Hatred isn't attractive but.....

I know that it isn’t attractive to hate anyone or to rant but everyone has to do it once in a while and I am awarding myself the opportunity to rant just this one time.

Okay, here goes. I HATE CHAD KROEGER. For those of you who don’t know – he is the lead singer of the totally awful band that is Nickelback. Actually I shouldn’t discriminate – I hate the whole band. He is just a face to match to the hatred. Now, when I was living in England I didn’t experience this kind of emotion towards Chad and his evil clan because no-one really listens to Nickelback - we are sane in England and we appreciate good music. I don’t think that I was forced to listen to Nickelback anytime after their first single which I will graciously admit that I kind of didn’t mind.

I can safely say that I forgot about them entirely but since I moved to Australia I have been forced to listen to them upwards of 4 times a day. This is totally excessive in anyone’s book surely. I mean – does anyone need to listen to any song 4 times a day? Especially a rock / pop ballad sung by a gravelly voiced Canadian with a bleached blond perm and a goatee. I mean who has a goatee in 2010 and honestly – get a haircut. Surely you have to be an actual rock star to be allowed to have long hair over the age of 30?

Obviously due to my hatred I practically attack the radio every time that one of their songs comes on but they are honestly unavoidable. One day, I changed the channel to avoid them and low and behold on the next channel was Nickelback too. It was like they were following me telling me that if I didn’t just accept that I have to listen to them then I should give up and live in a box because they are here to stay. It was a bad day for me.

It seems to me that every song that they sing is about dying or what would happen if we died. Talk about depressing. Can’t we just enjoy a good melody and a happy message? Why so morbid all the time Nickelback? If you are so obsessed with death then why not just go ahead and die already.

Okay – I have taken a deep breath and realised that it is time to bring this rant to an end because although I don’t like them it seems that a lot of people (none of whom will I ever be friends with) like them. It’s one of life’s mysteries that I will never understand and despite the therapeutic qualities of getting it off my chest – essentially they win because they are millionaire rock stars and they probably have massive houses and I like to think – talking dogs. Surely all rock stars have talking dogs. Its one of the first things that I would get.

I'm so cool...

Anyone out there been caught dancing in front of the mirror? I have. Twice. Needless to say it was equally embarrassing both times and could in no way be ignored by any parties involved.

The first time I was 18 and was dancing and singing (word perfectly I might add) to N’sync. My Dad wasn’t that impressed with my musical knowledge and pretended that he hadn’t seen me. We’ve never spoken of that day. Thank god. Although maybe he could have given me some tips on my dance moves.

The second time I was 21. I don’t know what I was dancing to but it was witnessed by my very recently new boyfriend and he was pretty excited about telling everyone that we knew what had just happened. I think that the move that he actually witnessed was me “brushing off my shoulders” as though I was in a rap video. I was getting ready to go out and obviously decided that I needed a pre-night out dance in front of the mirror just to practice. I caught him watching in the reflection. He was laughing like you laugh when you are in a lesson at school and you find something hilarious but you can’t laugh out loud because you would get in trouble and so you just sit there and silently shake whilst it becomes funnier and funnier. You forget why you’re laughjng but you know that you can’t emit a single sound. Tears and sometimes snot are involved. Well this is how he was laughing. I was mortified. I did foil his plan to embarrass me in front of our peers though. I marched right on it to where everyone was and told them. They laughed, made me do the dance move and then moved on. Pretty painless surprisingly as there was definitely pouting occurring to accompany the dance moves.

I reckon that the fact that they forgot about it so easily was because everyone does it. I mean everyone. Can you honestly say that when you have been in your room and you’ve got your favourite song on that you haven’t mouthed along with the words? If you haven’t then you are missing out and you are denying yourself a basic human pleasure. Surely if you are getting ready in front of the mirror already then a little singing along isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Don’t deny yourself. It’s like being in your very own music video. AKA awesome. Just a quick tip though – if you are going to do it when someone else is in the house – maybe make sure that the door is shut and that the music isn’t so loud that you can’t hear knocking or someone entering. Just a thought…

For your information - the photo featured is an example of the kind of moves that i pull when rocking out. Don't ask who the guy is - he didn't like me.

Hi. My name is Amy and i am irrational....

My blog post about irrational fears got me thinking about other irrational emotions. I feel like I am pretty in control of myself – unless I’m watching X Factor and then I cry pretty much every 5 minutes OR if there is a puppy / kitten involved and then I turn into a cooing weirdo– but normally – I’m pretty together. I am Captain Cool.

(I’m not at all but I have always wanted to call myself Captain Cool – sorry!)

HOWEVER, this cool fascade is quickly replaced by an emotional mentalist any time that I am hungry. I call it “Hunger Anger” and I am pretty sure that I am not the only person out there who has it. I don’t often forget to eat, in fact, I plan my whole day around my meals but if there is ever a time that this happens or circumstances prevent me from eating at regular intervals as necessary then I feel it brewing in the pit of my stomach and I become mean. Snappy, irrational and just a total bitch. My fuse is pretty short at the best of times – I don’t really like the general public – but if I haven’t eaten then it literally takes someone looking at me wrong or a bad song coming on the radio and I will turn. If I was the Incredible Hulk and could turn green then I assure you that I would although I may choose a different colour – maybe purple. I feel that that would express my anger a little better.

My ex-boyfriend used to have “Hunger Anger” and I think that I potentially caught it from him. The signs were simple. He would look a little pale, he would answer me with one-word answers and would talk really quietly. It was like waiting for some kind of bomb to go off. We could be walking around looking for places to eat and he wouldn’t be able to make a decision but wouldn’t like any of my suggestions and then he would get all tense and then full blown “Hunger Anger” would set in and then we would argue and end up not eating. Not that much fun – hence why he’s an ex. I seriously kept Dairylea Dunkables in my handbag so that if I identified the symptoms then I could pop one out and suggest that he ate it. I had to tread carefully though – if the “Hunger Anger” had already set in then my suggestion would just cause it to flare up early. It’s a serious business.

I sometimes get irrational happiness. This is much more enjoyable and usually follows several caffeine rich beverages. The symptoms of this are a great deal of energy, unjustified loud laughter and usually (well pretty much always) rapping of some kind. I enjoy rapping. I’m not claiming to be good at it but I seem to know a great deal of gangster rap lyrics and busting them out is a lot of fun. If I’m with a friend sometimes I will couple my lyrical flow with some pretty shit hot dance moves. As I said, irrational happiness is much more fun than “Hunger Anger” and if you’re lucky enough to be around me in such circumstances then you will get a gangster rap extravaganza. Complete with explicit lyrics. The only problem with this is that I can never guess when this euphoria will come upon me and some of the rap lyrics aren’t entirely appropriate for everyone. Ah well, I did say that it was irrational. It’s uncontrollable – I can’t do anything about it.

Irrational sadness happens occasionally but this is normally due to watching too many “Chick – flicks” in quick succession. I mean have you seen “My Sister’s Keeper” – that is the saddest thing that I have ever seen and I think that I even cried for about an hour after the film ended. Don’t watch it unless you want to have swollen eyes for a week. Or, while we’re on the subject “Beaches”. Right, I’m nearly crying now just thinking about it. That’s irrational. Maybe I’m going to have a bout of irrational sadness right now. Or I could just drink a pint of coffee and bust out some Snoop Dogg for my roommate. She’s sleeping next to me on the couch but I’m sure she wont mind if I wake her up.

Irrational fears...

What is it about being a female that makes you completely and utterly shit at parallel parking? I mean, if I’m on my own – I can parallel park like a mother bitch. If you had seen me parallel park today when I was alone you would have wanted to have my babies – or have me have your babies – or whatever! I was basically awesome at it. It just seems that as soon as I am with someone else or there is another car behind me – I morph into a driving spaz and cant manoeuvre any kind of vehicle for shit. I can’t take the pressure – its like someone is watching me and marking me on my style and accuracy and that suddenly a giant scoreboard is going to appear and everyone will be able to see how bad I am and this massive audience will materialise and they will all boo me and have those big foam hands and make thumbs down signs at me and shake their heads sadly at my pathetic efforts at parking. Phew - I can’t handle it.

A perfect example of this was when I was at university. My housemate was driving her boyfriends’ car back from his place and she needed to park it along our street. It was a busy street where you had more chance of seeing a giant multicoloured break-dancing cabbage than getting a parking space. It was pretty cutthroat. Anyway, she had some trouble and so she came and got me and asked me to try. Despite the fact that I had been driving for 4 years – the pressure was just too much and I couldn’t handle it. In the end – after driving around, attempting to park then freaking out as soon as someone else came along the road then having to drive around in a loop to get back onto the road just to try and fail all over again – we had to stop a passing male and ask him to park it. Oh the shame. Obviously he did it first time. What an arsehole. I don’t think that we have spoken about it since – its like it was unspoken between us that no-one else could ever know. It would ruin our reputations as strong, independent women. Sorry Claire.

If I can avoid parallel parking then I will do so at all costs. It fills me with dread. It’s like maths. I have an irrational fear of maths. I have nightmares that I have to do a maths exam to allow me to keep my degree and I wake up in a cold sweat, panicking and feeling sick and there is a moment of total and utter terror before I realise that its all a dream and I can breathe again. I’m the kind of person who adds up on their fingers and if I have to do any kind of mathematical problem without a calculator I will make an excuse and leave the country immediately. Imagine if maths and parallel parking were combined in someway – that would make me vomit.

This has got me thinking about irrational fears. My housemate is terrified and I mean TERRIFIED of cargo ships. She doesn’t like the fact that they are rusty and if she sees one she feels sick and looks genuinely frightened as though someone is trying to hurt her. It’s funny. There are a lot of cargo ships in Perth. Constant entertainment.

I don’t like those massive wind turbines. I know that they are good for the environment blah de blah but they genuinely frighten me. They move around in circles really fast and I can’t help but imagine how horrible it would be if some evil villain tied you to one like they do in cartoons. It would be the worst form of torture.

A girl I once lived with was frightened of buttons. I don’t know what it was about them but when we put lots of them in her bed she totally freaked out and wouldn’t return to the house until we promised that we had removed them. In hindsight that was probably pretty mean. Bad karma for Amy.

When I was younger I was afraid of tomato ketchup. I don’t know what it was about it – whether it was because it was red and cold or whether it was the idea of liquid tomato but I would cry if anyone tried to make me eat it. I remember locking myself in my friends’ toilet when her mum bought me a McDonald’s burger with ketchup on it. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? When I was at Brownie’s I remember being bullied by this girl who told me that she was going to tie me up by my hair and make me eat ketchup. What a sadist, Now I know that when I said above that it was highly unlikely that anyone would tie you to a wind turbine – well if I could I would get that girl who threatened me with ketchup based torture and would do it to her. Does that seem over the top?

I think that an irrational fear or two is healthy. It’s entertaining for your friends and it’s a chance to be totally crazy without people seriously doubting your sanity. Although, if your irrational fear leads to you thinking about tying up your old enemy from Brownie’s then maybe it’s time to get help. Oh dear.

False advertising....

So I was wandering around my local supermarket today and I came across this sign. “Entertaining Dips’. Wonderful. Here I was expecting to have a normal boring trip to the supermarket where I bought vegetables and fish when realistically I wanted to buy biscuits and peanut butter to spread on them but here I was being offered entertainment by these dips! I wandered over but there was no entertaining going on as far as I could see. I was expecting maybe a French Onion Can-Can or a Homous mime act but they were just sat in their pots doing nothing much at all. Boring. As a last resort – I turned to Taramasalata – arguably the most entertaining dip, expecting maybe a little juggling or fire swallowing but no such luck. “Entertaining dips?” Pah. False flaming advertising if you ask me!

Why am i so massive?

Ok, so recently I have been enjoying the phenomenon of really small things! Sounds weird but let me continue. There seems to be a craze to buy really small laptops and gadgets of all kinds at the moment – in fact I even tried it myself – the problem was that whilst using my ridiculously small laptop all I could think about was the fact that it made me feel as though I was a giant! I felt like a huge cartoon giant typing on a normal human computer – oh how I laughed! So spurred on by the delight that this caused me (sorry – simple things!) I went on the search for other small things that could also make me feel like a ginormous super human!

Now, I’m not a massive fan of espresso – I like my coffee milky and sweet – but if I don’t order espresso then I don’t get the tiny weeny little cup that it comes in and then where’s the fun? If you are particularly lucky and find yourself in a café where they sell tiny little cupcakes then it is a double whammy of giant fun! When you hold the cup your hands look massive and you can eat the cake in one small mouthful as if devouring the bones of some unsuspecting innocent village dweller (preferably a child) as in most fairytales!

I know that some girls around my age get broody and look at baby clothes and think ‘wow, one day I hope I’ll be buying these blah blah blah”. Well I am the one standing there laughing at the baby shoes because yet again due to my slightly disturbed sense of humour I’m imagining that I am a giant and I’m marvelling at just how tiny this shoe is and then probably getting a little depressed because I’m massive and there is no chance that someone as big as me will ever be able to find yellow shoes with bumblebees on them. It just isn’t fair. And then I remember that I am in fact normal sized! But it is still a little bit upsetting that even though i'm normal sized - there is a distinct lack of shoes with bumblebees on them on the market.

I know that being a giant isn’t really that desirable a thing to be – I mean – it would be an absolute nightmare finding a pair of jeans to fit or trying to get on the tube or even trying to find a boyfriend of equal size. Furthermore no doubt you would inevitably face persecution from the townsfolk who would hunt you down with burning sticks and demand that you be put into a deep hole and kept there forever. However pretending to be a giant by standing next to small things and pretending to be massive is fun, free and hilarious – try it, you might like it.

I saw the sign....Part 1

As you know, I recently flew off to Thailand for a couple of weeks of fun and games. When I wasn’t drinking and generally causing mischief I noticed a few signs and stuff that amused me a great deal. As they say, “caring is sharing” so here they are.

This sign was in Jakarta Airport – not my favourite place - but this sign kind of made up for it. Just in case you aren’t sure – don’t get into the toilet with all that poo and wee and stuff. Alarmingly the sign portrays the waste as being bright green. Worrying. The lucky chap who’s found himself in an awful pickle seems terribly confused. Thank goodness this sign is there – just imagine the mess.

I saw the sign....Part 2

In Thailand you drink out of buckets - its potentially the best idea since the invention of the wheel. There are a million stands selling them lining the beach and this was my favourite. I mean – I’m not religious but if its good enough for Jesus – its good enough for me. Unfortunately the person selling them was not Jesus. Or maybe it was. I don’t know who these Alex and John characters are but they are being particularly graphic about what they want us to do and frankly I don’t think that Jesus would approve.

I saw the sign....Part 3

I don’t know who Emma is but what a slut. She’s asking for tips too. What a cheeky bitch

I saw the sign....Part 4

Now this poster is so intriguing it actually upsets me everyday that I didn’t give Andrew a bell. Just think what wonderous things “The Adventure Club” would get up to. I don’t know what it would involve but I like to imagine that they ride around the jungle on the backs of wild animals like cheetahs and zebras and there are definitely bows and arrows involved. Only problem is that there definitely aren’t any cheetahs or zebras on Phi Phi. I wonder whether when you join you get a t-shirt / baseball cap combo with “The Adventure Club” on it. That would be a great incentive for new members if the poster weren’t enough. Those few sentences in Thai are just teasing me. Why write the title in English and then the rest in Thai – its just mean. Maybe that’s one of “The Adventure Clubs” adventures – baffling English tourists. Wow the fun they must have! Sigh. If only I had my own Adventure Club. Its another thing to add to the ‘To-Do List”.

I saw the sign....Part 5

What the fuck? Placenta Crème. This is genuinely very upsetting. There was no description on the box so unfortunately I was truly baffled by this until I got the chance to Google it. I kept scanning through my photos and becoming generally disturbed when I saw this. It was a problem. I have since discovered that it is made from lamb placenta and has regenerative qualities. I’m sorry but I don’t think that I could bring myself to rub lamb placenta on my face. Surely it would smell. I totally should have bought it.

I saw the sign....Part 6

This sign was outside one of the bars on Phi Phi island. Personally when I have been under the influence of alcohol I’ve never felt the need to start snogging fish – although maybe its something that I should try. Although I think that logistically its impossible. Also, notice how tiny the boat is that’s bobbing on top of the water. This would technically mean that the person underwater pashing the fish is in fact a giant. Surely that should be the warning rather than it impairing judgement – it turns you into a giant. Not something that I would be happy about. Or maybe the boat is just far away? Yeah, that makes more sense. Also I have no idea what a ‘barthender’ is. Intriguing.

Smoothie Nemesis...

At last the day has come – I am pleased to report that I have a new nemesis. It’s brilliant. I really do feel that everyone should have a nemesis – it makes me feel like my hero – Spiderman. He had a fair few – lucky bugger. I have had one so far in my life and when I left that city I was keen to get a new one so that I could have someone to use my awesome evil looks on. I’ve been honing them for a fair few years and I happen to think that my evil looks could stop traffic. I haven’t tried it because I’m way too busy but if I did try it, I have no doubt that traffic everywhere would be stopped. I don’t want to be responsible for the chaos it would cause so best not try it.

Well, fortunately for me my nemesis is not in any way threatening my life, which I think is kind of important when selecting them. I mean – I know it’s exciting but I’m kind of a low-energy gal and if someone was constantly forming evil plans to terminate me I reckon it would get old really quickly. I’d probably end up baking them something or maybe doing some Irish dancing just to try and make them like me. I’m pretty awesome at Irish dancing and trust me, they would NOT be able to resist it. It’s a powerful tool. As well as my evil looks. Multi-talented.

My nemesis – prepare for it – is a headband wearing, Emo, teenage girl with a brace. Now, I know that this doesn’t sound that impressive but she has an attitude problem the size of the world and she makes me feel angry. She hates me. She works at Boost Juice, which for those of you who don’t know is a smoothie making heaven that is totally awesome.

Let me give you the back-story – I swing by there every week after my spin class and order a “Gym Junkie” – I know. It makes me sound like a wanker who wears tracksuits, sweatbands and Hi-Tec trainers. For the record – I’m not. The smoothie is just totally bad ass. If my order isn’t reason enough for her to hate me – on my first visit I accidentally took the wrong drink. BIG MISTAKE. I immediately realised my error and instead of exiting stage right, as I should have done – I confessed to this headbanded psychopath that I had made a mistake. She proceeded to sneer at me, snatch it off me and turn to her colleague and say something mean. I didn’t hear it but I could see the rage on her face and it pissed me off. I made a genuine mistake. What a bitch. Doesn’t matter that she is only 15 or so.

Next week I returned – I was determined to stand my ground and there she was, being all young and surly and low and behold she gave me the wrong drink. I mean – for the love of God. What is her problem? It’s like she’s trying to break me mentally. It won’t work. She will not defeat me. Nevertheless I took the wrong drink and left with my tail between my legs. She had won this time. I had to make a plan.

I decided that my best bet would be to kill her with kindness and that is just what I did. She did not know what had hit her. I asked about her Christmas and smiled and made a few jokes. It was an award winning performance. She even messed up the change she was so flummoxed. It was a truly joyous day. I felt like Popeye after he eats his spinach and kicks that fat bearded guys ass. Victory was mine. World order has been restored. Just call me Spiderman. (I’ve always wanted to say that)

Spin spin sugar....

Recently I have been attending spin class at my gym in an attempt to get killer legs but the only thing that I seem to be doing is practically killing myself. I don’t know whether any of you have ever been but seriously – it is the hardest thing that I have ever done and it just doesn’t seem to be getting any easier!

For those of you who haven’t been its basically a 45 minute class where you cycle as hard as you can whilst the instructor plays banging dance music and there are UV lights – as far as I can see it – that is the best thing about the whole class! With zero exaggeration I can only describe the whole thing as painful and totally, totally unpleasant. Its 45 minutes of pain and absolute hell. Now I know that none of you will want to discuss sweating but seriously, I have never sweated this much in my life. I wipe my face and a minute later it’s like a lake of sweat all over again. This has led me to consider purchasing some kind of 90’s stylee sweatband so that I can stop the continuous flow of sweat flowing into my eyes – its totally necessary. The classroom even has paper towels and antiseptic spray so that at the end of the class you can wipe down the droplets of sweat from your bike – trust me – there is just sweat everywhere – its ludicrous!

I cant honestly believe that anyone would enjoy it – you do sets of different exercises and at the end of each one people are practically crying and there are men grunting all over the place. Men grunting in public makes me feel slightly uneasy and often makes me giggle but try giggling when you are so out of breath you are in danger of passing out – its not a good mixture.

And seriously what is up with the instructors? They are always far too peppy and they talk all the way through. It’s like “Shut the hell up – I need silence so that I can well and truly wallow in the agony that I am going through”. The only noise that I am physically capable of making during the 45 minutes of torture is kind of a strangled gurgle of pain as I try and suck air into my lungs. Some times I can manage an anguished groan when I realise that only 10 minutes have passed but these instructors try and encourage us to sing along with the songs! Are they fucking kidding me? I’m just concentrating on staying alive – singing is not high on my list of priorities!

When I first started doing the class it was a genuine concern that I would vomit and there is nowhere to do it – I was looking around desperately panicking and wondering where I could spew without attracting too much attention but there was no facility available. Maybe I should pop that in the suggestion box on reception. I’m sure that it could be easily incorporated. The only problem as I see it is that your feet are strapped in so easy exit is not an option. See – they are keeping you hostage in their Den of Pain by forcing you to secure your feet so that you can’t run when you realise that the class was the worst idea that you have ever had since you thought it would be a splendid idea to wear plastic jewellery.

You may wonder why I continue to go - well basically, its 45 minutes of pain but apparently you can burn up to 600 calories and the way I see it – that is a fair few chocolate bars or cheeky ciders and its just the sacrifice that I am going to have to make. Also, when I am done I can justify eating my body weight in cheese. That’s reason enough.

Too much time on my hands?

Google is awesome isn’t it? I reckon that on average I use Google maybe 10 – 15 times a day. I feel like that’s quite a lot. Granted, a lot of the time I am just googling images of celebrities that I fancy – normally looking for those topless shots. Yes, Josh Hartnett, I am talking about you. Well, there is only so much of this that I can do without getting bored so the other day I decided that it was time to expand my horizons.

Currently I am living in Perth in Western Australia – don’t ask me why. It is the most isolated city in the world apparently so why I moved here I have no idea. Anyway, I’m not really sure what direction to go in ‘life-wise’ so thought that I would consult those wizards at Google to see whether they had any ideas that I have been overlooking.

Initially I just typed in “Amy Baker is” but it seems that there are no famous Amy Baker’s (there is still time) so instead I just typed in “Amy is…” and the answers that came up were nothing short of fabulous!

Now, I’m going to skip the first one because that is just boring and as far as I know Amy isn’t short for anything. I like the second one a lot. I am cool. Thanks Google – just giving me a bit of self-confidence. Shucks! They have obviously been monitoring my Google usage and have realised what I already knew! I am taking this as a sign that it is more than ok to spend hours googling men. Thank goodness.

The next one has to be the ultimate. I am a perverted dancer. Excellent! I wasn’t aware of this but now that it has been confirmed by those at Google I’m going to get out there and perverted dance my socks off! I don’t really know what constitutes perverted dancing but I’m sure that it basically involves thrusting and grinding and maybe making obscene hand gestures. I am sure that I can rock this perverted dancing malarkey – In fact as I have already mentioned above – I am a pervert. If there is a young man around – you can guarantee that I will be checking him out. A dream job for me would be driving a white van so that I could ogle all male pedestrians and shout obscenities and then if they were particularly hot maybe I could jump out at some traffic lights and show the lucky buggers some of my perverted dance moves. Maybe I’d grunt a bit as well – I think that this would add a whole new perverted dimension. I am excited about this – I just hope that I don’t get arrested. Its Friday today – I will road test it and let you know the outcome.

“Amy is very…” Very what? Just very! I’m fine with that but seriously Google “Amy is fat” – you don’t know me! A minute ago you were saying all these nice things about me being cool and a perverted dancer and now you’re calling me fat. That’s just plain mean. “Amy is amazing” – well look who came crawling back. Its fine Google – I forgive you.

Now, the next one is just baffling. Apparently I am a lawyer on “Judging Amy”. I don’t even know what “Judging Amy” is and if Amy is both the judge and being judged on “Judging Amy” then I think that that is just bad planning. Or maybe, Amy is judging herself and that just doesn’t sound very entertaining.

“Amy is dead”. Am i? Shit, I hadn’t noticed. Here I am going on with every day life not realising that I am in fact dead! No wonder that no Western Australians thank me when I let them in at road junctions – I’m dead so I’m not actually there! Here I was just thinking that they were being rude! I feel quite alive though which is weird seeing as everything that I read on Google I take as gospel!

“Amy is awesome” – seriously Google, you are flattering me! This is such an ego boost – I recommend you try it. I googled my friend Tom and it said, “Tom is a true Mack Daddy”. Now this is the kind of thing that I am pretty sure the entire population would want to be referred to as. Google are not only providing us with valuable information- they are flattering us. Its heart warming! And then they have to go and spoil it all – “Amy is a Barbie girl” – say what now? I am in no way a Barbie girl. I have only recently discovered that there are any other colours to wear other than black, the idea of a dress or anything in fact which shows my legs is unfathomable and I like to think of myself as a bad ass who’s sole mission is to destroy all Barbie girls. The lesson here – don’t trust Google. They flatter you and then insult you in the blink of an eye. Be warned!

Bless me god damn it.....

Here is something that has bothered me for a while and I thought that it would be a good idea to get it off my chest. Whilst living in London I used to encounter an old man on the Jubilee Line who took an instant disliking to me and I have never known why.

So this guy used to walk up and down the train carriage with a cross and he would bless people. The first time that I saw him I thought “oh here we go. Another crazy. Lucky me, no doubt he will decide to hug me”. As he neared the guy opposite and I shared a look of shared amusement that he was blessing every body. When he reached me – he stopped, hesitated and then moved on to the next person without blessing me. What? Suddenly I was hurt that he had chosen not to bless me. What was wrong with me? Could he detect the devil in me or something? Should I be worried? Should I enquire to my parents as to whether or not they sold my soul to the devil as a baby for their new car? What was his problem?

 The guy opposite looked at me in pity and I am pretty sure that the person next to me edged slightly further away. Since when has someone been determined as Satan spawn by a crazy man on the tube? Needless to say I couldn’t stand the sideways looks from the other passengers and I quickly departed the train! I was ousted by a crazy man.

As time passed, I managed to convince myself that the reason he didn’t bless me was because I don’t need blessing, I don’t need help. I am all good. So I managed to move on. Recently I returned to London after living in Australia for a year and low and behold who should I encounter on the tube – the crazy man with the cross. “Yes” I thought. Finally I could see whether this time he would bless me and as he moved along the carriage harassing passengers my pulse quickened in anticipation.  He reached me, tilted his head to one side and then moved on. The fucker didn’t bless me again. It was as if he was taunting me. 

Now, I’m not one to dwell on things but if I ever see him again I am going to stand up and chase him after he passes me by and then I am going to annoy him until he blesses me. Not very mature I grant you but totally necessary. So until the time comes, I will lie in wait. My time will come, oh yes, it will come.

Was it all a dream? No unfortunately not....

Recently I was asked to recall my weirdest experience and I decided that I should write it down because I think that it is pretty frickin awesome.

So, I was living in London and every day I would make the commute from West Hampstead to Moorgate. Moorgate is a pretty busy station being in the heart of the city so it can be pretty manic with people everywhere.

One day I was in a rush and wasn’t really concentrating as I rushed through the station. I was also in the process of rolling myself a cigarette whilst trying to locate my oyster card. What can I say? I’m a multi-tasker. Anyway, I was home and dry through the barriers and made a last minute decision to exit a different way than usual. I didn’t look and before I knew it I was practically on top of a smart looking gentleman dwarf. Now, I didn’t want to crash into him – he may have thought that it was some kind of anti-dwarf attack and I didn’t want that so instead I decided to hop with both feet away from him. Needless to say, I misjudged my sideways hop and tripped over him – I never claimed to be an athlete. I tripped over a dwarf and fell flat on my face.

When I gained my composure I looked up wondering whether or not I had been in a sleep deprived state and had imagined it but alas, the guy was standing there. He offered a hand and helped me up whilst I apologised profusely. He just looked at me, smiled and said “there’s one to tell your mates” and then he disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Ok, the smoke thing is a lie but he disappeared pretty sharpish.

So, I was pretty stunned but my embarrassment was confirmed by a group of young guys who were pointing and laughing. I thought about the kind dwarfs words and realised that I would indeed tell my friends but without video evidence what would be the use. I approached the station office and asked if it would be possible to review the cctv footage. When asked why, I recalled the story in disbelief to which the guard laughed, told me that there was no way I was seeing the footage but telling me that he would enjoy a look. He then slammed the door in my face. What a great guy.

Worst journey ever???

Recently I returned from a 2-week jaunt to Thailand with my brother and friend where my sole mission was to drink, dance, sunbathe and prey on unsuspecting men. I’m not claiming to be a good human as I have definitely said before and I figure that I am more than justified acting in this way, as I am newly single. So anyway, for ages I was umming and ahing over whether or not to go on the trip – I had been before and couldn’t even nearly afford it but fortunately my brother offered to foot the bill so I decided to please my parents and do the truly irresponsible thing and I finally booked it!  As I had booked it much later than my travelling companions there was zero chance of me getting on the same plane as them and that’s how I found myself booked onto a flight from Perth – Phuket which took nearly the same time as it would take to return to the UK. Probably should have realised when I booked it that this journey was not going to be for the faint hearted.

My itinery looked something like this. Perth – Bali. One hour stop over in Bali (refreshingly fast – or so I thought) and then Bali – Jakarta (only a short flight – lovely) and then Jakarta – Phuket. The major issue that I had with the journey was that I had a stop over in Jakarta for 12 hours. Rubbish.  Being me, I didn’t even take this into consideration before I left. I was blinded by the idea of drinking amphetamine-laced drinks from buckets whilst watching inebriated travellers jump through fire and nursing my hangover in crystal clear waters whilst eating my body weight in Thai green curry every day (not to be advised). However the journey proved to be a challenge in itself.

When I arrived in Bali I only had 45 minutes until my connecting flight. The queue’s to get into the country were ridiculous and would have taken close to 45 minutes alone but I was also expected to purchase a visa, clear immigration, collect my bags, sprint to the domestic terminal and then check in, clear security and board my other flight. Now to any logical person – this seems unrealistic and needless to say I was slightly panicked and the humid, sticky climate didn’t really assist with my nervous sweating. When I tried to explain my predicament to an Indonesian chap who looked official he just looked at me, tutted and pointed towards the queue. Damn him and his laid back attitude. Anyway – it all worked out fine. Somehow he was right (although he didn’t need to be so flaming cocky about it!) and I made it in time. There was a moment when I worried when instead of rechecking my bags in some man just took them from me and promised that he would put them on the right plane. Now, I just gave them to him and then freaked out for the next couple of hours that I would

 1. Arrive and my luggage would be lost and there would be a fancily dressed Indonsesian gentleman in Bali laughing his tits off at my stupidity or 

2. Would have drugs planted on me and would be arrested in Jakarta and would rot in jail for the rest of my life. Fortunately, as I am sure that you have assumed from reading this – I was ok. Talk about paranoid.

I must stress that this paranoia had been brought on that day at work when a number of my customers informed me that as a woman travelling alone I should be worried as the official people would assume that I was smuggling drugs. I mean come on! What kind of thing is that to say to a person embarking on holiday! Mean sons of bitches! They also relished in informing me that the airline that I was flying with had recently had an incident where the pilot had missed the runway. Excellent.

 Well, the fun was yet to come. I arrived in Jakarta at midnight and it was only then that the magnitude of the fact that I had to spend 12 hours there hit me. There is literally nothing at Jakarta airport apart from wooden benches and mosquitos. Fortunately, I had met a friendly German girl who was doing the same journey as me and so we camped down for the night. It wasn’t the comfiest but I had earplugs, eye-mask and valium on my side so I was a happy camper.  What seemed like only moments later I was awoken by a scream from the German girl and opened my eyes to discover that one of the Indonesian toilet cleaners who was loitering around when I fell asleep had popped his trousers down and was exposing his tiny Indonesian penis to her. What a treat! Needless to say – we shouted at him to vacate the area and to put it the hell away and what amused me was that he seemed genuinely surprised that we weren’t over the moon to wake up with penis on show. Fortunately we were together or it may not have been as funny but it definitely made sleeping again a bit harder. Every now and then he would shuffle pass pretending to sweep making sex noises! Now, I don’t know about you but cleaning certainly doesn’t make me want to make those types of noises so I can only assume that he was dropping incredibly unsubtle hints! In the end – I marched over, took his photo and shouted “POLICE” at him and looked as angry as possible whilst waggling my finger at him. He didn’t bother us again!

I eventually managed to sleep again but was again woken up by the German girl screaming because a cockroach had crawled on her. I sat up and asked if she was ok – to which she looked at me and screamed again! Not entirely the reaction I like to get when people look at me. “What’s happened to your face?” she asked me. Also, not the dream question to be asked. I rushed to the bathroom to discover that I was covered in bites and one particularly hungry fucker had bitten my eyelid and therefore I resembled Quasimodo. Awesome. Just what I wanted. The little bugger had also gone to town on my fingers (obviously the only things poking out of my sleeping bag) and I had massive swollen man hands! Sexy.

Thankfully the rest of the journey was pretty uneventful apart from a particularly feisty granny sat next to me on the plane who repeatedly elbowed me, stood on my feet and burped. What could I do? She was old – I can’t exactly do it back. Although in my sleep deprived state I wanted to. I wanted to elbow her right in the face! When I arrived in Phuket my eye and hands had luckily returned to normal size but I wasn’t so thankful for this when I was taking an early evening stroll and saw my second unwanted penis of the day. A guy, naked on his balcony. Now in normal circumstances this might be fun but this dude was most definitely in his 70’s. Not fun. Who wants to see that!

Anyway – after this journey I definitely needed a holiday and some of those buckets. Whoever decided to sell whiskey red bull and coke in a bucket is officially my hero. 

Best job title EVER!!!!

So recently I heard that the word for ‘mayor’ in German is Burgermeister. Now, frankly – this is one of the best things that I have heard in a while. I’ve never really had much interest in local politics, let alone local politics in a country that I have never visited but suddenly I’m interested. Not too worried about the language barrier – if all german words are as cool sounding then I’m sure I’ll remember them all. This is just the career direction that I needed. Finally. Don’t think anyone will be smirking when I hand them my extremely important looking, gold plated business card with ‘Burgermeister’ written on it. Maybe ‘Burgermeister’ could be written in italics …oh who knows. The possibilities are endless.

 I don’t think that there would be any need to have any contact details on it because almost certainly everyone would know where to find the ‘Burgermeister’. I’d be the Mack frickin Daddy. From what I can tell as well, the title doesn’t even require any knowledge of meat products but just to make sure I would make sure that I read up on it.

I honestly think that this is the best job title in the entire world – if you have heard any better feel free to let me know about it. I wont hold my breath. 

Duuuuude.....

Today is a sad day for me. The time has come I think – at 26 years young – to finally stop calling everyone that I meet ‘dude’.

I have reached this conclusion after noticing that I don’t discriminate – to me, everyone is a dude. This is regardless of age, sex, and status. It’s caused a fair few raised eyebrows when I’ve been serving coffee to elderly ladies and gentleman and have handed them the coffee and said ‘here you go dude’. They are quite clearly not dudes. I also don’t think that children come under this category and most definitely not middle aged men who work in I.T and whose topics of conversation revolve around RAM (whatever the fuck that is) and how excellent last nights episode of “Two and a Half Men” was. I mean the sheer fact that they think that “Two and a Half Men” is excellent is enough to prove that they are nowhere even close to being a dude. Yet – I still call them it. Its like I am addicted to calling people dude. I have dude diarrhoea.

Now, I need to confirm that I have no links to surfing, skateboarding or anything else that would allow me to use this phrase as freely as I do. I have been known to dabble with the ol’ whacky baccy but nowhere near enough to have to call everyone dude because I no longer remember their names! I just love calling people dude – it flows off the tongue perfectly and provides me with satisfaction each and every time. I kind of like to see people’s reactions when I inappropriately label them dude. The other day – I even called my boss ‘dude’. Now that is a whole other story entirely but she is not the kind of person that you call dude. I think that I can safely say with 100% certainty that no one other than me will have ever called her dude. Maybe I should see it as providing a service.

I can become “Dude Girl” – and my duty could be to go around and dish out hippy, surfer vibes to those in need. Provide good time salutations to the masses. I can even get myself a cape. Wow, my plan is coming together nicely. Fuck giving it up – I needed an aim for 2010 – I think that this is a viable option. Screw the career. Sure that this is finally going to the thing that makes my parents proud of me. What do you reckon? I must stress though that it is vital that anyone reading this not divulge my identity otherwise it would compromise the integrity of my mission. I am trusting you all.

Give Peas a Chance.....

I had such a weird dream the other day and wanted to share it. I dreamt that I was visiting the sister of my ex boyfriend from uni and when I wasn’t looking he slipped peas into the icing of my cake. How mean. I remember feeling really pissed off – I only put it down for a second and then vegetables violated my delicious Victoria sponge cake.  Now, I’m a fan of peas but not with cake. The idea is just sheer madness.

I thought that I would investigate further and looked up the significance of peas in dreams thinking that there was a possibility that it could shed some light on my psyche and help me figure a few things out. It didn’t. It said:

“To eat peas, foretells that you will, after much success, suffer a slight decrease in pleasure or wealth”

Doesn’t really tell me much but it sounds promising. I like the idea of this “much success” business – I wonder when that will happen. I wonder whether this means that I will finally achieve my life long dream of going into space or inventing the hover board? Maybe I’ll have a boat – all successful people have boats. And moonboots. Also, I think that after achieving this “much success” to suffer only a ‘slight’ decrease in pleasure or wealth is not really the end of the world. In fact I am happy with that.

So lesson learnt. Initially this dream was bad – i mean, who wants peas in their cake? But what initially seemed bad has turned out good and now I know that I am going to achieve “much success” so basically I can just chill out now until it happens. Happy days. Praise the lord for peas and thanks to my ex boyfriend for his underhand pea smuggling tactics. To think that I thought that he hated me…. 

Photographic evidence of my stare off excellence...

Now just try and tell me that you aren't quaking in your boots.