5 reasons why never ever to say No to a woman.
1) Resentment will be harbored for far longer than we will be annoyed about not doing the actual activity. (It’s not that we didn’t xyz, but that you didn’t realize how important it was to me.)
2) We will subtly imply over the next week - at least - that the request, what-so-ever it may be, was up there in pure altruistic terms with the wiping out of third world debt and that the only person’s happiness of which we were not thinking was our own.
3) It will be interpreted as a ‘sign’ that you secretly despise us, and all females from the age of 14 up that we know, will think that you are a bastard and suddenly hate you for ‘treating her like that.’
4) Whatever else you may say ‘yes’ to for the next month will not be remembered/ not be what we really wanted. The only thing we ever truly wanted was what you said ‘no’ to.
5) Because anything that we haven’t already got by insinuation and manipulation is probably important enough for you to actually take some notice of.
And because I wanted it!
Wednesday 12 November 2008
Friday 31 October 2008
So far I have tried to avoid turning this blog into a comment on current affairs, as the annoying thing about that is that you both have to have a valid comment on the whole thing, and keep the affairs about which you are writing – well current.
I have however been moved enough to write my tup’pence worth on a particularly juicy scandal that has rocked our tabloid media – and even some of the broadsheets, for shame – over the past day or so. I speak of course about the infamous Brand/Ross prank phone calls.
It appears that the entire English nation has had its sense of humour forcibly removed about the whole situation. Like all good workers I spent my lunchtime on youtube listening to whole shbackle. Personally I thought that it was actually quite entertaining. Even more so when you realize that you are listening to them wittily punning their way into a career black hole.
It is the picture of them in the press that really make me laugh, with them looking like puppies sitting next to a big pile of poo. It is like two little boys who took a joke too far at school, and it turns out that the little girl’s hair that they pulled – has cried to her mum, who has then gone and spoken very severely to the headmaster about it. It turns out that the headmaster is one of these new fangled ones that tries to do things like cancel Christmas as it might be offensive.
So Brand has quit – no great surprise - and they are idiots to let him go, and Ross is suspended without pay. When all they should have done is hit them hard on the nose with a roll of newspaper, and said ‘NO’ in a loud and firm voice.
I have however been moved enough to write my tup’pence worth on a particularly juicy scandal that has rocked our tabloid media – and even some of the broadsheets, for shame – over the past day or so. I speak of course about the infamous Brand/Ross prank phone calls.
It appears that the entire English nation has had its sense of humour forcibly removed about the whole situation. Like all good workers I spent my lunchtime on youtube listening to whole shbackle. Personally I thought that it was actually quite entertaining. Even more so when you realize that you are listening to them wittily punning their way into a career black hole.
It is the picture of them in the press that really make me laugh, with them looking like puppies sitting next to a big pile of poo. It is like two little boys who took a joke too far at school, and it turns out that the little girl’s hair that they pulled – has cried to her mum, who has then gone and spoken very severely to the headmaster about it. It turns out that the headmaster is one of these new fangled ones that tries to do things like cancel Christmas as it might be offensive.
So Brand has quit – no great surprise - and they are idiots to let him go, and Ross is suspended without pay. When all they should have done is hit them hard on the nose with a roll of newspaper, and said ‘NO’ in a loud and firm voice.
Tuesday 28 October 2008
Have you watered the brains today Igor?
It is official – winter has come to our fair Isle once more. The reason why I am able to proclaim this with such certainty, is that I measure seasons not by the weather (like meteorologists might) not by the clothes I might be wearing (like a fashionista might) and not even by the seasonal holidays that crop up (like… most people) – but by the colour of my skin.
I am by nature a pale person, but there comes a distinct time of year when my skin colour changes from ‘porcelain’ to ‘transparent’. My mum calls it ‘pale and interesting’ whereas everyone else starts to cross themselves as I walk by.
I have tried in vain to make myself look more like a living and breathing person. I buy that moisturiser that they have promised me will gradually tan my face with a subtle and healthy glow, whereas all that has happened so far is that the little bits in between my fingers have turned slightly orange. I liberally apply bronzer to my cheeks in the hope that this will help – but end up looking like I got made-up in the dark. (think Brigit Jones in the last movie at the lawyers do that she went to.)
The other night I went out with a group of female friends and since we are all incredibly vain, the camera was taken along so that we could upload little bits of our soul onto facebook in the vain attempt to try and look popular/ convince the world that we have an amazingly fun social life, really we do, much better than yours anyway…
However – after applying the aforementioned bronzer and thinking that I looked like something approaching normal - the next day, we looked back at the photos. My good god – I look like the ginger one from girls aloud when she is photographed next to the rest of the perma-tanned ones. It has become that time of year again when I fall into the ‘we belong dead’ category.
On the positive side – it gives me a really realistic look for Halloween – on the other hand the mobs turning up at our house with their torches and pitchforks do tend to annoy the landlord.
The other night I went out with a group of female friends and since we are all incredibly vain, the camera was taken along so that we could upload little bits of our soul onto facebook in the vain attempt to try and look popular/ convince the world that we have an amazingly fun social life, really we do, much better than yours anyway…
However – after applying the aforementioned bronzer and thinking that I looked like something approaching normal - the next day, we looked back at the photos. My good god – I look like the ginger one from girls aloud when she is photographed next to the rest of the perma-tanned ones. It has become that time of year again when I fall into the ‘we belong dead’ category.
On the positive side – it gives me a really realistic look for Halloween – on the other hand the mobs turning up at our house with their torches and pitchforks do tend to annoy the landlord.
Thursday 23 October 2008
a sticky situation...
Today we had a brain storm about tuna. Not important. The thing that I wanted to share with you all was that during this storm of brains there were placed upon the table some gummy bears. While on technical grounds I didn’t approve of them being there, as I sure that they were there as some sort of corporate gimmick to try and increase out creativity and bring out our “inner child” so that the thoughts about tuna could really flow, but I largely approved of them in a pure sugary way.
Two of them – whom I have called Mabel and Dennis – are now living on my desk. I did the thing where you make them kiss (by smashing their faces into each other) and then married them in the hope that they would reproduce and I would have lots of tiny baby gummy bears to eat the next day.
This then made me think about what my kids (should I ever deign to have some) would do in a similar situation. Would the gummy bears have got married, or have got pregnant out of gummy wedlock? Would one have been 16 and the other on drugs (raw sugar cane)? Would they both have been of the same sex and had a civil partnership, or even have had a shotgun wedding in Vegas after only meeting 3 days before?
Then I realise that one was green and the other was orange. Did this make it a mixed gummy marriage? Would they be ostracised by other racists gummy bears and forced to hide their love?
All this angst has forced me to come to only one conclusion – that I should eat then forthwith.
Two of them – whom I have called Mabel and Dennis – are now living on my desk. I did the thing where you make them kiss (by smashing their faces into each other) and then married them in the hope that they would reproduce and I would have lots of tiny baby gummy bears to eat the next day.
This then made me think about what my kids (should I ever deign to have some) would do in a similar situation. Would the gummy bears have got married, or have got pregnant out of gummy wedlock? Would one have been 16 and the other on drugs (raw sugar cane)? Would they both have been of the same sex and had a civil partnership, or even have had a shotgun wedding in Vegas after only meeting 3 days before?
Then I realise that one was green and the other was orange. Did this make it a mixed gummy marriage? Would they be ostracised by other racists gummy bears and forced to hide their love?
All this angst has forced me to come to only one conclusion – that I should eat then forthwith.
Friday 12 September 2008
Life is a harsh mistress
The other night – I embarrassed myself. I blame Rum, and my parents for giving me genes that are crap at holding alcohol, and peer pressure, and the government, and the fact that shot glasses hold more that one measure of alcohol. And celebrity culture for telling me that binge drinking is cool, and the Alistair Darling for causing a recession and raising the price of food so that I didn’t eat anything before drinking.
I blame English working culture, and the many more hours that we work than other European countries, meaning that I was over tired. It was really the fault of magazines for telling me how many calories there are in alcohol, and making me feel too guilty to eat as well.
I blame the game of ‘Challenge’ and international drink rules. I blame the makers of Captain Morgan’s spiced for making it taste too good and those of Pepsi for providing the mixer. Secretly it is very much the fault of make-up companies who make lip gloss, which encourages girls to drink through a straw and therefore quicker than merely sipping out of a glass. I blame the last person who annoyed me and made me turn to alcohol as a means to drown out the pain, and those who made me laugh meaning that I forgot to pace myself.
I blame the war on terror, and the conflict in the middle east. I blame the fact that I couldn’t get tickets to the new Matthew Borne ballet that I really wanted to go and see, and that I missed seeing Wall-E at the cinemas and feel left behind in contemporary culture. I blame the fact that it was raining when I wanted it fine, and that my hair went all frizzy.
So you see boys and girls – I cannot be held accountable. Or made to clean up the next day…
I WANT ONE...
I have the mind of a three year old. If someone suggests to me that I want something – my levels of resistance are about as strong as a salt wall when it’s raining... Pouring... In the middle of hurricane Ike.
I will automatically want what the other person has ordered in a restaurant. If I have my heart set on sunshine, and someone spoke to me for 2 minutes on snow – I would be climbing into the freezer. The ice-cream I picked will just not be as good as the one the other person chose – and the less said about my choice of men the better…
But today what I really want – is a flying possum. I may have begged my boyfriend to buy me an albino hedgehog last month – but now they are as dead to me. I want the cute little bundle of fur with big eyes that can fly around your house, likes to cling onto your head and neck, and – get this – is so cute that if you leave it on its own too long is gets depressed and dies of loneliness.
I WANT ONE. I don’t care if it violates my tenancy agreement and that my housemates would hate it and then probably sit on it. I am positive that my boss would let me bring it into work during the day, so it didn’t get lonely. It could make the tea at lunch.
I will automatically want what the other person has ordered in a restaurant. If I have my heart set on sunshine, and someone spoke to me for 2 minutes on snow – I would be climbing into the freezer. The ice-cream I picked will just not be as good as the one the other person chose – and the less said about my choice of men the better…
But today what I really want – is a flying possum. I may have begged my boyfriend to buy me an albino hedgehog last month – but now they are as dead to me. I want the cute little bundle of fur with big eyes that can fly around your house, likes to cling onto your head and neck, and – get this – is so cute that if you leave it on its own too long is gets depressed and dies of loneliness.
I WANT ONE. I don’t care if it violates my tenancy agreement and that my housemates would hate it and then probably sit on it. I am positive that my boss would let me bring it into work during the day, so it didn’t get lonely. It could make the tea at lunch.
Wednesday 3 September 2008
It's my Prom and I'll sit if I want to
Last night, feeling very cultural, patriotic and ever so slightly smug that I ‘appreciated classical music’ – I did that Bloody British thing and went to the Proms.
The excitement mounted, and I wished that I had a small flag to wave and shout hurrah – and was promptly told that I couldn’t have one as it was the wrong night and apparently waving a flag is prohibited by law on every other night of the year. I was also banned from humming Pomp and Circumstance – the meaness I hear you cry.
Then the band struck up (yes I know that it’s called an orchestra but you try to come up with something as catchy using the word orchestra – it has no timbre). They launch into the first movement and I stand and listen attentively. At first I am planted squarely on two feet – a no nonsense pose that indicates that I am doing some serious listening. Then after about 5 minutes I move onto one hip…then the other. Then I do that thing where you sort of stick one leg out, cross your arms and try and lean on one of your hip bones. As every other time I have tried to do this – it does not work and I look like I am in pain.
It is at this point that I become acutely aware I was wearing heels.
Next I pretend to lean lovingly on The Boy, while really using him as a prop to try and ensure that the least amount of pressure is spread around my feet. I try and concentrate on the music – and while the Berlin Phil may be the best orchestra in the world, the knowledge did nothing to alleviate the throbbing in my feet. The leaning on the human prop has not worked as he thought I was being affectionate and started to hold my hand, which meant that I had to stand semi-upright again. Foiled.
I look desperately around, trying to see who else is sitting down and if they are either respectable enough looking or in sufficient numbers for me to do likewise. I cannot be the one to cave in and admit that I would be much comfier sitting on the floor. Someone accidently knocks my foot with their heel – so precarious is my balance that I wobble a bit.
I admit defeat – I sit on the floor. It feels great.
The excitement mounted, and I wished that I had a small flag to wave and shout hurrah – and was promptly told that I couldn’t have one as it was the wrong night and apparently waving a flag is prohibited by law on every other night of the year. I was also banned from humming Pomp and Circumstance – the meaness I hear you cry.
Then the band struck up (yes I know that it’s called an orchestra but you try to come up with something as catchy using the word orchestra – it has no timbre). They launch into the first movement and I stand and listen attentively. At first I am planted squarely on two feet – a no nonsense pose that indicates that I am doing some serious listening. Then after about 5 minutes I move onto one hip…then the other. Then I do that thing where you sort of stick one leg out, cross your arms and try and lean on one of your hip bones. As every other time I have tried to do this – it does not work and I look like I am in pain.
It is at this point that I become acutely aware I was wearing heels.
Next I pretend to lean lovingly on The Boy, while really using him as a prop to try and ensure that the least amount of pressure is spread around my feet. I try and concentrate on the music – and while the Berlin Phil may be the best orchestra in the world, the knowledge did nothing to alleviate the throbbing in my feet. The leaning on the human prop has not worked as he thought I was being affectionate and started to hold my hand, which meant that I had to stand semi-upright again. Foiled.
I look desperately around, trying to see who else is sitting down and if they are either respectable enough looking or in sufficient numbers for me to do likewise. I cannot be the one to cave in and admit that I would be much comfier sitting on the floor. Someone accidently knocks my foot with their heel – so precarious is my balance that I wobble a bit.
I admit defeat – I sit on the floor. It feels great.
Thursday 28 August 2008
A short history of nearly everything
Some interesting dates:
10th April 1633 - Bananas go on sale for the first time in the UK
1855 – first use of rubber condoms
21st June 1986 – I am born.
Although all fascinating, it is the latter that holds a special place in my heart, as it marks the beginning of my existence. It is also the summer solstice and strange naked people dancing around Stone-Henge greet my birth. I am born with very little hair and my mother is forced to dress me purely in pink for the first year of my life to convince others that I am female.
All minor illnesses of childhood are dealt with, and then one major one. However, I have by then sprouted blonde curly hair that puts one in mind of those
bored Botecelli angels, which is some compensation. I should add that my strongest memory of the experience is being bought Ballerina Barbie, and so I do not think that I have been seriously affected.
Primary school blurs by in a sticky whirl of paint, sand, glue and glitter. Pinky my beloved (and white) blanket is slowly left at home, and ‘best-friends’ are made. I have my first boyfriend age 6. He tells me that he wants a walkman for his birthday. I think that he means a robot-man that really walks. It doesn’t work out. I was taller than him anyway.
I then move up to ‘big school’ where I stay until I am 11 years old. It is a tough time of calf length kilts in the winter and straw boaters in the summer. I try going to guides for a while in order to keep in touch with some of my friends, but after being put into the ‘six’ called The Blue Tits – it quickly loses its charm. I manage to get my hostess badge and a first aid one – however, since I did them both on the same day I have been left with the lasting impression that if someone is ill you should give them a cup of tea, a slice of cake and then wrap them up a present with ribbon.
Secondary school is a marvellous time of hormones and trying to have the shortest skirt in the year. I go to an all girls school, which I was allowed to choose myself, as I have that rare breed of parent, that while they wish the best for me, do not insist that they know what is best for me. Boys become of the utmost importance. Sadly, until I am about 17 I do not really attract many, I console myself this gave me more time to develop a personality.
As a middle class child I learn an instrument. To be perfectly accurate, I learn three. They give me many wonderful experiences and a love of music, which I shall always treasure. They also give me scars for life when music teachers enter me in music festivals, and I am forced to spend the three minutes of my unaccompanied Bach cringing and reflecting that for all the money and time that has been spent, I should in fact be a bit better really.
University of one of those magical times that sadly, I do not believe can ever be recreated. When going out in the middle of the week was the norm, and people were given suffixes or prefixes to their names in Fresher’s week by which they were forever known. Pants-John you are sorely missed.
Last week, I watched the final of University Challenge and answered five questions correctly. Truly I am now grown up.
10th April 1633 - Bananas go on sale for the first time in the UK
1855 – first use of rubber condoms
21st June 1986 – I am born.
Although all fascinating, it is the latter that holds a special place in my heart, as it marks the beginning of my existence. It is also the summer solstice and strange naked people dancing around Stone-Henge greet my birth. I am born with very little hair and my mother is forced to dress me purely in pink for the first year of my life to convince others that I am female.
All minor illnesses of childhood are dealt with, and then one major one. However, I have by then sprouted blonde curly hair that puts one in mind of those
bored Botecelli angels, which is some compensation. I should add that my strongest memory of the experience is being bought Ballerina Barbie, and so I do not think that I have been seriously affected.
Primary school blurs by in a sticky whirl of paint, sand, glue and glitter. Pinky my beloved (and white) blanket is slowly left at home, and ‘best-friends’ are made. I have my first boyfriend age 6. He tells me that he wants a walkman for his birthday. I think that he means a robot-man that really walks. It doesn’t work out. I was taller than him anyway.
I then move up to ‘big school’ where I stay until I am 11 years old. It is a tough time of calf length kilts in the winter and straw boaters in the summer. I try going to guides for a while in order to keep in touch with some of my friends, but after being put into the ‘six’ called The Blue Tits – it quickly loses its charm. I manage to get my hostess badge and a first aid one – however, since I did them both on the same day I have been left with the lasting impression that if someone is ill you should give them a cup of tea, a slice of cake and then wrap them up a present with ribbon.
Secondary school is a marvellous time of hormones and trying to have the shortest skirt in the year. I go to an all girls school, which I was allowed to choose myself, as I have that rare breed of parent, that while they wish the best for me, do not insist that they know what is best for me. Boys become of the utmost importance. Sadly, until I am about 17 I do not really attract many, I console myself this gave me more time to develop a personality.
As a middle class child I learn an instrument. To be perfectly accurate, I learn three. They give me many wonderful experiences and a love of music, which I shall always treasure. They also give me scars for life when music teachers enter me in music festivals, and I am forced to spend the three minutes of my unaccompanied Bach cringing and reflecting that for all the money and time that has been spent, I should in fact be a bit better really.
University of one of those magical times that sadly, I do not believe can ever be recreated. When going out in the middle of the week was the norm, and people were given suffixes or prefixes to their names in Fresher’s week by which they were forever known. Pants-John you are sorely missed.
Last week, I watched the final of University Challenge and answered five questions correctly. Truly I am now grown up.
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