Thanks For Ruining My American Dream, Ted Bundy.

Straight Outta Compton. AKA the antithesis of my life.

First week of full-time employment OVER. ROMEO DONE. And it’s all going pretty swimmingly if I do say so myself. Although it is a lot of information to take in at once. Sometimes when it gets late into the day, I start to go into an information coma. Every so often I just switch off and start doodling cartoon sharks or colouring in all the Ps and Bs on my information pack, and when I zone back into the conversation I don’t know what’s going on and I’m unsure how much time has actually elapsed.

This job is exciting because it means I’ll have enough to go travelling in September with the tripod. (The tripod is the name my two friends and I thought we’d come up with for ourselves when we were really drunk one night, but it turns out we’d just stolen it from The Girl Next Door. Soz, Emile Hirsch.) In my excitement I’ve been looking for places to live for a couple of months in Los Angeles.

LA scares me big time. I’ve watched Skid Row. I’ve played Grand Theft Auto. I’ve read Chicken. I just know if I’m not careful I’ll end up some junkie, selling my ovaries for crack and a bargain bucket, or worse: I’ll end up being a celebrity impersonator. Who am I going to impersonate?! People are going to be like “Let me guess… Gabourey Sidibe?” NO. I refuse. I won’t be that person. I am going to try and save extra money so I can stay somewhere expensive and safe like Beverly Hills or Calabasas, because I wouldn’t last two minutes anywhere else. I’d be the twat skipping through Compton with my bag open, asking for directions because “I’m a tourist and have a lot of money on me,” going up to gangsters playing poker on their porch and saying “Oooh can I play? I just LOVE monopoly! I’ll be the top hat!” It’ll be as bad as the time the whole Day clan got lost in Detroit in 2002. We haven’t spoken about it since.

Plus, we all know Los Angeles is where all the Ted Bundys and Jeffrey Dahmers of the world go to live out their dreams. I can’t be in the centre of that; I’m a portly woman, and that’s like catnip for murderers. They’re going to look at me like I’m one big skin suit they’re just DYING to wear around the house on Sundays. So yeah, thanks for ruining my dreams, psychos. I refuse to become a fancy lampshade in your sitting room or a bowl that holds your imperial mints.

The only thing I’ve hated about going to work this week is how immensely cold it’s been. When I woke up early Friday morning I hoped that what I was seeing outside my window was in fact ash from a previously undiscovered volcano that erupted nearby, and not more snow. I thought we were done with this weather, guys. It’s so cold I’ve had to start wearing these weird gloves I found at my mums house that make me feel like a Victorian aristocrat. They’re so padded, and it makes picking my keys up off the table in the mornings extremely difficult. Also, are balaclavas socially acceptable again yet? Because I have one, and if it is still classed as inappropriate (although I don’t know what’s inappropriate about having a warm face when I go to the bank) then I would still like to put it to some use. I’ve come up with a new range of nightwear: pyclavas. It’s a onsie and a balaclava put together – very difficult to get into but cosy as fuck.


AQA Metaphorically Wolf-Whistled At Me

If I haven’t said it enough and you still didn’t know, I gots me a new job. Which means I’m mega important now and I get to wear an electric blue power suit with gigantic shoulder pads and razor-sharp lapels, and reflective aviators even when it’s not sunny. I also now smoke Dunhill cigarettes and light them with £20 notes. But enough about me.

Only joking, it’s always about me. Basically my blog posts will be appearing at weekends from now on, because all I want to do when I get home from work is watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians and then go to sleep. How people get used to this nine-to-five shit is beyond me. But here is a little one to tide you over until then, you eager beavers.

Last week I got a cheeky text from AQA. I bloody love AQA, they’re the ones who help me keep tabs on all the celebrities that have gone out of fashion. (Daniel Bedingfield recently brought out an EP called Secret Fear – Stop The Traffik and currently resides in Tel Aviv, just FYI.) And they also helped me with this tricky little question I had back in 2010:


So I decided to spend a little time conversing with AQA, asking them every question I ever wanted answered. They did very well for the most part. So fill your boots, guys, I’ve asked everything you could ever possibly want to know…




5I’ve bagged me a new BF, obviously.





But then I sent this one…



… and they took TWO HOURS to get back to me. And they didn’t even ANSWER my question. So I emailed them to get my money back. Which is where I learnt that texts are not in fact a pound like I originally thought, but TWO POUNDS FIFTY. So I am now embroiled in a bitter war with AQA to get my two-fiddy back for that last text. What if someone had a gun to my head and was screaming at me “spell guaranteed or you die! And make it rhyme, bitch!” before turning to his plump accomplice and saying “I do love a quirky little rhyme, don’t I Tony!” and winking. If that had actually happened, I’d be dead right now. And what’s worse, my family would be left to deal with my hefty phone bill. ALL FOR NOTHING. And for that reason alone I won’t give up until I have my money back. And it’s a good thing that I have a full-time job now to pay for all the other expensive but equally important texts, otherwise AQA would be sending round their bailiffs to snatch my money pot filled with loose change from my cold grasp.


N.B: I’d just like to point out that these are not in chronological order. Please don’t think that the answer before the uncle question prompted the uncle question!

The Story of My Naked Phone Interview

So, the time is here! My announcement that is bound to underwhelm everyone that isn’t me!

So I’ve been asked to blog for a new website, which is very exciting for me. And I’m sorry to disappoint you all, but I will continue to write this one too.

Yoostage is a website for creative people to upload their creative content. My blog will be on the subject of creativity, and I’ll be talking about things that I know nothing about, like acting, modelling and dancing (although let’s be honest, those that have seen me in a dance-off will know that’s not true.) It’s pressure, because writing for other creative people is a daunting prospect to me. In fact, writing anything that isn’t just for me is scary. Someone choosing to put their faith in you to help represent them is also very exciting though. And I’ve been told I don’t have to censor myself! So although I won’t be talking about my penchant for winding up my neighbour with pistachios*, I can still say weird things. My aim is to get “kinky fuckery” in there somewhere.

I have been getting ever-so-slightly flustered whilst writing my first Yoostage post. I decided it would be a good idea to introduce myself, and I wanted so badly wanted to make a good first impression with readers; partly to let them know that we’re all creative people in the struggle together, and partly because I didn’t want messages from trolls like “Who the fuck does she think she is?! She looks like Zooey Deschanel with a gland problem**. Let’s find out where she lives and blow her house down!” (Well you know what? You can’t blow my house down, cos this fuckin’ pig lives in a brick house, baby!  Yeah!***) But the pressure of trying to introduce myself ended up with a tedious comparison between my mind and a septic tank, because it’s full of “any old shit,” and that readers should “think of this space as a huge intellectual toilet where we can all take mind dumps.” I think it needs some work. But don’t worry; I will let you all know as soon as my first mind diarrhoea has seeped down from my brain and into my new, huge intellectual lavatory. I smell creativity!****

Other work-related news this week: I’ve got a new job! No more being lambasted by the belligerent faux upper classes for putting too much/not enough/no ice/lemon/lime/alcohol/straws in their drink! I don’t know what this new job will be like, but all I need to know is that it’s more money. I’ll give you a hint of how much money it is: I could probably afford to take out the GOLD membership at my gym, and still have some money spare to go to the cinema every Orange Wednesday! Saywhaaaat!

I went for the interview last week, which I was very happy to do because, as always, I didn’t make a great first impression on the phone. You see, I had just got in the shower when my they called. Normally I’d just let it go to voicemail for obvious reasons, but I was so desperate for this job, that as soon as I saw their number come up on my phone I tried to jump out the shower as quick as I could, slipping as I did so, which could have ended really badly if my bathroom wasn’t so small. Luckily I just gently face-bumped the wall opposite. When I answered the phone I realised how obvious it was that I was having a shower because the running water was so loud, so I darted out of the bathroom. Without grabbing a towel. So I’m standing on the landing, naked, whilst this guy is like “Is this an ok time to talk?” and I’m just like “Yeah, sure.” If only he knew how not ok this moment really was. I don’t know why I didn’t just say “can you give me a minute?” so I could put my phone on the side, calmly walk back into the bathroom, and get my towel like a NORMAL person. So this guy starts asking me what I know about PPI claims whilst I’m running around, trying to find ANYTHING to cover myself up with and hoping that my dad doesn’t come upstairs. I contemplated telling him I was in the shower for a very brief moment, but luckily my brain realised that it sounded less like a great excuse and more like a casting-couch-esque proposition. I eventually found a towel but was so flustered that I got my own age wrong – as if the guy was asking me a trick question – and when he asked me about my last job I told him that it was “no big deal.” But for some reason he gave me an interview and I got the job. Now I must resist retelling that story to new co-workers because I actually don’t want to be the person everyone avoids in the canteen.

*Just a quick update on said neighbour – I saw him the other day and genuinely didn’t know if he had died or just gone to sleep. I watched for a while, but then felt weird about it so I went back upstairs, and thought if he’s still in the same position when I come down later that’s the time to be concerned. Luckily he wasn’t there by the time I came back down, but this could either be because he was alive, or because he had already been taken to the coroner’s office. Either way it got me thinking, and I am now trying to find an appropriate time to go round there and request to have his bonsai tree in the event of his death, whenever it may be/was.

**I want to stress that this is not an assumption I’ve made. I don’t think I look like her. This is not something I think. The only resemblance we share is blue eyes, a fringe and a candle for Ben Gibbard. People keep saying it to me because they think it’s what I want to hear, like I got a fringe because that’s what I want people to say. People really don’t have to say it, I’m not expecting it. The only people who use it genuinely are those trying to insult me. As soon as someone with blue eyes and brown hair gets a fringe people automatically assume it’s because they want to look like Zooey Deschanel. Do I want to look like Zooey Deschanel? Sure, why not. But I also want to look like Beyonce. If I got bum implants no one would say to me “Y’know who you look like now? Beyonce!” They would just be like “Oh my God, why have you injected your bum with Pollyfilla? Is it supposed to bleed like that?”

***I’ve been drinking.

****What am I even talking about? This post is going to really upset my mum.

Who Are All These Men Thowing Balls Around At This Televised Beyonce Concert?

THE SUPERBOOOOOOOOOOOOWL. Yeeeeah! Go Ravens! Poor Jim! Ladarius! Jacoby Jones! Football!

I know it’s hard to tell because of all those buzz words I’ve thrown in, but I actually have no idea what I’m talking about. I’ll admit that I was pretty confused about what the Super Bowl was for a while; I thought it was Super BOWEL. It seemed strange to me that so many people were excited about the U.S. version of You Are What You Eat, but I just assumed it was because Gillian McKeith was going to be analysing Beyonce’s stool sample.

I literally had no idea what was going on last Sunday night but I LIKED IT. I don’t know what there’s not to like about the Super Bowl, it appeals to all. Men watch it for the sport and Beyonce “cutting a rug” (Destiny’s Child taught me so much), and women like it for Beyonce being all sassy and empowering and then the hunky men in lycra. In any case, it was all about biceps, bums and BEYONCE.

I’m going to say that again: BEYONCE.


I think the dialogue of men and women around the world was something along these lines:

Men: Go Ravens!


After that performance, the lip syncing scandal will soon be forgotten when people realise that all those Beyonces were not real. I repeat: ONLY ONE OF THOSE BEYONCES WERE REAL.

130203204702-70-super-bowl-horizontal-gallery(The real on is at the front, just FYI)

In my eyes, though, Queen Bey-Bey can do no wrong. Apparently her publicists are trying to get hold of some pictures of her making certain “unattractive” faces. I don’t know why though, I wish I still looked this hot when I looked ugly. Check these out:


This is what Beyonce would look like on a rollercoaster. Still hot.

gangta robot

As a mutant gangster robot. Still hot.

This is what Beyonce would look like, dancing to Beyonce, after getting really drunk on vodka and pepsi (from a can with her own face on). Still hot!

bey illum

And it’s also nice to know Beyonce getting in a sneaky hollaaaa to the Hollywood Illuminati.

I think the most dangerous move was when she began dusting everyone with her hair. There was just a sea of hands desperate to grab it, as if just a touch of Beyonce’s hair meant people could give up and get trampled on by other crazed fans. They were literally able to die happy.

And just when you think it can’t get any better, Destiny’s Child return! Saywhaaaat! We all ignored the fact that Kelly and Michelle’s microphones were suspiciously quiet because Beyonce is everyone’s favourite anyway (Kelly lost all respect after appearing on X Factor, and I think I can safely assume that when rumours of a Beyonce-Kelly-Michelle reunion first surfaced, most people were like “Michelle who?”). I for one did NOT appreciate the lack of enthusiasm Michelle was putting into the Single Ladies dance. For a few seconds I thought they might have just put a cardboard cut-out on stage. But no, she was just being lazy. This is not dress rehearsal Michelle! THIS IS LIVE. ALL THESE PEOPLE? IT MEANS THAT THIS IS THE LIVE SHOW. Maybe she was just tired because she forgot to eat that day. She’s so thin! If I ever met her that would be the only thing I’d ask for; not an autograph or a picture. I would just run up to her and say “Oh honey, EAT something!” before shovelling a bargain bucket into her mouth.

In other news, I went into town sober last Saturday. It was after I’d finished serving wanky cocktails to women who will only drink through straws. (I do moan a lot about working in a bar, but it’s way cleaner than the last place I worked – where consideration from customers was filling a pint glass with vom and not spilling any over the edge.)

I’d forgotten what it was like to go into town sober. It’s horrendous – you’re so aware of things. For example, I was very aware when an old couple started using my back as a makeshift wall to get inappropriate against. This woman was getting so into it that she was sliding her back up and down mine like she was Baloo and I was the tree. And the smell of sick really hits your nostrils hard; it sinks down into the back of your throat so you can almost taste it, and you’re all like “eurgh, who’s been drinking White Russians?”

Another horrible thing about being sober on a night out, is that you can really hear that smack of girls in stupid heels falling to the pavement. It sounds like when you drop a really big cake on the floor. It’s probably as messy as that too. And people start making out in weird places, like in the toilet or the Chinese takeaway. Since when has Chow Mein been an aphrodisiac?

Lastly I would like to apologise for how out-of-sync these blog posts have been recently. I’ve been super busy with things that are really boring to listen to. But next week, I will have an ANNOUNCEMENT. So, to my tens of viewers, get your hopes up because I just put that shit in capitals! Be prepared to be disappointed!

Is a Pizza Beret an Inappropriate Choice of Hat For a Summer Wedding?

I’ve been feeling so grown up this week. I feel like a REAL woman. I feel more grown up than the time I had my first period and had to go and tell my swimming teacher loudly that I’d have to sit that week’s lesson out as I was IN THE MIDDLE OF MY MENSTRUAL CYCLE. This week, I received my first wedding invitation. I have friends that are getting married! And it’s my first wedding invitation that’s addressed solely to ME! I’ve never had my name on a wedding invite that isn’t primarily addressed to my parents, which must mean I have friends old enough to legitimately get married – it’s not a shotgun wedding or anything! – which must also mean I’m in that age bracket now where it’s kind of alright for ME to get married. Which feels very strange. It’s pretty doubtful that I’ll ever get married. Actually that’s a lie; I’ll probably end up being one of those spinsters that marries a 19-year-old money-grabbing SOB who runs off with my life savings but I still believe is going to come back from the shops any time soon. So although I’m not one to really plan my dream wedding, I do have a theme in mind. I don’t want to give too much away, but the first minute and a half of this will be very important:

And just FYI, don’t be offended if my invitations say something along the lines of:

“You are cordially invited to my wedding. Your kids can come if they can keep their traps shut on my special day. Actually you know what? Don’t bring them. It’s better that way. Save the date! xxx”

This wedding invitation is also very exciting for two reasons: number one, because I get to pick out a fucking amazing hat, and the bride has agreed (sort of) to let me get a more extravagant hat than her mum. Which I have narrowed down to the following:

Clam Hat:


Homer Simpson-inspired nacho hat – which I know will make me very popular with guests:

nacho hat

And this one. I wouldn’t really have considered it before but it popped up on Google images and this kid really sold it to me. He makes a pizza beret look so cool:


And number two, because it means there’s going to be a HEN PARTY!! I am currently prepping my personalised t-shirt, I’m thinking my moniker can be Dame Slutty McHoeWhore-Prostitute. Catchy, right?

But unfortunately just as I was starting to feel so grown up, I was abruptly brought back down to juvenile cry-baby level again because I DECIDED TO GO TRAVELLING.

That doesn’t really make sense.

What I mean is, my two friends and I have decided to go and travel the woooorld. Which is so exciting, but it has also brought out my crazy neurotic side. I’m like Woody Allen in all his films, but more annoying, if that’s possible. For example, my friend Zoe and I discussed the possibility of doing a sky dive in Australia. I told her that I was totally excited and buzzed to do it – but what I really meant to say was NO FUCKING WAY, because when I got off the phone to her, I Googled this:

“What percentage of parachutes don’t open?”

Probably the worst thing you could ever ask Google if you’re thinking of doing a sky dive. This is genuinely what it said (if you’re planning on doing one soon, I’d just stop reading, because I swear down, this is going to ruin it for you):

“Even the most experienced skydiver may have technical difficulties with his/her equipment. “Skydiving has been my life, and it will probably be my death too. But hopefully not yet, for I have many years of jumps left in me,” said Robin Wilcox, an experienced jumper, four days before his parachute failed.”


Then I spoke to my other friend, Becky – because none of us can work out how to do a three-way phone call yet – and we talked about going scuba diving at the Great Barrier Reef. When I finished speaking to her I started Googling really stupid shit like “How to act around sharks” and “What’s in the dark bits of the sea?” Neither gave me the results I was looking for, like Sharks don’t exist anymore or The dark bits of the sea aren’t dangerous at all, and are mostly just made up of treasure chests that you are allowed to take home.

But this is stupid, how am I ever going to travel if I’m scared of everything? So I’ve decided to try this: I’m writing all my fears and phobias on here in hopes that the sheer embarrassment will exorcise them from my subconscious.

Pascale’s Inexhaustible List of Fears That Could Be Considered Irrational but Are Not:



Deep sea diving



The sea in general – or as I like to call it, “Nature’s toilet.”

Wet bread

One Direction fans

The stop button on buses

Girls who readily slut drop to R&B – it’s not really a fear; I just really don’t like it. If they’re doing it near me it makes me feel cheap, and it catches me off guard nearly every time. It’s really alarming when someone’s there one second and not the next.

When really old people fall asleep

All fairground rides – fairground folk do not look like they can put together those rides in a way that can be safe AND fun

Random spots of blood on the pavement

Gum under chairs in a public place

Creepy men with greasy ponytails who wear wolf-and-moon t-shirts and own cars with a really big boot – you just know there’s something weird going on there

Toddlers eating bananas

Buses and Lorries turning corners

Being kissed by old people – They’re so soft! And how long is an appropriate time to wait before vigorously rubbing that garish lipstick mark off your cheek?

Being the only one at a buffet table

Theatre-trained children

My skirt being tucked into my pants


The wheelers from The Wizard of Oz

Anjelica Houston in The Witches

This picture of Richard E Grant:


And finally, after watching Embarassing Bodies for the second time, I’m scared of Dr Pixie:




If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my room trying to avoid sharp corners.