quiz me gently

A modern phenomenon

2009-10-29T09:17:00.000Z

Fuckbuddies. They seem to be all the rage. On the face of it...yeah, why not? You’re getting your rocks off without the pain of having to be polite to somebody else’s parents or spending your hard-earned pennies on flowers. And anything that helps me avoid paying to see a film I wouldn’t watch even if it were on terrestrial TV and there was literally nothing else available to watch (I’m looking at you, Jean Claude Van Damme) can only be for the good, right?

Maybe not. See, most people understand the ‘fuck’ bit perfectly well. Packed it, fucked it, went home. It’s easy, I’ve done it. And I’ve got frustrated. What about the ‘buddies’ bit? Someone to whinge with about the single life, to kick back with a Chinese and a DVD with when neither of you has anything better to do, to text you back when you’re bored at work?

Maybe I’ve been unlucky. Or maybe I’m expecting too much. Perhaps everyone else is doing it right. It still makes me angry that the ’buddy’ aspect is overlooked. Then I look at what I’d want from a fuckbuddy-type relationship:
• Um, the obvious. Which means a strong mutual physical attraction.
• Conversation and mutual interest. Which means a decent level of attraction to one another’s personality.
• Someone to hang out with, even in an occasionally non-sexual context.
• Someone consistent and communicative.
• Someone to see regularly, not sporadically, and who’s not going to drop you without warning.
Yup. Basically, I’m after a boyfriend. D’oh.

The many moods of my mother

2009-10-14T13:09:00.002+01:00

Here is a flavour.

Saturday evening, before I go out: "That top's a bit tight, come here and let me stretch it so you don't look pregnant."
Sunday evening: "Has anyone said anything about you losing weight? No? Well they've probably not noticed because you always wear such baggy clothes."

?

Honestly

2009-01-09T23:18:00.002Z

I have a profile on what you would call a dating site. Being my profile, the spelling, grammar and coherence are pretty good; better than in 97% of other profiles on the internet. There is one spelling mistake...well, it isn't even a mistake, because it's deliberate. But it is a misspelling.

The site asks you to describe 'The first thing(s) people usually notice about me'. My response to this is as follows:

"My enormous....brane. Only joking, it's my tits."

Let me reiterate. The rest of my profile is eloquent, lucid and perfectly spelled. To anyone with half a brain (i.e. the kind of person I wish my profile to attract), this is a funny deliberate mistake. After all, I am clearly sending up my own intelligence with a dash of irony and a Molesworth reference. And if you don't get all of that, then you can still appreciate that I'm just being silly, by virtue of the contrast with the rest of what's written there.

Or can you?

Not if you're one of the people who in recent months have availed themselves of the 'Propose Edits' facility on the website. I believe 'Propose Edits' was designed for use by people who know/have met the profile in real life, who want add a paragraph or two about what a great catch they are/what a shit date they took the commenter on. However, at least two people of late have taken it upon themselves to propose that I edit my profile so that 'brain' is spelled correctly.

Uhhhhh.

The first time I just deleted the edit request, thinking, "What a blowhard, that he doesn't get my humour. Poor sap."

This time I thought about it, and got mad. See, one thing that rankles with me is being taken as a dummy. I'm not stupid. Far from it. So who are these people that:

(a) Assume I lack the mental capacity to spell quite an easy word in the correct fashion?

(b) Fail to compare the error to its context?

(d) Are riled enough to log in and CORRECT me, like I hadn't spotted the error and they were doing me a favour by educating me?

Well, I can only assume that they are:

(E) Humourless, patronising dicks who spend their time looking for spelling and grammatical errors on sites where it means little, and have the temerity to sneeringly lean over and point them out like weedy little teachers pets. No wonder they don't have girlfriends, if the only way they can approach a girl is to tell her she's got something basic wrong.

There are plenty of profiles out there which are so badly spelled it is extremely irritating to a pedant like myself. But you know what I do? I think, "a person who can't spell, or can't be bothered to check their spelling, is simply not interesting to me. I shall waste no further time on them", and proceed to another profile, or a LOLcat or something. I am not their schoolteacher, nor are they my pupils. If I had the time to do such things, I'd go through Wikipedia with a fine-toothed grammar comb, not wasting my time being an insulting cunt.

Why I owe Charlie Brooker a blow job

2008-10-22T04:37:00.002+01:00

There may be graphs later.

My main reasoning follows the model that Brooker has given me more pleasure than, let's say, a slightly above average boyfriend would have done a given time period. Let's say over three months.

During the last three months, I have read Brooker's book Dawn of the Dumb, followed his columns in The Guardian and watched the first two series of Screenwipe on Youtube. Conservative estimates show that the book made me laugh out loud or gasp in amusement (often in public) on average every three pages, and made me at the very least grin or even snort every page. So let's say that's one moment of true self abandonment-style pleasure every two pages. 338 pages = 169 moments. And a minimum of one per column in the paper – let's say 20 moments there. And on the telly, I'd say I got giddy with pleasure once every three minutes– so, 10 per episode, nine episodes = 90 moments.

An above average boyfriend...well, it depends on how above average, I suppose. Let us presume moderate bedroom talent, and that I am typically demanding my usual three weeks out of four. So, the enthusiastic little chap gives me what I want five times a week – so, that's 45 pleasure points. And he cracks some entertaining jokes a couple of times a week, and, importantly, indulges my warped attempts at humour (this deserves credit) – so, 5 points a week equals 60 over the three months. Assorted additional marks such as making me a nice cup of tea periodically are accrued – generously, I shall assume a figure of 45.

So, Brooker's exceptional 279 plays fictional average boyfriend's measly 150 (and that's even without deductions made for mitigating stress factors caused by undue emotional attachment). And yet fictional average boyfriend has, over this period, received a bare minimum of 24 instances of fellatio. That's one for every six moments of unadulterated, selflessly-given pleasure. The lucky bastard. And what is Brooker's reward? Nothing (save the money he makes from book sales, TV appearances etc.). I say it's unjust.

And that is why I owe Charlie Brooker a blow job. Technically, 46.5 blow jobs, I suppose.

Next: what I owe Sporticus out of Lazytown.

What I am tired of

2008-10-20T01:11:00.001+01:00

What I am tired of

What I am tired of is my friends not believing me.

Periodically, I will try to explain myself. We may be discussing why I'm dreadful with boys, or why I have struggled to make many friends since moving to London, or even why I am terrified of using the phone.

"Actually, I'm painfully shy," I tell them.

"I am very anxious about talking to people, meeting new people. I get so worried about what they will think of me, I get incredibly nervous. Truly, I suffer with my social anxiety. It's a struggle. I realise it's 95% paranoia, but my worries make me terribly, terribly, cripplingly shy."

After a confession such as this, seven times out of ten the friend will chuckle, as though I have made an awfully clever joke. The other three times, they will laugh and then make a sarcastic remark on the lines of "Oh, I can tell, you're soooooo shy! You're such a shrinking violet!"

If I insist I am being serious, they act as if I am being melodramatic and/or seeking an ego rub. "Come off it. Shy? How can someone who has the balls to do stand-up comedy/approach David Tennant/do karaoke every week/appear on live TV/sing on stage/work in the industry you do [delete as applicable] be shy? Nonsense" they say, dismissively. And that's it. Case closed. Shut up, Jen, and don't be so fucking ridiculous.

I wish they took me seriously.

Cor limey

2008-07-28T11:49:00.001+01:00

It feels weird coming back here after a year, especially re-reading my last post. Ha! I thought I was the one doing the heartbreaking! Fat chance. Basically, last July the cnut in question was over here to shag me while, back home on an unnamed Mediterranean island/EU state, his missus was entering her 8^th month of pregnancy. Suffice to say, I did not know this at the time. I found out by sheer chance (and Facebook) earlier this year. Well, I hope he’s happy. Actually, I don’t. And I bet he isn’t. Karma owes him a massive booting.

Soooo......a year, eh? What have I been up to, you cry?

· I moved house. Twice. West London, these days.
· I got back on the boy horse, eventually, with a quite bemusing fuckbuddy scenario which was inexplicably ended before I was quite finished. I’m not sure why such a cosy and mutually beneficial setup was called off; all I know is I’m hacked off that my needs stopped being fulfilled (and they were – my life is fine without a full time bloke. All I need is someone to pop round once a week to hold me and give me a good seeing to before fucking off back home). Stupid boy.
· I may have scared off a friend who now thinks I like him. I though I did, for a while, but actually it’s a big gay hero-worship/older brother figure thing, confused by the fact that he is rather pretty. If I did really like him in a boy-girl way, then I’d be more heartbroken that he doesn’t like me ‘like that’ than I was by being told the same thing by the fuckbuddy, who I didn’t even really fancy in the first place. Meh, he’ll get over it.
· I tried to be an Egghead. I sucked.
· I escaped the BBC, and now live a life on the edge with zero job security and maximum hours sitting on the sofa. Hoorah.

· Um....

That’s it.

In mourning

2007-07-16T00:14:00.001+01:00

I have been a brave girl recently, and I’m taking the pain at the moment.

Regular readers/listeners to my whining will know something of the person I have held a torch for for...wow, more than a quarter of my life. The silly, overly romantic section of my brain (is there a romance gland? If not, I am christening it the Austenium) allowed me recently (when once again, as before, contact with him was re-established) to nurse that twinkle of subsumed hope that perhaps, maybe this time, he’d come to his senses and want me, demand to have me properly, realise he loves me. Maybe. Just maybe. So I agreed to see him.

Seeing him wasn’t so bad. I was a little worried that someone would wimp out; that one or other of us would pick a fight and the whole thing would collapse (yes, he makes me act irrationally, so that was a concern). Actually it was lovely. He used the word ‘date’, which threw me. But that’s what it was, I suppose. Perhaps it would have been better if it hadn’t been so nice; it wouldn’t have fanned the flames of the ever-hopeful Austenium. But here’s the grown-up rational bit of the brain exercising its seniority. At about 2am I woke up, rolled over, looked at him and had an epiphany of my own.

I didn’t want him. Well, I didn’t want this. Obviously, I want(ed) him. But I can’t have him, because he will never be willing to give himself to me the way I want or need. He’d sold the thing to me as wanting me to be his ‘mistress’ – I laugh when I read that back, as it sounds so silly when I try to apply that word to myself. But that to me implies something a little deeper than just an occasional fuckbuddy relationship. Anyway, I talked myself into it; I felt (getting déjà vu once more here) I could take what was on offer for the time being, as inevitably he’d realise what a mistake he was making keeping me at arm’s length and want to be with me properly. That’s how I rationalised it to myself; that’s how I’ve been rationalising it to myself the past seven years.

But, even if I did become his mistress or regular fuckbuddy, what would be the point? (quoth my truly rational section of brain). He claims to be very happy with the girl he’s with (ouch, maybe I shouldn’t have pointed out to him that seeking out someone else to have sex with doesn’t indicate true happiness in a relationship...) and isn’t going to leave her, and it would all be on his terms. I would be dissatisfied with the level of intimacy and attention I was getting; he’d be feeling guilty and be on pins all the time, particularly when we were together. I’d want more from him, and there is only a finite amount he could give even if he did decide to open up to me. And what if/when I met someone else? Someone who could give me the time and affection and openness I need? Could we expect that the guy would just hand me over, or be willing to share me?

So the rational brain assesses the options:

Accept this status quo, and hook up when he deigns to visit; continue ad infinitum waiting for him to love you (with the niggling but probably correct worry that he only sees you as an occasional fuckbuddy). Possibly die alone, eaten by cats.
Say you’d rather not have this relationship right now (I don’t know, make something up about a boyfriend or something) but know that by staying in contact it won’t be long before he propositions you again.
Call it all off. Do it now. No matter what the pain. It might save you future agony.

So, blow me down, I went for Option 3. Ouch. Would rather have not had the conversation on MSN, and/or whilst at work, but he pushed me for my thoughts and I was honest. I feel guilty that I might have hurt his feelings; well, mine are pretty much destroyed right now, although I suppose that’s cold comfort to him.

And I suppose that’s it. I’ve killed the thing I nursed for almost seven years. I’m officially grieving. There are actual physical symptoms. And I’m eating far too many Bakewell tarts, and they are only helping in the short-term. I should stop before I turn into a glacé cherry. But at least it was me who did the heart-breaking, so I can’t blame anyone else.

EDIT: Turns out I did the right thing. Several months after this, I found out that while he was over here trying (successfully) to get me into bed, then afterward trying to get me to continue the arrangement his partner was over in their foreign home. Heavily pregnant. I was out of the loop on that particular gem.

Welcome to Bolton Volume 372

2007-05-14T01:11:00.000+01:00

Last Saturday evening I was dropped off in Bolton (following my shock horror record-breaking performance at the Leicester GP – I’m “a new force” apparently) on Bank Street. I jumped out and retrieved my wheelie suitcase from the boot and dragged it uphill to the Horwich-bound bus stops, but found no buses were due for a silly amount of time so quickly elected to pop back down Bank Street to the taxi rank. If you know Bolton at all you will appreciate that to get to the taxi rank you must pass a fine establishment called ‘Diamonds’ which advertises itself on the billboard on the side of the building as a great venue for business and parties, but which is best described as a fully nude lap dancing bar. Fact fans – it’s the place where Erica on BBC’s Castaway 2007 works as a dancer.

As I approach, the 3 bouncers stare at me and keenly greet me, but splutter as I merely say “Evening” back and pass by.

“Sorry, love!” one pipes up, nodding at my suitcase, “We thought you were coming in. To dance.”

Momentarily rendered speechless, I manage to ask, “What? Do they dance round suitcases in there?”

“Nah,” says the chap, “but the girls all bring their own cases; bigger than that like, usually.”

As I walk on, he adds in a mournful tone, “Dunno why – it’s only bras in there, in’t it?”

Bitter is the new vodka

2007-04-13T00:28:00.000+01:00

London has had several strange effects on me.

On the positive side (well, it depends on your point of view), it gave me the strength of mind to fulfil my Lenten vow. i.e., if I can put up with this town for four months, I can do without THAT for four weeks.

(By the way, I did complete the Lent thing. Mainly through sheer bloody-mindedness, some pain, and one incident of rule-bending...well, there was someone else involved, so it wasn't technically cheating).

On the downside, I have become so fixated with my own nose that I resemble a manic cokehead for a significant portion if every day. For starters, I appear to be allergic to toner and newsprint - which I already knew, not least from my time working in jobs which (a) relied on a fax machine and (b) involved reading local newspapers. I also now appear to be allergic to, for kick off:

the Underground
my own perfume
mascara
my office
my co-workers
life

So, when I'm not sneezing, I'm snuffling and/or becoming paranoid about the potentially horrid visual state of my own nose. Gahhhhh. Cor limey guvnor etc etc.

Also, I have started to drink bitter/ale.

Last time this was attempted was approximately 1998, when I tried Newcastle Brown, and commenced minor ABH and then possibly full-on sexual assault (from what I recall) on a, frankly, terribly lucky young man. I say young...he was a bit older than me....I should probably stop there. In any case, I wasn't at home when I woke up, and there may have been some questionable sci-fi role play involved in the mean time...

ANYWAY. I have had several years of responsible drinking since my late teens, but bitter now appears to be my gangsta-tripping nemesis. It is my lysergic acid. I exaggerate. It is my new half-bottle of Smirnoff Red. In that, on my way home just now, I fell over in the street, injuring my knees and palms, then swore at myself ( I believe the words used were "wanker" and "tosspiece", which shows my maturity here) before almost walking into a lamppost and then a post box.

HOWEVER talking to yourself as you walk down the street does decrease the risk of your being mugged and/or raped. 'Cause "crazy" is contagious. Apparently.

/ramble. Home safe now.

A very odd day

2007-03-17T13:43:00.002Z

I keep getting flashbacks of various events and actions from yesterday. Like being the entire moshpit during an outstanding (dress run) performance from The Killers which nobody else seemed to be paying attention to. Losing my artist 10 minutes before they were due on live national television. In fact, losing my artist several times over the course of the massive 18 hours I worked. Adopting various other acts on my travels when their escorts were nowhere to be found. Terrifying Julian Barratt with a request to touch him. Gaining the unending adoration of Mel out of Mel’n’Sue by finding her fizzy water. Ordering Tim Vine to pull a “more comedy” face for a photo. Receiving a charity challenge that nobody thought I could manage...suckers, that’s £50 please, and here’s a photo of me in physical union with The Doctor himself, taken by Catherine Tate (you underestimate my cojones).

Then it starts to get slightly hazy, as I was given wine once the serious bit of my artist’s task was over – classily carried within a Coke can, just in case I got in bother. I recall fetching beer, acquiring two famous television presenters to look after, setting up a little party in a dressing room with vodka, going to fetch mixers and coincidentally catching the worshipful comedy duo (meeting whom was my main ambition for the day) and happening to invite them to the vodka thing (hope my artist didn’t mind; actually I don’t care, was way past caring by this point). And resultingly ending up hanging with the worshipful duo at the big wrap party. Wish I could remember what the hell I said. I recall “humble” and “I love you”, but not much more in depth. I remember being shouted at for wanting to look after them (runner mode/maternal instinct wouldn’t shut down). Glad they were lovely; I would’ve been so upset if they’d been gits.

Silver Jubilee - Twenty-Five Glorious Years

2007-03-01T14:56:00.000Z

I'm having a bash to celebrate 25 years of Jen excellence

Saturday 31st March
Central London location
Dress code: Silver (interpret this as you wish)
Cocktails of unusual potency
Bad singing and crazy dancing
Pass the Parcel
General carnage

I'm not stupid enough (nearly, though) to put the address on here, so if you fancy coming drop me a line.

Scone Daddy Scone

2007-02-19T17:32:00.000Z

Actually, it worked out that my Valentine’s Day wasn’t all that horrific as usual. In fact, it was one of the high notes in a rather bipolar week. I was quite ill, and had spent much of the previous evening in tears (some people really upset me – thoughtless behaviour rather than intended malice, but hitting a raw nerve nonetheless) so had extra-puffy eyes. However, I picked myself up, dressed myself up, and headed down The Ritz for afternoon tea. Here’s my Valentine scone:

Lovingly sculpted by myself, for myself. Had a fabulous tea, then cocktails and fun (despite the Mighty Whites losing) and I went home very buoyed up, with little to no need for Morrissey et al and went to sleep after receiving a last minute Valentine text from a nice man.

Thursday came down like a rain of monkey wrenches. My temperature got so high that I half-hallucinated-half-dreamt a cross between Life on Mars and the British Quiz Championships (taking place in my building’s courtyard) complete with consistent fashion and haircuts, which I couldn’t take part in as I had been entrusted with 9 tabs of ecstasy which I kept dropping so would have to scrabble around on the floor of my room (which repeatedly mutated into an Edinburgh pub) to locate them – it not helping that they kept shrinking and growing like something from Alice in Wonderland. Still, managed to watch all of Firefly. I think.

Friday I threw caution to the wind and went to Belgium. Here is some Belgian quiz carnage action:Now I still feel like crap but at least I have a hillock of Godiva chocolates at home to see me through.

Pandora wants me dead

2007-02-13T17:30:00.000Z

Lovely of Pandora.com to build me up to one of my annual low-points by playing broken hearted music. The Smiths just played, “Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me”, and it momentarily made me so sad I couldn’t bear it. Sad, not just cos it’s a sad song or it chimed with me, but because it’s been a long time since I had one of those dreams. You know the one, where they really do love you, and you almost feel them touch you, and when you wake up you suddenly feel cold as if those arms wrapped around you had quickly been withdrawn. But they’re not there (whoever ‘they’ are). I haven’t had one of those dreams in a long time (more Smiths reference, gah). I need one. Cause, as you probably know, I fucking detest stupid fucking Valentines.

Now Pandora plays With Or Without You. The website definitely wants me to cry myself to sleep this Wednesday. Valentines? Couples wandering around holding hands, one clutching a single rose wrapped in plastic as they leave a cheap-to-medium priced chain restaurant? Give me strength. I shall be staying in with The Smiths and possibly Nico and indulging in some self harm. Not with anything sharp, I’m far too wimpy. My weapons of choice look to be three bags of Starmix and a large bar of Turkish Delight.

Check out the girl least likely to….

More for the analyst

2007-01-17T13:30:00.000Z

My brain has decided that there is a children's culinary TV show named Big Cock Little Cock.

Wrong.

Missing in Action

2007-01-10T11:00:00.000Z

It's simply vanished.

I've been feeling crap for several weeks now. It started with general misery and self pity pre-Christmas, before developing into a low-level flu-y thing which haunted me throughout my festive jaunts without ever escalating into all out fever and bed rest. Now it's reduced back to periodic headaches and nausea in the presence of caffiene/alcohol/nicotine/anything with a flavour, I've notice my libido has vanished, and has been gone since the onset of this malady - I just didn't notice then.

There have been no real signs of it resurfacing as yet. I've seen some very attractive young men and have been urge-free. I even watched The Hunger when I got in last night, and it did nothing for me, either in a Bowie fetish way or in a Deneuve-Sarandon lesbian lite way. Nada. Unusual for a woman who has in the (relatively recent) past had to bite her tongue, take cold showers and, on more than one occasion, had to lock myself in a room (not for that, but to prevent myself from being arrested for molestation on jumping the bones of a potentially unappreciative party). Perhaps my body has decided I'm taking up celibacy for 2007 (not that it wasn't a watchword in 2006), along with teetotalism and possibly having any kind of fun full stop.

I'm quite certain it'll appear again soon - probably without warning, at a most inappropriate time, and with a vengeful resolution to make up for lost time. But in the meantime, please keep an eye out for it wandering the streets and if you see it, send it home. I miss it.

Jenny the Wimp

2006-12-18T13:57:00.000Z

Things that have made me cry this week include:

* The "reveal" in 10 Years Younger
*The ending of Torchwood (til they ruined it with religious allusion - floating up into the sky surrounded by golden light, eh? Tut tut, Russell T.)
* The end of Bad Santa

No, I'm not pre-menstrual. I don't even get 'pre-menstrual'. Something's the matter. Maybe I'm just a total wuss, all of a sudden.

This post does not have an interesting or imaginative title, for a change.

2006-12-13T17:00:00.000Z

Oh Lord, my brain isn't functioning properly. I just read the title of the TV programme "Waking the Dead" as "Wanking the Dead". Now, there's an image that's burned into my cerebrum. Trevor "Shoestring" Eve is 'Wanking the Dead'. I preferred it the time I misread it as "Walking the Dog". Now there's gentle Sunday evening viewing.

This reminds me of my last temping job, which was mainly non-stop data entry of forms the public had filled in. Apart from getting angry at people who didn't know their own postcode, I was guilty of a modicum of Freudian data entry. The field 'sex', obviously, was designed to contain either F or M. The computer repeatedly, embarrassingly bleeped when I entered N. My subconscious attempting to tell me something.

Anyways, this was going to be a catch up posting, as I've been quite neglectful of my beloved readers (all 6 of you - you know who you are. And so do I.) during an eventful period. Let's see if my patience lasts all the way through the list of subheadings I jotted down in the dark the other night.

London

It's expensive. I spent £28 on a t-shirt. Not a top, a t-shirt. Not even any sequins or glitter on it. And it's virtually see though. Bah. Also, I was charged £4 per cider last night. We're doomed. I weep bitter tears. That said, nowhere else has Banksy's guerrilla gallery Santa's Ghetto. Fan-flaming-tabulous, if anybody likes edgy British art. Just me then.

It's still not as cold as London people think it is. Wimps. I don't even have a winter coat yet. But, if somebody would like to take me shopping for one, I wouldn't object.....It may have to be a size down, as I keep forgetting to eat, and only eating semi-nutritious things when I do eat, so I appear to have mislaid a few inches so far. This is to the good. So far, equal pros and cons columns for That London.

Quiz
Currently one of the main occupations of my life (after work) but this is because:

(a) the main part of my social life - grabbing any invite with both hands at the moment to reduce impact of my newly shrunken social circle - is going to quizzes of an evening, or going to karaoke with quizzers. This even extended to the precious Sunday afternoon, to whit that we were going to watch a Presidents Cup match (my party of quiz-goers having an ulterior motive for attendance, mentioning no names) and I ended up playing. The questions didn't seem to go my way; a couple on Anglicanism (wrong kind of God-bothering for me, not that I'm solid on Catholicism) and one on Rugby Union (definitely the wrong kind of peanut-cuddling). This at a time when by rights I should have been lounging on the sofa getting angry about the Arctic Monkeys. Anyway;

(b) I spent four days (I'm including travelling) at the European Quiz Championships en France the other weekend, which was a big chunk o'time to devote to almost non-stop questioning. If you don't want to know the result then Don't Follow This Link. Told you not to.

Not too shabby, for once. I'm actually still feeling rather smug and self-satisfied with my placing in the individuals. Let's not go into it, or I'll start to boast, like the great Boaster himself, Uncle. No bicycle stealing, though, but I would like a purple dressing gown.

As a downside to the shocking result in Paris, I'm actually going to have to put the work in and Learn Things. Bah. I rode my luck and that worked to a point, but now I have a reputation to uphold. Must make space in corners of brain to insert lists of Booker Prize winners and chemical element discoverers.

(By the way, I was stalked...I mean, interviewed by a documentary crew during the EQC, for a programme to be screened in Spring, possibly. How much of me makes it to the final cut I cannot guarantee *crosses fingers and hopes that the 2nd unit footage is immediately dumped in the bin by the director* but it could be an intriguing insight into the world of quizzing. Could be.)

That's about it

Yeah, not much more I can be bothered to report a ce moment la. Except the mysterious disappearance of my precioussssss can of coke and Curlywurly from the fridge some time between Friday midnight and Saturday 1300. Some people have no respect for my breakfast plans.

Where did you go (to, my lovely)?

2006-12-06T13:20:00.000Z

I'll tell you where I went.

I moved. In a terribly exciting rush, I got interviewed for, was offered, and moved several hundred miles to start a new job - all in the space of approximately a fortnight. I'm now resident in our nation's capital - described to me last night as "the greatest city in the world", which it may well be, but only until Bolton's city status comes through.

Months ago, when I first entertained the idea of moving here, I looked at a map, pointed at a square and said aloud "I'm going to live there". Well, now I do (or thereabouts - it's about 2 minutes walk away). It's something of a culture shock; mainly because I'd only ever been to a Waitrose once or twice before (they don't do the north west) whereas now it's my local supermarket. The 'precinct' - I have to keep calling it that, because the layout reminds me of Eccles precinct - has a Space NK and a Carluccio's, not a Personal Care Plus and a Greggs. This will take some getting used to.

Occasionally I will mutter to myself whilst passing a landmark, "f'k'n'ell, I live in London now? When....? How.....?" (and similar expletives as I wander around my overwhelmingly exciting new place of employment, which garner glares and odd looks). But this is only under my breath, and my calm soon finds me again. Not like the full volume swear I let rip when I found out Mr Waitrose wanted to charge me 99p for a loaf of Warburtons. Medium sliced, not even seeded batch!

(I'm even getting parentheses into my post titles, now. Must. Cut. Down. On. Bracketed. Asides.)

Reasons why I am going stir crazy through watching too much daytime telly

2006-11-10T16:09:00.000Z

Channel 5 like to confuse viewers with their choice of afternoon B movies (lovingly sponsored by Steradent, no prizes for guessing the target market). For example, today it's a coming-of-age drama, which randomly features Claire Danes, James Van Der Beek, Julia Stiles and Jude Law, and from the looks of it was cobbled together some time last week as they don't really look much younger. Channel 5 schedulers also like to throw a Columbo at you at irregular intervals; Dick Van Dyke was the killer the other day, doing well through the alcoholic haze.

Asda's advertising dudes need to be taught a lesson about the uses of en masse singing children. They should really only be used for spooky atmospheric effect (cf The Lost Boys, Candyman) and should be at least 90% in tune. It's entirely inappropriate to have kids singing "Falling In Love Again", as it's really only right coming out of the mouth of a lonely, world-weary woman who's fully aware she's shagged loser after loser, knows it's not doing her any good but is resigned to the fact she's about to do it again....she can't help it. Not a children's choir number, unless Gary Glitter's the choirmaster.

Oh, and don't get me started on the ever-increasing number of children/choral groups with heartstring-twanging albums out just in time for Christmas doing the rounds....Angelis, All Angels, Libera (who have an album called Angel Voices). Apparently they're all the "most relaxing/uplifting songs you've ever experienced" or some similar guff, and they're strangely geeky children dressed in polonecks and/or chunky knitwear - the ads being shots of them interspersed with clips of what look like hospital corridors and people running toward each other or looking wistfully as someone walks away. Basically, songs to play at family funerals and to remind you of your dead father/child/brother/husband. So, the "You Raise Me Up" factor cranked right up to the Nth degree. Bah. Cynical old Simon Cowell (or, possibly, cynical old Me).

Pocoyo is unhealthily addictive and should possibly be banned, as I find myself shouting at Stephen Fry when he's being obtuse (surely his knighthood is on the way - I frequently have to stop myself from adding 'Sir' to the beginning of his name).

I just shouted at Fearne Cotton for mispronouncing the word "model". It has an L at the end, darling, not a W. Oh bugger, she can't hear me, she's on the telly. If you're hiring someone as a presenter, please ensure they can say all the words in its title.

Someone please put me out of my misery.

Introducing....

2006-11-10T16:05:00.000Z

....the Right Reverend Doctor Hugo Z. Hackenbush, pictured here attempting to open a betting account with Blue Square (haha, I hid my wallet so he couldn't complete the deed).

Breaking the silence

2006-11-09T14:18:00.000Z

I have been quiet haven’t I? I’ve got all kinds of excuses lined up. I was sucked into a black hole of question-setting. I was applying and interviewing for jobs. I was getting a new job, which I start in 10 days. I was worrying about where I’m going to live when I move. I was helping a small cat called Hugo to settle in. I was writing stomach-churning short stories for no good reason. My tux didn’t come back from the cleaners. An old friend came in from out of town. There was an earthquake, a terrible flood, locusts.

It seems like I’ve been busy. Actually, I’ve been a virtual recluse for weeks. I cite lack of money as my reason. I have been forming my routine around daytime TV – getting intimate with Neighbours and Doctors (I love no-brain television) and being disappointed when they’re followed by Murder She Wrote rather than Diagnosis Murder. Still undecided whether I love or hate Loose Women and Paul O’Grady. Multi-tasking crap telly with looking at crap websites continually, when I should be doing useful stuff.

I see there’s a drama on this evening about law students fighting for justice. Maybe I can sit and point out the irritating inaccuracies/improbabilities in that, before going to watch Starter for Ten and doing the same, but in a manner more annoying to the paying audience. Wow, the height of my ambitions is getting on my high horse in a middle-aged manner. Hope my life gets more exciting soon.

Vocabulary lessons

2006-10-10T01:30:00.000+01:00

Thanks to yesterday's paper, I've learned some new foreign language phrases.

I like to think I'm adept at ichigo-ichie, which is Japanese for treasuring each moment and trying to make it perfect. But I know I'm more likely to be found pana po'o-ing. No, it's not bathroom-based. It's the act of scratching one's head in an effort to remember something (in Hawaiian).

I spent a great part of Saturday in a village outside Slough doing just that. It didn't particularly help my recall. Neither did the grunting, the clenching of fists, or the banging on my forehead upon the table. Nor the muttering curses under my breath, and louder, or the periodic self-berating chant of "I know this! I really know this!". Perhaps the wine and the rum and the garlic bread the previous evening were taking their toll (being a well-known vampire, myself), or the hysteria brought on by a badly-timed text message was to blame. Anyway, I was rubbish, despite all the scalp-stimulation.

I wish I was firm and stuck to ilunga, and so could feel razblyuto already. But I'm already suffering premature torschlusspanik about my life. I'm such a nakhur.

This week...

2006-10-04T00:33:00.000+01:00

...I have been mostly in love with:

Robbie Coltrane.
Dr Basil Singer (out of the Men in White).
The voice of Dr Sanchez out of Garth Marengi's Darkplace.

My weird brain functions and the effect of hormones thereon, I thankew.

Conclusive proof of the existence of quiz leagues in 1890 BC

2006-10-02T13:42:00.000+01:00

Warning: this may be a quiz in-joke. But I couldn't resist a chuckle when I saw this at the museum. Eighteenth Dynasty, apparently.

2006-10-01T19:31:00.000+01:00

Recent sources of Pride:
A story l was witness to was in this week's Popbitch mailout. Finally,
I have the gossip (and the truth of the story, come to that) before
my favouritest gossip-mongers.
I saw an actual famous i.e. The lead singer out of Razorlight.

Recent failings:
I failed to break in my cute new shoes sufficiently well, meaning
predictably that I ended up hobbling about. Not glamorous. Only one
foot was affected; suspect this shows that my right foot is marginally
bigger than my left.
Due to tne pain/discomfort which was the result of the shoe issue, I
couldn't fulfil my aim of "doing" the British Museum. It is
impossible to properly appreciate beautiful things when feeling quite
miserable, as I discovered during a recent visit to the Scottish
National Gallery. I managed to scoot around the Egyptian Sculpture
Hall, dodging school parties and Other tour groups, getting upset and
occasionally muttering about how these things belong in Egypt.