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Posts Tagged ‘Hipsters=death’

Because Life’s Too Short To Not Have Mary-Kate In It

Posted by idetest on January 18, 2012

Hola, totes soz for the radio static.

Totes not sorry, come find me here so I can apologise;

Come find me! We’ll braid each other’s hair and talk about boys. And strange and unsightly rashes that occur after having braided one’s hair, but before doing anything that needs talking about with boys.

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I Want To Take This To My Bedroom And Do Things To It.

Posted by idetest on July 9, 2011


It makes me thrash. In a good way.


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Mon dieu!

Posted by idetest on May 25, 2011

Hot French bitch is hot, French and the HBIC

Also, I too love to sit in the bath fully dressed and play badminton in my living room, don’t you?

And that hipsters are annoying in non-English speaking countries too.

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The Gays Be Doing Their Thang

Posted by idetest on April 4, 2011

So I’ve had this conversation many a time.


The dark-haired guy is kinda cute in a white trash goes prep via a meth addiction kinda way. Which is very in right now. But alas his bottom teeth look a little funky. And as he is not physically perfect in every way he is dead to me.

Also-man bags FTW!

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I Forgot I Had This Blog…

Posted by idetest on March 1, 2011

OMG, my life of late, like literally. It has so not been worth making me die. So hard. So I comfort myself with this. He’s like the gay Chelsea Handler. Who’s the blonde Kathy griffin. Who’s the alternative Tina fey. Who’s the female Conan. Who’s the American John Cleese. Who was the 1970s Noel Fielding.


And you want to know why I compare Noel Fielding to gay satirical comedians. Mostly cause of this:



And, yes. This is family entertainment: British TV style.

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Well I have one in Leopard Print. So there!

Posted by idetest on October 18, 2010

So my beloved M.I.A. went out dressed like this the other night to an award show.

So basically what she’s trying to say here is that the recent burka ban in France was bad? Or that women who wear burkas are not being persecuted and oppressed because it’s their choice? Or that they are because it isn’t their choice? Or that in the west we misjudge them? Or that we misjudge M.I.A. and don’t really know her? (admittedly this is a strong possibility as Americans who comment about her are often surprised to discover she’s not an American let alone a British born Sri Lankan) Or is she saying that what’s on the outside does/doesn’t matter and we don’t really know someone by seeing them and prejudging them? Or is she saying “Dang this is some cool shit I picked up at duty-free in Islamabad?”

Well whatever. When I get blown up on the tube by a suicide bomber I’ll know who to blame.*

*Americans. Because you couldn’t just let Obama take over and make us all into Muslim Socialists, could you? Tea Party cunts.

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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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Scott Pilgrim vs. The World: A film review.

Posted by idetest on August 28, 2010

Hola chicos

So last night I braved the cold and the wind, despite my SARS-like symptoms (a bit of a sniffle) and went to go and see Scott Pilgrim v.s The world.

First up, who knew it was set in Canada? I thought Toronto just stood in for most major American cities – I didn’t realise it now had movies made there that were actually set there. So for that, big ups Toronto- it’s almost like you’re an actual place now.*

Second of all: I must admit that a) I have been in love with Chris Evans since the scene with the banana and the whipped cream in Not Another Teen Movie, and b) I have been in love with Brandon Routh since I heard he had to have his package digitally shrunk in post production in the Superman movie because he was too…super manly. So basically I couldn’t care less about Michael Cera.


I just don't see the attraction. Where's his stubble? Where's his CGI re-sized groin?

However, did actually love this movie: It was witty and ironic without being as annoyingly fake as Juno (things in common: makes North America look unbearably cold)  and I loved the fact that everyone lived in shitty apartments and just sat around not doing much; and if they had jobs, they were pretty shitty jobs. It was almost like it was based on something realistic instead of being a manufactured plot by some Hollywood studio that thinks everyone in their early twenties works at Magazines and Record Labels and we all live in Monica from Friends type apartments…

Howevers, bad points: girls who change their hair a lot are usually just odd, socially awkward and trying too hard. They fall into the same category as people who play Dungeons and Dragons and grown men who wear Matrix style long jackets. i.e. they are unrepentant un-embarrassable geeks who have B.O. issues and a collection of figurines stashed in their childhood bedrooms which their mother cries over saying “I’ll never have grandchildren and it’s all your fault! Damn you Star Wars!”

Also roller blade shoes? Oy vey you can so tell the graphic novel was from 2004 (yeah I wiki’ed it).

Other than these things the plot does go quite well: it takes a while for him to actually start battling the seven exes but you do enjoy the build up as we get to know all the characters. The actual battle scenes are confusing and fast and don’t necessarily make a lot of sense but y’know whatevs.

A few other things:

1) Love the gay roommate. Although I love the blonde guy he seduced more. Also Stephen from the band becomes gay in the books but not in the movie (wiki knows all). Which is a pity.

2) I love hyperactive Asian indie chicks. It was like having Lane from Gilmore Girls back. Judge me, I don’t care.

3) Scott’s ex girlfriend’s band’s song was v. v. catchy. I say they release it. I’d buy it. Well okay, I’d download it (illegally), but whatever.

4) Poor Anna Kendrick: first she gets nominated for an Oscar or something for that movie she did with George “not gay just haven’t met the right lady yet” Clooney and then she gets to do fun stuff like this, and now she has to go back and do Breaking Dawn. God, I hope those Twilight kids get paid well.

So yes, in conclusion: A fun, zippy movie you should all go see.

* Obviously I’m ignoring the brilliance that is Degrassi. Oh, Degrassi how I love thee, let me count the ways.

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Humanity’s New Zenith (Well, this week’s one anyway)

Posted by idetest on July 23, 2010

I am totally moving to LA and hanging out in West Hollywood till I meet these two.

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My London, London bridge keeps coming down. And other Fergie related trivia.

Posted by idetest on June 16, 2010


After yet another soul crushing trip to the supermarket today, a night out last night that ended in vomit on my show (not mine) and having to make awkward chit chat with a girl I barely know on the tube I’ve decided to make a completely unbiased and of course, completely coherent list about my favourite topic: London Town.

Oxford Street: For all your Soul-Destroying needs

The tube. Once again whether you love it, hate, loath it, want to cut it up and go Jeffrey Dahmer on its ass, it’s there. I personally don’t understand the en-masse hatred for it-it does occasionally suck to a level of Republican voter levels but that’s rare. Ok so it once made me late to work and I got a verbal warning. But for that I can forgive. Unlike the lesbian manager who gave me the warning. I know where you live, beyotch.

Anyway-the tube, despite its annoying habit of just suddenly grinding to a halt outside a station while the driver comes on the intercom going ‘Er, don’t actually know why we’ve stopped. Shouldn’t be long folks’ while you seethe at the thought of being held up/ die from heat stroke as there is no such thing as air conditioning in the UK/are forced to watch and interact with fellow human beings who are all DISGUSTING, is actually OK.

Though it’s quite expensive. TFL have never met a reason to raise fares that they didn’t like. It costs £2.40 to get from my house to central London. It’s a 20 minute train ride! I won’t complain (I will.) but seriously.

The lack of good coffee in this city is ridiculous. The British seem to think Starbucks (as well as the two main British chains Costa and Caffe Nero) are the BE ALL and END ALL and if you are not a fan of Starbucks it is YOU who is the culturally bereft simpleton. Yes, because actually wanting my coffee not to taste like lukewarm tap water with too much sugar in it is indeed a sign of a severe lack of sophistication. Basically if you want good coffee you have to go to Covent Garden and find a NZ/Australian owned cafe. And then pay Covent Garden prices. This upsets me because a) they’re hard to find b) they’re expensive and c) getting to Covent Garden is a bitch and I hate the place. Too many tourists and overcrowded. So my beloved coffee habit has been curbed back to nonexistence. Thanks for that London.

Museums, art galleries, palaces, historic buildings and beautiful parks. One of London’s main pluses. Apparently in other countries you have to pay to go to these. Hah. Imagine that. For this London earns several points.

Most of the restaurants here are shit. Unless you want curry-the curries are good. However the only other food most English people know of is Italian. You can’t move for mid-priced Italian restaurants. Most are fine but usually just bland as fuck. If you want proper ethnic food you’re out of luck, there is a distinct lack of good satay in this place, Chinese restaurants don’t exist outside of Chinatown- bar some real blandy suburban hell holes, there are kebabs places everywhere but they look well dodgy. And sushi? Forget about it. It’s rubbish here. There are some pluses though-if you love ‘gourmet’ burger and chips retailing for about £20 (yes, that’s quite reasonable for this town) then you can eat to your heart’s content. Woo

Chain shops. Don’t like ‘em? Don’t come here. Everything is a chain. While this does mean you can get clothes, DVDs and CDs, books and lots of other stuff much cheaper than you can in other countries it also means that everything is the same. Mostly because the only people who seem to require possessions are chavs. And there are a lot of chavs.

Speaking of chavs. They run the show. They make by far the biggest ethnic group (which they are!) and act like they are the only people entitled to live here. It’s hard to understand how there can be so many fat, pale (or fake tanned), uneducated, loud, vulgar, gap toothed, football obsessed, racist bastards in just one place but there is. And apparently it’s less pronounced in London then it is in many other parts of the UK. Jesus. The sooner they bring in having to apply for a license to breed the better (it will happen, we just have to believe).

There are lots of nice parks. Did I mention that already? It needs to be mentioned again. Just don’t go to London Fields because then you deserve to be beaten you trendy hipster fuck. I once got invited to a boozy picnic there; I refused to go on principle (read I had work). If you want nice parks there’s Richmond which is just BEAUTIFUL, Lots of semi rural areas on the north western outskirts (I used to go here to cry/stalk) and beautiful woodlands, Kew is nice but overhyped.  If you’re in the city centre St. James Park is lovely. Wait is St. James or Green Park the one with the pond? Does Green Park have the trees? I can’t remember. One of them has trees and you can’t sit down. The one with the little lake is lovely. And of course there’s Hyde Park for sunbathing, and Regent’s Park for nice walks. Or doing double takes when all the posh rugby players start stripping off in the field after their games at weekends. Which is distracting.

Malls and shopping centres. Look back on chavs and chain shops. Also-every single suburb has one. And then there is the behemoth of Westfield. Eurgh.

Tricycle Theatre in Kilburn. Cheap arty movies and plays! For cheap! Amazing.

Things to do. If you have money (which I don’t) there is a never ending list of concerts, plays, comedy shows and other fun things to go to. Just don’t go to the o2. Because then I’ll judge.

Pubs. One of Britain’s best exports. I have recently become enamoured with Samuel Smith pubs. They’re cheap, cosy, never too crowded and don’t play music at decibels that rupture your ear drums. Lovely. Did I mention they’re cheap as well? And let’s be honest, whether it is winter or summer there really is no better way to spend an evening (afternoon…morning) than in the pub with some mates.

Gay bars. Ugh. If you ever find yourself in Soho, kill yourself, but if that doesn’t work for you try and get out as soon as possible. Every baby gay should be made to go to G-A-Y once in their life just so they know what it’s like. If they find that Madonna on repeat, fake tan, tight t-shirts and a TV screen in the corner where you can send in texts asking for sex is their sort of thing then a) shoot them, but more importantly they’ll know that that’s their nice but that there is more out there. You can go to one of the other big gay areas: Vauxhall (for bears and leather daddies. My ex-boss used to be a DJ/scene queen in that area and would regale us with tales of his debauched twenties. Quite strange coming from a short gay man who lived in Sussex but there you go. If not Vauxhall go east to the…East. There’s  lots of trendy little gay bars which are slightly lighter on the sleaze but just as heavy on the SEX, all gay men want SEX, all day and all of the night. SEX. It’s on odd combination, but some have fabulous decor and you might even get to hear something other than Madonna (in a gay bar? I know! What a revolutionary concept)

Debit Cards. Anything other than cash confuses the British. Trying to pay for anything that costs less than £10 with your debit card will get you laughed/yelled at. It’s strange that in a country that’s so modern in other ways is so backwards on other things.

Cost. I’ve touched on this but nothing truly prepares you for how expensive this damn place is. They’d happily charge you to breath in the place if they could.  It’s not bad enough that just converting your saving s into pounds is the most singularly depressing moment of your life (I have $10,000! How much is that in pounds? Oh.). But just that everything is designed for the wealthy. Obviously the chavs have all their own shops and restaurants but if like me, you don’t like want endless fried chicken, and trips to poundland then you try and have a modicum of self respect. Not going to happen. If you haven’t got a great job or the ability to not eat and still live then you’ll be okay. Other than that prepare for a life of pot noodle and nights in front of the telly while you try and work out how much spare change you have in your wallet to top up your oyster card. No, I don’t do that. Why do you ask? No, I’m not eating noodles right now. SHUT UP.

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