Monthly Archives: March 2012

Top Hints for Assuming the Lifestyle of A Sexual Deviant

My building manager is off this week. We usually partake in awkward exchanges in which we try to drag out an awkward analysis of the weather on our way past each other, which involves an awful lot of fake grinning and nodding in silence. Now I’m free to roam the premises without fear of such social niceties. In a way, I’m on my holidays too, then. Fuck, I wish I was never born.

Anyway, earlier on I was in my bedroom and realised there was an old man staring in the window at me.

Apparently, he is the person who is filling in for the building manager. But the building manager’s duties don’t include looking at people from afar for dubious reasons that I don’t want to even think about. At least, I don’t think so. Or else he doesn’t fancy me. Why isn’t he stalking me? Must try harder to get him to stalk me.

To be honest, it didn’t really bother me that much that the creepy guy was hovering about- I have nothing to hide. It’s not like I was singing into my hairbrush and making up dance routines. I only do that on Sundays.

 

But on a scale of the blonde recluse from Abba to Ashton Kutcher, how much do you value your privacy? If you don’t require a lot, perhaps you understand the merit of stalking others because it’s hilarious and you can see absolutely no violation to your stalkee’s privacy because you’re off your tits on prescription tablets and narcissicm. In a way, it’s just like Twitter. Sort of. And everyone loves a kook.

Then I realised that being a sexual deviant would actually be a right laugh. And because you’d have to go to a place in your head that lives in denial that you’re just an old, disgusting sleaze, you’d be able to block out all sorts of crap and not give a fuck. You don’t have to let others’ opinion validate you, and if anyone tries to judge you, just violate their human rights by standing outside their house and being creepy as fuck. You might even throw an envelope through their letterbox filled with your turds.

Not only is stalking a great way to obtain information about people that you can later blackmail them with, it is also a sick and twisted method of making yourself believe that you and your stalkee are romantically involved, even if the sight of you repulses them. Furthermore, if you have no life, like me, it is an effective way to make yourself feel better than most other people are sitting at home, alone, on a Friday night, watching Cougar Town and joining in when the cast shout, ‘Penny Can’. Those guys.

Start off your journey to jail by getting yourself a nice catchphrase that fits in with your stalker lifestyle. Of course, in the latter stages of stalking, simply watching from afar will not be enough and you will eventually confront your victim, pick-axe in hand. Just like Jack Nicholson’s infamous, ‘Herrrrre’s Johnny!‘, you should choose something maniacal and nonsensical, like ‘Hungry like the wolf’ or ‘Winner, winner, chicken dinner’.

Of course, creepy sexual deviant types are dedicated followers of fashion. Head to Millets to get yourself an on-trend trench coat (don’t forget one with nice deep pockets for erm… holding notebooks that you can use to compile reams of useless information on your victim. Etcetera. ) and a camoflage cap to be the belle of the bushes. This look is fuctional and fashionable, no matter how strict the dress code in Club Shrub. See what I did there? I gave shrubbery a fun name to imply that stalking is a social activity, when infact it is the sport of serial killers. Accessorise your stalker attire with a nice pair of binoculars, ideally with a night-vision function for when your stalkee goes to bed. This is a lot on your shopping list, so just remember to get yourself some clothes that cover up all of this shit:

While your victim sleeps, kill two birds with the one stone and have a good rummage in their outside bin for credit card statements and other private information for blackmailing them later on in your ‘relationship‘, which consists of you stalking them while they remain oblivious. However, to facilitate the facade that you are doing absolutely nothing wrong, you should probably lie to yourself by maintaining that you are ‘just taking an interest in your other half’, ‘brushing up on your people skills’ or even ‘helping the environment by sorting their waste in a recycling-friendly manner’. Fuck it, if anyone challenges you, accuse them of stalking you. Weirdo.

After getting to know your victim better via stalking, you can take the next step and start telling everyone that you and your stalkee are in a relationship together. Pictures that you have taken from afar can be photoshopped to include your face so that you have nice photographs for your mantelpiece. Those pictures can also be blown up into a large cardboard cut-out of your stalkee so that you can enjoy cosy nights in when you can’t be arsed donning your trench coat and going out to actually stalk the real person. Relationships make life so great that you start to really enjoy giving up your stalking time to spend time on the sofa with your other cardboard cut-out half- don’t feel bad, it’s inevitable .

But what about when that dreaded day arrives, in which your stalkee has a date with someone else? Rememeber- technically, they don’t know about their binding union that they’ve unwittingly shared with you for months on end. At this point, you could walk away with your dignity, get help for your problem and move on with your life. Or- or, you could murder both of the bastards while screaming ‘Sherie, we could have been together. You just had to love me. I didn’t want to do this!‘ It doesn’t matter if your stalkee isn’t called Sherie. Probably best to kill yourself at this point too, otherwise you’ll be serving a long stint in jail.

Although, jail could be the perfect place to start a new relationship. And without the restraints of walls, you might be able to run your hands through your stalkee’s hair while they sleep, watch them while they go the toilet and give them cigarettes in exchange for sexual favours.

Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

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How To Shop In Primark

Clothing chain, Primark, is the darling of the high street for those looking to spend a tenner on disposable clothing that one can chuck in the bin after wearing. From its humble beginnings as a solitary store in Dublin back in the sixties, Primark now dominates the high street and more often than not, most people who look like they could annihilate a person just for looking at them ‘the wrong way’ have a Primark bag in hand. However, while I am a total tramp, I am also the type of person who curls up into a ball and cries when intimidated and as such, I get eaten alive in Primark. It seems that this shop belongs to the cheeky pramfaces of our society. This is an injustice!

Therefore, I decided to conduct some research on how those who sport the illustrious brown Primark bag make it round the shop unscathed to achieve the ultimate glory of buying lots of budget items that will later end up in the charity shop. Who will dispose of them immediately. Here’s what I’ve learned.

Ladies who shop in Primark are notoriously classy, respectable and courteous. Emulate this prior to entering the Primark shop floor by standing outside, smoking and generally being a drain on society. Holding your cigarette and scowling is a tiring process, so you might want to wear your pyjamas. That you previously shoplifted bought from Primark.

Upon entering the shop, acknowledge that all Primark doors are disproportionately small by obstructing the doorway with your fucking pram to check your bastard phone. Tut at me when I trip over you- I’m sorry, it was my fault that you stopped unexpectedly, I’ll just go kill myself, shall I?

Once you have adequately obstructed the door area, head straight to a table of folded items and proceed to rifle through them in a manner more commonly associated with contestants of popular 90s child game show, Fun House, in which horrible bastard children lovely little scamps ransack a house in search of clues and prizes. You aren’t looking for anything in particular on the table; you just want to fucking destroy it because you are an unfeeling cunt who likes to make a mess, and it does not occur to you that someone has to clean up after you. Walk away from the aforementioned table with nothing in your basket, just to add insult to injury.

Don’t forget to stop at the sale rack- it’s full of the world’s cheapest attire, such as ballgowns for 25p and crazy hats clipped on to hangers. Aggressively pull at every item and fling it to the side, walking off and leaving it all at your arse.

Make your way to the lingerie department, where you can delightfully block an entire aisle with your frilly bastard of a pram, which is far too big for your child, little Shaniquisha, because you smoked a lot during pregnancy and she came out a bit on the small side. Fill your basket full of fluorescent knickers while other patrons hold back vomit. Make sure that, when filling your basket, you drop lots of items on the floor, which get caught in your pram wheels and therefore, get covered in wheel-tracks and dirt. Fuck anyone else who has to buy them- other people don’t matter. Waddle off to the nightwear department and get yourself some comfortable clothing for doing the school run.

At this point, it might be a good idea to park your pram with little Shaniquisha in it outside the changing rooms, so that sexual predators and baby kidnappers can steal them if they want- shrug… Go into the changing rooms and inexplicably excrete on the floor. This is how we do, baby.

Finally, head to the footwear department and just randomly throw things around like a caged animal. The object of the game is to get one shoe as far as possible from the shoe is corresponds with, just because you can. In other shops, a security guard would promptly throw you out in the street. But this is Primark! Home of anti-social behaviour! Throw those shoes- throw like you’ve never thrown before. Throw like you’re throwing a punch at your Sandra-Louise for selling your ASBO story to Take A Break. Throw like you’re on Jeremy Kyle and you just got told that you weren’t the father after all. Throw those bastards all over the floor.

When you’ve finished being a total sociopath, head to the checkouts to buy your basket of worthless crap. It is advisable that, as you are otherwise engaged with an irritated checkout assistant, you should lift little Shaniquisha out of her pram so that she can obstruct the aisle on your behalf and be a general nuisance. Being the great parent you are, walk off and forget her after paying, after which, she goes off to start a new life as a child of Primark, roaming the shop 24/7, motherless and alone, wreaking havoc by infringing on other pram babies’ personal space by day and living on the second floor in amongst the socks where she makes her bed by night. She belongs to Primark now.

Leave the shop and reward yourself with a cigarette.

Now- where’s the nearest Peacocks?

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How To Snag A Man If You Have Low Self-Esteem

Having a low opinion of oneself makes any task difficult, but trying to get someone to love you when you don’t particularly love yourself is a losing battle. However, when you find that special someone, they can show you how to accept yourself as you are, helping you to overcome those feelings of low self-esteem. And just because you’re so darn great, I’m going to give you a few tips to meet Mr Right and say goodnight to feeling shite (this was the best I could do).

Yes, that’s right ladies- just because you have low self-esteem due to hating yourself doesn’t mean you have to lose out on meeting a man, settling down and spending the rest of your motherfucking life cleaning up after him. Here’s how you can snag a man, even if you think you’re worthless and hideous.

Looking Great, Feeling Great

People who say that looks don’t matter are lying to themselves- looks are everything because people are shallow as shit. Disguise your low self-esteem, ugly face and lack of confidence by wearing make-up by the trowel. If you have a credit card, head to your nearest Mac counter and have a sales assistant with a superiority complex tell you that your face disgusts her, and how buying £300 worth of eyeshadow will make you instantly appealing. If you’re poor like me and your credit card is reserved for essentials like playing Wink Bingo online and adding to your Mork and Mindy Memorial Plate collection, go to Superdrug and see what’s on sale, and buy that. It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t suit your skintone; by the time you’re done beautifying yourself, you won’t know if you’re black or white.

If you are unsure of how much make-up to wear, google the word ‘Snooki‘, click on Images, and double the amount she wears.

While we are on the subject of natual beauty, it would be advisable to do something about your ridiculous hair. Delightfully, my hair is a torturous bastard and likes to fashion itself into a big ball of frizz, no matter what I do to it. I like to counteract this by frazzelling it under heated plates. This is sustainable, and my hair is not going to fall out in like, a week.

Finally, peruse the Ann Summers sale rack to find yourself a nice outfit to complete the elegant new you. You want your look to say ‘I’m a streetwalker, but not the kind that you can strangle and leave for dead after intercourse, because they’ll send a search party for me and you’ll go to jail.’ That way, potential suitors know you are a lady of class.

Being Seen At The Right Scene

Now that you’ve got the right look, you will need to start frequenting places where you are likely to find the right type of man. Any bar that is affiliated with a religious community that has a bitter history with other religious communities and lots of antsy patrons looking for a fight, or has ‘Legion’ or ‘Strip’ in the title, is usually a winner. However, if you want to steer clear of men who drink, then beat you, then promise to never do it again, then drink, then beat you, etc., then you could always go to loser gatherings for asexual beings singles mixers at your local church to find a man who is teetotal. He might still beat you, though. And cry a lot.

Of course, I’m only joking. Not all single men are secret abusers waiting to pounce; most men are decent and just want to see you happy- while cooking their dinner, washing their clothes and generally being an unpaid slave. Relationships are great, and having a connection that surpasses physical attraction and human decency, to the extent that your partner is comfortable enough to accidentally shit themselves while farting in your presence, creates a bond that no-one can tear asunder. Sharting- marriage, for the undercarriage.

The truth is, meeting a man you like happens when you least expect it, which is why you should just get on with your life and he will enter when he’s ready. That’s what she said. Creep out male collegues while assuming,deludedly, that they fancy you by laughing like a crazy person at jokes they made that weren’t even funny, stare at men stalkerishly on the bus and step over the ‘line of appropriateness’ by flirting with your friends’ partners. This is good advice.

Acting Like A Lady

In my experience, in addition to favouring women who look like whores, men love the ‘modern day gal’, keen to break the oppressive stereotypes of her 1950s counterpart. I like to attract men by showing them that I can eat a whole KFC Bargain Bucket on my own and how disgusting and sloppy I am when drunk by rolling around the floor and generally being a nuisance to our entire party, all surrounding parties and the people on their Twitter account(s), as they will be giving them a running commentary of said rolling and nuisance-being, with updates such as ‘Holy shiz, clean up on aisle four #drunkbitchesonparade’, ‘Dis drunk slut is depriving a village of an idiot. I love One Direction #burn’ and ‘Justin Bieber is my imaginary boyfriend and some insult about a woman who can’t handle her drink #genericpopculturereference’. Men definately want to date me.

However, that’s not say that men don’t appreciate a bit of femininity, too. Simple touches, like drinking your pint with a straw, not making it obvious when you are removing your knicks from your arse crack and not blowing your burps into his face to watch him contort in horror at the stench, tell your prospective partner that you are one refined bitch. Make sure you pick all remnants of onion ring out of your teeth and you are wearing suitable camel-toe covering attire. Men love that shit.

You’ve Snagged Him, What Next?

And after you’ve snagged that man, how does the modern day gal have time to keep him interested? As your typical gal-about town, juggling a hectic schedule- I’ll level with you. In between watching clips of dogs on skateboards on Youtube, crying myself to sleep and writing Desperate Housewives fan fiction- not to mention trying to fit in all of my whining- it’s tough. I’m one busy lady. But finding mutual happiness in the little things helps- such as cooking him a special dinner that I’ve secretly spat in, avoiding going home because we can’t stand the sight of each other and crushing sleeping tablets into his tea so he won’t have the energy to speak to me. We somehow make it work, and it’s so worth it*.

But it really depends on what works for your relationship. Some people choose to have endless affairs to escape the reality that they fucking hate their life, others do drugs and some people just get the fuck on to a plane one day and never come back.

Relationships are great, aren’t they?

*It’s not worth it.

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Ten Things You Never Knew About Your Favourite Popstars

We all have posters on our walls of our favourite popstars. Some of us even kiss these posters ever night before bed time, and genuinely believe that one day, we will marry a popstar and turn into a fiesty music wife with a gold tooth and a multiple finger ring with a catchy slogan like ‘Ride or Die’ on it. I mean, not me but some other people do.

I like hearing all about the glamorous lives of the rich and famous, but more so, I love to hear the little known facts that make me feel like they are just like you and me. Here’s a few I’ve uncovered:

1. Prince of pop, Justin Bieber wrote his song, ‘Never Say Never’ after his mother broke the news to him that Santa Claus wasn’t real on his 19th birthday.

2. X Factor rejects, One Direction, were the brainchild of Simon Cowell. ‘It’s true’, says Wand Erection’s resident hearthrob, John-Jo, ‘Simon Cowell put us together after we wouldn’t stop playing football outside his house’. ‘We were using his wall as a goal post and he gave us a record deal so we would give him some peace while he watched Heartbeat’, laughs the band’s token babyface, Jim-Jo.

3. Lady Gaga is a jokester at heart and laughed off recent rumours that she was a man. ‘I’m just glad people were too busy looking for a bulge to notice my nine nipples, red tail and pitchfork, for I am the son of Satan’, she said in a recent interview.

4. The artist, Madonna, is actually a hologram, having died from old age in 1998. ‘I got the idea after I kept replacing the children’s dog when it got run over by a car- they never noticed the difference’, laughs the dead star. When asked if she prefers her human state or being a hologramatic projection, the star mused, ‘Well, it’s much easier to tame my feminine itch this way. You see, holograms can’t get herpes’. She then slithered into the night, cutting the interview short.

5. After they completed a ‘Sensitivity in the Workplace’ seminar, Maroon 5 changed their song from ‘Moobs like Jabba’ to ‘Moves like Jagger’. When brought to their attention that this was still offensive to Mick Jagger, Maroon 5 frontman, Billy Interchangeable replied, ‘Fuck off’.

6. Coldplay wrote popular nappy jingle ‘Mummy, look! I’m a big boy now’, for Pampers. ‘After the success of that jingle, we realised there was a big market of vulnerable bedwetting adults out there just waiting for our albums’, said lead singer, Fray Bentos.

7. Pop princess, Shakira is the voice behind the Go Compare advertisements.

8. Contrary to popular belief, pop megastar Britney Spears is just like you and me. Despite having millions in the bank, she still wakes up every Monday with the belief that this will be the week that she sticks to Slimming World, she hits her children and she has no idea what she is doing with her life.

9. After a lengthy break, Girls Aloud are set to reform and tour in 2013. When asked why, Cheryl Cole shrugged, ‘Well, our solo careers have failed, innit.’ ‘What Cheryl is trying to say,’ interjects Kimberley, ‘is that Puma sponsor me and you should purchase some Puma items in your local Debenhams’. The rest of the band were unavailable for comment as they were outside scrapping in the street over who was getting to stand in the middle of upcoming promotional pictures.

10. Of his family, Ozzy Osbourne says, ‘I’m actually not related to them. When I bought the house, they were squatters who lived in my shed and we just sort of hit it off’. When asked why he didn’t just ring the police to have them removed, Ozzy declined to comment because Kelly was holding a gun to his head.

Stay tuned for the next installation of this made-up bullshit gripping expose of the glamorous world of celebrity!

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Being a Himbo- Tips for the Modern Man

In an attempt to abolish the idea that this website is written exclusively for women who need to be put in their place, by women who need to be put in their place, I think it’s time to address the male readers of this blog and give them a few tips to enrich their lives. So, thank you for reading, boys, and this blog goes out to the three of you.

Let me start by clarifying that I never meant to alienate you with the pretty pink backdrop you are currently staring at.  This is a frequent misconception about my blog, and it would like me to point out that it isn’t pink, it’s merely blushing at how paltry and forced the jokes are.

Anyway, the Feminist Rights Movement called for the abolition of gender inequality, in the hope that, one day, men and women would be viewed as equal on all platforms. One would expect that this movement would propel the human race to disregard the objectification of women, and allow women the freedom to think and be heard, to be educated and to have the right to the same opportunities as men. In short, to remove the idea from society that women are just mothers, housewives and sexual playthings.

That’s the ideal. Many women still choose to tart themselves up, hoist up the cleave and call it ‘entrepreneurial’. ‘Beauty is power!’ they cry to shitty tabloid papers, whilst having little else to say because being smart isn’t attractive, and that elaborating means they have to use their words. Nonetheless, the Feminist Rights Movement and evolution itself has facilitated a change in attitude that promotes equality among the two sexes- but, while many women have enjoyed this progression, many men are choosing to devolve to nothing more than posing, pretty boys. Welcome to the age of the Himbo.

From Geordie Shore to, well, Jersey Shore, Himbos are out en masse, and if you don’t like it, well- you were a slag anyway. Next! At least that’s what they’d say. Himbos are very visual and like to keep women ‘on their game’ by telling them how ugly, fat and interchangeable they are. This is the first rule of being a Himbo- treat ’em mean, keep ’em lean.

Speaking of being lean- as an aspiring Himbo, disguise the fact that you are a vain motherfucker with no personality by being in great shape. This can be achieved by spending your whole day pumping iron at the gym and taking a fuckload of steroids. Don’t forget that diet of Lucozade, cigarettes, protein shakes and self-loathing! Fist pump!

Enhance your chiselled son-of-a-bitch self with a leathery, dehydrated tan and the latest fashion pour hommes. Every Himbo worth his salt knows that a pair of jeans that don’t cover your arse and are hanging low at the crotch are a fashion must, the more flourescent the better. These are extremely versatile and show off your cunty cartoon briefs that aren’t cool and make you look mentally disabled. Said jeans can be dressed up or down as required, for example, when you tire of working as a ‘model’ in Hollister and fruitlessly visit your local jobcentre, team your fuckwitted jeans with an annoying 80’s throwback t-shirt and American Apparel hoodie. You douche.

When heading for a Himbo night out the town in search of slags and chlamydia, complete your outfit with a wife-beater style top that barely covers your nipples. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, go to Topman and just look at the very first garment as you walk in the door- it’ll be the top I’m referring to. Choosing an appropriate top is easy- just look for something that suggests, ‘I’m sorry I raped you, but my friends and I were having a competition to see who was the best sociopath. LOL.’ Infact, Topman may have this very slogan in store. Fortunately, such slogans supply you with a much needed personality, and may make it easier to break the ice when trying to approach a lady who you’d like to date and later mentally abuse.

House of Himbo Spring/Summer 2012 Collection Bestseller

Which brings me to my next subject: companionship. Much like the outdated tradition in which a bride is ‘given away’ by her father to her new husband like a ritualistic ‘fuck you’ to feminism, Himbos are nurtured by controlling and subservient mothers whose doting is so intense, no woman will ever be enough for him. Reluctantly, the right to iron his clothes, cook for him and generally be a slave are passed on nonetheless. When you finally decide to stop drinking in the type of shitholes where your flourescent Converse stick to the carpeted dancefloor when you are trying to dance to LMFAO’s ‘I’m Sexy and I Know It’, you will need a Bimbo with whom you can settle down and kill time until death by defining yourself by the car you own. You must choose a partner who matches you in vanity, intellect and ability to fight and cheat relentlessly. It’s probably that whore over there with the face piercings. No, not the goth- the slag over there doing the Slut Drop.

Make your Bimbo feel loved and cherished by telling her how much you love her via Facebook and other public domains. Conversing face to face just means no-one can see how much better and happier you two are than the rest of us, whereas putting private and intimate information on Facebook is more attention-seeking and dick-bagged. Respect.

The love between Himbo and Bimbo is sacred and built on a long tradition of doing a poor man’s version of whatever the Beckhams are currently doing smugly and publicly. The Beckhams’ latest self-marketing ploy is to be perceived as demure and private, all the while living in L.A. and actually doing the opposite of being demure and private. Adopt this strategy by structuring your sentences as follows: ‘Not to brag, but (insert bragging bullshit that no-one gives a fuck about here)‘.  When in the company of other couples, bore everybody shitless by whittering on about your dull and unremarkable life. People love hearing about your lives because you’re so glamorous. And remember to name drop as much as possible so as to impress everybody else that you know someone rich, which makes you better by association.

And finally, whether your hobnobbing with others and getting your ‘brand‘ out there, or just chilling with your friends that you call ‘homies’ or some other outdated word- remember to talk like an absolute cunt. Make sure to overuse the words ‘Awesome’, ‘Rock’ (as a verb), ‘Super’, ‘Dude’ and ‘Epic’, it’s really original and not hilarious in a laughing-at-you way at all. Justin Bieber would be proud, dude.

Oh, and before I forget, invest in a tennis racket to bat back all of the offers from MTV to star in their new reality show, seeing as you are ideal.

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Relaxed Achievement: Getting There and Staying There

Achieving a relaxed state is, ironically, a stressful and difficult process for much of us. With modern technology scooping up any free time, making us more accessible to the outside world and extracting the privacy from our not-so-aptly named private lives- not to mention longer working hours, higher societal demands of performance, appearance and achievement- we are busier and more stressed than the generations before us. Yes, they had it tougher, but our generation is surprisingly whingy.

Not everyone is like this. I live with a man who is more zen-like than Dhalsim from Street Fighter. Stress doesn’t even get near him because his extra long arms and legs just smack it out of the way. Bastard. Shifty priest-bag (sorry, I’m doing my best to give up swearing. As it turns out, it covered up my inability to effectively insult people- drat).

I am, on the other hand, a ball of stress. Seriously, I am a little stresticle hanging limply from Mother Earth (who was a dude in this analogy), wondering if that lump is benign or cancerous. Maybe I should get it checked out. But I’m shitting myself too much to go to the Doctor. Fuckkkkkk. Gosh, darn it, Betty White. Oh god, I really need to curse.

Anyway, because it takes me a while to relax, I know that I have to make a conscious effort to de-stress and achieve relaxation*, whilst still maintaining my daily goals and duties. Here’s how to do it in five delightfully easy steps.

Numero Uno: GOAL IDENTIFICATION

Firstly, to enable relaxation, I must identify the things I want in life. What are my goals and how do I get there? If, like me, you hate yourself and think you are inadequate on every level, this stage is an opportunity for you to commit to completely changing your personality and tossing your old life aside like the sack of crap it is. From the offset, I like to set myself up for failure, and usually decide that as of tomorrow, I am going to ‘be perfect’. Nothing specific, just better and less of a shitty (I’ve heard the word ‘shitty’ on daytime TV before, folks, so it’s staying), disappointing failure. My idea of ‘being perfect’ is achieved by being more productive, thinner, more sassy (not like Fran Drescher), dressing better, being less weak, doing better than I’m doing at everything and generally being less of the crappy mess that I am. But this process also works for other unsustainable and generally doomed-to-failure expectations, such as ‘Cutting Out Carbs’, ‘Training For A Marathon In Twelve Days’, ‘Not Drinking Alcohol For As Long As I Live’ or ‘Fucking Vigorously Disposing of The Cigarettes In The Bin On A Whim And Giving Up For Good’.

In order to be better, you must say goodbye to your old lifestyle in an appropriate and healthy way. No, not by disposing of your old vices and getting a good night’s sleep in preparation for your new life, silly! By overdosing until you’re close to vomitting. If, as of tomorrow, you are no longer smoking cigarettes, smoke as much as possible as a ta-ta to the old you. Smoke twenty cigarette at a time. Smoke your sofa. Your lungs know you’re stopping tomorrow- they don’t mind and know not to get cancer anymore in lieu of stopping for good tomorrow. This is true.

Numero Dos: OPTIMISM

Start off the process with the blind optimism of someone who joins Weightwatchers on New Year’s Day, or Monday thereafter. Deprive yourself massively, you can do it! Change is easy. Push yourself to the brink of tears, and don’t allow yourself any slip-ups. Feel the burn, motherfucker friend.

Remember to optimistically update your Facebook with details of how you are now better than everyone else, usually via the use of inspirational song lyrics. I am rooting for you, serial self-improver. You definately won’t quit this in like, a day.

At this stage, seeing as I usually try ‘being perfect’, I choose to ignore that perfection is unachievable. I do not acknowledge that I have never managed to really achieve any of the individual components of perfection before, let alone them all at once. And here I am, at the gym at 11 p.m. because it’s the only time I’m free to go because I’m busy what with ‘being perfect’ every other waking hour. And some hours that should be allocated for sleep. But this is great, I love the new me. She is so much better than old, ball-sack bastardface inadequate me of yesterday.

If weight loss via starvation is your achievement of choice, then at this stage I would recommend making your diet as unsustainable as possible by just generally being starving and weak all day. Don’t even dream of exercising so that you eat a bit more and feel better. Don’t implement any measures that might make your starvation more bearable, such as a ‘cheat day’ or healthy snacks. Remember that celebrating the small achievements will give you a sense of accomplishment and as such, help to spur you on. Therefore, do not celebrate the small accomplishments. I can’t believe you even let yourself get this out of shape. You don’t have accomplishments, just entities that partially rectify past failures. Focus on those past failures rather than current successes, you twat.

This type of punishing inner dialogue is an excellent source of discontent, spurring you on to keep going even though you are exhausted, weak and miserable. Keep it up!

Numero erm… Tri…o: INSOMNIA

At this point, I am usually pushing myself to the point of exhaustion, but am too stubborn to admit to anyone and keep telling everyone that ‘I love the new me’. Due to my relentless schedule and inability to stop trying to ‘be perfect’ because there is always room for self improvement, not to mention the fact that my body and mind have got used to running on empty, I usually suffer a bout of insomnia. In true ‘being perfect’ style, do I take some sleeping tablets and declutter my life so that I nip my insomnia in the bud? Do I fuck- I use my sleepless nights to carry out the joyless tasks that there weren’t enough hours for me to do during the day. I chuckle superiorly to myself thinking about how much of a non-chump I am by not needing sleep, while typing up my novel entitled ‘Fuck Everyone Who Is Sleeping’, and sinking slowly into insanity.

(Fuck it, the cursing is all I have- no more clean-living charade.)

Numero Quatro, muthafucka: DENIAL

At this stage, loved ones will try to intervene because they are ‘worried about you’. Don’t believe it- it’s just jealousy and lies because they can’t see anyone else be happy. Bunch of bastards.

Everything is going great and you definately aren’t about to burst at the seams and kill yourself or others. This feeling of utter despair is just a test to see how strong you are. You are a shell of your former self and have begun living nocturnally, and it’s likely to that you are a danger to society, but apart from that, you are doing great and everything is fine.

Start living as a recluse.

Numero Five-o: RELAXATION

Have a mental breakdown and go to hospital. Start to wise the fuck up to yourself and realise you may as well be dead if you keep living like this. At this point, I start to binge on all the things I’ve deprived myself through the pursuit of achievement, such as food, alcohol and love. I go out and get pissed and lie in a gutter, happy as a pig in shit on the outside, disgusted and damaged on the inside. I usually do this for about two weeks, until self-loathing starts to creep in. So, there you have it- non-deranged, unabusive, contented relaxation**. Fair enough, you’ve regressed back to a childlike state, and your mother is very worried, but whatevs. At least she’s making you some soup while you watch the TV. This is the life!

*Method cited may not actually provoke relaxation.

**’Relaxation’, in this context, refers to ‘Nervous Breakdown’.

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Candle in the Curse

After celebrity, journalist and all round beaut, Elissa Corrigan read my blog, she suggested that I should stop cursing.

My mother is delighted by this after having repeated this exact instruction to me for the last 13 years.

So I am going to give it a go and try to give it up*, seeing as I like to hide behind cursing because I think my writing style is rather depressing and unhilarious without it. Of course, not to miss out on a chance to be dramatic, I am bidding farewell to my old ways through the medium of song, as below.

Candle in the Curse (To the tune of ‘Candle in the Wind’, by Elton John)

Goodbye, vulgar mouth

Now I don’t know myself one bit

I must find a new identity

Or be exposed as an unhilarious tit

Started swearing back in school

To imply I was hard as nails

Should have smoked instead

Less maternal nagging it entails

(Chorus)

And it seems to me, I’ve lived my life

Like a trashy, cheeky mare

Never knowing how to express myself

Without a swear

And now I’m on a new path

To speaking like a toff

And only uttering expletives

That I disguise under a cough

Going it alone

Cleaning out the mouth, my regimen

In the hope that I will succeed

To appear smart and feminine

Women who swear, it seems

Are perceived as slaggy and uncouth

And seeing as I’m skating on thin ice already

I must bid farewell to the lingo of my youth

(Chorus)

And it seems to me, I’ve lived my life

Like a trashy, cheeky mare

Never knowing how to express myself

Without a swear

And now I’m on a new path

To speaking like a toff

And only uttering expletives

That I disguise under a cough

Goodbye, vulgar mouth

You embellish every noun

Make gossip more hilarious

And deliver a great put-down

Goodbye Vulgar Mouth

I’m sure it’s not the end

Considering my inner rage

I’ll see you one day soon, my friend

*By ‘try to give it up’, I mean I’m going to cut down. There is probably still going to be cursing going on. A lot. Sorry Mum.

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Calling All Racists…

Since the dawn of Monopoly, mankind secretly seethed when they were the recipient of a Community Chest card that informed them of coming second in a beauty contest. I mean, who the fuck came first? I actually hate them even though I know they are ficticious.

Only joking. But there is no denying that there has been a bastard undercurrent running discreetly through the human race that suggests that we, as human beings, must compete. Yet, what the fuck do you even win by competing? In this sort of competition, your competitors will never congratulate you, never acknowledge your successes and never let you think you’ve won. Yes, a little competition never hurt anyone, but I’m talking about the type of full on hatred received from others who just hate you for even showing up to the race.

Throughout my life, others have been better than me. It’s a fact. It’s probably the driver behind my future successes but, for now, it’s occasionally disheartening and disappointing, but that’s life. The compulsion to sabotage others to make yourself feel better- now, that’s abnormal.

Yes, I’m talking about racism. Having been raised in a liberal household, I’m disgusted by some of the justifications for racism that I hear, such as ‘They are stealing our jobs’ or ‘Everyone’s entitled to an opinion’. Bitch, please. I’m sure had that small child hadn’t migrated you’d love to be standing in the middle of the road selling the Telegraph. Moron. My favourite restaurant, in my hometown of Belfast, is a little cafe called Byblos, run by the nicest and friendliest men with whom I’ve spent many an afternoon (incidentally, if you decide to go after reading this, I would really recommend the lamb). On a recent visit, my family and I remarked on how much better Brunswick Street is with the addition of this Lebanese gem. In addition to the creation of jobs and the generation of much needed income, tax and foot traffic, Byblos and the colourful rainbow of new businesses to have recently settled have paved the way for a better, more diverse Belfast, instead of an area of which, a Thai man once asked me, ‘Is that the place with the bombs?‘. If anyone disagrees that these new enterprises are anything more than fucking excellent and advantageous to our community, go to Boojum and have a burrito. See, I told you so.

And yes, everyone is entitled to an opinion- but more so we are entitled to a right to live, so please let us.

I’m not saying that racism is entirely based on a compulsion to see others fail, but I do believe that this compulsion and general hatred is a by-product of miseducation and uneducation, and erroneously perceiving another’s presence as a threat to your own abilities or opportunities.

I’d like to challenge this perception by pointing out that the only person who is truly a threat to you is YOU- you are the only one allowing your potential to be capped, you are the only one stopping you from going after what you want and you are your solution to the problems you’ve created (the problems that you think can only be rectified if others are suffering, you silly bastard).

And it isn’t just racism. The fear-based perception that ‘difference’ equals ‘threat’ is breeding in many forms- homophobia, gender discrimination, religious discrimination- the list is endless. And then there are the ones who just hate you for no reason other than that you’re putting yourself out there and going after what you want. I have never encountered a person who was similtaneously truly happy in their own life while unhappy for others. Just happy or unhappy. It’s up to you which one you are.

Accept that the achievements of others have no bearing on you or your performance. Accept that other peoples’ misery will not sustain your happiness for long- you will return to being miserable. Accept that the only person with any scope to change this is yourself.

Accept that change will happen in our lifetime- with or without you.

And just stop.

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The Law of the Package Holiday

After watching the first twenty minutes of Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents yesterday, I felt compelled to leave the sofa and go scrub myself clean with barbed wire. Now I’ve run out of bleach. Thank you, BBC3.

Anyway, apart from the unspoken objective planted in Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents for all subject matter to obtain as many sexually transmitted diseases as possible, there was the underlying message that package holidays are hilarious.

Hilariously shit.

Ok, so some of this mirrors the Easyjet article here I wrote a while ago, but package holidays are so much more than just a miserable plane journey- there’s the miserable transfer, the miserable hotel and the miserable week spent living out a nightmare.

But let’s begin with the miserable booking process. If you were an adult in the 1980s, you probably got, and therefore still are, accustomed to locating holidays via Teletext. For those under 18, I cannot even explain what Teletext is- there is nothing in the modern day it can be likened to, I’m sorry. Teletext is a fucking liar and the cheap deal you keep seeing on page 19 of 1900 has went long ago, if it even existed.

Then there’s the option of calling into a travel agency for the hard sell of being pressurised into booking a holiday on the spot. I choose to not do this as, A) There are no seats because all the ‘lads’ of 7F, St. Ford Escort’s High School for Disobedient Cunts have just called in to book their holiday to Shagaluf, B) I don’t like the smell of suncream and they aren’t fooling anyone and C) I do not believe that Thomas Cook Sales Representative Cassandra-Louise has been to my hotel, nor has Thomas Cook Representative Sue who is listening into our conversation and says that it’s very central- not that she stayed there, but she walked past and it were lovely. Fuck off, ladies, your fake banter is less believable than Cassandra-Louise’s hair extentions.

If you are in any way connected to the outside world, you will have migrated to using the internet like the fucking rest of us, you uneducated swine. The internet, unlike Teletext, has the ability to show you pictures of your hotel and surrounding area (well, Teletext could do this too if your hotel was just a big yellow and red square set upon eternal darkness, or if your holiday was a trip to Legoland). Insider tip: all pictures of hotels and surrounding areas are bastard liars- your hotel does not really look like this. Take the picture that they have given you of the pool area, draw in lots of cunt stick-figures, throw a bucket of water over yourself to emulate getting splashed by said cunt stick-figure’s cunt offspring, all the while playing Barbra Streisand’s Greatest Hits Some Unknown Man Sings Barbra Streisand’s Greatest Hits in Spanish. This is a truer representation.

If you are stupid enough to still book a package holiday, then you’ll be heading to the airport by now. It’s probably nearing midnight. I have no idea why, but it always is. Great, a day wasted already.

Ensure that whilst waiting at the departure gate, you adequately sneer at your returning home counterparts who have just got off the plane in their shorts and party-hats. Their holiday is over, while yours if just beginning! Ha! Look how miserable they are- this is great.

Board the plane and instantly spot the loud party of inconsiderate dickheads, who insist upon calling all staff ‘Mr Air Hostess’ while exploding into a wheezy smoker’s laugh so cancerous, you feel sick by association. This party, who I will herein refer to as ‘The Pack of Loud Cunts’, will spend their time inadvertently making the flight miserable for everyone else through being loud as fuck, singing songs like ‘Country Roads’ and shouting ‘Are we there yet, Mr Pilot?!’ One of them is also likely to have the world’s most irritating laugh, which will penetrate your very soul. Fix this irritation by paying £6 for half a shot of vodka to have alongside your in-flight meal of beef vomit in glue, with a side of dehydrated bread and vacuum packed cucumber. Considering you’re flying for a whole three hours and 45 minutes, you’ll need nourishment lest you’ll die of starvation.

When you finally arrive, you need to be transported to your hotel. This is achieved through the torturous ‘Coach Transfer’ organised by whichever travel agency you’ve sadly booked your holiday through. Note that The Pack of Loud Cunts are on your coach, trembling with anticipation for your journey to commence so that they can sing ‘The Front of the Bus is the Huffs, Barney Boo’. Wankers. Pray to God they aren’t in your hotel.

Thank God, it appears that your holiday representative has taken centre stage at the front of the bus to inform you of basic Spanish phrases such as ‘Please’ and ‘Thank You’ to silence The Pack of Loud Cunts. The one with the weird laugh keeps laughing at a collective ‘Ola’ mumbled by the bus. Feel yourself moving closer toward that stroke you’ve been putting off.

Pull up to what looks like the burnt remains of a sex dungeon and pray to God your name isn’t called to denote that this is your hotel and that your miserable hotel experience can now commence. Of course, your name is called and you trudge off the coach. Don’t forget to be pressurised into giving the bus driver a tip, considering he did his job and no other frills were included to justify a tip. Happily, The Pack of Loud Cunts are also getting off here. Wohoo, they are staying at your hotel.

At this stage, optimism sets in and you start to allow yourself to hope that your hotel room isn’t the shithole that 600 Trip Advisor reviewers warned you that it was. Snooty desk clerk, Selina is annoyed that you’ve disturbed her slumber at 3 a.m. and puts you in room on the ground floor, guaranteeing your room gets robbed numerous times throughout your stay and that each night you drift off to sleep with the tranquil sounds of the nearby motorway.

On your first day, you go to the ‘Welcome Meeting’ hosted by your holiday representative to avail of the free thimbleful of orange juice and hear at length about Costa del Slum’s ‘Transvestite Drag Show and Karaoke Night’ that you can attend for the small price of 150 Euros each, not including drinks and depressing meal. I would advise against this as your holiday representative will be your host and, if male, he is most certainly going to use this opportunity to sleep with your teenager daughter. If female, she’ll be chirpy enough for the whole bus to club together and murder her, meaning you’ll have to tip the bus driver massively to dispose of her body in an empty, desolate forest. Considering the exchange rate, it could work out pretty expensive.

If you opted for Self-Catering, lucky fucking you. If you are Half-Board, Full-Board or All-Inclusive, shit one. You must now spend every morning of your precious week off work throwing your fried breakfast down your gullet at 6.30 a.m., while catering staff tut obviously at you because breakfast finishes at 7. If, like me, you have no control at buffets, be prepared to eat your weight in bacon so laden with grease, it’s practically singing ‘Summer Nights’ and calling Rizzo a slag. Thank God for The Pack of Loud Cunts who roll in at 6.57 a.m. and make everyone else look like upstanding citizens. The Pack of Loud Cunts insist upon wearing their pyjamas to the dining hall, but wonderfully, the one with the weird laugh isn’t making noise because he’s too busy vomiting Sex on the Beach down the side of the table. If you are from mainland Europe, you’re probably eating a small bowl of fresh fruit with yoghurt on it, and I’ll cry because I’m fatter than you later on. Thanks for ruining my holiday.

During dinner, be prepared to forge a relationship with dreamboat waiter, Fernando, who insists you are seated in his area every night so that he can charm you into bed, while bantering with your boyfriend and enquiring how many camels it would take to ‘buy you’. Don’t be fooled ladies, he does this with every sunburnt, blonde lush in the restaurant, and he is also engaged to desk clerk Selina, who would fucking destroy you. Plus, he already slept with the Mum from The Pack of Loud Cunts- you’d probably get the herp.

But don’t fill up on dinner because you’ll be too bloated to dance to ’99 Red Balloons’ with enthusiastic German patrons at the hotel disco after dinner. And this is the best case scenario. Worst case is participating with other hotel guests to compete for free drinks in a contest to establish which country in Western Europe is ‘the best’, not realising that underneath the charade of polite and civilised humanity lies an angry mob of xenophobes who are waiting for any excuse to pounce.

Speak of which, don’t stay up too late because you have to be up at 4 a.m. to pettily secure sunbeds for you and the rest of your party. Delightfully, The Pack of Loud Cunts are swilling round the pool and doing lots of drugs because they haven’t been to bed yet, so don’t be surprised if one of them shits in your towel because they are pack of utter dickheads. Thankfully, this lack of sleep causes one of The Pack of Loud Cunts to be rendered unconscious in a quad biking accident just hours later and sent to a Spanish hospital to begin years of rehabilitation that will later be documented when they sell their story to ‘The Daily Star’. When the Dad from The Pack of Loud Cunts, whom you’ve befriended out of fear, tells you they are leaving, you look remorseful but are secretly pleased.

Now that the hotel is quieter, you are free to enjoy your holiday by lying in the sun for eight hours per day, having a mediocre meal, getting pissed and enjoying absolutely nothing of any cultural value whatsoever.

Not to steal Peter Kay’s intellectual property, but he is very right- you will go to the Spanish Spar and look at products that you can buy at home, you will ring home to enquire about the weather and you will most certainly frequent an Irish bar, where you will eat the exact same shit you have at home. You will start to adorn some holiday spirit and talk to poolside wankers, make a few friends and make the train much longer by doing the Conga at your hotel disco.

Like your package holiday predecessors, you will erroneously assume that you will appreciate a cold shock to the loins when you land back home and wear shorts and a party hat on the plane. Upon stepping out of the plane, you will regret this choice and feel very miserable and sad. The airport will be a bastard and insist that you are paraded in front of those travellers waiting to go on holiday, so that you can be mocked the way you mocked those before you. This is the law of the package holiday.

I’m already loading up the Teletext to book my next trip.

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