Pat Butcher - East End Ho

HOW much am I hoping for another Pat and Peggy showdown in EastEnders over a man? One of my favourite EastEnders moments ever involved Pat getting busted for screwing Frank Butcher behind Peggy's back, and the two old hos engaging in the best bitch-slap fest ever seen on television.

Luckily, another crumpled Saga Lout has arrived on the scene in the form of Jack Edwards. He's already outdone himself by shagging Peggy - which by EastEnders law means that Pat's got to have a go at him at some point. Helpfully, the Pegster is unwittingly shoving the two of them closer together by displaying some quite astonishingly eighteenth century opinions regarding Jack's grand-daughter who has Down's, whereas Pat is ridden with understanding about the whole issue and has pleasingly started to weave her web of sin by making Jack cups of tea and whipping out the Suggestive Eyebrows. Excellent.

I love how EastEnders scriptwriters cannot write a crime storyline to save their lives, but when faced with a randy pensioner to muck about with they come into a league of their own. It only seems days since Pat was being, quite literally, all fur coat and no knickers with Patrick "let's have a naaaaaace half o' rum!" Trueman. And who could forget Frank Butcher rolling up on her doorstep wearing nothing but a toothy grin and a whirling bow tie. Brilliant.

All hail to P-Butch, then. Besides, who could not fancy her?

"Fifteen of them beers and yer still ugly."

How pleased was I to read this article today?

I love the fact that someone has a job thinking up new types of doll for us consumers.

"Ehhh, how about a Sven Goran Eriksson?"

"No, John."

"A Charlotte Church one, then."

"No, John."

"Shane Warne! Tubby cricketing excellency, now in doll shaped form!"

"No, John."

"Got it. T-Bag from Prison Break. Wife-beater, snapped off teeth and a mullet!"

"You legend!"

Gaff to myself

A number of reasons why I should not be left unsupervised of a weekend

3pm - Wave off The Fiance, who is off to Southampton on a boy jaunt with Stanners to modify fifty quid Saab that they have bought. Watch him sling tiger print seat covers, bubble stickers, a klaxon that plays the Minder theme tune and a homemade spoiler in the boot and drive off. Shake head in manner of world-weary sort at the inanity of boy projects.

3.01pm - Close door and say “heh” in anticipation of an evening sat on the sofa watching bad films and drinking wine while wearing antisocial clothing.

3.05pm - Change from acceptable Saturday afternoon wear of black trousers and lacy tank top from the Gap into grey pyjama bottoms and an England T-shirt.

3.07pm - Sit in front of Sky Plus box and scroll through channels.

3.10pm - Wonder aloud how I can receive eight hundred channels and yet not find anything to watch.

3.11pm - Put Sky Sports News on.

3.12pm - Turn Sky Sports News off in a huff when I realise Newcastle aren’t playing till tomorrow.

3.13pm - Put 24 DVD on.

3.15pm – “Events occur in real -“ Rrrriiiing. Rrrriiing. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

4.00pm - Finish multiple-stranded phone conversation with Mum, which has spanned breadmaking machines; wrap tops; bee stings; coat hangers; the West Wing; the improbability, or not, of the heroin storyline in series three of 24; Colin Farrell: tosser or not (me: totally; Mum: not so much); Paullina Simons’ latest book; and the reason why I have not yet sent out any wedding invitations because the family is starting to carp on rather and I should really get my ass in gear.

4.05pm - Collect the Dreaded Bag of Wedding Gubbins from the cupboard.

4.10pm - Un-pause 24. Assemble wedding invitations (print inserts, glue insert into foldy invitation “outer”, attach paper rose topper thing with sticky gloy gum type thing, glue on confetti sequin things, glue on tab that says ‘Invitation’, write guest’s name on invite, cross reference response card with list, attack invitation with hole punch, tie up with ribbon and wish to God I’d paid someone else to do the bloody things instead of getting all crafty and insisting I do everything myself.)

4.25pm - Realise I have spent the last five minutes gazing at the TV screen with my mouth open. Insert tongue back into gaping mouth and wipe dribble off invitation.

4.35pm - Spill eight hundred thousand turquoise sequin confetti things on the floor. “Oh, just kill me now.”

4.36pm - Attempt to sweep sequin confetti things into dustpan. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Get into the dustpan, sequins. Do not, when swept, hide under the lip of the dustpan so that when I move it you are lined up in military fashion which while tidier than the initial Puddle O’ Sequins, means you are still on my floor and not in the bag in which you came, or my bin.”

4.40p - Retrieve the Dyson, which is of course trapped behind the ironing board, washing basket, broom, mop, mop bucket and broken air conditioning unit. “Fuck off, ironing board. Fuck off, washing basket. Fuck off – ow! – mop, mop bucket and bastard broom. Get out of the – oof – way, duff air conditioner which has not worked for two years and should be in a skip. Come here, Dyson – fuck off! Dyson plug cord which has wrapped itself round annoying decorative stick things from Ikea.”

4.50pm - Vacuum up sequin confetti things viciously.

5.00pm - Re-vacuum up sequin confetti things that Dyson has spat out.

5.10pm - Jam Dyson and all other annoying housekeeping paraphernalia back into kitchen cupboard. Kick door shut. “Ow.”

5.20pm - Jam all invitation stuff back into the Dreaded Bag of Wedding Gubbins and stuff back into cupboard until I have calmed down.

5.30pm - Retrieve well-deserved half full bottle of Pinot from fridge and pour an over-enthusiastic glass.

5.32pm - Inspect DVD collection. Deliberate over informative, moving film or only-bought-for-one-reason-for-three-quid-off-eBay film.

5.34pm - Put March of the Penguins back in the DVD rack. Put Desert Saints DVD in the DVD player.

5.40pm - Retrieve rest of the bottle of wine from the fridge. Make sure ashtray and takeaway menu are nearby so as not to have to move off the sofa for the next few hours.

5.50pm - Rrrriiiing. Rrrriiing. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

K: Fancy a pint?

Miss Hacksaw: Now?

K: Yes, now. Why, what else are you up to?

MH: The Fiance’s out for the night and I’m taking full advantage.

K: Ah, trawling your way through the Duff DVD Archives then. What is it this time?

MH: It’s a film called Desert Saints, and I have no idea if it’s any good or not as I’m only ten minutes in.

K: And why does this classify as a DVD that you have to wait till The Fiance is out to watch?

MH: I….don’t want to say.

K: Who is in this film?

MH: I….also don’t want to say.

K: Kiefer Sutherland gets naked in it, doesn’t he.

MH: I….yes.

K: Pint later then?

MH: OK. Come over about half eight.

5.55pm - Resume film. Hate Melora Walters. Also hate waitress who gets to be on the receiving end of Kiefer handcuff action.

8.00pm – Turn DVD off. Scream and cover ears when TV sound is louder than an AC/DC gig, due to as-yet-unexplained sound differences between TV and DVD systems.

8.01pm – Go into kitchen to dispose of empty wine bottle. Open fridge to examine contents, which are as follows: cheese (hate!), tomatoes (shrivelled), spinach (wilted), pasta (boring), hummus (elderly) and another bottle of wine (yay!)

8.05pm – Attempt to go back into living room with glass of wine following stupid, over-long battle with corkscrew. Freeze and almost drop the glass. “Gaaaaaah! That better be a dust bunny. Gaaah! OK, dust bunnies do not have eight legs and glare at people in their own homes.”

8.10pm – Eventually un-freeze from entertaining-if-not-being-glared-at-by-arachnid-pause-button-stance. Engage in ludicrous Ministry Of Silly Walks step over the spider so as not to anger it by getting too close.

8.11pm – Risk a look at the spider, which has swivelled in order to glare at me again.

8.12pm – Pick up phone to dial The Fiance and panic at him, before remembering that he is a) in Southampton and b) probably in the pub, neither of which is helpful. Replace receiver.

8.13pm – In a rare moment of practicality, gather together a piece of cardboard and a pint glass.

8.14pm – Flap around the living room in non-practical girly way. Down glass of wine in one. Smoke frantically in the misguided belief that this will actually help.

8.15pm – Take a deep breath and vow to be more hardcore in future, in the manner of Nina Myers or Shell Dockley.

8.16pm – “Gaaah. Gaaah. Gaaaah. Ew! Right, you hairy – oh God, I cannot believe there is a hairy spider in my house – bastard. Get on the card. Get on the card. Get on the – fuck! Aaaagh! Get off my hand! Aaagh! Right, stay on the card. Don’t you fucking look at me like that. Do you pay the mortgage? Really? No. You do not. I pay the mortgage, therefore you get out of my – stay on the card! Well done. And don’t try and scramble up the sides of the pint glass. Bastard.”

8.20pm – Attempt to open window above kitchen sink. “Don’t laugh at me for being short, you hairy legged git.”

8.22pm – Locate wedges which will allow me to actually reach window. Strap on wedges, ignoring shouts from feet: “Not these! Anything but these!” “Shut up, feet. Do you want a spider running over you? Well?” Feet thankfully zip it.

8.23pm – Force window open. Tip spider outside. “That’s right, bugger off!” Remove wedges. “About bloody time.” “Shut it, feet.”

8.24pm – Hide from neighbour who has just had a spider dropped on her as she was looking for her keys.

8.25pm – Collapse exhausted onto the sofa and gaze glassy-eyed at Casualty.

8.55pm - Wake from trance-like state and wonder why in the world I am watching Casualty.

9.00pm - Rrrriiiing. Rrrriiing.

K: Fpppppmwrrrrt.

MH: Where are you? Are you still coming over?

K: Oh. Yeah. I fell asleep. Sorry.

MH: How old are you, ninety?

K: Ho ho. Still fancy the pub? You’ll have to give me a while to get sorted though.

MH: No bother. Come round mine when you’re ready.

K: Laters then

9.05pm – Check Sky listings. “Oooh, The Shining’s on!”

10.00pm - Rrrriiiing. Rrrriiing

MH: OK, you need to get here NOW

K: Aaaaaaand calm. I’m on my way, what’s the problem? The pub doesn’t shut till one.

MH: Just keep talking to me.

K: What the hell’s happened?

MH: Weeell, I was flicking through the Sky listings and saw this film was on, and thought “ooh, I haven’t seen that in years” and NOW I REMEMBER WHY.

K: It was The Shining, wasn’t it.

MH: How did you guess that?

K: Because every time we get drunk and start talking about films we get onto the subject of how fucking terrifying those twi-

MH: Gaaah! Do not! Even! Talk! About them! The freaky damn twins. I mean, what the hell? They weren’t in the book! Well, the kids were mentioned, but they weren’t graphically described as being chopped up all over the carpet or advancing on the kid in the hallway while chanting or, for that matter, BEING TWINS who both look completely fucked up and huuuuuuuuuuu-

K: Ooookay. Breathe. Can I ask a question?

MH: -uuuuuuh. Yes.

K: WHY do you put yourself through the inevitable hell of watching horror films when you are alone in the house? You’re useless at it. I’ll never forget the damn Blair Witch phone call at two a.m.

MH: That was different! I wasn’t alone when I watched that!

K: You weren’t?

MH: Nooooo! I watched it with The Fiance and Stanners, and when it finished I went for a piss – which took me about fifteen minutes to work up the courage to do, might I add – and when I came back the bastards had put the lamp on really low and were standing in opposite corners of the room with their faces turned to the wall…..hoooooooooo God, don’t even remind me of it.

K: ……….Heh.

MH: Yes, well. All very easy to laugh when you’re not [bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz] Damn it! What the fuck was that? Someone’s at the door – knowing my luck it’s probably the Blair Witch or that thing in the bath in The Shining –

K: It’s me, you twat. I’m hanging up now.

MH: Oh. You could have said you were – hello? Damn.

10.10pm Clatter out of flat and go to the pub.

08.15am – Come to on the sofa. Wonder why a) the front door is flapping open, b) why Saved By the Bell is paused on the TV, c) why the smoke alarm is disabled and d) why I am laid on the sofa, wearing only knickers and one sock. Make a pact with myself that next time The Fiance goes out of town on a Saturday night and leaves me to my own devices, I will spend the afternoon swimming and getting a facial and then going to the theatre or some other activity that will not result in me waking up with the mother of all hangovers, wearing only basic underwear and with a tip of a flat to clean up. Oh, and the spider’s back. The hell with it, I’m going to bed.

"We trashed the one that looks like Twisted Sister!"

“Can I delete the Lost Boys off Sky+ yet?”

“Nooooo! I’m going to watch that later!”

“But you only watched it last week!”

“SO?”

“Oh for the love of God…”

So goes the fairly regular conversation that The Fiance and I have. Try as he might (which is not at all, I might point out) he fails to understand the Lost Boys and its greatness, and why K and I feel the need to take over the living room for two hours once a fortnight to indulge in watching it. I suppose I could go out and buy it on DVD and go round to K’s and watch it there so The Fiance can get on with watching programmes with Clarkson in; but I am harbouring a grudge from my VHS copy of the film being binned by said Fiance in a moment of Kiefer-overload (we’d just watched series 4 of 24 in a day and a half) so refuse to delete it off Sky+ just yet.

So, in honour of The Fiance, and the countless other blokes out there who are in the same situation as him, here is a comprehensive list of exactly why this film rules.

1. Bill S. Preston Esquire! Dude! OK, in this he is known as ‘Marko’ and sports a really offensive curly mullet, but he’s Bill, and I will never call him anything else. The first time I watched this film I was with my brother, who was aged about six at the time and whose favourite film was Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. When he saw ‘Marko’ get killed in this, he cried for about three days and the only sense Mum could get out of him was: “They killed Bill! They killed Bill!” Heh.

2. The Frog Brothers. I love the fact that Feldman’s bandana does all the acting for him in this film. Actually, the reason I love the Frog Brothers is their childlike enthusiasm for all things vampire, and the fact that Alan Frog is responsible for one of the best lines in the entire film: “Holy shit! It’s the attack of Eddie Munster!”

3. Star. Talk about putting the ‘ho’ in Boho. I am often lost for words at the duffness of Star. She spends all the time mooning about wearing floaty gypsy skirts and wrapped in that blanket, shagging and generally being wet. However, there is a moment early on in the film where we see Star's true colours. She doesn't really want David, or Michael for that matter (actually, I reckon this film was probably good training for the Kiefer/Patric/Julia Roberts fracas that was to erupt a couple of years later). She doesn't even want Bill S. Preston, which is surely the sign of someone not quite right in the head. No. She wants.....

.,....the oiled up, mulleted, sax-totin' muscleman who plays a gig on the boardwalk. And who wouldn't? I can't find a screen clip of Star at said gig, which is a real shame because she hilariously looks on the point of orgasm. Almost as much as Corey Haim does. Ew.

4. The oiled-up, mulleted, sax-totin' muscleman who plays a gig on the boardwalk. Yes, he deserves a point all of his own. The man is a legend! Embarrassingly, I was listening to the souondtrack for this film the other day when I was cleaning, and The Fiance came home to find me cleaning the toilet while singing this song at the top of my voice complete with saxophone 'noises'. The loo made for a pleasing echo effect, by the way. For those interested in trivia and stalking, you will be pleased to know that this hot chap's real name is Timmy Cappello, and he has made something of a name for himself by being Tina Turner's sax back-up. He also has a myspace, but I am unsure that it is actually him that's set it up, seeing as one of his interests is apparently 'being pelvic'. Check it out: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=1436224

Scarily, while investigating this page, I note that Star, David and Marko also have myspace pages! The undead have internet access? Cool!

5. Grandpa. Root beer lovin', vampire baiting, TV Guide reading excellency. Plus, Windex as aftershave? Sex-aay. Wish I was the Widow Johnson.

6. "You're a vampire Michael! Boy, you wait till Mom finds out! It's not like getting a D in Math, you know!" HAAAAAA! Best...line...ever. It even beats the Eddie Munster one. Whenever my brother or I had done something pretty bad when younger and were awaiting the inevitable bollocking from the school, we would always yell this line at each other. It became less funny after we both did in fact get a D in "Math" in our mocks and still got grounded.

7. IT'S GOT KIEFER IN IT. OK, he does sport an unfortunate bleach blonde mullet, but any film with Kiefer in it rocks.

8. Everything about Corey Haim. Nowadays, Haim is a bloated tool who worryingly tried to sell his teeth and hair on eBay. Then....actually, he was a complete tool in the 80s as well. But this film is arguable his finest hour. Let's investigate:

a) the clothes. WHO was in charge of wardrobe in this film? And what did they have against Haim? Everyone else did ok. Michael, although it pains me to admit it, looks rather hot in all that leather. The vampires also rock the leather. Star...eh, well, a white gyspy skirt was all she needed, and it is insinuated that she spends most of her time out of said skirt anyway. But Corey....what the hell. First off, we have that mental dressing gown. My eyes, my eyes! Then, we have a selection of painful shirts that look like Jackson Pollock had got at them. But the worst has to be the...what the hell is it? A coat? A shirt? The hell with it, decide for yourselves:

Either way, it's minging.

b) "And a special cameo from Mr Rob Lowe!" I am unsure how old Haim is meant to be in this movie. I'd guess around 15? Anyway, let's say he is. Now a question for you: how many 15 year old boys do you know who keep a poster of Rob Lowe on their wardrobe door? Especially a poster of Rob Lowe wearing what appears to be a crop top, for the love of God, and displaying those fine tanned abs for all they are worth.

c) "I ain't got a maaaaaaaaan! I ain't got a song!" I wonder if, when Haim was given the script to this film, he saw this scene and kicked off. "You want me to do what? Sit in a bubble bath and sing about the fact I haven't got a man? Yo kidding me?" Somehow, I think not. Haim is loving this scene. It was probably the highlight of the 80s for him. Twat. Actually, the best thing about this scene is the look the dog gives him. "If you don't stop squealing in your horrible high pitched voice, boy, I will fuck you up. You hear me? Ooh, vampires!"

9. Taxidermy. There's a joke here about Haim and the beaver, but I can't quite get to it.

10. Vampire death zone. Melting vampire in a bath of garlic? Done (but not before some very, very bad acting on the part of one of the vampires who is apparently called Paul. These are not very vampiry names, Schmacher.) Death by a bunch of fireworks and a stereo? Done (the situation is helpfully explained to us by Haim, who exclaims: "Death by stereo!" Michael looks like he wants to deck him at this point.) Death by, er, antler horn? Done. Goodbye Kiefer!

So, there we have it. A most excellent round up of reasons why the Lost Boys rocks. Actually, having just re-read this, it seems that I haven't really sold it that well. Never mind.

Dreams can come true...in this case I bloody well hope not

So, I've been sleeping a bit better recently. While this rocks, and means that I can actually haul my ass out of bed in the mornings without being dragged out by the feet by The Fiance, it also means I have to deal with more dreams, that now seem even more fucked up than usual

In one sense, last night's dream ruled. I dreamt I was locked in Hummus Bros. in the West End, with a bucket of tabblouleh and as much chickpea goodness as I cared to shovel into my mouth.

In another sense, the dream totally sucked ass. In that I was locked in Hummus Bros. with Porkpie from Desmonds and Grace from Big Brother. Still, neither of them decked me, which is more than can be said for Tweedy.

Ew

The new Polygrip ad is happy to use the word 'ooze' with no apparent humour. HAAAATE.

Things to do

1. Stop watching Hollyoaks. Or at least, if I watch it, do not publicise the fact.

2. Before bed, have a serious word with my subconscious. This morning I woke up from a dream where I was playing baseball with Girls Aloud. What the fuck? For the record, Sarah Harding was lovely; and Cheryl Tweedy lamped me one when I failed to hit the ball.

Dude, where's my walking stick?

OK, I'm officially old. I just found myself finding one of the dads in Hollyoaks vaguely hot. Next thing I know I'll be lusting after Compo in a Last of the Summer Wine re-run.

Hey y'all - and Ten Things

I suppose one should start an online diary with some hard hitting statements about politics, religion and other stuff which might make one sound vaguely intellectual. However, I can’t be arsed, and instead will kick off proceedings with this quiz that someone sent me in an email last week. I couldn’t finish it at work, because of, well…work, so I’ll do it now.

10 random things you might not know about me (hell, let’s change this to ‘won’t know about me’)

1. Despite holding a good degree, I make my living by sitting behind a desk in a local government office stamping invoices and shouting at people for not tidying the stationery cupboard. Oh, and once a week I get to use scissors and glue for press cuttings. It’s like being on Playschool.
2. I love hummus, and should not be left alone with a pot of it, because it will be eaten in one go. And then I will bore the ass of you moaning that I’m a fat bastard.
3. I’m getting married in Sydney this Christmas.
4. I love to cook.
5. I can’t bring myself to touch cotton wool. My Dad’s the same.
6. I have a rare form of eczema that refuses to respond to any treatment. Yeah, I’m hot, I know.

7. I have insomnia. Not “ooh, a bit of trouble dropping off” insomnia. Proper, hardcore insomnia which means that I average three hours of sleep a night. This is partly the reason I’ve started this diary – I have all this crap rotating round in my head at four a.m. when I can’t sleep and thought that writing it down may help to clear my head. I’m hoping that my body clock might reset itself when I get out to Sydney and for the first time in about ten years I might be able to get a full eight hours kip of a night.
8.I love cricket.
9. I’m a proper sap and will cry at pretty much anything. Most recent tears have resulted from a) hearing about Steve Irwin dying b) listening to a busker playing Diary by Bread in Covent Garden having got drunk and morose beforehand (yes, I know. Shut up) c) watching Les Mis on Friday with K. My God, did we embarrass ourselves.
10. I had depression at university. It was absolutely awful and not anything I would wish on anyone, ever.

Nine places I’ve visited

1. New York
2. Mexico
3. Italy
4. Portugal
5. Morocco
6. France
7. Spain
8. Ireland
9 Tenerife (on an ill-advised post A-levels Booze Britain type holiday.)

Eight ways to win my heart

1. Indulge the fact that I need to watch The Lost Boys on a bi-weekly basis.
2. Buy me a beer when I’m feeling gloomy. Hops cures all ills.
3. Come to Lords with me. There’s nothing better than sitting in the sun for six or seven hours with a mate, a bag of beer and a hog roast roll, wearing a fake Monty Panesar beard and failing to take any notice of the last six overs as you’re unable to stop laughing at the fact that said mate has just dropped a chicken drumstick in their pint of Strongbow.
4. Cook me a steak. Red meat buys friends.
5. Make me cry with laughter. Double points if you manage to make me pull all my stomach muscles.
6. Sky+ cookery shows for me as a surprise. “Yay, Celebrity Masterchef!”
7. Make me feel better when I’m irrationally worried about stuff. Lack of sleep sometimes affects my judgement
8. Come out for a drive with me. There’s something fantastically pointless about getting in the car and heading off up the M40 for absolutely no reason with the stereo on full whack, singing along to AC/DC in an Angus stylee and scaring fellow roadsters.

Seven things I want to do before I die

1. Have babies.
2. Learn to drive…..
3. So I can take part in a banger race across Europe
4. Visit Australia (hurry up, December)
5. Not have any debt apart from my mortgage.
6. Buy a HOUSE. A HOUSE, with stairs and spare bedrooms one can actually get more than a bed and a PC in, and a garden and a dining room….I reckon before I achieve this one I’ll have to achieve number 5.
7. Do a bobsleigh run.

Six things I’m afraid of

1. Slugs. Oh, shut up. This stems from when I lived in my old flat, the bathroom of which was a damp afterthought and in which, every morning, would be a selection of slimy invertebrates. One was wrapped round my toothbrush once. And it was orange. Ew. And arrrgh.
2. The twins in Kubrick’s The Shining.
3. Not being able to protect those that are close to me.
4. Hooded figures. Another strange phobia inherited off my dad.
5. Staying in the same job till I’m 60 and being one of those people who have worked in the same office forever and every fibre of their soul is entrenched with bitterness.
6. Power cuts when alone. The Depression Era came complete with panic attacks when plunged into pitch darkness and I do not particularly want to revisit that fiasco, thank you. Plus I always forget where the candles are.

Five things I don’t like

1. Dairy produce. Yes, that includes cheese.
2. Celebrity-driven reality shows, apart from those that feature cookery.
3. The alarm clock. “Oh…just ten more minutes…FINE! Quit it! I’m up!”
4. The word ‘moist’. Ack. I can’t even type it without shuddering.
5. Stereotypical Yummy Mummyness. “Darling , you can never get hold of a Guardian in Stoke Newington after ten a.m.!” “Octavia, that organic hummus is for lunch, not elevenses!” OK, with the last one I was just jealous that Octavia had hummus whereas I did not.

Four ways to turn me off

1. Take the piss if I am having an irrational-worry moment.
2. Wear your jeans belted under your butt with the whole of your pants showing. What the hell is that about? See also: wearing a baseball cap with the price tag left on so people think you’ve nicked it. London teenagers – sort yourselves out. NOW.
3. Tell me that I should really use some concealer on that biopsy scar.
4. Display honking great amounts of insensitivity.

Three things that I do every day

1. Listen to Jose Gonzalez’s Heartbeats, which is my going-down-the-‘aisle’ music, and wonder what the wedding is actually going to be like. Organising the whole thing from the other side of the world means that until I get there I’ve not really got a picture in my head of what it’s going to be like.
2. Tell The Fiance that I love him.
3. Have a ridiculous flight of fantasy that involves me winning the Lottery and doing bugger all apart from lying in a hammock on a beach while a shirtless Kiefer Sutherland brings me beers.

Two things that make me happy

1. Lying on the sofa in the flat with The Fiance, watching downloaded dramas from the States and spotting gaping plotholes.
2. Sitting in a beer garden with K in the sun, drinking cold, cold wine and talking about trivial subjects.

One thing on my mind right now

1. Where is my Tesco delivery? No, seriously, WHERE IS IT.