Why James Arthur Bothers Me.

All X Factor acts annoy me a bit. I find it very unnerving when an act is voted out and they say “this isn’t the last you’ve seen of me!” I feel as though they are threatening me with their music longevity.

But no one annoys me more at the moment than James Arthur. Just to recap, here is his first audition:


He’s a good singer, there’s no denying that. But you can’t feel the pity for James Arthur that he feels for himself, just because he lives in a bedsit. That is not real struggle. All of us have problems like that. For example, did I feel sorry for myself when I lived in a room at university that had a mould problem? Well yes, I did actually, because my bathroom looked like the one from the first Saw film and my lungs now probably look like a moss garden.

But a bedsit? Oh GOD, I have to share a bathroom with the three other people on my floor. And sometimes when I go for a number two the person who’s supposed to change the toilet paper hasn’t, and I have to use kitchen roll. WOE IS ME.

That’s not real struggle. Here is a list of things that are actual struggles in life:

–          Not buying the second pack of wine gums that are half price when you buy the first pack

–          Watching Jennifer’s Body with your dad

–          Trying to fit into your size ten jeans when you’re really a size fourteen (my head says fourteen but my heart says ten)

–          Trying to show a middle aged technophobic woman how to attach a file in an email

–          Trying to take any of Louis Walsh’s comments seriously*


Now, I’ve done a bit of research on James, and it turns out we both had a similar start to life. I too was born a ginger boy.

Just joshing! We actually both used to live in Bahrain. So I understand how hard it must have been to move from a hot country to a cold country. And going from having a house with a maid and a swimming pool, to having a house with NO maid, and NO swimming pool. Like most people in Britain. What a truly harrowing story.

And let’s be honest, all parents argue. My parents used to argue all the time about the most ridiculous things. Like who was going to load the top shelf of the dishwasher and who was going to load the bottom, or whose china pig ornaments were tackier. Games of Trivial Pursuit at Christmas would end in carnage. Besides, everyone knows it’s way more fun having divorced parents. You can get away with all sorts of shit! You get double the amount of presents at Christmas and birthdays, you’re allowed to eat nutella out of the jar, and you can cry whenever you want. Even if it’s just about how slow your internet is or how much you don’t like Terri Hatcher in Desperate Housewives.

Plus, who hasn’t asked to have different parents at one time or another? When I was little I asked plenty of adults to adopt me. It was mostly in the car park of Tesco when I could see they’d brought better food than my parents. In fact, one time I protested so hard to being taken home without some squeezy munch bunch yoghurts that the police turned up at our house that same night because my crying had caught the attention of the other shoppers, who reported it to the police as they thought my dad was trying to kidnap me.

Another thing that bothers me about James is that – as my sister pointed out – he has beautiful, Marilyn-esque eyes. It’s very confusing. If he happened to be peering through my letter box for any reason, I’d think Marilyn Monroe was alive and at my door. Straight up. And if you don’t believe me, look at this.

Marilyn Monroe’s eyes

James Arthur’s eyes


He needs to get other things to talk about other than his bedsit. And also how much he loves women. He’s like the human manifestation of this Calvin Harris song:


Every week he’s stumbling out of a club with a different bunch of girls. I bet he uses his voice to lure women into his taxi; he just sits in an eight-seater with the door open, singing as loud as possible until some drunk girls hear and stumble over. And then he uses those beautiful peepers to seal the deal. He’s like the lovechild of the demon headmaster and a siren.

I have the perfect topic for James Arthur to wean him off all of this “hard-up” bullshit. My sister and I often talk about how much Christopher Maloney looks like the chicken from Chicken Run:

 Rocky the chicken

 Christopher Maloney


*seriously, how do they pretend that they’re listening to Louis? I’m surprised they’re not like “Yeah, okay Louis, we deserve a record deal! Roflololol.”


All I want for Christmas is some clean clothes.

My dad’s flat doesn’t have a washing machine. It probably doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it’s really, really annoying. When I used to come home from university, I’d take all my washing to my mum’s house. I’d call her, chew the fat for a while before innocently invite myself round. Then I’d turn up at her house, barge in with a bin bag full of my clothes, and ask “you got any more food?” through a mouth full of crisps that I’d already raided her cupboards for. I would literally whirl round her kitchen like Taz, overloading the washing machine and getting crumbs on the counters and drinking her expensive orange juice. I think now when I go to her house she inspects me through the spyhole to see what I have with me before deciding whether she’s going to open the door or not.

So now the only two choices I have are to spend a whole day washing my clothes like a Victorian maid or go to the laundrette. And seeing as I don’t currently own a washing board or a mangle (I did have a look on Ebay, apparently you can’t get stuff delivered from the 1800s), I have to trek down to Salisbury’s version of Skid Row to wash my clothes. One time there was human faeces on the pavement outside the launderette, and I’m pretty sure I saw a woman pick it up in a zip-fresh sandwich bag before placing it gently in her hideous backpack that was shaped like Zippy from Rainbow. When I told my dad about this, he asked me how I knew it was a human poo and not dog shit, but I think we’ve all seen enough of ratemypoo.com to know the difference, am I right or am I right?

My dad often goes home whilst his clothes wash but I like to stay with my washing, because there are too many suspicious people in wolf fleeces like this one for my liking:

So I sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair for around an hour and half (inc. tumble dry time) with a newspaper that I have sneakily cut eye holes in. This is so I can make sure that no one tries taking a pair of my pants to keep in the pocket of their fleece, which I can only imagine is filled with snotty tissues, used ear cleaners and already-chewed Juicy Fruit.

Also, I have to spend washing day dressed like this:

And I’m worried the laundrette people are going to start accepting me as one of their own.

So all my dad really needs to do to fulfil my Christmas wish is buy a washing machine. And seeing as there’s limited space, he’s either going to have to get rid of his bed or move into a bigger flat. Personally I think it would be easier to get rid of the bed.

The Judgemental Neighbour Diet.

I’ve found the perfect diet. All you need is the following:

  1. One kitchen window with a broken blind
  2. One nosy neighbour who decides not to shut their blind.

This is where my neighbour lives:


I challenged him today by attempting to stare him out – I looked him straight in the eye whilst eating pistachios very slowly. Eye contact was not broken for around two minutes. In the end I had to be the one to break it because I’d been putting the shells back in the same bowl and I couldn’t tell the difference between eaten and non-eaten pistachios.

I only ever see him through our facing windows, and I don’t often wear my glasses in the kitchen because they get very steamy, but I can just tell he’s very judgemental. Like me, he spends a lot of his time doing nothing. So when I go into the kitchen at 10.30pm, I don’t want someone staring at me with a look on their face that says ‘Really? How many cheese slices can you eat in a day?’

He has made me self conscious in my own kitchen. I can no longer do the things that I love, like pouring golden syrup straight into my mouth, or smelling a multitude of Tupperware pots filled with questionable meats to see which one, if cooked, would be least likely to give me food poisoning (today it was the chicken).

In other news, I learnt something new about my dad today: he gets very upset when you put pistachio shells back in the pistachio bowl.

My Mum’s House.

I stayed at my mum’s house last night. Whenever I go to her house our conversations usually go something like this:

Her: Do you want some tea?

Me: No I’m ok thanks

Her: What about food, do you want some food?

Me: Maybe later

Her: But I’ve made chilli

Let’s just pause here. The only thing my mum ever makes is chilli. It’s pretty much the only thing she knows how to make. She doesn’t even own a sieve or scales – her cupboards are just stacked with tins of kidney beans. She always thinks it’s really spicy even though she doesn’t actually put any chillies in it, just a splash of Tabasco, and then always does this frantic hand wave in front of her mouth to try and rid the food of spiciness. But it’s basically just mince and kidney beans. Anyway…

Me: I’m not hungry, I’ve already eaten

Her: What about just the meat, no rice?

Me: I’m really not hungry

Her: I’ve got some dessert? You like yoghurt don’t you?

Me: Seriously, I wouldn’t want yoghurt even if I was hungry, which I’m not

This goes on for quite a while, until I’m forced to eat a yoghurt.When I was at Uni I was the complete opposite; I used to come home and devour everything. I’d eat out-of-date coleslaw just because it was there. Once I even ate a biscuit out the bin, because I knew the inside of my mum’s bin was a lot cleaner that the kitchen surfaces of my student house.

I took my laptop up to my mum’s so I could carry on working/checking my facebook/watching videos like this:


But she had neglected to tell me that her internet had gone down three days ago. What followed was a very strained conversation between the two of us. My mum doesn’t know how to use a computer; she still doesn’t understand what “you haven’t got it plugged in” means. Here is a very small snippet of our conversation which may or may not have ended in me crying and repeatedly punching a cushion:

‘When did this go down?’

‘Oooh I’m not sure. Well actually, I was reading my emails on Sunday and then I got a message I didn’t recognise…’

‘What did it say?’

‘It said page cannot be displayed, and it had an angry little cross over the computer symbol’

‘How long did you stay on the computer after it did this?’

‘Well, probably around an hour. I had other stuff to do. But in the end I couldn’t do it.’

I wish she had told me about this before I came to her house. I gots important business to attend to (see above video).

Here is what happened in the hours that followed:


I performed the classic on-off trick with her router. Then I wrapped it in a blanket and hugged it close. Then I tried to make a deal with the devil, and screamed “DON’T YOU DIE ON ME – TAKE ME, TAKE ME INSTEAD!” But to no avail. It was dead.


‘I feel like it was all my fault’ I said to mum. She told me it was ok, and that she’d get it fixed this week. How dare she be so understanding. We all know it was her fault really.

I spent the rest of hour two like this:



Mum roped me in to changing the spotlight bulbs in the bathroom, because she doesn’t know anyone else who’s tall enough to do it (she will be getting a nifty pair of bucket stilts for Christmas). All I could think was that I could be watching David After Dentist right now.


I ended up watching Jewish Mum of the Year. What has happened to television. Oy vey!


The horrendous evening ended watching Ratatouille in bed for the hundreth time because it’s the only film on my laptop, and wanting to die so I could go to heaven where I’m pretty sure routers never break.

I don’t mean to turn potential readers away from my very first blog post, but…


Lactose intolerant people: This doesn’t concern you. Go make yourself some Lactofree ice cream or whatever, before you start to bloat.

I want to show everyone why I hate iced drinks/ Shakeaway is boss. To explain this, I have made up some simple diagrams. Let us begin with the Mars Bar Shakeaway:


With the right ingredient, you could potentially have one of the best drinks ever on your hands. They make you understand why Hindus worship cows. It’s like milk from Kamadhenu or the breast of an angel.  And upon reaching the bottom of the cup it only gets better – using the handy scoop on the end of the straw to pick up leftover mars bar pieces can only be described as fatty satisfaction. Or as I like to call it, fatisfaction.

Next, a Starbucks Frappuccino:


It all begins so well. But it doesn’t take long to succumb to that crippling intensity of brain freeze. I think that’s how Wayne Rooney’s head must feel when he tries to think. There is also the bout of throat freeze which gives you an incessant cough that turns your face a weird deep crimson, and this is all because you are choking purely on coldness. It’s like being strangled by The Snowman.

Frappuccinos tend to start life as a vibrant orange beacon of tropical goodness, but quite rapidly descend into a kind of dull white, like the sludge at the side of the road a few days after it’s snowed. The mango flavoured syrup has disappeared, and no amount of straw-stirring will bring it back. And there’s no extra sweets, just a cup quarter-filled with the sad crushed watery remains of a drink. Here’s a tip for you, Starbucks: put more mango stuff in there; it’s not like you can’t afford it, you tax-dodging pricks.

To conclude, here is a list of Shakeaway flavours that are shit. If you like any of these, I can pretty much tell that we would never be friends:

–  Fisherman’s Friends. Do you have a beard? Teeth missing? Do you steal stuff from Lidl? Do you feel the need to spit the big globs of mucus that cling to your airways onto the floor to make schoolgirls scream? Have you got a cough like a homeless asthmatic smoker? No? Then you should not be eating Fisherman’s fucking Friends

–  Liquorice Allsorts. Everyone knows that liquorice is what poor people eat

–  Bourneville chocolate. I didn’t even know they still made Bourneville. They probably don’t, and that’s why they always taste like they went out of date in 1999.

–  Time Out bar

–  Coconut. This freaks me out beyond belief. Who ever heard of coconut milk? Honestly.

–  Battenburg

–  Bourbon biscuit

–  All cake. There is nothing worse than soggy cake. Why not just get a bulldog eat a Victoria sponge and then regurgitate it into your mouth. It’s really is just the worst.

–  Fit and Healthy. You are sucking all the fun out of a Shakeaway.

–  Rice pudding. Again, you are too old to be drinking milshakes.

–  All Posh Shakes and Millionaires Milkshake. Get over yourself – you’re in Shakeaway. The person serving you is wearing a cap. They’re playing the 10 Things I Hate About You soundtrack. There is a man outside dressed as a giant Shakeaway cup. This is not the place to be ordering a £12 milkshake topped with 23 carat edible gold flakes. I bet you’re wearing disposable shoe covers over your hand-made brogues. You don’t belong here, you pompous milk snob.