Nothing to do with Charlize Theron or Bob Dylan.

Location: Norwich, United Kingdom

Keep on Truckin'.

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

The Beat Up

Here's another one I dug up from the archives for your perusal. Note:

(a) The Face: sweaty, apparently toothless; yet from my expression you can tell that my strapless bra was chaffing me, so I had to rip it off on the dancefloor, draw it out of my sleeve and stuff it in my handbag. No really. Inside, i'm saying, 'Yeah, you can take a photo of me looking like a grandma going cold turkey on crack, but my cleavage don't need no bolstering, y'all'.

(b) The guy behind me. Where is he going? What is he doing? Suggestions, please.

On Saturday, both Skirt and Trouser went to Meltdown at 'The Waterfront'. The venue is, like most of the city worth visiting, owned by that sanctum of democracy and Nestlé-despisers, The Union of UEA Students. Basically, the music is better than the crap they play in your average club on a Saturday night, and their drinks and coat check are cheep cheep. Oh, and the clientele is mostly underage, natch.

I muchly enjoyed the night--I even got what a lot of middle-class girls never got in their youth. The thing that teenage boys everywhere dream of getting. That's right, comrades...

I GOT BOTTLED. Yes, in further confirmation of the fact that I am both 'street' and 'down with the kids', I got lamped with a glass vesicle, namely that of VK Apple. I had a man of 6'7" checking my scalp for sharp fragments. Ace.

Friday, January 27, 2006

Hot To Trot

This simply isn't fair. What kind of democracy (and don't go typing THAT into Google China) would allow someone to snot for seven days straight?

About a week ago I finally agreed to go for a drink with a man I used to speak of as "The Jesus Stalker" on the advice of my housemate. However, as luck/doom/mirth/woe would have it, I have had neither a free drink, nor have I left the house without gasping for breath, rummaging desperately for a last dry tissue etc for a week now, and have found solace only in thermal underwear, Celebrity Big Brother and Orange Squash. His attempts to draw me onto campus via MSN have only resulted in the following exchange:

Him: "Why don't you come onto campus later? We could have that drink".
Me (in a display of class): "I would, but I then I would only drool on your arm and cough in your face, a la Carol Beer".


Him: "Wow. I'm flattered".

On the plus side I'm enjoying 24-hour fat-a-thons, without a moral desire to perform rudimentary exercise to make up for it. Did you know that Cadbury's now make a special 250g chocolate bar? I bet you didn't. The tagline is "MORE TO SHARE!". I laughed about that for all of 5 minutes, after which I ate the whole thing myself. I like it indoors: it's a dog-eat-dog world out there, you know, and in here it's just girl-stuff-face.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Sickie Karma

I have pulled many a sickie in my student-time. Mainly because of alcohol, but sometimes because of 'legitimate' reasons. During my second year, I was unfortunate enough to be enrolled in two particular seminar groups, one compiled from a group of whores who insisted on stealing my chair during the 5-minute break so that I had to sit on the radiator, and the other which was like a Suffragette meeting--if the suffragettes had worn combats, sported crew cuts and allowed men in, only to stare at them with a conviction that implied they had smuggled in flick knives, that is. I didn't last past Week 5 in either of them. The sickie became my friend.

This term, in a last push for graduate glory, I decided there was to be no more sickies. But then I actually became quite ill. As I staggered out yesterday to my creative writing workshop, one hand mit tissue, the other clutching a large bottle of water, Lyd advised me back to bed. So I thwacked my head on the staircase. "Look! It's a sign!", quoth she. "You're not to go".

When I did make it in, wincing in the corner of the room so as not to be spotted dribbling and dripping over the furniture, I somehow got "volunteered" to write a 2000 word creative piece BY THIS THURSDAY for the beard-strokers to criticise in class.

Now, THAT is karma.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Trout Pouts

When I came back to Norwich a couple of days before Christmas, I ended up in the City with Lyd and her friends Siobhan and Frazer. Now both of us have strip after strip of these pictures- demonstrations of the glorious pout of Nadine Coyle from Girls Aloud. Honestly, look at the album sleeve and you'll see what I'm talking about.

This week has been much of a blur, vis a vis dissertation deadlines, financial organisation and the like. I did manage to have a merry time out last night, but when my alarm went off at 7.30am for the dreaded 9am seminar I instantly regretted it; not least when I ran the shower and noticed it was looking more and more like a bath, only to discover a wodge-no I don't mean a clump, I mean a full on, heaped WODGE-of hair in the plug-hole, nicely coated in soapflakes; I thought I was going to gag as I fished the wodge out with my bare hands, trying not to imagine how many pubes were buried inside it. Now honestly, you wouldn't expect that kind of behaviour from girls, would you? Maybe boys, with their distinct odour of week-old y-fronts and toast-crumbs, but not girls. Unless I'm living with a loup-garou. That's a werewolf, you liiiteeel rosbifs.

My mother always says that bad things come in fives. There was the bonfire-sized wodge of hair. Then I decided I'd listen to the new Strokes album on the way to campus, and my batteries went flat a full five feet from my house. When I finally made it to "Spinsters, Lesbians and Whores of the 18th Century" the tutor had nothing to say and sent us all home at roughly 9.18am, just enough time for someone to come in late and make a name-card for himself, but not enough to finish the actual writing of his name, which was Lee.

OK, if my calculations are correct, that's only three things. If anyone needs me, I'll be hiding under my bed until midnight tonight, trying to not to gauge my arms on rusty nails, electrocute myself with the toaster etc.

Sunday, January 15, 2006

Rugger Buggers Abound

Last night for Ours and Next Door's Dover Street Collective was a planned pub-to-club session. Last night for me was a planned pub-to home-to-laptop-to-dissertation session. But roughly 10.30pm, after consistent badgering from Mr. Jay's friend Ryan it became more like a, 'NO! STOP ASKING ME TO COME OUT AND oh well I will but I'M NOT DRINKING well alright but only if you buy' affair and I "reluctantly" shuffled into their cab.

Whenever I go out with 'new men' (it doesn't happen often I tell thee), I become quite fascinated with their behaviour. Particularly the behaviour of the Rugger Bugger/Hockey Boy (of which I have mentioned before-I think I called them 'Fugu').

The actions of these particular Rugger Buggers, among them RAF, Lawyer and Insurance Broker, began as your archetypal Alpha Male posturing/innuendo and ended like softcore gay porn. First, there was the homoerotic pub competition of who could fit the lip of a pint glass in their mouth. And trust me, they were trying so hard to do this, that Mr. Jay in particular turned quite purple and then complained of lock-jaw for several hours afterwards. Then came the contest of who could punch their little finger Miyagi-style through a beer-mat. I honestly thought they were about to cry with excitement when each of them managed not one beer-mat, but two. They had NEVER SEEN ANYONE DO THAT BEFORE AND NOW SOMEHOW THEY COULD ALL DO IT!!!

After these games, I put it to them that weren't men nowadays trying to look gay with their Busted-McFly hairdos? And didn't they think the growth in the sales of men's cosmetics was a bit, erm, gay too? And why did they do this, as most of the women I know want a very straight and stubbly man in a Lumberjack shirt, or other equally manly clothing. Mr. Jay suggested that women had raised the bar by demanding cleanliness and style from their man at all times. Olly horrified us all by confessing his obsession with the gym, hair-straighteners and getting under a flourescent strip-light in order to get a tangerine complexion.

At the end of the night, they were actually grabbing each other's bums in the absence of women to do it for them and I did think they were quite enjoying it too. Olly, tellingly, a bit too much. So there you have it ladies: The Rugger Bugger. You'll like their thighs-of-steel, but you probably won't enjoy it when your straighteners and moisturiser start going missing. And you may want to kiss your mirror goodbye. And watch out for his 'borderline' friends. Oh, and...

What did I tell you? Fugu!

Saturday, January 14, 2006


Hello chaps. Last night I heard the rather sad news that my might-as-well-be-sister Maya's grandma Ba had died. I spent half my youth in Ba and Maya's mum Sita's care, running about their garden playing 'magical ponies' and pretending to be the Secret Seven in the 'Mystery of the Black Cat' which used to creep about under her hedge. Maya has the kind of house that is every child's fantasy; a huge garden with lots of compartments (some of which were-pleasure upon pleasure- 'forbidden'), a pond the size of a small lake, holes in the walls her hamster would get lost in for days, two staircases, 'Z' TV and a dressing-up box full of sari fabrics. I'll always remember our impromptu karaoke sessions, where we used to terrify her little brother Lawrence by forcing him to listen to the scary voice on Michael Jackson's 'Thriller', and the time when we formed our own band (I still don't know why I was made the lead singer).

Maya grew up years before I did, and I still love listening to her tales of boys that would absolutely amaze me when I was a nerdy little weed at the Girl's School. I particularly remember when she slept with a jockey in her car down Cottesbrooke Lane and was rumbled because he walked into the pub afterwards with the glitter from her 'signature' top all over his face. She was devastated when Take That split up.

The last time I went over there was just before coming back to Norwich and, as usual, they were trying to feed me up before I'd even put my first foot into the house. I was munching away on Sita's trademark curry and, as a joke, Ba handed me some ketchup to go with it. I don't think she'd mind being remembered that way.

Perfect Saturday music: 'You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go' (Madeleine Peyroux)

Friday, January 13, 2006

Back From Bedlam

First, apologies for alluding to a James Blunt album in the title. Second, some of you might be pleased to know that I have stabilised since yesterday's post, which was really written late on Wednesday night. Others of you might have wished i'd been sectioned for the sole purpose of purloining my record collection/guitar/passport etc. Yah boo sucks. Having taken a bus for the sole purpose of buying a bottle of Jack Daniels (the entire thing is a mere 14 units and therefore only an average night of carnage drinking) I became aware that perhaps living with me was becoming increasingly like playing the Paul McGann character in a female version of Withnail & I and made a conscious decision to be normal again.

So I spent the night down the Rose Tavern: server of Leffe, Kronenburg Blanc and salted peanuts. And then became rather irate at Pete Burns on t'telly: a man...

Gaah, a spider just dropped from the ceiling and singed itself on my candle! Gaah!

As I was saying, a man who doesn't just have a chip on his shoulder about his sexuality but an entire sack of potatoes. Since when did wearing the carcass of an endangered animal express anyone's right to their own individuality? The only thing it expresses is jaw-dropping ignorance and stupidity. And I again became just your average student.

Well of course, when I said I had decided to be normal, you had to take into account that I live in Norfolk, the Mecca of inbreds everywhere. Normal is all relative.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Mood Swing In 5, 4...

Well, after my initial enthusiasm for all things Norfolk related, it seems that I may have had a change of heart. Everything and everyone here seems to have been meticulously planned and executed for the sole purpose of pissing the hell out of me at all opportune times/places. And before you ask, this is not PMT. No, really.

Yesterday I got to the point where I was tempted to throw my own crockery across the kitchen but, in a return to form, I got worried that it might injure my beloved orchids and so simply slipped it into the cupboard. I thought fresh air might help, but it only gave me an inexplicable desire for nicotine (actually perhaps due to accompanying Sam on his fag breaks at work for much of the holidays) and I felt compelled to go and buy 10 Malboro Lights and a lighter and smoke them all on the way home. I'm not used to this lark and I managed a mere 2 before feeling woozy and nauseous. I'm clearly about as Rock 'n' Roll as Lindsay Lohan, although in reality that's one habit I don't need right now so perhaps it was for the best.

When I got home, to enquiries as to why I reeked of a stale ashtray, I went to the love of my life for some advice and help. N.B. That's my CD collection. Slating Death/Thrash/Hardcore etc Metal for years in favour of Jimi Hendrix Lite has meant that things were looking a bit on the tame side. I did get out The Stooges, but there was none of that 'I fucking hate you and you don't understand me and you never will so get out of my room MOM' type-poseuring that I needed.

Therefore I turned to that last bastion of hope, beloved of intellectuals and deadbeats everywhere: cheap wine! Luckily for me I had a bottle open, and so I took several sneaky slurps with my head in the fridge when no-one was looking. But then I remembered that I'm really George, and I don't DO on-the-edge midday drinking without needing a glass of water and a sit-down. I also remembered that I'm not a drunk, neither am I despondant. Abort! Abort! Abort!

So then I went to the shop and bought a tub of Ben & Jerry's. It was £3.99 a tub which I ate in one-fell-swoop, and it was quite orgasmic, until I got the inevitable sugar rush which made me so skittish I drummed continuously on my desk while housemate after housemate poured in and out of my room, until I became so inwardly explosive that I left them in there to go out for Fag No.3.

When air, fags, booze and chocolate fail, where can one go? Drugs are obviously not an option for someone so naturally psychotic, and religion is surely out when one considers that even the sermon during Midnight Mass makes me go a little cuckoo (although Christmas 2004 was quite entertaining because someone's scarf fell into a tea-light and caught fire during the service). So where can one go now?

Well, never underestimate the healing powers of new bed-sheets in relation to a broken alarm-clock and no seminars. Aahh, I can feel the calm flooding back in now....

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Trouser and Skirt

Last night we dallied along on the now ritualised House of Trouser vs. House of Skirt Pub Crawl™. There was one point where I felt a little unstable and knew I had to make the choice. Was I:

A. Going to walk that downward spiral that leads to legless crying of familial situations? Or
B: Going to the bar for two secret solo-shots of salt-tequila-lemon and just dance, dammit?

Luckily for myself and others I chose option B and ended up having great night, in which I even persuaded Moo to throw some shapes to Sympathy for the Devil and Blue Monday. Back home in the bathroom I also made some new discoveries.
  • That Hitchcock Blondes-style winged eyeliner they're always banging on about in Cosmo gives me that wide-eyed look, but girls, only the kind that suggests I've just been snorting a couple of lines off a toilet seat. And
  • That by making funny shapes with my mouth while using an electric toothbrush (why, oh why?) I can produce sounds like stephenhawkingtalking.

When I finally got into bed, Mr. Major called for a chat. For 'chat', read 'thinly concealed attempt at getting me to Liverpool for the sole purpose of a really gross and unwelcome seduction technique'. Thankfully, though is not evident from this blog, I do have SOME decency, morals, taste and (moderate) common-sense and therefore gave the obvious and righteous answer.

This morning I got to have my first stress-free lie-in. I love this place.

Monday, January 09, 2006

Nor Folk

Hello chaps!

As you can see I am once again back in Norwich, and once again blogging. And of course I am once again making a nuisance of myself:

I'm not exactly sure what was happening here but from my face it was probably some very naughty bitching about the other people in the pub. I don't remember much, but I do remember walking into the music round of the Pub Quiz and Moo shouting, 'I'd do him up the arse!' exactly when the tape stopped.

I spent most of my first day today stalking around the Accessorize sale shelf like a rabid dog; foaming at the mouth over the earrings and getting all twitchy over the scarves (silk patterned neck-ties are £2-bloody-70!). It's great to be doing the holiday post-mortem thing once again at Dover Street, but personally I don't kiss and tell. Ahem! New Year's kiss is all you're getting.

After the carnage of parents (as in multiple, interchanging and temporary etc) Norwich is a breath of fresh air though I must not forget that I'm here to work. Not to drink and be merry, but to work. TO WORK.

Here are my New Year's Resolutions. Change 1 Thing my eye!

  • Always wear matching underwear. Period pants to be thrown out and replaced with briefs of similar size, but with polka dots instead of greying-beige seams.
  • Buy sensible things like pens, batteries and lightbulbs regularly. They will inevitably need replacing at 11.45pm on Sundays.
  • Be less prejudiced against men with hair that is not floppy, dark-brown and/or curly.

I'll check this list back in 2007. For now, here's a very tardy toast to 2006!