Archive | June, 2010

Obscenities. As far as the eye can see.

10 Jun

I endeavour to resume regular blogtivity this coming week. I’ve had that thing when you have a phase of hitting an invisible wall over everything? You must know what I mean… everything is a hideous chore and you end up wasting entire days with nothingness which spreads extra layers of ‘BLLLLLLLLLLUUUURRRGH’ onto the already significant pile? In a bid to improve said mood, I washed my hair today. ‘Is that all?’ you ask. The last time this happened was May 15th. Impressive? Revolting? I’m not sure which really; but anyone who has ever had ridiculously red hair before will understand the level of commitment necessary to keep the haribo-esque brightness. As I am, for want of a better word, a lazy mother effer… not to mention a shrivelled up pauper… I favour just not washing it. I use that dry shampoo that’s only meant to be used as a first choice by hippies and at festivals.

I will know who reads this by seeing who gives me and my head a wide berth from now on.

I will be sure to post an account of my shift tonight. Its another one of those all night affairs that I love so much. ‘Pangaea’. The University of Manchester’s coming together of students celebrating the end of a year of studying, acting as if they haven’t been out all year. We all know that aint the case you little tykes. I have been preparing for the 11 hour stint that I shall be experiencing tonight, with an expected 6.30am finish. I am carefully choosing which shoes to wear for maximum comfort, debating whether to wear glasses which are very much the more sensible option, and preparing gamecards for ‘Spot-the-drug-in-use Bingo’ for my staff and I. The latter isn’t true. But an absolutely cracking idea… last Pangaea I had to tell a young man that wiping the white powder from beneath his nose might be a good idea.

So after a lazy day with minimal trauma, the 100% genuinely accidental dropping of a towel unveiling my boobies to a bus load of people zooming past my ground floor window excluded, I feel that hopefully tonight should go swimmingly. We shall see.

What I wanted to share was what was going to be the last chapter of the ‘anablog’ of my holiday a couple of weeks ago. I sort of left it too long to write the last chapter but I had one last thing I couldn’t keep to myself…

The top ten most revolting souvenirs I could find.

These items were everywhere. I thought souvenirs were supposed to be all about straw donkeys and hideous wall plaques. But there seems to be an explosive trend for all things utterly hideous and offensive. Now I’m all up for a bit of so-foul-its-brilliant in my wardrobe. However. Why any t-shirt printing shop would ever dream in a million years that someone would want to wear any of these t-shirts I honestly can’t get my head around. And that’s without taking into account the fact that these are supposed to be commemorative of a visit to Portugal’s lovely Algarve.

Prepare yourself.

*NUMBER 10* Yes, its two cheeky looking penises wanting to provide you a warm memento of your time in Portugal to stick on your fridge. For ALL to see.

*NUMBER 9* A little something for the mathematician in your life, a stonkingly hilarious and horrendously bleak summary of the relationship between men and women in the 21st century.

*NUMBER 8* A very 'sexy' beach towel for the most tasteful of gents... you certainly won't forget where you're pitched with this one. Undoubtedly the finest Egyptian cotton... and Dads can use this to wrap the sprogs up in when they've been out having a wholesome paddle in the sea.

*NUMBER 7* Remember that really boring mug that your friend got you last year? The one with the rustic traditional artwork on the side? Screw that, get them this here tit! Adorned with a peach of a quote that is surely destined for the vaults of greatness filed inbetween the pithy words of Oscar Wilde and the wisdom of Confucious.

*NUMBER 6* Treat the necrophile in your life with this HILARIOUS little number. Now everyone at their Necro's Anonymous meeting will enjoy a little chuckle when they go out sporting their new gift from the Algarve.

*NUMBER 5* Cor... don't we all know this feeling, eh! A perfect gift celebrating the beauty of a holiday on the beach... with an extra twist of hilarity if your friend's name is Jim. Oh how he'll laugh.

*NUMBER 4* Personally, with my love for all things Hello Kitty, I'm not quite sure how I held myself back from ripping this straight out of the cellophane and pulling it over my head. Well apart from the fact I had sunk to my knees and wept at the horror of this monstrosity as soon as I spotted it.

*NUMBER 3* I think everything this t-shirt has to say is spoken entirely through that look of wild lust in the farmer's eyes. It's the sort of thing you could wear to Tesco on a Saturday afternoon and get all the girls heads turning that's for sure.

*NUMBER 2* So side-splittingly awful I couldn't bring myself to post this guy in all of his uncensored glory. I remember when I first saw this I just could really comprehend what it was I was looking at or why it existed. The most fantastic gift for any member of your family, but for ultimate comic effect, make it someone elderly.

*AND AT NUMBER 1!!!* It has to be this guy. I was so horrified when I first found this I spent a whole afternoon trying to track it back down to take a photograph. Just imagine for a moment, if you would, the elated feeling you get when you return from holiday. Your family and friends pleased to see you back, commenting on your tan and wanting to hear 'all the goss'. You tell them you've got them a little something. They tell you that you shouldn't have. If they open this, they will look at you straight in the eye after vomiting on your feet and scream 'YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE!!!' in your face. Its the sort of image you can't undo in your head once you've seen it. I should have put a warning on the top of this blog. Sorry. But now you have seen that furious look in that cock's eyes (AS IN A COCKEREL.) we can support each other.


The (Delayed) Anablog. Chapter Five.

1 Jun

This week has felt neverending. Like ‘The Neverending Story’. Which incidentally, did eventually end. Two things always stick in my mind from that film. First is the inaudible nature of the vitally important word that gets yelled out by Bastian into the storm to save Fantasia right at the crux of the storyline. ‘You know the name, Bastian! Please! Call out my name!’ Glad you know the name because to this day I don’t really. Even after all the slowed down playback I did as a child, adolescent and adult trying to work it out.

Second being my King of horse actor-based facts; which is that Artax actually drowned making that Swamp of Sorrow scene. Well, I use the word ‘fact’ relatively loosely; I have reason to believe it might actually be false.  But it is a 75% horse actor based fact.

Your horse tugging's no good around these parts, boyo! He's actually genuinely full of sorrow and panic but his horse acting is just too damn good. R.I.P horse actor. Probably.

I hope you’ve been thinking that a trendy 20-something hipster like myself has been just too darn socially active over her Bank Holiday weekend and that is why the final proper installment of this anablog odyssey has taken his sweet sweet time to pull his socks up and tuck his pressed shirt into his ‘good’ trousers to provide literature for your eyes. Its actually more to do with an intense work schedule. Employment. Tsk. Who wants it eh? Well apart from all of the hungry people in the bread queue or waiting for a place in the poor house.

Think yourself lucky. This nearly never even happened as I have been afflicted with another wicked hangover. The sort which is heightened by being told various things you said/did/broke the night before that the memory department of your brain rather inconveniently clocked off for. I went into a picture-book pleasant place called Didsbury with a couple of my housemates who had also been drinking with me to try and cure ourselves with niceties such as civilised brunching, smoothies and visiting fancy butchers amongst all the decent local people. There they were; breezing through their clean, graffiti-less lives with their posh cheeses and their dignity. It was all very lovely but made returning home a bit like going back to a scruffy pit of despair after a day trip to an exotic paradise.


I sat listening to a ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ style covers album of Rolling Stones songs. Not as ghastly as it sounds. Although the mental image of Mick Jagger in tight trousers and an open-chest sheer glittery shirt wiggling his tush, is.  It was that pleasant to listen to, cocktail in hand in the sunshine, that we went and asked the name of the album. ‘Bossa n Stones’. I recommend. Here is one of my favourite Stones songs being covered in a beautifully hot-day way.

Mojitos are on the menu here. They make my Dad shudder. On a recent trip to Manchester I successfully got him utterly wrecked on an alcoholic mix of a madman. Mojitos were the intermediate stage of the evening. It ended with him on tequilas and lager dancing with my Mum to obscure Latin rhythms in a trendy bar in town. Suffice to say, the memories of the subsequent hangover have put him off my favourite delicious minty cocktail.


We are driving back from a day in a place called Albufeira. I’m watching the billboards zoom past advertising all kinds of things. One is for luxury fireplaces. It featured an elderly white-haired couple in a passionate embrace. I first thought it might be a 10×20 foot ad for viagra and squirmed a bit.

Sir Cliff Richard has vineyards and his on range of wines out here. We went into a shop the other day which had a life-size cardboard cutout of Cliff enjoying a glass of his vino. I sort of instantly wanted the cut out. Then realised a) he would probably need his own passport to get him back and b) that to have a six foot Cliff Richard in your living room would be naff kitsch to an extreme level. I wonder if he uses ‘Mistletoe and Wine’in his television adverts. Must look out for billboards advertising for Sir Cliff’s mistletoe farms.

Everything about his being never fails to muster a 'lol' from me.

I looked in every shop in Albufeira for a) more Kitty stuff and b) Mint Cornettos. Apart from my friend Dan, who apparently recently acquired one, I fear that Mint Cornettos have actually died out. Maybe he found his in a semi thawed glacier like an ice-age man preserved and trapped in time. This is a very sad business regardless. I love them nice creams.

We went to a restaurant tonight in which I enjoyed thoroughly. It was all down to this one absolutely stunning dish they have there. Divine. Exquisite. I couldn’t get enough. I cannot put into words the immense pleasure.

His name was Paolo.

He was an ex-professional footballer, now waiter for his family business with a body that dropped a thousand jaws and a rump juicier than all the steaks in the Algarve. Eyes as deep and warming as hot chocolate, skin that looked like it had been varnished by the Gods, and a smile that welcomed each new butterfly into my tummy with a glass of sparkling pink champagne. He was, the definitive swoon.

Each touch of my arm and kiss of my cheek took me straight back to gazing at posters of East 17 and 911 longingly after prising them carefully from the pages of my ‘Smash Hits’ magazine.

For any gentlemen not being bowled over by Paolo  reading this wanting a slice of the swoon, he grew up and remains to be friends with Nani. Of playing soccer-kick at that wretched place in Stretford fame.

Oh yeah, they also had this WELL nice chocolate pudding at this restaurant. So good I nearly wet myself with joy.