Crushed

Rules for Neets oot ont Pish in Darlo

Cheap chardonnay and pints of ale should never be consumed within a month of each other. Never be goaded into drinking them both and certainly never rise to the old adage "Oi Maccers, what's that there in yer glass? And I thought you were some sort of alky. Get it down yer. Are yee a bairn or what?"

When asked what's good at Tony Rigamortis's, your companion answers "Nowt". Believe him. Do not partake of the mushroom ravioli unless you want to partake of it several times hence.

Sure, you haven't been out ont toon for 7 years. This does not mean that you need to go to every single one of your old hangouts for shots. Well, yes it does actually, but tomorrow yee shall be dead.

Everyone thinks you sound American. The proper response to the jeering hordes to "Gan an then, say summat like" is "Get fucked you povvie bastard"

Just because all your exes from school are now property bejillionaires this does not make you worthless. Actually yes it does. You are a sad titless fucker.

You will feel old everywhere. Suck it up.

Always ensure milk int fridge for the next day cuppa to cure all your woes.

Not blogging is the new black

I can't be arsed. That and am off to the Lakes and the Big Smoke until June. I shall return broke as Sterling is extortionate at the moment and I have to stock up on Marks & Spencer AA cup bras. Weep for me. It's not permanently chic being titless you know.

If anyone wants a dearest departed Queen Mum tea towel, let me know and I will pick one up from Glorious Britannia in Heathrow on my way out. Or shortbread. Or marmalade. Or Silk Cut. Or a free national health service or free education or a legal system not thwarted by a constitution. OK I'll shut up now and piss off.

I’m going to be in Austin for a couple of days learning how to steer wrestle. Austin, apparently, rocks. As a 5’4, 112lb English rose with grey hair, I’m hoping to get crushed into a submissive pulp during some sweat-on-sweat action whilst line dancing. If anyone has any helpful hints on how to find a man who can crush a walnut with his latissimus dorsi then please email and let me know.

Ah, if you are going to be a bitch, then you have to do it well. This new publication of some of the late Sir John Gielgud's letters shows him to be a master and a funny one to boot.

"Reminiscing about the Hamlet he had triumphantly performed in New York in 1936, for instance, he told a group of actors that included Harry Andrews, ''Of course I had a really terrible Horatio -- oh, it was you, Harry, isn't it wonderful how much better you've got since?''"

John Gielgud's Candid Correspondence:

A letter from the British ambassador in Moscow, 1943

I too was sent a fax of this letter a long time ago. It's simply fabulous. This is a copy of the original although it is barely legible.

One division of the company I work for performs investigative research into companies and individuals. I originally thought this kind of work would be fascinating and glamorous. Like most kids I fantasized about being a secret detective when I was 11 or 12. Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys stylee.

It’s actually shit boring. I don’t personally have to trawl through the numerous databases to which we subscribe thankfully. But I do review it. When we can’t get sufficient information ourselves we hire security firms and private detectives. I can’t believe how incredibly shit boring that work must be.

One thing that sometimes continually amazes me is the extent of peoples’ deceit and the shit that they will lie about. Weird stuff. Things that aren’t important. Tiny small lies. Whopping fucking big ones. My clients call me naive when I call them astounded with research. I am well acquainted with the art of repeating a lie so often that you start to believe it yourself, but the intricate webs involving others leaves me aghast. Ah well. It will all out in the end, or else sit there festering.

Clients constantly bitch at me, anyway, but in particular at the lack of public databases on criminal records in the UK. I am in no way an expert on this, or anything English really or anything actually so quit asking and quit whining. I tell them that in the UK it is the individual’s responsibility to disclose. We don’t have guns or ID cards (yet anyway). We are trusting people and basically pretty jolly nice. Stop corrupting us with your lies and suspicions and have a nice cup of tea. A cup of tea will cure the world and every broken heart.

So apparently there’s more money in fruit stalls in Manhattan than Bangladeshi restaurants in Queens. So says my fruit guy and he’s done extensive research. He’s pissed off with always being outside during this crappy rain we’re getting and the shitty fucking winter. Although he was in Bangladesh for most of it, but it wasn’t nearly over enough when he got back for his liking. I don’t blame him.

Secretly though I am pleased. The fruit guy has been in my life since we moved offices to Union Squarish, aside from his 4 month trip to Bangladesh when I was without regular grapefruit. I had this regular routine. Grapefruit, nice chat, coffee, maybe a free donut, nice chat. Then the nice guy in the silver portaloo on wheels was replaced with the Greek guy who owns the silver portaloo on wheels. Routine changed to grapefruit, nice chat, coffee, no free donut, nice chat, some Greek. My Greek consists of “Please”, “Thank you” “I make good spinach pie” “I make good baklava”. You get the picture, it’s far from extensive, but well, it was a nice chat.

Gradually Greek coffee guy started to say things about coming to my apartment to make me coffee, which I ignored, as you do, and then things like going out for coffee, which I also ignored, as you do. It’s not even that his coffee is all that nice. But it’s quick and it’s in a bag and, well, it’s next to the fruit guy and I have this routine thing.

Anyway, then Greek coffee guy starts to ask for my telephone number which I never give him. It’s a daily request I ignore until one day he won’t give me my coffee until I give him my number, which takes me by surprise, really by surprise. I’m standing there like an idiot with about 10 people behind me giving me the evil eye. So I just walk off. And he comes running out after me, saying, “Here here here is your coffee, you can give me your number tomorrow.” So I take it and I never go back. Which gets kind of awkward because the fruit guy is right next to him and Greek coffee guy can see me, so I don’t spend much time with my fruit guy in the morning any more and sometimes I just make this huge dash across the street to Café Medina and the sanctity of the $1.85 large coffee and the fabulous and happy Brazilian ladies in there with their lulling samba music and once again my mornings are restored to their usual calm. Almost, if I ignore the stress of trying to go unnoticed.

Then the Greek coffee guy starts to yell out the back of his silver portaloo on wheels when he sees me in the morning, things like “hey, what’s the matter you? Don’t like my coffee any more?” “Hey come back and get some coffee” this kind of thing. So I usually ignore him or half-smile at him in a cowardly, conciliatory manner. I still don’t go back. One morning he comes out of the silver portaloo on wheels and follows me up the street. I stop a fair distance from him and he asks me to come back and have his coffee. I tell him I’m busy and trying to cut down. He watches me go into Café Medina. I feel the angry eyes of the 20 customers left waiting at the silver portaloo on wheels for his return along with his hurt and uncomprehending stare. He’s not there when I get out of Café Medina, thankfully. This happens maybe 4, maybe 5 times.

A couple of weeks later, I am crossing the street and he rushes out of the silver portaloo on wheels and crosses the street. He gets down on both knees and says “Please, please, what can I do? Please come back.” I say sure, this time, and march on head down. It’s my birthday.

I haven’t been back. Fruit guy whined yesterday that I never talk any more and then gave me a bunch of fruit. That’s all it takes with me Greek coffee guy. That and not being a total fucking asshole freak.

Read this, it's fucking excellent

"The whole situations seems surreal and it feels like its beginning to spin out of control, and I'm thinking that I should stand up from the benches in the back and explain, when the kids lawyer finally interrupts: Judge he says and then again Judge..,my client is deaf! He doesn't real lips He needs to look at the sign language interpreter. The kid is still staring dutifully at the Judge, waiting for something to happen. Look at her the Judge commands, while the kid continues to stare at him blankly. Look at HER he says again, raising his voice slightly as if a change in volume might make a difference. It doesn't, and finally his lawyer taps the kids shoulder and gently points to the interpreter who is making a beckoning gesture palms up, fingers wagging. The kid, mesmerized again by the clarity of her hands nods slightly as if to say ok I'm back' ":

When working at the large firms in London, I always managed to be seamlessly complacent about my mediocrity as a lawyer. I just didn’t care enough not to resent long hours and barked instructions. Crappy all nighters churning out due diligence reports would see my eyes glaze over and my brain shut down. Random dictation of shit I knew was shit late at night meant I would pencil down the expiration of breach of warranty claims in my diary and celebrate when they passed without incident and I remained unmasked in my crapdom.

I did try to care about the next job. It was going well for a while until politics shook up the company I was working for and revealed my new bosses as scared men with small penises, incapable of original or logical thought and embarrassingly shit with clients and industry contacts. Then I got fired. Not that I was all that bitter when they canned my arse. Oh no. That came when they somehow foiled my attempt to get them investigated by the Department of Labor. Fuckers.

Now I am lucky enough to be blissfully happy in my work environment. Until I fuck up and it’s my fault and I am exposed as having an advanced case of Alzheimer’s for someone of such tender skin around the eye area. Then I exhibit symptoms of low self-esteem around the office until the boss rips 10 tons of shit out of me about my new Cruella De Ville hairdo and I can go back to websurfing all day. Yay.

So Eighties

I’m all nostalgic today. Dreaming of the 80s and wearing shoulder pads – 2 sets. One set in the dress and one in my jacket. Oh yes. Spike heels and white fishnets. I hope everyone knows it’s ironic. Down here they do but am worried about venturing up to midtown later for drinks – will they get it or will they think I am a Russian hooker again? You may laugh, but it happened after the Martha Graham Dance Gala evening at the Plaza.

Ah, nostalgia for the 80s and the wrinkle-free eyes of my teens, although I must admit they were heavily encased with purple shimmery goo. So nostalgic, in fact, that I nipped into Sephora for some wrinkle cream. Sure, I love everything that is lush for everywhere other than wrinkles. For those fuckers I want shit that’s been tested on baby wabbits and bambis. Sephora’s number one product for eyes by the way is some sort of eye lash gel – what the fuck? Who is buying this stuff? Everyone except me it would appear. Anyhow I am now fully stocked on Alpha Lipoic Acid treatments. Who knows what this means and what it will do but I think it will look good in my bathroom. It will say “Yes I am taking my aging seriously, thank you very much. Please wash your hands before you touch me.”

The Triumph Dolomite Homepage - The Triumph Dolomite Club's Official

Peoples, I bring you the Triumph Dolomite. Remember it was yellow.

Madge, Madge, back out now and sell up. The Ramblers always win. Plus, a word of advice on the hearts and minds of the English : If you fuck with the Ramblers, you are dead. You can't win.

Pop star land row inquiry opens

Most legal pick-up line I have ever had

Brazilian client [You’ll be pleased to hear that Alizinha!] after one of those evenings out where you go to a place full of wankers and you have to buy a bottle of some sort and get a bunch of mixers free: So don’t you feel some sort of conflict here between us?
Me: No not at all. I am a lawyer. You are my client.
BC: But what if I was to kiss you?
Me: Ah. That wouldn’t be a conflict. That would just be unprofessional.
BC: Ah. Will you give me a most favoured investor side letter?
Me: No. I’m sorry but that is not negotiable.
BC: Ah, so how can I be sure that no one else is investing on the same or preferable terms?
Me: You can’t.
BC: Can I undertake detailed due diligence prior to investment?
Me: No.
BC: But I want to merge with you and have lots of underlying subsidiaries.

A pair of fabulous guests who stayed with me recently bought me Series 2 of the Office for my birthday. I cracked open the box last night and found a handy translator for Americans.

Anyway, since I thought it amusing, and that’s all I give a fuck about, I am going to share some of these gems with you here.

Slough Slang – The Local Lingo.

Alton Towers: A theme park situated in the Midlands which includes such attractions as Ribena Berry Bish Bash and Ye Olde Merrie England. Is reportedly a big disappointment. [Ed: I’d fucking say. I lost my virginity in the back of a yellow Triumph Dolomite to a bloke called Kelvin I met here. Big. Fucking. Disappointment. And the rest.]

Bread bin: A box used to store bread which is, contrary to the popular joke, probably bigger than a black man’s cock.

Kettle: An electrical device to boil water for tea, a leafy substance most Americans prefer in Boston harbor. [Ed: hahahahhaha we have such a superior sense of humour. You poor American things, you]

Minge: Another of the countless Britsh slang terms for vagina. Not to be confused with Madge, the British term of affection for Madonna.

Slappers: Tarts, whores etc. [Ed: fantastic word that takes me back to my youth]

OK, that’s all for today. More later. Tomorrow or something. Maybe. Actually probably, because I can’t be arsed to think up stuff on my own.

I am so not going to be the last person out of the office tonight. Because that would make it two nights in a row and I couldn’t handle it. As it happens I couldn’t even handle being the last one out of here last night. You see, peoples, we have rules here. Rules! The rules we have are not legion, but consist of the following:

Last one out empties large kitchen garbage.
Everyone empties their garbage every day.
Not emptying garbage with food product in it is a sackable offence.

Last night I broke ALL the rules and left a half eaten tuna sandwich, three coffee cups half full with coffee (don’t ask me why I didn’t empty them down the sink before flinging them in the bin. It was a crapster day, okay?) and two grapefruit carcasses in my own personal dumpster so that this morning, on my earlier than usual arrival into my office, it was stunk up to high heaven. Instantly vomit inducing and an aid to the bulimic.

I particularly hate emptying the big kitchen bin. It permanently stinks of the weird ass food the people I work with eat and other stuff that’s just weird ass. Because I’m an arsehole and refuse to empty my coffee cups before lobbing them in there, the garbage tends to swill around and slops onto me if I lift the bag out of the bin and I’m not all that tall and lack the benefit of reach. All my fault.

So needless to say this morning I was guilt racked, but it being morning I didn’t want to get crap on my nylon unitard and so I dumped my trash, resplendent with puke, on top of the crap in the kitchen bin. Only the lid wouldn’t go back on, it being full and all. So I sat on the lid. And kind of jumped on it sitting down like. It took more than a few times to effectively snap the lid back into place. Which is how my boss found me this morning. And because I am so goddamn funny I responded to his raised eyebrow and open-mouthed expression with one word.

“Hemorrhoids”

What can I say peoples? But no sign of a pink slip for me yet.

Picasso poised for auction record:

Sothebys are predicting the sale of Picasso's "Garcon a la Pipe" to go for as much as $100 million and therefore make it the most expensive work of art ever sold. Booya. Would love to skive off work and check that out.

"John Whitney, a former US ambassador to Britain, bought the painting in 1950 for $30,000 - $16,800 at 2004's values. "

washingtonpost.com - Live Online

Today's Live Online discussion is Ana Marie Cox.

Another interwebby quiz. Yeah but it's about drinking


What Kind of Drunk Are You?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

via the ever fabulous ladies at Loss of Consortium

This afternoon I dragged a headache, several pulled neck muscles and my ever-collapsing arches to the Lincoln Center for the Chamber Music Society's "Cultural Connections" programme. I wasn't entirely sure what the concept was and when I read the description in Playbill, I was initally horrified at the thought of struggling through a couple of hungover hours listening to music similar to that emanating from the Chinese busker in Union Square.

Ha. I had initially thought that the concert consisted entirely of Philip Glass and so had been disappointed when I saw the list of traditional Chinese pieces. The Chamber Music Society put together a delightful afternoon of minimalist asian music. Wu Man was absolutely amazing and I was shocked at how much I was moved by the pipa which is not an instrument I had ever payed any attention to before.

The highlight of the afternoon was Tan Dun's Ghost Opera which is a combination of the pipa, violins, viola and cello with stones and gongs, splashed water in illuminated bowls and rippled white paper flowing from the walls. The performers also sang, shouted and faked an orgasm. Fabulous. I did wince, however, at the sight of Cho-Liang Lin and Kristina Reiko Cooper (who is stunningly beautiful) smack away vigorously at the 1734 Guarnerius de Gesu violin, "The Duke of Camposelice" and a 1786 William Forester cello respectively.

I even managed to stand up for the ovation at the end, despite my liver failure, and applaud when Tan Dun, the Oscar and Grammy awards winner himself, stood up in the audience.

No tits is the new black

Scene: Random soho party in artist's loft.

Ex Mistress of some famous artist who liked to fling lots of paint around: [Excitedly pulling me aside as we were leaving] Oh my God! You are so flat chested!
Me: Err yes.
ExM: Why?
Me: I don't like surgery?
ExM: How old are you?
Me: 34
ExM: Can't you take hormones?
Me: Errr no I don't need to, thanks.
ExM: Wow it looks so chic on you.
Me: [Utterly bemused] Thanks.
ExM: Because mine are so so big you know. [Grasping breasts] I am thinking about having a reduction.
Me: No sweetheart, don't mess with nature.