How To Get Into My Pants Pocket.

I went to my mum’s house this week for dinner. She likes to have me over at least once a week because, as most of my friends already know, I rarely answer my phone and always forget to text back, so she likes to make sure I’m still alive by luring me to her house with the promise of food.

She always does this thing where she’ll ask me if I want a cup of tea, and when I say yes she’ll say “go and put the kettle on, then. No sugar for me.” My mum very rarely makes the tea, and when she does, she doesn’t tailor your cup to suit you; everyone must have no sugar and barely any milk, so you end up having to go and make yourself a new one anyway. And she never has any good biscuits, the only two choices are either a handful of trail mix or half a soft gingernut from a box of broken biscuits that my great aunt gave her in the nineties.

Once we were settled, my mum turned off the television, looked me straight in the eye and said the one thing I was trying to avoid:

“Don’t you think it’s time you got a boyfriend Pascale?”

It was then I realised my cunning mother had trapped me, forcing me to indulge her in a DMC (Deep, Meaningful Conversation). I think she knows that if she approaches the subject outside of the house, I’ll get spooked and run into nearby woodland like a frightened deer. But this time I literally felt like I’d been caught in one of those tree spring noose traps – uncomfortable and panic-stricken and headachey; franticly eyeing up all possible exits from the conversation with that crazed look in my eye that cows get when they know they’re going to die. Even when I played dead on the floor it didn’t faze her; she just used my limp, lifeless body as a footstool and kept talking.

It’s a conversation that she deems necessary to have every 4-6 months. My mum can’t get her head around the fact that I don’t want a boyfriend, nor do I have time for one. Contrary to popular belief, I’m actually very busy.  I work, then I write, then I watch television, then I check Facebook, then I feed my tamagotchi, then I watch television again, and so on. Plus, I only have a single bed, and if there’s one thing that annoys me more than having to see people in the kitchen every morning at breakfast, it’s being less than a centimetre away from someone else’s face when I wake up. Then there’s all the unnecessary questions: Did you sleep well? Do you want some tea? What’s your name? Urgh, GO AND MAKE ME A BACON SANDWICH ALREADY. I mean yeah, sometimes I cry myself to sleep, but it’s not because I’m alone. It’s inevitable because, you know, things play on my mind late at night. Ice is melting… think of the polar bears and stuff…

During our (mostly one-sided) DMC, my mum seems to insinuate that I am too fussy. I resent this suggestion – I am most definitely not fussy, I just have a few rules that men must adhere to, because having absolutely no standards would mean you could end up being with anyone – or anything – that crossed your path. Like Charles Manson or a honey badger or Lyndsey Lohan. Uuurrrgh.

I once started a little list of boyfriend no-goes, photocopied it numerous times, laminated it and stuck one in the back pocket of all my trousers and pants (that’s right, I said pants. A PANTS POCKET. Who said GCSE textiles teaches you nothing). The good thing about laminated copies is that you can take them on a night out and no matter how many times you spill drink on them, throw up on them,  and drunkenly wet yourself on them (not that I have, I’m just assuming) they never get ruined. Thus, you are able to nip any annoying hang-ups in the bud before you’ve even stumbled out of your panties that night, rather than trying to address the problem six months down the line. Boys: take note. This is how women’s minds really work…

Pet-hates include, but are not limited to:

–          Wearing hiking shoes on a night out

–          Thumb rings

–          Names like Nigel, Cyril or Gerald under the age of thirty

–          Using any of the following words in a conversation:  numpty, nincompoop, fabby, rad or yummy

–          Litterers

–          Having the word ‘pussy’ bookmarked in your phone…

–          … But more if you have the word ‘dicks’ bookmarked…

–          Using pet names

–          Not having a beard

–          Singing with your eyes shut

–          Megalomaniacs

–          Letting dogs lick your face

–          Stealing food off my plate when I’m not looking

–          Deuce-throwers

–          Using any excuse to take your shirt off

–          Wearing flip flops in winter

–          Being cleverer than me

–          Wearing majorly deep v-necks

–          Dipping your chips in your milkshake because you’re so outrageous

–          Trying to pick me up when you know I’m too heavy for you

–          Connoisseurs of the back-handed compliments. Eg: “Yes but she’s not as happy and doesn’t smile as much as you, that’s why she’s got no lines on her face.”

(Obviously these stand alongside the regular rules, like good manners, not being a murderer, being a living person ect.)

But, like Joe E. Brown said, nobody’s perfect.  I’m certainly not – just the other day I stopped breathing for a couple of minutes because I’d choked on some squirty cream that I’d tried to consume lying down. Also, I did the BBC IQ test a couple of years ago and it told me that my IQ was the equivalent of a lorry driver. Not that there’s nothing wrong with that per se. I can’t even drive a car let alone a lorry so, you know, bravo lorry drivers. It’s just that I’m supposed to be a university graduate; I should at least have the intelligence of TJ from Smart Guy. And  I feel that being out of education has probably made my IQ decrease, if anything (although using the word decrease gains me a couple more points, right?).  This would probably mean that my boyfriend would have the IQ of those teenagers who have to sit in The Rainbow Room at school for all of their classes that aren’t Health and Social Care.

…Just FYI, I do have a list for what I like, if anyone’s interested. Strangely this list is a lot shorter, though. It basically includes letting me sing along to sitcom theme tunes, helping me to intimidate children at the park so I can go on the swings, being generous enough to swap a Mewtwo with me for all my energy cards, and accepting my love for balaclavas in the winter.

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My Week In Pictures

I want to apologise to the dozens of people that read my blog for not putting up a post for a whole week. I’ve just been mega busy. In fact I’m so busy, I have no time to tell you about all the things I’ve been busy doing. But I’ve been taking pictures as proof to show you how busy I’ve been. So here’s my week in pictures.

I have been:

Being creative

Keeping up-to-date with current affairs

Swimming with dolphins

Buying great christmas presents

Making new friends…

…And sworn enemies

Exercising

Preparing

Problem solving

Reading

Anyway, I’m off to do some more exciting shit. Who bloody knows what it’ll be. My life is just so unpredictable. Like Britney Spears in 2007 or Tom Cruise in love.

That Time I Was On Deliwatch.

I’m starting a new job on Sunday, which I’m so glad about because I’m really poor. Being poor hasn’t really stopped me from doing much, it just means that I need to be more careful with my money. Some may call this ‘stingy’ or ‘stealing’. But they’re wrong.

These days when I go out for dinner, I like to resort to the old scumbag trick of patting down my pockets and saying “Oh GOD, it appears I forgot to bring cash with me… How embarrassing…” which mostly always works, apart from one time when I went to this two-person dinner party (I refuse to refer to it as a date). I tried to pull this stunt, and the guy I was with was all like “I haven’t got any cash either… So do you want to, like, pay on your card and I’ll, like, kinda buy us some drinks later?” so I had to (reluctantly) say yes. I then spent the rest of the night drinking small glasses of Wetherspoons’ cheapest rose, until it was time for me to help him home after five “single” JD and cokes; holding onto his belt loops and the hood of his jumper like an adult in a makeshift toddler harness, in order to prevent him running into oncoming traffic. It was actually only after he vommed on my shoes that I worked out they were actually doubles, and there had been more than five.

Anyway, through years of sporadic frugality, I’ve found ways to cut the cost of dining out. You could always be the typical food wanker – eat a delicious meal, lie and tell the waiter you weren’t satisfied with it, refuse to pay. But we’ve all been there a millions times over, right? I mean, we’ve all banned from Strada, right? RIGHT? So I’m thinking we all need to get a bit more creative with our stinginess. Here are just a few of my tried and tested methods:

1. The Party Pooper

Having younger relatives are always a plus for this one, because they quite often have parties of other small people to go to. And you know what this means: PARTY BUFFET.

Mums always put on the best spreads for their kid’s parties, and you can guarantee you’ll always leave with an awesome goodybag at the end. If it’s a shit goodybag, however, just march right back over to the mother responsible, throw the bag in her face, and shout “WHERE’S MY BUBBLE BLOWER, BITCH?” and insist she gives you a bigger piece of cake that has extra icing on it. Also, when the kids are playing pass the parcel, this is an excellent opportunity to scoop large amounts of buffet food into your bag. For example, I have a clutch bag that fits precisely 57 cocktail sausages in it. Then if anyone gets suspicious, you just blame it on the fattest kid there (I’m allowed to say that because I used to be that kid).

This sneaky little trick also works at house parties, but don’t get too excited about the food arrangements; I’m telling you now the only thing students will have are crisps in assorted flavours all mixed together in one bowl. If you can deal with that, go for it girlfriend. If it’s not a student party though, they might well be rich enough for you to steal the fruit from a jug of their Pimms, or a few cocktail sticks from the cheese and pineapple hedgehog.

2. The Mint Addiction

I just googled mint addiction and apparently it’s a real thing. I wonder when you realise you’re addicted to mints. Sometimes I like to see how many Smints I can put in my mouth in one go, does that make me a maddict (mint addict = maddict)?

Anyway, I digress. My next pearl of wisdom is this: when you go to a restaurant or a bar that has a bowl of mints on the counter, just order the cheapest thing on the menu and when the cashier turns away from you, STEAL THE MINTS. A handful of mints will save you from having to buy gum for at least a week, depending on your handsize. That’s why when I go out I always wear coats with multiple hidden pockets. You have to be wary of those mirrors they have behind the bar though, because there is no good way to explain to staff why you’ve got both your hands and your face in the mint bowl.

3. The Cheese Deli Psycho

It is useful to hang around the deli counters at certain supermarkets, because quite often they put samples on top of the counter for you to try. It’s mostly just cheese, but if you like continental breakfasts abroad I’m sure you’ll be fine eating a few lumps of sweaty cheese that has been warmed by the overhead spotlights. You’ll need to circulate supermarkets because they catch on pretty quickly and will either take away the cheese plate, or put you on Deliwatch, which involves keeping a picture of you behind the counter with a DO-NOT-FEED-HER-type warning. But this is easily solved if you can get your hands on a pair of Groucho Marx glasses.

4. The Gherka

Lastly, the laziest option available. When you’re in McDonalds, don’t buy anything, but eat all your friends’ gherkins, which only really works if you’re with a lot of people, or really desperate (or really into gherkins. Which no one is. Or ever should be). Although if this is something you’d do you probably haven’t got any friends.

This was actually supposed to be a post on my new job. But I guess helping others is much more important. That’s what I do – I’m a giver. But don’t worry, if you’re bored of me talking about food yet, my next post promises to have plenty of toilet humour, yaaaaay!

Just in case you were wondering, here’s my Deliwatch picture:

Taylor Swift ruins everything.

Being unemployed has made me so lazy. I was pretty lazy when I was at university, but then I always had my friends around me. So spending the day in my pyjamas, deep in the second Harry Potter marathon of that week didn’t seem so bad when others were doing it too.

I now have no motivation to do anything. I blame Bauer Media; if they stopped making me do cover letters for their job applications I wouldn’t be procrastinating half as much. And it’s not like at uni where at some point you have to do the work (I usually spent three weeks drinking my own weight in cider and watching back-to-back episodes of The OC, then I’d do the essay the night before  it was due in, crying and feeling sorry for myself and listening to Jungle music to keep me awake). This is wholly my decision, and sometimes my decision is that it’ll be worth playing The Sims for the whole day rather than explaining why I deserve a job there. I’ll just get a job in Pizza Hut and live my career fantasies through Sim Pascale

If any of the following has happened to you, you have reached the peak of laziness, and I believe we could potentially be best friends:

  1. You can’t be bothered to put on a film
  2. You can’t find the remote so you continue to watch the shopping channel until someone else finds it for you
  3. You can’t be bothered to go get a McDonalds
  4. When someone else has got you the McDonalds, you can’t be bothered to blow on it and are  happy to burn your mouth on hot burger

Not all of these have happened to me, but that’s only because I can’t persuade anyone to walk to McDonalds for me.

Today whilst I procrastinated, I got a bit addicted to watching Taylor Swift music videos. I think all older men can learn from her music. The moral of the story is this: never go out with someone who is young enough to think that wearing coloured hairbands and silver hair grips is still okay. Because if you break up with them, these girls have no qualms in telling anyone that will listen what an arsehole you are. And if you go out with Taylor Swift, she’s going to tell seventy million people who want to listen. Thanks for ruining Jake Gyllenhaal for everyone, Taylor.

 

N.B. – I just want to issue a quick apology to all the Harry Styles fans now stumbling across my blog after typing the words “Taylor Swift ruins everything” into their search engines. I’m sorry, I bet you’re all pretty disappointed this isn’t about wanting Taylor Swift to die a slow and painful death because she stole your boy.

An exciting glimpse into my rich and fruitful life

Oh God I had a cerrraaazy day yesterday. Every day I have a sandwich for lunch, but today I had no filler so I was like well I could just have some toast instead, but I really do enjoy a cheese sandwich, so I went to Tesco to get some cheese but then I remembered that Tesco is shut at the moment, so I went to Sainsbury’s instead, which is at least another five minutes added to my journey, and all I could think was how annoying it was because I had a busy day planned watching animal videos on Youtube, and I had left a Sims family unattended on my laptop. When I went to pay for the cheese I only had a £20 note, and I don’t think the cashier was very happy with me because I had brought the smallest pack of mild cheddar which was just under £2 (I really had to resist buying one of those mini assortment packs LOL what am I like), but when I got home and looked in the bread packet I realised there was only the crust left and I was like fuck this, I’m having a crumpet.

And the best outfit goes to Manbearpig.

Soooo Halloween weekend is over. Me and my two friends went as creepy dolls, but about half way through the night the creepy makeup had slid off our faces from doing too many energetic Beyonce dance-offs, and we just looked like that was what we’d decided to wear for a normal night out. At one point I lost them and I was wondering around this club on my own, looking like a giant toddler. I embraced it, though. A stranger and I had the following conversation at the bar:

Them: What are you supposed to be?

Me: What do you mean?

Them: Aren’t you in fancy dress?

Me: No? How dare you!

Them: Then why are those two girls over there dressed exactly the same as you?

He points at my friends who are jumping up and down on the spot in the middle of the dance floor.

Me: Dayyuuuum, those are two snappy dressers.

And I ran off to join in with the hotdog dance. Here is a picture of the three of us with Jimmy Savile. Contrary to popular belief looking like Bjork in one of her weird get-ups was not my intention:

You don’t want to know where Jimmy’s other hand was. He had to go and wash that one pair of pants he owns after this was taken.

The best dressed award had to go to my sister’s boyfriend Chris. No one is quite sure what he was dressed as. I don’t think he even knows. It started off as Manbearpig but then he just started adding bits on as he went, treating it as some weird Art Attack. It was like when chefs taste their food and say “Hmmm, this needs more salt,” Chris would look himself in the mirror and say ‘Hmmm, I need an eyeball on my forehead.” This was the end product:

I know what you’re thinking. Yes, that is a Chanel lipstick. Oh yes, and those are pig’s ears attached to a hairband. He looks like Blix’s simple brother (if you don’t know who I’m talking about you obviously haven’t watched enough Tom Cruise movies). The next day Chris told us that he left most of his outfit in the club that night. I would have loved to see the reaction of the cleaner picking up a pair of old pig ears, fairy wings and red lipstick from a cubicle in the men’s toilets.

I haven’t been out drinking in a while, mainly because I have to wait a few weeks until the bouncers have forgotten my face and will let me into bars again (only joking mum….). But I overdid it a bit this weekend. You know it’s time to go home when you start saying stuff like “That barman looks like a hot Louis Theroux.” But unfortunately I didn’t, and now I’ve got post-traumatic drink disorder. This is where I get random flashbacks of things that happened the night before, and as a result start having mild panic attacks. The stress of this, plus all the alcohol and the extremely cheap makeup I was wearing has given me an outbreak of spots – I look like I’m going through an extremely delayed puberty. So this evening I treated my two-day-hangover to a meal at Pizza Express. When the waitress came to take the order of the old guy on the table next to us, he pointed and said ‘Oooh, hers looks nice! I’ll have one of those, thankyou” and smiled at me. I had to tell him politely, swatting his hand away, that what he was pointing at was not a pizza, but was in fact my face. He just shrugged and said “Sorry dear, I’m not wearing my glasses.” Never has a Sloppy Guiseppe looked so unappealing.

IT IS (was) HALLOWE’EN (2 days ago)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I know I said I was going to put a post up on Hallowe’en, but I’ve been megs busy. I spent Wednesday letting a hairdresser massacre my hair and then crying in my room with a hat on. It’s weird because I distinctly remember asking for my fringe NOT to look like Mila Jovovich’s in The Fifth Element, but here I am, over-exposed eyebrows and all….

Then Thursday was spent trying to write cover letters for job applications, which mainly involved me staring at an empty word document for about ten minutes, and then swivelling round in my swivelly chair to watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians for two hours. I hate writing cover letters. Why can’t you just say “I want this job because I need one,” or “This job pays well and I need a new car because I spilt milk in the back of mine and I can’t handle the deep-seated smell anymore”?

Anyway, this was repeated all day until I got changed out of my pyjamas at half eight to go watch Skyfall. It was very good. Très très bon. I won’t give anything away, but I will say a few things:

  1. I CAN’T BELIEVE DANIEL CRAIG DIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*
  2. I think – apart from being an evil genius – me and Javier Bardem’s character could potentially be very good friends
  3. The underwater bit would have been much better if the Loch Ness Monster had come along and eaten them both. No one would have seen that one coming.

 

This week I’ve been struggling to find a good costume for my sister’s Hallowe’en party this Saturday. My first idea was this…

… because I already have the perfect head size. But I think most people wouldn’t understand it, and I’d end up taking a beating from some slutty cheerleaders. My next idea was this:

GRIMACE. Eater of children. Or burgers…. Whatever. But Grimace is too costly, and I feel a lot of people would think it was funny to push me around on the dance floor, or try to use me as a mop to wipe up their spilt drinks. I know this because I would find this funny if it wasn’t me.

I just can’t bring myself to dress like a slut on Hallowe’en. I was looking on some fancy dress websites for something to wear, and I know that in general women’s outfits are more revealing than men’s, but I’m not sure the outfit on the right can really pass as a body bag:

Well well well. This is definitely taking Hallowe’en to new realms of sluttiness. I think that’s the toe tag around her neck…

So whilst I took another well deserved break from actual work, I started to look for some other totally absurd sexy women’s outfits. Here’s what I found:

Sexy Cowgirl

This is just f-ing weird. That doesn’t even look sexy, just very strange. Whose hands are those?!

Sexy Unicorn

YOU CAN’T BE A SEXY UNICORN.

Sexy… Angry Poo?

Dressing up as a livid shit is never going to bring the boys to the yard.

Sexy…Urgh….I don’t know….

WHAT IS THIS

I don’t understand

Seriously? THESE ARE IN NO WAY THE SAME. What the fuck, guys.

 

I’ve thought of some good outfits for animals though. Here are just a few from a long list I made:

Cats

–          Tigers and lions – they are like what zombies are to humans: scarier versions of themselves.

–          Black cats can go as Binx from Hocus Pocus

–          This cat can obviously go as Hitler:

 

 

Dogs

–          A dog dressed as a wolf dressed as a granny

–          Chihuahuas have a strange resemblance to Brain (as in Pinky and the…) so they’re pretty much sorted

–          Any dog from the “Dogs Playing Poker” series

 

Now that I’ve had time to think about an outfit, I’ve decided to go as someone notoriously scary, and well known by everyone who ever lived.

I’m going as the crazy bald presenter from The Crystal Maze:

 

 

*I’m only joking. Or am I….?