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.

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.

Let's talk clothes...in 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.

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. 

The Persistent Irritation of Public Transport

The one thing that binds us londoners...a rat race of anonymity trained to instinctively apply a firmer grip to the handbag/manbag/briefcase/child, at the mere glance of somebody who isn't a close relative or a reflection...is our disdain for the curse that is public transport.
Too hot..too cold...unpleasantly warm...the tube is like a youngest sibling: something that can and should be used everyday however you would very much like it to no longer be in existence on account of its persistent irritation and wavering reliability.

The thought process that sped through the mind of the genius that created the infamous tube is one that clearly must have involved some kind of amphetamine. Picture it now...I'll set the scene:

Caucasian male, 6ft, stood in a field listening to deep house and tripping off acid: "mate...,what if we all just became one?...Like, all conjoined in a metal transportation system, powered solely by body heat and numbers? Worming our way through an interconnected web of tunnels built 10's of metre's below the ground?..That would be sick!"

Call me pessimistic or what have it, but if any self respecting member of the public pitched this idea to Deborah Meaden and Duncan Bannatyne..they would be carted off in a straight jacket and a nappy.

Yes, it's a land mark, a statement representative of the great city that is London. Something that tourists carrying all the gear and no idea can take pictures of whilst generically/excitedly waving the peace sign at their moment capturing lenses.

To us...pure irritation.

Have you ever watched the lips of platform inhabitants whenever they discover "THE VICTORIA & PICCADILLY & HAMMERSMITH AND CITY & DISTRICT LINE" are experiencing severe delays?
Deaf people much experience such offence during these annoyingly frequent moments as every single passer by's lip syncing is as obvious as that of an ITV broadcast footie match featuring Wayne Rooney and a particularly strict referee.

"For fucks sake" "Oh fuck off" "Are you fucking serious"- all of which followed by a speedy reach for the iPhone to inform the wife/girlfriend/boss/mistress of the inconvenience that has occurred...honestly...next time this happens aka, your next journey, observe...its hilarious.

Then there is the issue of the public...the public ruin public transport. I mean it's bad enough in the morning when your wedged in with a collection of people who see fully fledged yawning without the accompaniment of a courteous covering of the mouth as completely acceptable. Or when you find yourself acting as some kind of cushion for the gut sporting business man to your right who's dandruff shrouded, balding head is lolling on your shoulder during his 7 am saliva clad snooze. Throw a 26 degree (minimum) summer in there and an armpit in your face and you feel like your on the midnight train to Auschwitz.

Then there's the guy next to you blasting out the latest nonsense from the 'Bomfunk Mc's" and the knob head to the right who has just fallen victim to the unexpected follow up sneeze. You know, the one that proceeds the initial tidy little polite squeak that came to surface as a result of a miscellaneous bit of dust. You know, the mucus ridden mess that leaves the culprit shamefully stood in centre stage of the sweaty amphitheatre that is the 07.35 northern line train to Morden.

You're stood watching as the cogs turn, calculating the next move then you watch as 'Mr Sneazy' subtly/so fucking blatantly rubs the sticky aftermath on his left trouser leg and proceeds to clutch the same railing you are firmly grasping.

That my friends...sums up the ramblings of an irritated Londoner re: The Tube.

God speed you bastards! xx