Welcome to England, there’s a badly dressed homeless guy breaking into your house.

So here are some things that happened to me this week:

–          I got a new job

–          I decided to get a vagina and took up baking for a very short period of time (a skill that would come in handy when I train my pet cats to have tea parties), but ended up setting fire to my dad’s kitchen

–          I watched more terrible TV that gave me a great idea

–          Whilst trying to do a good deed, I managed to scare the shit out of some foreign exchange students and deeply offend a whole family

So yeah. New job – nothing really to tell there. I am once again a bar monkey. I’ll tell you something, I did not miss that smell of stale beer as it goes through the dishwasher though. But I am already enjoying watching people get drunk and making fools out of themselves. It’s just instead of being university students, it’s grown-ass men in sweater vests and Oliver Peoples eyewear (that’s right, it’s eyewear, not glasses) and women in hideous trouser suits. Note: Just because you’re older and you drink expensive cocktails, does not make you a classy drunk. Seriously.

In other news, a couple of nights ago I was at Olivia’s house again to watch some bad TV – my new favourite pastime – and we ended up watching What Happens In Kavos. Which was a whole lot of piss drinking, STD sharing and dick tattooing. It makes me feel super grown up because I ended up saying words like ‘disgusting’ and ‘abysmal’ as an involuntarily reaction every so often. I know my mum would be proud. Or I’d like to think so anyway. Olivia and I were discussing what it would take to make our mum watch a programme like this, because she downright refuses to watch any shows where young people have fun/that aren’t the news, and we decided this would be the only way:

Clockwork'71 + kavos

Ludovico technique + What Happens In Kavos = The realisation of how good it is to have sensible children like me and Olivia.

We actually went on one of these holidays, but to Malia. It wasn’t one of those 18-30 holidays though, because hanging out with a load of dumb-dumbs that would have severely bullied me in school is not my idea of fun. If my mum was ever worried about me turning into a Slutty McSlutterson when I was out there, she really had nothing to worry about. This was my reaction to the attire adopted by this young lady, and pretty much every girl out there:

malia

I think after that holiday I am now unshockable.

Whilst most teenagers were being dry humped and groped on booze cruises, me and Olivia spent the majority of our holiday doing this:

malia2malia3

This, by the way, is called the “pool pervert” look. Coined by us.

But don’t worry, we did manage to have lots of fun on nights out without having to take our clothes off. Unlike this gentleman.

malia4

Anyway. The next day, I decided to start baking. It was the first time I’d baked since I took food tech at school for an easy mark. I liked food tech until I cut my finger making a fruit salad half an hour into our first lesson, and I knew my teacher was never going to like me when I had trouble doing the write-up because I had so many plasters on my hand. Let’s just say nothing has improved since then – I’m still terrible in the kitchen. I can’t even cook simple things. Like, you know those 10p noodles that you cook on the hob with water? I was at this guy’s house making them on a gas hob, and when I leant over to check them, and I literally had a Mrs Doubtfire moment:

You know what’s worse than catching a boy staring at your boobs? When he’s staring because one of them is ON FIRE.

I honestly don’t think I’m a real woman; the only signs I’ve had to prove that I might be are the fact that I like to moan a lot and that I always make a high-pitched squeal when I see kittens. Which is poor evidence at best. There’s nothing else. I don’t like children and I’ve never fancied Brad Pitt. Hold on; I think I can hear some real women hammering on my front door, ready to lynch me with a noose made of daisy chains.

I mostly began to bake because I was procrastinating from doing work that I needed to do. It was definitely more hassle than it was worth. First, I didn’t put the cake tin on a tray and cake mixture oozed out and went all over the oven, which eventually got so burnt I couldn’t open the oven door without getting a face full of smoke. Then I couldn’t tell when it was cooked because I didn’t time it, so I assumed that if it was sloppy in the middle, it was pretty much done. I took it out of the tin and put it on top of the cooker in the baking paper I’d lined it with. Unfortunately, I didn’t realise I had left the hob on, so when I was looking out of the window, daydreaming about which celebrity chef I’d be (just FYI, I would totally be a badass chef like Martha Stewart, and I’d teach people how to bake nail files into cakes) my cake caught fire. And no matter how many times I do fire safety training at work, I can never remember what to do in emergency situations like this. I eventually got it to go out with a lot of flapping and swearing, and if anything I just hoped it had cooked the cake some more. It didn’t, and when I tried to put the icing on, it just got all mixed in with the extremely burnt bits and the sloppy undercooked bits. It looked like a cake that had been horrifically murdered.

Whilst I was in the kitchen cleaning up after my very unsuccessful cake attempt, I saw something suspicious happening outside my window. There was an old homeless guy looking through the window of one of the houses on my little estate. After looking through the window for a while, he began tugging on it, trying to prise it open. When this failed, he walked off – I assumed to go and look through some bins for potato peelings to snack on. When I told my dad, he told me the couple who lived there had gone out about an hour or so before. It seemed highly suspicious to me, so when I saw the couple had come back I decided to go round there and just give them a heads up about the homeless man.

After I’d knocked on the door a few times to no answer, I was about to walk away when the window on the top floor opened. A young guy leaned out and said “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “I live just there, and I just wanted to let you know that I saw someone trying to open your window earlier.”

“Are you serious?”

“Uhh, yeah.”

“What happened?” He shouted down to me.

“Well, he came up to the window and was peering through,” I shouted back. “And then he gave the window a tug and walked off.”

This was really embarrassing, especially as people on the road could hear what I was shouting. It was only then that the guy came downstairs and opened the door. He looked genuinely scared and get muttering “Oh my God.” He invited me in, and led me through to the sitting room where his girlfriend was.

“This girl said she saw someone trying to break into our house earlier” he told his girlfriend, who then also got really scared. This was horrible. I was in my most hideous clothes, I wasn’t wearing a bra and my hair was so greasy. And to make it worse, their house was full of strip lighting, AKA the ugliest light known to man. It’s the kind of light that makes Megan Fox look like Ron Jeremy.

Turns out they were foreign exchange students who had recently come over from Hong Kong, and I had just given them the worst “Welcome to the Neighbourhood” ever. He put out a chair for me and placed it opposite where they were sitting, and told me to talk them through exactly what happened, which also included telling them the ins and outs of my cake-making debacle, which I think may have been a mistake. “I knew it.” The guy said. “I knew there was something dodgy going on. I’ve seen some weird people up and down this street. I knew it was only a matter of time. Was it this window?” He asked me, pointing at the window of the room we were in. I told him no, it was the next window along. Turns out that was the window of the house next door, so I was going to have to tell this story all over again. The young guy was so grateful to me for coming and telling them, so he said he’d come next door with me. As I waited for him to go and get changed I sat with his girlfriend, trying to make small talk with her about my awful cake. She wasn’t really listening and started telling me about the high crime rates in Hong Kong, which made me feel even worse about unnecessarily scaring them.

When the young guy was ready we went next door. I was planning on a subtle “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think I saw someone trying to open your window earlier,” but as soon as the door opened, the young guy said “SHE SAW SOMEONE TRYING TO BREAK INTO YOUR HOUSE EARLIER.”

Shiiiiiiit. The woman who answered now also looked extremely stunned and scared, and I had to try and play the conversation down. As I started explaining the situation again, her son also came to listen. The last thing I wanted was an audience. “What did this man look like?” She asked me. “You said he looked homeless didn’t you?” The young guy said. I agreed. “Yeah, he was quite scruffy, he was wearing these weird jeans and he had a big beard. He looked like…”

And just as I was about to finish my sentence, the man I was describing came to the doorway.

“…You.”

Awkwaaarrrd.

So yeah, turns out the weirdly dressed, homeless burglar was her husband, and I looked like a massive dick. I literally could not make this up. I wish I could. I wish things like this only existed in my mind. After what felt like a lifetime of trying to defend myself, which did include a retelling of the cake story for the third time, and also the excuse that “I didn’t have my glasses on and there was cakey smoke in my eyes” I was allowed to leave. But in my opinion, there is no reason to have a beard like that unless you are actually homeless. The young guy was sweet though; he was so grateful to me for falsely telling him there was someone trying to break into his home, that he asked for my number and said that if he ever sees anyone trying to break into my house, he would let me know. It’s nice to know we have a neighbourhood watch thing going on now. I do think that if anyone tried to break into my house they would be severely disappointed, unless they wanted an old clock-radio, Day of the Tentacle on CD-ROM or some cookery books from the seventies (which includes “Will It Freeze? A Guide to Freezing Food” and “Cooking Authentic Jewish Food – Now In Colour”).

Dr Christian Can Kiss My Ass.

I don’t watch much television. Actually I used to watch a lot of television, but that was back in the good old days of Blind Date, Don’t Try This At Home and Animal Hospital. Now, TV is just the worst. Mostly because it’s dominated by the following types of shows:

–          Young people giving each other STDs, because they did too many vodka shots through the eye and ended up shagging on the dancefloor,  and thinking it’s exotic because they contracted it in Magaluf (It also annoys me that every single one of these cretins think they made up “Shagaluf”. Just because you feel the need to constantly shout it in everyone’s face whilst Sambuca dribbles down your chin, it does not convince me any further that you were smart enough to think up the dumbest nickname on earth.)

–          Documentaries on stuff like The World’s Tallest Man, that could easily be summed up in around ten minutes but instead go on for an hour and a half, which mostly consists of footage that follows him around a shopping centre whilst people look up at him. OH THE PREJUDICE.

–          Programmes on penny-pinchers. They remind me of someone I know (but I won’t say who because my mum will be annoyed)

–          Crime thrillers, because I can’t be bothered to wait until the next episode a week later to find out that the killer was someone completely implausible, like the woman who walks the primary suspect’s dog.

–          Glee, just because

–          Made In Chelsea (Just kidding – I love that show! Pardy!)

But there was one show I watched last week that just took the piss. I personally would have turned it off but I was at my sister’s house, and she is a force to be reckoned with when it comes to the remote control. This programme was Supersize Vs. Superskinny. Urgh. Now, as I am neither a fat nor a thin person, I feel I have right to pass judgement on this show. So I have spent the last hour gathering screen shots from the show for a nice little demonstration on what pisses me off.

Firstly, when I went on the 4od website to gather my shots, Channel 4 recommended some other programmes to me, which was almost like saying ‘Oh hey, got a thing for fatties, have ya? LOL! Well check some of these out, bro!’

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Fat Plague and Embarrassing Fat Bodies? How do they get people with weight issues to agree to these programmes?! “Ok so we’re doing a couple of shows that highlight obesity issues in a sensitive and education manner, and we’d love for you to take part. It’s called Fat Plague. Fancy it? No? How about Embarrassingly Fat Bodies? Oh sorry I meant Embarrassing Fat Bodies. Ha! No? Really? Well, ok. Do you know any other hideously obese people that want their fifteen minutes? Don’t you guys normally hang out together?….”

Now, you can imagine that to appear on a show like Supersize Vs. Superskinny, you’d be a bit apprehensive about baring all to the world. These people have real issues with their weight. So, I figure there’s some sort of pep talk prior to reassure them that they will be respected, that they will be treated with care, and that this is to help them. Yet somehow, THIS HAPPENS:

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Is this not totally humiliating? Hey everyone, just slip into this highly unflattering flesh-coloured underwear. Back in a minute, just going to change into my super fashionable bright shirt. Hey, where’s my podium? Broken? Ok. And the smoke machine? Both are broken? Fine fine, we’ll just have to try and work without them today. Jesus Christ.

 2

“To most, the scales are a daunting prospect. Well, not for me because I’m made of pure muscle and testosterone. Check out these quads! But to this bunch of fatties and pro-ana’s the scales are the enemy!”

 3

 Then these two – LJ and Katie – are made to pair up, which of course means they have to hug each other THIS INSTANT whilst still wearing their underwear. Nope, they’re not allowed to get changed into their normal clothes and greet each other properly. I don’t think either of them was into it. This shot makes it look like some weird dating show. The people behind look made up for them though.

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And then, just incase you didn’t get the difference in weight between the two, here’s a shot of them together from this angle. See? Do you see now? Fat and thin! Yes!

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Those who haven’t developed epilepsy from looking at Dr Christian’s shirt for too long will notice that LJ and Katie are still not allowed to get changed…

So if that bit wasn’t bad enough, LJ and Katie have a small bit to introduce themselves. It’s like, now we want you to explain what it’s like to walk in your shoes, why it’s so important that you lose weight, what it has done to your self esteem ect. And what we’re going to do whilst you say your piece is shoot this video that COMPLETELY CONTRADICTS ANY SERIOUS COMMENTS YOU’RE MAKING ABOUT YOUR WEIGHT.

DANCE, FAT BOY, DAAAAAAANCE!

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That’s real good, now just take this box of chinese food, and just go crazy with it. Stuff your face. No no, keep your shirt off. Good.

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Dr Christian reappears with an awfully patronising facial expression. Either that or he is suppressing a laugh.

Then, just to make sure they’ve got LJ at his worst, they shoot this: the most unflattering of angles.

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Yeah, just pull your boxers out and pretend that you HATE what you see in there. We wanna see some real self-loathing!

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Aaand now just jiggle it about. Let’s get that money shot.

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Then they show this little bit of exercise that LJ does. His little pup in a knitted pink jumper? Probably the least gay thing I’ve ever seen.

 Next, it’s Katie’s turn to be taken 100% seriously.

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Katie hates eating food so much, that she only keeps fake food in her house.

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  No no, Katie. That’s fake food. Remember? This is all fake. Yep, even that box of cereal. Poor Katie, she hasn’t eaten real food in so long she can no longer differentiate between the two.

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We’ll just pop the word “skinny” on the fridge, in case you’ve forgotten which person is which.

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This bit I couldn’t capture in a screenshot, but basically LJ advances on Katie as if he is a sassy Godzilla in boxers more commonly worn by prisoners, and nudges Katie with his hip, and she goes flying across the screen. Honestly.

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 Just wanted to point out his ridiculously oversized collar.

Then LJ and Katie are in the feeding clinic and they are made to swap meals, which sees Katie eat Chinese takeaway for breakfast, brunch, lunch, mid-afternoon snack, dinner, tea and midnight snack. Whilst LJ eats like two potato waffles and a bounty. It’s great to see they’re learning so much about healthy eating and portion control.

LJ is pretending that he loves the half-slice of toast he gets in the morning, but when Katie can’t finish her fried breakfast and six slices of bread he snaps and calls her pathetic, and tells her to leave. Hunger makes people do crazy things.

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So exciting to eat this…. Half piece of toast this morning…..

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Yay… Healthy eating….

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Bitch.

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 This was shown to make LJ feel bad about eating chinese food. But I dunno, I think it looks really good. It’s just making me want chinese food. I could eat some prawn crackers right about now.

At the end they do this bit where LJ and Katie come back a month or two down the line for a weigh-in, and they look SOOOOO much better….

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(I think Dr Christian needs to hire an interior decorator.)

Oh hey gurrrl, you DO look so much better! And it’s got absolutely NOTHING to do with the fact that you’re now wearing nice, colourful underwear instead of ones that look like they were dyed with urine, or that you’re wearing make up and fake tan, or that you’ve washed your hair!!! (Although that last one is debatable.) In the end Katie had put on something like six pounds. I personally don’t know what’s good and what’s not, but what I will say is that over Christmas, I put on waaaay more than six pounds. I put on just under a stone. Well, like a stone and a half. One to two stone. Just over two stone. The weight isn’t really important, it’s the fact that I put it on in a week. A WEEK. (Don’t worry it’s nearly all gone now. Christmas is the one week I feel ok that people think I have a gland problem. The weight just drops straight off when I stop having Quality Street and port for breakfast.) And is no one scared that they’re in this house with Dr Christian and it’s completely spotless  and has nothing in it? The only thing that says murderer more are his hair plugs.

26“A headache you say? Well pop your trousers off and we’ll have a look.”

If I saw this picture whilst playing with the abacus in my doctors waiting room, I’d be straight out of there. I’d even prefer to go hang out with the chlamydia-ridden schoolgirls at the walk-in clinic than see that face waiting to give me a diagnosis on my urine infection. I mean chest infection. Hypothetical chest infection.

Only a Week into the New Year and I’m Apologising Already

Yeah, I owe some of you an apology.

At the end of the year, WordPress sent me an annual report that displays my blog stats for 2012. This includes what search engine terms people used that caused them to stumble across my blog. The Day Curse has only been running for three months, but you’d be surprised at the magnitude of bizarre and disturbing search terms I was presented with. So I apologise to you guys, who were probably as confused as I was with the result of your weird and depraved online searches. And because I saw someone else doing this on their blog, I’ve decided to steal the idea and pass it off as my own. Here are my favourite search terms of 2012, beginning with the most popular:

“Taylor Swift ruins everything”

“I miss crystal maze”

“James Arthur’s eyes”

“This shit makes me fucking livid”

“Unidentified brown thing”

“I hate James Arthur”

“Daphne and Celeste now”

–  I definitely helped this guy; I had to pay a pound to find that out, and I passed the information onto them for free

“Grimace Christmas ornament”

– They should make these

“Veiny site: WordPress.com”

– Huh?

“Cat Hitler”

“Slutty unicorn”

“Mid sneeze pictures”

“Sexy neighbour”

“Cat modelling”

“Why does Taylor Swift just ruin everything?”

“Sexy cowboy ornaments”

– I hope they don’t  make these

“Fuck off Christopher Maloney”

“Angry poo”

“Fat person sex”

“Slutty cowgirl”

“Jack Gylenhal ruimed by Taylor Swift”

– How this person made it here with such poor spelling skills I’ll never know.

“I hate Christmas”

“How to deal with bullies at my gym”

“Bald crazy dog”

“Legs behind her head – porn – nude”

– This is my favourite. I like to think this was probably the most disappointed person to find my blog. Just imagine: sitting there with his pants down, ready to see some slutty, bendy cheerleader, but instead presented with a video of me being slapped around the face with a pancake. Soz, man.

“Fuck the splits”

– I hear that, sister

“Best name for cat”

– Adolph Kittler or Ferris Mewler obviously. Duh.

“I can’t lift my arms”

– I hope to God I didn’t inadvertently kill someone who was having a real life emergency and was actually looking for the NHS Direct website.

“‘Can’t lift my arms’ corset”

– Because there’s nothing sexier than losing all use of your arms.

“Harry Styles ruins everything”

“Christopher Maloney evil smile”

“James Arthur rubs Louis Walsh’s head”

– Bit weird

“Taylor Swift ruins boy’s life”

“Animals as humans”

“Get into my knickers”

“Fatisfaction porn”

“Deliwatch”

– Thrilled it’s catching on

“I forgot to wear pants”

“Star anise stuck in throat”

“I’m sorry for being dramatic”

“What outfit should my cat wear?”

So sorry, you big bunch of weirdos.

Sorry for depriving you of the search results that you were actually looking for. I hope you eventually managed to find an appropriate outfit for your cat. I also hope you were able to locate the corset that makes your tits look massive but renders your arms completely redundant. Sorry to the Harry Styles fans that were probably expecting some gruesome fanfiction where Taylor Swift dies a slow and painful death, or superimposed pictures of old Swifty being lynched by the rest of One Direction (don’t worry, I bet they think she’s a total Yoko). But also thank you for not littering the comments section with your misspelt messages of hate, heavily laden with an unnecessary amount of capital letters and abbreviations, because it would have taken a while to 1) figure out what you were saying and 2) subsequently delete them all.

The Day Curse: Disappointing the masses since Oct 2012.