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Posts Tagged ‘rich people make me sick….with envy’

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; http://ohsoprofound.tumblr.com/

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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Books I Read in 2010 (Belated. Also Catchy, Descriptive and Somewhat Mysterious Title, No?)

Posted by idetest on January 17, 2011

In list form. Because it’s my blog so you can just fuck off. In no chronological or any type of other order.

Judging me for having a short list? How am I supposed to remember what I read last January? What am I? A fucking housewife with a book club? Go fuck yourself (Besides, some of dem books is well long).

Also have you not seen how much time I spend watching TV? And going to see lame Hollywood mainstream movies. And drinking. And worrying about how much I weigh. And working 507 hours a week for minimum wage.

  • Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte). What is this shit? I wasted my time reading this for what? So I could understand Twilight better. Give me strength. Also Yorkshire accents are extremely hard to understand when written in dialect. Especially when in your head you can’t stop reading it in a Jamaican accent (It was all the apostrophes).
  • Les Liaisons dangereuses/Dangerous Liaisons (Choderlos de Laclos). It’s alright…epistle type books usually require one to use one’s brain. Especially when written in the eighteenth century. One can’t say one enjoyed this on one’s morning tube journey.
  • The Prisoner of Zenda (Anthony Hope). I dare you not to laugh.
  • The Yiddish Policeman’s Union (Michael Chabon). I thoroughly recommend this book. But then, my love for the Juden knows no rationality or bounds…
  • Without Warning (Will Napier). A tacky thriller. Do not judge me. Also, plot made no sense.
  • Girl with a Dragon Tattoo (Stieg Larsson). I read it. I can’t see what the big deal is. It was a perfectly adequate thriller/crime thing which had pretensions of being a searing socially realistic and eye opening work on the plight of women in Sweden. Howevs. A) Sweden is probs. the most equal and fair country in the world. Suck it up bitches. Also B) the main characters is a womaniser himself…and the female lead is bisexual (but mostly lesbian who is sleeping with a woman at the start) who JUST CAN’T RESIST HIS MANLINESS. Huh.

  • Washington Square (Henry James). Life is too short for this much morally outdated rubbish. Okay, it’s not that bad. Okay, it is. No, it isn’t. It’s just depressing and quite drawn out. Also the characters make you want to bang your head against a wall.

  • This Breathing World (Jose Luis De Juan) A pretentious crossover between ancient Rome and Harvard. It’s also basically gay porn in highbrow prose. Go figure.
  • The Night my Bum Dropped (Gretel Kileen). My flatmate, who was Australian, leant it to me. Therefore I am excused. Also Gretel Kileen is awesome. And she could kick Davina McCall’s arse.

  • Under western Eyes (Joseph Conrad). This was a book I was supposed to read at university which I never quite got around to doing. I read it over Christmas. Can’t say I regretted my decision from university. Boyfriend’s editor should’ve gone slash and burn on that motherfucker cos it is some seriously DRAWN OUT shit. It’s not bad, just fucking DENSE.

  • Official Book Club Section (Kathy Griffin). Catholics, alcoholism, gays, plastic surgery…I’m not embarrassed to own this book.

  • Are You There Vodka, It’s Me Chelsea? (Chelsea Handler). She’s an alcoholic…the book’s title’s a pun…on Judy Blume…gettit? Ugh.

  • My Horizontal Life (Chelsea Handler) I really like female comedians, okay?

  • New Moan (Stephfordy Mayo). A hilarious parody.

  • Scoop (Evelyn Waugh). A satirical swipe at pre war British journalism…and the British Empire. Apparently there’s a film adaptation with Woody Allen out there somewhere. Yeesh. Can’t say I’d race to track that down.

  • Sanditon (Jane Austen). I stole it from work. Can’t say I was overawed.

  • The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald).  This is considered a great American classic? Um.., it’s a grand total of four pages long.  And nothing happens until the last half a page.

  • Tender is the Night (F. Scott Fitzgerald). However this novel is an epic, depressing work of beauty and restraint which will have you reaching for either a tissue or a xanax. I want a movie and I want it now.

  • Daisy Miller (Henry James). Another one of these books that’s about four pages long and makes no sense as to how it’s so acclaimed. Slutty girl gets pneumonia and dies. Everyone goes I told you so. Narrator feels bad. Still thinks she was a slut who got what she deserved.

There may be more to come. I can’t remember now.

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Period Drama Fanboy

Posted by idetest on December 27, 2010

HOLY OUT OF WORK ACTORS GON’ GET A PAYCHEQUE BATMAN!

No, in all seriousness this will be a post about the new BBC remake of the 1970s classic Upstairs Downstairs.

Some thoughts.

  • It’s lost its comma, and is now just Upstairs Downstairs. Kind of like Kylie.
  • The kid who was the schizo emo (it’s okay, it’s not un-PC to call those mental freaks that) on Hollyoaks got a new job and is now a poor northern child with a dark secret. Big career move for him then.
  • Keeley Hawes got a job! She no longer has to try and flog Boots make up. The poor lass, she looked so miserable in those ads. and now look at her, she gets to wear hats and boss servants around! Is that a cool gig, or what?

I never watched the original, obviously; I was born a dozen years after it finished and unfortunately it did not remain in consideration for ‘television’s greatest masterpiece of all time’ like Brideshead Revisited or that one about the Indians (Indians Gone Wild? The name’ll come to me) so I can’t compare. But on reading some of the commentary about it one can say that it would have frustrated me.

It spanned thirty years yet no one aged or mentioned the fact that they’d never had a an ounce of character development over several decades. It’s that sort of thing which pisses me off about tv shows. That and token ethnic characters. But I digress.

This one however, lacks the original leftist bent that the two ladies what wrote it had originally intended and instead is portrayed as a glossy new drama full of Jane Austen moments of escapism from the drudgery of recession and snow blighted England circa 2011, dawn thereof.

The first epeisode…well, it was all a bit nice. The matriarch’s a bitch but she’s just old-fashioned and respects the servants, the wife is a bitch but she’s in over her head and feeling out of place-and probably (gasp) infertile and I’m sure by the end of the season her sister (her of the holey knickers. and not in the Catholic way) will have gone all political and banged and boffed the rather hunky blond chauffeur. Lucky cow.

Also what is it with hunky, blond politically aware chauffeurs? (cough theIrishoneinDowntownAbbeywhowastotallydoable cough)

Other than that, I can’t say I care a jot for the tweeny romance between aforementioned Schizo emo and the maid who is all crying and really overacts and does an incredibly annoying Cockney accent. Srsly. Bitch needs to sort that shit out.

I will of course wait patiently on the fence before I cast judgment though, it could be better than Downton Abbey, which drifted off course terribly towards the end of the season, it could be worse. But at the moment I’m just left thinking “Is there a point? Will they get to it soon? And why is everyone being so nice? Will someone say something CLASSIST?!”

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Swoonalicious

Posted by idetest on October 4, 2010

Hola. Today, unfortunately I am going to show you more videos. Howevs, I know you will thank me in the long run.

This is a show called Downton Abbey and it’s by the guy what wrote Gosford Park.

While Gosford Park was a glossy, expertly honed and sharp as knives satirical swipe at the class system, Downton Abbey…is a tv show, with several more hours to fill. And it’s on ITV.

However, despite some sloppy moments, some soap opera moments (I like my costume dramas and my soaps separate thank you. Well, actually no I don’t but ITV has forgotten how to do them properly, so until they do…) the drama is still squarely on. True, the occasional moment of dumbed down filler in storyline appears. But you can ignore that, though the second episode has me worried that maybe the brilliant slick first episode has led me to be hooked on something a bit shit. Sigh.

Though consider this: Maggie Smith complaining about electricity and these new fangled things and then delivering bitchy put downs in an accent that could cut glass. TV bliss. But that is neither here nor there compared to the sub plot of THE GAY FOOTMAN. Yes, the gays have infiltrated mainstream bonnets and horses Sunday night suburban TV. And they’ve done it so well; the scheming, social-climbing gay footman was shagging the Duke of Madeupsomewheresville and then got his heart-broken and is now a bitter, chiselled jaw queen out for a bit of revenge on everyone. Also, next week in episode three he tries shagging another Duke except this one ain’t a mary and I think it ends badly. Still, two dukes? For a rural, Edwardian northerner he’s doing better than Prince Charles.

And between this and Sir Gwain turning up on Merlin on Saturday and spending half the episode with no shirt on I don’t think I could take much more excitement (In case you were wondering Gwain looked like this. Yeah.).

All this is a polite way of saying WATCH IT. WATCH IT NOW.

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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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I am homeless. Like the Jews pre 1948 (But I do it better).

Posted by idetest on August 25, 2010

Oh, cruel twists of fate that endlessly conspire to make me feel like I would be better off to change my name “Lindsay”, move to LA and live on a Park Bench (note: I need no encouraging to do this. It’s already my plan for 2011).

Yes faithful acolytes who love me, worship me and hang on my every uttered witticism: I, your godlike blogger of infallible brilliance and amazingly toned calves is soon to be homeless due to (in no particular order) the economy, the failings of state education and a particularly bolshy Australian with too many minutes on her cell phone plan going unused.

So what am I to do? Do I use this opportunity to pursue my dream and move to the Swiss Alps and find a hunky blond (I’m imagining Alexander Skarsgard. Yes I know he’s Swedish. But come on…do you know how cold Sweden is? At least in Switzerland they have… er, um, chocolate?) farmer whose cottage I will deliriously stumble upon after days of hiking across the terrain. Obviously he will take me in and bring me back to health. Then we shall unlock each other’s hearts and find love. Also: free German teacher! Although hopefully I won’t actually have to speak it to him – we’ll talk with our bodies or some shit.

Option number two (and this is considerably less exciting and involves little chance of Skarsgard’s Swiss cousin coming into the picture) is I actually like, demean myself enough to go and look on gumtree and join in the scrum of people trying to find mid-priced flats in zone 2. Which is basically as easy as, oh, you know, SPLITTING THE ATOM. I’ll die before I find a place that lives up to my impeccably high standards! Does the world not realise how amazing I am and how much I require in a humble abode? (i.e for it not to be humble at all and in fact magnificently opulent…for under £450 pcm.)

OR there is always option number three. I actually pursue my dream of becoming a Lindsay Lohan impersonator right now and move to LA and sit around on Sunset strip, or whatever that street’s called, and charge tourists $50 a pop to have their picture taken with me while I’ look like this

Mama?

People. we have a winner.

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You get what you give

Posted by idetest on August 16, 2010

One of the searches my blog got hit up on was a ‘recession theme party’. Hah.

Unfortunately that person probably went away empty-handed on tips for some decadence. To apologise I’ll try to rectify that.

For a recession themed party you shall need the following:

  • Despair
  • University degrees to burn and dance around
  • At least one ethnic minority to dress as a Mexican Migrant who will halfway through the party shake off their cloak of despair (did I not mention the despair comes in cloak form?) and laughingly declare themselves King of the Gringos.
  • Burlap Sacks
  • Vodka. For added emphasis make people line up for it and hand them a potato or stale bread when they reach the front of the line.
  • A riot.
  • A portrait of Margaret Thatcher.
  • A Billy Elliot rendition.
  • A soundtrack consisting of Pulp, The Clash, Morrissey and poss. Bon Jovi (I’m not sure why but when I think ‘recession’ my mind always turns to New Jersey…)
  • Snooki (Italian’s know hardship). Also: because Snooki makes everything better.
  • A Chinese person to go around and taking everyone’s money off them before bumping fists with the Mexican and run off cackling.
  • Someone for the Mexican to use as a footstool
  • A scared fat person who could be used for food if things get desperate.
  • A few relics of the good old days; A JLo record, some cheap party favours from Walmart, a copy of Time or some such magazine with an article on house prices.
  • An SUV parked in the driveway they can’t afford to run anymore.
  • A foreclosure sign out the front of your house.
  • At least one token intellectual right-wing person who will find a way to blame the Jews/immigrants/the poor/gays/single mothers.
  • At least one person wearing a sandwich board sign saying “Will blow for food/work”
  • A gun to kill yourself at the end as the joke wears off and a Nietzsche like sense of existential hopelessness at the declining standards of humankind envelopes you.

Enjoy kiddos!

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There ain’t no party like a recession party!

Posted by idetest on August 12, 2010

Hola, but no! This is not a time for rejoicing (hot like Mexico, though it is my pretties). For today is the most damaging and depressing of all the Thursdays in all the Augusts that ever were  or are to have been! Evah.

Also – August already? My goodness it feels like just yesterday I was throwing an empty Tesco-brand champagne bottle at the TV screen and yelling at my man-servant to turn off the  “chavvy people what be singing auld lang syne on a loop!”

But, as aforementioned ‘no’ pointed out, I cannot celebrate this. Today is a sad day. Today I have officially become a victim of the recession/credit crunch/global credit crisis/Socialist propaganda A SECOND TIME!

Yes my chicos I have already been a victim of Stock market smackdown ’08-10 once. You see I am a middle class university graduate. And like throughout history it is we who always fair the worse in tough economic times. It is we who must cancel our gap years to work in daddy’s law firm, it is we who must move back into our parent’s tastefully redecorated colonial style 4 bedroom houses to save money (and not even an en-suite – BEASTLY), it is we…you get the point.

Anyway, after suffering the slings and arrows of being an unemployed graduate last year – it was brutal. I may have even visited a jobcentre, oh it was horrible, will no one think of the children!? – ahem, anyway after being unemployed last year for a period of around four months I was partaking in the most delightful little experiment with gainful employment. Except, alas dear Yorrick, it is August, as we’ve covered already, and in my industry that means that there is no work and I am left sitting by my phone begging, willing, pleading with it to ring so as to get as the working poor call it ‘a shift’.

Yes, I, good blog readers and assorted gays and lesbians and the hags that love them, I am underemployed.

I know, but don’t cry for me Argentina. Also if you don’t know what underemployment is go look it up…I’ll wait. La di da dum de dum …did anyone else see Mistresses tonight? Good wa’n it? That Joanna Lumley! – loves her. Right? We all good you know what it is? Good.

So yah; I’m totally underemployed. I have no work this month – well I have some but so far I’ve only worked two days and am only booked to work a handful more. And more importantly I just bought Kathy Griffin’s autobiography on Amazon today so God only knows how I’m going to squeeze that little treat for oneself (I’m so stressed you see!) into my already JLo-in-spanx-levels of tight budget.

Still it could be worse; I could, as other Economic Migrant (of which, technically, I kinda am because one did sort of move here as New Zealand’s dollar is owned by the peso) are forced to do go and clean people’s houses for my green card. Or worse, go back to Mexico. And I’ve already been to Mexico – and after like five minutes, I was like let’s go!

So, gosh, yah what am I to do? Luckily my Mother has guilt about the traumas of my childhood so throws cash at me – she doesn’t. Bitch is tighter than a Jew at Walmart – but I still managed to squeeze money out of her (It involved threatening suicide and publishing incriminating photos) but aside from that I am, as the English would say, skint… Guv’nor.

I’ve been ‘skint’ before. Oh, lordy have I been skint before. I have been single mother levels of broke-ass-hodom more times than Oprah’s had bulimia. But I tire of it. Just once I’d like to be all nice and cosy and confident that when I go to buy a bucket of fried chicken my card won’t read DECLINED BEYOTCH!  Is that too much to ask, good people of the world?

Anyway must dash to my second job on the street corner; Shanequia is holding my spot but if I don’t get back soon she’ll be all cracked up and start cutting bitches. And we’ve had enough police call outs to scare off the johns for this week thank you very much!

Think of me on the breadline.

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