This is not in any way weird

Gruesome twosome

Watching Big Brother's Little Brother, one thought comes to mind:

Dane Bowers and Pauline Fowler - together again at last.

Does life get any better?

Walford bankers...

I wish I lived in Walford, where the banks are apparently open for business on Sundays. It's a bit different to my local branch, which at present is undergoing some extensive wallpapering that prevents them from providing anything approaching a service.

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.

Not featuring Barry, Robin or Maurice

"I'm not sure they meant for you to drink that much water."

"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."

Also known as Incident 8494 In Which I Am Wrong, it turned out that my bladder was so full that it was impossible to see whether I had a uterus at all, let alone find out if there was definitely something floating in it. The sonographer (who turned out not to be a member of the Bee Gees, and in fact wasn't even the mysterious Dr. Gibb who probably earns enough not to have to come in on Saturdays) let me go and relieve myself ("THANK YOU SO MUCH!") and then got down to business.

Sadly, the scanner's broken, so I can't show you all the 10mm embryo that's inside me, with a heartbeat that we heard and everything. In my current emotional state the fact that the scanner is broken is enough to send me into a wailing heap, and the only answer is M&S choocolate cornflake bites.

Mmmm, cornflakes.

Greece is the word

Bit of an extended absence there, although regular readers should be used to that. I went to Greece - Kefalos to be exact - and have returned with an orange tan and an unfortunate case of water retention that makes me look seven months and not seven weeks pregnant. Great!

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.

And now I'm Ross Geller

There's a headline I never thought I'd write. Yet, the fact remains that it's actually true, due to the fact that today I got Sandwich Rage.

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.

Easties Awards: Part Three

Welcome back for Category #3: The Mince and Gary Award for Inane Comic Relief Storyline. Apologies for the extended absence – I had to go and buy a new awards dress in which to accommodate my new comedy breasts. Also, I’ve been struggling with this category, as EastEnders is such a desolate wasteland of misery most of the time that the comedy storylines get hoofed into the background and are over and done with before you know it. Why they can’t just hire Janice Dickinson to sit in the corner of the Vic passing loud crack-fuelled judgement on everyone I don’t know – that would be enough comedy to last me a lifetime. Anyway, here we go:

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.

It's a good thing we didn't book that holiday to Malaysia yet...

Alternative titles for this post included "This may explain my recent absence" and "Of course, this would happen the month I pay a year's gym membership upfront".

Mr Sandman...get your ass to Hackney, stat

Another traditional Miss Hacksaw week involving zero blogging there. My apologies. However, I am typing this at 04.47am on Sunday morning, which is an accurate reflection of my current sleeping habits, so it's all I can do to actually move from the sofa each day, let alone log onto Blogger and try to be amusing about things. With any luck at some point today I'll score some Valium or something and the blog will be back in play soon enough.

Easties Awards: Part Two

Welcome back, funsters! Before I start, I should point out that this category has been re-named The Miss Hacksaw Award for Characters So Unworkable That Decent Actors Come Across As Useless, So Don’t Sue Me.

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.”

4. Peggy

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.

Um...

Sorry if I'm being a dense jackass here, but what does the protective skirt on Tampax Compak actually do? I can't work it out, and the ad explains nothing. I could Google it, but I'd rather moan about it on here.

Easties Awards: Part One

Welcome to the Queen Vic, your venue for this evening’s glittering awards ceremony! The bar’s stocked; the tables have been cleaned FOR ONCE, SHIRLEY; Jim’s pissed and his eye’s gone even more wonky than usual; Pat and Yolande are having an evils contest; Sean’s eyeing up some totty and making Miss Hacksaw jealous (shut up); and Genghis hasn’t even got to the spread yet.

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!

Dammit! (Jack Bauer voice)

So, I just spent about an hour typing a really long post that encompassed all my favourite subjects including EastEnders, Kiefer and Red Stripe and Blogger totally ate it. Why do I not write these things in Word first, save them and then copy over to the Blogger template? I have no idea. I'm blaming this lack of sensible procedure on the fact that I AM QUITTING SMOKING and am high on these Niquitin lozenge things which have made the inside of my mouth tingle which is a really weird feeling.

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.

Wow

Yesterday, I stumbled across a new blog. This isn't unusual, but what is unusual is that I spent the rest of the day reading it.

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.

Update: Easties Awards 2007

Well, the nominations are flying in, thanks to the fragrant Ms Baroque and the fantastically informed Dandelion, whose website I cannot get to at the moment for some reason but who I will link as soon as I can.

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.

Childishness

I can, on occasions, be extremely childish. So can the Hubbo, which is why at least once a week I am pinned down on the sofa while he tries to fart on my head. However, I've not seen people be childish about public transport before.

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.

The Easties Awards 2007

Look, it has to be done. I've just watched one of the most hysterical half hours of television ever thanks to EastEnders which included all the traditional soap stalwarts of hysteria, insanity, tears, blood and scalpels (for more on the madness, I recommend a visit to Ms Baroque).

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.

Correspondence

Dear Euston Road freesheet distributors,

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.

-o0o-

Dear Wheely Luggage People

Why? WHY do you all have to wait until the minute I step out of work to all converge on the street, weaving your vehicles of sin in front of my feet and right behind my feet (as in knocking into the heel of my sandal - thanks, loud annoying foreign-exchange teenager) and right over my feet? Also, please explain why you all feel the need to tell all your friends this rilly rilly, like, hilarious story about, like, whatever while standing right at the top of the Victoria Line escalator and being completely oblivious to the eleventy thousand people slowly filling up King's Cross station who are all letting out growls of hate? And then look utterly perturbed when a woman with insane hair and a broken sandal tells you to move your like, ass so that she can actually get to the pub before it shuts? Oh, and while I'm at it, a cardboard Travelcard will not be topped up at the Oyster machine no matter how many times you kick it and tell all your friends how much "England sucks, dude".

-o0o-

Dear Muggy Weather,

Go away.

-o0o-

Dear Chelsea In EastEnders,
Quit the damn pouting.

-o0o-

Dear Dawson Leery,



Shit, your forehead is huge. Not as huge as your ego though.

-o0o-

Dear Microsoft Office paperclip 'helper' thing

"It looks like you're writing a letter!" Yes, yes I am. A LETTER OF HATE. Be gone.

Technology is the boss of me

My Sky+ box just refused to Sky+ Big Brother.

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.

Never mind

They've reverted back to English. I hate computers.