Something different happened today when I went for my usual Costa coffee. The barista TOLD ME what drink I was having. She's either psychic or I go there too often. Is once a day, 5 days a week too often? Maybe I'll timeshare my daily coffee with Starbucks.
But thank God for coffee I say, as the last week at work was busy, busy, busy, and at least it kept me alive during the darkest moments of office work. In a somewhat unusual twist of events, I've actually not had time to bombard the Twitterverse with my crazy thoughts. This has left me with severe headaches, and probably an inoperable aneurysm - nothing to do with OD-ing on caffeine. I always knew the internet, or lack thereof, would be the death of me. Incidentally, before I die, can somebody remake 'the OC' and call it 'the OD'; a programme about a group of teens who go about their daily lives constantly OD-ing on drugs. It would be far more interesting, and definitely something I'd tune into before my time is up. Thaaaaanks.
Anyway, I found out something highly interesting while partaking in the activity of 'working'. Turns out there's a hotel in Portugal that claim to know when you're ready to get married! You take a simple, two-stage test and Bob's your tranny Aunty, you'll know the answer. So that the romantics of us don't bombard said Portuguese Hotel's website (as I'm sure there is a serious risk of this happening) this is what it says:
"Found that special someone that makes you smile when you wake, that makes you feel warm inside when you think of them before you fall asleep? Then you've found the one you want to spend the rest of your life with."
I feel I should point out here that, as far as I'm aware, it's still illegal to marry animals, so don't bother popping the question to Pebbles the cat just yet. Perhaps browse the Political Parties' manifestos first, see if any of them have anything about animal/human relations. UKIP might surprise you.
On my way back from my daily dose of Costa (he's lovely) I came across a Lollipop Man helping some chavettes cross the road safely. 'Excellent,' you might think, 'right on!' 'Word up!' Good old Lollipop Men & Women, risking their lives daily by stepping out infront of cars so that children don't have to. Well, not anymore apparently. In what I might suggest is now the easiest job in the world, it appears that Lollipop People (quick, get Roger 'Mr. Men' Hargreaves on the blower from beyond the grave. I've got new characters.) have relinquished the life-threatening part of their job, and now spend their days merely pressing a button at a set of traffic lights, waiting for them to turn red, and then standing in the middle of a completely safe, car-free road, presumably to guide people like the piss-head chavettes across this tarmac of doom after their dinnertime bevys. 'Follow the fluorescent man, for he will guide you to safety when you are blind drunk.' Maybe that's what they teach in the Green Cross Code these days in schools. Now there's one animated hedgehog advert I would love to see. Or perhaps the Lollipop man was there to stop angry folk like me from burning some midday rubber and mowing them down.
In a completely irrelevant turn of events, I went for a walk yesterday and saw some grown men playing with man-sized, remote controlled aeroplanes, probably in a bid to revisit their youth and stay forever young. Freud might describe this phenomena as "never wanting to grow up, because they want to shag their mothers." Anyway, disregarding the fun and larks what come from these aeroplanes for a minute, I think they're the way forward; an insight into future travel. Forget EasyJet, their prices are attrocious. Just hop onto the back of one of these babies and remote-control yourself to the destination of your choice. I think I've persuaded a friend to buy me one, much like this "yo, buy me one of them there aeroplanes. Thanks." Try it, it might work.
I think I'll ring up the Green party and inform them that I've revolutionised public transport.
Disclaimer: I've never mowed a Chav down. I have mowed the lawn once, but dad wasn't best pleased with the final outcome.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Celebrating the ageing process, hilly restaurants, how Road Runner nearly killed me, and other such depressing nonsense.
STOP! DON'T MOVE! DON'T GO ANYWHERE! I just found out that two thirds of N Dubz are Greek! But of course - any man with an elfin, under-3-foot stature who wears a bobble hat as head gear and talks with a speech defect because it's 'cool' has got to be from my neck of the woods. Peace out, ma hommie. Ma likkle, tiny, borrower homeboy. Izzit.
Dappy Dick. He's got a duck on his shoulder.
So, I went x-biking on Friday. As you may have gathered from previous posts, this has been the cause of many a death of mine, probably leaving you to draw but two possible conclusions (if you could be bothered to draw any conclusions at all). 1. That I am of the feline variety and my time is nearly up, or 2. that I am Jesus and I just keep rising. Flying in the face of what would have either been anthropomorphism or clear-cut blasphemy, I am neither. In fact, I am the prophet George Orwell. Prophets never die. Elvis is a prophet. So is your 140 year old Great Aunty who happens to be a millionaire.
Anyway, I regress. This time to 1640's Portugal. Some people revolted.
Back to X-biking; our instructor, Helen, is actually a sadist. She had a cold and was clearly suffering. Any normal person...no, let me rephrase...any person of the non-sadistic sort would have probably relaxed a bit in class. Taken a back seat. Driven the Ford 1903 Model A of life. Not our Helen. No, she was getting off on working herself harder, in a way much similar to this: "Ugh, come on everybody! WE CAN DO THIS! YEAHHHH. Pedal faster! FASTERRRR! *sniff sniff*" So I absolutely wasn't surprised that, when she clambered off her bike once we'd finished, she turned into a little lemon tree exuding a fragrant citrus smell.
No, of course not. She almost fell to the floor in exhaustion. Just that I figured the lemon tree might be far more interesting. Unless you know Helen, in which case - she's fine, don't worry! My Grandad assures me that lemon trees live to a ripe old age.
On Sunday I met up with some friends for one of those birthday things. The girl, who was borned on the 16th May, along with 75% of the population if my Facebook birthday reminders is anything to go by, turned 26, so there were plenty of "God, you're old!" jokes. I wonder what we'll say when she's old? "God, you're dead!"
Dinner went by sans hitch, although I ended up with a sort of yuk sum-juice moisturising hand cream as I'd used my wet napkin cleaning up my sweet chilli chin, and, ever the lazy bugger, I could not be arsed to climb the hill to the toilet to wash my hands. Yes, there was a hill. But it's all OK, I now know the secret to lovely soft hands.
One joyful event procuring from my inability to remember that, in order to get out of a restaurant alive, you actually have to pay them - or at least wash their dishes - was that I got to drive my friend Nic's brand new Golf GTI back from a cash machine (which didn't live up to its name anyway) after he'd lent me money to pay for the delights of eating at the restaurant with the hilly terrain, where one Chinese waitress was clearly stalking a particularly hungry member of our party under the pretext of making far too much small talk. Anyway, to put it bluntly, I think Nic's deformed. It took me at least half an hour of pressing and turning every single nob I could get my hands on (gross, I can't believe you just thought what you did then. You bad person.) in order to find myself sitting upright and facing the road. Nic has little stumpy legs, a long torso, and eyes on the ends of his fingers; I can't believe I didn't notice there was anything wrong before. He also drives like a maniac. It's like someone drugged Road Runner, presented him with a 1984 cc, six speed, 'blow on the accelerator and you're half way to Fiji' car and just said, "let rip. And remember, roundabouts are there to be driven over."
Thank God I'm George Orwell. I could have died twice over this week.
Dappy Dick. He's got a duck on his shoulder.
So, I went x-biking on Friday. As you may have gathered from previous posts, this has been the cause of many a death of mine, probably leaving you to draw but two possible conclusions (if you could be bothered to draw any conclusions at all). 1. That I am of the feline variety and my time is nearly up, or 2. that I am Jesus and I just keep rising. Flying in the face of what would have either been anthropomorphism or clear-cut blasphemy, I am neither. In fact, I am the prophet George Orwell. Prophets never die. Elvis is a prophet. So is your 140 year old Great Aunty who happens to be a millionaire.
Anyway, I regress. This time to 1640's Portugal. Some people revolted.
Back to X-biking; our instructor, Helen, is actually a sadist. She had a cold and was clearly suffering. Any normal person...no, let me rephrase...any person of the non-sadistic sort would have probably relaxed a bit in class. Taken a back seat. Driven the Ford 1903 Model A of life. Not our Helen. No, she was getting off on working herself harder, in a way much similar to this: "Ugh, come on everybody! WE CAN DO THIS! YEAHHHH. Pedal faster! FASTERRRR! *sniff sniff*" So I absolutely wasn't surprised that, when she clambered off her bike once we'd finished, she turned into a little lemon tree exuding a fragrant citrus smell.
No, of course not. She almost fell to the floor in exhaustion. Just that I figured the lemon tree might be far more interesting. Unless you know Helen, in which case - she's fine, don't worry! My Grandad assures me that lemon trees live to a ripe old age.
On Sunday I met up with some friends for one of those birthday things. The girl, who was borned on the 16th May, along with 75% of the population if my Facebook birthday reminders is anything to go by, turned 26, so there were plenty of "God, you're old!" jokes. I wonder what we'll say when she's old? "God, you're dead!"
Dinner went by sans hitch, although I ended up with a sort of yuk sum-juice moisturising hand cream as I'd used my wet napkin cleaning up my sweet chilli chin, and, ever the lazy bugger, I could not be arsed to climb the hill to the toilet to wash my hands. Yes, there was a hill. But it's all OK, I now know the secret to lovely soft hands.
One joyful event procuring from my inability to remember that, in order to get out of a restaurant alive, you actually have to pay them - or at least wash their dishes - was that I got to drive my friend Nic's brand new Golf GTI back from a cash machine (which didn't live up to its name anyway) after he'd lent me money to pay for the delights of eating at the restaurant with the hilly terrain, where one Chinese waitress was clearly stalking a particularly hungry member of our party under the pretext of making far too much small talk. Anyway, to put it bluntly, I think Nic's deformed. It took me at least half an hour of pressing and turning every single nob I could get my hands on (gross, I can't believe you just thought what you did then. You bad person.) in order to find myself sitting upright and facing the road. Nic has little stumpy legs, a long torso, and eyes on the ends of his fingers; I can't believe I didn't notice there was anything wrong before. He also drives like a maniac. It's like someone drugged Road Runner, presented him with a 1984 cc, six speed, 'blow on the accelerator and you're half way to Fiji' car and just said, "let rip. And remember, roundabouts are there to be driven over."
Thank God I'm George Orwell. I could have died twice over this week.
Thursday, 14 May 2009
A small blog on being bashed by a thought, how animals want to kill us, how, really, we should all call him Gordy and other such lunacies.
I was in Costa Coffee again, and a thought struck me. (This happens too often - I wish they'd stop striking me & leave me to my mind numbing boredom once in a while.) Anyway, the thought that smacked me down good this time was how stupid we've all been. The animal kingdom has been involved in a conspiracy to kill us all and we've been sat around discussing the benefits of face masks and making jokes about flying pigs! Those swines that be the subject of our sniggers are currently indulging in the last laugh.
"Pah! What evidence do you have?" I hear you ask. Watson, just look to the past. First and foremost, what about that damn snake what lived in Eden and made naughty little Eve eat the apple back in the day, subsequently dictating that our entire lives were and are continuously being filled with heartbreak, woe, excruciating child-birth, and the unnecessary necessity to walk around with clothes on? Here we are blaming it on ourselves; original sin? Original terrorist! That bastard snake went on to spawn Adolf Hitler and Alan Quaeda, and other evil people who's names begin with A.
I could go on; the murdering rats who went round spreading the plague. The cows who tried to create a nation of mentally incapable humans by turning the 'mad cow' on us - though to no avail! (Although my mother is still wondering aimlessly around the streets of the UK wielding her crazy rants on innocent passers-by in an attempt to lure them to suicide.) Then, of course, the birds got involved with their own special version of flu. And now the pigs, being lazy and unimaginative buggers, have followed suit.
Tiernan Douieb unknowingly pushed me into considering the following intellectual thought: Some say that George Orwell correctly predicted the future in his book 1984. I say he did the same with Animal Farm. The man's a genius, and probably some kind of prophet. While you read this, little Simba is sat on his throne as head of the jungle planning the next terrorist attack on innocent victims of the human race, while our elected government are barking on about the sorry state of the economy and how they absolutely will say sorry for spending the money we don't have on getting their moats all sparkly and clean.
Get your priorities right, Gordy.
Disclaimer: My mother is not a mad cow. I love her very much.
"Pah! What evidence do you have?" I hear you ask. Watson, just look to the past. First and foremost, what about that damn snake what lived in Eden and made naughty little Eve eat the apple back in the day, subsequently dictating that our entire lives were and are continuously being filled with heartbreak, woe, excruciating child-birth, and the unnecessary necessity to walk around with clothes on? Here we are blaming it on ourselves; original sin? Original terrorist! That bastard snake went on to spawn Adolf Hitler and Alan Quaeda, and other evil people who's names begin with A.
I could go on; the murdering rats who went round spreading the plague. The cows who tried to create a nation of mentally incapable humans by turning the 'mad cow' on us - though to no avail! (Although my mother is still wondering aimlessly around the streets of the UK wielding her crazy rants on innocent passers-by in an attempt to lure them to suicide.) Then, of course, the birds got involved with their own special version of flu. And now the pigs, being lazy and unimaginative buggers, have followed suit.
Tiernan Douieb unknowingly pushed me into considering the following intellectual thought: Some say that George Orwell correctly predicted the future in his book 1984. I say he did the same with Animal Farm. The man's a genius, and probably some kind of prophet. While you read this, little Simba is sat on his throne as head of the jungle planning the next terrorist attack on innocent victims of the human race, while our elected government are barking on about the sorry state of the economy and how they absolutely will say sorry for spending the money we don't have on getting their moats all sparkly and clean.
Get your priorities right, Gordy.
Disclaimer: My mother is not a mad cow. I love her very much.
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
The legend of Bob, boys and their pies, how I bathe in a shower of spit, and other extraordinary tales.
It came to me the other day, after years of allowing it to gently pass over my none-too-bothered brain. Suddenly, I was bothered. Or, should I say, 'bobered'. *Insert appropriate wooping/jeering at my excellent pun* And this is what got to me: why do people, especially Americans (apparently), feel the need to insert a 'Bob' at the end of a perfectly reasonable, if slightly boring, name? At what point did Mr. and Mrs. Walton decide that Jim's name just wasn't good enough? Was it that Mr. W, stressed with the troubles of naming his son, was sat on the verandah with his non-alchoholic beverage when a lightbulb appeared above his head: "I know what his name needs! It needs a Bob! Olivia, Bob is what we were looking for! Praise the Lord!" (They need to make that episode, I want to see it.) Is it that two yawn-some names can produce one, fantasmagorical name? So many questions, so little of my time I want to put into finding the answers!
But lets forget, for a moment, that the Bob 'suffix' sounds plain silly. Let's put aside and accept the idea that mummy wanted to give little Jimmy two first names. After all, it's not really a rarity; that Sarah-Jane Twat off Corrie has a similar double-barreled first name. No, let's place those thought's firmly in our past and, instead, consider the cruelty exercised by those parents who call their son Tracy.
Talking of sons, I went to the football on Saturday - West Brom v Wigan. Now is the time to express your surprise that I am indeed a footie fan (WBA). Yes, I have a season ticket. Yes, I know the offside rule. Yes, I am a girl. At least that's what mummy's always told me. But it's not all bad, being amongst probably 80% of a stadium's worth of smelly, foul-mouthed men, with steak and kidney pie spewing down their football t-shirts. Talking of which, one of my fellow fans asked me whether I'd been corrupted by all the swearing. In my head I replied with "I don't know what you mean...I taught you all!" What I actually said was more like "Bla bla, ya de ya, stammer stammer stammer, cough cough." Ah my excellent brain to mouth connection, working so well yet again.
Anyway, it was an unusual day, not least because we were apparently playing a group of Greek ladies exhibiting their plummage *see picture*, or that we won. I had my hair up in a ponytail, and the man who stands behind me, screaming into my ear hole (one day I shall demand to see CCTV footage to prove that this is the case), and who likes to shower me with a fortnightly floury of his spit (if you could swallow the excess once in a while mate, you'd be doing a great public service) decided it would be OK to flick my hair! Is this acceptable behaviour? Is it perfectly fine that a man who I don't really know, but have plenty of his DNA on my person at least twice a month, should feel the need to mess with my hair? What, if anything, is seen as socially acceptable groping? I must admit, dear friends, I had a very 'Carrie Bradshaw off SATC' moment of ponder. The 'this made me wonder' one. (Unfortunately, my daily thought doesn't come with an NYC apartment and all the Christian Louboutin's a girl could bathe in.) I decided that, quite frankly, it was bloody annoying. But then we scored soon after and the World was put to rights once more. Bastard.
I've just found out that the Walton's named one of their sons 'Zebulon'. I now have a new found respect for Mr. Walton and his lightbulb.
West Brom playing a team of Greek girls, fluorescents on show.
But lets forget, for a moment, that the Bob 'suffix' sounds plain silly. Let's put aside and accept the idea that mummy wanted to give little Jimmy two first names. After all, it's not really a rarity; that Sarah-Jane Twat off Corrie has a similar double-barreled first name. No, let's place those thought's firmly in our past and, instead, consider the cruelty exercised by those parents who call their son Tracy.
Talking of sons, I went to the football on Saturday - West Brom v Wigan. Now is the time to express your surprise that I am indeed a footie fan (WBA). Yes, I have a season ticket. Yes, I know the offside rule. Yes, I am a girl. At least that's what mummy's always told me. But it's not all bad, being amongst probably 80% of a stadium's worth of smelly, foul-mouthed men, with steak and kidney pie spewing down their football t-shirts. Talking of which, one of my fellow fans asked me whether I'd been corrupted by all the swearing. In my head I replied with "I don't know what you mean...I taught you all!" What I actually said was more like "Bla bla, ya de ya, stammer stammer stammer, cough cough." Ah my excellent brain to mouth connection, working so well yet again.
Anyway, it was an unusual day, not least because we were apparently playing a group of Greek ladies exhibiting their plummage *see picture*, or that we won. I had my hair up in a ponytail, and the man who stands behind me, screaming into my ear hole (one day I shall demand to see CCTV footage to prove that this is the case), and who likes to shower me with a fortnightly floury of his spit (if you could swallow the excess once in a while mate, you'd be doing a great public service) decided it would be OK to flick my hair! Is this acceptable behaviour? Is it perfectly fine that a man who I don't really know, but have plenty of his DNA on my person at least twice a month, should feel the need to mess with my hair? What, if anything, is seen as socially acceptable groping? I must admit, dear friends, I had a very 'Carrie Bradshaw off SATC' moment of ponder. The 'this made me wonder' one. (Unfortunately, my daily thought doesn't come with an NYC apartment and all the Christian Louboutin's a girl could bathe in.) I decided that, quite frankly, it was bloody annoying. But then we scored soon after and the World was put to rights once more. Bastard.
I've just found out that the Walton's named one of their sons 'Zebulon'. I now have a new found respect for Mr. Walton and his lightbulb.
West Brom playing a team of Greek girls, fluorescents on show.
Thursday, 7 May 2009
What happened when I engaged my brain matter, how the Greeks use their plummage, how horses have babies and other such disasters.
I was thinking yesterday, over my Costa coffee, which, incidentally, did not smell of fish - this makes me all the more concerned as to why it did that one time. Ah but if I could ease my troubled mind just once. Anyway, I digress. I was thinking that we're all a bit messed up really, aren't we? You might be a bit of a stalker. You might wash your hands a few too many times, or feel the need to take a right turn after every three left. Or, much like my sister, scope every millimetre of the house for a slightly ajar door or drawer and obsessively open and close it. Many a night did I rue the fact that I hadn't quite shut my wardrobe properly, "Oh for GOD'S SAKE Nat, BUGGER OFF! I was asleep then, you BITCH!"
Personally, I sniff a bit too much. And sometimes when I cough I have to count myself in. Wikipedia informed me it's a mild form of Tourettes. And there was you thinking that it's merely swearing far too loudly at inappropriate moments! Pah! Come bathe your brain in my font of wisdom and knowledge.
Where was I going with this? OH YES. Mayday. Greeks. Spending Mayday Bank Holiday with the Greeks is much like visiting a Cash & Carry of prospective partners. No, wait. I'm wrong. It's like visiting a local Co-op of prospective parents-in-laws. Cash & Carry gives the impression that there is much to 'choose' from. The men spend the day playing football and eating. The women spend the day presumably looking at the men. And I spent my day eating, and jotting down hilarious anecdotes about women in huge, orange earrings and ridiculously tight, brightly coloured tracksuits and wondering if, perhaps, this was some kind of mating call, much like the attraction plumage employed by such birds as the peacock. According to Wikipedia (they will never know how many degrees they helped to pass,) during mating season, a peacock “will often emit a very loud high pitched cry.” There was a lot of this going on as well. I’m starting to ponder the thought that perhaps we Greeks aren’t human but, in fact, of the bird kind. After all, as was pointed out on twitter, there must be a reason why I quite like goji berries, actually, and what? I might suggest to some of the ladies, though, that they would do well to adopt the peacock’s choice of colour scheme, if only to make things easier on the eyes. I was almost blinded by fluorescents.
Another big event occurred in my life yesterday, aside from thinking. I bought Grazia magazine so it could tell me about the best pretty dresses under £50, and something highly disinteresting about Horseface Jessica Parker having twins via a surrogate mother. This information turned out to be utter balls – the dresses, not the surrogacy. Some woman, desperate to become a ‘writer’, got whatever job she could at Grazia by feigning an expertise in fashion and the ability to actually care about it. She had very clearly just google-imaged ‘dresses’. Then it was a quick copy and paste job and off she went to let her hair down and her skirt up in South Ken.
As for HJP, I don’t know what’s going on; I didn’t read it. Now, where’s that Orange magazine….
Personally, I sniff a bit too much. And sometimes when I cough I have to count myself in. Wikipedia informed me it's a mild form of Tourettes. And there was you thinking that it's merely swearing far too loudly at inappropriate moments! Pah! Come bathe your brain in my font of wisdom and knowledge.
Where was I going with this? OH YES. Mayday. Greeks. Spending Mayday Bank Holiday with the Greeks is much like visiting a Cash & Carry of prospective partners. No, wait. I'm wrong. It's like visiting a local Co-op of prospective parents-in-laws. Cash & Carry gives the impression that there is much to 'choose' from. The men spend the day playing football and eating. The women spend the day presumably looking at the men. And I spent my day eating, and jotting down hilarious anecdotes about women in huge, orange earrings and ridiculously tight, brightly coloured tracksuits and wondering if, perhaps, this was some kind of mating call, much like the attraction plumage employed by such birds as the peacock. According to Wikipedia (they will never know how many degrees they helped to pass,) during mating season, a peacock “will often emit a very loud high pitched cry.” There was a lot of this going on as well. I’m starting to ponder the thought that perhaps we Greeks aren’t human but, in fact, of the bird kind. After all, as was pointed out on twitter, there must be a reason why I quite like goji berries, actually, and what? I might suggest to some of the ladies, though, that they would do well to adopt the peacock’s choice of colour scheme, if only to make things easier on the eyes. I was almost blinded by fluorescents.
Another big event occurred in my life yesterday, aside from thinking. I bought Grazia magazine so it could tell me about the best pretty dresses under £50, and something highly disinteresting about Horseface Jessica Parker having twins via a surrogate mother. This information turned out to be utter balls – the dresses, not the surrogacy. Some woman, desperate to become a ‘writer’, got whatever job she could at Grazia by feigning an expertise in fashion and the ability to actually care about it. She had very clearly just google-imaged ‘dresses’. Then it was a quick copy and paste job and off she went to let her hair down and her skirt up in South Ken.
As for HJP, I don’t know what’s going on; I didn’t read it. Now, where’s that Orange magazine….
Friday, 1 May 2009
Why Jake Gyllenhaal is linked to Swine Flu, how Orange are planning to kill us all, The Hulk, and other such extremities.
So,the whole world is freaking out about SWINE FLU, apparently. It's so important, I even capitalised it. Soon, Hollywood will have made a movie about it starring Jake Gyllenhaal. That's if they all survive it long enough to finish it. Or if Gyllenhaal's head balances on his neck for long enough, 'cause one day, folks, it's gonna go. Timbeeeeer. Trust me, it's far too big to stay on his head. LITERALLY. But I've got so much more to worry about right now, so I shan't think about Swine Flu until I catch it. Then I might worry a little bit.
Today I was reading the Orange magazine sent to me by Orange to sell Orange to me. To conclude, it's quite boring. But faaaar better quality than, say, Closer. Or Now. Or Heat. It had Simon Pegg in it, for one. Just his face, in all honesty, but even that is better than having to stare at Jordan's ugly mutt for at LEAST 15 pages. One page, nearer to the end of said Orange magazine, was dedicated to suggesting fun things you could do, being one of the lucky, lucky Orange customers. "Why not take part in "Buff or Rough"? Just upload your photo and people can vote if you're buff...or rough!" Oh, OK then Orange. I shall do that IMMEDIATELY. I've always wanted some Chav or other to judge my face! I've always wanted someone to use the words "buff" or "rough" to describe me. What an excellent service you offer Orange. This sounds like SO MUCH FUN! Especially, like, if someone with quite low self esteem uses it to try and feel good about themselves, uploads their 'best' photo, only to find that Dave/Davette from Liverpool has called them rough. And ESPECIALLY when they then slit their wrists and DIE, all because of you ORANGE. Well done ORANGE.
They're clearly conspiring to indirectly commit mass murder. Bastards.
If I could find a better contract I might have moved, purely because Orange are clearly complete twats who don't deserve customers. Just damn them for having thought up and monopolised Orange Wednesdays. Damn them for all eternity.
OK, rant over. I've got far more important things to talk about than some dumbass phone company. Like how a big, mahoosive, muscley black man got on the bike next to me during X-biking on Wednesday. I saw him, and considered explaining to the instructor that we might need to rearrange the room so that he had somewhere to go when he ACTUALLY STARTED MOVING FORWARDS on the firmly floored bike. But instead I remained on my bike, quietly shitting my pants at the idea of having to work out next to The Hulk. Apparently, though, I had nothing to worry about. He was disappointingly NORMAL at it. Part of me couldn't wait for the moment when he'd set off and fly straight into the mirror in front of us. Damn him for not impaling himself on glass.
I'm damning a lot of people today. Please be assured that I have no real authority on who gets damned or not.
Ugh. Bed.
Today I was reading the Orange magazine sent to me by Orange to sell Orange to me. To conclude, it's quite boring. But faaaar better quality than, say, Closer. Or Now. Or Heat. It had Simon Pegg in it, for one. Just his face, in all honesty, but even that is better than having to stare at Jordan's ugly mutt for at LEAST 15 pages. One page, nearer to the end of said Orange magazine, was dedicated to suggesting fun things you could do, being one of the lucky, lucky Orange customers. "Why not take part in "Buff or Rough"? Just upload your photo and people can vote if you're buff...or rough!" Oh, OK then Orange. I shall do that IMMEDIATELY. I've always wanted some Chav or other to judge my face! I've always wanted someone to use the words "buff" or "rough" to describe me. What an excellent service you offer Orange. This sounds like SO MUCH FUN! Especially, like, if someone with quite low self esteem uses it to try and feel good about themselves, uploads their 'best' photo, only to find that Dave/Davette from Liverpool has called them rough. And ESPECIALLY when they then slit their wrists and DIE, all because of you ORANGE. Well done ORANGE.
They're clearly conspiring to indirectly commit mass murder. Bastards.
If I could find a better contract I might have moved, purely because Orange are clearly complete twats who don't deserve customers. Just damn them for having thought up and monopolised Orange Wednesdays. Damn them for all eternity.
OK, rant over. I've got far more important things to talk about than some dumbass phone company. Like how a big, mahoosive, muscley black man got on the bike next to me during X-biking on Wednesday. I saw him, and considered explaining to the instructor that we might need to rearrange the room so that he had somewhere to go when he ACTUALLY STARTED MOVING FORWARDS on the firmly floored bike. But instead I remained on my bike, quietly shitting my pants at the idea of having to work out next to The Hulk. Apparently, though, I had nothing to worry about. He was disappointingly NORMAL at it. Part of me couldn't wait for the moment when he'd set off and fly straight into the mirror in front of us. Damn him for not impaling himself on glass.
I'm damning a lot of people today. Please be assured that I have no real authority on who gets damned or not.
Ugh. Bed.
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