Thursday, 8 March 2012

The Office: a short burst of irritation.

I am pretty sure the fastest and most efficient way to deduce whether someone is a total pleb is to insert said suspect into a room with a printer, a stapler, a shit coffee maker and a computer screen and let nature take its course.
I guarantee you, within 15 minutes of this experiment you will be left sweating on account of the tough decision that faces you:

“Of all the obscene and insulting descriptive words in the English language, which one do I chose to describe this complete and utter...blank”

I’d go with ‘tosser’...has a nice ring to it and the association with rigorous and sleazy masturbation deems it as a word of sufficient insult.
Phrases that should be punishable by lashing:

“Fancy a catch up?”
“Looping you in”
“Thinking outside the box”
“Moving forward”
“Conference call”
“Next steps”
“Ping something over”

If you are a frequent use of 1 or all of the above, I must stress that is not acceptable. Power suit, power tie, power steering or not, the use of such nonsensical drivel has the poor victim you are speaking to, envisioning your private parts in a vice is not and never will be, well received.

The office seems to be a breeding ground for the inner wanker to emerge from within 3 out of 5 people: you may deem this to be a figure plucked out of obscurity and yes, this would be correct however, you are most probably one of the 3 out of 5 nauseating cocks I am referring to.

Please check symptoms below to confirm suspected cases of Jobsworth-itis.

Coffee breath that rises from deep within and offends anybody within a 3 mile radius?

Frivolity with decibels in relation to an unnecessarily loud phone voice?

Guilty of chatting shit, but saying it with confidence and conviction and thus deducing it as ‘useful and important information that should be heard’?

Think ‘Monday Morning Blues’ is an interesting and unheard topic of conversation?

Believe that by having business cards, you are immediately promoted to becoming ‘a somebody’?

Uphold a close relationship with your HR department?

Overly possessive with your stapler/hole punch/post it notes?

Yes, despite your hilarious wise cracks and your unfaltering respect for Company Policy, you’re one of the jobs worth tosser’s I am referring to.
I’m all for drive, ambition and success, but leave your progress charts and motivational seminars where they belong...on the fictional set of Ricky Gervais’ ‘The Office’ Slough.

And breathe...

Friday, 2 March 2012

A Restaurant Review- A Diamond in The Dirt

One may immediately deem a restaurant review aimed at an inconspicuous and unknown African cafeteria in Catford, as the perfect way to waste 2 valuable minutes in ones diminishing life clock, however we can’t all afford a fine dining experience at Benares every night. Therefore, I think it’s only fair that we give a diamond in the dirt a chance to enter the rat race of culinary prowess.
Wedged between Catford Noodles and the Diamond Edge Hair & Nail Salon, ‘Island Spice’ is a jewel encrusted in characteristics that would send Gordon Ramsay into a seizure of obscene mouth diarrhoea and rid Nigella of any cupcake based innuendo’s faster than you could say ‘Ready, Steady, Cook’
You enter to find the manager, a colossal addition to the room, wearing gold framed sunglasses and talking stupidly loud on the phone.  However, please persist...bite your tongue...give it a chance.
Advance 4 steps across the postage stamp dining room to the reception/counter thing, where you are greeted by 2 rather attractive young women from the Ivory Coast who upon the request of a menu, look at you as though you have just announced yourself as Jesus Christ: Our Saviour venturing out for a quick bite.
After choosing from the poorly rehearsed menu recital, with choices ranging from chicken, rabbit, pork or turkey, all of which are served either grilled, or in ‘soup’ (Please note: nobody explains, soup viscosity, what’s in the soup, it’s just soup...take it or leave it), you are then ushered to the drinks cabinet, or Fanta branded, half broken refrigerator to the untrained eye.
To wash things down: brandy, punch or a highly recommended bottle of homemade ginger beer presented beautifully in a collection of old Evian bottles: all branded, however, not the dry martini you were hoping for. Genuinely though, all cynicism aside, spicy, refreshing and despite the fact that you are forced to cough between sips, armed with a welcome kick.
 Steeped in negativity thus far I know, but upon receiving my ‘Pork in Soup’ served with a hefty portion of cassava of couscous consistency and grilled chicken accompanied with the most delicious serving of plantain...I stand corrected.
Crispy, yet moist grilled chicken; simple yet exquisitely prepared receives a keen ‘thumbs up’ from this happy customer. Soft succulent pork meat submerged in a moorish sea of full bodied sauce. All seasoned to perfection and spicy enough to enjoy yet not so spicy that flavour elopes and your digestive system consequently hates you in the morning.
My taste buds were awakened transporting me to the vibrant shores of the Ivory Coast with every mouthful.  A portal through which tarragon, paprika, ginger and chilli coat the taste buds leaving one satisfied and smiling.
Service: impeccable, no sooner had the need for a napkin left my brain had a thick wad arrived with a smile I might add and a friendly enquiry as to how the complimentary meat platter I was currently nibbling on was going down.
With this hidden gem, leave judgement at the door. Don’t expect to find marble floors or high end architectural visual delights or menus for that matter. Expect a tantalisingly tasty journey back to basics and at a fraction of the price: £27.50 and my dining companion and I left satisfied to the point of pain and pleasantly tipsy.
Overall rating: 7/10

Sunday, 12 February 2012

Borderline Retardation: The Police

Borderline Retardation and the Police

Is it just me, or is Britain's police force inundated with the premise of borderline retardation and the double chin.
Rather than an elite and feared force of James Bond/Spartan-esq warriors, trained in mortal combat and mentally wired to fight for the greater good of man, our taxes are plunged deep into the biscuit tins of snack obsessed PC Plod and his fleet of blubber gutted morons who couldn't catch a criminal if he shat on their head.

I was lucky enough to experience the police force first hand not too long ago, for a crime that although extremely serious when discussed in isolation, sends my peers into 'lol' overdrive when connected to me: A skinny black female with a bone structure that would look right at home on comic relief.

Brace yourself Ladies and Gentlemen, for I was accused, by the almighty Metropolitan Police Force...Queen Elizabeth and her countries guards...of being a rapist.

A entirely sure how this would work...

1. A system of pulleys and weights?
2. A shoe horn and some lubricant?
3. One of my own protruding joints? e.g. elbow, knee, heel.

I can't seem to map the idea out in my head, possibly because its fucking ridiculous. And if I was going to rape somebody, I'm pretty sure George Clooney would be first on the list not some miscellaneous drunken female I never had the pleasure of laying my eyes on.

Anyway, the reason for syphoning this encounter off via blog is the sheer irritation at how special needs every single officer I came across was,  deeming those badge wearing plebs as nothing but over grown cub scouts.

Police officers...morons and if you are so dim you can't even get on the police force and have to shame yourself, your family's name and the reputation of your future children by volunteering to having the words 'community support officer' stamped to the back of your fluorescent jacket...there is no hope.

During my 15 hours in custody as a rapist, I watched as no less than 5 officers worked together to obtain my finger prints: That's an officer per finger, per hand...about as efficient Michael Jackson's GP.

I was then probed by the lovely Susan who thought it wise to attempt to spark up conversation regarding the latest episode of Take Me Out. As well as thinking to myself, 'If I had a 'lighty' I would have turned that shit off the minute you walked into the room, with your fucking orthopaedic doc martins and vagina hugging polyester pants, I was also baffled at her repeated referral to the instructions manual, with regards to sticking the label on a tube.

Fair enough sticking a label on something cylindrical can pose much more of an obstacle than tackling a cuboid...but an entire manual on the task...really?...I had a sneaky suspicion...Susan was an idiot.

Simple things, like correct grammar for "What were you doing?" as oppose to the repeated offence of "What was you doing?"

Common sense- If the rapist has a human hair weave, why then decide to take samples of said weave and obtain as DNA attached to the profile of the rapist in question? Unless you plan on accusing the delightful young lady in Mumbai who kindly donated her barnet to said rapist via Remy Goddess Hair Extensions, I suggest you start plucking from the root.

The ability to walk without wheezing- I don't even need to go into this.

All issues that shroud our police force....dreadful. I made myself dizzy that night from profusely shaking my head and the dry mouth sensation endured as a result of continuous tutting over a period of 15 hours, is quite unpleasant.

I mean I am sure there are some shining examples of fine officers out there- Axel Foley, Robocop, Starsky & Hutch to name a few. Unfortunately...they must have been off that day.

My advice to the police force:

Go to the Gym
Cut procedure time down by 90%
Don't arrest people without penis's for rape
If you plan on holding the blatantly innocent in custody for 15 hours, do not proceed to rub salt, glass and burning embers in their wounds by interviewing them for a measly 9 minutes before finally agreeing the whole thing was hilarious waste of time.
Fuck off.

The End.

Monday, 23 January 2012

The Year of No BULLSHIT

I think its safe to say, whenever you experience a break up, you learn from it, at least women do.

You extract from the it causation and consequence: the chain of events that led you to, hit, hate, kill, cheat on or get bored of your ex partner in order to better yourself, your future actions and choices. 

This attempt is made by all of us as of a means of achieving 1 of 2 things:

1.    To romantically skim over the stagnant learning plateau that comes hand in hand with a long-term relationship, with the aim of constructing love, happiness and respect for yourself and the next person you fall in love with...aka find the one.

2.    To swerve the bullshit.

I’m sure you can guess by now which of the 2 options is held highest in my esteem.

I genuinely believe I am impervious to the kryptonite that is bullshit. 
Ruthless and as a result, I live every day with the belief that 97.5% of people have an air of c*nt about their person: aiming low in my estimations to avoid disappointment.

I find myself completely unaffected, sporting an endearing smile on my face whenever anybody decides to generously ladle on bullshit like a bowl of Grandma’s infamous scotch broth.

I’m not a needy girl by any stretch of the imagination however, I have no time for nonsense or bullshit: 2 things this city appears to have all the time in the world for.  

Here is a list of some of the things I would toss into room 101 in a heartbeat and the major causes of the overly used gesture of ‘rolling my eyes.’

1.    People who wait a ‘cool’ couple of hours before answering a text for the sake of eliminating keenness and appearing nonchalant, despite the fact the my messages are completely absent of needy ‘chit chat’ and I merely want to know if I left my eye liner on your sink.

2.    People who apply sincerity, severe subtraction and a dash of sensitivity to the amount of people they claim have slept with, believing that I will give a shit if I know the truth and contemplating that I might actually believe them.

3.    Flakiness accompanied with poor excuses. Just tell me ‘You can’t be bothered’, ‘You’re hungover’, ‘You’re knee deep in clunge after a furious bunga bunga party with Dennis Rodman’…I do not care. It’s not like I’m going to go home and self-harm if you can’t take me to Winter Wonderland for fun, frolicking and frostbite.

4.    People who feel the need to let you know they aren’t after a relationship after 5 text messages and the drunken sharing of a lukewarm doner kebab. DO NOT FLATTER YOURSELF…contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t gunning for a joint bank account and matching number plates when I was poaching your jalapenos mate…CHILL OUT.

Control- the power to go against that curse that is hormones/the vagina and no longer be swayed/bothered by testosterone fuelled mouth diarrhea.

To no longer believe ‘he would never do that to me’…’he’s not like the rest of them’…Apologies love but the odds are against you; its highly probable he is.

The sooner you wise up, the sooner, you will be able to not give a shit and not giving a shit is a beautiful thing, it means you are fine depending on you and only you.

It also means there would be a lot fewer days spent in the shithouse/on the sofa by the men of London as we would no longer hold the poor bastards on such high and wobbly pedestals.

I adore men, don’t get me wrong, I have not undergone a metamorphosis into the projection of bitter, dick hating feminism, I merely no longer have a pulse when it comes to bullshit.

No need to cut people off, erupt in anger or floods tears. If you simply don’t care, faults are noted but no drama emerges from the matter.
And if you don’t care, egos are left to shrivel up like the sun-dried tomatoes in a vegetarian special baguette from Pret A Manger.

Be warned people, faking it doesn’t work. That’s just bottling bullshit up and a bullshit overload is extremely bad for the immune system and breath.

Maybe you have to had gone through a break up to no longer care about the opposite sex in a way that gives you that bubbly feeling in your nether regions, I don’t know…

But not giving a shit is awwwwwwww…some.

Friday, 6 January 2012

Poor chat has stopped me dating.

Poor chat has stopped me dating.

I’ve decided to make a strategical U turn and deliberately swerve dating on account of the painful chat that is circulating this city.

You’d think in a place so vast, it wouldn’t be too hard to locate somebody who you didn’t have to endure a minimum of 35 minutes of awkward and inane small talk, following which, dick talk moves in as the hot topic of conversation: either that or the enquiries as to what you’re wearing start to flood in, to which I reply with a confidently declared “FAAAAACCCKKKK OFFF!!!”

In all honesty, I have been known to toy with the ‘what are you wearing?’ message with the assistance of mockery and sarcasm. The last time this happened the responding text message read:

“PVC thigh high boots, currently suspended from the ceiling drenched in candle wax and my flatmate’s urine”

Shock tactics never get a response…the desired effect.

These people don’t even exercise subtlety, no cheeky charm, no witty innuendo’s, simply laying on the sleaze about as blatantly as a feminist at Spearmint Rhino’s.

Furthermore, I seem to be regularly deemed as the type of female who needs a hefty collection of ‘I’m not tensing/topless muscle man’ multimedia messages. You know, the ones that always seem to feature the mobile device that is capturing this treasured moment.

It’s quite sweet really, like when you get a Christmas present you don’t really want but are expected to act as if you love e.g. You get a ‘sexy/fucking cringe’ photo, but you would much prefer a punch in the face.

For example.

I went to a bar the other day with a good friend of mine and was a approached by a man dressed like a homosexual Sherlock Holmes with an irritating air of swagger about him. He clearly believed himself to be the holder of ‘The Ultimate Pimp Game’…like an elixir of life for wankers as I kid you not, these are just 3 of the genius comments that left the lips of this class A pleb;  

1.     Hi ladies, my names Cedric and I made a lot of money today
2.     Let me guess, you’re a nanny and you’re a hairdresser (I was the nanny)
3.     So are you coming back then?...I have champagne.

Even more shockingly, an expression of utter surprise and confusion could be read upon his smug face as upon exit I proclaimed:

“Lovely to meet you darling, now if you’ll excuse us, we need to go and adjust our cervical coils”

To conclude.

To be fair, I don’t actually want to be with anyone. Pretty in love with my double bed in my cosy flat in Catford, the mere thought of sharing it with anything other than Eygptian cotton making me mildly furious if there is such a thing.  However, you can’t help but encounter the occasional douche bag.

I met another guy in the infamous Whisky Mist who due to the fact that he was better than average at meandering a spherical pigskin around a pitch for 90 minutes (he was a footballer) he could waltz around the room like some kind of Messiah. 

His opening line was “Do you know who I am?” so I was pretty sure we weren’t going to end up married with children in a 7 bed mansion in Berkshire.

30 minutes of droning babble regarding champagne cocktails and the offside rule and I was dead inside, finally pushed to the limit by him asking if I knew the monetary value of the diamond encrusted ring he was sporting on his little finger: he looked like he just had mugged the cast of Dynasty.

“Do I look like your accountant?! Because unless your going to give me a bag of chronologically arranged receipts to sift through, I suggest you hold off on the asset breakdown and do one”

He shouldn’t have pushed me.

Sunday, 18 December 2011

Let's talk different area codes.

'People watching': call it TOWIE for the highly critical…or X factor for those who find the general insanity of the populous far more hilarious/mentally stimulating than generically scripted mass market watershed viewing. 

I find 'People Watching" assists in doubly confirming that despite being slightly unhinged after a rather turbulent life thus far/gin, I am without a doubt, of sound and healthy mind. 

Yes, I could quite easily go on to speak of the ever mumbling heroin dependant weirdo's you see clutching the trusty can of Super Tenant's they have managed to acquire as the nights chosen form of escapism. 
Or busker's who shamelessly see it as perfectly acceptable to receive payment for singing (with the assistance of some rather offensive tuning) shit cover's of the latest Ed Sheeran track (in an attempt at being sincere/sensitive) or merely whistling (PISS TAKE!!!) 

However…going off on a rambling tangent as per usual- the cultural smorgasbord that is the great capital appears to divvy up an distinctive uniform attached to each postal code you encounter. An unwritten code of couture that can assists in pinpointing the exact location of where the wearer calls 'Home' 

Lets take a tour…

E1- Brick Lane/Old Street/Camden- 

Dress Code- Edgy, slightly grubby, artistic student with over 16 pairs of 'signature' winkle pickers and a love of roll up ciggies…pre-rolled are far too generic/pricey.

Call me insulting, but the joy of blogging is to vent true feelings without the risk of a punch in the face…yes the inhabitants of E1 scream shabby chic, everyone appears to own an SLR, a shit bike with a basket on the front and have the ability to express photographic prowess that surpasses sepia and greyscale- all of which visually deducible by the criminally tight skinny jeans and army surplus store jacket the fashionista being surveyed is proudly donning…

By the way, the jacket was bought second-hand of course…so fucking cool, just the way Amy Winehouse (RIP) and Mumford and Sons would have done things.

Take a trip west…venture past Victoria and you hit what I like to call the Fur & Leather district aka Chelsea/Fulham/Putney

Night time/Raffles dress code: Basil Brush would be slaughtered and manipulated into shrug like accessory to accompany a pair of leather leggings and a severely damaged barnet faster than you could say "Lets go shooting in Dorset this weekend Binky"

SW3 day wear- 2 words- Quilting & Wellies. You'd think people in SW3 earned their Bentley Continental car insurance cash from agricultural farming, perceiving country side couture avec a pearl necklace/flat cap as attire that cannot and should not be mocked. Colour scheme's are heavily weighted towards the earthier end of the pantone colour chart and the plague that is the 'corduroy/chino pant' reigns supreme…Atrocious.

Its amazing how these 'on trend' wardrobe selections are demoted to wardrobe malfunctions as you exit the 'F&L' district and hit up the SW2, less than a mile down the road (aka Brixton) where there is actual government legislation which states…

"Inhabitants below the age of 22 are not permitted to exit dwellings without the accompaniment of a 'Boy Better Know' branded item of clothing"

Honestly…look it up…it was a clause widely supported by Boris Johnson (this is a lie…do not sue me for libel/defamation) 

Take a tour to SE and fashion is thrown in a giant melting pot, key ingredients being Juicy Couture & imitation Ugg Boots as you hit the Catford/Bromley border and Peckham/Lewisham boasting a vast selection of giant gold decorations that have the power to make your ear lobes look as green as an old penny. 
Drum & Bass/Dubstep over take The Saturdays in the album charts bringing with it high top trainers, scruffy buns and the replacement of 'ers' ending words with 'az'…e.g…'Gun Fingers' evolves into 'Gun Fingaz' as its being punched out at lightening speed on the phone keypad of one of SE's urban offerings. 

Yes London has an extensive clothing collection… a walk in wardrobe that any woman would wildly give her left ovary up for. 

I'm not too sure where I belong…5 years of Brighton living mean I am still in 'individual/non conformist yet I still shop in high street chain stores' mode…

Still yet to find my style mojo in this place however I can honestly say I will leave hypocrisy at the door. If you can't beat em'…join em. I've just placed an ad on Gumtree London…

'Young female professional seeking double room for flatshare in the Fur & Leather district'

Sister done sold out.

Tuesday, 6 December 2011

The Perception of Intelligence for The New Girl About Town.

Entering into the abyss…the 020 area code that regurgitates its own set of rules designed to illustrate how far from cool the rest of the nation are…London to a newbie…a young woman so heavily shrouded in the safe confines of rural britain…is a city that opens the gate to a long and winding road of high flying frivolity with the odd magnum of champagne thrown into the mix.

I entered this world craving success and fulfilment that extended further than a prestigious home made lasagne and pro-creation…that surpassed the expectations of the pessimistic onlooker…I wanted  to live a life where my existence didn’t resemble a savage climb towards the unreachable breadline, were 132.9p petrol didn’t leave me perspiring in rage, just mere irritation and Ribena was a regular purchase and not merely a luxury only ever bought in bulk when Asda, Tesco's or Sainsbury's decided to knock off a couple of quid on account of over ordering.

However, despite the inner thirst for success that pulses through the blood in my veins, I have found, through observation, experience and the use of the following equation: 

Tits + ass + lip gloss + laughing at jokes that are not funny + adhering to the immediate assumption that if you are female and your lungs encounter the big smoke on a day to day basis, you must be either a nanny, in fashion or married to a banker/stock broker and the proud part owner of a Range Rover despite your daily milage count being roughly 4 miles….

…the perception of intelligence people have of you is particularly unimpressive. Long winded I know, but these are the ramblings of an irritated Londoner. 

London's inhabitants immediately deduce me as the new girl set to endeavour a rapid metamorphosis from the black girl next door (yes, I am black and this articulate ra ra raaa)…to emerging from a cocaine coated chrysalis and becoming the west end girl in desperate need of a nicotine patch and a hairbrush. 

The perception of intelligence rapidly shrivels with ever meet and greet, like the slimy epidermis of a ravenous slug after the greedy bugger put too much salt on his chips. 
It's come to the point where people I have met believe me to be so simple, if I express the tiniest essence of knowledge regarding anything that isn't screened repeatedly on the Home channel, a glint of shock, surprise and awe appears in the face of said audience for just a second before being encased in a gloomy syrup of patronisation and gold stars. 

I've taken to throwing in random and inaccurate percentage statistics into conversations to enhance the perception of intelligence people have of me…drawing hilarity from the people who will happily accept the 'fact' that "if left to their own devices, 78% of people chose to use Android system over IOS but were swayed as a result of a pushy sales pitch from network providers"

Total bollocks…utter drivel…but when said with some conviction and confidence..chowed down like a Cadburys Curly Wurly. 

Don't get me wrong I adore this city and all of the delights it offers…but the new girl about town  gets pretty tired of being perceived as somebody who's IQ and shoe size are comparable…

Oh well, flick of the hair, G-string on show, push up bra pumped up like a set of Goodyear's and I'm set….now can somebody get me a club promoter boyfriend and point me in the direction of Tara Palmer Tomkinson…I'm going places.