Monday, November 12, 2007
Heh. Fear not, I've not turned into Jean Slater, as the paragraph above may suggest. In truth, the fact that IKEA delivered stuff when they were instructed to has been enough to send me skipping (for that you can read waddling quickly) around the flat in a state of high excitement.
The Hubbo and I realised we'd not had an argument for a few months, and therefore decided a trip to IKEA to buy a sideboard was the best remedy for that. Actually, things went tremendously - apart from ending up with a Billy With Doors instead of an actual sideboard. It's the law to buy a Billy when you go to IKEA, so I don't care. We also managed to buy the wardrobe for the nursery without too many mishaps, apart from me nearly biffing the wardrobe genius one for not being able to tell the difference between wardrobe heights. We even managed to get through the blasted market place without one of us picking up anything more untoward than a new floor lamp (as opposed to the usual "WE DON'T NEED A TEA STRAINER BECAUSE WE DON'T USE TEA LEAVES" type argument one sees every couple having in the market place at one time or another.)
The problems began when we entered the dreaded Vault of Flatpack, Where No Staff Dareth Enter. Or something. Seriously, you can't move for bloody IKEA staff stocking up the tealights and plumping sofa cushions, but the minute you need them for something, i.e getting the furniture down from the 12 foot high place where it lives, they all bugger off for meatballs and herrings leaving you to teeter precariously on your husband's shoulders while you hoof a two stone flatpack bookcase off the shelf.
It's not that we argued as such, it's just that when the idiots put aisle 2 along the back of the shop instead of in between aisles 1 and 3, as any sane shop designer would suggest, the Hubbo rather lost patience with the entire fiasco and blamed me for not reading the aisle map right. However, it turns out that growing another head inside you has the side effect of developing a fairly monstrous temper, so I made it clear to him that we could either blame each other and fight this out until the end of time in the middle of Swedish flatpack hell; or we could find a member of staff and give them some temperamental customer feedback on the spot. We found one rather quickly (hiding behind a yucca plant from a customer whose wife had just been flattened by a Benno CD rack) and proceeded to give said feedback, which I'm sure has been noted and is being actioned upon as we speak.
After all this fandango I wasn't expecting said furniture to actually turn up when we asked for it to (after having to pay a storage fee of £10 A NIGHT, damn crooks), but it did and I now have a place for all the baby clothes, and storage. Must ixcillent! Bork bork bork!
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
I've also spent the last two weeks patrolling the shops dejectedly for a winter coat that will fit over the bump (which appeared two weeks ago and is very much growing by the day) still by the time March rolls around, when I expect to be the size of Henry VIII. It is not proving successful, and if anyone has any ideas (preferably better than my current solution of "big cardigan over eight layers) I'd be most grateful.
Away from the grumpiness - a question. Where on earth has this "Peggy in a landslide of debt" storyline popped up from on EastEnders? Where was all the foreshadowing? EastEnders loves foreshadowing. At the very least I expected to have a scene or two of Peggy manfully playing down a card declination in the Mini Mart, or squishing a mountain of Jacques Vert shopping bags behind the board games in Ben's closet. Get a grip, writers.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Monday, October 01, 2007
I could make a tasteless "gripping hands" joke here, but I can't quite get to it.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
My slug fears are not as weird as you might like to think. The Hubbo and I used to live in an enormous basement flat in Hammersmith, which was charming in every way apart from the builders' neglect to actually build a bathroom in it. Therefore the ablutions area was very much a damp afterthought, a below-freezing wet room stuck on the side of the house that the W6 slug population fell in love with. The amount of times I ran screaming from the bathroom because an orange invertebrate had wrapped it round my toothbrush is more than I care to think about. It was particularly humiliating the time when the Hubbo (whose marriage vows included a promise to always be on hand to dispose of house-based wildlife) was in Canada snowboarding and I had to summon the upstairs neighbour to rid the bath of a particularly vivd green specimen.
So, when I got up at 3am to visit the facilities I was somewhat alarmed to see what looked like a big black slug on the floor, especially as my Hackney bathroom is pleasingly free of damp and therefore not the most sensible habitat for gastropods. Unable to face waking the Hubbo, who was flat on his back snoring like only those who know that in five months their sleeping habits are to be disrupted for the next five years, and those who have been drinking in the West End for nine hours following a "quick trip to PC World" can, I instead flapped for ten minutes, contemplated shutting my eyes and getting on with it, disregarded this idea because then I would inevitably tread on the slug, cursed the fact that I am such a girl, and decided to wait it out until the Hubbo woke up and could do his duty of slinging the slimy bastard out of the window. Few experiences have been less entertaining.
Of course, I saw the funny side when the slug turned out to be a memory stick that had fallen out of the Hubbo's PC World bag when he staggered in at half past midnight needing a piss so desperately he hadn't even time to drop his bags outside the bathroom door. Hilarious.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
I love America's Next Top Model's J. Alexander. He's always so well turned out, especially in comparison to Janice Dickinson, who generally looks like she got dressed with the help of Pete Burns (actually, I'm not convinced she isn't Pete Burns); and Jay Manuel, whose orange face/yellow hair combo reminds me of a red brick house with a thatched roof. Even Tyra, with her penchant for massive orange hair, looks dishevelled in comparison to J's crisp attire. Just look at that matching shirt and headband!
J. manages to look quite sweet here, and rather as if he's on his way to big school wearing short trousers and a small smile of excitement. In reality, J. is not sweet, but a hardcore runway coach who would scare the crap out of me if I had to walk in the same room as him. Especially if he was wearing his school-marm outfit.
Quink - apologies if I've ruined the notion of EDW by being so thoroughly shallow. If so let me know and I'll make it up with something intelligent next week. If not, there's a treat for everyone in store.
Photo from tv.yahoo.com
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
In fact I've been gallivanting about the country going to weddings - four in the last two weeks, including a terrific jaunt from Devon last Friday to Ipswich on Saturday - and when I've been back at the Hacksaw Chateau I haven't had the energy to write and have instead sat on my arse watching too much reality TV.
So, what's been going on? Um, nothing. Seriously. Apart from scampering from country house to converted barn toasting happy couples and staying in far too many Travelodges for anyone who isn't Alan Partridge, I have been going to work and then coming back home. Apart from the odd bit of baking, life consists of TV, bed and Gaviscon. How desperately unfortunate.
Still, I've managed to cobble together a few observations and queries over the past week or two - some of which I may develop into proper posts once my energy levels rise again.
1. Am I a bad person for being pleased when Jacqui and "Little Drummer Boy" Sam got booted unceremoniously off The Restaurant? They were so nice, and enthusiastic, and perky. However, I found myself unable to get past their reasons for choosing their restaurant's name - Ostrich: "I was cast as the ostrich in Peter Pan and I really became one with the ostrich." Be gone, dear. The Luvvies column in Private Eye calls.
2. Devon teenagers' grasp on what makes a relationship is a lesson for us all. Overheard last weekend:
Teenage girl, petulantly: "You never says you love me any more!"
Teenage boy, exasperatedly and in strongest Devon accent ever: "Look. I fucks yer, I buys yer chips. What more do you want?"
3. I really wish that contestants on the American versions of The Apprentice, Hell's Kitchen, America's Next Top Model et al would get a grasp on percentages and how they work. I am in no way a'math' expert (as proven by having to ask a work colleague last week how to work out on a calculator how much my pay rise will be once the unions stop dicking around with the offers) but even I know that 100% makes a whole, or however you care to phrase it. The contestants can't quite get the hang of this:
"I had a close shave with Mr Trump in last week's boardroom, so this week I gotta give a hundred and ten percent!"
"Tyra says I'm losing my enthusiasm, so I gotta start giving two hundred percent!"
"I've gotta start giving a hundred and fifty percent, or Chef Ramsay's gonna kick my arse."
Speaking of Hell's Kitchen, how much of a pussycat has MPW turned out to be? Bless him.
4. Over on EastEnders, I see that Peggy has started rivalling Pat for House Most Like a Tardis. Where on earth is everyone sleeping? I presume Ronnie and Roxy are bunking up on the banquettes down in the Vic, wonky boobs crushed up against each other and breathing vodka up each other's noses. It's a poor man's idea of porn. On the other hand, Phil Mitchell staggering about falling face down into cakes and stamping Airfix models to bits is rich televisual porn, especially now that someone's read this and sorted out his tipple of choice.
5. Now that we've hit 12 weeks (at long last), the Hubbo and I have broached the subject of names for Junior Hacksaw. And where else to find inspiration apart from lists of celebrity baby names? You will be pleased to know that so far we have cast aside the more wacky Poppy and Brooklyn in favour of the completely normal Satchel and Jermajesty.
As I said, not much has been going on over here. However, I'll be around a bit more often, specifically on Wednesdays as I'm taking a long overdue jump into Quink's EDW caper, having been inspired by this post. In the meantime, I'm off to start drinking water in preparation for tomorrow's scan, which I'm sure will result in a post all of its own regarding the madness of Homerton Hospital.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
I can't believe I've got dickhead comments about this and not about any of the EastEnders drivel I come out with.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
2. This evening I apologised to a pregnant woman I bumped into by mistake, and then gave her the "Morning sickness eh! That's a lark!" eye contact over the Moses baskets when I realised it was a mannequin.
3. Went to Hamleys, for God's sake. An expedition which nearly ended in the nobbling of the hyperactive "Everybody! You have fun tonight!" demonstrator fellow with a junior telescope.
4. After whizzing all the meatball ingredients together in the Kenwood, tried to disentangle the lump of meaty goodness from the blades using my hand and not a wooden spoon; and as a result am sporting a large ACME style bandage round my middle finger.
5. Of all the songs that could be in my head to musically illustrate this post, I have got that "Out of your Mind" one, as squawked by Dane Bowers and Victoria Beckham.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
However, I can console myself with the thought that if I was signed up with the Bank of Walford I'd spend most of my life staring at the screen of the cashpoint near the tube while it mockingly told me I had an available balance of £0.00, like everyone else on EastEnders.
Monday, August 13, 2007
"But they said come with a full bladder!"
"Yes, but it takes less than a litre to fill your bladder, especially if you've just had four glasses of orange juice with breakfast."
"But it might not be full enough and we might not be able to see anything."
"Fine, but don't go moaning on to me when we're on our way that you need a piss desperately and are in pain."
Forty five minutes later...
"Ow. Owowowowowow. Can't....walk...properly."
"Ha! I told you so. Look, there's a public loo there."
"DON'T TAUNT ME."
Thursday, August 09, 2007
K, H and I booked the holiday when pissed at the beginning of June - Hubbo had four stag parties planned over two months and I thought I should have some fun by escaping with the girls for a week of ice cold lager and tzatziki.
This would have actually been the case, was I not knocked up and therefore relegated to the position of The Boring One who sits in the corner being all "orange juice please, Tracy", Phil Mitchell style. I couldn't even go mad on tzatziki, as I've developed an aversion to it due to its yogurty consistency. I have also gone off hummus, which surely proves that there is no justice in this world.
Actually, the holiday itself wasn't too bad. I learned some things, namely that drunk people talk a lot of shit. I also got to tip a glass of water over a German fellow who decided to fall asleep on the walkway outside my apartment and wake me up by snoring at around 120db at 6am. He did not react well, and we had a shout-off for ten minutes before he would accept my sane and rational argument that he was a tit for not going to bed IN HIS BED and went to it.
So, now I'm back. Today I got to have my first experience of Homerton Hospital's antenatal unit - something which can be summed up succintly using the word 'chaos'. I was only dropping some forms off (complete with traditional useless scribbles courtesy of Dr Codeine over the road) and was on the verge of a panic attack. A man in overalls wandered in with a snack trolley at one point and it was like watching a load of angry hawks descending on a deer carcass. Because we're generally quite impatient, we've got an early scan booked on Saturday with a private fellow in town - a Dr Gibb. While I'm quite excited about this, it's not stopped me having nightmares about lying on a bed, bladder full and stomach smeared with swarfega, and suddenly realising a Bee Gee is about to give me an ultrasound while squealing a medley of 1970's 'Gee hits.
Obviously this is not the most exciting thing happening at the moment. No, the most exciting thing is coming back from holiday and having four whole episodes of EastEnders to catch up on (and still having three to watch tonight, if you include tonight's episode!) I see they waited till I got the Easties Comedy Award out of the way before cracking on with those side splitting abandoned rubbish/mouse in caff/robbing of QV bust. Anyway, a few questions which I trust regular readers will be able to help me answer:
1. I thought Phil Mitchell was always a vodka man (I can still picture the bottle hidden cunningly in Kaff's dishwasher). P Mitchell does not strike me as a chap to re-embrace alcoholism with a random bottle of Johnnie Walker or any old toot that's lying around Peggy's drinks globe (which she hasn't got, but really should). He'd make the effort to get himself a bloody good bottle of Smirnoff, neck it and then commence with the purple-faced beatings. I hope that on the plane to Rio he digs out Borehamwood's dog-eared copy of The Soap Guide To Alcoholism and takes notes.
2. Where is most of Samantha Janus's nose?
3. Who wrote to the BBC and complained there weren't enough Rubbish Gangsters in EastEnders anymore, prompting them to bring in this gun-totin' James Dean quotin' Blazing Squad member who is trying to get into the tiresome Lucy Beale's knickers?
4. Not a question, more of an observation: Go away, smackhead sister of Tanya.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Not rage at the actual sandwich. I might be a bit hormonal at the moment, but I've not yet reached the point where I'm yelling at inanimate wheat-based items (stay tuned to see what happens over the next eight months though). I got rage at the Sandwich Maker, or more accurately, the Sandwich Maker Who Dares Pass Judgement.
Just what is so odd about ciabatta with parma ham and fresh tomato anyway? LOTS, apparently. Enough is wrong with it to make the Sandwich Maker give me a raised-eyebrow stare for ten seconds and then shout across the sandwich bar: "You eat strange foods, yes?!"
And then I shouted back about piss poor customer service and my rights to have whatever sandwich I damn well wanted, yes?!
Then I turned on my heel and slipped on a wet leaf. Tomorrow I am buying my lunch from M & S.
In other news: shut up, Orange gigs and tours advert.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
1. Ricky’s stag night
Oh, glory days. Why can’t they bring Ricky back? He was always there with a cheery word and a buffoonish expression on his face; losing spanners, incurring the wrath of Bianca and causing Frank to squeeze that bit of skin between his eyes eight times an episode. Mind you, I suppose they’ve got Gary now. Anyway: background. Rickaaay is about to marry screaming orange harpy Biancaaaaaar, and because nothing ever goes wrong in EastEnders, decides to have his stag party the night before. How wise!
Unsurprisingly, a great time was had by all until young Butcher woke up in a field in France the next day. Along with three men who anyone would want in a crisis – Phil, Grant and Nigel. Oh, what larks! Luckily, Nigel had taken GCSE French and asked a local peasant where they were (as far as I recall, Nigel’s French sounded rather similar to my dad’s on the legendary occasion where he got absolutely trolleyed in Paris and lost his hotel key; and then decided to sort out the whole fiasco by lurching up to the snooty receptionist and ask in ‘Allo ‘Allo style English: “Escooose me! Der yer ‘ave zer key?”). The peasant took pity and revealed that they were in fact in – wait for it – Kent. The day is saved! Although considering the fuss people in EastEnders make about going Up West or to the High Street, chances are that this fact caused more distress than finding out they were in St Malo or whatever.
2. Walford One Owed Freedom
Any canine who bites Ian Beale’s arse deserves a paw shake in my book. However, when this jolly event happened, thanks to the ever reliable comedy staple Wellard, Beale failed to see it that way and spent what seemed like weeks whining on about it and making his voice go all high pitched. When everyone failed to listen, or in fact care, Beale dug out his biggest Unreasonable Hat and decided that the only solution to keeping his butt bite-free was to have Wellard put down. “Nooooo!” cried the loyal audience. “He’s a much better actor than nearly everyone else on this soap!”
Luckily, the People’s Poet Gus Smith (new owner of said antisocial dog since Robbie took his acne to pastures new) and Newcomer In Need of a Storyline Deano Wicks were on the side of the viewing public, and started the unforgettable campaign WOOF, complete with T-shirts and everything. Beale got red faced and shouted, Gus banged on incessantly about dog rights, and in the end everything was resolved, as ever, by the sensible Jane, plus Peter and Lucy (aka The Woodentops). Also, in order to teach Beale that Dogs Have Feelings Too (Or Summink) they bought him his own dog, who has not been seen since.
3. Patrick and Jim, generally
I love it when EastEnders scriptwriters realize that there is so much moroseness abounding in the Square, and decide to lighten up life by getting Yolande or Dot to scamper off for three weeks to Jamaica/'to visit Michelle in Florida’ respectively, and Patrick and Jim to indulge in non stop boozing, betting and breaking of much-loved pottery products. ‘Hilarity ensues’, mostly involving Jim’s eye going wonkier and Patrick bellowing about plantains and rum at the top of his voice, until Yolande/Dot returns early and subjects them to a week of stupid punishments such as training for a marathon or manning the fruit stall. Oh, how we laugh.
And the winner is….(drumroll this week provided by Sean beating his head against the bar in protest at the lameness of this category’s nominations…)
Walford One Owed Freedom!
Well done, Wellard. Everyone knows dogs are funny. Dogs biting the hell out of Beale are even funnier, so props to you.
Next up: it’s bemused expressions at the ready for Category #4: The "Hang On, This Totally Doesn't Make Sense" Award. Which will hopefully be less of a Mick Fleetwood/Sam Fox type washout than this one.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Saturday, July 07, 2007
1. Laura Beale
Poor Laura. As if life hadn’t dealt her enough duff hands in life, what with having to nanny Beale’s whinging kids, then marrying Beale, then it all going horribly wrong, having a paternity to-do over her moon headed child, and finally being pushed down the stairs to a long overdue death; and now she’s the victim of a snarky nomination here, thanks to Dandelion (round of applause!)
What started out as middle of the road, eye rolling acting at Beale’s various scrapes turned, over the years, into gurning parody – in the end involving nothing apart from stumping across the Square with a buggy shouting the odds at Beale; or sitting in a pile of pooey nappies staring bug-eyed at an empty jar of Cow & Gate pureed spinach. Murder at the hands of Janine Butcher was welcome relief for those watching.
2. Jean Slater
I hate Jean Slater. If she’s not sat in an armchair with her knees under her chin, rocking back and forth and muttering about how “they” are trying to get her; she’s throwing Sugar Puffs at the wall while screaming at the top of her lungs; or getting way too overexcited about the prospect of a pot of tea and not letting anyone get a word in edgeways. And the voice sends icicles down my spine.
Her scripts are pretty much identical every time she rolls up, which is around every four months when the plot needs a little bit of help. MacGuffin, thy name is Jean Slater! Now take that Prozac and stop the damn yelling.
3. Rebecca/Chloe/Spawn of Sonia and Martin
“Can we go and feed the ducks with Granny Pau-line?”
“No! No, we can’t, because you’re going in the cellar until you learn to stop over pronouncing every vowel, stop glaring at everyone with that devil child stare, and cut that fringe. Although if my storylines had been half as confusing as yours have been over the years I’d probably be trying to get sacked as well. However, I don’t care. Be gone.”
It’s rare for someone in a soap to be contracted to only use four facial expressions (Outraged; Blissful; Sly; Disappointed) and use only four phrases day in, day out (“You’re a Mitchell!/You ain’t a Mitchell!”/”It’s all abaht the family!” or variations thereof; “Fwee dwinks fer all!”; “Get aaahhta my pub!”; “Pat Evans ain’t getting the better of me, just you wait!”) Babs Windsor rocks, but the character of Peggy just isn’t given enough to work with here. I expect a Mitchell to be on me doorstep within the hour brandishing a crowbar.
5. Carly Wicks
I quite liked the actress who played Carly when the character first arrived in the Square. She was a voice of reason in between all the KEVIN “Parklife” WICKS! and Deano hair-tearing and japestering. However, things have gone a bit swiftly downhill for young Carly, and now all her scenes just involve her either downing vodka out of pint glasses in the Vic, falling over, screaming at family members, rolling her eyes and screwing up her face in outrage. The term one-trick pony comes to mind, which is shame because I quite like the actress whenever she’s on Soccer AM.
So concludes the nominations. And the winner is (drumroll courtesy of Garry with a couple of darts on the bar….)
It’s Rebecca/Chloe/Spawn! Um, I feel a bit bad about handing this out to a child who has not yet been to Sylvia Young or the Poor School like everyone else in EastEnders, but it is unfortunately well deserved. The staring eyes, the stilted delivery, the maddening mispronunciation of the name Pauline, and of course the general aura of being spawned from Satan himself; the farewell was excruciatingly overdue.
Next up, it’s less hate and more fun with Category #3: The Mince and Gary Award for Inane Comic Relief Storyline! Oh, the wacky japesters.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Thanks to the wonderful Ms Baroque and Dandelion for their nominations – quite a fantastic selection. Dandelion’s in particular reached back into the heyday of EastEnders, and unfortunately not even Wikipedia can help me out with some of them. Still, much like EastEnders itself, I’ll bluster through and hope it all comes out in the wash (with Dot’s fag ash all over it.)
On with the awards! These are going to be done over a number of posts, as chances are proceedings will be interrupted by a fight and the QV bust being swung at someone.
Category #1: Silliest Brookside-esque Storyline
EastEnders is great at stupid storylines. Isn’t that the whole point of soaps? Of course, they’ve not reached Brookside stringing-up-paedos-in-the-street levels yet, but give it time. In order for an EE storyline to reach the dizzy heights of being completely insane it must tick a number of boxes, including rampaging on for at least six months, having more twists and turns than a twisty turny thing, getting the inept Walford coppers involved and Pat doing some amateur sleuthing, preferably with the hindrance of a comedy sidekick such as Billy or Genghis.
Nominations for this category include:
1. The nobbling of the annoying Saskia with an ashtray, subsequent breakdowns of those involved, boring court case and too many scenes featuring Paul Nicholls rotting in prison wearing a netball sash.
2. Max and Stacey. Balding shyster who can’t keep his plonker in his pants ignoring his hot up-for-it wife in favour of gobby vodka swilling teenager caked in Collection 2000. Completely unbelievable, and it’s not even over with yet.
3. Dawn Swann pretending to be Ian Beale’s wife for sinister, Masonic Lodge type reasons that I can’t even remember, meeting smooooth, strangely hairlined Rob, shagging his brains out, getting pregnant, finding out the smoooothster is married to the very nice new GP, very nice new GP finding out about that her patient is knocked up by her husband, going completely batshit crazy, threatening to perform a caesarean with a butter knife and getting taken away to a bouncy room by those inept coppers. Then we all had to suffer the insufferable Carly Wicks singing songs from Annie during the labour. I felt like I’d been in labour for nine months after sitting through this storyline.
4. Mental, wife beating Owen kidnapping dorky tween Squiggle (sorry, sorry, Libby – we don’t want a Button style strop on our hands) and essentially trying to kill her, for reasons that even after a trip to Wikipedia I am unsure of. As ever, the inept coppers eventually turned up after what seemed like years of failing to get involved and the baddie was arrested. They all lived happily ever after, except for Libby who then had to move in with KEVIN “Parklife” WICKS!, and Owen, who is presumably now spending his days playing Boggle with various inmates in the House of Batshit.
And the winner is (drumroll please while Peggy replenishes various glasses of Unspecific)……..
It’s Dawn, Rob and May! It kind of had to be, seeing as the episode with the threatened caesarian was the one that inspired this glittering ceremony. To quote, er, me: “[it] included all the traditional soap stalwarts of hysteria, insanity, tears, blood and scalpels.” Starting off as a comedy storyline based around Beale’s relentless social climbing and pottering off on various tangents along the way (including an obligatory real girlfriend turns up, charms the pants off everyone and Beale looks like an arse scene) it suddenly turned itself on its head and viewers were left scratching their heads wondering why all this blacking-one’s-own-eye capery had been going on if May and Rob had been in cahoots all along. Jimmy Corkhill would be proud.
Next up: Category #2: The Phil Daniels Award for Shoddy Acting!
Sunday, July 01, 2007
I'm also blaming the lozenges for the fact that I sat transfixed in front of the concert for Diana for about four and a half hours until the Hubbo came back from a stag do in Newquay and pleaded with me to watch something normal instead. So we watched EastEnders. Which was predictably insane.
Speaking of, apologies for the lack of awards ceremony last week. Beale double booked himself and you can't have a do in the Vic without a plate of Marmite sandwiches and a cheese hedgehog. People need food to soak up all that Churchills. Otherwise there might be a fight or something else equally unthinkable.
Oh, he so did not. I spent the week drinking, shopping and going to the gym and neglected to do any blogging at all. Sorry. The ceremony will take place tomorrow, so make sure you stop by! Peggy's promised "fwee dwinks fer all!"
Oh yeah, and someone got here by googling "hot polish builder eastenders". I sometimes think I must be watching a different programme to some people.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Dooce has written about her daughter since the day she found out she was pregnant. Her monthly letters to said daughter make for the most honest, raw and beautiful writing I've come across since I started reading weblogs.
Please, go read.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Thrillingly, we have feast of new categories to add, sponsored by said bloggers in homage to their Easties love.
First up, its the Dandelion Award for Best Life Advice. I already have a winner in mind, but could easily be persuaded to change my mind if a sound nomination is sent in.
Next, it's the three Baroque Awards for Most Tiresome Storyline Ever (a veritable bounty of choices for that on); Classic Moments We'd Hate to Have Missed (Beale's vasectomy anyone? Oh, just me then) And Best EastEnders Thing Ever.
Get nominating, soapfans. The awards ceremony will take place next week. Beale's getting a pig's head in specially, and there'll no doubt be a classic bust up afterwards in the traditon of all good Queen Vic hosted events.
I was at Euston bus station, waiting for a 476 to take me home. A 73 had pulled up but I didn;t get on it, because it was rammed and also a man had got on wielding an angry looking pitbull, and I didn't fancy having to whip out my Brownie first aid skills during the journey.
A 476 pulled up, but because the route starts at Euston it pulls up round the corner from the actual stop to allow passengers to get off and for the driver to have a smoke, or whatever. So, knowing it'd be rolling up at the stop in a couple of minutes, I pottered down to the part of the bus stop where the bus would actually stop and carried on reading my book (The Secret History, by Donna Tartt. An excellent read, but haven't a clue how it'll end).
I am a big believer in personal space (after an unfortunate tutorial at university on the subject of 'non verbals' which probably only stuck in my mind because it was one of about four 'Interpersonal Communication' tutorials I went to over the course of the year) and will go to extreme lengths to ensure that I am not, you know, breathing on someone or standing on their shoes. Likewise, I am most appreciative when people reciprocate the favour. So, imagine my face when this woman came and stood directly in front of me, close enough for my shoes to be touching hers. It wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't nearly been toppling off the pavement. What's more, she turned round and gave me a look that said: "Har! I have foiled your wily plan!"
Anyway, I didn't fancy continuing my read with my nose in the back of this woman's hair, so I moved up a couple of paces.
She moved again, right in front of me. It was the movement equivalent of the childhood copying game ("Muuuum! He's copying meee!" "Muuuum! He's copying meee!" "Muuuum! It's really annoying!" "Muuuum! It's really annoying!" ad nauseum until someone, usually me, gets grounded). And gave me another look, this time: "Don't think your cunning moving technique will get you out of this tight spot!" Rahaaa!"
I moved again, just to escape the madness, but this time of course moved so far that she thought that she'd won the 'who's getting on the bus first? Me!' game and did not follow.
Of course, the 476 pulled up right in front of me. Her facial expression was priceless, but not as priceless as those of the various commuters she shoved out of the way in order to be second on the bus.
I thought the whole ludicrous caper was over and done with, until I was walking up the bus towards the seat I wanted. Yes, ok, I have a favourite seat on the bus. Shut up. It's the one on the opposite side of the doors next to the buggy space, and its good because no matter how rammed the bus is you don't have to do the "Sorry, can I...thanks. Excuse me, excuse me, EXCUSE! Oh, thanks. Sorry! Sorry! Can - I - just, oh sorry, gah! Don't shut the doors! Sorry, thanks" dance trying to get to the doors before you end up in Edmonton. However, if someone's sat in said seat I don't haul them up by a lock of their hair and fling them off to another seat.
Not that my new-found rival did that. She did, however, charge up the bus like Linford Christie, push past me and seat herself and all her shopping on said seat. And then gave me a smug look along the lines of "game, set and match. Bitch."
Its almost enough to make me miss the ninety minute Southwest Trains commute.
Monday, June 18, 2007
In snarky thanks, therefore, I present the Easties Awards 2007. If you wish you can have your say by leaving your nominations for the following categories in the comments box.
Category #1: Silliest Brookside-esque Storyline (I fear there may be a clear winner for this one)
Category #2: The Phil Daniels Award for Shoddy Acting
Category #3: The Mince and Gary Award for Inane Comic Relief Storyline
Category #4: The "Hang On, This Totally Doesn't Make Sense" Award
Category #5: The Award for Excellent Villainry
Category #6: The "Ew!" Award for Unnecessary Mental/Actual Images
Category #7: The "Shut up, Chelsea" Award for Most Annoying Early-20s Character
Category #8: The Asif and Martin Award for Zany Moneymaking Schemes
I think that's probably enough to be getting on with. Expect a glittering awards ceremony, with free Churchills and catering by Beale, soon enough.
And if youo wish to comment about me having no life, I KNOW. You don't need to tell me.
Monday, June 11, 2007
If I am striding down the Euston Road at 5.45pm, it generally means that I am heading home or to the pub. Please do not try and hinder my way by biffing me in the ribs with one of your newspapers in a vain effort to get me to take one. If I want one, I will make eye contact and do something that suggests I want one, such as extending a hand to reach for one. If I scowl at the pavement, it means I generally don't.
Dear Chelsea In EastEnders,
Quit the damn pouting.
Dear Dawson Leery,
Shit, your forehead is huge. Not as huge as your ego though.
Dear Microsoft Office paperclip 'helper' thing
"It looks like you're writing a letter!" Yes, yes I am. A LETTER OF HATE. Be gone.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
I think this is known as a lesson learnt. The Hubbo is sat on the sofa crowing about it, which makes me think that he has programmed the box to not record any non-cookery related reality programmes.
At least my now-traditional BB-induced post-11pm rage might simmer down as a result of this.