Hell hath....

Hello all,

Firstly, I would like to pay tribute to our fallen heroes as it is Armistice day today.

Secondly, *snaps* to our student comrades and their protest yesterday at Millbank. It's about time someone did something about these hideous cuts. (I will NOT be voting Lib Dem again next election).


Luckily, my fees were capped at £1200 a year when I was studying, they then went upto to £3000 (my other half will not-so-happily confirm this) and now they expect to charge £9000? I'm sorry that is disgusting, and moreso for the fact that those figures, as my flatmate pointed out last night, don't include the interest you receive the minute you stop studying. Shameful.


On the plus side, southbound traffic from Vauxhall was a complete dream last night.


Anyways, I would like to start todays proceedings with some extremely sad news..

The last little bit of me that didn't want to slay the Skeksi in cold blood, has checked into the penthouse suite at the life-sentence hotel.

In Hertfordshire.

In a certain garden city that shall not be mentioned.

(This little pictorial tribute is for my former colleagues/ escapees who have clawed their way back into the London zoning system)

After some fast-paced, trans-capital, e-counseling from Missy Epl, (fresh from her little jaunt to Paris I might add *cough* green eyed mo*cough cough*) her wise words were simply, "let it all out on the blog honey". And here I am.


Now, far be it from me to moan, (as my loving whanau* in one of the Pacific rim colonies will vouch), I'm actually rather an amiable chap most of the time, but today, well today! I don't want to go into detail, but I went beyond annoyed, I went beyond angry... I had a capitalist 'negapiphany'. Or at least that is what I'm calling it.

The moment, the crystal clear, self-defining moment you realise. I actually don't get paid enough to deal/care/ listen to this shit.

And I don't, so instead of getting mad, I'm going to get even!!

Resignation typed and ready, in the mean time...


Mwahahah!


When I am done with her, she will actually wish she was in the Dark Crystal.


MR EPL!


Over and out!



(I'm sorry, I'm watching 500 days of Summer in the background.. Umm what the hell is this, more like 500 minutes of my life stolen, what was Joseph Gordon-Levitt thinking? He should have left this cliched, contrite indie-wannabe trash to Ellen Paige. DON'T get me started on Juno. Urgh, although... she does get snaps for Hard Candy. Oh, what is this, a commercial for the only way is Essex? I'm sorry but yuck. If I was a TOM TOM, the only way would be any where BUT essex. Vile.)



ATE: Spine-tingling, hatred infused rage! Ooo and some delicious golden syrup porridge.



PAID: My usual fare for the journey of doom, plus a cheeky coffee from my personal barista @ Nero (Kings Cross).


LIVED: The usual, on-edge train ride with other digruntled colleagues. Followed by a wet greeting from the most heinous weather of the year so far.



*pronounced 'far now' and translates as family (in my case: emigrated from the motherland), for those who haven't sampled the native delights of New Zealand Maori.

Codeine influenced and migraine inspired. . .

So here I am. Back in London for just shy of a week now and holed up in my boudoir following one of my humdingers of a migraine which kept me up all night sobbing into my pillow.

Two codeine tablets and three hours shut eye and here I am letting loose on the blog - not wise when one's mind is clouded, one's eyes exhausted and one's stomach is lurging with nausea. Someone fetch me a violin and I will play you such a melancholy tune. . .

It's no wonder I'm ill. Following my restful jaunt across the channel, it took all of two hours for my body to readjust itself to the screech of sirens, the relentless stress caused by striking tube workers and the constant panic I feel every time I need to leave the office on time.

Mix in a healthy dollop of the ever changing British weather, a pinch of a weekend bender and garnish with that poisonous little witch Waisel staying in on X Factor and you will find you have the recipe for a pounding head, best served resting on the cold side of the pillow.

It's absolutely belting down outside I can hear it. November rain - not the epic Guns and Roses track featuring one of the greatest guitar solos courtesy of Slash and his dexterous digits - but the sad November, UK drizzle rain. The type that gets caught in the wind, blows in your face ruining precisely applied eye makeup and destroying the perfection of many a straightened lock. It's this exact look that I was rocking shortly after midnight last Friday -around about the time Master EPL was disembarking from a bus in East Dulwich in a commandeered sailor's hat, property of Her Majesty's Navy. But that's his story to tell.

So gone midnight Friday, bucketing down, post LVPO (everyone loves a freebie) and sans umbrella, my dear friend and I, after bidding Master EPL, Wee Wallace and a drunken sailor a bon nuit, are weaving our way from SoHo to Chinatown. I don't even like Chinese food but I was absolutely Hank Marvin.

Though masquerading as a 24 hour city, London does late night eats like any other poor excuse for a UK town. Street meat and fried chicken served in polystyrene boxes can be procurred at a reasonable price at very unreasonable hours. But, if you like your late night food served on a table with crockery and cutlery - Chinatown it is. Although there was no cutlery, just chopsticks which I managed clumsily due to copious amount of alcohol previously consumed.

The aforementioned dear friend has been a friend for years. One of those who knows I once owned white stilettos and other such ghastly secrets. One of those I am completely comfortable eating like a pig and dripping beef curry all over the table in front of. One of those that knows that this lady is most definitely on occasion a tramp - not the dirty girl prostitute type, just one with very few airs and graces I'll thank you.

We had a good catch up, a heart-heart and tried to offer each other advice in between mouthfuls of my discarded sticky rice and fresh chilli. Then we stumbled to the bus stop, drunkenly pledged to stay friends for life and boarded a most welcome, uneventful nightbus before heading our separate ways home Like two kids given a cardboard box to play with, we just have a good time. Oh the contrast from the masquerade of the previous evening.

The previous night I'd been at the May Fair hotel with Elle magazine. After the event a colleague and I decided to grab a drink before she went for her dance class. Just a quiet almost the end of the week drink. The kind where you know you're on the home straight, one more gin and tonic won't hurt, but at the same time, it remains a civilised affair.

Sadly the May Fair bar was packed wall to wall with over paid, obnoxious, old aged idiots. This made standing at the bar minding ones own business somewhat difficult. Three of the above described accosted us and insisted on buying us a drink. As there was no way to manoeuvre an escape the choice was take their drink and conversation, or just their conversation. We opted for the drink. Just call it compensation for "are you wearing any knickers under that fur coat?". FYI a lady never does tell.

When you're drinking with a group of men who keep their wad of fifties in a folded five pound note, you know manners will always make way for money. But equally gentlemen you should also know that the toilet will always win out over a twat. That's right we go in pairs when we're not coming back.

We'd much rather hide in our powder room haven (and belief me if the sniffs and snorts from the cubicles were anything to go by, there's plenty of powder) to finish our drinks and indulge in conversation which may or may not pertain to our lingerie. Again. A lady never does tell.

But that's over beloved London. A facade of glamour masking a city which is distinctly rough around the edges. An endless parade of Uggs and Fuggs, the genuine article and the false effect co-existing relatively peacefully,. The fusion of real no nonsense friends with the bullshit from the desperate to impress big times make for rollicking good times, giggles and prime blogging fodder either way.

Ate: late night Chinese followed by hangover fry up with crumpets on the side
Paid: £15 for Chinese and zero for the booze. Nods appreciatively in direction of LVPO
Lived: I am dying a slow and painful death

Madamoiselle EPL

For the last few days, I've exchanged my English blogger identity for the chicer, Parisian alternative, Madamoiselle EPL. Please excuse any typos, getting to grips with a french keyboard is playing havoc with my ability to touch type at speed.

This has been my first time in Paris and despite my typical English ignorance of foreign languages, I've managed quite well - mostly thanks to ma terrifique roommate who happens to be both French and in posession of a fabulous Parisian apartment a mere 15 minute walk from the Louvre. It would have been rude not to. . .

I'm not known for being overly romantic infact romance is not something I am comfortable with. In a list of things which turn my stomach it's right up there with Sir Cliff Richard and carol singers. Needless to say being in the most romantic city in the world, I've had to get used to it pretty quickly.

Thankfully a run in with a street seller at the Sacre Coeur, who went to slip some tat onto my finger but actually achieved an accidental boob graze, coupled with a slew of indecent text messages that would make the most ardent of Scarlet readers blush, from my old faithful; has meant that in Paris, Madamoiselle EPL has found romance to be as dead as the baby calf that was sacrificed on the alter of my blanquette de veau craving palette.

I love to eat. No I really love to eat so this trip has been about fondant chocolat, macqaroon, pain au chocolat, beurre, beouf, sausisson, some more beurre and the most exquisite of canellonis, swimming in a bubbling bath of gorgonzola.

A visit to my roommates friend's restaurant had me clenching the tablecloth in a fit of culinary pleasure. After satisfying everyone of our tastebuds with scallops, fresh spinach and ricotta, chocolate tarte (the secret is to use salted butter), pannacotta and the most delicious of reds, Joanna and Patricio locked us in and insisted we light up over a light discussion of french politics and french cinema. There is nothing like a cigarette after a meal. Yes its a dirty habit, but when in Rome (or Paris as the case may be) I have found myself overindulging my lungs as well as my stomach.

Unfortunately for me they don't sell Slimatea here, just food and wine, and a shed load of it at that. I can see why Master EPL adores it so much here even if it makes London look like a reasonably priced city, although I have managed to stock up on my beloved Vogue cigarettes at a fraction of the price. Home to Londres this evening armed with sassison sec enorme for Master EPL and as much pastry as my suitcase will carry. Destination diet via a stint at the gym.

Bisou, bisou xx

Ate: a lot all with a side plate of butter
Paid: a lot, but one can not put a price on a good time
Lived: like a true Parisian ooh la la

The SKEKSIS

Goodness me, that bitch knows what buttons to press. I've been sat at my desk today like a type 4 Chernobyl reactor, circa 1986.

Now, being the master of discretion, I won’t name names, well at least not until I’ve had a glass or three of vino, (hence the sad realisation a career in the Ministry of Intelligence was not on the cards for me), anyway I digress, let’s just call her Skeksis. A playfully accurate moniker a photographer friend of mine coined (who I must say got the ‘Dark Crystal’ likeness bang on, it must be the eye for detail or something).

And let’s just say she works in my department, albeit in a position she's wholly unworthy of (let's throw in a healthy dose of backstabbing, brown-nosing and being a mercurial bitch for good measure).

Now don’t get me wrong, on day-to-day basis, I merely mask my contempt for her with simple nods of the head, the polite offer of coffee and well-timed, gay trills of artificial laughter, not forgetting of course, a smattering of feigned ‘’no....really?’ interest. (No..really... I’m actually not interested. Ha!)

I often find myself looking at her, as a mother might her child playing in the garden, or an artist taking in a serene sunset and think to myself “you know... you're the kind of person I would denounce to the Gestapo for not actually doing anything.

Except she does,

every day.

and she deserves to be punished.

Being frightfully middle class, I of course, don’t voice my concerns, ‘airing one’s dirty laundry in public’ is after all, a middle England faux-pas (the participants in any Jeremy Kyle ‘show’ will affirm this statement).

I used to opt for the very British ‘under your breath comment’ to express my displeasure. You know, when someone pushes past you in the queue at the post office, and you think loud enough for them hear ‘there’s actually a queue, my impatient friend’. Or someone (I’m certainly not saying it’s tourists... but it is) decides to walk in front of you at a glacial pace along the underground, and you make that little 'your robbing valuable seconds of my life' tut.

But I thought, what would my favourite Mean Girl, Gretchen say? Resolutely, it would be "let it all out in the book, honey", and I thought you know what, I will. I'm going to let it all out on the blog. It is 2010 after all.

Venting: done!! Glass of merlot to hand. Tuesday evening is looking up!

Ate: Endorphin enriched Chinese takeaway + 1 glass of Cab Sav (and counting..) fags don't count, naturally.

Paid: £8, fag's don't count, naturally.

Lived: Aside from the Skeksis' notable evilness, just about. Dodged inspectors at Potter's Bar followed by defective trains at Finsbury and a rammed tube from Kings X to LB. Shudder.

Things just got out of hand. . .

George Michael's Careless Whisper was number 1, Margaret Thatcher was regretfully living it up in Number 10, and on a late August afternoon in 1984, after a 36 hour labour, my mother gave birth to her first born. Me. Over due by nearly three weeks, my poor timekeeping is a flaw which has undoubtedly dogged me and everyone that knows me my life thus long.

If I arrange to meet you at 6pm for after work drinks, know that you can safely assume this to mean between 6.30 and 7pm. Because at 6pm I'll still be in the office, furiously applying blusher and backcombing some volume into my locks which are currently begging to be coloured and trimmed.

Friday night was no different and I made it to our favourite Soho haunt, LVPO at 7 just in time for a round of free cocktails. Despite the fact I'd issued a plea earlier in the week, imploring my friends not to let me touch the gin, I soon found myself slurping at that bitch Bombay and her slutty friend Sapphire; telling myself without conviction that it would be a quiet night. FAIL.

Shortly after I arrived, the scots joined us. Never be fooled by their petite frames or their distinct lack of height. Between the two of them they pack more punch than Ricky Hatton on a charlie binge. So when that short, leery, no gooder thought he'd attempt to mug Wee Wallace, he picked the wrong girl.

After snatching her iPhone, he promptly found himself smacked in the face and the iPhone snatched back. Not content with the humiliation of a public beating for being a thief, he went a step further on his shameful road to ruin and slapped her back. A thief and a woman beater; I believe that's what one sarcastically calls a catch. And caught he was - by the second scot who gave chase believing the bastard to have made off with her kinswoman's bag.

Now we've all seen Braveheart, so you know not to fuck with a Scot as they'll likely set Mel Gibson to give you menacing phone calls. But throw in a bloke with a sense of chivalry and slightly buoyed by the booze and you're in even more trouble.

Though there were no kilts lifted, no glorious charge of cavalry and not a smidgen of blue face paint in sight, the vision of those two heroically sprinting down the street, while the robber fled like a Dickensian villain, was poetry and the subsequent blow to the face that took him down was finer than a Raging Bull montage.

Oh how we laughed, how we cackled those deep, throaty, filthy laughs. The whole affair could not have been funnier less it had bam, pow and och aye comic style speech bubbles written all over it.

The relentless temptation of Happy Hour combined with the fact I'm 20 lbs lighter than when I moved here, mean that so far this month I've thrown up in a Wetherspoons, instigated a cake fight in a perfectly respectable watering hole, walked barefoot around the East end on my own at 3am, and found amusement in an attempted mugging of a friend.

At 26 none of these things are terribly clever, they're frankly little short of tragic. But since moving here I've found that things get out of hand. Things get out of hand, often. But all you can do is live, learn and laugh a lot, preferably over a decent breakfast and a Turkish apple tea on a blissfully sunny Saturday morning in North London.

Ate: pizza express at midnight
Paid: A measly £19 for pizza and cocktails thanks to free bar tab courtesy of our friends at LVPO
Lived: Just about. Survived attempted mugging, two night buses solo and a bad case of the gin blues yesterday evening

Does the cruelty of the pre-payday week know no boundaries?

Today, I can safely say was spent productively wallowing in self-pity. The office was so cold, I was layered like a transient* wrapped in his Sunday finery, our long awaited sample sale (the shining beacon of this week's diary) was rescheduled and to top it off, several of my favourite retailers decided to launch mid-season sales and from what can I tell, solely as a form of fiscal torture.

Not only do they know that I am sans funds, but items I kindly paid full price for last week, have been given a jolly 25% off, meaning I will now be given those dreaded 'Oo I think he got those in the sale' second glances. To add insult to injury, they also decided to throw in a couple of things I REALLY wanted, at a frankly disrespectful price, which left me with the only option but to put them in my 'shopping bag' and pray that by some means of electronic miracle/ screw up, the items were paid for and delivered to me first class, just in time for a weekend on the bread line.

We can live in hope...

*don't get me started on transients. Walking through London bridge yesterday (a scene of several of my encounters with vagrants, notably the infamous strawberry frapuccino incident) I walked past a guy with a sign saying 'any change will help'.

Now, I'm not one to begrudge someone of 20p, but the guy was sitting there listening to a NEW ipod nano AND he had highlights. I almost felt like taking a spot next to him and start pleading my case.