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Archive for September, 2010

I wish this was my life

Posted by idetest on September 29, 2010

What is this I see? Dan Humphreys escape Brooklyn and his father’s waffles? Emma stone being babalicious (I’m sorry, that word will NEVER appear again) Lisa Kudrow being…Lisa Kudrow, and AMANDA BYNES!???

Amanda Bynes…how I love thee. Let me count the ways. She’s my 3rd favourite Young Hollywood diva after Lindsay (bow you peasants!) and Taylor Lautner (guuuuurl). Special mentions to Britney obviously. And Snooki.

I’ve loved Amanda ever since she got her own comedy show on Nickelodeon which included a recurring skit where she would be on the balcony of her hick Appalachian home and decry to her buck toothed brother/husband that she was “going to hit you in the face with a [insert new object every week here]”. And one week, no word of a fucking lie, it was …(breathe)…a beaver. It was glorious. Amazing. And yes, actually quite life-changing.

And now here she is the main character (at least in the version I’ll be watching) in a movie about America’s national pastime: the sexy times and being ashamed of it. Best yet, she’s a Christian. Bless, this could be the best Christian movie since Saved (“The muffin shop is closed!”)

This movie is going to be amazing.

I wonder if there’ll be a scene where Amanda retires from Christianity via twitter and then unretires a week later. Please, Jesus?

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Your Autumnal Nigel-no-mates TV watching extravaganza.

Posted by idetest on September 29, 2010

Hola chicos and the people who love them.

So it’s raining. And it took me two hours to get home from work today. And I’m wearing a polo neck in light grey. If I voted for the fascist party I could totes be Swedish. So all this leads me, in a thinly veiled attempt at segway, to what’s new, what’s hot and what’s just grand on the telly this time of year.

Spooks.

Omgz. Spooks. I love it so. It’s so ridiculous – remember the first season when such plots included a) a cat escaping while trying to wire someone’s house b) An old school friend seeing you on a bus when you were tailing a suspect c) using your spy powers to up your credit rating?

Now plots include a) heavily tattooed hunks with false identities reliving their four years in a Russian torture chamber and having affairs with homicidal American traitors who end up getting deaded by a sniper b) blowing up hotels with politcians in them to start a nuclear war between India and Pakistan.

Yeah. Still, on the upside: The new guy what plays Dimitri is lovely and needs to start taking his shirt off, also the guy what plays Lucas wearing v. tight jeans that the camera lingers over while he bends over. Which is a much better use of his talents than those silly Period dramas he used to star in.

Also- Harry and Ruth! THE ANGST. I seriously cannot believe this is this show’s 9th season. That said it is a British show so it’s still only in a single digit number of episode.

Merlin

I love Merlin. It reminds me of being eight when my family would watch Briscoe County Jr. together on a Saturday night (my father found it funny, my brother like the action and my mum fancied him. I was there for the sausage rolls she’d make. SAUSAGE ROLLS, PEOPLE!).

Basically it’s the same sort of thing; ramp up the plot to twenty but never, ever progress it. Every time something happens make sure it’s all back to the way it was at the beginning of the episode. Never, ever allow it to move forward. Cos that’s the quickest way to cancellation.

Also, Morgana is a HOT, EVIL, BITCH. And I love her. She perfected ‘turning to the camera and grinning evilly’ over the summer. Also did I mention she is hot? And Irish? And wears fabulous outfits and high heels (it’s like the 4th century AD. Who knew they even had shoes?) whilst doing her evilness.

ALSO – him what plays Arthur be fine. And the writers know this and he spends several scenes an episode without no shirt besmirching his fine manly chest. Damn straight. Also Lancelot be packing too, but in a greasy Spanish sort of way. But I’d still tap that. Also Merlin is tappable as well (you could just hold onto his ears).

This is England ’86

Haven’t actually watched this. Haven’t seen the movie what proceeded it either. Howevs. a cute boy at my work (tall, muscular, blonde, wearing skinny jeans and with those black rimmed glasses that are so in right now- basically picture Justin Timberlake in his “I’m in a move about facebook” get up he’s been wearing lately and then make him a 23-year-old middle class English guy. Yeah. That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.) recommended it.

From what I can tell it’s got naturalistic acting (Ugh. A polite way of saying nauseatingly bad) and is set in the ’80s. Now God knows I love the ’80s: ‘Two Tribes go to War’ is my fav. song of all time. Right above Kesha’s ‘Tik Tok’ (I lie. It’s a Kelis song actually). But even I know the ’80s should only be relived with irony and bad outfits worn to student nights. Not in serious award-porn type television. Though as this about skinheads and the working class…and y’know the unwashed poor, maybe it could work. Ew. Poor people – why is that still allowed?

(Also, instert your own “This is Sparta!” joke here).

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“We should tax the stupid people!”

Posted by idetest on September 28, 2010

So after the leadership contest which dragged on for four mofo’ing months Labour has a new leader.

It’s not the lying black lady, nor the chubby northerner…nor the other one what I can’t remember: no it’s one of the Russian Jew émigré brothers: the younger one who looks like Eeyore.

EM

Donkey Kong

Oh and now Labour are leading the over the Tories in the polls. Oh, I hate you swing voters. I FUCKING HATE YOU ALL!

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All about my new whare*

Posted by idetest on September 22, 2010

*in the voice of a gin-soaked widow after being awoken early by the help one morning* Hoooola chicos.

So, after a thrilling shift by the river serving drinks and canapes to a bunch of noise pollution consultants (if I was joking, wouldn’t I be laughing?) and last night’s shambles at the Roundhouse Theatre in Camden, in which we all had our facec painted and had to serve dinner to a bunch of drunk northerners who ran pizza parlours (once again if I was joking…) and I was forced to deal with stroppy Essex girls and my secret Italian lover (he’s gay and he wants me…it’s just that he doesn’t know it yet) apparently having his hotness DECREASED tenfold by the face paint, I retire to my new abode.

I’ll tell you a little about it shall I: Well it’s in a place called South Ealing, which despite my eternal longing is still far enough out that the tube splits one station back so I will still have to spend many precious late-night minutes standing on freezing platforms waiting for the train for my branch. Also this area is served by the Heathrow branch of the Piccadilly Line. Any Londoners that will ever read this just grimaced. Everyone else was all “que?” Yeah I totes saw you.

London is very strange in the fact that everyone discusses transport in intimate details. In other cities you would never say in response to someone telling you where they lived “Oh, that’s on such and such tube line, zone 2?” and then begin to dissect the journey from there to your whereabouts: “You should take the flippity-do-da Line to Fluffington Square and then change on to the Wango-dango Line up to I Can’t Believe it’s not Butter and then take the Bakerloo Line to Elephant & Castle” (spot which one of those is real. Go on. I dare you.) It’s all very derivative and makes us look strange. Whatevs.

And for the record; the Piccadilly Line: overcrowded, slow and with seventeen million stations so a journey on any other line that would take 20 minutes, takes twice as long. Also it’s filled with tourists with suitcases. Also the Uxbridge branch is never on time and lies: A train every ten minutes? Fuck off.

And just for the record: The Northern Line- overcrowded to hell; you won’t even get a seat at 11.20 on a Sunday night.

The Central Line: dirty but fast (Like your mum).

The Bakerloo Line: looks like you’re about to go back in time to the Blitz on some low-budget BBC mini-series. God, people don’t you know about a good makeover and soft furnishings? Particularly ones from, oh, I don’t know, this century?

The Circle Line: where does that even go?

The Jubilee Line: which is never open.

The Hammersmith and City Line: I have never taken this, nor met anyone who has.

The District Line: the most unreliable and slow Line. Expect to grind to a halt every 3 seconds with the driver on the intercom going “Err, not exactly sure why we’ve stopped…we’ll be on the move…soon…ish.”

And the Victoria Line is all of the above. It’s awful. who exactly had the bright idea to put several of the busiest train stations on one line? You’re a cunt.

ANYWAY. My house. It’s on a very pretty terraced nineteenth century street with lots of little trees attempting to stay alive. It’s got parks at either end and a council estate with the obligatory terrifying looking tower block. At the nicer end there is a motorway and an All Boys Catholic High School. I prefer the council estate.

Also despite being in a not all that remarkable area it seems to be filled with posh people. Which is surprising as a) we’re 5 minutes down the road from a large university(which is one of the wrost in Brtiain – wihich I’m not surprised as it criteria for entrance is ‘did you get expelled from your high school and have possibly seved jail time? Then, boy, have we got a place for you!) and b) Um, well we’re in a suburb of West London. Tacky and rundown yes. Full of Polish and Indian migrants and bemused looking Antipodeans and South Africans? Most definitely. Posh? On this side of the river? I think not.

Also I’m living with three girls: a Kenyan with a boyfriend who resembles a chubby Erkel (In a nice way), A cockney who resembles the woman who got Phil addicted to crack on Eastenders (the woman from Pulling; and if you’re a soap fanatic: Family Affairs) and an as of yet unidentified Antipodean.

I’ve only had one conversation with each of them; one involving recycling bins and one involving TV remote tutorials. Neither were deep conversations. I feel that I could quite happily go two months without having to really talk to either of them. seems reasonable, no?

*Look it up you racist imperialists.

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My shoebox bring all the boys to the yard (only place there’s room). Part II

Posted by idetest on September 20, 2010

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yes: I am aged 11 and living in an all but condemned 1930s villa in a field with a lawn being re-landscaped by my drunk neighbour who happens to own a digger business. My father paid him, for what was probably thousands of dollars of work, with a case of beer and a ‘cheers, mate’. Sometimes,  I do actually miss the old country.

It was at this time I started what we call intermediate school. It’s basically our strange, antipodean word for a Junior High. Anyway, it was my first experience at a school with over 100 students and with school uniforms. My mother went all out and got into a cat fight at the 2nd hand sale the week before school started back and managed to get me a jumper with only a few gross stains and unidentified burn marks. Oh, how I yearned for one of the nice NEW school jerseys that most people in my class had. I was in the ‘brainy’ class i.e. the upper middle class professional’s and rich farmers children’s class. I stuck with the token minority kids and the ‘shit, put some kids from the poorer schools in that class’ students. Yay.

But this would be okay since my father had promised me a cool new bedroom. But then I turned 12. And then I turned 13 and moved off to proper high School and this time put my foot down and got a NEW jersey (victory 1 to me. My mother took a second job.) and then I turned 14. And finally my father scratched his perma-stubbled chin and went “Oh, yeah you were supposed to get a new room, weren’t you?”

So my father ripped out the bathroom and did some illegal wiring and plumbing and then hired some cowboy builder (his mate Jonesy I believe) to redo the rest. In  the end I was left with a room that yes, was twice the size and pure awesome. I had demanded a Mexican themed room: I got yellow wall paper, a bright red-painted door, homemade curtains with sombreros and cacti on them (with a matching bean bag!), a cool new duvet for my (red) bed (no, my parents didn’t go buy me a new bed…they just thought ahead during a 2 for 1 sale a few years earlier), A cool rug and wooden floors. With a huge hole from all the plumbing in the bathroom which dad never got round to fixing. For four years I had a hole in my floor through to the ground. And gaps all over the rest of the floor from where they’d had to find other bits of wood to fill in the gaps. It made winter’s fun.

Also I had a huge hole in my ceiling. I once had a midnight encounter with a possum looking down at me. Let’s just say I dealt with it like the mature and brave young man I was. And in the morning I washed the sheets before anyone else woke up.

After about two years of this relative paradise (Oooh, I forgot to mention my Mum even managed to find an old mirror from a police auction or something and made me a cool distressed wooden frame for it. It was all sorts of awesome.) my father decided that my mother bored him and my mother decided that she loved cheap chardonnay more than her husband and my parents went their separate ways and so we spent a year in poverty selling all our possessions to pay the mortgage.

Also, a quick hint; make sure your power company outsource their call centre to India: there’s nothing more uncomfortable to a middle-aged Indian woman than a teenaged white boy crying over the phone from 10,000 miles away and they’ll switch your power back on pretty quick smart. Did I mention I was made to do this in my neighbour’s living room? Their daughter was in my class. I’m not bitter or anything.

So after a year my mother gave up and we moved into town, selling the shack and moving back to rented accommodation. This one was truly awful. It was on the edge of my hometown and was behind a dysfunctional gang-house with a seemingly endless supply of criminals living there. Example: they had pig-dogs that would be kept in cages in their tiny back garden who they would let out once a week. Within seconds one ran over to one of the dozen or so cats that lived there and ripped it apart while the owner’s laughed.

Oh, and to make matters more fun my room was tiny. But now I had a bloody bean bag to put in there as well a bloody distressed framed mirror. Also the house was generally tiny and awful . But whatevs.

After 9 months here my family moved again and we went to live in the city where I went to university. I wont bore you with my mother’s ‘masionette’ (I call it a state house for pensioners.) it does have a nice view. But no garden. Or garage. It’s very bijou.

So I came to university where my hall of residence had large bedrooms; EXCEPT mine. Everyone else had perfectly nice sized bedrooms, but no due to some architectural quirk there were four bedrooms on each floor in the corners which were half the size of everyone else. Guess who got one? And guess who had friends who had lovely sized bedrooms with acres of space. So much so that when they smashed a lightbulb they didn’t even have to clean the floor because there was so much room they could just take a different path across the room. I’m not bitter or anything. But you know who you are.

So you see this a constant in my life: And when I dream of a day I’ll be able to afford a nice spacious house I think of all the pointless shit I can buy just cos I’ll have the space. Or the heavy, bulky useless junk I’ll buy knowing I won’t have to move every six months. It’s like when I was younger and my mum would buy me clothes from the Op Shop (stupid NZ word for a charity shop) and I was too embarrassed to wear them. I vowed I would buy all new clothes when I was older, I’d have designer clothes and always have new, nice, clean NOT PRE OWNED outfits to wear. And now I do. (Also-just like people who’d never rented before I was annoyed by people who loved to go hunting for thrift store bargains or wear second-hand ‘retro/vintage’ clothes. Oh, fuck off)

So maybe one day I will have a spacious house..instead of one either falling down around me or crammed to the gunnels because it’s decidedly Lilliputian.

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The shoebox phenomena (nomena nomena..) Part Uno.

Posted by idetest on September 20, 2010

*In a slurred drunk voice like your mother when she came back from book club* Hoooola.

Well, here I am buckaroos in my new home for the next two months. It’s an exciting house; a pebble dash Victorian double gable (look at me with me architecture terms) with high ceilings and creaky old floor boards. O, and those old-fashioned windows that you have to heave and push up like they do on American tv shows. It’s all v. exciting.

Howevs, (there’s always a however with moi. I’m like a nay-saying Tyra Banks. Also, I have never yelled at a girl like this in my life, either.) because I am a poor, poor, poor person who forages in dustbins for food and sells my ass on a street corner I am of course in what the British not-so-euphemistically refer to as The Box Room.

Sigh.

This room, despite it’s lovely big window, with its Ikea-riffic wooden blinds and bare floor boards and high ceilings is around 1.5-2 metres by a bit over 2 metres (what? I’m not good at maths). In essence it is in fact a walk in wardrobe with access from the corridor. Oh well.

It’s not like it’s my first one. When I was six we moved to the House of Wax-esque place I am forced at gunpoint to call my hometown (Imagine Star’s Hollow from Gilmore Girls but without the charm, warmth, picturesque scenery or standards…In fact y’know that show My Name is Earl?? Yeaahh…). We lived in a damp, cold hell hole where the landlord tried to make my parents buy back the de-humidifier they bought for the place when we left (my dad tried to punch him. It was awkward-it was his boss). This house was a horror show; my parents had mouldy asbestos type substance on their ceiling which they had to remove themselves after the landlord tried to charge them for it (yes he made a habit of it), then there was the marauding stags, cows and other farm animals who we would wake up on a Saturday morning to discover had broken into the garden and were now standing on the balcony eating my mother’s azaleas (my mother gets fucking worked up when bitches touch her foliage. It’s a British thing apparently). Anyway, my room here was perfectly nice – if dark and with creepy mould patches.

When I was ten and we were forced to vacate this house…due to, oh fuck knows really…actually they ordered us out with only two weeks notice because they wanted to convert the house in to an office for some unknown reason. We then moved to another house- a 120 year old cottage where my brother was given a bedroom the size of Belgium, with all sorts of exciting things (he got the computer in his room as well! Remember this was the 90’s. This was a huge deal.) where as I got a normal sized bedroom. Remember in rural NZ there’s not exactly a limit on space…it’s fairly empty …but this house was still a shithole; the shower had a concrete floor where bugs the size of small animals would crawl out of. Also there was nothing in the kitchen except an oven- no benches, just an oven. My mother cried. And then got down to preparing dinner…on the ironing board.

Eventually we moved out and my parents bought a house; the first time in my life. My parents became very house proud. However I was miffed as fuck- not only was the house a dump that my parents thought had unlimited potential (as what? A crack den?)- I however saw the following: a bathroom with more mould than wall, a kitchen with no ceiling, a garden with bits of old wall being used as a path through the mud – there was no lawn or garden to speak of, just an empty field with a house in the middle of it- and my bedroom: the piesta de fucking resistance.

My brother once again got a nice bedroom; his was normal sized and even had a stained glass window (it bought out the tiny 10-year-old proto gay in me). Mine however was the size of a postage stamp with a leaking window and a huge set of built in drawers that were glued shut and took up half the room. I took this room because my papi promised me he would knock out the bathroom and make that into my bedroom (In case you were wondering the bathroom would go where the laundry was…my mother is English as mentioned: she thinks a WHOLE room for a washing machine and a dryer is unparalleled colonial decadence. In her world you have a front loader under the sink in the kitchen. Odd woman – also we had a garage the size of a 3 bedroom house so y’know it was going out there).

Now you may think this whining is odd: my parent’s had invested in what was little more than a shack but we lived in a house with 3 acres of garden and a garage that was the Monica’s apartment from Friends style of spacious, but if you ever lived in rented accommodation you’ll understand: It made me very angry at Uni when I was forced to listen to the whining of people who were having their first horrific experience with rented housing. I wanted to say ‘Yes, now try having a family live here under these conditions. And unlike here, your parents or friend’s parents don’t own the house. It’s some bastard who wants to screw you out of as much money as possible.’ (I’m not bitter. But there’s a reason I’m a socialist.)

The rant shall continue.

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Dear Diary. I’ll never stop talking. (Part 2)

Posted by idetest on September 13, 2010

So, of course all this only allegedly (Hola, Kathy Griffin).

So there I was for three days covering for an alcoholic klepto Polack and having to carry ou tables and chairs up six flights of stairs while being interrogated by elderly men in tweed who were wondering where the regular staff were. All I could do was cry.  And sweat. I may have lost weight. Which is great. But I had to do work to do it. Which is bad. It’s like my own Sophie’s Choice.

Anyway so that night after managing to screw up everything that day and having the Portuguese banqueting manager speak in very slow sentences to me as she thought maybe they don’t speak English where I’m from, or that maybe I’m just retarded (I wonder myself, sometimes), I went to visit a flat in deepest, darkest Shepherd’s Bush. Where no one can hear you scream. Well, they can they just can’t understand because no one there actually does speak English. I’d like to drop Nick Griffin in there and watch his head explode, while a bunch of Somali girls with chavvy accents wearing skinny jeans, headscarves and bling try to mug him. It’s a fun place.

This all to see a flat.

The flat was in one of those lovely old red brick, Victorian places that’s about five storeys high and split into ten different flats. The flatmates=anti-social and were all couples. As usual the only person I could like living there was the person moving out.

The next day, after crying myself in to a sweaty, restless sleep I awoke and went back for another day where I was once again ranted at by Salazar’s less warm daughter about how could you be so stupid as to set a table for a business meeting with a WHITE tablecloth? Everyone knows you set them with a RED table-cloth! Honey, I assured her, the empire will survive, the sun will rise, and Jordan will live to spray tan another day.

That night I was invited to go view a flat in the distant lands of South Ealing where they simply scrawl ‘here be monsters’ on street maps. It’s one of those places where the farther you walk from the tube station the less civilised it becomes and you soon begin to wonder what the footsteps behind you are all about (this is a lie. It’s painfully suburban). Anyway, Leigh the chummy Australian who showed me around all but gave me the flat there and then. More about this next week when I move in. Kill me now.

So on Friday I awoke in tears and tried to suffocate myself with a pillow and went to work. I’ll not bore you with details of horror involving commutes and elderly rich people with diamond wedding anniversary’s. Lest to say…how I hate them.

On Saturday, after a fateful trip to the park I went to work at a place called Leadenhall Market which is in the city again and is a place that looks like they set for a movie set in oldy timey London town. Honestly expected to Moll Flanders, a Dickens character or Jude Law with that poofy moustache to come wondering out from some sort of smoke machine-made fog.

This shift was for a Norwegian PR or something type firm who were having a corporate team building  weekend in London. And they was drank. They were pissed when they were arrived and were positively paralytic by about ten past seven. Example: dancing on tables, sitting on each other’s shoulders, knocking over tables filled with glass ware, random hook ups, urinating on the cobbled semi-enclosed street that the market is on.

Also there are apparently INDIANS in Norway. Several were of the Sub-continental variety. I had no idea of this. I knew in an Of Montreal song entitled “Oslo in the summertime” he mentions “Pakistani children playing in a courtyard” but I thought y’know, they were refugees that socialist Norway had adopted in a Angelina Jolie inspired piece of bureaucratic guilt. Nope there are actual ethnic minorities in Norway. Who knew?

It was quite helpful as well as everyone else was blonde and tall and good-looking. Except there were a lot of sneans. So many sneans. And they were the token bogan goth rockers who are a strangely Scandinavian – heavy phenomena. Also, no word of a lie there was Karl Karlssen there (they had nametags). A Karl Karlssen. I. nearly. died.

I spent the rest of the night looking for Olaf Olaffson, Johan Johanssen and Erik Eriksson (spellings obviously not unsure of).

And that’s it for this week, next week I get to work for the Queen (again. Yawn) and David Cameron (or will he still be in France? Hmm) and hopefully will have some posh ridiculousness to report.

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Dear diary; the weeketh ending 12/9/10 (Part 1)

Posted by idetest on September 13, 2010

Hola bitches

Let us once again delve into my life because as you can see this is becoming less of a blog and more of a way for me to stay sane.

On Saturday last I worked at Twickenham, which is a big stadium out in the leafiest of leafyville suburbs in SW London where only the middle class may dwell. They have identity cards. You can be stopped at any time and forced to show your nectar card or have your fridge inspected to make sure you have hummus.

Anyway after being told for several years the rugby is the game of bourgeois suburbia in this country I can tell you; no it’s not . The fans for these games are just as plebian as those who I serve hot dogs to at the Fulham Football grounds. Except here there ism ore space and it’s warmer.

The only upside of this crushing disappointment was my ability to stalk a cute Italian guy.  And by gods he is cute; seriously this guy has the perfect face and I may die. He’s just breathtaking. However I was unsure of his name so for the past several shifts have been referring to him as Luka. Apparently that is not his name. I often do this: I’m not sure if I just assign these people names in my mind or if I hear them and just think it is their name. But either way it was not his name. And he doesn’t like being called it. Oops.

On monday I travelled to deepest darkest East Acton to go look at a flat while the rest of London ran home as quickly as possible to avoid the tube strike. I went and saw flat. It was gorge- though slightly awkward as I realised I’d gone and seen it last year but had turned my nose up at its bimbo inhabitants. However this time as I was shown the same room and I fell in love with it (a double bed! Storage! Two bathrooms!) it was I who was rejected. I blame my bad hair day.

The next day the tube strike in full swing, I was booked to work at the Museum of London. which is in The city. For those of you unsure of what that is , it’s the 2000 year old bit of London what Russell Crowe and Spartacus would have hung around in which is now the hub of the financial district and has more gazillionares per square inch than a whorehouse during a stock market crash.

So after four buses and three hours to get there (I travelled through areas such as Willesden (bomb it. Bomb it now.) and Islington (Move me there. Move me there NOW.) and saw such sights as a group of West Indian drunks having an argument/fist fight at bus stop and the entire teenage pregnancy community of North London getting on at one stop I have decided that ew, buses are for poor people and never again shall I grace them with my divine presence. Until the next strike.

Anyway so the shift: well, it was for hedge fund managers. Yes, they’re still so wealthy they can afford to hire out museums for shindigs. Anyway, what’s more important is a) cute guys and b) Jimmy Carr was booked to do stand up. Lord help me. The man is irritating. But annoyingly funny. Incidentally a friend texted me the night before squealing with delight that she has just seen Cillian Murphy on Oxford St and how she intended to stalk and/ or marry him. I text back saying I’d just got to see Jimmy Carr. She thought I meant he was hot. Hilarity ensued.

Anyway, the tube was working again to it only took me two hours to get home. On Wednesday I started my temporary job as a banqueting porter for a club – because, and oh my god so much with the gossip. Pay close attention chicos: The General Manager who liked a drink and also liked a grope with one of them any Lithuanian waitresses was fired after being accused of a) attempted rape of an underage girl at the staff summer barbecue and b) because he had been for the better part of a decade swindling the company out of thousands by falsifying the alcohol orders so he would end up with a free never-ending personal supply of vodka. Escandalo indeed.

Then the manager of the drawing-room (where incidentally they film scenes for Harry Potter), who is an elderly Chinese drunk who looks like he had a stroke and then was beaten around the face with a steel pipe, and was the GM’s best friend was sacked because he’s been drunk continuously since oh, about 1984. And they finally decided that maybe he shouldn’t be sitting around harassing the waitresses while the Ambassador to Germany, The Duke of Bumsexshire et al is watching.

Then they also fired the Banqueting Porter who was a Polish bloke who’d done things such as, breaking into the valet rooms to steal the alcohol out of there. Also the head chef who was covering up GM’s affairs and harassment of  waitresses were too scared to say no lest they were fired. But they were also several waitresses who were fired because they weren’t involved but covering it up as well. Oh those dodgy Lithuanians. Oh, and there’s a pregnancy involved in there somewhere but I’m unsure of where.

Part 2. Coming soon.

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Gays Gone Wild

Posted by idetest on September 3, 2010

For the past week or so I’ve been relying on a dongle for internet due to my flatmate being a chavvy, passive aggressive, dumbass slut with a lazy eye and a possible eating disorder who in a fit of aforementioned passive aggression cancelled our internet/tv/phone package because one my flamtates forgot to add £6.50 to her rent to cover calls she made to her boyfriend on the landline. NOT THAT I’M FUCKING BITTER OR ANYTHING YOU FUGLY BITCH!

Ok, feel better now.

Yes so dongle which is pay as you go isn’t technically mine so I can’t do too much on the internet. However, this I’ve been downloading every day and watching on repeat because if I watch it once it is then stuck in my head and I neeeeeeed to watch it again.

You may have seen these guys doing “California Girls” the other month. While that was okay this is botoxed and waxed perfection of the gay variety.

Sure they’re single handedly putting gay rights back every time they gyrate in a pair of tighty whities but whatevs. I’m open-minded. And besides, Katy Perry is crap but she writes insanely catchy songs. INSANELY!

(Also I may find a couple of them just a smidgen attractive. Even though they make a Barbie doll look butch.)

Enjoy.

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The week, that like just totally, was: 3/8/10

Posted by idetest on September 3, 2010

Hola chicos

Well in honour of 90210 week I too shall endeavour to relive the past while trying to ignore the horrible outfits of my past incarnations. i.e. I’m going to whine about my life.

So it all started on Sunday, which for purposes of this post is when week’s begin now; yeah. Get used to it.

I arose at the crack of dawn to go and view a flat to combat my impending homelessness. The address tipped me off; it involved the use of the words ‘house’ and ‘gardens’ – council estate!

Although I was raped and murdered no less than five times on my way there, and even though the the flat was…meh, I was taken in: mostly by Antonio, 22, short brown hair, long eyelashes, SPANISH!, didn’t speak very good English. He is now my lover whether he agrees to it or not.

Second flat was an ‘antipodean’ flat. I wont expand lest to say I would have been the youngest person there by a decade, howevs. on my walk there I noticed the area jam-packed with hot guys wandering around with less than normal amounts of clothing on. So I was disappointed to arrive at the flat to discover bucktooth bill and his regressive chinned friends. Sigh. One day my night in chiselled jaw lined armour will come.

Anyway, the week progressed and I spent most of it working on my Ulysses – it’s too long but I couldn’t decide whether to cut out the chapter that was an homage to the masturbation segment or the chapter dedicated to the bowel movement part. It’s a hard life but someone’s got to do it.

On Wednesday I went to visit another flat , where lo and behold rich, posh people who were well dressed and had fancy jobs lived. OMG! Let me live here I begged the lord: the room was larger than my current one, the rent cheaper, the area nicer, the flatmate’s better educated and the whole environment more bourgeois. And God I love bourgeois things. Except when I’m feeling communist. Also; the flat had across the road a corner shop called ‘CCCP: specialist in Eastern European groceries’ Yah. All sorts of “que?” there and even a few “por que?” as well. My favourite touch was the hammer and sickle’s they had painted in the corner of their sign.

Howevs. They did not want me.

So I left for work on Thursday despondent and fearing the onset of what feels like me to be a nervous breakdown. I tried googling the symptoms of one but apparently it don’t work like that.

My job took me to East london where I worked at an event where Microsoft had hired out a room the size of a stadium to have a carnival themed launch party thingy… yeah, make of that what you will. And yes, my life is that pathetic, why do you ask?

Went and saw another flat today. Two streets below the one I was rejected from. Howevs, it turns into a council estate one street in between so I was left thinking no, no, no when a gap toothed Saffa midget showed me around (no, he was actually a nice guy. But seriously no)

So this is where you find me oh loved ones. Here, on a Friday night despondent, crying, having a fat day, unable to even console myself with German soap operas. At this moment I’d happily take a cupboard under the stairs in a crack den for £1000 a week if they’d have me.

Hopefully next week will be better. Otherwise I fear I may have to do something drastic (Like, y’know buying two tubs of Ben and Jerry’s a day instead one.)

For now, adieu.

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