Friday, 24 December 2010
Sunday, 12 December 2010
You haven’t heard from me in a while. I know. I’m sorry. Contrary to popular belief Mademoiselle Neige has not disappeared up her own backside, given up writing, moved to Mongolia and married a goat, or lost all her fingers in an unfortunate saw-related incident, rendering her unable to type. No. I am in fact back up the mountain....but have been sucked into the corporate void of that most idiosyncratic of beasts – the Tour Operator’s Management Training Week. Followed by the arduous ‘Staff Training Week’ and the ominous, terrifying shadow of ‘Set Up Week'.
Yes shoppers. That roughly translates as 14 hour-days on accounts spreadsheets and customer services role-play exercises. Shudder. 18-hour days making inventories and digging shit out of a grubby store room (the newly christened ‘Store room of DESPAIR') and delivering it to various chalets.
At 2am on Saturday morning I was standing in a 2 metre square cupboard swigging aggressively from a bottle of rose and ticking things off a clipboard:
‘One wooden spoon to chalet xxxx please!’
‘No more wooden spoons in the store, sorry’
‘Fuck! Any blenders?’
‘Fuck! Any roasting tins?’
‘What the fuck are my staff meant to cook with? Ski poles?’
It’s not just me...but SbH too. An opportunity....came up.... shall we say. Just a day before his official ski rep training week with another unmentionable TO, someone waved the words ‘manager’ and ‘staff’, a cheque, an apartment and an extended ski pass under SbH’s nose and he buckled like a Volvo's seat belt. Yes. It’s true. We are managing a ski resort each. I have no idea how this happened. None whatsoever. We must both interview extraordinarily well.
‘No. Just no. Nothing you can ever say will make me believe it,’ said a mutual friend, R – The Man of Leisure – last week after finding out SbH has a job in management.
‘But I’m wearing a company jacket’ protested SbH looking slightly hurt, and waving his company mobile around proudly.
‘I don’t care if you’ve got the corporate logo tattooed to your arse, dude. I don’t believe it.’
Another friend – W – merely sat and laughed hysterically at us both, when we told him. And various cynical comments were made on Facebook such as:
‘How on earth did that one happen?’
‘What’ is going on????? Please explain’
‘I am confused’
‘Beyond stupid but highly highly amusing. I reckon they want their company to go out with a bang this year’
And my own personal favourite:
‘That’s just silly’
There have been various escapades which I will tell you all about. But for now, Mademoiselle Neige would like to personally thank the tour operator for which she works, for:
- Giving her two migraines in two weeks
- Making her into that twat who is always on their mobile phone. I hate that guy.
- The worst sex ever:
‘Can I have a blow job please?’ SbH asks me two mornings ago. We’d both had about four hours’ sleep after an 18-hour day. ‘No’ I said. ‘I can’t be bothered......none of my muscles work. I can’t move. But I’m so horny!’
The resultant semi-conscious (loosely) sexual activity that we managed was closely reminiscent of trying to get (in SbH’s words) a raw frankfurter through a keyhole. Lethargically. ‘That was the worst sex ever’ he said afterwards. ‘I’m going for a shower’.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
‘Ooooh’ she cooed happily, vaguely fingering some of the merchandise, ‘there’s all sorts of useful odds and ends in here.’
‘That’s a bong, Nan’, I said, strong-arming her away from the corpulent West-Indian lady behind the stall who was now visibly shaking with laughter.
We sat down in the restaurant and ordered a couple of plates of pasta and a nice bottle of Sauvignon. She likes a little tipple every now and again, does my Nan.
After a few minutes, she said: ‘You know that nice lady Doris that lives opposite me and drops me over all her Woman’s Own magazines?’
‘Well last week, one of them had an advert for a vibrator on the back.’
She chose to say that just as the waiter was pouring her a glass of wine.
‘I mean – what do readers of Woman’s Own want with that sort of thing? £12.99 though – I thought that was quite cheap,’ she said reasonably, ‘they must have come down in price since my day.’
The waiter remained completely deadpan.
‘Actually…’ she said leaning forward with an impish glint, ‘I found one in your mother’s room once. It was blue and pink plastic. She said someone had given it to her as a joke. Well! I took it outside and smashed it to smithereens. I couldn’t throw it in the bin could I? What if it fell out and the bin collector saw it? I mean…I’m a woman of the world. I’ve heard of Nuns using carrots and door handles – but honestly!’
There is a certain poetic justice to this little story, seeing as my own mother once stumbled haplessly across my own (large, purple) dildo and accompanying bag of weed after she decided to meddle and unpack my university suitcase for me. She never unpacked anything for me ever again after that. And I found the (large, purple) dildo arranged neatly next to my hair brush on my dressing table later that day. At least I now know why she never mentioned the incident to me in person. Touché maman.
The news that I had a sex-crazed mother and a drug-taking lunatic for a grandmother is hardly a revelation. After all I must get it from somewhere. However the incident did get me thinking about the intrinsic lack of privacy one has to put up with when sharing accommodation with one’s parents. And that this is hardly improved upon on entering the seasonaire studio flat–crammed in cheek by jowl in a festering grotto with fellow ski-layabouts. The importance of having a good place to ‘stash’ private items such as one’s emergency dildo cannot be stressed enough.
I am in the happy and somewhat smug position of having my very own gaff in which to dwell this winter, without the accoutrements of any persons other than my own good self. Which means my dildo will be on proud display on the mantelpiece, next to the vodka and hardcore porn. However, I would like to offer some advice to those less fortunate than me.
Hide your toothbrush.
In my experience, this is your most vulnerable spot. Protect it. Do not leave it, trustingly, oh so naively, in that scummy, toothpaste encrusted empty yoghurt pot your room-mate Camilla has placed to the left of the sink. You have got to live and work with this cow arse-to-armpit for the next six months. And you are going to get pissed off with each other. I guarantee it.
Perhaps you have an irritating habit that’s wearing thin on Camilla - like using her hair dryer without asking. Or walking snow into the flat so her socks get wet on the way to the bathroom. Perhaps you’ve drunkenly shagged a hot kitchen porter with his arse hanging out of his jeans whom she’s been mooning over all season…
All I’m saying is this: If Camilla can take quiet, cold revenge on her savage, rude, smelly, unpleasant guests by removing their toothbrushes from that little sink-side-cup and scrubbing brown encrusted skid marks off the bog pan - then what’s to stop her doing the same to you? (And trust me, Camilla wouldn’t be the first, as those of you who are familiar with last year’s antics will confirm.)
As for me – I don’t care if I am the only person in a 30 mile radius: my toothbrush is going to be kept suspended in a laser-protected force-field in a sealed reinforced steel, air-tight unit, accessed only by a 7-digit pin number and retinal scan. I’m not taking any chances. I’m in a position of authority and therefore doubly open to sabotage.
So don’t try anything.
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
It seems you are a savage breed and take no prisoners when it comes to breaking in unsuspecting young chalet hosts to the field. I knew there was a reason I liked you.
I received an unprecedented outpouring of bile in response to last week's post. Withering put-down and retort suggestions came thick and fast - so here is a collection of some of my favourites.
From Malcolm Tucker classics, for ‘The Thick of It’ fans...to an oddly and coincidentally appropriate excerpt from Anchorman, it seems there is a quotable quote for every stupid request/claim/question from an underling.
In response to any pathetic whining about toilet cleaning:
NOMFuP. N-O-M-F-P. Not My Fucking Problem.
I'd love to stop and chat to you but I'd rather have type 2 diabetes.
How can I express how little I give a f^%k?
In response to lip/cheek/sass/blatant lies:
You get sarcastic with me again and I will stuff so much cotton wool down your fucking throat it'll come out your arse like the tail on a Playboy bunny.
When you die/I kill you, the average IQ of the entire world will rise.
Your parents met in the shallow end of the gene pool, didn't they?
I want to screw/be screwed by [insert name here], but that's not happening either.
If you was Pinocchio, you would have just poked my eye out!
...And the winner - for its sheer genius - my personal favourite – GOD I hope I get to use this one:
You pooped in the refrigerator? And you ate the whole wheel of cheese? How'd you do that? Heck, I'm not even mad; that's amazing.
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
It seems a few of my confessions from the dirty underbelly of ski-bum-ville have reached the ears of the wider public, and therefore my reputation as a bit of a dirty bitch has started to precede me.
This is both titillating and unfortunate...une petite dangerus, even.
Unless one is, say, The Wizard of Oz, one never really expects to hear one's name in a sentence heralded by the words 'Oh so you're...'
But last weekend at the Metro Snow show, I did.
Ah. Yes. This is a new one on me. Coming face to face with complete strangers who know exactly what you get up to on Sundays at 5am. Because you told them. Oops. Didn't think that one through, did we?
There is of course also a risk of my cover being blown: A quick skim through these pages followed by the swift conjoining of the numbers 2 and 2 by the powers that be could shatter my carefully crafted image of mature-responsible-well-balanced-manger-type-person. It could reveal what lies beneath - an unhinged, promiscuous junkie – type-person incapable of managing a fart in the bath -let alone an entire ski resort and six teenagers away from 'Daddeh' on pre-degree 'lash' rampage.
Yet more amusingly the bods at Tribe magazine want me to write an article offering advice to first-time seasonaires – ha! But they have also asked me to ‘tone it down’...
Why? Are the things I say in some way offensive? Could my somewhat dubious counsel lead young, impressionable seasonaires astray? Could the result be catastrophic for the daily operation of ski resorts the length and breadth of the Alps?
Well, if you have a shit ski holiday this year because your fusty, red-eyed chalet host …
1)spent most of the week dribbling onto his shoes with his arse hanging out of his jeans and couldn’t clean the toilets worth a fuck
2)failed to turn up to serve your bacon and egg and was sick in your ski boots during dinner
3)was found dead up the chimney the morning after his day off
...don’t blame me. It would have happened anyway.
In lieu of having to deal with an astonishing level of fuckwittage on behalf of the gap yah seasonahs I’m required to manage this season (and using the antics of Skater Boy and SbH as a reference point) I have been amusing myself in the last few days by harvesting a list of pithy and withering one-line comebacks from film and literature, so I can arm myself against shoddy smart-Alec attacks. I like to think ahead. And why think up your own when there’s a whole archive to rape on the interwebs?
A choice few of my favourites and some situations in which they might be put to use:
Ammo: ‘I am ravaged by the sheer implausibility of that last statement’
‘This loo has been disinfected you say? Hmmmn. I am ravaged by the sheer implausibility of that last statement’
Ammo: ‘Zero credibility’
For example: ‘You couldn’t serve breakfast because your chalet guests left the key in the door on the inside and you couldn’t get in..... Do you think I was born yesterday? That excuse has zero credibility’
Ammo: ‘Thorough but unreliable’
For example: ‘When it comes to handing in his weekly float, Chumley Warner is thorough but unreliable’
Ammo:‘Another fine product from the fuckup/nonsense factory’
For example: ‘You are / That excuse is ....another fine product from the fuckup/nonsense factory
Delete as appropriate.
Ammo: ‘Reformed nice guy’ (plus some bile bastardised from the US Marine Corps ....OooohRaa....)
For example: ‘I may look sweet and innocent, but I am a reformed nice guy. And son, you’d better get your head and your arse wired together or I will take a giant shit on you’
Ammo: 'Shit sandwich'
For example: ‘Ladies, I understand that cleaning toilets is one giant shit sandwich... but you’re all gonna have to take a big bite.’
Ammo: 'Cock flavoured lollipop'
For example: ‘You, sonny jim, are about as useful as a cock-flavored lollipop’
‘What you just said is one of the most insanely stupid things I have ever heard. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it’
I am making a definitive collection of these which I intend to pin up on my wall and fire off at will whenever fuckwittage occurs. Suggestions are welcome and appreciated.
Gap Yah Seasonah: 'Please can I go skiing even though it's changeover day? It's my birthday you see, and my hamster has just died from lung cancer.'
Moi: 'What you just asked is one of the most insanely stupid things I have ever heard. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. That idea is another fine product from the fuck up factory. You are about as useful as a cock flavoured lollipop. Get to work, you grubby urchin. Or I will take a giant shit on you!'
Ooooh yes, and not to change the subject but.... on a completely unrelated note, it seems SbH is no longer my student layabout shag pal.
You see, I know he's not really mine but, as he said last night, he's not anybody elses either...
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
Miniature villages of mushrooms and toadstools assemble overnight on the lawn. The air is just a little softer and cooler. There’s mysterious, low-hanging fog over the fields; that melancholic damp, earthy scent of rotting leaves. The swarming and chattering of the starlings at dusk. At nightfall yesterday there was a giant, copper moon.
It’s bittersweet. It reminds me of walking the dog with my Mum in remote muddy fields, the eating of roasts and that most odious of depressing puddings… homemade blackberry and apple pie…Don’t argue! It’s the devil’s own gastronomic torture instrument! You spend hours picking those repugnant berries, getting prickled to fuck by brambles...then the whole gooey affair has a shitty whiff of end-of-the-summer-the-nights-are-fair-drawing-in-and-school’s-just–around-the-corner symbolism that inspires in me the most abject depression whenever I eat it! Which I now absolutely refuse to do. Not to mention the dental misery. Blackberries are tasteless little fuckers and the pips get stuck in your teeth. No. It is despair masquerading in the pajamas of a delicious and innocuous desert!
Like I said, autumn is bittersweet.
But autumn takes on a whole new meaning when there are ski seasons to be had. When you’re not staring down the barrel of a six-month stint commuting in rain-soaked darkness (there was a point last year when for about 2 weeks I saw less than one hour of sunlight per day. Unacceptable). Now, suddenly Autumn is full of promise…
I have found a job in the ski resort.
Okay. I know I may have crapped on last month about bar work being the ‘safest bet’ …yada yada yada…in the name of Zeus’ butthole - don’t you have anything better to do than write down everything I say?
Look people. I sometimes make hasty statements in the heat of the moment. And I sometimes also get seduced. By money. And power. And boys…although that’s quite another story…
My pretties. I have gone over to the dark side. I have become the ‘them’ in the ‘them and us’ scenario.. Corrupted by the prospect of privacy (I’ve got my own apartment!) and the legitimacy of a more sensible job befitting a young lady of my years. Christ knows why but someone thinks I’m reliable enough to be saddled with some responsibility.
This is all a roundabout way of saying I have to spend the next six months being an enormous bitch, hypocrite and cantankerous bossy boots (quite looking forward to the last bit) by bollocking hapless teenaged chalet staff for doing what I did last year. It’s a good thing I already know every excuse in the book for missing breakfast service, losing float money and leaving cum-stains on chalet furniture. They won’t be putting anything past me.
Skater Boy is already prancing about with glee at the prospect of an in-resort ally with a bit of leverage. Yes, indeed, there will be a number of unsuspecting young spriglettes under the watchful eye of Madmoiselle Neige this season. Poor wee things. And Skater Boy will be like a pig in shit at the prospect of getting his grubby mitts on a few of them.
He: ‘I’m making a list. I’m calling it 101 ways to abuse BdN's new-found power for pleasure purposes.’
Me: ‘I see. How much will you pay me not to warn them about your wily ways? And that you’ve even shagged me, in fact’
He: ‘Do you want us to fall out?’
God help me.
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
Question: How did I suddenly become the black sheep of the family?
That used to be my Auntie G. Complete mental fuck bucket that she is. Sexually predatory enough to steal her sister’s rather dashing boyfriend and swindle certain other members of the family out of large sums of cash before disappearing off the face of the earth.
I used to be an A student baby. I played the cello, watched Star Trek (actually I still do – the mini lesbian in me would like to filth SevenofNine) and handed my prep in on time.
Now I am the one everyone roles their eyes about at the dinner table.
I got flu at the weekend. Do you know what my 90-year-old grandmother said to me as I was shivering under a mountain of duvets?
“It IS flu isn’t it darling? You’re not going cold turkey?”
My Dad is a bit of a grumble fairy where I’m concerned these days too. I’m going to have to pull my socks up. Since mangling my knee and crash landing back on planet reality last spring, I haven’t exactly been the model daughter I used to be. When you’re killing time between seasons the devil makes work for idle thumbs. Living at home with your parents at my age is a dangerous game. And I think I am now qualified to write the book on how NOT to do it.
...amongst my crimes of late:
Don’t insist on doing another ski season, despite the fact that you can’t ski and against Daddy’s express advice.
Don’t invite your layabout student shag pal round to the house for protracted periods of time and lie on the couch eating crisps, snogging and watching Top Gear in your knickers while the rest of the world is at work. It riles ‘em up it really does.
Don’t leave your dishes piled up next to the sink as you would do at your gaff, with a view to tackling them later. When you live with your parents this sends a signal. The signal is ‘I can’t be arsed. The punkawalla will do it’.
Don’t turn your childhood bedroom into a soup of unwashed clothes, cigarette butts, wet towels, papers, odds and sods and bottles of whiskey. Open the window when you smoke the weed.
In fact, don’t do drugs…well, don’t get caught…
I may have hosted a small get-together . A reunion for the inhabitants of Room 405 – the ski bum crack den (Skater Boy, SbH and E-the-Yeti-Boy all present and correct). The evening, of course, went slightly the way of the Winehouse. We decided to crush up some Co Codamol and snort it off the oak table, for old times’ sake. Which would have been fine, except we didn’t wake up early enough to stop my Dad’s wrinkly lady-friend from doing the cleaning up…
...We know there was an unidentified pile of white powder on the table when we went to bed.
...She knows there was an unidentified pile of white powder on the table when we went to bed.
...But it wasn’t there when we got up was it?
The irony is it wasn’t even prescription.
Don’t forget to feed the cat occasionally. Even if it is a Judas bastard.
Don’t drive the length of Europe in a car with the fuel consumption of a Sherman tank to get to your job in Ibiza, have a massive drug-addled crisis, become emotionally unstable and directionless, run out of money and require rescuing…then crash land at Glastonbury where you shouldn’t...
...invite your layabout student shag pal to stay in your tipi without asking the other inhabitants first, steal all their nitrus and keep your pregnant sister-in-law awake sucking loudly on balloons just outside the door...
Don’t get caught by BB2.1 shagging said layabout student shag pal …twice. He will take revenge. He caught us once in the garden. Fair enough. The second time, I came scurrying down to the kitchen from a particularly noisy encounter, charged with fetching some ice. I arrived, butt-fuck naked in the kitchen to find BB2.1 calmly reading the paper with a cup of coffee.
‘Alright?’ he said calmly, glancing up from the Daily Mail.
‘Ummm...Where the FUCK did you come from?’
‘I was showing some clients round. Don’t mind me’
‘WHAT!? Go! Go away!’
‘No. No I think I’m going to have a bacon sandwich’
It was a good ten minutes before SbH gave up on me and came down to the kitchen to investigate.
‘It’s a good thing you’ve such a cool brother. Most other brothers would be chasing me across the field with a shot gun by now’ he chimed in merrily.
BB2.1 raised an eyebrow.
‘I AM going to chase you over the field with a shotgun. I’ve been giving you a head start for the last 2 minutes, you’re just too stupid to realise.’
Thursday, 30 September 2010
It’s amazing how annoyed people get when you raid their freezers and defrost their vegetables without permission, it really is.
This is not some kind of fetish – these are doctor’s orders. The knee has finally been fixed. Strung back together with some bits of sinew, packed in with sawdust and glue and all sellotaped up. It’s very pretty indeed, although if I'm being picky the needlework is a bit shoddy. My Nan will have something to say.
‘Ice and elevate’ said the surgeon when he came to see me the morning after the op. ‘And plenty of rest for the first week’
‘Right you are’ I mumbled. Anesthetic-wise I’d hit the jackpot. General, local, epidural and smack. Bootiful.
I beamed at him and lay there scratching myself luxuriantly through the retreating malaise of this most enjoyable morphine and triple anesthetic experience and knowing full well I was planning a massive bender that very weekend. In hindsight this really wasn’t the best plan. And for the last week I have been a full blown insomniac. Unable to keep my eyes open during the day and bouncing of the walls as soon as my head touches the pillow.
So I’m back to hobbling around like an ancient crone and the reverse cowgirl is off the menu once again.
Although I consciously know it’s fixed, at the moment I am suffused with a hideously depressing sense of ‘back-to-square’ one. It’s been an awfully long journey to this day from that fateful moment on that roller when I felt the entire contents of my knee grind itself pestle and mortar style into mush. (I still shudder when I remember it).
Not that I’d change a thing. I’d go through the whole excruciating experience again. Being back in the mountains would be worth it. And nothing affirmed it more than the foul streak of pallid, spineless, flaccid humanity who yelled at me to ‘Get the Fuck out of the way’ because I was limping so slowly up a flight of stairs (avec crutch, splint and a bag over my shoulder) to catch a train yesterday.
I said nothing. But as providence would have it, despite rushing past me and nearly knocking me over, the cunt missed his train, which allowed me the infinite pleasure of tottering to the summit, and then very slowly limping past him while eyeballing him with the most ball-witheringly revolted expression I could muster. It was like pouring acid on a weed. He visibly shrank.
Actually I mostly felt genuine pity for the poor sod. I mean, how shit and miserable and thankless must his life be to yell at a cripple? Clearly, this is what Clapham Junction does to you if you spend too much time there. I won’t be doing so.
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
However. I have also come to the conclusion that being in an open relationship is basically all about denial.
Here's the angle: You're both young. He's into you but he needs to feel he can do whatever he wants without restrictions - all men do. And you (in theory) want your freedom too. You also don't want to lose him or be lied to. So you tell him he can shag other ladies as long as he's honest with you about it. And vice versa, naturally.
Winner. He's got free reign to be a big alpha male about town and you don't get treated like the idiot indoors.
I mentioned this theory to a friend recently, and apparently this attitude puts me into the category of 'woman who traps man subversively using freedom'.
Fuck me! You can't win with you people! Listen guys, we give you the freedom to do what you want, bend over backwards to understand and sympathize with the fact you're men and are slaves to your impulses and you can't help wanting to window shop and occasionally dip into the pick and mix... and you still think we're trying to trap you!
Well, and I speak to all men-kind on behalf of my sisters when I say this.....Fuck you!
Now I don't want to oust an uncomfortable truth here that we ladies were keeping to ourselves... but the unspoken fact is this girls:
Your man is most probably completely shit at chatting up birds (and you can probably vouch for this based on your own personal experience). He's also usually too drunk to approach women with any finesse (that's without dribbling on them or suggesting a threesome with their mother by accident) and was on a fucking lucky streak the day he pulled you anyway.
The baboons arse in the room here, is that in normal life, (before you took pity on him/acquired a taste for him), he hardly ever managed to get laid at all...
You on the other hand, being female, can get laid right now if you want. No, seriously. Just go into your local and stand at the bar with a sign that says 'I would like some sex please.' Not only will you get laid. There will be a massive queue around the block. I promise.
Imagine if a chap tried that same tactic. Not gonna happen is it?
...so what I'm saying is ladies.... you really needn't worry.
Friday, 17 September 2010
Over the years I've become close to many of BB2.1's friends. Having so many older sibling types around has always been lovely, but this unanticipated upshot is also distinctly unnerving. You'd think I'd be broody but I'm not. I'm just terrified. One minute all was calm. Then suddenly I'm being inundated with these cute, gurgling, if not, caterwauling squirmy wormy things. Fortunately everyone knows what a clusterfuck I am. So far no one has asked me to babysit.
I am a rubbish, rubbish Aunt, although deceptively good at the whole making a tit of myself and looking-like-I-know-what-I'm-doing thing: Support the baby's head. Don't feed it chutney, vodka or amphetamines. Try not to swear in front of it so its first word isn't 'Fuck'. But actually I am the least trustworthy person round a baby you'll encounter. Most likely to be heard saying, 'Come along children, help Auntie Emma find her Valium, and you can have one'.
On the subject of inappropriateness, a tip: If, like me, you thought it would be amusing to download GrindR (despite not being a randy homosexual male) and have a good giggle sending wind up messages to unsuspecting benders on the shark when you're bored...make sure you don't lend your phone to your seven year old nephew so he can play games on it.
'Is this a game too??' he asked loudly, waving the loaded application under his (rather conservative) mother's nose. I have never moved so fast. That's a court case just waiting to happen. ‘It’s sort of a game for grown ups, yes sweetheart,’ I said, practically cart wheeling across the kitchen to retrieve it.
And where do you think I get it from, this toxic ineptitude around sprogs? Well, put it this way. The new arrival of baby L, or as BB2.1 likes to call her 'Minime' has basically just been another excuse (as if he needed one) for my Dad to get completely arseholed:
'Why's he so wankered?' BB2.1 asked me when we collected him at 2am on the Tuesday morning she was born.
I was wankered too. I’m just better at hiding it.
The sprogging forth of babies is also a most tiresome excuse for both my brothers to draw endless attention to the fact that they are both proficient in the art of nappy changing thanks to practicing on me when I was a nipper. Apparently nothing has ever been more terrifying than the radioactive puree I could produce. Perhaps that’s it. I was so disgusting I actually managed to put myself off.
Monday, 6 September 2010
'You work harder, work harder, you're told that you must. And you must earn a living. Must earn a crust. And be like everybody else.'
* * * * *
'I'm panicking, I haven't found a job in the ski resort yet'
This was what I said to Skater Boy back in late July.
'No need to panic at this point!' He replied in his usual up-beat, happy-go-lucky tone. 'If you haven't got a job by beginning of September - that's when you start panicking'
SbH, the jammy little sod, has already secured himself a cushy little number as something called a 'flexi rep' -which basically amounts to selling a few ski passes and swanning around the resort standing in for chalet chefs when they are ill or have displaced some part or another of their anatomy care of an ill-advised icy-mogul field.
So Skater Boy and I applied to work in a private chalet as a 'couple'. Controversial for two reasons: a) you might recall that I made a pit stop under the skanky duvet of Skater Boy on the road to SbH last winter... b) I swore to high heaven I'd never be a chalet girl again.
Anyhow, we were convinced we had it in the bag. Skater boy even had a haircut (cripes!) and wore a shirt (double cripes!) But no. Not even his white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake or my puppy-like enthusiasm could do the trick.
Finding a job up the mountain isn't as easy as it looks, you know. Each company and each job is as odious as the next and there's a whole queue of 18 year olds willing to work for nothing but fudge, jager bombs and a shag hopping up and down going 'pick me! ooooh oooh pick meeee!' ahead of you.
One can of course opt for the increased pay, responsibility and therefore legitimacy of a job like 'resort manager' or 'ski rep' (sounds a lot better when you tell your parents than 'chalet girl' does, particularly when, like me, your chucking what looks like a glittering career in digital marketing up the swanny to go off and be a toilet cleaner). But with such jobs come higher stress and then there's the inevitable 'them and us' situation. Managers have to bollock the 18-year-olds who don't turn up to serve breakfast because they're still off their tits on mephadrome from the night before. No. Bar work is by far the safest bet.
Not to be a whinge pot, but lately one too many people have been trying to piss on my parade. My friends back home seem to have divided themselves into two camps:
Camp 1 aka: Team Get-your-act-together-you're-four-years-off-thirty-what-have-you-got-to-show-for-it? (this is mostly family)
Camp 2 aka: Team Go-for-it-if-you-don't-do-it-now-you-never-will-I've-got-a-mortgage-and-I'm-bored. (everyone else)
Camp 1 tell me that life is 30% fun and 70% graft. That I made a bit of a cluster-fuck of things over the last ten months and that if I go gallivanting off to a dead end ski resort job again this year no fucker's going to dig me out when I come back financially and physically crippled all over again.
Camp 2 look at me with misty-wistful eyes and remark a) how they wished they'd done more than one ski season b) how they wished they'd done a ski season at all c) how despite 'having everything' they are bored.
So here I sit. No ski resort job as yet. One mangled knee, as yet unfixed. Crap all to show for myself. Even if I do get a job in time, according to my friendly knee surgeon, Mr H, I won't be able to ski possibly until March. My knee is still a wobbling outrage. All I know is, I have to go back.
All my ski friends, of course, understand immediately the concept that being in the ski resort not skiing will be far more bearable than being at home not skiing. Camp 1 do not. Why would they? It's like trying to explain the magical fairyland of what-the-fuck-just-happened-here mind expanding awesomeness that is Glastonbury to someone who doesn't take drugs and has never been.
'Why would you want to be there if you can't ski?' They ask.
Well, picture this. I don't get a job in the ski resort. Instead I take some contract work - probably in london - for the winter. Fantastic, a bit of cash coming in.
It's January 11th 2011. I drag my sorry carcass out of bed for the fourth time that week (I'm still living at Dad's because I'm still trying to save). It's 5.45am - I have to leave at 6.15 in order to get the 7am train to get me to London at 8am to get to work by 8.45 on the packed, grimy tube that made me almost suicidal last year. I push the lingering thought that I swore I'd never do this to myself again, that I'm more than this, that by hook or by crook I'd find an out-of-the-ordinary career path, to the back recesses of my mind. I feel a deep sense of doom permeate me to my core.
It's pissing with rain. After a morning spent, clicking, clicking, tapping, clicking, I log on to facebook to cheer myself up and see a post from a seasonaire friend. A picture of her hurling herself off a recently built kicker into the beautiful toothpaste bluebird sky.
'Quick run down Biolay chaps? Then let's head to the Ronnie'
At this point, I rise purposefully from my seat and hurl myself from the train.
Yes, yes. I hear you say. But that little picture you've just illustrated is cold reality for most of the people reading this blog.
It's not that I think I'm special. Or different. I'm just not ready to accept defeat yet. I'm willing to risk being rootless and unstable at 30, because the safe, sensible alternative fills me with such utter dread. And I'm not big enough, clever enough or mature enough to get over that dread. Sorry.
I'm in love. And I have to go back.
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
The willow tree in my Nan's back garden fell down last month. It's been there all my life. It has, I suppose, in a sense always been synonymous with my Nan, who, in a darkly poetic way then proceeded to fall over herself. And break her wrist. She's ninety in October.
I also found a wrinkle the other day. Woe is me! I had resolutely sneered at trowelfaced make-up caked, dead-eyed, Madonna-Cher botox types right up until that bitter second. The sunlight streamed through the morning window pane and glinted off that hideous crag connecting my nose to the corner of my mouth which conspired to my horror, on closer inspection, not to be one of those odd sheet imprints you get inexplicably sometimes, but to be a wrinkle. I've always had a rubber arm where opinions are concerned, and moments later was investigating the whereabouts of my nearest Botox dispensary.
I texted the sister-in-law who, as the daughter of two doctors, is always rather pragmatic about such issues. Heavily pregnant and about to pop a sprog the size of a shetland pony by the looks of things, she is also clearly feeling even more cynical about the body than usual:
She: 'Botox darling, that's what it's for'
She: 'Wrinkles are no reason for unhappiness. They are the tell tale signs of the fact we need to start looking around for increased income to fund chemicals and surgicals to combat them. Whether that income comes in the form of an enhanced career or a lucrative relationship is of course the choice you have. Both routes are strenuous and unrewarding in themselves, but hey, these are the sacrifices we are more than happy to undergo. In the meantime I find drugs and booze are excellent preservatives. And anyway, there's nothing in the world a decent plastic surgeon cannot fix.'
Me: 'So speaketh the wise sister and slag mother. Here endeth the lesson. And it was good.'
Hmmmmmmn. A lucrative relationship. Well SbH is even harder up than I am, and while his snowboarding skills are not to be reckoned with, nobody's gonna pay him to hurl himself off a 10 foot kicker into a snow drift. Well not enough money to fund my burgeoning lust for chemical skin peels on top of his gadget and kit-for-every-manly-eventuality fetish anyway.
And since we're on the subject of SbH....another somewhat chilling age-related revelation...SbH, is but (and I shit thee not with this one) 3 years older than The Ex's nephew. Who is 19.
Now I remember this young nephew, about five years ago, when he was a nipper only the height of my shoulder and able to converse in quite limited terms - mainly focussing on cars. He also wore a cassock and sang in his school choir.
SbH still talks about school sometimes, because school is actually only four years ago for him. It's eight years ago for me.
SbH doesn't remember Blockbusters. You know. With Bob Holness.
Or the A Team.
Or Andy Peters and Ed the Duck.
He is too young.
This fills me with a sense of doom, occasionally. Perhaps he'll trade me in for a younger model ahead of schedule.
The irony is, I used to dote on older men and eschew those any less than ten years my senior. Was a full on wrinkle-worshipper. Clint Eastwood rocked my world (well, Clint Eastwood circa 1970) 'Yeuch' I'd say when some hapless friend of mine happened along with a clueless looking chap of her own age. 'Can't stand young men. They've no idea what they want...or what to do with their cocks.'
Well I stand corrected. On both counts.
I was told recently by G (who lived next door to SbH and Skater Boy's hovel in the ski resort), that she could pinpoint the exact moment I took a shine to SbH.
'There were a group of us including you and he, sitting outside the bar having a smoke,' she said. 'It may have been snowing. I don't remember exactly. And he was regailing us all with some story about some adventure he'd had. And you narrowed your eyes and looked at him across the table, and said ...."You've done an awful lot for one so young, haven't you?" Of course he was completley clueless and carried on yabbering away none the wiser. But I thought.....oooooh. I think she likes him.'
Hurrah for female intuition and the observation skills of wiley Miss G. It seems quite a few people knew we were going to shag like rabbits before even we did.
Hmn. Never had myself down as a cradle snatcher though. Clearly busted by Wiley Miss G.
Oh well, you're only as old as the man that you feel.
Monday, 9 August 2010
Huffing and puffing. Stamping your feet in exasperation and poking aggressively at the buttons. Rattling the door handle in anger.
'Is the code still 247?????' at frightened passers by.
You know you've got 'things' on your mind when you eventually win this battle with the changing room door and saunter in, mostly contemplating your trainers, walk right up to the lockers and notice, only then, that you have made an error. That your eyes are, in fact, suddenly locked with those of a half naked, half confused, half amused-looking (and oooh, quite dishy) chap, with one eyebrow raised, archly.
'Oh fuck. This is the men's!'
There followed much hysteria from them and much scuttling back the way I'd come from me. It wasn't that I was embarrassed....You know me....any chance to be in a room full of naked men with damp torsos.... but it did make me slightly concerned for my mind. I mean, I am a bit of a space cadet at times but this performance was special.
So what's eating Belle de Neige? I boiled it down to 3 major preoccupations du jour:
1. My 'monthly gift' as mother nature calls it on the tampax ads, had not arrived on schedule - always a killer for the background brain noise, that one.
2. I had not had sex for over 2 weeks - usually enough to render me not just dappy but homicidal.
3.I have not yet got a firm job lined up for next season. Clearly the biggest fly in the ointment of my life at the moment.
You'll pleased to hear numero uno is no longer a concern, numero dos is being sorted on Friday (woohoooo!) and numero tres is progressing - I have been offered an interview.
But all of the above pales into significance against the backdrop of the enormous cunting fuck I found out today. That my knee 'may' not be strong enough to ski on by next season.
Well isn't that grand.
The path of my life is strewn with cow pats from the devil's own satanic herd. Blackadder's line, not mine.
I am going to spend the rest of the day sulking and eating Lindt chocolate. Please leave a message with my secretary.....
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
90% of people would secretly love to have a foursome.
....Or at least are silently, furtively, curious about it... probably masturbate furiously about it in their spare time. Or office hours depending on how wrong they are.
To my estimation about half of those people would actually go through with it if the opportunity presented itself and about half again would have the initiative... and quite frankly the chutzpah, to actually engineer the situation themselves and make it happen.
To be clear, I am talking here specifically about two chaps and two mademoiselles. Group sex is a complicated thing at the best of times and I haven't got room here to go into the politics of menage a trois (2 guys and a gal or 2 gals and a guy? Very different negotiation and tactics necessary I assure you) or a gang bang (according to urban dictionary it's only a gang bang if, say, 8 out of 9 people are the same gender, any more mixing than that and it's an orgy.)
So a foursome can fairly be called an orgy then... nes pas?
Catalysts for a menage a quatre (choose from the below, combine, add lubrication and stand at a safe distance - or up close. Whatever your penchant):
2 horny blokes who don't mind touching other blokes bits (accidentally or deliberately)
2 horny blokes who are good enough friends that if skin (or cock) contact should accidentally occur it will never leave this room
1 recently corrupted, young and (possibly impressionable)madmoiselle who is a lot less innocent than she looks...
1 seasoned filtherella who enjoys it when people try to shock her and end up being shocked themselves instead.
An empty house
A large bed
Vodka, champagne and aphrodisiac foodgroups....
So, last week SbH asked me in his most innocent tones whether I'd like to come round for a 'romantic' dinner with him....and his friend J (whose reputation, I must say, precedes him as being someone who is quite often naked and takes any opportunity to show off his giant wang) and his new girlfriend G.
Seemingly innocent. Unless of course you know how SbH's dirty little mind works. Which I do.
G, you see, has been going through a process of, shall we say, liberation, at the hands of J and his giant wang.
'This wouldn't be a clumsy and underhand attempt to get G and me into a room together and engineer a foursome would it?' I asked. I prefer the direct approach.
'No....maybe....erm. Well if it DID happen it was just be us shagging in the same room. The only other skin touching would be me and J exchanging high fives....But really we just thought we could get together and chat...you know...'
Unfortunately yours truly saw this as a bit of a gauntlet being thrown down.
I wish I could explain why at about midnight, after a lovely, civilized dinner and a few vodkas, the words:
'Shall we go upstairs
..............and play truth or dare
..................................on SbH's bed?'
...just, well, fell out of my mouth.
It was like I was possessed or something. I take no responsibility.
Anyway, to miss-quote Velma Kelly: 'I have absolutely no idea what happened after that. I completely blacked out. I can't remember a thing. It wasn't til next morning when I was washing the cum off my hands I even knew we'd all got frisky!'
I did remember SbH's Mum coming home at some point though. Luckily she was trolleyed, but who knows what she heard.
Oh. And I also remember a few high fives being exchanged between SbH and J. And possibly G and me....
How's that for killing time between seasons?
So finally I suppose there's only one question left to ask.
I clearly have the chutzpah to muff dive. But do I have the chutzpah to publish this post?
Monday, 26 July 2010
I was rescued by Dad at a rendezvous point in Valencia and we drove three days straight to get home. Despite the fact that I had clearly got myself into a massive clusterfuck of a skint, ridiculous situation we both secretly quite enjoyed the trip. My Dad enjoys a good excuse to drift around in the car between bizarre tumbleweed french towns at the best of times. The opportunity to wonder around looking for good restaurants in his summer safari uniform (ankle swingers, socks and sandals) makes him positively chipper. So it was all gravy for him.
So here I am back at home.
A large blackbird with an orange beak flew into the house today.
I was sitting alone in the dining room at my laptop (yes, I am trying to earn some money) when it alighted nonchalantly on the easy chair and peered calmly at me through one of its spry little eyes. It winked at me.
‘Cheeky fucker!’ I thought.
Then it hopped twice and ruffled some rather glossy feathers. A fine looking specimen, and unusually for a bird, it seemed completely calm about its presence in the house. Usually birds go ballistic and hurl themselves at the walls, braining themselves in desperation for escape.
My next reaction was to roll my eyes and mutter, 'oh for fucks sake' under my breath, before stalking off to the kitchen to retrieve a tea-towel. A tea-towel is the time-honoured tool in my Dad's household for ushering spooked, confused wildlife that has strayed over the threshold back to the wilderness. One can either flap it around extravagantly, matador-style or discombobulate whichever rodent or feathered friend one is dealing with by shouting ‘FREEZE!’ and chucking the tea-towel over its head.
Anyhoodle, Before I had time to arrange my tea-towel strategy, it had relocated to the top of the kitchen door and then the laundry pile. I cornered it near the coat rack and made a shushing sound at it.
‘Bugger off!’ I said firmly, indicating the door.
And it did. Just as calmly as it had arrived it flew out of the door. I stood for a minute and stared after it, slightly moved, in spite of myself.
It is said, by vacant, superstitious house wives the world over that a bird in the house can mean two things. It is both a portender of death and a visitation of comfort from a loved one. A superstition of course.
Paranoia is the friend of superstition. And in my book superstition is the friend of OCD and my least favourite bane of society… religion. I have no time for it. Superstition is the reason SbH spends his entire time scampering around looking alarmed and saluting thin air whenever he comes to visit me at home.
‘There’s a shit load of magpies round here’ I always tell him, ‘you’re never gonna get them all. Imagine if everyone in the country spent the whole time saluting them. Nothing would get done. I’ve never saluted one in all my days as a country bumpkin, what the fuck do you think’s going to happen?’
He eventually and very grumpily conceded that saluting all of them was impractical, and now (demonstrating a note of stubbornness which is both endearing and reflective of his Irish roots) just does one massive comprehensive salute when he arrives, a general big up to all the magpies in the locale.
I detest superstition. But I must nevertheless concede to finding pleasure at least in the fleeting notion that my Mum popped in to see if I was ok today. She died five years ago on July 26th. And sadly The Ex also lost his Mother two days ago. A lovely, kind lady who lived for her family and had a way of speaking to you that always made you feel she was genuinely interested in your life.
Maybe it was Laura making a little visit.
Maybe it was nothing.
Today I was going to apologise for the radio silence over the last few weeks and regale you with some absolutely filthy stories of what I’ve been up to lately. Glastonbury. The party to end all parties (we literally ripped parties a new arsehole), the big countdown to the imminent birth of my niece. Hell I’ve even taken part in an impromptu orgy. But more of that later, I promise. Today is a day to think of others.
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
The DJ couldn’t comprehend my logic when I announced I was leaving.
‘But’ he frowned, looking confused, ‘I like you! You’re fun! And you’re my platonic female friend which means I’d look after you – treat you and stuff. Take you with me on jaunts...And You LIVE in Ibiza. Why could you possibly want to leave? If you’re feeling hungover you can go and just SIT in the SEA. Just SIT in it! ‘
Fair point. I’m giving up a shit load of fun here. But this is a conversation between someone who has just definitively found his place in the world and someone who is still very much seaching for hers. Ibiza was, afterall, practically invented by mother nature for The DJ. Skipping happily from one party to the next, with a few cursory hours thrown in each week mixing tunes. Surfing between comedowns on a cocktail of sunloungers, sea, sex and reefers and getting in free everywhere. Particularly if you’ve been doing just that for the last 15 years -the simple life.
Predictably, as soon as I made the decision to leave, it suddenly seemed like a ridiculous thing to do. Where else in nonexistantgod’s name will I ever find myself draped on a sun lounger at sunrise on an empty beach having my head stroked and being fed K off a crucifix by a complete stranger? Where else will I dance bare-foot in the sand with tanned beauties in at a secret beach party and meet Ian Brown all in one week? Where else will I meet a girl like The Dam and feel I’ve known her for 10 years after only a few glasses of wine and a dance in Space? Where else will I ever lie round a pool with such colourful characters as Fat Tony and Sid? Where else will I ever be exposed to the magnificent levels of directionless debauchery achieved when The DJ joins forces with his double-act side kick, The Other DJ (or ToDJ as I will affectionately dub him)?
After their entourage of fans, their stalker Alison and The Dam had drifted off to various other parties, or to sleep I found myself the lone passenger on the drug-addled escapade that inevitably follows a magnificent set played in Space the night before. It had been a hard morning’s lounging on the beach with The DJ's disco ipod speakers balanced on my tummy, sharing a warm Strongbow with ToDJ and scandalizing holiday-makers. (The DJ, wearing an enormous square pair of shades, skin-tight jeans, a wife beater and with his head swathed in a bright red Lawrence of Arabia style turban, tried to hammer our beach umbrella into the sand using an empty Lambrusco bottle. It smashed and flew in all directions, spraying small children and elderly ladies with shards of glass. No one was amused).
‘Fuck you’re clumsy’, said ToDJ, scooping lumps of glass out from between his legs onto the sand.
We were hot so we decided to go and sit in the sea for a bit. I found myself sandwiched between them as they each tried to out-do one another with bizarre stories of the antics they’ve been up to when everyone else in the world was at work. They were like two ten year old boys trying to impress a new girl at school.
‘This one time, yeah? Right? ….we were round my old house off our tits and we, like, decided to make the stairs into a slide and skid backwards down them in a sleeping bag.’ This was ToDJ. ToDJ is 35….
The DJ: ‘This one time I like got on Old Street tube in rush hour and on a whim decided to pull the emergency cord. The whole train stopped and the guy had to walk the length of all the carriages to sort it out. And what I loved…. Right? Yeah? ….. is that at no point in the whole exercise did I like think ‘oh shit what have I done?’ …. I just thought, Brilliant! I’ve always wanted to do this and now I have. Now to deal with it. So I took my sunglasses off, admitted it was me, said I was a prick and apologised to the whole carriage…then got off at the next stop’
DJ’s are a menace to society. And they wear sunglasses on the tube.
I have also never met someone as supremely confident about his abilities with women, as the DJ. So far since he's been here he hasn't actually managed to get laid - so I'm concerned that his confidence is a little misplaced.
'I'm not saying I'm perfect', he said, leaning back on his sunlounger like a fucked roman emperor and beaming at me from under his shades, 'It's just that I'm that little bit better than everything else that's on offer.'
Oh the stresses and strains of being an international superstar DJ. The main focusses of their daily concerns:
1. Who do I know who can get me into Cocoon free later?
2. Where are the next drugs coming from?
3. Am I going to get laid in the next 24 hours?
4. Are my leggings outrageous enough?
5. Where the fuck am I?
The last 24 hours have, as I predicted, been the most fun. I thought about staying. But when I peered ahead into the fog of parties and recoveries I just felt a bit bored. Turns out I left more at home than I knew I had. When I decided to call this part of the blog ‘Lost in Space’ I had no idea how appropriate that name really was.
I don’t want to be lost any more.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
In spite of myself, I have to admit, I can't help liking The DJ. He is infectiously happy-go-lucky and on closer inspection (despite my undying commitment to first impressions) has a heart of gold. He's exceedingly clever and rather more self-aware than I gave him credit for initially. He has wheedled his way into my affections with his enthusiastic rants about genomes, NLP, quantum physics and the architecture of sound. I love a geek on a rant. He says a DJ set is like playing chess - you have to choose your moves. You can't just jump from here to there...and you've gotta love that.
The young lady he drove here with and who subsequently went home several weeks ago was charming but, admittedly, a bit of a thicko, (Apparently on the way down here she managed to reverse his jeep up -actually onto - the central reservation, and at Glastonbury she asked him if Stevie Wonder was blind. Oh. Holy. Jesus) so I can't blame him for being on shag patrol like a horny terrier. He is in Ibiza after all.
I must also give him snaps for coining the phrase 'Chunt'.... I conjugate:
He/She it chunts....
To Cunt Hunt.
Well, I don't know whether he coined it, but I like it...
The DJ and I are united in our mutual reservations about The Boss, who is impressing me less and less with his antics each day and quite frankly needs to get a clue, or I'm offski.
'I hope he doesn't fuck it up where you're concerned,' said the DJ last night, 'I'll be pissed off if he does....'
We shall see.
Saturday, 3 July 2010
Not just owns. Wears.
They are hot pink, and shiny. No, not shiny, spangly. He is not gay, to clarify...
Baring in mind my continuing crisis about being here, I set myself the mission of making the most of things and found myself at, respectively, a DJ mag party at Space and a secret beach party in the middle of nowhere. The DJ certainly knows a few bigwigs and is a fantastic blagger.
To get in the mood, I thought I'd slut it up a bit in an ambitious and revealing All Saints number from yesteryear (v short, basically a mesh of posh rope to obscure my boobs and a belt to hold it all in place). The dress only really works if you go commando - a vpl is not a good look, and well, if these bimbo tarts can do it I can.
Except I can't.
Thanks to my post-Glasto lurgy I'm quite sneezy at the moment, and, yes....sneeze + too much rum and coke = unexpected mini wee.
Not fucking pleasant. And when I ventured to the club toilet to sort the situation out (barely more acceptable than a Glastonbury longdrop) I was faced with an empty toilet roll holder. No loo roll. No pants. You do the maths. How do the bimbos manage?
So my tip for the week: Never go commando when you've got a cold. You'll get a chill in your kidneys and piss yourself.
Friday, 2 July 2010
It's all the same, said Dad.
Leftfield. Cow bells, tom toms, bongos, strange smells. Beer heads, fuckheads. Try hard girls in heels and headbands.
I'm fucking bored. My early-20s party girl dream. It should have been filed under 'not as good as I thought it would be' years ago...
'This DJ's seminal. The best thing to happen to the house scene in a decade.'
Right. Why's he playing the same old shit the last guy did then?
And the sky comes down to the ground. Letting go with love.
I'm glad I'm not her. Or here with him. It's then I realise I'm on the toilet. Cos I needed a rest. Reading my text messages from yesterday to feel like it's home - need you...want your head between my legs. A cuddle. Some baked beans.
Things aren't what they used to be. I'd rather be in bed with a good book. Or some friendly banter down the Lion and Lobster, than here with you. With all of you.
It's not that I don't like to party. I just don't like this party. Something's missing. I think it's her. I think it's them. I think it's him.
Ok fair enough. I kind of like this tune.
It's coming in.
I think I'll go home now.
Thursday, 24 June 2010
The dilemma: if some random punter in the street started trying to make friends with you at home, you would immediately brand them a wierdo and tell them to sling their hook. But when you’re on your own, on the lookout for friends, every single person you meet suddenly holds infinate possibilities and a hand extended in friendship feels like a lifeline. Which is why I accepted the offer for a drink the other day from some seemingly harmless chap, who turned out to be Columbian. He lured me back to his apartment under false pretences where he tried to grope me. I split, feeling rather bitter and annoyed at my naivety.
Is everyone a potential axe murderer? Or rapist? And why is it you can be alone, craving company for several days without meeting anybody new and then as soon as you want your own company some wierdy cunt comes along and starts insinuating themselves on you.
Take the other evening. I meandered down to the quiet, moonlit beach with an icecream and thought, ‘This is nice. I shall just perch on this rock over here and watch the ferries coming and going, the light surfing on the waves…I really should appreciate this magical beach more often, of an evening – afterall it’s what I came here for….’
…. and within 30 seconds my private reveries were shattered by some freaky, hunch backed bastard holding an empty plastic bag, sidling up to me with a voice like a Spanish Hanibal Lectar …’Hola Clarice… que taaaaal?’
Never trust anyone with an empty plastic bag. They are scientifically guaranteed to be an axe murderor. The plastic bag is to put you severed head in as a trophy once they’ve dragged you off to a corner of the beach, stripped you and hacked you up into teeny tiny pieces with a spoon.
So I said: ‘Please Fuck Off!’ gathered together my belongings and flounced away up the beach with a huffy snort. Can’t I have five minutes to myself when I want it?!
Meeting new people feels like dating. You take numbers as if they are going out of fashion and make enthusiastic promises to meet for coffees that more often than not don’t materialise. For the last few days I felt like I was stalking this poor girl who works in the café where I sit with my laptop sometimes. I kept peering at her and I think she felt my looks. I don’t know what it was, I just had a feeling we were in the same boat. She seemed a bit out on a limb….
“So…what do you do when you’re not working?” I chimed in suddenly the other morning as she was delivering my capuccino to me.
I’m not sure who was more taken aback by this sudden outburst, she or I.
But she smiled, shrugged and looking a little embarrassed said, (insert Goldmember-esque accent): “….well, I don’t hev many friendsh here.’
“Great!” said I. “Me neither.”
So we swapped numbers.
The Dam, (as I shall call her, for that be where she is from) invited me for a few white wines in Sands beach bar a few days later. She looks terribly innocent but it turns out back home she works in advertisting and is an absolute booze hound, partying, glamour and men- mad filther. We have plenty in common. I’m hoping I’ve found a wingwoman. And so far I’m pretty sure she’s not an axe murderer. Though I’m always on the lookout for plastic bags.....
So I’m off home for Glastonbury ....when I come back will I be staying? The truth is it’s anyone’s guess – I can’t wait to go home... four days of frolicking in the charming English countryside with all my favourite people has the potential to just tip me over the edge.
Monday, 21 June 2010
I am finding ways to enjoy my own company. I’m finding pleasure in simple things, black coffee, fresh pastries, morning beach visits and icy dips before starting work, palm trees, ships on the empty ice-blue horizon, diamonds on the surface of the sea and the fact I’m now brown enough to use oil instead of spf - which makes me rather smug!
The drums never cease. I drove back from Space the other night (I had to write a review of the night so it was business, not pleasure) and tuned into the radio. So deep and dark and sexy were the tunes, that when I parked I couldn’t physically extract myself from my car and I sat there enjoying a Space-cadet’s party for one with the engine running, for a good 20 minutes. Then all of a sudden I had a moment of ‘what the fuck am I doing?’ clarity and hobbled home.
Not to detract from my general cheer today, and feeling of well-being, but I do have one complaint. The fucking Spanish and their bloody car horns. They love them. And particularly love sitting in their cars in the street just under my window leaning on the horn ...
‘beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep’ to make a point.
Alright you cunt, we get it! You are irked by something. Now shut up!
Indeed, to borrow the Scroogian cadences of Dickens: If I had my way every Spaniard who goes about beeping repeatedly on his horn would be run over with his own car and buried with one of these up his arse:
Sunday, 20 June 2010
So, I didn’t tell my Gran, but I do in fact live in a red light district. It’s not a particularly obvious one. I mean, there aren’t crack whores hanging off lampposts outside my front door or anything. But walking from here to there of an evening by oneself is a bit of a minefield of slime-tastic male lechery, wolf whistling gut-churning ‘Hey, guapa, preciosa…. You wan suck my cock?’ –type heckling.
"Yes dear. I really want your greasy, shriveled up little peanut-shaped excuse for a penis in my mouth. What a good thing I bumped into you on the street right at this moment. How fortuitous. Because I was beginning to worry I was going to miss the fucking opportunity and go home disappointed."
Anyhoo, particularly in light of recent events and the local ethos, and on the kind suggestion of Big Brother 2.1 and The Princess, I have decided to dub my falling-apart-at-the-seams but still cool red Alfa Romeo, Roxanne.
Roxanne, it turns out, behaves worse than me. I told her to stay away from white lines, but did she? Did she fuck. And the upshot was I had to prison-break, nay, bail her out of a down-town penitentiary for wayward vehicles last week.
It had been an interesting few days, involving much soul searching about whether or not I really wanted to be here, on this ghastly, yet fabulous island. There had been much falling in and out of clubs trying to bury the demons under a layer of chemically induced serotonin whilst simultaneously trying to hold down several free-lance work projects without looking like a total waster. Let’s be honest – my short term memory was as tatty as a pair of prostitute’s pants.
But still, I stepped out of my flat completely compos mentis one sunny Friday morning to go and get some bits and bobs from my car. And after traipsing up and down the street for twenty minutes or so, something started to smell a bit fishy. I don't get this, thought I.... I've NEVER lost my car like this. I've temporarily mislaid it a couple of times, it’s true, and found it after an exasperated and bemused walk up a couple of possible roads, but I have never lost it like this.
Where the fuck is my fucking car? I wondered. I bumped into the dude from reception at Es Vive - Dude. I said, in fact. Where’s my car?
I was convinced she’d been car-napped and her once polished steering wheel and glistening body work covered in the grubby paw prints of some low-life tea-leaf.
Towed. Towed by the rozzas for sticking her nose over a white line. There but for the grace of God...
Fortunately I bought her freedom for the princely sum of 150Euros and all is now well.
But seriously, it made me wonder....why didn’t nature make us all with just that squatch more serotonin floating around in our veins? We would approach such pot-holes as the above, and indeed everything in life with infinitely more patience, even temper and positivity, let alone disinterested logic if we were all off our faces on happy chemicals the whole time.
Saturday, 19 June 2010
1. Aggressively self centred (case in point: he hasn’t asked me a single question about myself since he arrived, but I know his life story)
2. Mildly self satisfied
3. A bit of a scab
5. Fond of dense, drunk leggy blondes and getting off his tits
However to give the guy his due, he has good shoes, considerable talents when it comes to producing tech house, can squeeze himself into alarmingly tight jeans, is mostly kind and laid back and has a physics degree . He is also fucking clumsy and keeps breaking kitchenware.
‘Oh FUCK! Where did that come from?’....I keep hearing from the kitchen
Oddly, it turns out he’s one half of a quite well known double act. An attractive American friend of mine stopped by for coffee on Wednesday and they proceeded to chew each other’s ears off about life the universe and everything for several hours. The next day I received an impressed Facebook message from her:
‘I can’t believe you’re living with (insert name) from (insert name of DJ double act)!!…He’s so hot – lucky girl!’
Hmmmm. You may remember me saying I didn’t mind if this DJ chap was a fuckhead, as long as he didn’t try to fuck me. And I stand by that. He’s completely not my type. The colouring’s all wrong. And we’re talking Just For Men out of a bottle wrong here. A slightly paunchy, 38-year-old kidult with delusions of grandeur? Not really my style darling.
It’s true, my potential for getting free drinks and hanging around celeb-type DJ circles has just escalated by a good 50% over night ...as long as I’m up for scurrying around after him like a doe-eyed hanger on. Which I’m not sure I am.
So sadly, what would be revered by DJ whores the world over as a golden opportunity, is somewhat wasted on me, as I don’t shag DJs as a matter of principle.
Thursday, 17 June 2010
L also just happens to be a bit of a looker, with legs up to here, flowing raven hair, dewy complexion and an unmistakable twinkle in her eye – which means she attracts quite a bit of attention wherever she goes.
In Pacha this comes in the form of many a gurning, wide-eyed, sweaty club-punter squawking in her ear trying to chat her up, constantly. And her having to explain, constantly, that she can’t hear them. And no. Shouting louder won’t do the trick. The inevitable and painfully obvious conversation then follows:
‘How can you be out clubbing if you’re deaf?‘
‘Well’ she has to tell them. ‘I can feel the vibrations. I can enjoy the general dancing, rhythmic and visual experience of getting off my tits in a club in the same way you can.’
...Which is all very fun the first time around. But it gets rather dull after about 10 years and hundreds of foamy-mouthed, ignorant twats who you wouldn’t in other circumstances give the time of day to, sidling up to you with the same question.
Unfortunately (for him) but hysterically (for us), at about 5.30am one particularly repellent wide-eyed punter (who I’d have probably crossed the street to avoid on a work day) bore the brunt of L’s ennui at having to constantly explain herself to complete strangers.
He sat down next to her and I on a sofa towards the end of the night, where we were happily tearing silent, sign-language chunks out of all the cheap, tacky sluts who were scuttling to and fro in front of us.
L: ‘Terrible shoes’
Me: ‘Fat arse’
L: ‘...ugh...just... disgusting...’
Me: ‘White denim. You should NEVER wear white denim...’
Punter: ‘ Ello laydies….(homing in on L) ello gorgeous… you English?’
At this point it is necessary to mention that L doesn’t speak out loud. She lip reads and quite justly expects you to offer her the same courtesy.
L: (shakes her head)
L: (shakes her head)
Punter: ‘Where you from then darlin?’
L: (turning to me)…..Tell him I’m from deaf land.
Me: (silently) Deaf Land? Really?
L: Yeah. (Dead-pan) Tell him I’m from Deaf Land.
Me: Erm...alright...(to Punter) ...she says to tell you she’s from Deaf Land
Punter: ‘Wha? Deaf Land? Where’s that then...never heard of it’
L: (to Punter)...do you know sign language?
Punter: Eh? What’s she saying?
Me: She wants to know if you know sign language?
Punter: oh...no...course I don’t!
L: (With a shrug and a wave of her perfectly manicured hand)...Well fuck off then...
Punter...what’d she say?
Me: Um...she says to fuck off...
Which he duly did. Looking very confused.
It was brilliant. Purely brilliant.
Monday, 14 June 2010
Me: How much money would you lick a bit of sellotape covered in fluff for? A million?
He: For a mill? I'd lick most things. Apart from maybe depleted Uranium. Hell I'd lick from here to the train station. I'd lick my house. In fact. I'm going to go and stand on the street right now with a sign saying 'will lick stuff for money'. How much d'you reckon someone would pay for me to lick their lawn?
This week I have learned that sometimes its only when you're away from your friends you realise how many you have.
I've lost some important people in my life and sometimes it feels there's a hole there - a huge part of me that's missing. Un-fillable. You thumb through the contacts on your phone, wondering whose ear to piss your feelings into. And draw a blank.
The Boss went home on Tuesday last week and quiet days of abject comedown and loneliness ensued, when jumping on a plane straight home seemed the only option. But somehow in this magic age of modern communication, you're never really alone. Whenever I'm down, I call on you my friends.
Ibiza is just how I thought it would be. But I am not. This island is in your face. Strangely welcoming and strangely distant. Everyone wants a piece of you. But it's hard to focus on the new when you know there are people, or a person, that you'd infinitely prefer to be spending all your time with. This is not what I expected from myself all those weeks ago when I wanted to escape from home.
I have a confession. I love being winked at. Preferably by a complete stranger or very new acquaintance. There's something warmingly conspiratorial, personal, unexpectedly intimate about it. A moment shared only between winker and wink recipient. And it takes skill to execute the perfect wink. So it doesn't just look like you have a strange twitch. A slight inclination of the head is a good embellishment.
The waiter in the restaurant I'm using as my office does it every so often if I catch his eye. It makes me feel at home.
So if you happen to catch someone's eye today - give them a wink. You never know how much you might brighten their day...
Friday, 11 June 2010
Now I know there are those among you who would argue that I have always been an urchin. But some may care to remember that I used to live in a really rather nicely turned out house of my own, in a quite posh part of town. With furniture and shit. And art and curtains and cutlery, with a hoover and bathbombs and a fruit bowl. And a cat.
So why, when I find myself living in a lovely (well...clean, spacious and convenient) flat, on a sun-drenched holiday island and am sitting in a delightful beach-front restaurant staring out at a glittering ocean and cobalt sky... can I only think of how much I miss the crack den hovel of the ski resort?
I genuinely miss the ash-covered floor, scattered with raw potatoes and condoms. The stinky duvet and crispy socks. Getting into bed with crumbs on my feet.
All I dream of is the misty mountains. The biting cold.
I miss my pom pom hat. You really don't need them here in this heat. You'd look a right cunt.
Which is why I spend every spare minute applying for ski jobs. My heart belongs to the mountains.
Truly, as my ex declared on skype the other day....I have become a Slumdog Snob. Too posh to wash baby. Yeah.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
‘I’m fine’ he said to the barman. ‘I just fancied a lie down.’
In Es Vive (by the way, people, I checked, and you pronounce it Es Vivay....not Es Veev like so many saaarf londoners seem to think) my vodka and coke mysteriously never depletes (despite my advancing blind-drunkeness). I have a blister on my elbow from so many hours’ leaning on the bar. The barman is cute. He is flanked by two elfin and immaculate cocktail waitresses, the Spanish pixie, Josefine and the vaguely satirical, verbally economical, typically Slovak Jana.
The problem is, it’s open all morning, 8am, 9am, 10am.... So whatever club I go to it’s a pit stop on the way home. It would be rude not to just pop in.
And better still, if you befriend whoever’s staying there (I’m thinking pick a different group every week) and plead loneliness (‘I’ve just arrived in Ibiza, I’m on my own’ ...yada yada yada) and flash your cleavage a bit you get invited to sit round the pool and bought lunch the following day by some Dolce & Gabbana’d up socialite. And my my do you meet some interesting types.
Like Sid Shanti – (saggy round the edges one-time 90's Manumission DJ reborn as Chef to Ibiza-type celebrities including P-to-the-Diddy, Jamie Oliver and half the England football team) -who tried to snog me, told me you reap what you sow and invited me to lunch. In that order.
Then there was Fat Tony. A painfully thin, painfully tanned, theatrically camp 40-something DJ with ‘God Help Me’ tattoo’d down one arm and ‘Surrender’ tattoo’d down the other ....and a fabulous set of pearly whites. Fat Tony told me he had been clean for 3 years. He had to get clean because he’d boshed so much gack up his nasal cavity in the years preceding that eventually his friends found him in a darkened room, rocking back and forth, having pulled out every one of his own teeth. Talk about all gone Pete Tong. Must have looked like a fertility celebration at Dracula’s castle.
Apparently his face collapsed and his cheeks got so thin he had to have collagen implants and a whole set of new dentures.
‘You reap what you sow man, you reap what you sow’, said Sid.
Well, indeed. And by all accounts Tony sows ‘em pretty thin. He spent the afternoon entertaining those congregated around the pool with his new favourite iPhone application – Grindr. For the uninitiated, Grindr is a service to which (if one is so inclined) one logs in to find out how far away the nearest man in need of a quick, dirty, incognito one up the bum is. Truly the iPhone is a magical phenomenon. It has given birth to a whole new way to spread venereal disease. Anyway. The previous night, bored and alone in his room at 4am, Tony had logged onto Grindr and found to his delight the nearest available candidate was in the very same hotel. He sent a message and minutes later came a knock on the door.
He opened it to find a member of the hotel staff – a waiter - gurning at him.
FT: ‘....fuck do you want?’
Latino waiter: ‘Sssh ....don’t thay a worrrd’
FT: ‘old on a minute...didn’t you serve me my lunch?....what’s your name?’
Latino waiter: ‘Ith no important’
FT; ‘Oh f.....just get in ‘ere for fuck’s sake’
Latino waiter: ‘Ok....but we mutht never thpeak of dis ’
...Shame, cos Tony did quite a lot of speaking about it. In fact he pointed him out to us when he was serving drinks around the pool.
According to Grindr, in Ibiza you’re never more than 10 yards from an enthusiastic cock.
....on another note...I have discovered that the Catholic paedophile axe murderer who lives in this flat off season is also a Flamenco aficionado. Surprised? Well, Hitler was a vegetarian painter with a Wagner fetish, so you shouldn’t be. Think Hannibal Lecter. Found his stash of warbly latino clap clap clap trap in a dusty cupboard and am getting quite into it...ole!
Monday, 7 June 2010
He was a little bit broken. The day before my bag got tealeafed with his treasured wallet inside. I've never seen him so stricken. The only solution was to get annihilated and go to Space. Which we duly did. And then spent a very long, hot day lying in a sweaty, sandy puddle of goo on the bed trying to recover. Saying goodbye to a lover in an advanced state of comedown fear is a genuinely bad plan. Take it from me.
So off he went and here I was. Trying to man the fuck up and not be pathetic, but temporarily penniless and feeling alone. Suddenly I desperately needed a cigarette. Affliction of the smoker: even in times of destitution, when one has only 20 quid to one's name, cobbled together out of a bag of small change donated by one's Dad, one will still spend 3.50 of that on a packet of Malborough's finest cancer sticks. Good plan.
But pimp my ride if a few days later, having looked up a few tenuous friends of friends of friends I didn't find the fun.
First stop, Sirocco's. As per invitation from a fabulous artsy craftsy type chap named M. Bespangled, bronzed 40-something lovelies dining by candlelight under chiffon drapes on a sunset beach. Marijuana drifted languidly around. Later the ladies swayed nonchalantly on to what hed kandi album covers refer to as 'blissed out Belaeric beats' accompanied by a bongo drummer with hair like Keith Prodigy's, while their slick-haired husbands looked on, money oozing from every pore.
The evening was only mildly marred by a Spanish mama and mother of ten, draped in a black and gold caftan with copius long black hair who, clearly irked by my youth and Englishness, took a disliking to me at the bar. My very British lack of multilingual ability apparently offended her and she started wafting her champagne in my face and asking me intense questions in Italian to demonstrate her superiority. 'Capishe? Capishe?' she kept demanding, sloshing Dom Pérignon down my top.
'Look luv. Non capishe I don't speak fucking Italian. And are you really trying to do me down by speaking a language that's ninety percent the same as your mother tongue? Jog on. You'd have to be a fucking retard NOT to speak Italian. Now take your baggy old sack of leather ten-children vagina and shove it some other cunt's face. Capishe?'
I wish that's what I'd said. But I just smiled and wondered off.
The next evening finds me in u s h u a ï a beach bar trying to keep control of my face and prevent myself from being groped by the usual under-developed, over-tanned rich Italian boy-man.
HE: ' I really love Engleeeeesh women'
Me: 'I bet you do dear. But this one's keeping her knicknacks on so Bugger off.'
By dint of a well connected mutual friend (thanks Mrs Widget) I then managed to completely out-do The Boss by getting us into Pacha free. He had spectacularly failed to get the boy and I on the Space guestlist a few days before, and so looked a little rueful as we were wafted in via the VIP area without so much as a double take. 'That was pretty smooth' he conceded. Yeah mate. You're fucking right it was. Watch and learn.
Inside, rhinestone encrusted Victorian giantesses on a rotating bed above the dance floor surveyed their minions...flinging things into the crowd....my brain is melting....I'm pretty much off my tits.... I have found God. His name is Luciano....
Saturday, 5 June 2010
Egotists. Shisters. Bullshitters. Downright arseholes. People in general who wouldn't piss on you if you were aflame in a ditch somewhere screaming. I've got the T-shirt to prove it.
This is why I approach with extreme caution any punters peddling themselves under this variety of headings. It is also why I wasn't all that perturbed to find The Boss unconscious, dribbling and sweaty in a grotty hotel room when SbH and I rocked up on the island at 9am Tuesday morning. He was, after all, on the tail end of an 18-man strong stag do to rival The Hangover. Why on earth would I expect him to be compus mentus to greet me after an 18 hour drive?
After some grunting and mooching around he regained the power of speech, crooned 'Heeeey partner! Welcome to Ibiza!' at me and enveloped both SbH and I in a sweaty hug. We were then regaled with a story about a girl he'd met the previous evening who claimed to have once shagged an entire stag do. Including the groom. 'Bet shagging her was like trying to drive a sausage up the M1' he drawled before keeling over and passing out again.
By my calculation, however, and in relative terms to some of the clubland twats I've come across during my time this dude is quite a solid chap. By midday our apartment was all sorted out and he was off into town selling tickets to his boat party scheduled for that very same evening, to which we were cordially invited. So it all turned out nice again, as they say.
The apartment is but 60 seconds walk from the beach so no complaints there. Although clearly it is inhabited by a paedophile, catholic axe murderer off-season judging by the person-sized and totally un-necessary freezer in the kitchen, creepy jesus icons above the beds and miniature china figurines littered around the place, which have been duly relegated to the cupboards.
In fact, the only major fly in the ointment is the noise. Ibiza knows no silence, I'm aware of that. But there's noise and then there's Japanese water torture nosie....
Evidently two very fat, ugly and consequently angry Spanish ladies live in the flats behind mine as they are always hurling abuse at each other across the courtyard. One of them also owns a canary.
Now, I'm not generally a violent person, particularly with animals. But if I ever catch that tweety little fucker I will take heightened pleasure in ripping it's feathers out one by one and stuffing it with petrol soaked newspaper. I will then set it on fire and use it as an ornithological Molotov cocktail straight through fat Spanish bint's front window!