Meh.

Oh sweet Thursday, only one more day til the weekend. Today was another case of same shit, different outfit. I got up, went to work, ate lunch, smoked two cigarettes, worked some more and then came home. My only variation on this alarmingly repetitive pattern was a brief outing to VH to hand in my expenses, a magazine and a pizza. On re-reading that sentence, I'd like to point out that all three are separate and unique in their contribution to my happiness today.

Usually, my trips to VH are a respite from the cupboard but today in the not-really-there rain, I would've given anything to stay in the warm coziness with a flapjack and a cup of tea. Working in town means that often on my journeys I spot a few famous faces going about their business. On Tuesday, I saw Bob and Pixie Geldof walking along with another man, Pixie in that black and white houndstooth coat that shes been wearing in all the papers (speaking of which - why the hell do papers use their ink on a teenager who has yet to achieve ANYTHING, let alone their GCSEs?). The previous week, I saw a Gallagher brother - the slightly less surly one - and the other day a few paparazzi were lingering outside Prada and Max Mara, waiting to get a shot of whoever was inside. This is what my life has come down to, this is what I now find exciting.

Aside from my walk in the rain, the other exciting piece of news was getting an early release issue of the magazine with some of the shots I styled in it, full credit and all. When I find some energy, I'll scan and post them. This leads me onto my final exciting installment;

I ate pizza for dinner. You may not find that exciting but I rarely eat pizza these days - when your boyfriend who loves pizza can no longer eat wheat and tomato combined so beautifully in a spherical gastronomical delight, neither can you without feeling guilty. But since he's out, what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

Britney's scalp, part two

Britney's baldness saga continues. Now you too can avoid the scams of fake Britney hair that litters ebay at the moment (that I spent most of the day watching during moments of boredom) and head on over to buybritneyshair.com and snap up a can of Red Bull, a blue lighter that Britney used to chain smoke and some cheap plastic hair. However, bidding starts at a million dollars, so my bets remain on some tacky gossip mag (the type I secretly love) buying the hair and running some tests on it. And probably on the lighter too. Britney doesn't look like she washes her hands - or herself - very often anymore.

God, who knew that I would one day post about Britney Spears' hair? It's all down hill from here.

Britney's scalp

Is this really Britney Spears' hair? Surfing around on ebay's memorabilia section today, I found this listing for Britney's hair. Part of me is skeptical owing to the ginger hue of the hair and the fact that it looks like a mini ponytail whereas all of the pictures of her actually shaving her head have shown her with her hair loose. Who knows? It could all be a brilliant scam and considering I've watched the bids go from $300 to $500 in 20 minutes, I'd say whoever is doing this is onto a winner.

I bet E! and Peoples representatives are the main two bidders, slugging it out to see who can get their hands on the hair and drug test it first. With six more days to go, this could get interesting.

Culture Vulture

This week, I have crammed in more cultural matter than most weeks. I started my culture feast on Tuesday, when I went to the opening night of Ferdyurke at the Bloomsbury Theatre, which was an amazing performance with a great use of space and sets but unfortunately, my lack of knowledge when it comes to Polish history meant that much of the play was a bit lost on me.

Yesterday was the most exciting. At my work experience post, most of my time is spent doing returns, grouping clothes and dealing with harassed PRs. However, as its London Fashion Week, the chaos of previous weeks has finally been rewarded with one week of relative peace and returns as all of the editors have been out at the shows.

Yesterday, the quiet was broken when the unexpected happened. We, the lowly slaves, were rewarded with tickets to some shows. I got to go to Preen in the morning and then Biba in the afternoon, which was an amazing show. I got there just as the lights were going down which meant I did a lot of falling over and fumbling as I made it to my seat and took in my surroundings. I couldn't help but notice that there were lots of very rich Russian men in the audience with their girlfriends/mistresses, one of which I swear was Roman Abramovich but it was difficult to tell in the half light and I was worried that if I stared too long, one of the big burly guards would have me quietly removed.

Hanging around outside afterwards, trying to figure out where the nearest tube was, I saw Michelle Williams and then Vivienne Westwood - it was hard to miss her with her blue hair. Unfortunately, I'd neglected to remember my mobile that morning and I thought whipping out my actual camera would be a tad dramatic, so I let those pictures slide.

I did however (along with everyone else) record hefty amounts of the shows and as soon as I can get my ass in gear, I'll post up my video. It's not the best quality but my camera was meagre in comparison to some of the others.

Monday, Monday.

Another Monday over. After my recent out of character frenzy of posting, I have once again resumed haphazard service. It's been a busy few days, so here's my excuse (and subsequent tangent paragraph) for each:

Thursday - when an inch of snow falls in London, panic descends - the trains can't cope, the roads crawl and people fall down a lot. So when 10cm fell last Thursday, you'd have thought the apocalypse had been and gone. Too exhausted.

Friday - styled another shoot. I was up at the crack of dawn in order to make my car. The previous day's snow meant chaos still reigned and chaos is tiring, you know.

Saturday - recovering from Thursday and Friday and errands. And to get away from the great indoors, we decided to experience one of our local pubs. A cultural experience, soon to be recounted on a night I have nothing else to blog about. We stayed for the football before moving onto more desirable climes with my friend Holly.

Sunday - Hangover and return of the parental.

And that rounds up my excuse/apology part of the blog.

On a completely different matter, I mentioned my friend Holly above. Today is the four year anniversary of our travelling experience, as documented in the OZblog. She reminded me earlier and its made me go all misty eyed at all the beaches we lay on, all the local drink we drank and all of the trouble we got ourselves into. I just wish I could afford to do it all again, just with better accomodation.

When a Big Mac is not a Big Mac

If you don't want to read three* paragraphs of me ranting about my shit big mac, I understand. Move along.

Fundamentally, I am a person who delights in small things. Tonight, after a Staples run, we decided to stop off for Big Macs to avoid cooking. Whilst I know that they all greasy and evil, I love them. I can't help it.

Unfortunately, the nearest golden arches was located in a neighbouring industrial estate. It's one of those really tiny franchises that's actually inside another building, in this case, a bowling alley. And unfortunately for us, it clearly wasn't a busy night. How did we know? Our big macs must've sat under those warmer lamps for quite some time, as gathered from the grey lettuce, rock hard buns and curdled big mac sauce. Gross.

*I apologise, I lied - it's only two paragraphs. If someone from Macdonalds should happen upon this, I am not pleased. I'm filing this under mcjob prospects because I don't have a when shit food happens to hungry people tag.

In Local News

Another bomb, another rise on the terror threat level. Today, a letter bomb blew up at the Capita offices in central London. One woman, a postal worker at the offices, suffered minor injuries to her hands and stomach and they closed off huge swathes of London. No doubt, the terror-o-meter is straining at the end of red by now with steam coming out of all sides. Letter bombs are quite old-school, I remember the IRA using them in the 80s when I thought all terrorists wore black balaclavas, khaki combats and spoke with Irish accents.

Of course, these days, terrorist profiling casts a very different shadow. However, before Number 10 rushes off making all kinds of declarations, I'd like to point to somewhere a little more obvious. Capita is the company behind TV licensing, the Congestion Charge and Council tax. So it could be virtually anyone in London, or indeed outside it but the CC adds to my London dweller theory. I'm personally backing a Tory-liberal-Kensington-and-Chelsea-(tractor)-driver with strong views on not paying for the BBC and Council tax inflation.

Fatty fatty fat fat

I am staggered by the amount of junk food I've eaten in the last twelve hours:

Big Mac
half Medium Fries
Two packets Salt and Vinegar French Fries crisps
Packet of flying saucers
Packet of cola bottles
Packet of honey roasted cashew nuts
handful of salted pistachios
9 southern fried chicken goujons
tin of beans
equivalent of 4 cans of Coke
handful of peas (only remotely healthy thing on the list)

That's really quite revolting. Normally, we're quite good at eating vegetables and so on but its been a tough week and we wanted a junk food binge. As a result, I'm feeling ever so slightly bloated and nauseous. I need to lie down and feel queasy for a while.

The war next door.

I like to think that I'm a fairly tolerant and open minded individual. I also never believed it was possible to hate your new neighbours before they have moved in but ours have managed to achieve the unattainable. Yet another morning of interrupted sleep (the fourth in a month and coincidentally on a SATURDAY) has led me to declare all out war. You fuck with my lie-in, you will suffer.

Apart from the deliveries which continue to blight our morning sleep and ever so precious lie-ins, the amount of dust EVERYWHERE is starting to piss us all off. Not only do our cars resemble army terrain vehicles that have been through a sand storm, the dogs are both covered in crap and our entire back garden is covered in brick dust, roofing tiles and chicken bones that the workers chuck over the fence. They've also entered onto our property without permission (trespassing according to the lovely police officer I spoke to the other night), the list of complaints is really endless and I shall not bore you with it, at least not yet. However, rest assured dear readers, I'm not going to do anything crazy like bricks through windows or setting fire to things but I will be writing some very nasty letters to the local authorities about it all over the weekend.

Enough is enough. I am Anti, hear my roar. Videos etc of these suburban atrocities coming very soon.

Jesus is my homeboy (but not Metallica's, Jay-z's or The Doors')

Lifted straight from the brilliant popbitch, the gayest bands, according to God, transcribed straight from the Christian website lovegodsway.org:


The Spores (endorse suicide)
Scissor Sisters
Rufus Wainwright
Merzbau
Ravi Shankar
Wilco
Bjork (mb)
Tech N9ne
Ghostface Killah
Bobby Conn
Morton Subotnik
Cole Porter
The String Cheese Incident
Eagles of Death Metal
Polyphonic Spree
The Faint
Interpol
Tegan and Sara
Erasure
The Grateful Dead (AIDS)
Le Tigre
Marilyn Manson (dark gay)
The Gossip
The Magnetic Fields
The Doors
Phish
Queen
The Strokes
Sufjan Stevens
Morrissey(?questionable?)
Metallica
Judas Priest
The Village People
The Secret Handshake
The Rolling Stones
David Bowie
Frankie Goes to Hollywood
Man or Astroman
Richard Cheese
Jay-Z
Depeche Mode
Kansas
Ani DiFranco
Fischerspooner
John Mayer
George Michael (texan)
Angel Eyes
The Indigo Girls
Velvet Underground
Madonna
Elton John
Barry Manilow
Indigo Girls
Melissa Etheridge
Eminmen
Nirvana
Boy George*
The Killers
Lou Reed
Lil' Wayne
Motorhead
Jill Sobule
Wilson Phillips
DMX
Lisa Loeb
Ted Nugent (loincloth)
Dogstar
Thirty Seconds to Mars
Lil' Kim
kd lang
Frank Sinatra
Hinder
Nickleback
Justus Kohncke
Bob Mould
Clay Aiken
Arcade Fire
Bright Eyes
Corinne Bailey Rae
Audioslave
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Panic at the Disco
Elton John(really gay)

I'm still trying to crack the Christian code of 'mb' and the *s, so answers on a postcard. I'm also wondering who on earth is stupid enough to think George Michael is Texan? Or is that some kind of new derogatory Christian slang?

There are also some very dubious choices on the safe bands list, such as Cyndi Lauper, Evanescence (surely, this is a strange choice? Ain't nothing Christian about nose rings and lashings of kohl eyeliner.) and apparently, the extensive collection of the Right Brothers.

Note the lack of 'safe' bands in comparison to 'gay' bands. I'm going to hell in a hand basket.