Sunday, 31 May 2009

It's A Nice Day For A [Red And] White Wedding ...

Yesterday I went to a wedding.

At Anfield, home of Liverpool FC.

In between the ceremony and the reception, we walked around the Liverpool FC museum. There was not much to see.

As a Manchester United fan, the museum was nowhere near as good as the one at Old Trafford.

Liverpool have apparently won the European Cup 5 times. I don't think anyone mentioned that all day. Much.

In the museum, we had the chance to offer Bruce Grobbelaar some used £10 notes.
If you are not a football fan, that is actually quite witty. Trust me.

Me & R were probably a bit overexcited by the Bill Shankly statue.

Don't take any knives, darts, tools or large radios into Anfield, thankyou please.

Unimpressed by the actual European Cup wearing Liverpool ribbons.

What do you do at the wedding of 2 fanatical Liverpool fans at their home stadium?
That's right. You get a bridesmaid to bring some Man Utd stuff.

The wedding DJ was the most aggressive man I have ever seen at a wedding. He was slightly scary. And I actually sang along to 'You'll Never Walk Alone'.

It was a fabulous day.

And I witnessed what may have been the greatest karaoke performance in the world. Ever.
Feast your ears:

I never thought I would ever actually prefer to hear Chris de Burgh do anything, but I think that day has come.

Thursday, 28 May 2009

Kinder Surprise

Dessert circa 1990.

Hatching the Kinder egg.
Please don't be a jigsaw, please don't be a jigsaw.

Oh. It's a plastic crocodile.

Which turns into a van.


Tuesday, 26 May 2009

Things I Hate With A Fiery Passion

#1 The band Nickelback.

Nickelback were in Manchester this weekend. I feel nauseous to know that they were within a 16 mile radius of me.

Some people paid £273.50 for a ticket. For that amount of money, I hope the price included a sexual encounter with the band member of your choice.

Now that's an unpleasant mental image.

Why don't I like Nickelback?
Because I have fully functioning ears.

I hate this band because they are so teeth grindingly, arse clenchingly, God-fucking-awful.

Chad Kroeger [AKA Chad Turton] has hair like a spaniel's ear. What a goon.

His Wikipedia page is a goldmine of vandalism, so there are clearly some likeminded souls out there.

Potentially libellous edits [which appeal to my lewd and juvenile sense of humour] to The Turt's bio include:

"Chad Robert Kroeger [born Tits McGee] wants to be a rock star"

"Chad Turton's mother is of Finnish descent. His father was an Albanian Sheepgoat Horse"

"Chad Robert Dickbag was born in Douche, Alberta"

"Kroeger mainly plays Paul Smith guitars, but he also plays at being a poor man's Kurt Cobain"

"Chad Kroeger is a big fat pile of wank. And before becoming a musician he was a professional trampolinist"

"Chad Penishands Kroegermeister"

"His voice sounds like a cat in a blender"

"During his teenage years, he spent time in jail for stealing thousands of dollars from his school. Which wasn't as bad as the music he plays with Nickelback"

"It is debatable whether the noise produced by the band can be classed as music"

"The band's music is most commonly categorised as shit"

"Chad Kroeger is a joke of a human being"

And those are just back to February 2009.

Nickelback have sold 31 million records. Who is buying them? Who?!

The name of the band comes from one of the members - another Kroeger - [Gimme six! Inbreds.] when they worked at a Starbucks and gave people a nickel back in change. Wow.

Why should Starbucks be deprived of their employee of the month? I really wouldn't mind if you decided to return to your old job. Really.

Another reason to hate this band is the fact that their lyrics are so mind bendingly shite.

If you gave 1000 monkeys 1000 typewriters, they would be hard pushed to come up with something as cretinous.

The hideous call and response monstrosity, Rockstar, says how Chaddy boy would even change his name and cut his hair to become famous. Both of which he did.

I don't think Kroeger is clever enough to mean anything in an ironic, self effacing manner.

And the song also has the line: 'I'll have the quesadilla, ha ha'.

What the motherfuck?

And then there is the deep and meaningful:

'Look at this photograph,

Every time I do it makes me laugh,

How did our eyes get so red,

And what the hell is on Joey's head?'

The poetry.

And then there is the most excellent Animal.

'You're beside me on the seat,
Got your hand between my knees,
And you control how fast we go by just how hard you wanna squeeze,
It's hard to steer when you're breathing in my ear,
But I got both hands on the wheel while you got both hands on my gears,
By now, no doubt that we were heading south,
I guess nobody ever taught her not to speak with a full mouth'

Love is alive.

The most epic of all their masterpieces, however, may be the utterly charming 'Something In Your Mouth':

'You're so much cooler when you never pull it out,
'Cause you look so much cuter,
With something in your mouth'

If I am in the same room as Chad Kroeger, the only thing I want in my mouth is a loaded gun.

I have watched this video many, many times. The satisfaction at the direct hit is immense. Whoever threw that rock, I salute you.

Coming next week!

Wet look leggings and why those who wear them should be executed by firing squad.

Sunday, 24 May 2009

Potvin Sucks!

Boozy Saturday night in.

8.43 pm:

We find the New York Rangers foam finger.

For reasons unknown, we find this hilarious.

So hilarious, that we pose for pictures.

Dinner for two.

Humous is so good.

We watch Flight Of The Conchords.

I am overawed by Murray Hewitt. What a character.

The foam finger leads us outside.

Even the kitchen sink loves the foam finger.

The fridge [with the new, disturbingly sexual, Kelly Clarkson magnet - free with My December, kids!] is hypnotised by the power of the New York Rangers and the memory of them beating the Washington Capitals 2-1.


Britain's Got Talent has been watched. I am over Susan Boyle.

I am shamefully drunk for this early hour and have decided that I will have to go to bed.

Tomorrow, off to the Imperial War Museum North.
And to Pizza Express to use my 2 for 1 voucher. Why am I so cheap?!

3 day weekends = the greatest thing ever.

I have got hiccups.

I will almost certainly regret this in the morning.

Saturday, 23 May 2009

Cat's Got Talent

This video may be a desperate cry for help by Fatso the cat.

But it makes me laugh. A lot.

Thursday, 21 May 2009

Taken To The Cleaners

My desk at work is an unholy mess.

The Drawer of Denial is overflowing with paper and other such stuff.

The cleaners at work are clearly comedians in their spare time.

Have you ever seen a more sarcastic, passive/agressive piece of paper?

Monday, 18 May 2009

I Heart Cats

I wish that I could say something worthwhile or philosophical on this blog, but this is what the inside of my brain looks like:

And this is my first post from the Musee d'Gorsey.

Thank you unsecured wireless network having neighbour.

Sunday, 17 May 2009

Girls Aloud III: The Live Spectacular

Look how close we sat to the stage! /sarcasm
I just cracked a bad html joke. Fuck my fucking life.

My relationship with Girls Aloud is a strange one.

As a concept, I should dislike them. They were formed on a reality TV show.
The other notable exception to this being The Clarkson.

Girls Aloud formed in 2002. 7 years ago. Wow. So even when they formed, I was 19. Old enough to know better. As part of Popstars: The Rivals, a boyband was also formed. The shockingly named One True Voice, who released a massive TWO singles before splitting up. One of those singles was the excruciating 'Shakespeare's Way With Words'. Sample lyric: 'If I had Shakespeare's way with words, I would write a sonnet, put your name upon it, in my heart I am a poet, don't know how to show it'.

I remember at the time there was a massive outcry when Javine Hylton didn't get into the band. And look at her now. The Aldi Jamelia. Incidentally, why would you leave Alesha Dixon for Javine? Like going from a palace to a slum. Men are stupid.

As much as I like Girls Aloud as a musical entity, I am not a fan of any of the individual members. I am genuinely uninterested in reading about their lives in the papers. I don't particularly like any of them. Even if Nicola Roberts is the one person in the world whose complexion is more corpse-in-a-river pale than mine.

Onto the show!

Girls Aloud fans are screamers. And by screamers, I mean morons.
A picture of Zac Efron on the big screen got a louder cheer than Nicola. Mwahaha. And the girl stood next to me was essentially giving me a lap dance for 2 hours. Invasion of personal space much? The strangest audience member was the middle aged man who came alone wearing a baseball cap. Perv.

And clearly I had missed the memo which stated that the dress code was Hairdressers Night Out.

Cheryl Tweedy Cole was cheered wildly whenever she did anything. She's so hot right now. She even makes having a conviction for racially aggravated assault sexy.

The opening act was a girl group called Girls Can't Catch. WTF. I was actually sick in my mouth when I heard that. And, no, that wasn't thanks to my friends Mr Pinot and Mr Grigio.
Girls Can't Catch. Bitches, please.

Girls Aloud entered on pedestals which came up through the floor and they were all wearing long floor length sparkly dresses and singing 'The Promise'. This tour was for the new album which I have never listened to and from what I heard, I am not exactly missing out. The album tracks they sang [which haven't been released as singles] were meh. The singles were killer, album tracks were filler.

Cheryl Cole actually got the only boo of the evening when she congratulated Man U on having won the Premiership. There's 2 teams in Manchester, love. Even if the best one did win.

Sarah Harding continued to perpetuate the myth that she is from Manchester. Last time I checked, Berkshire was not Manchester. For at least 200 miles anyway. Though she gamely performed almost the entire show wearing what looked like waders. Maybe she had come straight from fly fishing.

Nicola Roberts looked like Joan Crawford in 'Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?' and was the miserable bint she always is.

Nadine, bless you, every time you spoke into the microphone all I could hear was 'hurdy gurdy hurdy gurdy hurdy gurdy'. Your Northern Irish accent is totally indecipherable. You have killer legs though. And a really decent pair of boobs, which I had never noticed before. Moving on, now that I sound like a lesbian...

Kimberley Roberts may be my favourite member of Girls Aloud. Even if she is from Yorkshire. She is my favourite because she seems the most down to earth. And she is not constantly in the papers acting like a dick.

There was an awkward section where they went a bit dancehall and sang a song which had the lyrics 'gimme da ting, gimme da ting, gimme da ting ting ting' whilst wearing hoodies with the hoods up. Safe, blood.

They sang a cover of 'Broken Strings' by James Morrison and Woah Nelly which I slept right through. And a cover of 'Womanizer' by Miss Spears during which they rode around on their male dancers backs and such. It wasn't as good as the Britney versh though.

The singles that they performed were excellent though. Biology - what a song. Love Machine - classic. Something Kinda Ooh - essentially bollocks, but what well crafted pop bollocks. They didn't really perform any ballads, but that was fine by me.

The fact that I am mainly a fan of the singles, may explain why I didn't think that this tour was as good as the Greatest Hits tour. It may also have something to do with the fact that that tour had a Dirty Dancing hits medley in it. Oh, Patrick Sway-me. As Johnny Castle, not now.

They also had a flying stage thing going on a la McFly. So we got to see them a bit closer up as we were sat in the roof of the MEN arena.

Despite the impression the above may give, I did actually really enjoy it.

Even if G was suffering from vertigo [seriously, we were that high up] and felt sick. And Miss J made me laugh. She is such a veteran of the MEN, she knew that when you get a bottle of water they take the lid off you [presumably so you don't lob it in the face of Cheryl Cole] and proceeded to get a bottle top out of her bag and smugly paraded it in front of everyone. Me and G didn't suffer the same problem as you don't really need a lid on a pint.

Oh, and the salmon teriyaki soba at Wagamama [as mentioned in the 'Let The Right One In' post] is most excellent.

Friday, 15 May 2009

Freedom Road: I Hate Montana

Day Eight - Montana, Wyoming & South Dakota

We left Hadley's Otel at 6am to head in the general direction of Mount Rushmore. Without showering. I had one of the tensest nights sleep since the one in Kakadu, Australia where I was molested by a wallaby. Seriously. We both went to sleep with hoodies on, hoods firmly up, socks on, pants on - basically anything to avoid coming into physical contact with the sheets or bed. The straw insulation and breeze block interior was of no use whatsoever and we were both absolutely freezing all night. I dressed as a yokel. I'm all about assimilation.

I had a hysterical laughing fit in the car as we drove back into Yellowstone. I was just thinking about Jo pulling the door off its hinges. We saw some deer by the side of the road. We also hit roadworks. The state of the roads in the US was completely atrocious. Even on toll roads it was really bad. I hope Americans don't pay road tax - because they are getting shafted!

I got behind the wheel in Montana. Then the heavens opened. It was raining like you would not believe. I have had drier baths. So what is an inexperienced foreign driver to do? Tailgate an 18 wheeler at 80mph in the fast lane, duh!

I drove through the rain for 4 hours. We listened to our Ricky Gervais podcast CD to pass the time. These podcasts led us to baffle numerous Americans with reference to Karl Pilkington and his perfectly round head. Monkey News was also eagerly anticipated. We were forced to amuse ourselves in increasingly juvenile ways. Laughing at signs for Butte, Montana. Laughing and taking pictures of a 'Kum & Go' petrol station. Swearing at other drivers. Eating Twizzlers, Swedish fish and sour patch kids.

One of the highlights of the day was finding a new flavour of Pringles: jalapeno. Such spicy treats do not exist in GB.

We missed a turning for a gas station and the car journey suddenly turned extremely tense. Chad had an electronic fuel gauge which told us how many miles worth of fuel was allegedly in the tank. We had noticed that it fluctuated massively - if you were going downhill or round a corner the fuel level always went up. After we missed the petrol turning, we drove and drove and drove and drove. We noticed the fuel light on the dashboard had been on the entire time. Jo asked how many miles the GPS said until the next available gasoline. I said 20 miles. The fuel robot said we had 19 miles left in the tank.

We were driving through a really mountainous area. The cellphone had died. Those bastards at Verizon had given us the wrong charger. We had seen 3 or 4 houses in the previous hour's worth of driving. We were in the arse end of nowhere. I had visions of shallow graves, Buffalo-Bill-in-Silence-Of-The-Lambs human skin suits and all kinds of hillbilly shenanigans. Clearly, I have an overactive imagination.

The CD stopped. Neither of us made a move to change it. We both tried to act like we weren't constantly looking at the fuel gauge and silently sweating. I faux casually rechecked the GPS distance calculations. As the miles to Gilette, Wyoming were coming down, so our anxiety levels were going up.

We rolled into Gillette [Energy Capital Of The Nation!] on fumes alone. The gauge said 0 miles. We were almost scuppered when we had to stop at a red light, literally 5 metres away from the gas pumps. We were both convinced that the car wouldn't be able to pull onto the forecourt. It was only when we parked the Volvo that I realised that I hadn't exhaled for the previous 20 minutes.

After keeping calm and carrying on, we drove through the Black Hills into South Dakota. The clouds here were completely massive. The entire horizon was filled with massive grey clouds, as far as the eye could see. We eventually drove to Mount Rushmore. And got a bit overexcited en route as we replayed the documentary National Treasure 2 in our minds. In my mind, Rushmore was going to be epic. It was going to be insane. And built upon Sioux gold.

The reality was that it was foreshadowed by a massive, 70s looking multistorey car park and it was waaaaaaaaaaay smaller than I had been led to believe. Still, it was cold that day, I guess. The faces were only a small part of the rock face when everyone in the world is led to believe that they ARE the mountain. I think I am just a largely-rock-based attraction philistine. Other people probably enjoy these things.

The gift shop was intense. We made one of the finest purchases ever here. A glow in the dark, 3D Mount Rushmore fridge magnet. A-meh-zing.

On trying to leave the tourist honeytrap that is Mount Rushmore, there were some goats loitering in the car park. One wore a jaunty hat and a bell. He looked like the happiest leper ever.

We went to the Crazy Horse monument. This was being built by some sculptor with a massive beard and about 15 kids to honour the Native Americans and acknowledge the fact that us white folk pretty much fucked up their entire lives. Hey, Mr Sioux why don't you live on this designated reservation with little in the way of services or hope in your own goddamn country? Stop complaining, you can build a casino. Jeez. What more do they want?

Crazy Horse was nowhere near finished. It was huge though. And uncomfortably commercial. It was difficult trying to reconcile the message of living as one with the earth and the spirits in what was, essentially, a massive dreamcatcher store.

We then had a massive quest trying to find somewhere to stay. It was hideously painful. We ended up at the highly unpromisingly named Econolodge. It wasn't bad at all. And after the Otel, it was a veritable palace.

In my diary, I have written: 'Still feel like I am going to die from lack of real food'. Chicago couldn't come quick enough.

The thought of the day came from a sign we had driven past:
Sin - it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Thursday, 14 May 2009

Poetry Corner

I was cleaning out my email inbox, because that's the kind of rock 'n roll shiznit I do late at night when sky high on prescription medication, and I found this little beaut.

This was sent to me on November 1 2005, so we probably all already know the punchline.

I need to delete more of my fucking emails.



Before the age of 16, a female is like North Korea.
Only a few weirdos want to go there and they end up in prison.

Between 18 and 20, a woman is like Africa.
Half discovered, half wild, naturally beautiful with fertile deltas.

Between 21 and 30, a woman is like America.
Well developed and open to trade, especially for someone with cash.

Between 31 and 35, she is like India.
Very hot, relaxed and convinced of her own beauty.

Between 36 and 40, a woman is like France.
Gently aging but still a warm and desirable place to visit.

Between 41 and 50, she is like the former Yugoslavia.
Haunted by past mistakes and in need of massive reconstruction.

Between 51 and 60, she is like Russia.
Very wide, borders are unpatrolled and the frigid climate keeps people away.

Between 61 and 70, a woman is like Mongolia.
A glorious and all conquering past, but, alas, no future.

After 70, they become like Afghanistan.
Everyone knows where it is, but no one wants to go there.


Between 15 and 90, a man is like Zimbabwe.
Ruled by a dick.

Wednesday, 13 May 2009

Pity Party

Today has not been a good day.

Being thrown in at the deep end just so someone can watch you drown is no fun.

I feel like crying.

I have also developed sciatica in my right leg. It hurts like it did when I found out about Jordan and Peter.

I am falling apart now that I'm 26. Sciatica, ovaries - what next?!

8 weeks to wait to get physiotherapy. I may attempt a DIY amputation before then.

The ad with the limping donkey has just come on TV. I am definitely going to cry now.

Fuck you, donkey. Every fucking time.

And I don't even have a heart. It is ridiculous.
It's like in a sci fi film where a robot starts feeling human emotion. It does not compute.

I have made cake though. Delicious white chocolate, walnut and banana-y cake.

I am clutching at straws, trying to make the day seem less spectacularly put-Radiohead-on-light-a-candle-and-abandon-all-hope awful.

I really want to write a huge rant naming names and saying exactly what I think of some people and certain situations. But I shall refrain because I am a coward. And it would make me look pathological.

I am going to have to break out the big guns.

Whenever Chan is upset or anxious, I always tell her to think of otters holding hands.

So I'm taking my own advice.

I feel a bit better for seeing their furry little faces. I just have to forget about the fact that one of them is actually dead.

When I see the otters, I feel like Lennie in 'Of Mice And Men'.

I just want to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze them!

I am off to find the nearest aquatic mammal to hug.

Feel sorry for me.

Monday, 11 May 2009

The Weekend In Words And Pictures

How to make Friday at work more bearable 101: Wear shoes made entirely of glitter.

Friday night = McFly o'clock. McFly are what I go to school for. What a niche gag.
Bar = deserted. God love the kids.

Best sign ever: 'Dougie show us your Poynter'.
Dougie Poynter is the bassist in McFly.
This sign has cleverly used 'Poynter' as a euphemism for 'penis'.

Bolton's own Danny Jones. Read about him in McFly Monthly. Readership J Syms.

Saturday night, observe the most pointless and rubbish card based drinking game in existence.

Also played the Moulin Rouge drinking game. Drink every time the narcoleptic Argentinian falls asleep, every time someone says 'Maharaja', whenever someone says 'penniless sitar player', when you see the Moulin Rouge, when the Duke looks like a rodent, when someone is drinking absinthe drink with them and every time Christian says 'love' have a jar. The love rule had to be abandoned to avoid a death occurring.

Incidentally the extremely lethal Roxanne drinking game [flashback to the Camden wine burn]does not work with the version in Moulin Rouge. If you insist on playing, Team Roxanne will do all of the drinking. Team Put On The Red Light will remain sober.

Sunday Morning.
We are so good to the environment. Remnants of booze, pizza and nachos.
The pizza featured extremely spicy jalapenos. Hence the new Kings Of Leon song Wooooooooaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh my mouth is on fire!

My Little Pony watched us try and eat our hangovers away.

Mr Duck walks into a bar and says to the barman: 'Got any bread?'

Yummy in my tummy!

Wednesday, 6 May 2009


Today I unintentionally shoplifted.

And when I discovered it, I was pleased.
It saved me seven quid. Result.
Plus, Walmart can afford it.
My amorality makes the baby Jesus cry.

I got some baby clothes [!!!] for free.
'Baby's first theft!'
I probably could have claimed I was pregnant and got away with it.
One of the advantages of being fat.
Along with the ability to hibernate.

I had an accident in 3 clothes shops.
Money fell out of my hand and was replaced with clothing I don't need.
And why is everything in the sale the size of my ankle?

I ate some tablet.
Tablet is Scottish for fudge flavoured Kendal Mint Cake.
I had a flashback to kayaking on Lake Windermere and stopping to eat the emergency Kendal Mint Cake on that weird island which was crawling with tadpoles.
My teeth hurt.

I almost burst into tears at the sight of a lost dog poster which had been written by a child.
What are these things that I am feeling? Emo-whats?

Current favourite sandwich: M&S Wensleydale and carrot chutney.
Favourite thing eaten today: lollipop

Article read which makes me want to retreat to the lead lined bunker and never come out: Britain's fattest mum feeds her triplets McDonalds every day.
She thinks it's alright because she feeds them vegetables on a Sunday.
And she thinks she will be fine living on her own because she can use a microwave and make instant mash.

She feeds the babies McDonalds because she doesn't want them to be anorexic.
She weighs 40 stone. 560 pounds.
She says she is fat because she has a thyroid problem.
She consumes 3000 calories per day.
So unless the Big Mac is a gland ...

Things I bought with my first pay packet:
Theatre tickets for Saturday
The Cellist Of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway
I Capture The Castle by Dodie Smith
The Sound And The Fury by William Faulkner

Things I will do whilst still in work:
Spin on my chair
Plough my way through some pretzels
Wish I were on holiday and/or it was Friday
Enter a competition to win a trip to the New Moon set in Vancouver to meet RPattz and to tell him that he is hOtTTtTttT1111!!!111!!!!! LOL!!!!!
Wish that the office were not hotter than the sun inside a greenhouse inside an oven wrapped in an electric blanket inside a sauna.

I am also highly upset by the fact that Afghanistan's only known pig, imaginatively called Pig, has been taken off display at the Kabul Zoo [!] because of swine flu fears.
He and his pig bride were gifts to Afghanistan from China.
His wife and their children were killed in a bear attack.
He had made friends with a goat.
I have made none of this up.

Monday, 4 May 2009

I May Literally Be Killed For This

One of you lot will have to collect the posthumous Pulitzer that this type of investigative journalism usually yields.

Last night, I heard a noise. It was a loud noise. I was at the parental home. It wasn't late at night. It was about 10.30pm. Thought I would go and check it out. I found my mother, CBM, asleep.

Now, she claims that she doesn't snore. That is clearly a lie. And the Mutley-esque laughter is me. Shortly afterwards, she actually woke herself up.

Let me just endnote this by saying that CBM is my favourite person in the world EVER. But she is also unintentionally hilarious. She once asked a builder to put a dildo rail in our hallway [meaning to say dado rail]. She had a lengthy conversation with me about my Catherine Cookson bag. She meant Cath Kidston. Then there was the infamous time when she described herself as 'part time teacher, part time inventor'. Her world famous accents always seem to end up being Indian. And she has never heard a song which she couldn't make up her own words to.

I have just had a conversation with her where she was holding a bunch of flowers and she said to me: 'Jessica, do you have any comment to make?' and held the flowers in my face pretending they were a microphone.

And she has just made me a bookmark with "To Jess, Happy Reading! ♥ You, Mum xxx" written on it. Aww.

And Claire, if you are reading this, don't tell your mum about this! You know the twins can't keep anything to themselves.

And Maureen & Denise, don't mention this at the next mum's night!

How much does CBM look like Grandad Elton John in this pic?!

Friday, 1 May 2009

Winnie The [Swine] Flu

Gareth is to blame for this!