I am so demotivated to write at the moment. So i’m going to write a really unenthused blog post. I went for dinner with my mum earlier which was well nice. We ate burgers in Liverpool Street at this place called Patty & Bun and it’s just so tasty. I sat next to this well fit man and he kept staring at me. I think it was because I was staring at him with bbq sauce dripping down my face, and the light was way ambient so I was straining to see so my eyes were probably bulging a bit.
First piccy is of me and Gee looking radical. Like totally far out and wild like yeah. I dunno what we’re doing. But we look fly as ferrrrrrk. Thanks to Mr. Rutter for the photography. This is Soho kiddie winks, and we’re standing outside a place where adults go to have fun. Like hold hands with other adults. And stuff.
Anyhoo. Check out all of this jazz:
Gina and I have become one entity innit. Its like the Spice Girls once said, when two become one. So we’ve been doing some shoots and chatting bollocks live on air for The Noughtie Sunday Show on Soho Radio. We’re gonna be famous. I have all sorts of grand plans for when the day comes. I’m going to firstly read the dictionary so I can hold a conversation with Russell Brand, then when he’s not looking i’m going to snog him. The paps will love it. I’ll probs go to prison for sexual harassment, but then i’ll be like bad ass Lohan famous and i’ll write a book about my average-to-borderline boring childhood in Norwich.
I haven’t started my Christmas shopping yet. As much as I’m all like, ‘oh but it’s only the beginning on Dec’, I know that suddenly it’ll be December 24th and i’ll have to do what I’ve done for the past three years and drain TK Maxx of its less-shit-than-its-other-shit-shit and convince myself that my mum would just love lavender drawer sheets. I’m so tired I just had to Google ‘when is Christmas’. For a second I thought it was the 24th. Then I was like, hold up it’s the 25th. Or is it? So I asked Google. I ask Google everything, such as, are carrots classed as legumes? Who invented sandwiches? and Why am I single?
So I’m sat at my desk, being a copywriter, by doing naff all and ‘over seeing’ a creative project at work. I’m not much use at this point so I thought I’d whack out a blog post.
I’m feeling slightly writer-cool lately. You know when you suddenly become very self aware that you’re holding a newspaper, coffee and are sashaying through London? And your body goes into ‘gal-about-town’ over drive. You try to catch every vaguely good looking guy’s eye so that he might trip up and drop his bags of apples and then you’ll both bend down to pick the same one up and you hold hands and then you realise you’re in a DKNY juicy apple perfume advert.
On top of all this apple handling, whilst being writer-cool, I’ve starting having thoughts like, wow, the tops of buildings are amazing. I must be the most in-depth cookie in London by not paying attention to the mass produced clothes and concentrating on the beautiful architecture. Then BAM- Topshop has indeed taken part in Black Friday and all of my 90s sequinned dreams for Christmas parties have come true in a discounted minidress that would be SO BLOODY EDGY with my new androgynous brogues. Where else is this black Friday happening? Up until yesterday I thought black Friday was like a Druid festival whereby the world was gonna end or something, or is that Doomsday? Regardless, I must look nonchalant yet slutty this Crimbo, then post wicked pics of me all over social media- thank you Black Friday! #writercoolfail
Went to stay with the Grandparents at the weekend in Chelmsford. I bought them cakes from Soho and they bought me a pie from Tiptree. I would have preferred jam, but there you go. Life can be like that sometimes.
When I was at the Groucho a few weeks back, I met this lady called Emily. I call her Lady Emily because she is a lady. She must be in her late 30s. Anyhow, she owns this company called TrueRocks, which sells THE SICKEST JEWELLERY EVER NOT EVEN JOKING THEY SELL A GOLDEN RICH TEA BISCUIT. She co owns it with the coolest gal called Viv who owns Ibiza Rocks. Anyways, it was Halloween, and she was well pissed, and invited me to the launch and I went and I thought I was all fancy until I was sat at the after party with a whisky telling about 15 gay spanish men, how the perils of wearing a shearling jacket can be one’s downfall, if not looked after properly.
I was supposed to go see ‘The Specials’ gig with her. Her hubby is in da band yo’- but alas I was a tired teddy and pied it off. So it nearly happened, but like, didn’t.
Look at the pictures of the that poor sod on the Underground. He was bordering on vomiting. He was on the fence of spew. I was lucky enough to get off before I could witness what kebab he ate the night before. We’ve all been there. My friend Lex once puked into a shoe box, in the morning, in public, on the Central line. Sorry Lex but it happened and you’re particularly good looking so I enjoy knocking you down sometimes.
I have a man friend called Justyn. We went to the London Cocktail Club last week and saw THE RAT PACK LIVE. They were actors obviously. Could have been slightly un-festive, dragging Frank’s mouldy corpse across the stage and making him sing. I probably wouldn’t have stayed too long. So I was glad the people were alive. It was bloody amazing and I want to see it again.
LAST FRIDAY (what friggin kind of chronological order am I telling you lot this? I do hope it’s making sense.) I went for drinky poos with Hansel (best person alive after myself and Elizabeth Windsor and my mum and Gina and most of my family) Stretch, Cami and Spud. However, they all bailed about midnight to all go and snog and so I dragged Hansel to THE BOOGALOO for a jig around and to drink more booze.
Anyways, I should probably write a more coherent post. This will happen in about a week. I’m sat at work listening to Holly Valance and it’s 23.11 precisely. Remember to check out those links, ya hear!
If you could repost/ listen to the show then I’ll visit you tonight in your dreams. I’ll be the one in my pants riding a unicorn.
OUR BLOODY RADIO SHOW SAY WHERT: