak to my crush again ALL BECAUSE THE GAS MAN SAID HE WOULD BE HERE ON MONDAY AFTERNOON. I KNOW HE SAID IT I CHECKED IT ON THE PIECE OF PAPER HE GAVE ME THAT SAID HE WOULD NEXT BE HERE ON MONDAY AFTERNOON.

You catch my drift.

Guess what time the gas man turns up?

10am.

Am I happy?

No.

Some Kind of Wonderful

I've uncovered something quite interesting recently that may well rock your world to its very core...

- if you leave your house more than once a week and INTERACT with other people you actually have more to talk about than the characters on the, now defunct, mid 1990's teen drama 'My So-Called Life' that you may have downloaded in a fit of 'remember when plaid and baggy clothes were fashionable?' nostalgia. [see also - Clarissa Explains It All, Blossom]

It shocks and astounds you doesnt it? In much the same way that you felt after finding out Geoffrey from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air 'fame' was now 'starring' in Eastenders. "Really? No! But... Oh wow! It's true!"*

Now, having said all that, this evening I've actually missed out on leaving the house and getting the chance to see LIVE! IN THE FLESH! SCREECH FROM SAVED BY THE BELL! ALIVE! IN MY UNION! (Sorry, I had the volume on this turned up. Sorted now.) to do dog sitting instead. Yes. Screech. From Saved By The Bell 'fame'. As fabulous as it would have been to be in the same room as him while he stood on a stage feeling quite visibly uncomfortable/coked-up-to-

the-eyeballs-and-as-a-result-unbearably-smug [delete as applicable] whilst taking questions from drunk students and trying to figure out where his life went wrong exactly, I can't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, I made the right call.

Despite me missing out on the Screech 'experience' here are some fun facts and figures about him that you can read about and share with your friends/acquaintences for nostalgia-based-conversation starters (I have also included some of my own opinions on these facts and figures to help get the conversations underway):
- His real name is Dustin Diamond. If you meet him why not refer to him as "Mr Double D's"? Not only would this nickname be factually accurate (unlike, for instance, my new nickname 'Pooky') but it is also an amusing way to refer to a ladies bosom. And who doesn't want to get the image of Screech and voluptuous breasts inexplicably linked in their minds?
- He has featured in the David Spade vehicle "Dickie Roberts: Former Child Star" which I have watched from beginning to end. (I make no apologies for the way I choose to live my life). (I just spend an inordinate amount of time crying about it). Verdict - not as good as "Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit" but better than "Deuce Bigalo: Male Gigalo" from the 'films with colon's to seperate title from sub-title' genre.
- He has been declared bankrupt. I have no real opinion on this and it's just broad speculation anyway. I don't even know for certain that it is a 'fact' as such. I could look it up. I'm not going to.
- He has a really big penis (according to a Howard Stern show transcript I was lucky enough to read. I also found out that Fez from That 70s Show is similarly endowed from the same source).
- He was brought in to Saved by the Bell: The New Class to try and improve ratings but for some reason felt compelled to speak in a very odd voice and gurn a lot thus reducing much of the 'geeky charm' (read: subtle mental disorder) that had made the character of Screech such a winner in the first place. Plus the undertones of a homoerotic relationship between himself and Mr Belding made me slightly uncomfortable.
Evidence: Wasnt he like, Mr Beldings 'assistant'? Had Mr Belding ever had an assistant before? If he really genuinely required an assistant would he really have hired someone who, not only wore jazzy shirts, mismatching slacks and colourful braces, but was also way over-qualified for the job in the first place? (he had a degree! he was a nerd! he was named validictorian of his graduating high school class but gave up the title to Jesse Spano as it meant more to her! this isn't someone that was on track to being a principal's assistant in the very high school where all these things happened originally) Added to that, even if you can get past the unlikely hiring situation, he was consistantly incompetant in the job role so would have almost immediately been fired anyway. That is unless Mr Belding was sleeping with Screech or Screech's mother. Think about it. I know I do. Constantly.

*Please Note: If you are the sort of person that speaks in sentences that only end with exclamation points then I kind of hate you and wish you would die.**
** I realise this is a bit rich coming from someone who uses 'quotation marks' to place 'empathsis' on more 'words' than she really 'should'.

I think my classmates think I'm emo...

... I have further cemented that view today by happening to be reading The Virgin Suicides as some of them walked past me today:
'What's that about?'
'Five sisters that kill themselves'
'Are you reading it for class or for pleasure?'
'Pleasure'
'Ooh-k...'

*emo sigh*

Glimpses of my future

I love it when my mum calls me and then puts the dog on for me to have a conversation with.

Mum: You galavanting?
Me: No
Mum: You going to be galavanting?
Me: Well, I'm going to the cinema later to see this film 'Step Up' [getting more animated and excited] about a guy who's like on parole or something and he starts working at a dance school and then become the partner of one of the dancers for the big show!
Mum: This isn't one of you're Polish films is it?
Me: Polish?!
Mum: All arty with subtitles and that
Me: Does it sound anywhere nearly approaching Polish or arty? It has hip hop dancing in parking lots and a 'big show' at the end. This is basically the plot of Sister Act 2 but with dancing instead of singing.
Mum: Well I know what you're like. We both do dont we amby-bamby [insert mindless baby talk to dog here concluding with...] do you want to speak to her too?
Me: ...

And so it goes.

I done radio I did...

...... and it was awesome. Sort of. For the first 45 minutes I didn't actually have the sound turned up on my microphone so everyone missed my comedy GOLD chat.

Which was a shame.

Although I'm told it sounded like 'artistic silence'.

Which is... a lie. But a nice one.

They've extended my show by an hour due to my supreme awesomness (and also because the slot is free). But mostly it's the awesomeness.

You must listen next week because I actually know what the hell I'm doing now.

Go to www.gu2.co.uk Saturday at 2pm. Be there or be... somewhere else.

I'm going to go and make posters to advertise my show around campus now because I'm that cool. That does make me cool right? Good. I thought so.

The Aftermath

Birthday week is over. For the most part it was good, not everything went according to plan exactly but if I resolutely stuck to all the things I had in mind initially then I just wouldn't be me.

The only day last week that I really felt like hiding under my covers and never emerging again was Thursday. Possibly not helped by the fact I went to the 'Senior Screen' (where you get to see a film with a bunch of oldies for the princely sum of £2.50) showing of United 93. From the time the second plane was shown to hit the tower I was sobbing my eyes out. I wrapped my scarf around the lower part of my head to muffle the noise I was making and try and cover up the twisted features of my face (why in films do people always look so attractive and vulnerable when they cry yet in real life if you cry proper you end up looking like some demented life form extra from Doctor Who?) and it was sodden with tears by the end. I guess true stories about death and destruction isn't the kind of light-hearted fare that pulls one out of the doldrums.

I then decided I needed to cheer myself up but, surprisingly, reading about William Burroughs heroin addiction and eating carrot cake in Starbucks didn't even do the trick. Thus, later that evening, I forced myself into going along to the uni radio station pub crawl (I should have my own shown sometime soon. Probably. Hopefully. I think). Whenever I tell people I have gone and done things like that by myself, where I don't really know another soul in attendance, people are always slightly incredulous and treat me as soon sort of curious half-brave/half-stupid creature. I honestly don't see the big deal, if it's shite you can slip away unnoticed and be filled with overwhelming feelings of self-loathing and hatred towards mankind that lasts an hour or so, or; and more likely, you can go and talk to people you wouldn't normally talk to and end up having a surprisingly good time. I managed to somehow avoid the first option despite every fibre in my being willing me to leave after the first pub (let's just say my whole theory about girls being evil is true. Nice enough on their own. Evil in its purest form in groups). But I stuck it out to the bitter end with most of my dignity intact and even having charmed some people along the way (Possibly. Maybe. I think). Don't get me wrong, I don't reckon any of these guys are going to be my new 'omgomg bestest best friends' but sometimes it's fun to just hang out with people you wouldn't normally hang out with and find that, actually, they aren't really all that bad. Since I stopped assuming I could tell who I was going to hate on sight, the world has been a much fluffy-bunnier place (in a good way and purely metaphorically in case that sounds like some sort of terrifying glimpse into my mental state).

The funny thing was as green as all the 18-year-olds seem to me; I appear to be just as ancient to them. It never really occurred to me that they would think that. But then, when I was 18 anything above 21 seemed over the hill a bit. The one thing it did drive home was that, I would never ever ever want to go back to being that age again. Some people view their formative years as an adult with a wistful reverie (I don't think anyone still perpetrates the myth about school days being the best of your life anymore do they? We all know by now that is the biggest load of horseshit since it was revealed Santa Claus isn't some morbidly obese guy that breaks into your house once a year and leaves creepy love tokens - or 'presents' if you will. I've just had a seminar on stalking behaviours, I know there's a fine line there and that old dude is crossing it) but really, even if I'm extremely happy with all the mistakes I've made up to now - and continue to make - there is no way I can see myself getting so drunk with a bunch of strangers (with my friends? hella yeah) that I fall asleep IN THE PUB or show everyone MY BRA to prove what cup size I am (although, to be fair, the girls are often on display but rarely do I pull down my top and expose my underwear. Anymore) or getting off with the ugliest man in the group just because he's been showing me a bit of attention and I've been desperately looking for someone to do that the whole night and he's the only one left. Oh to be young again!

Not that I think I've got it all figured out, but as I get older I've got increasingly comfortable with who I am and my place in the world. It's nice. As I said, I still make mistakes but I'm getting better at not just doing stupid stuff for the sake of doing it, especially things I know I will regret later. I also don't SEEM to be making the same mistakes twice anymore. I'm getting good at identifying destructive behaviour and stopping it before it starts. Not letting guys dictate my self worth. That sort of thing. Having said all that, I'm still as big a goon as ever. I still walk around campus singing the Pokemon theme tune with Chloe, or call Carlos a prick, not talk to him for three days and then be shocked that he thought I was in a mood with him, I still get completely flustered when the guy that works in the uni cafe is nice to me, I still get overly excited when I hear the opening bars of 'Loveshack', I still try and force people into fights just because I sometimes enjoy having a really big argument, or even worse - am really passive aggressive when something/someone has annoyed me

I guess this blog is a bit more reflective than usual, normal programming will be resumed as soon as possible. Apologies for any inconvenience caused.

So far...

... Quincy fridge magnets and Ross Noble DVDs are easing the pain of having to endure another birthday.

Giving out my love indescriminately like some kind of Martine McCutcheon

I fell in love on Friday night with a ginger, bearded barman (who shall henceforth be known as 'G.B.B'). I know it's true love for the following reasons:
a) He looked really good in a pair of Speedo's (please note: we did all go to a so-called 'beach party' at the Union, he wasn't just attention seeking) (he may have been a little attention seeking. Speedo's after 10pm for whatever reason is quite a bold fashion statement)
b) He has a beard.

I've spent the last two days on campus seeing if I could spot him anywhere to no avail. I have managed to find six different bearded ginger men but not MY ginger bearded barman. Of course, I *could* have seen him and just forgotten what he looks like exactly. You've seen the pictures of our pre-Beach party larks right? Well then, you know what state I was in (allowing for photographic proof of me Singstar-ing = bad news).

It's my birthday next Monday. No, no. Don't worry about getting me those Sabrina the Teenage Witch magnets. I got those for Christmas, remember? I havent had the birthday blues too bad, unlike... well pretty much every year since I was old enough to remember (there must be some real Freudian shit connected to that cos for one week prior and two weeks apres I get really glum; you could set your watch by it. DISCLAIMER: For practical purposes I would suggest setting your watch by the talking clock or teletext instead). I did have a gripping panic on Friday realising I am now SIX YEARS OLDER than most of the Freshers. Not helped by the fact that a very baby-faced young man started a conversation with me at the bar that night about how he'd been dumped the day before because his girlfriend couldn't have a long-distance relationship (I think that's what he said... to be fair I was a bit distracted by G.B.B. at the time). 'Well everyone has to have their heart broken at LEAST once', I said patronisingly 'I did for the first time when I was 19 and I'm all the better for it'

'You're 19 now?' he said hopefully.

'No... I'm 24 in a week'

'Ooh! Older woman!'

Which would have been flattering I guess if my brain hadn't started flashing up signs that read 'YOU NONCE!' in 20 foot high neon lettering. Plus, I'm pretty sure it wasn't just that they were at different universities... coming into contact with so many men in Freshers Week must have made her realise once and for all that her 'man' was a tad 'waggish' (read: closet homosexual).

But anyway, because I always have a rubbish birthday I've decided to have a birthday week. That way if one day of celebration is pants then I can always just pretend that I was really celebrating my birthday on Day X instead thereby removing the pressure to have a good time on a particular day.

Here's the basic outline of the plan so far:

Friday 29th September - Going to see 'The Smyths'. A Smiths tribute band (funnily enough). If they are anything like all the other tribute bands I've been to over the years (Kes and I got slightly addicted at one point) then they'll be 'kack but funny' (in the words of the lady herself). I am eager to see if they'll beat the Tina Turner tribute I once saw. She set the bar by which all other tribute acts are judged.

Saturday 30th September - Posh meal with folks and grand-folks. Not expecting anything too rowdy that night (but with Papa Mikey there anything is possible).

Sunday 1st October - Get the folks to drive me back to The Ford (after buying me my food shopping for the week. It's only fair after gracing them with my presence for a couple of days that they should return the favour with edible delights... She said only half ironically) and then watch movies all afternoon (on the list of must-sees is 'Grey Gardens' and 'Office Space' - any other suggestions you have are always welcome). Only eat microwave popcorn and rice pudding.

Monday 2nd October - D-DAY. 'Quiet' meal with housemates as I have a 9am lecture on Tuesday's.

Tuesday 3rd October - See how many episodes I can get through of 21 Jump Street in one go. (Tagline = 'Too cool for school' = exclamation point times infinity)

Wednesday 4th October - Go to Tate Modern for an hour or two and then enjoy an afternoon filled with strawberry milkshakes and mutual dissing with me mate Carlos (that's not a euphamism).

Thursday 5th October - The Brother visiting? Maybe perhaps. We'll see.

Friday 6th October - Collecting my group of ragamuffin pals together and forcing them into the 80's disco night at the Camden Underworld where they will be required by (Sazz) Law to dance until their feet fall off (hopefully not literally. That'd make me be sick in my mouth). Getting train home at 5am. Collapsing in heap. Not emerging till Sunday afternoon for milk and a paper from the Shell Garage.

So that's birthday week sorted. Knowing me something will go horribly wrong by virtue of me planning this whole thing in advance.

P.S. Blog title stolen borrowed from Adam Buxton's piss take affectionate remake of the Dog's Trust adverts (go to April 27th entry). You must watch it. I guarentee you will lol. Lol to your hearts content.

Confessional

I live with four other girls in my uni house. This would normally be my own personal vision of hell (for the reasons why please refer to the latest series of Britain's Next Top Model and watch a social experiment that provides the precise reasons as to why girls should never live in too close quarters to one another, i.e. girls are evil*) but actually I'm quite enjoying it. It's nice living somewhere where people clean up after themselves, where there are slightly fancy nik-naks dotted around to make the scummy hole of a house in which we live a slightly more pleasant experience, where you can put Sabrina the teenage Witch magnets on your fridge without fear of retribution.

The only thing is - the bathroom. More specifically the shower in the bathroom. As you can imagine, five girls in a house means the shower is pretty much in constant use (rotational not all-at-once-ical) and this means the shower curtain is always pulled across. Everytime I go to the toilet I'm frightened that someone is hiding behind there and then when I'm all in place and settled they'll jump out at the critical moment. It started out as a 'I wonder if someone would ever do that...' and has now turned into a mild phobia. My heartrate has actually started quickening everytime I go in there and I have to stop myself from pulling back the curtain before 'getting down to business'.

This irational fear has a basis (not just that I'm a paranoid freakazoid. That is only part of it) - living with boys. In my second year I lived with two boys. They went through a stage of terrorising me . I would wake up, pull back my curtains, and find that someone had pasted a life-sized picture of Shaggy's (the singer not the Scooby-Doo-er) face on my window. I would go to open my bedroom door and find 'REDRUM' written on it crudely with a flour-and-water paste ('well we didn't have any chalk and that seemed the second obvious choice'). Anytime I was listening to music and in my own little world someone would creep up behind me and scare the shit out of me (to be fair, Chloe still does this now). They even broke the head off my Virgin Mary statue because I was 'a slut' (alledgedly this was all an accident but I think they tried to infer that God had made them do it because of my slutty ways). This makes it sound like they bullied me. It wasn't like that at all. It's just boys innit? But it's obviously had a profound effect.

Anyway, all this is basically a way of letting you know that I'm scared of going to the toilet.



* Note the use of the plural 'girls'. Only in groups do females really start to exhibit their predispositon of working for the forces of evil. We hate on other females for being prettier or thinner than us. We immediately hate any female that has presently, or even in the past, caught the eye of the man we desire. If a man cheats on us then nine times out of ten it is THE PERSON HE CHEATED WITH that we despise and not THE MAN HIMSELF. This is one fucked up mind-set. Always pitting ourselves in competition with the other females in the (metaphorial) room. If we all spent less time worrying about whether that chicks hair is shinier than ours then Hilary would be president and we wouldn't all be hurtlingly head first to the inevitable demise that George Bush Jr has in store for the planet.**

**I don't want you to think I hate womankind. Far from it. I just hate the way we hate each other. I have consciously opted out of doing this now and think I'm much happier for it. /End of Woman's Studies Rant/

Welcome to the dollhouse

I've come round to the idea of freshers again. I think we can blame my little diatribe tother day on hormones (we can also maybe perhaps attribute today's entry on hormones too as you will see...). Walking home from my first lecture today I fell in love with at least 17 different individuals. Not that I, you know, fall in love really easily or am fickle or anything. God no. Although I am starting to suspect that I am easily pleased whee the mens are concerned after going to a club with my housemate Marianna the other day.

Me: How many men took your fancy?

Marianna: 2. You?

Me: Um.. 8.

I've found myself being in an unnaturally good mood recently. I'm pretty sure it's just because the light in this house is really bad so when I look in the mirror I'm approx. 27% more attractive than in real life.

I decorated my pink converse in red permanant marker today. Is this the first step on the slippery road to emos-ville?

Freshers a-go-go

Firstly, I have to admit that I am very attracted to Steve Carell's character in Little Miss Sunshine. He's suicidely depressed and gay. I think that says more about who I am than any questionnaire ever will. Even one that asks about your Oreo consumption.

It's fresher's week. They are everywhere. All clutching dog eared maps (how do maps always get so mangled after only holding them for five minutes. Maybe it's just the ones that I am given to 'look after' as I end up picking my teeth and/or nails with the corners and not folding them properly and managing to drop any food or liquid that happens to come within a 2 metre radius onto them. Helpful Hint of the Day #1: Don't ever let me hold any important pieces of paper)... but anyway, when I think of maps I think of smudged, torn, crumpled pieces of paper. The maps the freshers are holding might not be in that state - it's difficult to tell as you are walking past as quickly as possible hoping, wishing, praying no-one asks you directions - but that's what I see in my mind's eye.

Where was I? Oh yes, freshers... they also all look like they just fell out of the best/worst dressed pages of Heat (ankle boots are not everyones friend) as Surrey Uni has a higher than normal count of females. And of those females it has a higher than normal count of females that look like they could be extras in Hollyoaks. Every guy on my course managed to 'trade up' quite considerably due to this interesting ratio. Helpful Hint of the Day #2: Dudes, if you want to get laid by a Chantelle-a-like then head on down to the University of Surrey campus - where the girls are skinny, blonde and probably not all that bright! (Why this line isn't included in the University brochure I have no idea).

I can, for the most part, float through the campus without all these shrieking, happy, overly coiffed 18-year-olds causing me too much grief or reawkening too many body issues but I fear they will be inflitrating all the places where the coffee is and possibly impeding my attempts to buy the coffee from the coffee places. It is only then that I start to really freak out and curse them all to hell.

Elsewhere I have noticed that there seems to be more and more sweater vests appearing on the hip young man-things of late. I guess the sweater vest does offer the best for this sort of weather; humid yet with rain threatening to hit any second. It makes me feel like I'm walking around a John Hughes movie set. Now I just have to find someone that looks and acts exactly like Jon Cryer and I'll be pretty much set for life.

I do as I'm told

I am under instruction from the ever lovely Xine to complete this bad boy...

WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
Ms Sarah Jayne Mulholland

THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
Sarah Jayne (when I'm in trouble with me mum)
Sazz
Lady

THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE:
Lady Sazz
Sazzamatazz
I was what Willis was talkin' 'bout

THREE THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
Sassiness
The ability to make people laugh (more often 'at' than 'with' but it still counts)
My wardrobe (or more specifically, the clothes there in)

THREE THINGS YOU HATE/DISLIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
My very English teeth
My procrastination skills
The fact that I overthink EVERY LITTLE THING

THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:
English
Irish
Foolish

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
Oompa Loompas
Ghosts (or just that feeling when you're the last person up at night and you get this weird sense like there's someone watching you. This may or may not be ghosts. Everyone gets that feeling right? Shit. I've got a ghost stalker)
Pigeons

THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
Laptop access
Sleep
Teabags

THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
Lou Reed t-shirt
Bottle green jumper
Denim skirt

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS:
The White Stripes
The Pixies
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah

THREE NEW THINGS YOU WANT TO TRY IN THE NEXT 12 MONTHS:
Writing a sitcom
Finishing a degree
Stalking Zach Braff

THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A LOVE RELATIONSHIP:
Someone that laughs at my jokes
Someone I can be honest with
Someone who is Zach Braff

TWO LIES AND A TRUTH.. GUESS THE LIES:
I enjoy puns
I can tap dance
In 1987, I released an album that charted briefly

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX:
Twinkly eyes
Totally supercute smile
Someone who's either a little chubby or a bit of a skinny beanpole

THREE THINGS YOU JUST CAN'T DO:
Cut onions in a satisfactory way
Touch dead things or anything that has touched a dead thing
Sit in a room full of Jim Davidson fans. Or sit in a room full of Jim Davidson for that matter (I'm not sure what that means either)

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:
Reading
Being sassy
Making things pretty/making pretty things (eithor/or)

WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:
Sleep. It's only 20 past midnight on a Friday. The older I get the more rock and roll I get.

THREE CAREERS YOU'RE CONSIDERING:
Sitcom writer
Forensic psychologist
International spy

THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:
Mexico
Budapest
Montreal

THREE KID'S NAMES:
Nina
Ella
Rufus

THREE TRUE LOVES:
Gael Garcia Bernal
Zach Braff
Stewart Lee

THREE FAVORITE ANIMALS:
Dogs
Guinnea Pigs
Penguins

THREE REASONS WHY YOU’RE DOING THIS:
I have literally nothing better to do with my time
I started it yesterday and by gum, I'm going to finish this if it's the last thing I do
It's a good way to pass the time while I wait for my load of laundry to finish

THREE PEOPLE WHO HAVE TO TAKE THIS QUIZ:
Nic
The General
You

That's how I roll

I've had the Sanford and Son theme song in my head for near on 43 hours now. All thanks to this.

I don't think I've helped the situation by making it my new ringtone.

Because I know this has been bothering a lot of you for quite a while now here is a list of reasons why I could never become Quincy:
- I get squeamish at the words 'seeping' and 'moist' (even typing them out and then re-reading that makes me feel physically sick).
- I can't touch dead things (this includes daddy-long-legs and moths that have perished on my hallway carpet).
- Living on a boat would mean I would be sick approximately seven times a day (even though his boat was anchored in a harbour just looking at a boat makes me queasy).
- If people didn't believe my theories for that particular week... I mean, for a particular 'case'... then I would have to bring up the fact that I was right EVERY OTHER SINGLE TIME BEFORE. Why didn't Quince ever mention that: 'Look, I know it's a bit out there to suggest X/Y/Z but seriously, dudes, have I ever been wrong about this shit? Let's stop playing silly buggers here just accept that whatever I say is fact and let me get back to banging whatever hot mamma I've currently got on the go'. I'm sure that's all it would have taken.

It's a fairly short list but unfortunately it was comprehensive enough to stop me from pursuing my childhood ambitions. I think, if we are being sensible, then mostly it's the second bullet point that is the biggest hindrance to becoming a pathologist/medical examiner.

Luckily I have found my new calling in life: Finding a well-paid job that involves having to play Sing Star all day. You might suggest living life on the road and making money from Karaoke competitions ala 'Duets' (yes, of course I saw that movie. It had Huey Lewis in it) but I can't actually 'sing' per se, I just seem to be quite good at keeping in time and in pitch (which is all that counts in Sing Star). Hmm, this might require some more thought.

Ah

I think my next door neighbour has seen me naked. I saw him out of the kitchen window and he smiled the 'I've seen your boobs' smile.

Which geek are you?

Which geek are you?

Seriously? I'd like to think of myself as the chic geek but I have a feeling I'm more hobby geek as I get ridiculously excited about things that I'm passionate about. Although I'm a bit fickle so never obsessed by the same thing for long... Chic geek it is then.

I'm on IMDB. Just worked in the costume department on those two movies when I was 14 and 16 respectively and then decided never to work in the film industry again. Once you've worked alongside Elizabeth Berkely (of Saved By The Bell 'fame') then there's really nothing else left to achieve.

I learnt last night that I'm fairly adept at this 'rock' dancing that all the kids seem to be into these days. However, I could only keep it up for about 10 minutes at a time before my pure indie magma blood started to boil and my neck hurts this morning. Indie clubs are much more civilised affairs, if I ever wake up with mysterious aches or pains or bruises (no, that's not the name of an experimental dance troupe) then it's only self-inflicted in as much as I've had one too many shandies and managed inadvertantly fall over (that often happens whilst sober too)/bump into a lampost (that often happens whilst sober too)/worn the wrong shoes(that often hapens whilst sober too) but not because my dancing moves were constructed to leave me crippled the day after (the robot rarely causes harm to one's self nor those around one).

Thanks to a story Chloe's friend Matt told yesterday I now have the title of my eighth studio album: 'I Looked Out My Window Today and Saw An Old Woman In The Garden'. A little wordy perhaps but try telling me it's not catchy (you can't can you? My science is too tight).

A pocket full of post-its

Things I will miss now I'm back to The Ford:

TV: It's my car, my rules. That means no kissing the driver.

Me: We should have implemented that rule on our road trip.

Charlotte: But then we wouldn't have had nearly as much fun.

Ahh faux-lesbian humour, you really can't be beat (although on reflection we might be getting a step nearer to establishing why her boyfriend hates my guts. I also left town with a pocket full of post-its thanks to that lil lady. She knows her to treat a girl that one.

Me: Guess what I got from Brighton?

Brother: Syphallis?

That kind of wacky banter is what makes my brother the legend he is.

Kes: Do you think Prince has a big cock?

Me: I really don't know

Kes: Well find out and report back. I'm curious.

Oh Farr. Her philosophical queries keep me entertained no end.

How you know a Sazz has moved into your house:

• Ikea rugs mysteriously turn up in places where there had been no Ikea rugs there before
• Sabrina the Teenage Witch magnets are used to decorate your fridge
• You have someone who lives in their own world to sneak up on and scare the living crap out of

Being back at university was cool. I sat in the second row for both my lectures today as I didn't want to appear *too* geeky. Not on the first day.

Uni Crush Count (thus far): 2 (liable to increase exponentially as the term goes on)
- A guy who came up to me and mistook me for someone else. When asked 'Are you Sally?' I wish I had said 'I can be' rather than just saying 'No'
- One of my lecturers. I don't get him (as it were) till the second semester. He dresses like Jeremy Clarkson. I think it might be love this time.

I'm very upset about Steve Irwin. The man was awesome and very very weird. At least he died doing what he loved and getting stabbed through the heart by a stringray is probably one of the coolest deaths on record.

Do all families have conversations like this?

Papa Mikey: Why does you're mum keep saying the top she's wearing is saucy?

Me: Cos it's so low cut fool.

Papa Mikey: But she's always got her baps out.

Me: No she doesn't!

Papa Mikey: Oh yeah, wait. That's you.

[Whilst watching Britain's Next Top Model: Bitchy girls bitching = TV Gold]

Papa Mikey: The one at the front is definately the prettiest

Me: No way! If you ignore her mingy skin then its the one in green at the back

Papa Mikey: Wrong. Ask a hundred men what they reckon and they'd all think that one was an uggo.

Me: I don't care what a hundred men think. About anything. The one in green is the prettiest by far. My science is too tight, you can't argue with that.

Papa Mikey: Your science is as loose as a goose and your logic is flawed

Me: How dare you. If there's one thing I'm known for it's that my logic is ALWAYS FLAW LESS.

Papa Mikey: Yeah you haven't got a 'floor' to stand on. Lol lol lol lol lol lol.

Me: That doesn't make any sense

Papa Mikey: Or does it?

Me: No.

Me: Oh eight hundred double oh. Ten sixty six [This is the Hastings Insurance jingle. My Brother and I are constantly trying to get the other one singing it all day. It's something I like to call 'Battle of the Earworm']

Brother: I'm going to get off the train here and lollerskate my way home.

A new low

You know how when I say 'there's this amazing show about a teenage girl detective' or 'there's this amazing show about a teenage girl and her mum who got pregnant at 16' and immediately you switch off because those descriptions bring to mind the sort of programme that you imagine to be as if Hello Kitty puked up a television script? Yes? Right? Ok well, let me tell you about the worst show on TV. It's called '7th Heaven'. It's about a preacher, his wife and their seven children (DO YOU SEE WHAT THEY DID THERE?). All the conclusions you just came to about how dreadful this programme is? They are correct.

I'm obsessed with it. I've never seen something that is so consistantly bad. The acting = diabolical, the plots = laughable, the preaching (I know it's a show about a preacher but COME ON!) = insulting... e.g. if you have sex before marriage then you will (no ifs or buts about it) end up pregnant or riddled with 'STDs' and ruin your life forever and ever amen; women should always bow to their husbands demands - but then women aren't intelligent enough to think for themselves anyway; if you don't think you can look after you're child because you're too young and naive to do so then so the fuck what? Nothing is as sinful as giving that child up for adoption and possibly allowing the child a chance at a better start in life; Doctor's should never ever ever tell a patient how long they think s/he has to live - only God has that information... etc etc ad infinitum. It's like, you know how George Bush is the worst example of stupid and lazy Republicans? Well, imagine they created a show populated by characters entirely like that. One dimensional and unable to deliver a sentence without looking slightly confused at words over a three syllable limit. I am morbidly fascinated with this programme. And then I feel gut wrenchingly sad that it's about to enter it's eleventh 'season' and regularly gets 12 million plus viewers. I can't imagine that they are all like me and watch it cos they hate it. Sad, sad, sad.


Reasons not to be sad:
- I got a new laptop. With like, bundles of memory and a CD/DVD Burner drive and like, sooper smart sharp screen and wireless built in and-intel-something-cool processor and all that shit. Only problems so far: I JUST THIS SECOND worked out where the Caps Lock is. I've been using THE SHIFT KEY UP TILL NOW. So I appologise for the EXCESSIVE USE OF CAPS. IM JUST EXCITED OK? Still havent worked out how to get sound. I know sound is theorectically possible but is proving to be, thus far, elusive.
- I'm going on a road trip tomorrow with my*snaps fingers* homegiiiirl Charlotte.
- I now have leopard print leggings, cardigan, bag and shoes. The transition to Pat Butcher-dom is nearly complete.

What the bloggers blog

From the team at MSN Live Spaces homepage:

Who apparently think that we all blog about about kidnapping small dogs with boggy eyes.

I have two new catchphrases:

1. 'What's the haps?'
Translation: Hello. What is going on with you my dear friend? (the last part is implied)

2. 'My science is too tight.'
Translation: My logic is flawless and thus you will never succeed at beating my argument.

I like them because I can pretend to be living in Connecticut in 1997 which is, approximately, the last time either of those phrases were used by a living human.

I went to see Harsh Times tonight with Freddy Rodriguez and Christian Bale tonight. The end scene caused me to hide inside my hood and then cry a little. I knew I should have fought harder to go see 'John Tucker Must Die'.

Too much free time

... has meant I've ended up watching four hours of Freddie Prince Jr's new sitcom 'Freddie' and nearly six hours of 'Kings of Queens' in the last two days. I make myself sick. Especially as half of that time was watching THE SAME episodes that had been repeated ON THE SAME DAY. Yes.

On the plus side I did get round to putting some bleach down my shower and toilet. It was a job that took like 56 seconds in total but I felt an enormous sense of achievement afterwards so I went and bought a Sufjan Stevens record 'A Sun Came' as a reward.

I think that its time for another haiku or three:

Sitcoms are my life
Which makes my life quite tragic
I need a hobby

Sebastian Bach
Plays Gil in the Gilmore Girls
His hair is quite big

I bought orange shoes
They make me even cooler
But hurt my feet bad

Sadpanda gets inspired

Sunday's spent reading the paper and music magazines whilst watching a barrage of bad sitcoms is the best sort of Sunday of all. Until you look back and think 'Did I really just squander 3 hours today glued to a show starring Freddie Prince Jr and that one out of Beverly Hills 90210? Maybe I need a hobby.' But of course that would cut into my 'watching bad sitcom' time and I'm not sure I could give that up.

My brother has moved back to Manchester today. This made me a sadpanda. Especially as he managed to take my Nintendo DS with him. I'm not sure what I'm going to mourn the loss of more... I'm joking of course. It'll be the DS. Although I will also miss his new addiction to making bad puns. All thanks to Dr Kawashima who had the GENIUS tip of puns being a good way to 'train your brain' (TRAIN YOUR BRAIN IN WHAT DR KAWASHIMA?!?! TRAIN. YOUR. BRAIN. IN. WHAT?)

e.g:

Me (to mum): You're hair looks big.

Mum: I shouted for you to come do my hair and you didnt reply.

Me: Well you can use my GHD's even if I'm not there.

Mum: I did use them.

Me: Riiight... [Please Note: I sometimes think my mother and I communicate by having two separate conversations that don't exactly relate to each other but still manage to mean we take turns in talking so that it at least appears we know what the other person is on about]

Brother: I'm glad we got all that straightened out. Sorry, that wasn't very punny.

Me: Jesus wept.

Yes. That sort of high brow humour is going to be sadly missed.

Thankyou for the mixtape suggestions. In particular whoever reccommended that tinymixtape link - it's awesome. Any site that has someone requesting 'Songs for the imaginary life I want to spend on a porch, in the woods, near a lake, off a dirt road, reading and writing and playing music with a boy who is in love with someone else' is the sort of thing that makes me realise why I'm glad the internet exists. (I'm not joking)

So far I've settled on two motifs:

1. The 'Friends Mix' idea from Stephen. Very timely as I'll be moving back to The Ford soon so it'll be nice to have something that I can listen to when I'm homesick. And it means I can include some Neil Diamond, Chaz'n'Dave and Charles Aznavour. That's going to be one freakin sweet mixtape right there

2. The Soundtrack to My Life if I made a Movie that was Loosely Based on my Life. Which would start off with 'Cannonball' by Breeders and have to include Supergrass 'Caught By The Fuzz' and Jane's Addiction 'Been Caught Stealing'. That makes it sound like I've lead the life of some sort of delinquent, which I most definately haven't (unless anyone who's closest brush with the law is the time their friend threw up on a policeman's shoe can ever really be considered a delinquent. Which I don't think they can). Those songs would be more scene setters than the lyrics having anything to do with what was going on in the scenes per se.

I also like Michael's idea of 'Mornings' as that could have a Side A - 'Snoozy'/Side B - 'Up and At 'Em Baby' theme. For the days when I can laze in bed and enjoy being snuggled under my duvet and conversely for the days when I need to be awake and alert and ready and don't neccessarily want to injest three litres of coffee to do it.

Oh man, I love making mixtapes.

One Stupid Car owned by one Stupid Girl

The back box on my car exhaust is broken and about to fall off. This is making my ladylike lil Ka sound like a rood-boy-get-up-punked-out-ghetto-style vehicle. It doesn't really suit me.

I wana make a mixtape but need a theme and can't think of one. Please give me ideas/inspiration etc. I'm sadly lacking in both at present.

Don't bust my chops

Umm... What happened to my blog? MSNGod has been playing silly buggers and made it look all different to my eyes without my expressed permission.

MSNGod is going to pay. Oh he'll pay. Somehow. I don't know how.

I'm technically unemployed now. It's awesome. Against all expectations and indeed, going contrary to every fibre in my being, I have actually been doing something with my time that doesn't involve watching J.Lo and early 90's romcoms on the movie channels. This has meant I got a TAN. When I say 'tan' I mean I have been collecting freckles at an alarming rate and am slightly less alabaster white than usual. Still, for me, this can be considered an achievement. Normally I stay as white as white can be due to my prediciltation for spending warm summer days indoors and the fact that my half-Irish blood finds sunlight to be toxic. The only thing is, I'm bored of wearing summer clothes now. I want to buy a new coat and be able to wear snazzy slacks without boiling myself to death. I can't even successfully commit to a season without wanting what I can't have. No wonder I'm so bad at relationships with real live people.

In a surprising turn of events my black dog has decided to hate me less and I think a truce has been called in the war she was waging. We have bonded over the hamster we are looking after for a friend while she's on holidays. Together we sit and stare into the cage waiting to catch a glimpse of this, so far, elusive creature. Apparently it's called 'Lulu' but I've decide to call her 'Miss Barry'. Miss Barry does not want to be seen. I have yet to be convinced that she's not a Sabrina hamster that can disappear and reappear on demand. Why does Miss Barry not want me to see her? What is she hiding? Black dog and I have been discussing this night after night for the past week trying to figure it out. We havent reached any conclusions yet. Mostly due to the fact that we don't speak the same language and, as neither of us is a hamster, it's difficult to get an insight into the hamster mind.

Memories both misty and water coloured

Seven years after finishing school (JESUS CHRIST!) I was out on a Friday night watching a local band (who you should totally check out) and faced a room full of people who had been through the whole shambolic mess of the teenage educational experience with me. After politely deciding (from both sides) that acknowledgement of me would just make everyone uncomfortable I settled on quietly ripping the piss out of them all until the loudest one finally attained the right level of drunkeness to approach me with a 'You're Sarah aren't you?'. He then proceeded to kiss me on the cheek about 15 times and wished me well on my adventures through life (I'm paraphrasing). This is someone that would never even have given me the time of day when I was 15.

Lessons Learned: The secret to popularity lies in wearing a pencil skirt and a low cut top.

You can dance, you can dance, everybody look at your pants

Firstly, I don't know how anyone couldn't cry a river over the ending of Doctor Who. Did you see it? With the sadness and the heartbreakingness? You are obviously burly manish manly men with hearts of stone and tear ducts of steal steel steele steel.

Now we have that settled...

Yay Batman flew in to say hi!

Now we have that established....

My red dog seems to really enjoy licking my left knee at the moment. My left knee hasn't been going anywhere or doing anything that the rest of me hasn't. Not without my consent anyway *looks suspiciously at left knee*

Haiku fun

Chloe (a.k.a Soul Mate)
Chloe is so cool
Sort of like a snowman is
But not made of snow

Kieran (a.k.a 'Teh' Brother)
His sideburns are great
If you like pubes on your face
I don't think I would

Carlos
'Come to car boot sale'
'There'll be Beetlejuice toys there'
But he lied. Wanker.

Dance Parties
Dance parties rock hard
Speshly if I am dancing
Because I rock hard

Doctor Who
I love Doctor Who
I want him as my boyfriend
He looks like an owl

My So Called Life

• Watching a biography on E! channel of David Cassidy for like, the third time
  
• Watching The True Hollywood Story of Charles in Charge
• Finding out the there's a bar in Vancover called the 'Alex P. Keaton' named after the character Michael J Fox played on Family Ties
• Watching 'The David Cassidy Story' a made-for TV movie about... well Mr Cassidy (strangely all the titles were in French but everyone spoke English and there were no subtitles. It was worth watching even if you don't like 70's heart throbs due to the all the hair-cuts-that-couldn't-possibly-be-anything-but-a-wig)
• Crying for about half an hour at the end of Doctor Who
• Getting invited to go to a gay bar by six men at 3:50am whilst sat alone, dishevelled and drunk by a McDonald's in Trafalger Square.

Really, anyone who gets excited by the first five things doesnt deserve the last one to happen to them. Welcome to my contradictory fuelled life.

I'm melting I'm melting!

This weather is melting my brain and making me delirious.

Case 1: I laughed, genuinely laughed, at something that happened in Everybody Loves Raymond today. And not even just at the brothers voice. I laughed at a joke they had written with the intention of it being funny. This goes against everything I believe in.

Case 2: In between changing CDs in my car a song came on the radio which didn't make my ears bleed so I listened along for a bit to try and work out which generic popstar was being made to sound as if they could sing in tune. And then it happened. I found out it was Paris Hilton 'Stars are Blind'.

I feel sick.

A compare and contrast exercise

My brain BEFORE I got the Ninendo DS:

My brain AFTER I got the Nintendo DS:

A Haiku for Lindsey Lohan

I went to see 'Just My Luck' last night. It wasn't bad, although it wasn't Lohan's greatest film (Mean Girls is still clearly her best work yet), having said that it did have McFly in it so that balanced out any quibbles I may have had with the plot and characterisation. However, it has inspired me to write a haiku which is printed for your viewing pleasure right here:

Dear Lindsey Lohan - A Haiku for You

Don't be my girlfriend

But can I lick you a bit?

That would be nice thanks

Some tips for the Modern Day Lady

• Don't air guitar in heels. It doesn't look good. Even if you're so wasted you believe so at the time.
  
• Don't order two scoops of mint choc chip ice cream in a cone and then realise you need to go to the toilet real bad. Nothing good will come of this.
• Don't get so distracted by cute boys with scruffy beards while you're driving that you nearly run over hapless pedestrians who are on the zebra crossing.
• Don't have your windows down whilst singing along loudly to your music when stopped at traffic lights. The guys in the car next to you will laugh and scarcastically applaud you and you will end up feeling a little foolish.
• Don't lend your mum your new Nintendo DS. She'll become obsessed with Dr Karasaki's Brain Game thing and you'll never see it again. Even after she spent three days calling you a 'geek' every time she saw you.

You have been warned.

This is getting ridiculous.

It's 14:56. Everything was going fine. I'd actually got some work done and had played a good solid hour of Tetris on my lunchbreak without gameovering once (it's only a matter of time before I start having the Tetris dreams. It's happened before and it'll happen again. If I play too much my brain gets so addicted it doesn't even stop thinking about it when I'm asleep).

Then I sent an email and this happened:

Why won't Duncan James leave me alone? Why does his quest for shameless self-promotion keep invading my life. A life that I vowed would be Duncan James free.

If this keeps happening I'm going to be forced to take drastic action, for instance...

... and if that doesn't work then a strongly worded letter will be winging it's way to my local MP.

Things that rocked my world today

[Long and boring conversation about laundry ending up with....]

Me: You're on crack again arent you? Just because Kate Moss and Pete Doherty are doing it doesnt mean you can too.

Mum: I think I can

Oh the crazy post modern world we live in!

Elsewhere it turns out 'fonzy' did NOT come up on my phone's predictive text. I mention him at least five times a day so I can't belive I wouldn't have ever saved his name to my phone's dictionary. I feel sick and a little perturbed (that might be due to having 3 cups of coffee after 9pm)

Why I don't tell my mum things

Why I don't tell my mum things.

Oh happy day! My Nintendo DS Lite (in Crystal White, though I would have preferred the Japanese Navy version I wasnt going to spend £36.79 on postage) and my games have arrived and it's made the fact that my brother and my future sitcom writing partner have gone to visit MY Fred in Austrailia WITHOUT ME. Damn kids. Anyway, this is why I shouldn't tell my mum about my life...

Mum - You're chirpy this afternoon. Chirpy for you at any rate
Me - I'm a Bobbing Bobcat [this relates to an internet test I'd taken earlier in the day - here]
Mum - hmm... I wouldn't go quite that far
Me - No. I am. The internet said. The internets never lies. [cue eyebrow raise and pursed lips from the mother]. I am also happy because I have got all my games for my new beautiful DS. It's awesome. I can't stop playing Tetris, theres about 50 billion different versions of it all in one. It's a bit like how I imagine heaven but with less harp music and more plink plink brrr music.
Mum - I didn't know you were into geeky games
Me - I like puzzle games and I like cute cartoon platform games, sometimes i like racing games
Mum - You are a surprise sometimes... geek [said with a mock cough from behind her hand]

Me - What? I'm not a geek. I'm cool. Look at me. See?
Mum - Peering into a tiny screen hurting your thumb muscles. That makes you a geek, 100 per cent, through and through.. like a stick of rock

Me - You shush, you dont know what the hell you're talking about

Mum - You are wrong. I am hip hoppity up to date. I know a geek when I see one

Me - I'm going to smash your face in. Now go away.
Mum - You wuv me really

Me - Do I? You keep telling yourself that.

[cue 37 minutes of pouting and crying and assurances that Yes I do love her really and No, I wouldn't ever try and beat her up. Mum's are exhausting]