My coat makes me look like I am in the SS. Which is not really the look I was going for and was particularly bad taste around Tuesday but I persevered and tried to lighten the look up with my hat that was once mistaken for a dishcloth. I have a problem with hats in general. I have an enormously large head (physically, not in a vain way – it’s not being vain if it’s true) and so to find a hat that doesn’t make me look like one of the Mr Men wearing a hat is quite an achievement. My head is so big it has a kind of shelf at the back so my head overhangs. Pretty hey?
But anyway I’ve been wearing my coat even though I don’t like it as it is so insanely cold and it is look like a member of the SS or freeze. I have this issue with quite a lot of my clothes. I refuse to buy new stuff until I find something I really, really like at a price I am willing to pay. Therefore I walk around in clothes that are far past there best in order to satisfy some weird desire.
I also have very bad taste. And buy clothes that make me laugh. I am writing this wearing what can only be described as a party dress. I quite often get halfway somewhere and realise I am dressed like a lunatic. Sadly it is often too late to change. I’ve lost some weight recently (I intend to sell the “eat less, move around more” diet to Closer magazine) and so have been able to get in to clothes that I haven’t been able to get in to for a while. About 8 years. As I was going through them I happened on a pair of jeans that I wore when I was a size 8. Given the unlikely event that I get to that size again (taking in to the account the massive head I looked simultaneously like Bunyip and like I was about to die) would I really want to wear a pair of stone washed, high waisted, straight leg jeans that cost me about a fiver ten years ago? The answer is no. And as the answer is no why the hell have I moved them 5 times and carefully keep them in a suitcase under my bed? In the same suitcase is a pair of jeans I wore once and an ex told me I looked like a transformer, a bridesmaid dress and a pair of dungarees I must have bought during a Mrs Brick the Builder stage.
Bad taste hasn’t just occurred recently though. As a child my mother was rather overwhelmed by having a girl after 2 boys and so dedicatedly smocked all my clothes. I still worry that if I sit still long enough she’ll smock my jeans. I came across some pictures recently of us putting up the Christmas decorations when I was about 10 and I appear to be dressed as one of EMF. I’m wearing dungarees (with one strap undone naturally) and a psychedelic hooded top with my hair in bunches. I remember getting the top on the market and LOVING it. Whether I caught my mum on a bad day or she wanted one of the Shamen as her daughter I don’t know but it certainly does make me stand out.
My problem is that I get a very specific picture of the clothes I would like in my mind and when I find that shops haven’t recreated this dream for me I get disappointed and don’t buy anything and am forced to wear horrible old clothes.
About Me
- Angel of Harlow
- Book out now on amazon! Buy, read, enjoy, tell your friends, buy a spare copy.
Thursday, 2 April 2009
Word Twist
I have a new addiction. It is very serious and is beginning to impinge on my life and ability to function socially. My new addiction is called “word twist” and you can play it on facebook. It is essentially an anagram game where you try and get as many words out of a mix of letters, but you can play against your friends, it is incredibly addictive and I am having issues. I was seriously addicted to online scrabble for quite sometime and I still dabble occasionally but there is nothing like the fresh hit of word twist. Driving home the other day I was trying to put the person in front of me’s registration plate in to words and came up with the amazingly boring statement: “If you have a B and a G, then you can use every single vowel with them; bag, beg, big, bog and bug”. There was no one else in the car with me, so not only am I insanely boring I am just insane.
I have always loved doing quizzes and trivia games. I blame the parents. Without making us sound too odd they used to record University Challenge and then we’d play it as a family and keep score. Having just read that back I realise it’s really odd. Even now if I go and stay with them they will have stocked up a couple of episodes to play at some point over the weekend. I’d say my first pusher was my grandfather. When I was in sixth form I never used to have any lessons on a Wednesday so would pop in on him during my study time when of course he would be watching 15-1 and Countdown. I would have loved to have gone on 15-1, I think there is something very noble about competing for 50 weeks, going through games after games to be rewarded with a bit of old pottery.
I was a child who got obsessed by things, learnt everything I could about them and then found that led to a new one. Sadly this wasn’t with anything enjoyable like My Little Ponies or Barbies. My first obsession was with flags. I am laughing as I write this as I really don’t know why. There was a book that I used to get out the library (and you could tell that I was the only one that got it out) that had all the flags of the world in it and I learnt them. I used to make my brother test me.
Then came my monarchy obsession. I am able (and believe me as gifts go it’s just above being able to get a sound out of your armpit by shoving your hand under there and pumping up and down) to recite in order all the Kings and Queens since Henry VII and (if that wasn’t dull enough) can tell you the current line of succession to about 15 place. Lady Sarah Chatto is a name I shouldn’t know. I even had…a Panini sticker book of the Royal family. Everyone else had football clubs and Neighbours sticker albums and I was wandering around the playground desperately trying to swap the Queen Mother for Peter Phillips so I could complete my royal montage. The centre spread was the royal family on moveable stickers at a garden party. It’s a wonder I survived to adulthood and wasn’t beaten to death in the playground. I really need to find some kind of game show which is exclusively Monarchy and flag based. I don’t think it would have much of an audience.
I have always loved doing quizzes and trivia games. I blame the parents. Without making us sound too odd they used to record University Challenge and then we’d play it as a family and keep score. Having just read that back I realise it’s really odd. Even now if I go and stay with them they will have stocked up a couple of episodes to play at some point over the weekend. I’d say my first pusher was my grandfather. When I was in sixth form I never used to have any lessons on a Wednesday so would pop in on him during my study time when of course he would be watching 15-1 and Countdown. I would have loved to have gone on 15-1, I think there is something very noble about competing for 50 weeks, going through games after games to be rewarded with a bit of old pottery.
I was a child who got obsessed by things, learnt everything I could about them and then found that led to a new one. Sadly this wasn’t with anything enjoyable like My Little Ponies or Barbies. My first obsession was with flags. I am laughing as I write this as I really don’t know why. There was a book that I used to get out the library (and you could tell that I was the only one that got it out) that had all the flags of the world in it and I learnt them. I used to make my brother test me.
Then came my monarchy obsession. I am able (and believe me as gifts go it’s just above being able to get a sound out of your armpit by shoving your hand under there and pumping up and down) to recite in order all the Kings and Queens since Henry VII and (if that wasn’t dull enough) can tell you the current line of succession to about 15 place. Lady Sarah Chatto is a name I shouldn’t know. I even had…a Panini sticker book of the Royal family. Everyone else had football clubs and Neighbours sticker albums and I was wandering around the playground desperately trying to swap the Queen Mother for Peter Phillips so I could complete my royal montage. The centre spread was the royal family on moveable stickers at a garden party. It’s a wonder I survived to adulthood and wasn’t beaten to death in the playground. I really need to find some kind of game show which is exclusively Monarchy and flag based. I don’t think it would have much of an audience.
caught in a storm
Hello, I’m back. I’ve been around the world (literally, I lost a day of my life, for me there was no 3rd October) but there’s no place like home, ooh baby. And if I’ve learnt anything, it’s firstly not to quote East17 lyrics in the opening paragraph of your return column and secondly that wherever you go the weather is insane. I don’t know whether it’s global warming, El Nino or the presence of me but it’s been weird.
I managed to get a tan this year for the first time in my life. I know they say that you should let a tan build gradually I just never knew they meant the best part of thirty years. It’s fading now, which is probably a blessing, with the tan skin and orange hair I was beginning to look a bit like a 70’s carpet. However in between bouts of tanning I also enjoyed some mental weather.
I haven’t really fallen over in years. I have various scars which are the result of a childhood running around and falling over. But as I have grown older and come to the realisation that I am built for comfort, not speed, my tumbling incidents are few and far between. Until this summer. And I can trace it to two things. When these things meet incidents occur, sadly usually in public.
Factor number 1: Flip Flops. Very comfortable. They are my shoe of choice for the summer. However the minute it rains you must start walking like a geisha as any large strides will cause your foot to slip against the sole of your flip flop sending you shuttling forward (usually whilst emitting a “werrrrppp” type sound). My favourite place to do this is when entering shops. The majority of the time you manage to stay on your feet though.
Factor number 2: Tiled pavements. In the UK we are built for rain. We may not enjoy it but damn it we are good at it. Tarmac provides good grip as do paving slabs. However in Australia (where I went on holiday) they see fit to tile the pavements and occasionally place a shiny manhole cover as an obstacle. Fine in the dry, lethal in the wet. The roads are full of people sliding to their knees and then pretending that they meant to do that.
Anyway. Here is a story of when factors combine and unleash hell.
I was in Brisbane. Only being there for 3 days I had jam packed my days full of activities and pretty much left the hotel early morning not returning till late evening. That particular day I had been at Australia Zoo. The zoo that Steve Irwin ran and is now devoted to his daughter’s rather bizarre show business career. Annoyingly my camera batteries started to fail on the way round the zoo. Wishing to see animals and not Bindi Irwin dancing around and deciding that buying a Steve Irwin posable action figure was in bad taste (I won’t deny that I was tempted) I headed back in to the city early with the idea of twatting around until I went to see a play that evening. I was going to see “The Importance of Being Earnest” at a theatre situated across a very narrow (tiled) bridge.
As I sat in a glass walled café it started to rain. And by rain I mean it lashed down. It was like someone was pouring a bucket of water down the walls. It then started to thunder. For those concerned with the details I will tell you that I was wearing a vest top, a white skirt and flip flops as it had been 30 degrees when I left the hotel. According to news reports the next day this had been a major tropical storm involving 2,200 lightening strikes in 6 hours. All I can tell you is that every 10 seconds the sky lit up and was followed by thunder so loud people couldn’t talk over it, trees were being blown horizontal and everyone in the café was there for life. On my fourth pot of tea I made the executive decision that I was not going to see a play that night. Walking across the bridge would lead me, I feared, to certain death. However I did decide that I would make a dash for the taxi rank. So I ran outside and immediately slipped, did the splits, banged the underside of both arms on to a step, sent my skirt see thru and finished the manoeuvre by sitting down hard on my bag smashing my camera to bits.
I managed to get a tan this year for the first time in my life. I know they say that you should let a tan build gradually I just never knew they meant the best part of thirty years. It’s fading now, which is probably a blessing, with the tan skin and orange hair I was beginning to look a bit like a 70’s carpet. However in between bouts of tanning I also enjoyed some mental weather.
I haven’t really fallen over in years. I have various scars which are the result of a childhood running around and falling over. But as I have grown older and come to the realisation that I am built for comfort, not speed, my tumbling incidents are few and far between. Until this summer. And I can trace it to two things. When these things meet incidents occur, sadly usually in public.
Factor number 1: Flip Flops. Very comfortable. They are my shoe of choice for the summer. However the minute it rains you must start walking like a geisha as any large strides will cause your foot to slip against the sole of your flip flop sending you shuttling forward (usually whilst emitting a “werrrrppp” type sound). My favourite place to do this is when entering shops. The majority of the time you manage to stay on your feet though.
Factor number 2: Tiled pavements. In the UK we are built for rain. We may not enjoy it but damn it we are good at it. Tarmac provides good grip as do paving slabs. However in Australia (where I went on holiday) they see fit to tile the pavements and occasionally place a shiny manhole cover as an obstacle. Fine in the dry, lethal in the wet. The roads are full of people sliding to their knees and then pretending that they meant to do that.
Anyway. Here is a story of when factors combine and unleash hell.
I was in Brisbane. Only being there for 3 days I had jam packed my days full of activities and pretty much left the hotel early morning not returning till late evening. That particular day I had been at Australia Zoo. The zoo that Steve Irwin ran and is now devoted to his daughter’s rather bizarre show business career. Annoyingly my camera batteries started to fail on the way round the zoo. Wishing to see animals and not Bindi Irwin dancing around and deciding that buying a Steve Irwin posable action figure was in bad taste (I won’t deny that I was tempted) I headed back in to the city early with the idea of twatting around until I went to see a play that evening. I was going to see “The Importance of Being Earnest” at a theatre situated across a very narrow (tiled) bridge.
As I sat in a glass walled café it started to rain. And by rain I mean it lashed down. It was like someone was pouring a bucket of water down the walls. It then started to thunder. For those concerned with the details I will tell you that I was wearing a vest top, a white skirt and flip flops as it had been 30 degrees when I left the hotel. According to news reports the next day this had been a major tropical storm involving 2,200 lightening strikes in 6 hours. All I can tell you is that every 10 seconds the sky lit up and was followed by thunder so loud people couldn’t talk over it, trees were being blown horizontal and everyone in the café was there for life. On my fourth pot of tea I made the executive decision that I was not going to see a play that night. Walking across the bridge would lead me, I feared, to certain death. However I did decide that I would make a dash for the taxi rank. So I ran outside and immediately slipped, did the splits, banged the underside of both arms on to a step, sent my skirt see thru and finished the manoeuvre by sitting down hard on my bag smashing my camera to bits.
Glasses
It is coming to the time of year when I have to make a decision. When driving my little tank (or my car, whatever) do I wear my glasses or my sun glasses? Each has it’s benefits. My glasses help me to see and therefore I don’t plough off the roads, in to the elderly and cause widespread disaster. However if the sun is shining they make little difference as I can’t see anything anyway and run the risk of my retinas being burnt out. Of course I could put the little flappy sun shield thing down but they don’t work. Perhaps I should buy massive sun glasses and where them over my normal glasses? Or just be grateful for the fact I live in the UK and chances are this will only be a problem for a week or so.
I am meant to wear my glasses all the time. But I don’t this is for a variety of reasons. The main one being that they make me look like Ronnie Barker – which is no bad thing when I am watching telly or driving but not really the image that I wish to portray around the office. Someone might ask me if I am the phantom raspberry blower of London Town. The second reason is that I have a vague idea of training my eyes – if I wear them all the time then there is no concept of a challenge. They will become lazy and then the next step is inevitable a stick and a dog, at the moment I can still fool them in to working and then every now and then when I feel it is important to see I can treat them to a bit of 20/20. Thirdly I have a theory that my eye sight will improve over the years. This is based in fact. At the moment I am short sighted and need my glasses for distance. As people get older most become long sighted and need glasses for reading and close up work (hence the bizarre dance of trying to hold a paper at the right distance for reading). I am ageing, therefore at some point I shall become long sighted thus correcting my short sightedness ipso facto – perfect vision for my old age.
Or I’ll need bi-focals.
But the main reason for not wearing my glasses is that I quite like the foggyness bad eyesight brings. I have waved at many people and then as I get closer realise I don’t know them at all and have just grinned and waved at a complete stranger. However around 90% wave back so I am making the world a friendlier a place. I also have many wonderful experiences that I wouldn’t have if I could see clearly. Like the time I saw a goose on the pavement. A huge brown goose. It was actually someone crouching down to tie their shoelaces. The time I saw a giant, freestanding Forever Friends Bear – actually a fold up table outside the pound shop. And on Monday I saw Alan Carr cruising down Borehamwood High Street in an open top Honda before popping in to Paddy Power. It wasn’t him.
I shall at some point wear my glasses. I will have to as I will never ever wear contact lenses. It’s not so much the putting them in that worries me, it’s the taking them out. Plunging your hands in to your eyes and ripping the lenses off. And whilst talking to someone suddenly grab your eyelid and pull it down whilst saying “oh it’s gone round the back”, it’s normally around then that I spontaneously vomit in to my own lap.
I am meant to wear my glasses all the time. But I don’t this is for a variety of reasons. The main one being that they make me look like Ronnie Barker – which is no bad thing when I am watching telly or driving but not really the image that I wish to portray around the office. Someone might ask me if I am the phantom raspberry blower of London Town. The second reason is that I have a vague idea of training my eyes – if I wear them all the time then there is no concept of a challenge. They will become lazy and then the next step is inevitable a stick and a dog, at the moment I can still fool them in to working and then every now and then when I feel it is important to see I can treat them to a bit of 20/20. Thirdly I have a theory that my eye sight will improve over the years. This is based in fact. At the moment I am short sighted and need my glasses for distance. As people get older most become long sighted and need glasses for reading and close up work (hence the bizarre dance of trying to hold a paper at the right distance for reading). I am ageing, therefore at some point I shall become long sighted thus correcting my short sightedness ipso facto – perfect vision for my old age.
Or I’ll need bi-focals.
But the main reason for not wearing my glasses is that I quite like the foggyness bad eyesight brings. I have waved at many people and then as I get closer realise I don’t know them at all and have just grinned and waved at a complete stranger. However around 90% wave back so I am making the world a friendlier a place. I also have many wonderful experiences that I wouldn’t have if I could see clearly. Like the time I saw a goose on the pavement. A huge brown goose. It was actually someone crouching down to tie their shoelaces. The time I saw a giant, freestanding Forever Friends Bear – actually a fold up table outside the pound shop. And on Monday I saw Alan Carr cruising down Borehamwood High Street in an open top Honda before popping in to Paddy Power. It wasn’t him.
I shall at some point wear my glasses. I will have to as I will never ever wear contact lenses. It’s not so much the putting them in that worries me, it’s the taking them out. Plunging your hands in to your eyes and ripping the lenses off. And whilst talking to someone suddenly grab your eyelid and pull it down whilst saying “oh it’s gone round the back”, it’s normally around then that I spontaneously vomit in to my own lap.
Friday, 27 June 2008
Musicals
Nothing exciting or interesting has happened to me this week. I know this never normally holds me back when writing this, but although I have passed the time in a very pleasant way (saw the world’s fattest man when I was swimming, had a very pleasant picnic next to the biggest pile of dog’s muck I have ever seen -we didn’t see it until the end of the picnic), there is nothing I have done that has been worthy of note. Which made me think: this would never happen if my life was a musical.
I love musicals. Deeply. Even the bad ones. I am one of the few people who can sit through “A Chorus Line” and not want to hang myself. I just think they’re great. I love the heightened reality and the idea that you can get so excited or so moved that you must sing, and then limit your thoughts and words of wisdom to ones that rhyme. Having to rhyme is a real problem in songs. I’m sure Frank Sinatra would never have sung “for heaven rest us, I’m not asbestos” unless he was really stuck for a rhyme, and god knows what Snap were thinking when they thought “I’m as serious as cancer, when I tell you that rhythm is a dancer” was a stroke of lyrical genius. But even still; imagine being able to express yourself in everyday life by having a little sing a long. And when you’re having your sing a long you find that market stall holders, bin men and flower sellers all know the words, tune and are able to harmonise with you. Somewhere in to the second verse you are all able to do a massively choreographed dance routine despite never having been introduced to one another.
Of course some of the musicals fall down when they decide to have no speaking what so ever and so end up having to sing everything, no matter how dull. “Oh I am going to go to the shops, and buy some heavy things which I might drop(s).” The most horrific example is by R Kelly. Yes! He wrote a musical. It is the most awful thing I have ever seen. I have only watched bits of it on you tube as I can’t bring myself to pay £10 for it on amazon. It’s called “Trapped in the Closet” and from what I can work out it’s about a woman who is married to a cop. Sadly the woman is also having an affair with a midget. The cop comes home and despite hiding the midget in the cupboard under the sink it all comes out in the open. The greatest thing about this is that no one else speaks or sings in the musical, R Kelly sings it all. He even puts on voices for the other characters. So whilst this woman is flapping around in her nightie, ‘R’, as I like to call him, is stood in the corner singing “ the man jumped over the table and landed on the midget, the midget starts kicking and yelling out Bridget, Bridget”. It’s very important in some musicals for people to have easily rhyming names. You never get a character called Orange.
But genuinely I think musicals are brilliant. I love going to the cinema to see something that makes no attempt to be realistic and has people being moved to song and dance routines. Although it is an acquired taste I deeply love Moulin Rogue (Ewan McGregor may be a strong persuading factor in this love). But I think it is an amazing piece of film making. As are: Chicago, Mary Poppins, Bugsy Malone and the Sound of Music (although I would prefer it if it stopped after the wedding and missed out the bit about the Nazi’s).
My ambition is to make my life a musical. It’ll take a bit of doing given that I can’t sing, play any musical instruments, score music or dance but I am willing to try. Living on my own may banjax the harmonies as well but I can pop my head next door and see if Mad Mary wants to join in. I think it will make life far more enjoyable and if I don’t like it I shall sit next to a rain splattered window and sing about my favourite things until I don’t feel so bad.
I love musicals. Deeply. Even the bad ones. I am one of the few people who can sit through “A Chorus Line” and not want to hang myself. I just think they’re great. I love the heightened reality and the idea that you can get so excited or so moved that you must sing, and then limit your thoughts and words of wisdom to ones that rhyme. Having to rhyme is a real problem in songs. I’m sure Frank Sinatra would never have sung “for heaven rest us, I’m not asbestos” unless he was really stuck for a rhyme, and god knows what Snap were thinking when they thought “I’m as serious as cancer, when I tell you that rhythm is a dancer” was a stroke of lyrical genius. But even still; imagine being able to express yourself in everyday life by having a little sing a long. And when you’re having your sing a long you find that market stall holders, bin men and flower sellers all know the words, tune and are able to harmonise with you. Somewhere in to the second verse you are all able to do a massively choreographed dance routine despite never having been introduced to one another.
Of course some of the musicals fall down when they decide to have no speaking what so ever and so end up having to sing everything, no matter how dull. “Oh I am going to go to the shops, and buy some heavy things which I might drop(s).” The most horrific example is by R Kelly. Yes! He wrote a musical. It is the most awful thing I have ever seen. I have only watched bits of it on you tube as I can’t bring myself to pay £10 for it on amazon. It’s called “Trapped in the Closet” and from what I can work out it’s about a woman who is married to a cop. Sadly the woman is also having an affair with a midget. The cop comes home and despite hiding the midget in the cupboard under the sink it all comes out in the open. The greatest thing about this is that no one else speaks or sings in the musical, R Kelly sings it all. He even puts on voices for the other characters. So whilst this woman is flapping around in her nightie, ‘R’, as I like to call him, is stood in the corner singing “ the man jumped over the table and landed on the midget, the midget starts kicking and yelling out Bridget, Bridget”. It’s very important in some musicals for people to have easily rhyming names. You never get a character called Orange.
But genuinely I think musicals are brilliant. I love going to the cinema to see something that makes no attempt to be realistic and has people being moved to song and dance routines. Although it is an acquired taste I deeply love Moulin Rogue (Ewan McGregor may be a strong persuading factor in this love). But I think it is an amazing piece of film making. As are: Chicago, Mary Poppins, Bugsy Malone and the Sound of Music (although I would prefer it if it stopped after the wedding and missed out the bit about the Nazi’s).
My ambition is to make my life a musical. It’ll take a bit of doing given that I can’t sing, play any musical instruments, score music or dance but I am willing to try. Living on my own may banjax the harmonies as well but I can pop my head next door and see if Mad Mary wants to join in. I think it will make life far more enjoyable and if I don’t like it I shall sit next to a rain splattered window and sing about my favourite things until I don’t feel so bad.
Big Brother
It’s that time again. Yes, Big Brother is back. I’ve not watched it all, but I’ve seen at least two episodes which I believe entitles me to form hard and fast views about a bunch of strangers.
Mario
Sponge Bob Square Head. Weird. Changed his name from Sean Astelbury to Mario Marconi as he thinks he looks like Sylvester Stallone. I know. It makes no sense. It’s like me saying I look a bit like Clare from Steps and changing my name to Ted. I don’t look like Clare from Steps, by the way. I look like something out the Beano. Much like Mario. Likes to think of himself as principled and all knowing. Actually just a very strange man.
Lisa
Mario’s other half. Although for the first weekend had to pretend she’d never met him whilst Steph pretended to be his girlfriend. Seems to be confused on the differences between being up for eviction and the electric chair. “Mario we could be up for eviction, you must sleep with Steph and convince everyone she’s your girlfriend”. “We must do this, we could be up for eviction!”. All said in a breathless, nervy voice, like she’s in the resistance trying to escape the Nazis.
Steph
Thick and moody. Now I can see her point about not wanting to share a bed with Mario or pretend he’s your boyfriend but nearly vomiting everytime he goes near you isn’t going to make anyone think you’re going out. She got in to the final 25 on Popstars the Rivals. She was thrown out as she was only 13. This was discovered by Cheryl Cole and Steph has come on Big Brother to get revenge. Bet Cheryl’s terrified. Also means we have to endure Steph singing all the time. You know the type. They sing happy birthday and Steph’s still going 20 minutes after everyone else has finished as she’s attempting harmonies and putting Mariah Carey style flourishes on every word.
Luke
Odd. Quite funny in an absolute gimp kind of way. Seems harmless enough.
Alexandra
There are no words. Oh hang on, yes there are. Vile cow. I loathe her. Shouts over people, refuses to listen to what people say, bullies people because she can and then says that she’s not arguing. A good reason not to do anything about knife crime in the hope that she becomes a victim.
Dale
Thinks he’s good looking so hasn’t bothered to cultivate a personality.
Darnell
Interesting. Was bought up in America so hasn’t tried to copy any previous housemates. Is an Albino black man and is dealing with failing sight. Got slightly more going on than other housemates (mentioning no names Dale) so is interesting to watch.
Dennis
This years camp Scottish person.
Jennifer
A right wing glamour model. Told Dale that she has a wisdom and life experience that only comes with age and Dale has nothing like that. This is fine until you realise, and indeed Dale pointed out, that Jennifer is only seven months older than Dale. She seemed to take this as him agreeing with her. Therefore I can only assume that she still has the mind set of a 6 year old and counts her age in halves and quarters.
Kathreya
This year’s thick housemate. But with a twist – I don’t hate her. She is genuinely very sweet and is not pretending she doesn’t know what a car is or anything. Just a very sweet, slightly thick, girl.
Michael
Michael is a blind, cross dressing comedian who also works as a radio producer. Given that he is not even slightly amusing you have to hope that he is slightly more skilled as a radio producer. Some housemates have decided to interpret him being blind as him also having had a lobotomy and being incapable of doing any wrong. Mikey has decided to go along with this and I applaud his game playing. I’m sure at some point he’ll decide to reveal that he lives alone and has a complicated job and is therefore capable of getting himself a glass of water but if people are willing to do it for you why not let them?
Mohammed
I like him. Facially he reminds me of the Pilsbury Dough Boy but slightly less creepy. Seems quite normal and laid back. Works as a toy demonstrator which surely isn’t a job.
Rachel
Shreiky. Leaps around all day. Speaks all day. To be fair doesn’t have an ounce of malice in her but if I was in there I’d drown her and make it look like an accident.
Rebecca
Actually I’d pin Rachel’s murder on Rebecca. She is fantastically annoying. She wobbled in wearing what looked like an old nighty with a belt strapped round it and then proceeded to scream solidly for 10 minutes. Was the first one to strip off and throw herself in the pool. In short she’s awful. In real life she works as a nursery nurse. Yep. People pay her to look after their children.
Rex
An “executive chef”. Nope, me neither.
Sylvia
A chameleon. Can on occasion seem very pleasant and then talks to Alexandra and becomes an uber bitch. Very pretty but as we all know this is not enough in Big Brother.
All in all they seem less annoying that last years lot. There will be the usual rows. A lot of people who like to slag people off all the time and then when someone asks them to shut up they will say that they are being “disrespected”. At some point someone (I’m guessing Rebecca or “The Bex” as she calls herself) will play the thick card and start pretending they can’t read or make tea in the hope this makes them adorable and cute rather than worrying. I reckon Rex will walk in the next couple of weeks, Steph will be first out, Mario and Lisa will be repulsive and I’m going to go out on a limb and say Mohammed will win.
Mario
Sponge Bob Square Head. Weird. Changed his name from Sean Astelbury to Mario Marconi as he thinks he looks like Sylvester Stallone. I know. It makes no sense. It’s like me saying I look a bit like Clare from Steps and changing my name to Ted. I don’t look like Clare from Steps, by the way. I look like something out the Beano. Much like Mario. Likes to think of himself as principled and all knowing. Actually just a very strange man.
Lisa
Mario’s other half. Although for the first weekend had to pretend she’d never met him whilst Steph pretended to be his girlfriend. Seems to be confused on the differences between being up for eviction and the electric chair. “Mario we could be up for eviction, you must sleep with Steph and convince everyone she’s your girlfriend”. “We must do this, we could be up for eviction!”. All said in a breathless, nervy voice, like she’s in the resistance trying to escape the Nazis.
Steph
Thick and moody. Now I can see her point about not wanting to share a bed with Mario or pretend he’s your boyfriend but nearly vomiting everytime he goes near you isn’t going to make anyone think you’re going out. She got in to the final 25 on Popstars the Rivals. She was thrown out as she was only 13. This was discovered by Cheryl Cole and Steph has come on Big Brother to get revenge. Bet Cheryl’s terrified. Also means we have to endure Steph singing all the time. You know the type. They sing happy birthday and Steph’s still going 20 minutes after everyone else has finished as she’s attempting harmonies and putting Mariah Carey style flourishes on every word.
Luke
Odd. Quite funny in an absolute gimp kind of way. Seems harmless enough.
Alexandra
There are no words. Oh hang on, yes there are. Vile cow. I loathe her. Shouts over people, refuses to listen to what people say, bullies people because she can and then says that she’s not arguing. A good reason not to do anything about knife crime in the hope that she becomes a victim.
Dale
Thinks he’s good looking so hasn’t bothered to cultivate a personality.
Darnell
Interesting. Was bought up in America so hasn’t tried to copy any previous housemates. Is an Albino black man and is dealing with failing sight. Got slightly more going on than other housemates (mentioning no names Dale) so is interesting to watch.
Dennis
This years camp Scottish person.
Jennifer
A right wing glamour model. Told Dale that she has a wisdom and life experience that only comes with age and Dale has nothing like that. This is fine until you realise, and indeed Dale pointed out, that Jennifer is only seven months older than Dale. She seemed to take this as him agreeing with her. Therefore I can only assume that she still has the mind set of a 6 year old and counts her age in halves and quarters.
Kathreya
This year’s thick housemate. But with a twist – I don’t hate her. She is genuinely very sweet and is not pretending she doesn’t know what a car is or anything. Just a very sweet, slightly thick, girl.
Michael
Michael is a blind, cross dressing comedian who also works as a radio producer. Given that he is not even slightly amusing you have to hope that he is slightly more skilled as a radio producer. Some housemates have decided to interpret him being blind as him also having had a lobotomy and being incapable of doing any wrong. Mikey has decided to go along with this and I applaud his game playing. I’m sure at some point he’ll decide to reveal that he lives alone and has a complicated job and is therefore capable of getting himself a glass of water but if people are willing to do it for you why not let them?
Mohammed
I like him. Facially he reminds me of the Pilsbury Dough Boy but slightly less creepy. Seems quite normal and laid back. Works as a toy demonstrator which surely isn’t a job.
Rachel
Shreiky. Leaps around all day. Speaks all day. To be fair doesn’t have an ounce of malice in her but if I was in there I’d drown her and make it look like an accident.
Rebecca
Actually I’d pin Rachel’s murder on Rebecca. She is fantastically annoying. She wobbled in wearing what looked like an old nighty with a belt strapped round it and then proceeded to scream solidly for 10 minutes. Was the first one to strip off and throw herself in the pool. In short she’s awful. In real life she works as a nursery nurse. Yep. People pay her to look after their children.
Rex
An “executive chef”. Nope, me neither.
Sylvia
A chameleon. Can on occasion seem very pleasant and then talks to Alexandra and becomes an uber bitch. Very pretty but as we all know this is not enough in Big Brother.
All in all they seem less annoying that last years lot. There will be the usual rows. A lot of people who like to slag people off all the time and then when someone asks them to shut up they will say that they are being “disrespected”. At some point someone (I’m guessing Rebecca or “The Bex” as she calls herself) will play the thick card and start pretending they can’t read or make tea in the hope this makes them adorable and cute rather than worrying. I reckon Rex will walk in the next couple of weeks, Steph will be first out, Mario and Lisa will be repulsive and I’m going to go out on a limb and say Mohammed will win.
Advertising
I have found a way to buy birthday presents for impossible people. Think of what you would like to get them if money were no object, google it and then realise that money is an object and then think laterally and get them something nothing like the original thing you thought of. It’s like that game you had to play at junior school where no matter what you said the answer was “Grey elephants in Denmark”. The upshot of this is that this is how we bought my dad’s birthday present. He turned 60 last week and he is not an easy man to buy for. But we struck gold. Gold in the form of …. Personalised Monopoly! And some glasses for 100 people in the third world (he’s an optician – there is a link). But the Monopoly is great. We’ve changed all the street names – goes through where his mum and dad were born, where they met, where he was born, went to school, met my mum, worked and ends up with where they’d like to retire. It is in short; genius. Although he did open it and point out two mistakes we made.
The best present I ever got was a cabbage patch doll. Being terrified of most dolls and having parents who shunned most commercial goods (you want a Mr Frosty? But why? Here’s some ice and a hammer) I was delighted to have a toy that wouldn’t make me soil myself and was recognised by other children (unlike my other doll Flang Wang Ci Agnes, who was a “rice paddy doll” from Hong Kong. Had her own passport but took some explaining). My Cabbage Patch Doll was called Suzette Dahlia and accompanied me everywhere. Even to church where some woman in a very unchristian manner felt the need to shout out “ooh innit ugly”. I can only hope she was talking about the doll.
Advertising was better when we were young. Mainly because the adverts didn’t have to be truthful. Mr Frosty could produce delicious icy drinks rather than requiring the strength of Geoff Capes to produce a small melted piece of ice. You could cook the delicious meal of swiss roll and baked beans on an a la carte Kitchen although when you used it in real life all you could really do was open and shut the oven door. Now what is there? I am going to go out on a limb and say that the only three memorable adverts in recent years are Cillit Bang (I bought some, it doesn’t work, but that’s the power of advertising), Shelia’s wheels and that Frosties advert with the intensely annoying child.
I am easily influenced by adverts. Not that they make me go out and buy stuff (with the notable exception of Cillit Bang) but they do make me change the way I speak. I will quite happily tell people that I am “not happy Jan” and if someone asks me how I am feeling I will reply by gunning both hands and saying “I’m excited”. Now both of these adverts are at least 5 years out of date and were shown on the other side of the world and in one case the person who pioneered the saying is dead (R.I.P Big Kev) but that doesn’t stop me. A while back in our office a girl was ringing round Monsoon stores looking for a dressing gown. We persuaded her that it would be a good idea to start each enquiry with “it’s just possible you could save my life”. This amused us enough but it was the spontaneous outburst of “You do” that really made us laugh. And that JR Hartley advert must be a good 20 years old.
Why is it that we still can remember to “drinkapintamilkaday”? “Shake and Vac to put the freshness back” and that “Happiness is a cigar called Hamlet”? But can then watch an advert for a car and barely be able to realise it’s for a car let alone what brand it’s for? We need to start singing again in adverts. It’s the only way forward. Singing and lying – that’s how you flog stuff to kids.
The best present I ever got was a cabbage patch doll. Being terrified of most dolls and having parents who shunned most commercial goods (you want a Mr Frosty? But why? Here’s some ice and a hammer) I was delighted to have a toy that wouldn’t make me soil myself and was recognised by other children (unlike my other doll Flang Wang Ci Agnes, who was a “rice paddy doll” from Hong Kong. Had her own passport but took some explaining). My Cabbage Patch Doll was called Suzette Dahlia and accompanied me everywhere. Even to church where some woman in a very unchristian manner felt the need to shout out “ooh innit ugly”. I can only hope she was talking about the doll.
Advertising was better when we were young. Mainly because the adverts didn’t have to be truthful. Mr Frosty could produce delicious icy drinks rather than requiring the strength of Geoff Capes to produce a small melted piece of ice. You could cook the delicious meal of swiss roll and baked beans on an a la carte Kitchen although when you used it in real life all you could really do was open and shut the oven door. Now what is there? I am going to go out on a limb and say that the only three memorable adverts in recent years are Cillit Bang (I bought some, it doesn’t work, but that’s the power of advertising), Shelia’s wheels and that Frosties advert with the intensely annoying child.
I am easily influenced by adverts. Not that they make me go out and buy stuff (with the notable exception of Cillit Bang) but they do make me change the way I speak. I will quite happily tell people that I am “not happy Jan” and if someone asks me how I am feeling I will reply by gunning both hands and saying “I’m excited”. Now both of these adverts are at least 5 years out of date and were shown on the other side of the world and in one case the person who pioneered the saying is dead (R.I.P Big Kev) but that doesn’t stop me. A while back in our office a girl was ringing round Monsoon stores looking for a dressing gown. We persuaded her that it would be a good idea to start each enquiry with “it’s just possible you could save my life”. This amused us enough but it was the spontaneous outburst of “You do” that really made us laugh. And that JR Hartley advert must be a good 20 years old.
Why is it that we still can remember to “drinkapintamilkaday”? “Shake and Vac to put the freshness back” and that “Happiness is a cigar called Hamlet”? But can then watch an advert for a car and barely be able to realise it’s for a car let alone what brand it’s for? We need to start singing again in adverts. It’s the only way forward. Singing and lying – that’s how you flog stuff to kids.
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