My Week In TV

It is a staple in the diet of the unemployed to consume as much terrible television as possible. As an unemployed person with their fate in the hands of the recruitment agency gods, I have abided by the unemployment bible and consumed as much shit TV as I can this week. I am positively plump with awfulness which includes, but is not in any way limited to: Snog Marry Avoid, Benefits Street, The Undateables, Eastenders, and all daytime shows on E4, comprising mostly of some trollop called Revenge where everyone is rich and hiding a big secret and shagging each other, which is very similar to every other E4 drama.

When I decided to write a TV blog post, I thought, “I’m going to WATCH television like it’s my JOB”,and so every day I put on my uniform – pyjama bottoms, a hoodie, no bra and my duvet – and I’d watch TV like a drooling vegetable, making extensive notes like this:



Sometimes the TV even made me feel better. It reminded me that no matter how bad things get, it could always be worse. Case in point: What Happens in Sunny Beach…


Yeah, ok, so I haven’t had a proper need to brush my hair or wear pants for the past three weeks, but at least my mum won’t have to watch a fermented version of myself stumbling around on a beach, my breast breaking free from my bikini top as I choke on a pair of Cool Whip-slathered testicles for a free fishbowl.

I’m also very grateful that I am not one of the girls that has had sex with either of these total boner pups:

Having obviously skipped their sex ed classes to smoke paper round the back of the bike sheds and throw wet tampons at the bathroom ceiling, it comes as no surprise that these two “can’t do it” when it comes to condom etiquette. Look at the one on the right, he can’t even dress himself properly, poor git.

At one point some girl get completely naked on a bar for a competition. Now, this may be a sign of my age, but if there was anything that would put me off going into a bar it’s a girl slut dropping completely naked just inches away from my Woo Woo.

But to anyone that now feels infinitely depressed about our generation, I say: never fear, Gloria Steinem Y2K is here:



AKA Dr Drew’s Sex Rehab without Dr Drew or any effort to maintain abstinence.

Not content on Lee Ryan getting all the attention for being the biggest Fidiot (fucking idiot) in the Big Brother twatisphere are fellow BB bumholes, sex addict Luisa Zissman, and hat novice Dappy, who wears his creepy moustache like some kind of terrible lip-liner.


Dappy Constavavalanostos; musical skidmark and drug-dealing son of Disney’s Jafar, was arguing with Zissman mere hours before. But as if by some Big Brother MIRACLE they’re now getting along like a house of fire; licking each other’s nipples, shoving their crotches into each other’s faces and talking about sex and banging and blowjobs or something. I don’t know. The sexual frivolity all blurs into one big licentious blob in the end. Where’s Lionel Blair’s shower tossjob? That’s my question.

Lee Ryan’s stint in the big brother house has not been bad for everyone involved, it would seem. Fellow boyband derp Duncan James – also known as the only man to occupy every grade of the Kinsey scale depending on how much media coverage he’s receiving – has been back allowed into several Z-lister clubs with Lee’s omelette-whisking companion, Masterchef Jasmine Waltz.

Duncan has described the accusations that he and Lee had some sort of romantic tryst during their time in Blue as “laughable”. I wouldn’t quite say that they were laughable myself, considering that Lee has admitted to experimenting with men and Duncan has the ability to switch to Kinsey Six when needs be.


The Voice was another show I enjoyed this week, but not because of all this singing and life-changing bollocks. My favourite part of The Voice is watching new co-host Marvyn Humes’ utterly insincere begs for a chair spin to the judges whilst standing awkwardly with the families of the musical hopefuls. He seems wholly uncomfortable and unnatural in his role as a male cheerleader. Watch this:

Or, if you can’t be bothered to watch my badly put together Marvyn Montage, watch this Marvyn vine, which is just as poorly done but much shorter.

I also watched the news. The news is rarely quite so comedic, but when THIS story came to light…

….it was hard not to laugh, but in a disbelieving and frustrated way; the kind I do when trying to help my mum send an email.  

This old todger believes that the UK storms and floods were caused by gay people being happy and marrying each other. Apparently the letter containing David Silvester’s pious plop and monochromatic view of the world was delivered to David Cameron in April 2012, probably by carrier pigeon or telegram. Mr Silvester said that he predicted severe weather conditions were due to occur when same-sex marriage was to be legalised. I wonder if he predicted the massive shit storm caused by such a homophobic forecast, too.

Also Justin Bieber was arrested for drink-drag racing but no one gives a shit.


Game of Thrones is Very Misleading.

When I heard that season four of Game of Thrones was coming to our telly-boxes real soon, I was all like Jeeeesus, how much of this shit can people take? Surely even Celebrity Big Brother is better than GOT (as seasoned Throner Boners call it), and that’s just a bunch of big-titted idiots bumping uglies with the UK’s most braindead boyband has-been. That’s until I found out that I’d got it completely wrong, and Game Of Thrones was not in fact an extremely elaborate and expensive game of musical chairs in which participants dance to medieval music, and the one who doesn’t get a throne when the music stops must remove all their clothes and wait for Peter Dinklage. It’s a real TV drama*.





*I have not watched Game of Thrones.

Suck It, Starbucks.

As my mum has decided to return to the Dark Ages and get rid of her internet for a while I have no choice but to find public places to do my blogs/look at Facebook. You may be thinking that I don’t need the internet to write these blogs, but you would be wrong – how else am I supposed to procrastinate and be late posting every week?

It’s hard to choose which place is the least cliché to work in. The answer is: there is nowhere that is the least cliché. Wherever you go, you are sat with your laptop in public, looking like a massive attention seeker. And writing a blog doesn’t make it any easier – the only way my public life could take more of a hipster turn is if I took a selfie whilst wearing my ultra-fashionable glasses and GEEK tee, my laptop and maybe a healthy salad lurking somewhere in the background; uploaded it to Instagram with the following caption: NEW BLOG POST, YO #salad #yolo #creative #lifeofablogger. However this would never happen because I could never afford a Mac; instead possessing the crumbiest HP mini on which the keys don’t work properly and the battery falls off if not supported correctly.

Today I have gone with Starbucks. I have outstayed my welcome in Costa the past couple of days. Now the only other place I can take shelter is the library, which smells like moth balls and unwashed charity shop clothes; or a pub which, at this time of day (2.15pm) is full of lonely alcoholics who either threaten to take you on a date or threaten to take you outside and stab you in the vagina as they flop, inebriated, onto your tabletop.

Sometimes these blogs take me a while to write. Mostly because half of the time is spent watching episodes of Breaking Bad on Netflix. So in order to be in a coffee shop without getting asked to leave I need a constant stream of beverages that aren’t just my usual tap water. So since becoming a key member of the LOOK-AT-ME-I-WRITE-IN-STARBUCKS club, I’ve been expanding my coffee horizons. The downside of trying lots of different coffees is that I usually end up walking a very fine line of having very intense writing sessions and a hyperactive personality disorder.

The worst time of day to be caught in Starbucks is around 3.30pm. You know school’s out when it stops smelling like coffee and the room becomes overwhelmed with the scent of about twenty different impulse body sprays. A typical GSCE “study sesh” by students from the local grammar schools consists of a five minute debate on Lord of the Flies, then two hours eagerly discussing last night’s Made In Chelsea, awkward boners, blowies, boob-grabs and the “Diet Coke Diet” (a can o’ coke morning noon and night, coffee as a treat, and a Babybel after P.E if one is feeling a little woozy – probably to help replace all those calories lost from standing around and TALKING during netball practice (burn!)).  When I was their age, I was still getting stuck in the baby swing at my local park, drinking copious amounts Sunny D and reluctantly making the transition from vest to bras (late bloomer). Now kids buy coffee and chai tea and shop at Victoria’s Secret and give blowies? What the eff! Mixing sex talk with a social commentary of “William Golding’s, like, total masterpiece, basically”? It’s like being in a room full of slutty Matildas.

However, when I’m on my seventh hour and millionth caramel latte, and the dark roast smell begins to mingle and react with the hairspray and Lynx Africa in the air, it begins to cloud my brain and my other personality comes out; hyper and manic. It suddenly becomes very hard to resist flicking all my hair over to one side and bounding over to them like an awkward bull in the most pretentious china shop, squealing “Oh my GOD you guys I love Lord of the Flies when I was in school I didn’t even know what a conch was I didn’t do well in my GSCE’s HEY GUYS do you like One Direction? You know the popular boy band? Do you like their songs because I like all of them especially the one about being beautiful or the one about being so fat you can’t fit in your jeans – you guys like Harry? Yeah you like Harry! Do you have Instagram? I’ll add you! Yeah I’ve had sex before” but I don’t know what stops me more: looking like Starbucks’ resident paedophile or shitting my pants from all the excitement.

Instead I do not take my eyes off my laptop – not because I’m too busy writing, but because I don’t want to make eye contact with anyone else in there. I just can’t accept that acknowledging nod from the guy in the thick-rimmed glasses with the Airbook that says “K’aw, look at us writers, hey! NO LOOK AT US. WE’RE BOTH WRITERS. LOOK AT ME – I’M WRITING MY NOVEL DEBUT”, because it means I will have to admit the dire position I’m in right now. Of course we’re not both writers. We don’t get paid for this! I’m paying for a muffin in coppers for Christ’s sake! We’re just unemployed dreamers who like to pretend that we gonna make it real big one day. And the only thing worse that admitting I’m writing a novel in Starbucks is admitting that I’m writing a blog, which requires much less commitment. I have no qualms in raising my voice to him over the hum of Starbucks’ Jazz Café CD to let him know: “WE’RE NOT THE SAME! I’M ONLY HERE BECAUSE I STILL LIVE WITH MY MOTHER AT 23 AND SHE WON’T BUY ME ANY MORE INTERNETS!” Because I would feel less ashamed to do that. See, I like to do my writin’ and my dreamin’ from the comfort of my darkened bedroom. At least there I don’t have this bitch prizing the last five pounds out of my barren purse for a fucking jaffa cake:


 Go suck a dick, siren.

Paranoid Activity: THE PITCH

What if Paranormal Activity wasn’t called Paranormal Activity but Paranoid Activity, and Katie and Micah’s house wasn’t really haunted they just think it’s haunted because they’re all edgy from smoking too much dope, and Katie is all like “OH MY CHRIST WHO OPENED ALL THESE CUPBOARDS IN THE KITCHEN?!?!?” but it was just her because she got the midnight munchies and decided to make a ketchup sandwich.


2013: The Year I Earned An Assload Of Cash And Spunked It All Over The World.

If I wrote down everything I’ve done this year, it would fill at LEAST half an A4 piece of paper. So in the spirit of New Year’s reflection, here’s my year in a nutshell.


Wined And Dined


Made New Friends


And also, a big shout out to this guy…


…Who I would like to add was NOT dead.

Momentarily Changed Race



My Immune System Is Against Me.

They say travelling makes or breaks you. Well, my trip definitely broke me before it did anything else. Ten weeks in Thailand, Singapore, Australia, New Zealand and Dubai was a journey of self discovery; and the main discovery was that my body hates me and everything I like eating. As of now, I can no longer consume:

–          Bread

–          Pasta

–          Cake

–          Pastry

–          Beer

–          Crackers

–          Crisps

–          Chips

–          Soup

Basically all the fun foods. I am now that person that I hate in restaurants that asks for all sauces on the side and will only eat the croutons in the salad if they are gluten-free croutons. And y’know what really pisses me off about gluten-free food? You have to pay more for it! A gluten allergy is not a cheap allergy, let me tell you. It’s an allergy for rich people. It’s probably what made King Henry VIII look so fat. Why do I have pay £2.50 extra for my Pizza Express pizza when it’s got less ingredients in than everyone else’s pizza?! Why have I got to pay double for a ham sandwich in Asda that’s like eating a slice of water-logged pig skin between two pieces of cork? I have been robbed of my gluten and I’m giving more money? It makes no sense.

After 3 days of eating absolutely nothing but still looking nine months pregnant, I took a little outing to Byron Bay hospital (because it was free, not because I was being melodramatic) to see if they could make me look less with-child. They could not help. In fact, what they did do was pretty much the opposite of helping.

They made me pee in a polystyrene cup which was then passed around and looked at by everyone in the hospital; not all of them doctors – I’m pretty sure I saw some janitors and receptionists having a good ol’ ganders. I was put in a cubicle next to a large group of ‘ard-looking lads who had been in a punch up, and was asked the following questions:

“Have you been pooing a lot?”

“Have you been farting?”

“You’ve been throwing up everywhere, yes?”

“If I poke your tummy here, do you feel like you need to go for a poo?”

The volume in the ward just did not justify the doctor asking me these questions in such a loud voice. The boys next door had stopped comparing war stories to listen to my tummy trubbz. It was worse than the medical centre in Koh Samui, where the doctor wore socks with sandals and had no teeth. I left with $26 worth of useless medicine and my dignity in a polystyrene cup.

I also found out the gross way that I have some sort of allergy to mosquito bites.



I’m Also Allergic To THE SUN.

ImageHey there, good lookin’

This happened in Phi Phi, Thailand after a looong day sunbathing. Too long, some might say. My friends tried to make me feel better by telling me that it wasn’t that bad, and that if it’s any consolation, I look a little bit like a cat.

Dumbest cat ever.

I’m A Closet Tourist-Photograph Whore.

Here’s a picture of a nice building that I took:


I then took a picture of this building ELEVEN MORE TIMES. ELEVEN PICTURES OF ONE BUILDING. I don’t even know what that building is! As important as you feel it is to take a million pictures of the same thing – just in case you forget what it looks like when you take a couple of steps to the left or whatever – just don’t bother. One is sufficient. Sometimes none is sufficient. I took a picture of this placemat one evening at dinner:


Completely unnecessary picture that says fuck all about my trip. Believe me, no one can be bothered with that. No one wants to sit and look through your placemat pictures. Not even your mum.

I’m Still Terrified Of Everything.

Especially heights. But I did face my fear doing this stupid paraglide. This picture expresses how I feel about altitudes of the high variety:


And so 2013 is over. I’m particularly looking forward to 2014, mostly because I like writing the number 4 (my 3s are abysmal; similar to what how a child would draw a 3 when copying The Magic Pencil for the first time). However, with the cold I have at the moment I will be bringing in the New Year looking less like this…


… And more like this.



See you on the flip side, boners.




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Things I Learnt At School: Part One.

As exam time looms close once again for all year elevens – which I only know about because there’s constantly students bitching and moaning about it on the radio – it dawned on me: it’s been six years since I left school. That makes me feel old.

I hated school, because it was shit. But it taught me a lot. Not the lessons obvs, because I swear half my teachers were in some sort of probation programme. No, school taught me a lot about LIFE. It made me the woman I am today: neurotic and overly defensive. Here are some important things school taught me.

1. Pretty Much Everyone Hated Me

This is, of course, apart from a few people in my year who didn’t even know who I was. On my last day of school, all the leavers congregated in the assembly hall to scrawl noncommittal goodbyes and erect penises on each other’s school jumpers. I stood next to my friend as she got her t shirt signed by some guy in my year who didn’t know how to spell ‘good luck’. When he was done my friend said “Are you going to sign Pascale’s jumper?” and he was all like “Who?”

Who? WHO?! Oh, just the person who you’ve been throwing pencils at in maths for the past six years, you dickhole!

But apart from those guys, I was pretty hated. Not like pantomime villain hated, just a hate that comes from being wholly uncool – I could always sense everyone’s eye-rolls every time I spoke. It was my fault though. You see, instead of going outside and playing with my friends, I spent the majority of my childhood trying to eat copious amounts of Wotsits without my mum noticing whilst watching comedy shows that were way too grown up for me. The jokes I understood were few and far between, and I mostly just laughed if my dad did. I would then try and fit these jokes into conversations at school; consequently they made very little sense. As a result it made me quite unpopular. Did I stop? Fuck no! I carried on quoting The Man with Two Brains like there was no tomorrow! In later years I watched too much 3rd Rock from the Sun, and spent a lot of time trying to become Sally. Unfortunately this character only works in a fictional, comedic setting where there’s no risk of getting punched repeatedly in the boob in the woods behind your house and having Bubbaloo spat into your hair. Of course the whole being fat thing didn’t help either. Basically in terms of popularity, I was probably just above that girl who was rumoured to have shoved a carrot up her vagina (every school’s got one!).

2. Religious Education Teachers Make Their Living From VHS Players and Word Searches

No matter what anyone who works for Currys will tell you, VHS players will never be a dead technology whilst Religious Education teachers exist. R.E classes thrive solely on morally conscious tapes from the eighties and poorly constructed word puzzles. I must have seen If These Walls Could Talk at least ten times. (Hey, Demi Moore! You want me to take abortion seriously? Don’t cast Cher as a doctor, you fool!) And when they can’t seem to get the VHS player to work with the television – which is about 60% of the time – they switch to their only contingency plan: word searches.

Whoever thought it was a good idea to teach Religious Education at public schools did not think that one through. You are preaching entirely to the wrong choir. You think a classroom full of pierced bellybuttons and awkward boners want to complete an overtly religious word puzzle for the next hour? Do you think it’s going to teach them something? No! They will spend the first half hour trying desperately to find the word TITS, and the subsequent half hour shouting repeatedly that they’ve found TITS whilst bashing their heads against the table like the Neanderthals that they are. You know what, just go find the IT guy who knows how to work an ‘80s Sylvania and put A Distant Thunder on for the millionth time this year. Please.

3. Geeks Will Be Geeks

Geeks don’t change. Since the beginning of time there has been a set stereotype that always has and always will be conformed to, for some unknown reason. There are plenty of things that these geeks could do to help themselves, like:

  1. Carrying tissues, so that when they sneeze, all their snot goes there instead of the palm of their hand, the door handle and their pockets (in that order).
  2. Shave off that ridiculous whispy moustache – from a distance no one can tell whether it’s just a nose-shadow, or dirt.
  3. Buy trousers that don’t make you look like you’ve got a mum ass.
  4. Stop being a breeding ground for head lice.

You will usually find these people are now running the internet, in prison because of botched revenge plots or living life like Dustin Diamond.

4. Netball Is An Opportunity For Bitchez To Get SASSY

Netball is probably the only sport that girls don’t use their periods to get out of. If anything I swear netball teams sync up their periods for matches and use the sheer amount of oestrogen as a weapon. There’s something about netball that makes girls go fucking crazy. They take that shit so seriously!

Now, this is where I suspect a bit of my unpopularity came from. As with everything, netball has a distinct hierarchy: the best people were in the centre, and the further out you were, the worse you were at throwing, catching, shouting, and generally being a team player. For example, the two Centres would be poised on the circle centre court, ready to snatch that ball and looking into each other’s eyes the way Ernest Hemingway taught us to look at a charging rhino: WITH NO FEAR. Then a bit further out there would be Wing Attack, who would chat happily with Wing Defence until shit got real – then they had no qualms in using their arses as battering rams to push each other out of court and would lean so far forward over the goal circle that they looked like human right angles.

Then there was me: Goal Defence. Just happy that I wasn’t Goal Keeper (who had usually fucked off mid-match to have a spliff). I was always put in goal defence because I was tall, but that was about the only thing working in my favour. I had the reflexes of a sloth and as about as much dexterity as a newborn baby. And I fucking HATE things flying at my face. So I’d be messing around with my GD bib, turning it into a boob tube, eating skittles, adjusting my thermal vest, and before I knew it there would be a ball heading straight towards my noggin. I would mostly just smack it away with the palm of my hand out of shock, which – especially in winter – really fucking hurt. Sometimes I would catch it, which would be followed by simultaneous squawks of “PASCALE!”, “HERE IF YOU NEED!” and “BEHIND!” It’s amazing how impatient people can get in those three seconds you’re allowed to hold that ball. I would get so confused and nervous that I would pass the ball to someone on the opposite team just to get rid of it. And I didn’t care, because I couldn’t give two shits about netball. But my GOD, did I piss some people off! And in that sense, I can see why people didn’t like me. The only thing I ever put any effort into during P.E was getting changed quickly enough so that the lesbian gym teacher (a staple of every school) didn’t burst in when I was wearing nothing but my thermals.



Oh God. Oh God oh GOD. The Biebs is outta control yo’. First, he’s a bit late to one of his own shows and voms up a ton of milk on stage. No biggie, right? Next thing I know he’s smoking doobies, scrapping in the street with paparazzi and hocking up loogies all in his neighbour’s grill. But the final straw came when I found out that Justin had gone and got himself a monkey.


A MONKEY, you guys.

I can handle milk vomit; I can forgive the paparazzi punch-ups. I can just about tolerate the obscene amount of swear words that keep tumbling out of his pretty little mouth. But this? This I cannot take. If we have learnt anything from the life of Michael Jackson – besides the fact that you are actually allowed to wear your pyjamas to court – it’s that acquiring a monkey is like sharpening that knife edge called sanity that Justin has obviously been teetering on for a while now. They’re not just cute little pets that you can dress up in matching gold gloves, Biebs. They are animals that can break things very easily; like your delicate, maidenly little face.

Who knew this would happen? Who knew! That kid who inspired the number one haircut for lesbians around the world; that kid who had girls running after him on the street, jumping on the hood of his car like he’s a baby-faced Rick Grimes in the midst of some pre-pubescent zombie apocalypse; that kid who was driving one of these…..


…when he should have been driving one of these….

little tikes

Honestly, who bloody knew!

Oh yeah, WE ALL DID.

Scooter Braun, you promised us you wouldn’t let this happen to Justin! You promised us you’d never let him do an MJ! NOW LOOK, SCOOTER, YOU TWAT. He’s almost on par with a man who used to walk around his creepy theme park with a parasol and wore his jimjams to court! (Although I’m pretty sure MJ did something else that was inappropriate…) But alas, it was Justin himself – wise, beautiful Justin – who once told us you can “Never Say Never.” At the time that song just seemed to be about Jaden Smith learning karate with Jackie Chan, but now I realise it’s about more. So much more. Like, I will never say never to leather harem trousers, or smoking a blunt.

I feel that Britain may be partly to blame for the recent fall of JB. What he doesn’t understand is that spitting on others is like a traditional pass-time for the average Londoner, and starting a fight is pretty much a standard greeting. (You haven’t truly experienced London until you’ve been punched in the eye by a burley cockney twat who, when you start crying like a baby, tells you “I was only jokin’, ya cunt!”)  I worried that Justin was becoming too accustomed to our bad habits. Yeah, it was definitely time for him to return to the Hollywood Hills before he could get the chance to develop a beer belly and started crushing cans of Special Brew on his forehead.

So, what can we do for the lost soul that is Justin Drew Bieber? I think an intervention is desperately needed. A Biebervention. An interJustin. And as no one else seems willing to do it, I’m taking one for the team. It’s ok, guys. I will be the one to valiantly face his puny, infantile wrath as I gently prise that sippy cup full of crazy from his leather-clad fingers and say “No Justin, no more crazy for you today.”

Now, we all realise that the first documented outbreak of teenage rebellion was when Usher let Justin house-sit in the video for One Time. I mean, what the fuck were you thinking, Usher? Justin was just a child! He was not capable of looking after such a big house efficiently. He could not adequately glue back together your best china. There is no guarantee that he wouldn’t go looking through that draw in your bedside table that should be padlocked at least twice. Besides, everyone knows if you give kids an inch, they take a mile. Two miles. The whole fucking M6. A party should have been the least of your worries. Think of all the premature ejaculations seeping into the fabric of your cashmere cushions; used as a makeshift bed in your walk-in wardrobe for an unsupervised game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. Seriously Usher, this is basic parenting.

But blaming everyone’s favourite collar-popper just seems all too easy. We must track down the root cause of Justin’s newfound thuggish insanity. And who could be considered more of a root than the very woman who birthed Biebs? One of these days (if Canada somehow managed to float over and park itself next to Britain) I’m going to march right up to Pattie Mallete and say “Y’know what Pattie? Now is not the time to be making weird, unnerving anti-abortion movies; now is the time to tell your son to put his shirt back on, pull his up his trousers and just CALM THE FUCK DOWN.”

Pattie doesn’t strike me as someone who would be up for punishing her dumbass son, unlike me. So to help Pattie along in her new role as strict disciplinarian, I have come up with a few ways she can teach Justin a valuable lesson:

1. Revoke his right to use the word “swaggy” for at least week.

2. If Lil Twist comes round, sternly tell him that Justin cannot come out to play. Redirect him to Drake’s house.

3. No more wearing hats indoors.

4. No spitting in his neighbour’s face unless he has a genuine reason (for example, a bug flew into his mouth).

5. Limit his weed intake.

6. Get three lesbian Justin lookalikes from the “Lesbians Who Look Like Justin Bieber” Tumblr to sneak into his room one night and teach him a Dickensian life lesson. (I’m thinking future Justin could potentially be Ellen Degeneres.)


8. Confiscate his car keys until he learns to stop letting marijuana-fuelled rappers drive his Porsche.

9. Ban all dairy products three hours prior to a show.

10. Sit him down and force him to learn what and where Germany is.

11. An indefinite ban on pop-and-lock-athons. 

12. Give him a crash course in how to put trousers and hats on properly.

13. No more vests that show a gratuitous amount of nipple.

14. Limit the amount of topless selfies allowed per day.

15. Sit on the naughty step and wait for Usher to get home.

They will work, belieb me. Good luck and Godspeed, Ms Mallette.

I’m Boring So You Don’t Have to Be.

I went out with friends recently and, as usual, I got stuck talking to the most boring loudmouth there. You know when you feel like they’ve cornered you at the bar, asking you what you’re drinking even though they have no intention of buying you a drink? And you get that awful sinking feeling when you realise everyone has managed to make their way to fruit machine, and you’re insanely jealous that they all get to stand together being unsociable whilst you have to fake-laugh your way through twenty minutes of the most mundane conversation known to man. Yeah, that was me; the one you’re all looking back and laughing at from the fruity for having one of those faces that apparently says PLEASE TALK AT ME I WANT TO LISTEN.

Luckily I have come up with a coping mechanism for these kinds of situations that I feel could potentially be the inspiration for a new X-Men character. I have this magnificent ability to completely blank out large amounts of time. Like sometimes when I know work is going to be particularly boring I can zone out so much that before I know it it’s the end of the night and I’m back in my bed again, and I genuinely wonder whether I’ve left it that day. (Sometimes this skill can be a curse as well as a blessing; I did it the other day at work, and when I managed to bring my attention back into the room my trainer was staring at me, asking if I was going to write down what he’d just told me. I said yes regardless of the fact that I didn’t have a fucking clue what he’d said, and when I thought he wasn’t really watching I just started drawing a picture of a dinosaur on my pad. Of course when he saw what I’d done, I had to admit that I hadn’t been listening the whole time and he called me a time-waster.) This was a skill I applied when talking to Boring McSnoozerson. I was in my element. pretended to listen so intently. I nodded at the appropriate times, I humoured them until I could humour no more. I’m not quite sure how much time had actually elapsed, but I was two glasses of wine and a Jagerbomb down by the time I got a word in. But when I had finally found a way into the conversation, I lasted about two minutes before the walking tranquilliser dart made the lamest excuse ever to leave. That’s right. THEY got bored of ME. I WAS THE BORING ONE.

It had never occurred to me that I might have always been the boring friend. I did wonder why people avoided eye contact with me like I was the Demon Headmaster. I thought it was because it was universally acknowledged that I’m the one to avoid on a night out because I always do weird stuff that freaks everyone out. THIS IS SO MUCH WORSE. I thought the fact that I normally get cut off when I start talking was a sign that the whole world was self-centred, not that I’m just dull as fuck! I feel even more upset and embarrassed than the time I was made to stand in the corner of my music class at school for trying to play Für Elise on the keyboard with my face when I thought no one was looking.

So that no one else has to go through this terrible and soul-destroying feeling, I started a secret experiment that’s scientific in no kind of way to establish what makes a boring person. So listen up fellow bores, and welcome to Snoozefest 2013.

1. Stop Talking About How Much Money You Earn

I am so guilty of doing this right now, probably because I’ve never earned more than six pounds an hour before. But now I’m head-baller shot-caller, making some sweet mular without having to moonlight as anything, I can’t stop telling people. (Don’t worry though guys, I’m sure I’ll be fired faster than you can say “Can someone wake Pascale up?” when work realises they have hired a complete dumb-dumb who chooses to draws dinosaurs in crop tops instead of absorbing vital information.)

If you have a good job or you don’t have a good job but think you do, people will hate you for it. There’s only so many times you can get away with purposely dropping your paycheck on the floor before you’ll actually have to start buying some new friends.

This is how money-orientated I have become: A few days ago I started looking online at cars, and I genuinely considered buying one. I can’t even drive. I have never had a driving lesson in my life. Once my ex-boyfriend let me drive his car slowly round a Tesco car park, and I thought “I’d probably learn to do this properly if the speed limit was brought down to five miles an hour.” I don’t even know what horse power is. I’m all like “The gear stick? Oh you mean those things we used to play Doom with in the nineties, right?” And I don’t understand why it’s called a three-door. The boot isn’t a door…is it?! A couple of days later I was telling my nonsensical plan to a friend; I’d barely even finished saying “I dunno, a silver one?” and she had called me a dick, picked up her bag and walked out of Costa. So I’ve stopped telling people exactly how much I earn because I want them to like me for me, and not the crazy insane amount of cash that is always spilling out of my money clip.

2. No One Wants to Hear About Your Sickly Pet

Nothing ruins a good conversation than divulging the gory details of how your 19-year-old cat’s Uveitis has flared up again. Trust me; I learnt this the hard way. After I cried for an hour at my friend’s 21st because I was convinced my cat was getting feline Alzheimer’s, I stopped receiving invites to birthday parties.

3. Stop Retelling Irrelevant Conversations To People Word-For-Word

This might come as a shock, but reiterating the scornful Cher Horowitz-style diatribes thrown between you and that bitch from your office that no one actually knows verbatim is not as interesting as you think it is. And little details like whether it happened on Monday or Tuesday has no impact on the story for someone who doesn’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Which brings me nicely on to my next point…

4. No One Cares About The Time You and Your Friends Did That Thing That Was Totes Hilair

OH. MY. GOD. This is the worst. Here’s a little tip for people who desperately cling onto nostalgic flashbacks like you’re a walking, talking episode of The Wonder Years: If the person you’re telling wasn’t there to experience it, the whole story tedious as fuck. And I don’t think anyone appreciates how hard it is to keep laughing along with the story every time they laugh, which is pretty much all the fucking time. I suggest writing all these funny experiences down in a diary, and then burying it so far in the ground like it’s fucking Jumanji, because no one is going to want to find that.

5. Talking About How Fat You Are All The Time Is a Real Drag

I think it’s a girl thing, but listing how many different types of biscuit you’ve eaten that day and then asking your friends if it’s bad is pointless and stupid. Because if you feel the need to list it then it probably is. And what’s the point? If they say yes, you’re offended; if they say no, you know they’re lying. And so you enter into this cycle of thinking they’re a dick either way, which is exactly what they think of you for asking such mundane and self-absorbed questions. It’s a hundred times worse if you do this and you’re skinny, though, and you’re saying it to your slightly doughier friends even though you weigh about as much as a newborn baby. If this is you, I just want you to know you’re a bad person. I hope when you’re 40 all those cakes that you can get away with eating now go straight to your ass and face.

6. Showing Everyone a Million Pictures of Your Baby

“Here he is with wet hair… Oh look, now it’s dry! And this is him just sitting watching television. Awww look now he’s asleep! This is two hours later when he was still asleep… Oh and this was when he ate a banana for the first time… See this was his first mouthful… And his second… Look and his third! Then this was when the banana was all gone and” OH GOD SHUT UP.

Come on, mums. You should know this. At some point or another you weren’t a mum, and you must remember how boring it is to look at 200 pictures of someone’s kid sitting on a seesaw.

7. Telling a Single Person About How In Love You Are With Your Boyfriend and The Ins-And-Outs Of Your Fantastic Sex Life Really Is The Worst

Really? You think a single person who isn’t getting any wants to hear how you worked your way through the entire Karma Sutra before your boyfriend took you out to a fancy restaurant and paid for your 100 oz steak dinner? No deal, ok. No one wants to hear that. I’m mentally listing all the ways that I could kill myself whilst you tell me you still managed to make energetic love after practically devouring an entire cow.

So there you have it. There’s ten minutes of your life I have just stolen from you. I feel like if I went looking for anyone who had made it this far into my blog post without dying of boredom, it would be as tragic and devastating as this bit in Titanic:

Disclaimer: All jokes aside, I cannot be held responsible for anyone who actually has died in the process of reading this post.

How To Be A Good Third Wheel

Being a third wheel is almost never voluntary and hated by all. It’s probably the one thing I can really advise people on, because I am always a third wheel; a big awkward tractor tyre stuck on the back of a little girl’s pushbike. But luckily for all you slightly-below-average-looking third wheels, the gooseberry MASTER has compiled her top tips for being a good third wheel. And by good, I mean so terrible that no one will ask you to do it again.

1. It’s Ok To Be Offended 

When someone invites you to be third wheel on their date, it’s safe to assume that they have invited you because they think you’re unattractive. Yeah that’s right, you’re friend that’s always saying “Don’t worry, you’ll find the right man! You’ve got beautiful ankles and such a bubbly personality!”? THEY THINK YOU’RE UGLY. Of course your mate isn’t going to invite someone attractive; they’re going to invite the friend that takes full advantage of the limitless ice cream and leaves the restaurant with chocolate sauce all over their face. That’s right, that has actually happened to me before. Let’s be honest though, if your boyfriend is taking you somewhere that does free ice cream on one of your first dates, then it’s only going to go downhill from there. You’re dating a major tightarse. HEAR THAT HAYLEY? I SAID YOUR BOYFRIEND’S CHEAP! (Ps. Thanks for paying for my limitless ice cream bowl, John.) So don’t feel bad telling them how offended you are that they think you’re a hideous ogre. Hopefully they will feel so bad that you worked out the real reason they invite you everywhere that they’ll just stop asking you.

2. The Cinema is Actually Alright

It’s the only place I enjoy being a third wheel, as long as I get to pick the film. If I don’t like the film, I like to ruin it by trying to piss everyone in the cinema. The best way to do that is to stand up as the film begins, and say “EVERYONE, I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT TO MAKE. BRUCE WILLIS IS ACTUALLY A GHOST TOO AND THAT’S WHY HAYLEY JOEL OSMENT CAN SEE HIM. ENJOY THE FILM.” But tailor it to your film obviously; it would make no sense to give the plot of The Sixth Sense away when you’re watching Bridemaids or something. If you’re too much of a pussy to do that, just take some inappropriate food, like something in a really rustle-y bag that’s hard to open. I went to watch The Impossible recently, and the girl in front of me had brought salami. SALAMI. AS A SNACK. The smell was so strong that I honestly couldn’t concentrate, which meant I couldn’t get emotional when Ewan McGregor makes that phone call. Fuck. It still upsets me now. Selfish salami skank.

3. Dish The Dirt

That’s right. Dig up the dirtiest dirt of all on your friend and work it into conversation. Not the powdery kind of dirt that can be easily washed away, but the kind that gets under your nails and smells suspect and you’re not sure if a sewer has burst somewhere nearby and seeped into the dirt.  If you’re scared, it’s best to wait until your friend goes to the toilet, but once you’ve been a third wheel long enough seeing your friend plot how she is going to murder you later will become the highlight of your evening, trust me. The line that I enjoy working with is: “Hmmm? Oh are we talking about shitting ourselves at Wagamamas? It’s funny you should bring that up because my friend here….” And the rest, as they say, is history. Messy, gag-inducing history. Of course my friend never really shat herself in Wagamamas. There’s no way I can afford to eat there. But your friend will protest so hard to prove their innocence that it will genuinely seem like they did.

 4. Bring Your Phone

This probably seems like an obvious thing to say. I never go anywhere without my phone. What happens if I’m in an awkward situation or I see someone I don’t want to see on the street? What am I going to look at? How am I going to pretend to get a conveniently-timed phone call?

To start with, it’s a great tool for discovering useless stuff whilst your friend is busy talking about how many kids she wants with her date. Sometimes I just Google myself. One time I put my name into Urban Dictionary and this is what came out:


A complete whore who steals peoples boyfriends.
Hypocritical in the sense that she/he is obsessive and clingy, yet cheats on their boyfriend all the time. A compulsive liar and a ugly bitch. Attacks younger people to make themselves feel better. Fucks every guy she/he meets and trys to lure guys into clubs by ‘forgetting’ her ID. Just an ugly bitch in general. An easy target for a ‘good time’.”

Could not be more accurate.

However, I like to bring my phone for a different reason. When things start getting really boring – which is pretty much straight away – I will text a friend at random and say something like “RING ME ASAP, IT’S AN EMERGENCY.” That way, they’re guaranteed to ring you because they’ll think you’re dying or have got a pen lid stuck up your nose again, and when they call, mould the conversation so it sounds a little bit like this to the smug, happy couple:

“Oh heya…… no no it’s all good, I’m just with Dawn*, she’s on a date though…with…. No not him….No, not that one either…No….No….No…. Yes, him!….With the little…. Yeah that’s the one! HA! I’m surprised it’s happening too…. No… No her results aren’t back yet… Well let’s hope it’s not that! Nah it’s not very good. I just came for the free ice cream….. yeah…. No I got some thank God….. mint chocolate chip obviously…..”

I swear to God, they will stop spoon feeding each other from the word “little”.

(*Dawn is just a name I made up. If I used Anna’s real name she’d get really mad at me.)

(I made Anna up too. Sort of.)

(I’m sorry Anna. We hope you recover soon. Just keep applying the creams.)

5. Try To Always Bring The Conversation Back To Death

Nothing kills the mood more than talking about suicide rates and the time your dog got hit by a car.

6. Know The Appropriate Time To Do Something Inappropriate

This is the crucial moment. If they haven’t already asked you to check cinema times and then ran away, or relegated you to a shit seat at the front of the cinema whilst they get weird in the premiere seats at the back, they must really like having you there. And that is not cool.

You’ve got to go all out. Otherwise you’re destined to be third wheel forever. And I mean forever, because even when these people get married, and that marriage starts to disintegrate (because that will happen), they’re going to want an emotional buffer. And they’ll be all like “Who was really good at hanging out with us when we were all annoying and in love?” then you’re name will crop up – even though they’ll struggle to remember it because they dropped you when they stopped needing a third wheel on their dates – and you’ll have to actually take your tracksuit bottoms off and find someone to catsit.

I’m going to be honest, you’re on your own from here. I’ve tried everything I can think of, and I’m still third wheel. I’ll tell you this for nothing, though: crying hysterically gets you NOWHERE. If anything it is like catnip for third wheel abusers; they will think think that you’re a much bigger loser than you actually are, which means they’ll start inviting you to loads of shit, thinking that they are doing YOU a favour. Then your friend’s new boyf will start inviting his weird friend places too, and before you know it you’re on an awkward double date with a man who likes to huff glue whilst wearing women’s underwear. All I will say is just wait until the opportune moment, like when they’re leaning in for their first kiss, and just do the first inappropriate thing that comes into your head. Just go with your weirdest instinct.

So my fellow ogres, just follow these simple rules and hopefully you’ll never have to be third wheel again. And if you’re really lucky, you won’t have any friends anymore and you can spend all your time on your real passion: creating cross-stich penises.


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.