Achy, breaky...muscles. Gaah

Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow.

My muscles HATE me. I feel like they’ve all been out on some stag do in Vegas for a week drinking nothing but sambuca, eating nothing but cocaine and doing nothing but severely overdoing it on every possible level. I have spent the day stretching and yowling and generally feeling that what I need is to be put on a medieval rack and stretched for a few hours so that I end up looking like Mike Teevee at the end of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

I blame Status Quo. Rick Parfitt is the boss of me.

It was my UK wedding reception on Saturday night, which explains this fiasco in its entirety. As we got married in Australia, it was obvious that not all of our friends and family were going to be able to come over for the event – most notably the Hubbo’s mum and stepdad, who gave up long haul flights last year due to the fact that unless you’re in first class they’re a pain in the arse. So we decided to have a major piss up in Essex so everyone could come along, see us in our wedding garb and get spannered for free while jigging about to Summer of ’69 and other classic tuneage.

I wasn’t entirely convinced about the re-wearing of my wedding dress, not least because I was unsure I’d fit back into it after the lager and cake fest of Australia and Thailand. Also because the back of the bodice bit features about eight million tiny little buttons that have to be done up by someone other than me, and it’s the sort of task that sends Hubbo round the bend (one of the wedding’s finest moments was us nearly calling the concierge at the hotel at 3 in the morning to lend a hand, as we were both too boss-eyed to make any sense of it. Pleasingly, I did not take the advice given, which was along the lines of ‘Make like Moll Flanders and rip it’.) I managed to get into it in the end though, and we even managed to get all the buttons done up thanks to some crafty handiwork with a pair of tweezers.

I had my hair done in the morning – which I was dreading as I hate the hairdressers with a passion. Apart from Charles Worthington in Covent Garden, where they give you a glass of champagne and a copy of Vogue and get on with it. Actually, the new place I went on Saturday was good too – my fabulous male stylist was pretty hot, and also fairly quiet, so I didn’t have to spend an hour talking about my holiday plans (which would have made for a 30 second long conversation in the first place, considering I can’t afford to go on holiday ever again).

I was going to wear my veil again, but didn’t in the end. Fifteen minutes of swearing and poking my head with Kirby grips convinced me that it would have been overkill anyway.

We made sure we got to the golf club half an hour before the japes were due to kick off, as the last thing we wanted was to be late, make a sweaty entrance and get applauded by everyone. We beat the first guests, but only by about five minutes. My university mates rocked up early doors, which I was really pleased about because I hardly got to speak to them for the rest of the evening. I felt terrible, especially as two of them had come down from Newcastle for the occasion. I kept on trying to fight my way to the table, but kept on being apprehended by various relations and carted off to meet other people, so I barely got the chance to talk to them. Bad friend!

It seemed to me that one minute there were five people there, and the next minute there were a hundred. Nearly everyone arrived at exactly the same time, which meant that we ended up having a meet and greet line anyway, even though we said we wouldn’t. Good thing really, as I hardly spoke to some of the people there. Still, we paid for the booze so I don’t suppose they minded that much.

After the buffet - which went in about five minutes, impressively - we decided to get the dancing started with a first dance. The band we hired were more of a rock and roll bunch and only had the option of three slow songs – none of which were the song we had at the actual wedding (Someone Like You, Van Morrison). So we went for Wonderful Tonight instead, which is quite short and also had the added comedy bonus of getting half the women crying and having to depart to the loos to repair eye make-up.

It seems that everyone felt it was rude to kick off the jigs before we’d got up and danced, because as soon as we left the dance floor (escaped outside as it was about 100 degrees in the room) pretty much everyone in the room was up. Excellent! The band were fantastic; and in their breaks we had the CDs from the actual wedding full of songs that people had requested, so there were some comical musical moments there. Such as the Home and Away theme tune. And Cold Chisel.

The muscle abuse started when the band revved up with Rocking All Over The World. I must have been more pissed than I thought, because I found myself doing the patented Status Quo dance (you know the drill: hands on hips, grab a partner and bend over to the left and to the right while they go the opposite way….yeah, humiliating) with one of Hubbo’s work mates. Oh dear.

Then – and I’ve no idea how this happened – I had a dance off with my dad. To Come On, Eileen of all things. I remember very little of this particular part of the evening, but numerous people have rung me up crowing about the comedy of it. Apparently we managed to match each other move for move all the way through – which seemed like a great idea at the time but I fear is now part of the reason for my muscular trauma.

In short: an excellent night. There were all the elements of a great night there: friends, family, beer, food, the Quo and, of course, air guitar - courtesy of my brother. I reckon I should have a wedding reception every year.

Television: Teacher. Mother. Secret lover. Mmmm....

Huh. Anyone got any tips for gaining an ounce or two of willpower? Because not only have I once again failed to blog for over a week, but I have also failed hideously to quit smoking - leaving somewhat ashamed of my crowing post of last Tuesday. I've managed to quit smoking during work, but considering I rarely smoked there anyway I fear this is nothing to be smug about. Its the fact that going back to work after a whole month off has knocked me for six rather, and when I get out of there my head is buzzing to the extent that the first thing I want is a bloody great beaker of wine; and therefore a cigarette. Perhaps my first day back at work wasn't the best day to try and knock the habit on the head...I don't know. Either way, I'm not too proud of myself, and have been wallowing in a state of nicotine-stained moroseness for a week.

Still, at least I've got it better than this chap:

Poor Jack. Tortured, crazy Jack who bit the shit out of someone's throat - causing some fairly vivid Lost Boys flashbacks - and yet is still insanely hot. Is it wrong that I think this? I fear so.

The thing is, 24 this season is even more fun for me than it usually is. This is because the Hubbo and I decided to treat ourselves to a wedding present - in the form of a fifty inch telly for our wall. We had a 32" before, which we thought was perfectly serviceable. However, now it's sat in the corner (before being picked up by K who is adopting it for her fabulous new flat next to the Emirates) it looks comically small in comparison, mainly because people's heads were smaller than one's own when viewed on it. It's madness. Still, at least the new TV has at last got me and the Hubbo off our arses and made us shift the flat round in order to give ourselves more room. I can;t quite believe that we've lived here for nearly two years with the most higgledy-piggledy arrangement of furniture ever known, just because the removal chaps dumped the TV in one position and we couldn't be bothered to move it, so just arranged the sofas and bookcases around it. Now we've thrown out a load of crap, got rid of my desk which simply served as a place to dump junk mail and packets of photos and moved the sofas. The end result is a) we have room for the armchair now, which has spent two years shoved into a corner of the spare room and having various books and clothes thrown on it, and b) we can now entertain more than three people at a time. Hurrah!

In other news, I have nearly finished my Australia and Thailand entry. It is massive, and somewhat out of date considering the wedding was a month ago, but I reckon that it needs to be posted anyway.

So, in short: nothing's really changed. I'm still a skanky smoker - although I'm going to give quitting another go once I've got used to being back at work. I still fancy the pants off Kiefer Sutherland - a fact that will probably never change, ever. I have spent a LOT of money on a plasma TV which has led to me being proactive about my living arrangements. Fun and games all round then!

Have good weekends, readers. And sorry, once again, for being such a sporadic blogger.

Dear Mr Marlboro: goodbye forever! MWAhahaha

G'day all. So, I'm back from a month pissing about in Sydney and Thailand. Every moment of it was fantastic, and in due course I shall write a lengthy and rather boring post about everything I got up to, including a mock OK! magazine style write up of my wedding, which Katie made me promise to do on my return. All in good time though - at present I'm still getting over jetlag and am pretty shagged out, so we'll save that gem for the weekend.

Besides, at present I am trying to get my head round something else which is happening tomorrow. It's finally time to bite the bullet and quit the fags.

I've been smoking for ten years, and in that time have managed to quit once, when I was 21 and unemployed. Then I got a job in the City two months later and embarked on an unfortunate lifestyle of doing not very much work all day and then pissing it up big style in the evenings, and suddenly found myself with a fag in the hand again. Disgraceful.

I tried to quit again last year, and even went so far as to sign up to an online program where my progress would be 'encouraged' by supportive emails every couple of days. Baaaah. The emails were so smug and self righteous that I became irrationally angered by them on Day 3 and had to go outside to have a cigarette in order to calm down. Nice display of willpower there, Miss H.

The thing is, I LOVE smoking. Which is disgusting, obviously. But when I'm sat with a pint in one hand, it feels right that there should be a little stick of burning leaves in the other. This is where the problem lies. I hardly smoke at work; and I smoke very little at home. But if I've got a beaker of booze in one hand, which, it has to be said, is not uncommon; then I will want a fag in the other. What an idiot. However, The Hubbo (newly upgraded from The Fiance) reckons it's not the actual smoking I like, it's the feeling of just having something in the other hand. This stems from my habit of waving an unlit cigarette about for up to an hour if I'm talking to someone, along with the lighter, and failing to light it. I hadn't noticed it before, but he's quite right - the amount of times he has hunted about the pub table for his lighter in vain before realising I've got it grasped in my boozy paw and failing to do anything with it is quite astounding. So, here is at least part of the solution.

The thing is, I don't want to buy one of those comedy Nicorette sticks that one draws upon as if it were an actual cigarette. A past manager had one, and used to inhale on it in meetings before making a smug point, and it used to send me into hysterics every damn time. So I've decided that when I'm in the pub I'll get a pen, or a fake cigarette, or something else along a similar line, and wave that about instead to see if that helps. Of course, I could always stop going to the pub, but I'm taking this one step at a time and don't want to distress the system too much.

I've got a load of lozenges too, which colleagues and friends have recommended. Much rather that than the horrible nicotine gum, which always makes my tongue go numb within about five minutes and causes much distress to those trying to understand what on earth I am saying.

Tomorrow is the first day of the plan. Tonight, after dinner, I will don the metaphorical smoking jacket for what will hopefully be the last time. Please wish me luck.

Give it up, yo

Ten reasons why Sydney rocks

1. Pier 26 down at Darling Harbour sells a kilo of prawns for $20 every Saturday.

2. It sells Carlton Draught, which is the most refreshing lager ever. I should know, I've road tested a bunch of them over the last two weeks.

3. Its most famous restaurant is not a restaurant. It's a pie shop. In fact it's a pie van, and it's called Harry's Cafe de Wheels. It sells you a pie with mash and mushy peas for under $5. And it has a snap outside of Dennis Waterman enjoying a pie. And a snap of BA Barachus.

4. It costs the equivalent of £600 a month to rent a three bedroom house.

5. They give you strawberries when you order sparkling wine.

6. The equivalent of WD40 over here is called 'Start, Ya Bastard!'

7. Adverts are refreshingly brief and to the point. To whit: 'Drink. Drive. Bloody idiot!' And Brett Lee advertising Weet-bix with a non-cool cheesy grin on his face. And Shane Warne advertising hair plugs. Hee.

8. Cigarette packets over here have scared me into giving up.

9. The main department store in town has an entire floor of pretty dresses for $30, which is about £12. My bank hates me.

10. Sydneysiders seem geniunely disappointed that the Ashes wasn't more of a fight rather than a complete washout.

So, it seems that I love Sydney because it has cheap food, good beer, pies and hysterical TV. Beats Hackney in every way, I think. Except I'm pretty sure you can get a decent pie on the Dalston Road somewhere.

Hen weekend: Part the Third (at last)

So, that was the biggest blogging hiatus ever. This is due to a number of reasons - the main one being that the admin gimping kicked off big style when I started having to prepare to leave the place for a month, and so had to organise the office so it would run smoothly in my absence. It sounds like I am bigging myself up massively here, but I wanted to avoid what happened when I last went on holiday - namely getting a text from my line manager asking me how on earth one changes a printer cartridge. Another reason is that I have been in Sydney for the last two weeks, and have been too busy having a marvellous time to come on here and type.

Righto, so back to the hen do, which actually took place over a month ago. Worst blogger EVER. To recap events so far: I am on my hen do in Budapest with nine other lovely ladies. I have so far drunk too much lager, been to a restaurant wearing a pair of plastic penises on my head, eaten too many crisps, woken up with the hangover from hell, been to an outdoor spa, learnt to pole dance and then been on the receiving end of a lap dance from a stripper while wearing an alarmed look on my face.

After a few hours I managed to recover from that insanity, and we all went out to dinner at a place called Tom George. We hadn’t really sampled much traditional Hungarian food – having mostly sustained ourselves on chilli con carne, crisps and salsa (nice move for those of us planning to squeeze ourselves into a wedding dress at some point in the near future) up until that point; and Tom George turned out to not be the place to rectify this Brits Abroad style of eating. Billed as ‘the place to be for socialites and soccer stars’ in Budapest, it had a menu of champions. I don’t think I’ve ever been out to a restaurant where everyone had a shortlist of dishes they wanted to have, as everything looked so fabulous. I think we all bounced in between four starters and six mains for about half an hour before we finally felt able to place any orders. Pleasingly though, they had a cracking cocktail menu which we all took complete advantage of. Bellinis for the equivalent of two quid? Yes, I’ll have three, thank you!

As I am rather one for taking advantage of situations where I am the centre of attention and therefore nobody can tell me off, I proceeded to have the most un-politically correct meal I think I’ve ever eaten – comprised of goose liver pate for starters and the biggest rack of veal I have ever seen in my life for a main. Oh dear. And I ate it all as well, with the humiliating consequence of having to spend the rest of the meal with my trouser buttons discreetly undone and cursing myself for being such a pieman. What an idiot. Still, I brightened up somewhat with the news that I’d pretty much managed to increase the final bill by 25% thanks to polishing off an £8 brandy.

Next up it was onto a pub called Captain Cook's which sported the oddest clientele and the rudest waitresses known to man. Excellent. It was also when we broke out the bag of forfeits, which resulted in a shot-tastic few hours. After I picked out six forfeits in a row which said 'drink a shot of Miss Hacksaw's choice' ("six sambucas please, thank you"), it was decided that I was getting off rather lightly on the boozing front, so S bought me a tequila slammer.

I hate tequila. I can't even smell the stuff without feeling vomit rise in my throat, and the addition of lemon and salt only makes the ridiculous caper worse. I sat at the table looking morose in front of it for half an hour trying to work up the courage to neck the damn thing while becoming more and more convinced that as soon as I put a drop of it in my mouth I would hurl everywhere and be thrown unceremoniously out onto the street.

After boring everyone for what seemed like hours re: the tequila hatred, Suse took matters into her own hands and decided that what I needed was a shot of a traditional Hungarian liquer.

Firstly, it's call Unicum, which is a) awesome, and b) sniggersome. Secondly, it smells like cherry coke! Hurrah! Tequila Hatred was put aside for the time being while I necked a glass of this and waited for the fun to begin.

Holy shit. You know how different parts of your tongue respond to different flavours? Mine went like this:

Tip of tongue (sweet): Mmm. Cherry coke. Why don't we have some more?

Sides of tongue (sour): Zzzzzzzzzzz. What? Oh. Zzzzz.

Back of tongue (bitter): What the fuck?! What the hell IS this? Gah! Help! Bad...taste..keeps..on...coming...I hate you....

Brain (not in top working order thanks to alcohol): Ah! I know what will help! That lovely, lovely shot of tequila that has been on the table for half an hour!

Back of tongue: Mmmm. Tequila rules.

Bloody idiot. Anyway, shortly afterwards the pub closed (or, the staff told us the pub was closing, although a curious amount of people seemed to be still ordering drinks. I fear the Hungarian folks may have been bored with the screaming harpyness that was going on.)

So, what do you do at the end of the night when you've got nowhere to go but a hotel? Yes, you go back to the hotel with a sack of wine and blow up your delightful meant-to-be-Roger-Moore-but-looks-more-like-Tom-Selleck blow up doll, and wait for the hilarity to ensue.

WHY is it so funny, when you're hammered, to take a variety of photos of you and your friends giving blow jobs to blow up plastic dolls? Hardly original, I know; but at the time it seemed like the funniest thing in the world ever. I looked back at the snaps a few days later and cringed at yet more evidence that proves that when drunk, me and my friends behave like those women you see on Booze Britain Ibiza letting shaven headed blokes in Charlton Athletic shorts hump them in Pacha while one of their mates is shoving her tits against the camera and another is being sick in the street and showing off her bits in a manner even less dinified than Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan. Shameful.

And, so to bed, via a box more of wine that really wasn't required and a Sex and the City style debate regarding circumcision. Disgraceful.

The next day was a bit of a blur to be honest. We pottered about the Christmas market with buckets of gluwein trying to keep warm, had hysterics at the fact that C & A seems to be the height of sophistication in Hungary, had yet more chips and salsa in Chilis Bar (mmm) and then herded ourselves onto a plane for a journey home that was somewhat quieter than the one out, namely because everyone on said flight had clearly been on a stag or hen do and were as shagged out as we all were.

I'm sorry this blog, and any other updates, have been so long coming. I've had a load on, and also had a spazzy moment when I wondered whether it was worth carrying on blogging, as I don't ever say anything of any value, unlike the most excellent Dave and Noosa; and of late have been far too busy to give regular updates. However, I'm over that now - I'm back in the UK on the 13th and a more normal service will be resumed then.

Also, I hope you all had fabulous Christmases, Hannukahs and New Years and whatnot. I shall be blogging about mine over the next few weeks, so please come back and have a read. In the meantine, I urge people to go and read Grace Dent's TV OD. It's one of the funniest columns ever - apart from her World of Lather Guardian column of course - and is currently focusing on the bear pit that is Celebrity Big Brother. Which this year features H from Steps. Who is, in a huge shock to everyone, gay! Didn't see that one coming.

Righto, I'm off, as it's Prawntastic Saturday at Pier 26 at Darling Harbour and I haven;t had a beer for 12 hours. I love holidays.

Hen weekend: Part The Second

Phone: Ba!Bababababababaaahhhhhh! Ba! Bababababababaaaaaahhh!

Miss Hacksaw: Frrrmtph. Gah. GAH. Ow. Whts happ-ow.

S, who is unlucky enough to be sharing a room with me: Come on! Breakfast finishes in 20 minutes! I set the alarm.

MH: Gnugh...hate...no...breakfast...going...to...die

S: Do you want me to bring you up a coffee or a sausage or something?

MH: Oh for the love of God, no. I wonder if I can sit up without....ow. No. Oh help.

S: What time did you get to bed?

MH: Er. Sometime after we'd woken people in England up with cricket related phone calls...oh hell, I wish to God I'd never found out the result of that....and after I'd kicked beer all over C's room. About three?

S: Oh dear. Still, the spa will liven you up.

MH: Does this mean I have to get out of bed?

S: Yes.

MH: Dammit. OK, I'll be ready when you get back from breakfast.

[door closes behind S]

MH: Ow, my head. OK, got to get up. In a minute. I'll just lie here for five seconds....mm, comfy....zzz....oh, hello bra....mmm water.....zzzz.

Huh. I am clearly old. I am not normally one for hangovers - I might feel a bit iffy first thing after a few beers but a can of Diet Coke and a potato based product usually sort that right out with no worries. So I was most put out to be clouted round the head with a hangover from hell. Mind you, it was not surprising. We were drinking very strong Hungarian lager of out the sort of glasses one would normally expect to find being used by folks in the Canterbury Tales (in fact I have a hazy memory of holding my empty receptacle above my head in a bar and demanding that someone bring me "a full flagon of mead"); for some reason I had two fruit brandies after dinner and I'm sure sambuca was involved at some point. Ugh. I am a Booze Britain style harpie. I hate myself.

Still, there was no time to lose, as we had a full day of activities planned and had to crack on. I'm sure the cab drivers were all pissing themselves - all ten of us looked rough as hell, so it was quite handy that the first activity was a trip to one of the fantastic spas that are all over Budapest.

Here's a picture of our outdoor spa. Best hangover cure ever.

What is it about hot water that instantly cures all ills? I staggered into the spa feeling about ninety and within five minutes felt absolutely fine. This is despite the fact that I was wearing a mummy-one-piece swimming costume that made me feel like the annoying step aerobics woman in Cocktail. This is what happens when you pack when hammered, people. I do not recommend it.

There was also five pools indoors, but the inside of the building gave me the willies as it was somewhat like how I imagine a gas chamber would have been like. Gah. Plus all of the pools inside were full of meatheads in Speedos.

I could have spent all day in that spa - especially the really hot one at the end ("we recommend that you do not stay in this pool for longer than 20 minutes") where they had a stone table in the middle of the pool with chess boards painted on. That rules. I'm so dragging the Fiance back to Budapest and making him play chess in the pool until we both pass out from heat stroke. However, the fact that eight out of ten of us hadn't been able to face breakfast meant that we were all bloody starving for some grease, and so on to Chilis it was for the BEST SALSA I HAVE EVER EATEN. I don't know what they put in it, but I could have happily stayed there all day shoving tortilla chips and salsa into my face. Seriously, Chilis, I salute you. And now I really want some chips and salsa. Dammit.

S and K, as organisers, then kindly made everyone do a quiz on how well they knew me. Predictably, the questions were not regarding my favourite colour or boy band. Over the course of the next two hours I ended up telling everyone the following facts:

• the location of my first proper kiss (behind the public loos in the park, aged 13. Nice)
• that I have had sex in a video shop (Christ. What the hell...)
• the fact that when I was eight, me, my best friend and my brother had a 'band' called Risk, and made my parents record us singing our top single, named 'Waste of Love'. I KNOW. It featured my brother on 'drums', also known as the tin lid of his Ghostbusters laundry bin. Heh.
• My most embarrassing moment ever, which I cannot bring myself to share even here as it is too awful. Why I did not substitute it with a different story - like the one about me going arse over tit down an entire flight of stairs at the Ruby Lounge, I don't know. Dude, where's my therapist?

Most duff. I tried to get everyone to reveal their sordid pasts, but they were most stubborn in remaining resolutely quiet. Humph.

En route to the next activity our tour guide took us to a cafe, which had the best English menu of all time. Take this excellent description of a sachertorte: "Chocolatey and cakey. It tastes mostly like muffin!" Brilliant. Luckily I am not a cake person or I would probably still be sat there hoovering up every item on the menu to see if it was mostly, or not at all, "like muffin". In the end I just had a Fanta, and felt like I was a kid on the grown ups holiday as everyone else had coffees. KT even asked me if I wanted to do some colouring while I was waiting for my drink. Thankfully this amused me enough to take my mind off the next activity: pole dancing. Pole. Dancing.

I'll be honest and admit that I was dreading this. I am not naturally co-ordinated, and the thought of flinging myself round a pole and relying on my arm and leg muscles for keeping me up did not fill me with hope.

I bloody loved it. We were taught by a proper stripper sort, who was surprisingly patient with a bunch of sniggering girls squealing "Ooooh! It feels really weird! Oof." It does feel bloody weird though. Here's a snap of me in the kick off position (oo-er):

I love how I am clearly saying something along the lines of: "My legs aren't meant to bend like this! Are you completely mad?" And the tutor lady is clearly thinking: "Christ. You are the least bendy person EVER."

Also: check out my sexy, sexy rolled up track pants and sock combo.

Anyway. Once I'd got over the notion of bringing my leg up to further than sofa height and got my head round the idea of basically falling forward, possibly onto my nose, then it was fantastic. I felt like a proper stripper sort, which felt rather better than I thought it would do. I'm so taking lessons over here once I'm back from Australia. The Fiance is researching temporary poles for the front room on my behalf (Aw. Or not.)

So, once we'd all had a go and proved ourselves to be stripper-worthy sorts, it was time for the surprise element of the jaunt.

"I shall teach you a dance to perform for the husband on wedding night!" announced the stripper, in the manner of announcing the Von Trapp Family Singers. I thought: she's basically show me some sex-aay moves and make me follow her, which would have been enormously humilating yet entertaining for others, which sums up most of my day to day scrapes quite well.

Oh no (or ho no, I suppose). It was a lap dance. I have never been more embarrassed in my life. Chaps - where are you meant to put your eyes? I didn't know where to look without causing offence, and spent the whole time pulling a variety of facial expressions ranging from "I am vaguely amused by this capery" and "Shit. I think I just saw her clitoris.". I fear she may have clocked that one as she halted proceedings to rearrange what was featured of her pants where they'd caught in her arse crack and moved. Haa! Luckily for me, I can re-live all of this fun whenever I wish as two of the girls kindly took video of the event, which has already been circulated round my office. Laters, dignity.

Next time on Miss Hacksaw's Hen Night of Humiliation: I eat too much beef and have a Tom Kitten moment, Suse and I road test some traditional Hungarian shots, and Tom Selleck gets head.

Hen weekend: Part The First

Sorry about the temporary hiatus, y’all. I have been working. And sleeping. And staying up far too late watching the cricket, although at least this Test is actually worth watching. So far.

I am just about recovered from last weekend’s excesses; although said recovery was put back by a few days when I worked till 1am on Wednesday night at the work awards ceremony. Because, you know, I haven’t got enough to do with organising a wedding and a reception party in January, and trying to get all my work done before I go on leave, and sorting out the office Christmas party which is a task not officially in my job description but if I didn’t bother organising it you can bet your boots that nobody else would and then everyone would be all bah humbug for months, and it really isn’t worth it. So I thought that seeing as my calendar is a desolate wasteland I'd volunteer for this japery. Well done me.

Aaaaand breathe. Also: I just used the phrase ‘bet your boots’. What am I, ninety?

So, the hen weekend started on a fantastic foot when I nearly missed the flight thanks to a combination of cricket and being completely plastered on the Thursday night. I woke up at 8.30am on the sofa with my face squashed into a cushion and realised that I was meant to meet K and H for a greasy breakfast at 8 at Victoria. Nice one Warney. Luckily I'd had the foresight to pack the night before (while pissed) so it was just a case of grabbing the passport and handbag and legging it, but I was still late, and I hate being late.

Luckily I was saved by the London cabbie of champions. I didn't find out his name, but I had a hugely entertaining conversation about the cricket with him and he got me to Victoria in record time. Thank you, cabbie! Oh, and to all the cabbies who did not pick me up despite the fact that your lights were clearly on: bite me. However, I can't be that annoyed as I actually achieved a lifetime's ambition and shook my fist in the air at one of you while shouting: "Yeah, you better run!" - and made someone walking past piss themselves laughing which always makes one feel better about themselves.

Anyway, we all managed to assemble ourselves at Victoria at around the right time and hauled ass to Gatwick; where at my insistence we decamped to the horrible Wetherspoons at the South Terminal and had a pint.

WHY is it that whenever I'm in an airport, no matter what antosocial time of the morning it is, I want a pint? And not only that: a pint in a Wetherspoons. What is up with that? I loathe Wetherspoons and am prone to Daily Express type rants about such establishments. A mystery that will never be resolved, I fear.

The flight can be summed up in two words: Brits Abroad. I felt like I was in Benidorm and should be demanding a fried egg at every opportunity ("Uno! Fried egg mate! Fried! Egg! Egg? Comes out of a - er - pollo? Dammit. Chips, then. CHIPS! Fuck this Margie, next year we're going to Blackpool.") The fellow across the aisle from me, who we shall call Zak thanks to his resemblance to the Hollyoaks character of the same name (doh! I meant to keep quiet about the Hollyoaks watching..), even roused the entire plane in a very bad singalong to Wonderwall in my honour as the hen. All very well and japesome, apart from the fact that he would then not shut up singing for the rest of the flight, and proceeded to take us through shocking renditions of Dancing Queen, I Will Survive, and Bohemian bloody Rhapsody. The last one was done while we were landing, and the Easyjet staff were understandably pissed off with the spannered skinhead who was bellowing and waving in their faces while they were trying to give us the lowdown on the time and whatnot. Unfortunately I made the mistake of telling him I'm going to be in Sydney for the fifth Test, as is he, and so fear I am now going to spend the entire time hiding behind pillars and tall Australians in case he collars me and shouts Waltzing Matilda in my ear.

Friday night was spent in the company of a charming young fellow called Adam who had bravely taken on the task of herding ten scary women around his home town to various sweaty bars and clubs. Oh, Adam. How we love thee. Adam let slip that he only got paid the equivalent of fifteen quid a night for this, which appalled us. I'd insist on fifty per annoying member of said hen party, free beers and a kebab at the end of the night. Still, we gave him a hefty tip and paid for all his pints which must have made up for some of the horror.

I had thrown a fit a few months earlier about the need for the bride to be kitted out in a veil and L-plates on such occasions, and insisted that neither feature during the course of the weekend. Credit where credit is due, I was not forced to wear either of these items. However, the girls had very kindly provided me with a red feather boa, a couple of badges and a very fetching pair of deely boppers that featured flashing pink penis models as the bopper element. Oh, what a classy lady. You'll be pleased to hear that we left the blow up 'Roger More'/Tom Selleck at the hotel for later.

From about 10pm the Friday evening gets a bit hazy. Here's what I recall:

• thinking I was Beyonce and doing an unfortunate booty shake dance to Crazy In Love
• talking to a fellow who I was convinced was Terry Christian because C had told me he was. He very much wasn't
• a man who I was talking to ordering a lager with a Rohypnol top, and running away to hide in the toilet
• walking for what seemed about four hours along a tram line with a big blister
• going on a Harold and Kumar style rampage of the Hungarian equivalent of a Costcutter
• annihilating a massive packet of prawn crackers in about five seconds
• H forcing Adam to give her a foot massage in the hotel lobby, therefore proving beyond belief that £15 for a night's work is not enough
• ringing C's ex husband at 2.30am to find out the cricket score
• booting a can of lager all over the hotel room floor. Oh dear.

Quite the night of champions, then.

Next time: a hellacious hangover, a cheering spa expedition, salsa love and lapdancing. Yes, you heard right. Gah.

Cluck cluck

Crikey. All I can say is that I very much hope that my marriage lasts, because I don't think I'm physically capable of getting through another hen party. Of course, this entirely my own fault for deciding that the way forward was a no-holds-barred weekend of decadence in Eastern Europe, and so I'm not going to moan on, not least because it was one of the best weekends of my entire life.

I am far too tired to go through the ins and outs of the weekend now (owing to the whole month off work lark coming up in three weeks I am rather short on leave and had to go to work today), but I had to post this photo which was taken at 4am on Sunday morning. This charming fellow is advertised as being called 'Roger More' (ho ho!) but we all agreed he was rather more Magnum PI.

Ah, how classy we were.

I should be less likely to fall asleep on my keyboard tomorrow, and so I'll update with more "hilarious" tales then.

Quote of the weekend: "Are beef curtains like beef jerky?"

Can't...stop...laughing....

HAAA! The cricket is too depressing for words, so I thought I'd try out this crazy face recognition software that tells you which celebrities you most look like.

Before I crack on with the results, I think readers should bear in mind that I am a white woman in my mid-to-late 20s.

I fear that said software is fucked. This is who I apparently who I bear the biggest resemblance to in the celebrity universe: Wayne Brady. Who he?

Far from being annoyed, I am rather pleased. It certainly beats being told I look like Anne Diamond - a situation which actually occurred during my lardy university days.

Who else do I look like, then? I hope the next one in line is at least female.

Oh, not my day then. I'vd just tried for ten minutes to insert a picture of said person, and Blogger won't let me. Bah. However, it is probably best. Said person is actually Kyle Maclachlan.

Kyle. Maclachlan. Of Sex & The City, "John Thomas", floppy cock fame. Shut up, face recognition software. I've just texted The Fiance (currently en route to Slovenia for his stag do - fitting in with his request of somewhere that has, in his words: "slack guns laws and loose women". Nice) asking him what on earth he sees in me considering his stance as a heterosexual male. He has sent something rather soppy back which I won't repeat here; but despite this boost I fear any confidence I might have had re: not looking like a man in my mid forties may have been shattered forever.

So, what women do I look like (if any)? Probably Hattie Jaques, judging by the way this experiment has gone so far.

Christina Applegate! Rock on! OK, last time I saw her she was in that terrible girls-version-of -Road-Trip movie with Cameron Diaz and Selma Blair; but Don't Tell Mom is one of my favourite films ever. I am feeling somewhat more cheerful.

Gah - Meg Ryan. How the hell can I look like both the Ryan and Kyle Maclachlan? I am mystified; and think I'm going to quit this stupid game for fear of developing severe psychological issues. Also: Freddie's just got a wicket and I wouldn't mind keeping a beady eye on this cricket until lunch. Au revoir till Monday. Keep those fingers crossed for the boys in Brisbane.

Let's hear it for the boys

A short one tonight. I've got to get off the internet to get some work done before I head off on my hen do in Budapest at 7am on Friday; and am going to be doing said work in front of the cricket till about 4am this morning.

All I can say is: good luck fellas. I'm thinking of you every step of the way. Let's retain this:



Last year was phenomenal. OK, we're without Vaughn and Trescothick. Bell and Giles are only just back post-injury. Freddie's got to take the utmost care not to overdo it on the first day at Brisbane. Harmy, judging by that first over I just watched, needs to get comfortable before he starts causing any trouble to the Aussies. Still, I reckon we can do it. Have faith, fellas. I'll be passing out on my sofa at stupid hours of the morning till I get to Sydney to see you in action. Please keep it going till the Fifth Test. I'll love you all even more if you do.

I'll be back on Monday after a worrying weekend spent in Budapest, hopefully not wearing a fake veil or being molested by a Timmy Cappello-alike stripper. I shall try and post some comedic photos from said event on here next week. Until then, fingers crossed for Freddie and the lads; and I'll try not to die of alcohol poisoning over the weekend. Not that I'm going to have a choice, by the sounds of it.

Still crap

Gah. I am officially one of the most rubbish bloggers of all time. When I started this I planned to try and write something at least every other day, and have blatantly failed to keep to that. I apologise sincerely. I can't even blame it on the broadband, as that seems to have sorted itself out at long bloody last. All it is is that I am stupendously busy and by the time I've done everything I need to do I haven't got the mental capabilities to try and write something comedic or, for the matter, interesting. However, I'm well overdue an update and so will try and give you a round up of recent events without sending you to sleep. This entry may well be somewhat disjointed though, as I am writing it while watching this crazy Derek Acorah programme on Living TV. He appears to be possessed and thinks he's being beheaded, and it is nothing short of hysterical.

In short, sorry I've been so crap; and sorry that I've been rubbish at commenting on others' blogs. Normal service will hopefully be resumed shortly. Mind you, I've heard that's what TfL said about the Victoria Line this morning, so I wouldn't get your hopes up.

Thanks very much to Dave, by the way, for linking me in his Sunday Service entry. I always feel rather bad when I go on Dave's blog, as it makes me realise how many blogs in this country are enormously interesting, passionate and well informed; whereas in mine I just bang on about meatballs and television. Still, as my workplace constantly reminds me, we must 'value diversity', so sod it. Tomorrow: an in-depth analysis of The Sooty Show!

So, what have I been doing? Find out all the facts here!

1. "Jocular: a Scottish vampire"

I was unbelievably lucky to get tickets to the recording of I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue on Sunday night at the Victoria Theatre. It was fantastic - Rob Brydon took the place of the late, great Willie Rushton and was more than a match for the others. We also got to see Tim Brooke-Taylor's marvellous use of the swanee whistle. I cannot tell you how much I want a swanee whistle now, to annoy my workmates with. However, Humph was in a bit of a state. He had a rather nasty cough which at his age probably isn't something to take lightly. Poor Humph. He's one of the sharpest fellows in entertainment, and the day he has to give up ISIHAC will be a sad one.

2. "Gah! We don't need a milk pan!"

Tremendous fun and games between the Fiance and I this week, as we have been doing our wedding list. We didn't actually want one, what with it being quite a lot to ask for people to haul ass out to Australia for Christmas and New Year; but a large faction of family and friends who can't make it out have been badgering us about what we want for presents, and have been making ominous noises about choosing their own gift for us. There are only so many carriage clocks I can cope with, so we decided to bite the bullet and have a list. However, it is much more difficult than we thought it would be. Can one really ask for a set of pudding moulds and be taken seriously? Is asking for a Roomba just outing myself as someone who hates the manual activity of pushing the bloody Dyson round and so instead gets a battery operated beetle to do it for them? Do we actually need any more cushions? Oh well, nobody has to actually buy any of it.

3. "Now, don't lose any more weight."

Ha! Bwahaha! Was my reaction to this statement by the lovely lady in my wedding dress shop. Nobody has ever said this to me. Ever. However, recent stresses have conspired to make me lose a sackload of weight in about six weeks, and if you don't mind I'm going to be jolly pleased about it. Less pleasing is the fact that said dress is now hanging off me, and the fitting's going to cost a fortune. However, I shan't be smug for that long. Two and a half weeks in Australia drinking beer and eating Aussie pies at the cricket, and then a week in Thailand smugging it up on honeymoon will take its toll, I'm sure. By the time we get to the celebration party back in Essex (spiritual home of the Fiance) I imagine I will have regressed back to the days of looking like Britney Spears in pro K-Fed and Cheetos times; and everyone will think the wedding photos have been airbrushed. Hee.

4. I'm so lame

Today I placed my first Amazon order ever. How behind the times am I? To be honest, there is nothing more pleasing to me than spending three hours on a Saturday afternoon sniffing around Waterstones or Borders, picking up various books, putting them down again, picking up some that you will never read, seeing sense and leaving with only a copy of Q and a set of 24 Top Trumps. However, current busyness means I don't really have time for such capery at the moment, so I decided to "get with the program", as my old head of department used to say, and buy my books online. Mmm, expenditure.

5. "Dear DHL. I hate you."

So, my wedding shoes arrived. Yay! Or, more accurately, not. They were delivered to my flat on Thursday afternoon, when strangely enough I was at work. This is all well and good, though, because I can get them delivered to said work. Oh, no, sorry. I cannot, because DHL is based near sodding Edmonton and I have to go and pick them up myself. Bah! I did this today, and it was a pain in the arse. Not only because I had to blag off work an hour early (my manager was lovely about it, and so props to her) but because this bloody depot was a great big long, depressing walk from the local train station and it was raining and the map was completely useless and I didn't have a bag to put the enormous shoe box in and the whole place was awash in scary looking men who I didn't want to ask for directions in case they tried to mug me and...gah. Hateful. Combine this with a jolly bus strike and it makes for a damn cross Miss Hacksaw with crap hair requesting an actual hacksaw, Jack Bauer style, just to end it all.

Am I wrong to still be finding William Fichtner the hottest actor in Prison Break?

6. "Darling, I need to look fabulous."

Aside from the relative doom and gloom of above, I get to go shopping on Thursday. Hooray! Basically, Ma and Pa Hacksaw are hosting a pre-Xmas piss up at the beginning of December; as they're going to be in Sydney for actual Christmas and so they have to get all that boozing and inappropriate flirting with the neighbours out of the way early doors.

Most of these friends and neighbours last saw me properly when I was at university and looked not unlike the Pilsbury Dough Boy. Hah. So, in order to take full advantage of the current lack of lard marring one's waistline, I've decided to go balls-out shopping and buy a completely new outfit that will make me look halfway decent. How very vain of me! Mind you, as a thank you to K for coming along with me and heaving me into corsets and whatnot I am taking her to Ping Pong afterwards, where I always have a tendency to overdo things; so chances are I'll be busting out of my outfit like Tom Kitten anyway by the time the do comes around. Marvellous!

Told you: Boring Entry Of Champions. Once again, I heartily apologise. I'll be back with some more normal posts at the weekend hopefully.

Ooh, one more thing. I've got rather into baking lately, and have decided to dedicate every Thursday night to baking treats for my office to have on the Friday. I've decided to throw the question of what to bake this Thursday out to you lot. Any ideas?

Now then, now then

"Dear Jim'll,

Please can you fix it for me to have a Dalmation. My favourite book is 101 Dalmations by Dodie Smith, and I really want a Dalmation. Mum says I can't so I'm writing to you.

Thank you

Miss Hacksaw aged seven from Surrey."

So I wrote twenty years ago. I like the way I presumed that even though Mum had in no uncertain terms told me there would be no furry friend joining the household; if Jim wanted me to have a Dalmation then I'd damn well get one. Strangely, this letter went unanswered - as did my brother's : "Dear Jim'll please can I meet the Ghostbusters Egon is my favourite thanks". I fear Mum may have sabotaged our dog/ghostbusting dreams via some cunning lies regarding whether or not these letters were actually posted.

Anyway, break out the champagne and ring those church bells, for it is true: Jim'll Fix It is coming back on TV. Excellent! I was somewhat concerned that it is still going to be hosted by Jim'll Savile himself though. Seriously, how old is this dude now? My dad sat in the same carriage as him on a train years ago and said he was covertly brushing up on CPR techniques in case Jim'll keeled over.

I am pleased that Jim'll Fix It: The New Class will be not only featuring new fix-its, but also harking back to the proper old-skool glory dayz of Jim'll. I know we'll all have to sit through the damn cub scouts again; but I've been researching old fix its and would kill to watch some of them. For example, from TV Cream:

"A child wrote in requesting, 'Can I please polish a python,' so with the aid of some 'python polish', (concocted by the Fix It team) a cloth and a duster, the child polished a python in the studios."

What the hell? And I thought I was a weird kid. I can just imagine it: "Now then now then! Have you polished yer python?" (muffled sniggers from adults in audience).

"Yes Jim'll."

"Excellent. Let's have a look then. Oooh, you have got a nice shine on him. Here's yer very special Jim Fixed It For Me medal."

"Get the cigar out of my face, Jim'll."

"Right you are then lad."

I can't wait to see what sort of bizarre requests today's kids come out with. "Dear Jim'll, please can you fix it for me for Hackney Council to withdraw my ASBO." "Dear Jim'll, please can you fix it for me to design a ringtone guaranteed to send everyone who hears it completely batshit crazy and go rampaging down Upper Street with an axe."

I'm thinking about writing in myself, but in the event of my dream being 'fixed', I am unsure that the results of the letter that starts "Dear Jim'll, please can you you fix it for me to have lots of hot sex with Kiefer Sutherland" would be suitable for family viewing.

What would you like to have fixed? Best suggestion gets a homemade Jim'll badge from me. My brother has kindly started off proceedings by asking Jim'll to fix it for him to gob in Amy Winehouse's face. He's moved on a bit from Ghostbusting, then.

I heart my broadband provider. Oh sorry, I mean hate.

Heh. So, it seems I am useless at pub quizzes. Last week’s efforts were something of a wash-out after it because apparent that it was a Hallowe’en themed quiz, and we know bugger all about Hallowe’en. The Fiance redeemed himself with a couple of music questions that to be honest even I would have gotten had I not been in the loo or at the bar for both of them (“Which medieval torture instrument is also the name of a heavy metal group?”); and K saved us from complete annihilation thanks to some knowledge gleaned from seasons one to six of Buffy, but on the whole we were completely rubbish.

Yet, in testimony to my comment below, we still won a prize – in the shape of four cans of Castlemain XXXX. I didn’t even know they still made that. Anyway, our two cans are chilling in the fridge, where they will stay until we either move house or K and I have one of those nights where we consume all the alcohol in the house and resort to desperate measures to get more (limoncello was the tipple of death last time. Skanks.)

I was enormously entertained by the group of people quizzing next to us. It was a group of blokes who gave off an air of smugness usually found in those who have been on University Challenge; and one girl who was very much all about the boobs, and seemed to have a rather bad case of PMS on her hands (“Fine. Don’t listen to me then. No, Dan, don’t even bother. I know I’m right. Just ‘cause you’re all blokes and I’m the only girl…” etc.). Anyway, contrary to their smugness, they only came one above us and stupidly sent the girl up to the bar to get their prize – confident, no doubt, of soon being in the possession of a can of non premium lager each. Ha. She came back with a massive bar of Dairy Milk. The boys all looked like their dogs had died. One of them even said, “That’s the last time we bring her, mate” to the bloke next to him.

Anyway, many apologies for the lack of blogging. The broadband has gone crazy and every time I try and post the net goes down. Bah! After many strange and not wonderful conversations with various buffoons based in Christ knows where, it seems to be on the road to recovery, so I should be around a bit more than I have been.

Not that much though, as all this wedding stuff has suddenly kicked off big style, and for the first time in 14 months I’m starting to panic.

For starters, when we were down at the Australian Embassy the other week I noticed that my passport runs out in April 2007. This is something of a bonus, as my current passport photo makes me look like a Romanian boy. Seriously. I was 17, yet for some reason I have this haircut from hell, and this really sallow skin that I totally do not have apart from in passport photos. For the record, I am also sporting a No Fear T-shirt and massive hoop earrings. Anyway, while the chance to get a new passport and getting to have a Post Office (Post Office? Royal Mail? Consignia? I have no idea any more) official snigger at whatever vile new photo I get taken is a jolly one, I was rather hoping to do this in April next year, when I’ll have a new name and everything. Not the case. To go to Australia and Thailand, one must have at least six months left on it from the time you depart said country. Which means I now have to have literally weeks of fun desperately trying to get a new passport in time. And yes, I know they say it’ll take two weeks. But if I get the bloody thing in two weeks, I’ll be amazed.

The main pisser is that it costs £66! I don’t have a spare £66 lying around for sensible things, for God’s sake! Well, I would if I stopped smoking and stopped going for crafty pints in Mabel’s most nights after work. And stopped buying shoes. Besides, all my spare cash is going towards actually having some beans to spend on this holiday of a lifetime.

In short: Bite me, Passport Office.

The current high alert of panic has not been helped by a dream I had the other night in which the entire flight was a complete disaster. I am not a good flyer. I am one of those people that others laugh at because on take off I am gripping the armrests to death (yeah, like that will help if we crash hideously to the ground) and every time we hit a bit of turbulence I get this look on my face like someone’s just surprised me with a cucumber up the arse.

In this dream, I forgot my new passport. Then I realised I had forgotten to bring a single thing to read; my laptop; and my MP3 player. Then we got on the flight and there was a five year old kicking the back of my seat from the minute we sat down. Then the alleged in-flight ‘entertainment’ broke. Then the Fiance started snoring. Then I cried for 20 solid hours and was threatened with a lifetime in a bouncy room wearing a straitjacket by some terrible air hostess who had orange make up that cracked when she frowned at me. Then I got to Sydney and the baggage handlers had lost my wedding dress. Then I woke up in a cold sweat and asked the Fiance if we could just get married married in the town hall with me wearing a beige twinset, and have our wedding meal in the local chippy, .
In short: help.

I am consoling myself by hoping that the fact I am going to roll up to check–in with a great big wedding dress might get us bumped up to first class. Yeah right, as if this is going to happen. Still, I can dream, because look how much fun first class with Thai Air is!

Is that a chateaubriand she's carving up there? I love it! Also, check out how blatantly both the passengers are checking out the air hostess's arse.

As I say though, I fear I am destined to spend 20 hours stuck in Pauper Class with my knees up around my ears, and not for reasons that one might enjoy. If anyone has any tips on how to survive a long flight from hell once the laptop's packed up and their beloved has started snoring then I would be most grateful.

Quiz me up to the max

Apologies for the quite appalling lack of blogging of late. I am absolutely run off my feet at the moment, and when I get in from work I am more inclined to pass out on the sofa in front of the TV than try to write witty things on here.

Anyway, tonight I managed to escape work at a relatively decent hour in order to mug up for tonight’s pub quiz at the Nobody Inn. We used to go to The George or The Rosemary but the quizzes there were scarily preoccupied with questions about History which is easily our worst subject between us.

Pleasingly, the one at the Nobody Inn has no truck with such subjects, preferring to focus on current affairs and showbiz, which is much better suited to us lot. It is also an absurdly generous place in terms of prizes. KT and I went there a few weeks ago and ended up doing the quiz while completely hammered. We came rock bottom, yet were still invited to choose a prize (we had a choice of a family sized bar of Dairy Milk or four cans of Carling. God knows what the winners got, considering this generosity. Gold bullion?)

So, Heat magazine read and the names of family-abandoning Tory politicans memorised, we’re ready to rock. All we have to do now is choose our team name. I am hanging out for ‘Heather Mills-McCartney is a total ho’, but I fear that while this is factually correct, it is not quite witty enough in comparison to our fellow Hackney quizzers.

Wish us luck!

Smells that remind me of childhood #2

The present is far too annoying to blog about at the moment. The broadband’s bust, the office roof is still dropping great big pieces of rotting ceiling panel on my head, and Derek Acorah is on my television and won’t go away because the Sky box has had an attack of the vapours and won’t let me change channels.

So, what better solution than a descent into the past? People seemed to enjoy the last foray into childhood, so let’s head back there.

The other morning I woke up late. I hopped in the bath (a shower would be quicker, but the water pressure is completely buggered and neither The Fiance or I have the slightest clue how to fix it, so it’s baths all round for us at the moment), hopped straight out again, shoved on my clothes and ran out of the door to go and fail to get on a number 30. Halfway there, I realised I had forgotten to put my deodorant on. Yes, I know it should be an automatic thing to do, but I’d been out on the beers the night before and if I’m being honest was only vaguely awake.

Luckily there is a Boots round the corner from my work. Being bleary eyed and not generally one blessed with great patience, I failed to spy the actual deodorant and so picked up the nearest thing to it I could see – the Impulse body spray. Specifically, the O2 Impulse body spray that, in the words of Ralph Wiggum, “smells like burning”. I ran out of the shop spraying it all over me. Then I actually smelled it, and felt like I had morphed back into the 14 year old who was taller than everyone else in her peer group by six inches and who had to wear a vile retainer brace at night.

Judging by what I read in the papers nowadays, my friends and I were rather fresh faced and well behaved adolescents. No alcopops or fags for us; no mobile phones which we were constantly tap-tap-bloody-tapping into; not an ASBO among us; and a pleasing enthusiasm for riding our bikes and rollerblading. If I was 14 nowadays I’d be bullied mercilessly and being told I was a dork on MySpace. However, this was the 1990s, when teenagers could use their spare time for things other than downloading ringtones and stabbing pensioners. Good times.

There was a gang of about 15 of us that spent pretty much every spare hour together when we weren’t at school. I’d known most of these people for my whole life, either through primary school or Brownies, or gymnastics class. A few of the boys were friends of one of my male friends – the only one of us to have been shunted off to private school. These few privately educated boys were looked on as much more glamorous and exotic than my comprehensive bloke mates, and were therefore flirted with outrageously by all the girls while the poor comp fellows sat morosely on the sidelines comparing their curtain haircuts.

Not being the sorts of 14 year olds to spend time trying to blag our way into pubs (the traditional Sunday afternoon on the Pepsi down the hockey club – us playing pool badly while the parents got happily spannered – was enough for us) we had limited options in terms of where to go in order to indulge in rudimentary mating techniques and experimental swearing. Therefore, the entire summer of 1994 was spent in the playground of the local park; taking over the swings, trying to escape the attention of the traditional park warden who was rumoured to be a murderer, and on one occasion, hiding under the slide with one of the private school boys following a comedic teenage row with my parents over something that seemed like the end of the world at the time but was more likely to be stupendously trivial. I feel rather bad now, as I hate it when I walk past the local park and it’s full of screaming teenagers terrorising toddlers and throwing Strongbow cans around.

Of course, every few Saturdays there would be the obligatory trip into the local ‘town’, which was unfortunately Staines. Doh! Looking back, the effort that went into these jaunts was amazing. All the girls would congregate in someone’s bedroom for the donning of the latest fineries from Bay Trading or Mark One; hair would be sprayed and mucked about with (I realise I do sound like I grew up on the set of Grease here – not the case. We’d just discovered the glory of pulling down the front two sections of one’s ponytail, tonging the hell out of them and then spraying them so they kept their new curly shape. And you thought chavs weren’t around in the ‘90s) and make-up would be applied, often with highly comedic results. I remember my friend C copying a look out of Just 17 which involved pale blue shimmery eyeshadow up to the eyebrows, combined with some rather fetching bright blue mascara. Her mum was rather conservative when it came to teen magazines, and I fear she may have replaced J17’s make up section with one from Bunty without C realising.) Oh, and of course there was the obligatory intoxication of everyone in the room with the application of Impulse body spray.

WHY were we so obsessed with these? They really do smell like nothing else on earth. I was so appalled by the Impulse O2 unfortunateness that I went home via Superdrug that night and spent a stimulating hour testing out every Impulse spray they had in there. Every single one smelled like something one would use to disarm a mugger.

As tends to happen with these groups of friends that one has during their formative teenage years, we all drifted apart once we’d finished school and had grown deep enough voices/big enough boobs to get us into pubs. I still saw some of them on occasions – on the train on the way home from Kingston (our shopping location preference matured as we did) or occasionally in the Magpie of a Friday night, but none of us had anything in common anymore.

I did get a phone call from one of them when I first moved to London, asking if I wanted to attend a reunion sort of event (incidentally down the hockey club where I spent every Sunday between the ages of 12 and 15). I was living in a dreadful hovel in Wood Green with two gay men and working in my first full time job. I was cooking dinner for eight of us as I did every Friday – something which I found at the age of 21 to be a terribly grown up thing to do, and which was probably half the reason I said no. At the time I didn’t really want to hark back to a time of not unsevere teenage angst; and I’m not really sure I would want to now. Besides, if I want to be reminded of them, all I have to do is have a sniff of my Impulse body spray. And then wait ten minutes until I stop spluttering.

Best...programme...ever

Curses to the baseball season! Prison Break and Vanished are on temporary hiatus at the moment, meaning that the Fiance and I have been scouring the depths of the internet for stuff to download. We could, of course, watch British TV but it's just getting worse and worse - even EastEnders is useless at the moment. So, what did we find last night?

An all-new reality programme, pleasingly not featuring Sophie Anderson or Jade Goody. However, it does feature......Mr T.

I Pity the Fool, brought to you by batshit crazy US channel TV Land, features the man himself dressed in a variety of jumpsuits, taking on the role of what TV.com calls a "motivational guru" for those finding professional or personal life hard.

What the fuck? I'd offer an in depth analysis of the programme, but I laughed throughout it to the extent that I couldn't hear what the hell was going on. Apart from this "motivational" gem of course:

"Dude! You only got eight outta twenty! That's like, a third! And third rhymes with...uh...turd! And that's bad."

Genius.

There was also the pleasing bonus of American adverts to watch as well, which I love. I was especially entranced by the notion of a new snack food over in the States, which seems to comprise of pizza in pastry. Which makes me feel somewhat better about the lardy steak tea I am about to shove down my throat.

Bah

I must be the only person in the world who can spend £30 on Clarins moisturiser which then makes me break out in hives. It's back to the Boots own brands for me.

Smells that remind me of childhood #1

I was cooking meatballs for the Fiance and me a couple of days ago. I love making meatballs, because it involves smashing a load of herbs and spices up in the pestle and mortar and then squidging it all together with the meat – something that I find hugely satisfying. So, there I am, crushing the crap out of the homegrown garlic given to me by K’s dad (thanks, Mr K!), with tears pouring down my face because the organic onions from over the road sting like nothing else on earth, singing at the top of my voice to the Lost Boys soundtrack (yes, again. Shut up) and seasoning the hell out of the lamb mince with cumin; when suddenly I get a sniff of said cumin and I’m ten years old again helping my dad cook dinner on a Saturday night. Perhaps ‘helping’ is not the correct word, though.

Dad always cooked on Saturday nights. I think it was his way of relaxing after a tedious week spent in a government office dealing with a Home & Away obsessed PA and people like John Redwood. And also a nice break for Mum, who had generally spent five days trying to force vegetables into me and my brother and who thoroughly deserved a night off to sit in a hot bath and not be disturbed with inane questions about long division or being asked to referee a fight over whose turn it was on the Nintendo.

Dad would start the cooking process a good few hours before the food would be on the table. My bro and I would have already eaten (also cooked by Dad – the main element of the meal would be anything from sausages to chicken kiev, but I remember he’d always serve it with boiled potatoes, which even then I could not see the point of if you weren’t going to either sling them in a pan of oil or mash the hell out of them.) He’d then shut himself away in the kitchen to crack onto whatever meal he was whipping up, but would inevitably be interrupted by some outrageous whining from one or the other of us (“DAD! It’s MY turn to sit nearest the TV! She sat there yesterday! S’not fair!” I know Mum and Dad were very much all for meals at the table instead of off laps, but considering the amount of arguments the sat-on-the-same-side-of-the-table-so-one-of-you-is-always-nearer-the-telly situation caused, I’m surprised they didn’t relax the laws on Saturday nights at least. Or tell us to shut the hell up and go back in the kitchen to let us finish slicing up each others’ femoral arteries with knives and Lego bricks.)

So, kiev snarfed and boiled potatoes forced down, Bro would potter off to try and further his understanding of the mysterious force that was Zelda, and I’d wander into the kitchen where Dad would have a sauce-stained cookery book propped open on the stand, slicing up onions and doing a gleeful stocktake of the spice rack.

I am sure that Dad didn’t cook chilli con carne every Saturday. He’s a great cook who likes trying out new stuff, and so there’s no way he’d have stuck to the same thing every week; but it’s all I can remember him making. As a result I can cook chilli con carne from memory. I can’t remember my own age at times, but thanks to Dad I can whip up a chilli with no worries and no cookbook, which for me is amazing because cookbooks are like sacred texts to me and I follow recipes to the letter.

I’m not sure exactly what I used to do while he was cooking. I recall being put in charge of browning the mince a few times, and pushing the button on the food processor to blend the herbs and spices (with Dad holding the lid on tight as he knew I was a hopeless scatterbrain who would forget to hold it down and then get my face sliced to fuck with the processing blade and covered in spicy paste to boot). I think most of the time I’d just get in his way and talk to him about school. I know there was always music on, and this is probably where my love of “dad music” comes from. We’d play Simon and Garfunkel, or Fleetwood Mac, or my favourite compilation tape of all time, which Dad made for Mum full of “her songs” and which I am still hanging to get put on CD for me as I don’t own a tape player anymore and don’t have a copy of it anyway.

I know sometimes I was a pain in the ass to have loitering about in the kitchen – the occasion when I didn’t believe him about how hot cayenne pepper was and stuck my tongue in the jar to prove a point being a prime example. I like to think that when he was holding my head under the cold tap and making me stick my tongue out he was desperately trying not to piss himself laughing and making Joey Deacon faces behind my back.

We moved house when I was 13 and I don’t remember helping him to cook again. This was probably because we moved to a different part of the town where all my friends lived and, more importantly, I’d discovered boys and was about to embark on a duff pubescent journey that involved lots of bike races and sitting in parks in the rain.

I’m not quite sure what the point of this post is. I think it’s because in recent months it’s kind of hit me that I’m a fully grown adult who has a mortgage, is getting married and is hopefully going to have children soon. Weekends aren’t for sitting on my arse watching cartoons and playing hockey and being allowed to brown the mince anymore. They’re for doing all the stuff I don’t have time to do during the week, for running errands, for hoovering and scrubbing and spraying Fairy Power spray onto everything in sight in my kitchen. They’re also for catching up with friends, for afternoons sat in the pub with piles of newspapers or watching football or going for dinner. Stuff that proper grown ups do. This is great, and I love how I live my life, how it’s all worked out, when at times over the last ten years I never thought anything would go right. However, I think sometimes it feels like it’s all going past too quickly, and sometimes all you want to do is be back at ten years old, trying to stab your little brother in the head with a fork and not having anything to worry about at all apart from what spice jar you’re going to try and stick your tongue into next.

I’m back with Mum and Dad next weekend for a wedding dress fitting. I might stick around on the Saturday night and see if Dad’s cooking. If he is, I bet I deal with that cayenne pepper a hell of a lot better than I did sixteen years ago.

Road to Damascus style realisation #1

Star from The Lost Boys plays Melissa in Twister! How can I have seen both these films about 2o0 times and never realised this?

Also: Bill Paxton = hot.

Regulators! Shut up!

Gah. I have had Warren G in my head all damn week, and it's driving me completely crazy. There was a brief respite when I told C at work of my plight, and she helped me out by singing a variety of other songs from the 1990s at me (examples included Stiltskin's 'Inside', The Shamen and Beats sodding International's 'Dub Be Good To Me'.) This act of kindness was much appreciated, but failed to exorcise the Warren horror. Which surprised me, because once I get Lindy Layton in my head she usually stays there for a good three days.

What duff songs do other people get stuck in their heads? I would love to know, especially if one of them can get the hell that is 'Regulate' out of mine.