today i’m going to make a serious attempt to get fired from work.
so far, nothing has worked: swearing like a drunken sailor, calling the MD a cunt, showing up with a hangover and spending the first hour in the toilets, showing up drunk, stealing, threatening to call the cops on the office rapist and generally acting like a complete and utter asshole.
except for shitting on my line manager’s desk, i’m not sure what more i can do.
yesterday, for nora, chris and kevin’s birthday party, we were instructed to come dressed up as someone famous who had lived in london. and while we got various creative entries, including maggie thatcher, the 118 guys and abu hamza, i like to think that my chosen costume had a special JE NE SAIS QUOI about it.
mark and i decided to dress up as INfamous characters from soas: our man in istanbul, martyn, and for lack of a better term, the brooklyn scarecrow. GUESS WHO.
my battle between loving london and hating england rages on…
oi!
you let yourself down
and you don’t know why
i’m the original
i’m the original
when it comes to the suburbs,
I’m the original
being english isn’t about hate
it’s about disgust
were all disgusting
and then you move move move move
and you push push push push
and you trip over yourself and you think to yourself
why am I here?
i’m here cos I got no fucking choice!
and furthermore, furthermore
you’re boring
- Blur
yo motherfucker on this morning’s silverstink train! what the hell is your fucking problem already? i see you every morning, bitch. I SEE YOU! and every fucking morning as the 8.30 to kensal rise pulls in at about 8.34, there you are, trying to get your goddamn bike onto a train already packed tighter than whores into capitol hill.
YOU ALREADY HAVE A MODE OF TRANSPORT! IT’S CALLED YOUR FUCKING BIKE, ASS-EYES!
GET OFFA MY MODE OF TRANSPORT, YOU TIT!
and YOU! the old bitch taking up all the room by the doors – what the hell is with the huge garbage bin bags by your feet? is that were you put the chopped up corpses when you don’t get your meals on wheels in time?
THERE’S NO DAMN ROOM! YOU ARE TAKING UP ALL THE DAMN ROOM!
assholes
saturday i made the rare trek down from my comfy north-west london abode and crossed the river to the wilds of south london. between oval and stockwell, to be precise. if you live in london or ever have done, you know exactly what i’m talking – the great thames divide. i am firmly, FIRMLY, a north london girl. the idea of living south of the river is about as foreign as packing up my shit to another country. brixton’s alright though – big love to BLIXTON. besides, it’s all residential and boring down there, with the families of four trying to buy up property “between the commons” and lumbering SUVs. those that don’t fall into that category will just stab your face up for a mobile phone. or something like that.
in any case, me no like.
the journey to mordor was brought on by helen’s 24th birthday. la buchan was having her ninties-themed soiree in her south london flat so i grabbed my blur & radiohead badges, a bottle of gordon’s finest and made my way south.
things got off to a great start when i arrived at the address and realised i had no way of getting into the gated close. after reminding myself that i don’t climb metal fences, i looked for another way to sneak in without having a cricket bat broken over my head. one of the neighbours left their gate open which allowed me to sneak through a hedge and onto the other side.
NORTH 1; SOUTH 0
i rang the flat bell and waited. a guy in his mid-40s came up behind me and waited a while with me, not really making any great effort to enter the building:
guy: sorry, do you live here?
me: no. i’m here to visit a friend.
guy: ahh, because i live here.
me: hmm….
guy: and i have to get into my flat but i can’t let you in because you don’t live here.
me: that’s ok. i’ll just wait for my friend to come down.
guy: ok, i’m going in now…i’m not letting you in! [runs up to the door, jams the key into the lock and slams the door before i could make any sudden moves]
about twenty seconds later, helen shows up at the door wearing a makeshift dress out of a towel and her hair up with about a gazillion rubber bands – she was dressed as whigfield. nice. helen’s brother hired out a bart simpson costume for the night, complete with giant sponge head. i quickly engaged in mock-fighting with him over blur records and which was the most overrated band ever (i’m feeling the hate for the police lately. FEEL THE HATE!). then we moved on to trying to pick out the best tracks off CLUB ZONE ‘97. ain’t no party like an s club party.
and then in all great london traditions, the night bus ride home. saturday’s was bizarre, to say the least. i’ve taken that bus before and the last stop is queen’s park, about a 10 min walk from my flat. naturally, i fell asleep somewhere around vauxhall or victoria or somewhere that starts with a v, to the sound of the bus driver threatening to call the police on some idiots upstairs. no surprises here. i wake up later on to the sound of the driver screaming at everyone, LAST STOP! EVERYBODY OFFFFFFFF!!!!!! i take a look around through the windows and think…this doesn’t look quite right. but he keeps screaming, LAST STOP! QUEEN’S PARK! AAARRRKKKKKK!!!!!
fair enough. so i get off thinking, i’m a bit drunk and sleepy i.e. what do i know? i mean, i only FUCKING LIVE HERE. as it turns out, i know lots. i walk a block and then it hits me that the mofo left me in sidestreets of maida vale –about 1-2 miles from my flat.
son-of-a-BITCH!
have no idea what the crack journey the driver went on. But at about 4.30 in the morning, i stumble through the door to mark screaming, CLUB ZONE 97!
i was walking towards my office from the train station yesterday when my phone rang. it was mark, sounding a bit distressed.
the question is why.
the answer is a builder. more specifically, a builder on a contruction site near our flat who decided it would be a grand idea to hunch over, pull down his trousers and TAKE A MIGHTY SHIT IN BROAD DAYLIGHT off the site as mark passed by.
let me repeat: TAKE A MIGHTY SHIT IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.
i was told it exploded out just like on south park.
i have many questions, good people of the internet, as i’m sure you do as well. my primary one being, where do i live?
…my bus is on fire!
at least, it was yesterday. i shit you not. i was on the 28 bus from kensington olympia to kensal rise like i usually am when i can’t be assed to scam the london overground network by not paying to take the train.
then out of nowhere, the bus driver stops in the middle of the journey, starts screaming and kicks us all off the bus. why? some assface decided it would be a good idea to set one of the seats on fire on the top deck. or something like that. it was hard to make sense of it all with his hands waving like a psychopath. all i know it, i was kicked off my bus. this made me DISPLEASED.
after the driver’s banshee screams, he went around to all of us trying to get us to sign a witness statement. the lady beside me was having none of it: “I didn’t see a damn thing! I was sitting on the first deck of the bus,”. buddy with the shopping piped up with, “I don’t get it. the bus was on fire. now there is no fire. why are we still here?”
for reals.
jesus christ, i’m coughing up crap the size of a small planet out of my lungs. TASTY.
as part of his christmas present from me, mark and i went to see queens of the stone age yesterday and so i am completely wrecked this morning. granted, downing half a bottle of red wine in the neighbouring church parking lot probably wasn’t the best idea in hindsight but [shrug] there you go. that, combined with the pressure headache i’ve been experiencing due to my blocked ears and the supreme heat from the venue meant that i was nearly passed out towards the end of the set. i honestly don’t remember the last fifteen minutes except for throwing my hand up to the recognised sound of one of their singles.
BRAIN: THAT SOUNDS LIKE ROCK AND/OR ROLL!
for the record, i’d like state right here right now that apart from the riverside cinema cafe, hammersmith is a complete hole in the food department. others would argue that hammersmith is a hole full stop but those people have probably never been to deep south london. hole-icious.
so this means that part 3 of your s bastard saga will have to wait until tomorrow. or at least until i stop feeling wobbly.
sleepless long nights
that was what my youth was for
all you nations come and listen the truth is a mess and the politics are pissing all you people this is trash we abominate music we are here for cash smash your headphones cut your hair don't try to cheat get down on your knees boy beg for the beat
