Monday, 30 May 2011

'Let's Raise Hell In The Streets...Drink Beer And Get Into Trouble'

I would, first of all, like to dedicate this latest Blog post to the loving memory of a fabulous and, in his day, undeniably gorgeous actor, Jeff Conaway, who sadly passed away after an overdose on prescription drugs, on Friday 27th May 2011.  A great man was Conaway…obviously best known for his comb-flicking, hip-gyrating, dice-swinging, ‘how low can you go’ antics as Kenickie in everyone’s favourite 50s get up, Grease.  I will personally, however, never forget his bit-part in one of my so-tragically-awful-it’s-brilliant films ‘Jawbreaker’ as Marcy’s Dad, particularly his rendition of ‘I Think We’re Alone Now’, by Tiffany.  Jeff would want to be remembered in this way I am sure of it, we love you Jeff and hope you are looking down upon us, in that great 50’s themed dance-off in the sky.

So, May is over, and with it comes the end of my week of work-freedom, in which I have thoroughly adjusted to life as a full-time author, now having completed over 25,000 words of my future best seller!  I am, of course, now so consumed with my novel again, that I am imagining traipsing down a cobbled Berlin street all done up with red lips and a pencil skirt, off to see my secret lover…and that is all I will tell you, for you will have to read about Vera and her Dark Misfortunes, as and when it becomes a published best seller. Until then…I’ll have to keep Schtum!

I decided, after a particular cancelling incident involving everyone’s favourite ‘will he bother, won’t he bother’ sidekick ‘The Fox’, that I needed to ensure that my week off work was productive and that, after months of soul searching and getting to grips with actually getting off my arse and putting my novel ideas down on paper, I was probably in need of some like-minded, bookish types, who could further inspire my story-weaving and tale-spinning.  I suppose it is fair to say that I have, sort of, fallen in love with the Internet again, having found not just one, but two writer’s clubs to frequent.  Excitement all round, with a vain hope of meeting a bespectacled, tattooed, geek-chic male writer, on whom I can depend on for inspiration…and maybe cuddles.

Still, I digress, Wednesday reared its sunny head and I trotted off to Pimlico to my new Writer’s Club.  Set in a small Fine Art Gallery, I felt really quite refined as I stepped inside, exercise book quivering in hand, making polite conversation with the other 8 writers.  It was a brilliant evening though, full of exercises and debates and chances for me to plug Neil Gaiman’s ‘Neverwhere’ like a mad woman addicted to fantasy novels (which I am).  If this is what Writer’s Club is all about, I am well up for that.  Sadly there were no bespectacled male writers into whom, I could dig my claws, but there was inspiration flying around the room and copious amounts of tea and biscuits.  Roll on next week…

Mummy Musing and Step-Dad Musing also took a trip to London this week, to see Eric Clapton perform at the Royal Albert Hall.  Mummy Musing was on top form, arriving with some homemade cheese scones and a barrelful of hilarity as usual; they questioned why I met them with a Financial Times in hand…do not worry…I was simply keen to read Stephen Fry’s interview with Lady Gaga.  The biggest surprise came when Mummy Musing, after years of us talking about booking it, marched up to the Lyceum Theatre to book tickets to see Lion King, a show I have been DYING to see since its conception, however many years ago.  Being a die-hard fan of the film, September 6th cannot come soon enough for me and Mummy Musing, and I will be eager to be kissed by an animatronic giraffe.

My week off was topped off with a night out, to officially wave goodbye to the stunning Miss Lloyd, who returns to her home country of Northern Ireland at the beginning of June to retrain as a PE teacher, and spend a few mad months in Magaluf beforehand.  We went right back to where it all started, which was B@1 in Shoreditch; a rather camp group of waiters, a lot of Lionel Richie and one incredibly boring rugby player later, I realised I had consumed more spirits than I thought humanly possible and remembered why I don’t like to go to that bar too often.  That was where, for those of who will be familiar with my earlier posts, I have picked up the most random of men including Mr Ryman’s the Bar Manager and the Shoreditch Serge-A-Like.  I was, however, compared to a Suicide Girl pin-up, which is a new one to add to the list, danced the night away with Lovemenot, and saw Miss Lloyd, and her fabulous new pink lipstick, off in style.  I will not be blogging my goodbyes just yet though, as we are planning another night out next weekend, then I’ll have something fittingly tear-jerking to Blog, I am sure of it.  And I may even have to mention the ‘Tom/Ryan’ mix up – he’s the lead singer Lloyd, the fit one!  For now, I shall just dedicate this Gaga-inspired Blog title to you and your wicked and wonderful ways.

Now to a little fable I would like to name ‘The Fox and The Phone Call’.  Yes that’s right, The Fox’s lack of consistency and general bad planning, was very much at the forefront of my mind in the last week; so much so, that I actually deleted his number for a second time vowing that all 22-year-olds were now indefinitely struck off the list.  We had planned a Sunday meet up, one that I actually declined a lovely dinner date at our friend Hannah’s house to attend, only to not hear from The Fox until midday THAT DAY (please bear in mind that we would potentially have been meeting up in the PM), when he seemed to think a snivelling, half-apologetic text message and something about planning an observed lesson would suffice.  Now, anyone who knows me, will know I can play the frosty White Queen to a ‘T’ as and when I need to…Yup that’s right, Barbara Kellerman has nothing on me (look her up, I can’t be bothered to explain; if you are so uncultured as to not have watched the BBC’s adaptation of Narnia in 1989, religiously, then it really is not my place to re-educate you), so I saw it fitting to simply reply ‘OK’ to his message and declare to Lovemenot and Hannah (re-scheduled dinner was lovely, thank you) that I would not be seeing him again.  Some thought this was harsh, I thought it important to state my dislike for being let down at the last minute.  Still, there was running, there was writing, there was signing for something reflexology-based and there was a rather splendid morning spent at Maison Bertaux with my fellow Comedian-stalker Miss Pritchard, to take my mind off of The Fox's questionable antics.

Cut to a breezy Wednesday evening, I am leaving my Writer’s Club, all inspired and writer-like, I pull out my phone to find two missed calls and a voicemail from…THE FOX (obviously I memorised the last few digits of his number).  I left it a good 45 minutes before calling back, to his copious apologies and promises to make it up to me.  We agreed Tuesday, the planning is up to him as a way of ‘making it up to me’, yes I caved, of course I did, I'm not made of stone.  Lovemenot, after some consideration, concluded that a) I was a flake after agreeing, in such a short space of time, to see him again and b) he must really like me, as she didn’t think he would get in touch after my extremely blunt message.  If you hadn’t gathered already, Lovemenot is somewhat laid-back compared to me, hence why Mr On-Off-On-Again-Off-Again was never just Mr On-Off.  Still, she implores me, much like I implore myself, to go forth and Fox it up, see what happens and, in the mean time, dodge boring rugby players at all damn costs – epic FAIL.  So we’ll see what Tuesday has to offer; I am aware that he is hoping for good weather and that we are meeting at Highbury and if the previous dates are anything to go by, it will most probably involve copious in-taking of Cider, I should think. I just hope to God it has nothing to do with Arsenal, or football at all really.

I think that’s probably about all from me, it’s fast approaching 11pm and I am determined to get to the 26,000 word mark by the time I drag myself back to work on Wednesday.  I do hope you all plan to see in June in a fitting manner, having acquired more crud from our VM department to‘re-love’, I am off in search of a vintage hat stand and some fairy lights.


PS  Dear Harold Camping – you were wrong about May 21st being the last day on Earth.  Your stupidity did, however, result in being responsible for approximately 250 deaths by suicide.  My question remains this; Darling, why bother moving the goalposts to October, when any half-normal person knows you are nothing more than a strange and insane old man with a rather painful grudge/need to feel important and special?

Saturday, 21 May 2011

'They're Stepping Lightly...Hanging Each Night In..Rapture'

I woke up on this, my first day, of a nine-day stretch away from the confines of work, with one thought…I hate my Other Housemate’s boyfriend!

She is a sweet and conscientious student, whom I simply call The Other One because we don’t socialise together.  We have, however, had some intellectual and fun conversations in the kitchen and she makes lovely homemade hummus.  HE is an arrogant twat with a sizeable, and therefore, unavoidable mole on the side of his face; plus an even more sizeable ‘up your own arse because you go to Cambridge’ attitude.  I happen to know someone who was accepted to Cambridge once; and if we’re using him as a benchmark for potential Cambridge Calibre, then all you really have to be is slightly socially retarded, yet possess a extraordinary talent for music and the arts.  So Eff you and your mole, and stop waking me up at this UNGODLY HOUR on a Saturday with your appalling music and your post-run groans.  TWAT.

Rant over, it’s a sunny day and, if Harold Camping - genuine Reverend/Insane Person – is to be believed, it’s our last day on Earth.  I’m not sure I buy into the rantings of someone who has put actual money into posting his prophecies all over the Internet, after all, The Mayans don’t do that.  I guess all I can really be thankful for is that The End appears to be holding off until about 6pm so I have just enough time to catch the last day of Margaret Harrison’s ‘I Am A Fantasy’ exhibition at the Payne Shurvell Gallery.  I feel very distinguished and cultured as I type that.  I also just heard a very strange noise outside my window and, fearing it may be the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, wound up my blind to face my doom.  It was a lawnmower.

I am slightly concerned about my mental health at the moment (I know, when am I not concerned about my mental health?!)  Just prior to my rude awakening thanks to The Mole, I had roused myself with a sudden fear that I didn’t know where my nail file was.  I had no need for such an implement at this time, but a snapshot of the file’s packet lying on my bedroom floor sent me into something of a panic about where the beloved Miss Manicure was.  Methinks I have been reading too much Jon Richardson that I am now developing my own OCD.  Or perhaps, like Mummy Musing often hints at, it is something that has always been there.  Either way this, much like a lot of other things in my life, needs to be stopped in its tracks, before we cut to more sleepless nights about the state of my cutlery drawer/scrap paper tray/insert randomness here.

And now onto more pressing matters, like Stand Up For The Week and how I literally felt that I had been standing up for the whole week during filming.

Lovemenot and I were on the tube to Mornington Crescent; Lovemenot was the usual vision of laid-back, Joplin-lovechild beauty she always is.  I had opted for a quirky look in the form of a vintage tea-dress with mustard tights and chunky tan platforms in a bid to impress my new crush, topped off with a wing-ed eye and a nude lip.  I had also opted for allowing myself two hours to get ready – just in case.  Several moments of queuing later and we were given green wristbands which, as it turns out, means nothing more than you get to fight your way to a half-decent space about 2 minutes before people with white wristbands.  Once inside, we nestled into a spot on the first balcony behind a bunch of Whitehall-groupies (one was potentially EVEN shorter than me so we thought we could probably take them on). 

The filming itself took about three hours. Kevin Bridges as compere was incredible, Jack Whitehall was phenomenal and the special guess Dave Fulton was outstanding as he joked about general miserable English attitudes.  Being an American he can do this and it doesn’t sound either boring or offensive.  There were breaks in which everyone was too scared to buy a drink or take a trip to the Little Girls/Boys Room for fear of losing their places.  Then Fate stepped in, in the form of a small lady in front of us, who was leaving just in between Andi and Jon’s sets.  I didn’t even consider why she wouldn’t want to stay for J-Rich’s stamp on Sport for the week, I simply slipped into prime location at the front of the balcony and tried to rest my feet, which were killing from the heels I had stupidly chosen to wear.  A girl has to suffer for fashion, and the suffering was not in vain as lovely J-Rich took to the stage with his awkward nervous twitches and general hilarity.  He was concise, rehearsed, hysterical and unbelievably sexy – in short the heels and the wait and the wristbands were all worth it.

I would, however, like to thank the two larger-than-life idiots who had unfortunately positioned themselves next to myself and Lovemenot, only for an argument to ensue halfway through Andi Osho’s set, about one taking the other’s place.  Not only that, they then decided to try and get me involved in refereeing due to my being carelessly pushed during this scramble – don’t start with me, I’m just here for the Stand-Up Totty and the laughs.  Still, I didn’t appreciate missing most of Andi’s act due to some whining American’s bitter words with someone who might have been Kevin Bridges’ Dad.  For the record, the furtive two hours of getting ready paid off, as proven on playback on the night SUFTW was aired.  Cue a screen shot of myself and Lovemenot laughing heartily at Jon’s Ashley Cole jokes.  Oh how happy I was leaning precariously over that balcony.  And I’m still sure he looked up.  Several times.

Of course, living in Dalston, there had to be some jibe about the choice of mustard tights, which I feel complimented my ‘Librarian Geek Chic’ outfit, from a suitably drunk/stoned/threatening passer by.  So a big thank you to the Tosspiece in McDonalds who took it upon himself to fulfil that oh-so-predictable role with his sniggering, and quite frankly, ugly friend.  Why don’t you come back to me when you can find a Pleather Jacket that fits you?  Don’t choke on that Quarter Pounder now.

Well aside from my considerable man-bashing, which upon reading back this blog, I have been doing a fair bit of these last few weeks; The L-O-V-E word is still very much hanging in the Summer air.

Lovemenot is still all smitten with the Young Cherub.  There have been Cider-fuelled dates in the park, Friday Fright Night dates watching Insidious (which, when translated, apparently means – Unscariest and Frankly Most Laughable Film of 2011) and he’s even made a homemade Lasagne for her.  A man of many talents this Young Cherub appears to be – not only can he cook, have decent conversation and make Lovemenot feel a bit lovely; he could also stand in as inspiration at The Louvre for portrait sessions and sculpture classes!  Still, this new man has led our Lovemenot to close the chapter with Mr On-Off-On-Again-Off-Again and for that, may we be truly thankful.  My little girl is all grown up, one day it will be my turn!

My post would not be complete without a mention of my Oldest and Dearest Goldie moving up to the Big Smoke in the name of all that is the Anti-Theist Tallboy.  Having been in a relationship with The One for over a year, she felt it was time to make the move and carve out a new life for herself, with him, in London.  Which works for me!  Cut to a new job at The Independent and I am hearing tales of trouble in co-habitation paradise…over no less than a duvet!  I honestly never thought I would hear the day Goldie beamed about making dinner for her beloved, resent his intrusion of her dance game on the Kinect or query the argument that ensued over who had stolen the ‘whole effing duvet’ after one sleepless night.  It really is at times like this I like to spread out like a starfish in my delightful double boudoir, safe in the knowledge that I do not have to have these conversations.  Then I remember the nail file and it all comes flooding back that I still have sleepless nights for very different reasons.

In quite surprising news, The Fox is still relatively on the scene.  I am yet to retract my statement about his rubbish communication, as it tends to be about four or five days before I hear from him; but I will retract my statement about his mediocre kissing, as this was proven very much wrong on a date night in Hoxton this Tuesday just gone.  I sort of half-thought it was all over after the first one due to lack of texting.  Then, one Wednesday evening, I was chilling in my room after a hefty dinner of Enchiladas with Stickels and MMH, my phone chimed and The Fox’s name was unashamedly displayed across it.  We had a lovely conversation, banter was flying around the flat and Stickels’ attempt at distracting my attention by performing various sexual positions in my room was quite the sight.  A date for the following week was set and that was Hoxton last Tuesday.  I have learnt over the past year, that whatever you have going on with a man, it’s probably best not to listen to the advice of your gay BFs.  This is mostly because they will just suggest sleeping with as many men as is humanly possible so as to appear aloof and uncaring.

I think I am warming to The Fox though.  Despite the lack of regular contact and the half-arsed attempt at trying to get me back to his on Tuesday (no it didn’t work), we have a lot of fun when we’re out.  The conversation flows, he is very funny, stylish and is nicknamed Simon Le Bon by his friends due to his love of turned-up cuffs on blazers.  I’m just trying not to think about it too much, or actually talk about it too much.  But I like the fact that he remembers conversations we have had, I like that he is here and in the now and I like that he has upgraded from mediocre kisser to actually quite good kisser.  I am not one to speak too soon (anymore) but there may be the slimmest chance that perhaps someone is finally chipping away at the surface of Miss Musing.

So I do hope you all enjoy your Potential Last Day On Earth.  Spend it wisely as I will.  I am off to view indecent art, consider the procurement of a parasol and potentially a nose piercing and, if it all really is about to end, I have a heartfelt Facebook message drafted and a map of Swindon at the ready.

Mwah x

Friday, 6 May 2011

Wooooaaahhhh I'm In Love With Judas

I’m actually not, because he was a bad man…and he kissed men…and I’ve been there and done that.  Ha.

The one person I am slightly in love with though, much to my surprise, is Lady Gaga.  And for this I blame Stickels, for his consistent playing of her Euro-trash, oh-so-catchy tunes.  A bit slow to catch up with this one really, I wasn’t phased by Just Dance or Poker Face, I thought the meat dress was nothing more than a disgusting, rancid experience for whoever she ended up sitting next to and couldn’t have cared less about the mental Tea Cup stories, superstar or not.  Then two miraculous things happened, Stickels moved in AND Born This Way was released.  I now cannot stop watching her, her live performances move me and every fibre of my being is desperate to learn each and every dance routine.  I’ve gone from Gaga-bashing at anyone who will listen to me, to watching every live performance with Stickels whilst debating her ‘realness, emotion and longevity as a performer’.  These are strange times Musers, strange times indeed.

Well. Summer is fast approaching and love really does seem to be in the air.  Love of a sickly, sweet, fairytale nature ever since THAT double kiss on the famous balcony which set our proud, British hearts alight last Friday. 

And what a wedding it was for Wills and Kate.  She looked stunning in her McQueen get up, he looked a bit like he could have tried harder with that bald patch, Harry looked like he was going to laugh through most of it (love him).  Of course, I was able to view these historical moments through nothing more than the medium of as, unlike the majority of British folk enjoying a public holiday to witness the eternal vows exchanged between two young lovers, I had to endure the quietest day of all time in my shop.  I’m sick of it actually, sick of no long weekends and sick of having to miss out on these lovely things, just because I work in the service industry and there may be a slim chance somebody wants to be styled, whilst the rest of Britain watches Kate waltz down the aisle at Westminster Abbey.  I know I work for a lovely brand and have a banging, beautiful wardrobe.  But I am, once again, struggling to make myself happy about serving people who seem to think they are so much better than me, day in day out.  So much so that I invested in the beautiful, 70s-inspired Dana Culottes as a new piece of uniform, to both cheer me up and to aid my daydreams of swanning around a la Des Barres, amidst throngs of hunky musicians.  Methinks it’s time to look at new career options – other than best selling novelist of course.  The book is coming along well thanks for asking…

Still, all was not lost this week as I still managed to celebrate the Royal Wedding in style over at the O2 Academy with Miss Lloyd (who ruined her shoes on the dancefloor – mostly because she could barely stay upright, ahem) and Lovemenot, who has since become smitten with a young man with whom she became acquainted that evening – he’s got Lovemenot written all over him, face of a young boy cherub with stubble.  There were starter drinks at Slim Jims, Kate and Wills cardboard cut outs, scary bride costumes (none of which were mine) and there was The Locomotion.  Of course, by the time Min made herself present on the decks, Miss Lloyd was nowhere to be seen and Lucy was off being romanced by her new crush on the dancefloor. 

Now I’m not one to tot up the list of crushes and encounters (both appropriate and very inappropriate); but I am often approached/accosted by various menfolk on nights out, none the least on visits to O2.  Lets review…there was The Shirtless Man, his friend, the Night of the Two Twat Toms, Drunk James (O2 Arena – still counts, Lord help me) and so on and so forth.  I literally have kissed a million frogs to no avail what so ever.  So it should not have surprised me that on this night, I had no less than 8 men-tals approach me.  Some were chancers, others were lucky enough to get a tongue-in-cheek slow dance to Lady In Red.  Then came The Fox.

With Miss Lloyd having sloped off with his mate near enough upon entry to the club, The Fox and I started having a dance-off.  Him - a very cute, very funny, mediocre kisser with a lot to say and a promise of a date in the upcoming week, versus Me – Glad-Ragged and suspicious, but always more than ready to hit the floor to some Rick Astley.  There was plenty of flirting, a phone number swap and more mediocre kissing before he disappeared, it appeared, to chat up other women.  I left it, I danced the night away and ended up back at the flat of Lovemenot’s new lip-accessory, chewing the ear off some random about my unrequited love for Dreamboy (that’s my Judas, right there).  It was 5.45a.m when I climbed in to bed.

Cut to a lazy Sunday evening catching up with comedy on the Internet, after an horrific day at work (my fault, not work, for once), and my message alert sounds to reveal a text from The Fox.  His texting etiquette is humorous and to the point, he mentions something about becoming a stand-up comedian and, before you can say ‘but hang on a minute, were you not tonguing the face off another woman last night?’, I have arranged to meet him at Piccadilly Circus that coming Tuesday.  Lovemenot is all a-gidder next to me, having arranged a day date with Young Cherub for that Monday, I wasn’t sure how to feel – other than overtired, and in love with J-Rich. 

Still, Tuesday came, The Fox turned up donning Stripy T Shirt and Blazer and it wasn’t horrendous.  The Rose-Print dress was dusted off and there was Cider a-plenty, as we chatted about our work, our likes, our dislikes and surfing in Portugal (obviously not me – my hair wouldn’t stand it).  I always rather enjoy those spontaneous dates, the ones where you don’t know where to go for your next drink so you walk around for ages, arm in arm, having easy conversation.  I felt comfortable with him.  Ironic really that, on the day I text my Mum to tell her that I am officially done with silly little boys who don’t know what they want, I have a rather lovely date with ANOTHER 22 year old. 

So we had a lovely time, and I do hope to see him again, there has been talk of a random trip to a random gig at a random venue, but who knows?  Having been in the dating game for some time, one knows to expect the unexpected and, sadly, not to expect anything.  The Fox is being a little slow off the mark with his texting currently, so we wait with baited breath, not great for a man who describes himself as a ‘doer’ though.  Still, perhaps I’m not done with the silly little boys quite yet.

So there you have it, what a magical, fairytale-ish week to be blogging…The Prince marries his girl, the evil sorcerer Bin Laden is defeated and somewhere in a faraway castle, in Dalston, one little Princess dreams of being rescued by her Prince

P.S. Dear J-Rich,

I will be coming to your good self at Koko next week for the recording of the last in the current series of ‘Stand Up For The Week’.  Look out for me, I’ll probably be the one being ousted by security in a ‘Mrs Richardson’ T-shirt….give us a wave!

Much Love

Miss Musing