Friday, October 29, 2010

Whores for Palsy

Last night me and my friend Wood decided we would hook up in real life and see if we could either be friends, or at the very least mortal enemies. Luckily - we liked each other, but it would have been fun to have a nemesis.

We decided to go to a bar and typically - there were no seats, so we meandered downstairs where there were an abundance of tables.. an almost too good to be true amount of tables. Then the guy in the suit and clipboard sashayed over to us and that's when we realised that these tables were not meant for us. But that is nothing that a bit of lying can't solve.

Were we here for the party? Yes
Were our names on the list? Yes
What are our names? Errrrrrrrrr?? well they might not be on there because we RSVP'd really late.
Clipboard Guy said he printed the list out at 5pm, so we said we RSVP'd after that. Sucker. For some reason he believed us and Hola! Table.

But that wasn't the last bit of lying we'd have to do to prove our worthiness of their stupid party that we knew nothing about for the night though. We didn't even know what the party was for, but there was free champagne and nachos and disgusting frozen yogurt, so that is good enough for me.

There were also Whores. Lots and Lots of Whores. Whores in mesh catsuits with bikinis underneath, whores with mandarin shaped tits and stripper gloves, whores in lace, we were the most dressed non-whores in the room.

"Wow! This is gonna be some great party! Look at all the Whores!"

Unfortunately, it wasn't going to be that type of party.. There were lame pamphlets related to skiing and helicopter ranches, and this is when the main Whore came over to us and asked us in a roundabout way "what the hell are you two doing at my party"

It was really hard to answer, because her 50 year old fake mandarin boobs were 20cm from my face the whole time, but I came up with some suitable sounding lies and we fooled her! HAHA! Yes we fooled the whoriest whore who runs a helicopter ranch.... and also a Cerebral Palsy Fundraiser.

Yeah we crashed a Cerebral Palsy Fundraiser.

On the one hand, I felt bad because I couldn't afford to buy their expensive raffle tickets.. but on the other hand I didn't really want to win a week at some guys Spanish Ranch staying with his parents. So we just eyed every available nachos in the room and ate our fill then left in a swish of whore outfit confusion and not belonging.

That was some good free soggy nachos though!

Personally, I think they should have dressed up as whorey zombies, because that at least would have been slightly relevant.


yep. goin to hell.

Thursday, October 28, 2010


I take pride in my cat parenting abilities. Lenny is my number one. Nothing will get in between the love that me and Lenny have for each other. Not too many blankets, not a heater, not a giant armpit.

I went a bit soft on him when he came to London, for one - I look at him and think "what the hell are you doing in London?? London?? you're here in London? how the hell did you get here??"

Well three days sitting in his own urine is how he got here, and I am sure he is none too pleased about this, and wouldn't want to be reminded, so to keep him happy, I put some more kibble in the bowl.

And more. And maybe a bit more. After all, he came a long way to get to London, he can have all the kibble in the world if it is his desire.

Except not anymore. Fatso.

I took Lenny to the vet and she took one look at him and said "OK so we'll be putting him on the obese food then"

Obese!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! My cat is not obese!!!!!!!! I can't believe she thinks my cat is obese! He is Big Boned and Furry! Not Obese. OK maybe he has a gut overhang that muffin tops on his feet, but doesn't everybody?? Jeez. Lay off lady, you're no Elle Macpherson!!

I feel I have failed a parent. We all went home and sulked in front of the teev all weekend. I didn't know what to do?? should I cover all the mirrors so Lenny doesn't get low self-esteem? Lenny looked at me like he wanted to claw my eyes out when I got out the measuring cup and gave him 30g of shitty obese cat food.

It probably didn't help that we were calling him 'Brando' at the time.

Lenny has to lose 2.5 kilos to be at his ideal weight, and I would also like to lose 2.5 kilos to be an anorexic stick insect (bones are hot). So we are all going on a diet. And I also read that back in the BC days the Egyptians would shave their eyebrows off when their family cat died (being the heathen cat worshipers they were) so what we are going to do is shave some Vanilla Ice style waves into our brows as a sign of respect until he is down to his goal weight.


Wednesday, October 27, 2010


If you ever wanted a modern age example of a placebo.... here it is..

At my work we have this big wooden old timey barn house door. But it is like most doors it works on the physics of the push to open and pull to close theory.

However, when 99% of people come to this door, they can't figure out how to open it.
They stare at it, they shove at it, they hammer on it, they look at me pleadingly through the windows whilst I sit and silently judge them from my pedestal. Eventually most of them succumb to just incessantly ringing the bell even though I am clearly staring into their eyes with a black sense of loathing. Do they think I can't see them?? Do they think by ringing the bell some butler called Jeeves will appear and take away all their door opening troubles.

No. But I do have the next best thing.

The magical buzzer noise. The magical buzzer noise is this buzzer thing that was wired up to the door years ago, it is now rendered obsolete, but we still have the buzzer noise and the button from which to make buzzer noises, and as soon as one of those inept retards hears the buzzer noise, they somehow figure out how to open the door (turn handle/push door).

It's like hearing the buzzer noise triggers something in their brain which makes them go "phew, the buzzer noise! now I can open this door" even though the buzzer does nothing. not a thing.

My door could possibly cure cancer or aids. if you were really dumb and gullible.



Whenever I am booking accommodation for a trip, I always like to read a few thousand reviews so that I can get a feel for the place. You have to read a good 3000 reviews before you will find one written by a sane person.

One of the greatest inventions of the millennium, and daresay the universe - is the trip advisor website. I haven't booked a hotel in years without first cyber stalking every word written about the place, and this does sway my opinion greatly - even though 50% of reviews are written by no life psychos.

These are some of my favourite reasons why a place should be avoided:

"when I got out of the tube, some homeless people asked me for money"
"dirty lampshades"
"the receptionist didn't smile at us"
"the best thing about this place is that it's right next to the Disney Store"
"when you sit on the toilet your knees touch the wall"

Do these freaks ever leave the safety bubble of their closeted highly strung lives?? Rarely it would seem.

I have two ratings: good enough and Weichmann.

For something to be good enough it must have: bed that isn't hard as concrete, decent bathroom, no poltergeists from previous murders.

Most hotels I stay at fall into this category, I won't spend a complete fortune on a hotel, but I also won't stooge and stay in a box on the street. I like my creature comforts and I will pay what I deem appropriate to have a good nights sleep, feel safe and cosy, and hopefully have some designer toiletries to steal and bathrobes and disposable slippers to swan around in. However - there are times when I have been 'Weichmanned'.

Being 'Weichmanned' refers to possibly the worst hotel I have ever stayed at, The Hotel Weichmann in Amsterdam. The problem with Weichmann is that we had been living it up in the magical loft apartment all week, and we had no serotonin left by the time our unfortunate weekend stay rolled around. And with no serotonin there are things that one might let slip by that normally one wouldn't.

I have only been Weichmanned one other time, when we were driving to Canberra (which is like the city version of a Weichmann) and stayed in this motel so we didn't have to drive in the dark to the snowfields, and this place was the pits. Smelly. Dank. Dark. Moist. The shower dripped all night and the front door wouldn't lock. We had to move one of the chairs to the door to keep it shut during the night and sleep with one eye open whilst we tried to 'hover' over the blankets because they were crusty and cursed. We woke up at about 4am and decided it was a good time to start driving and dodging suicidal kangaroos out for a morning road bounce.

However onwards to the origin of the term being "Weichmanned". It's Amsterdam. And we have unwittingly booked ourselves into the Hotel Weichmann (shudder). It was about 30 degrees , and all I wanted to do was go to our room so I could have a nap before we went out to dinner (read: eat more hash cake and order a spaghetti to 'share' and eat one noodle.) I was going to try to block out the hideousness of our room and take a nap on my single bed when I realised I was the hottest I had ever been in my life and was swimming in a pool of my own sweat. Oh yes, that is because my bed was covered in plastic sheets!!!!!!!! Oh god. I don't want to know why they were covered in plastic sheets, or what would be underneath the plastic sheets if I removed them, but I quickly ripped them off and tried to nap in the worlds ugliest hotel room in existence. It was grey, peely wallpaper, you could look up the word dingy in the dictionary and find a picture of this room. It overlooked a dark air shaft that had no air, and I'm pretty sure it was haunted.

Basically the Weichmann totally Weichmanned us. But never again!! Which is why if anywhere I stay is marginally better than that place it will get the best review its ever had.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Belgian Mammaries

I am a huge under estimator of how long it actually takes to do things. To me, everywhere in London takes 20 minutes to get to... which is why I am about 15 minutes late to work every day. However this fact of constant lateness did not deter me in my early morning plans of getting to Kings Cross St Pancras for a 7.30am train to Brussels.

We arose disgustingly early and got ready with our eyes crusted over, we brisk walked to the train station and we waited.. and waited... and fucking waited some more. Three trains go past in the other direction! I am totally freaking out. My meticulous plan did not factor any sort of delay on the tube. It is at this point that I lose hope and say "well I guess we aren't going to fucking Brussels then!!"

Finally a train comes and we have about 15 minutes to get there, so we decide that we will run through the train station and beg the Eurostar peeps to let us on the train. Finally the train pulls up to Kings Cross and I leap off the train and start running through the station like a gazelle on steroids. I am dodging and weaving peak hour crowds like a fart in the wind. I run down the platform and up 3 flights of stairs and make it through the underground gates and this is when my body decides to shut down.

My legs, heart and lungs all simultaneously say to me "fuck this running shit!!" it's 7am, and I haven't eaten breakfast, and yet I've just been running like I'm Cathy Freeman, so my body decides that the best thing to do would be to lie down on the ground and wait for a security guard to pick me up and carry me to the train platform. Unfortunately this is reality, and unless I can make my legs move I am not going on that train, I am not going to go to Brussels and I will only have my stupid useless body to blame.

I walk as briskly as I can, even though I feel like I am going to pass out, my lungs are on fire and I can't breathe. Mark however is still sprinting ahead of me because his body is functional and I just wave him on like I am a tragic war hero on a battle field "just go on without meeeeeeee. I'm just holding you baaaaaaaack. Tell em i'm comiiiing!!!"

Mark runs through the station like Forrest Gump. Like all the way through the station. To the other end. Because he hasn't been reading any of the signs and we missed the turn off and we now have have to run back to get to the right place. All this extra wheezing and running doesn't bode well for me, I think I have just discovered I have asthma.

The loudspeaker taunts us with "Final boarding for Brussels! Final Boarding call for Brussels!" Arghghhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!. I use whatever minute bit of strength I have left in my limbs and lurch/run to the gate. Luckily we make it through. We have about 45 seconds to spare, but we pass through the gates of destiny.

When we finally make it onto our train I can't believe it. I also can't breathe and still think I might die, so I make Mark hunt down water for me by any means possible. Two hours later, my lungs are back to normal, I've had a nap and I am ready for everything that Brussels has to offer me!

Brussels, like most European cities I have been to, are the equivalent of Architectural Heroin. I can't stress enough how beautiful their town squares are. I can't get enough of it. So essentially Brussels is a town of gorgeous buildings, food and beer.

And chocolate.

And did I mention the Beer? Strawberry Beer, Raspberry Beer, Peach Beer. Deliciousness Hops Style.

If I were to nominate my Number One city for the ultimate Dirty Weekend, it would be Brussels. All that chocolate and sweet nectar of foreign beer and buildings, and waffles, and spicy meatballs. It is a city of indulgence.

Aside from all the gluttony, I do have to say that the Mannekin Pis is the lamest attraction that any city has to offer. Underwhelming to the max, unless you are a pedophile - which I am not. I also saw a gypsy lady with her tit out on the street breastfeeding what looked like a fake baby to me. And you don't see that very often.

We covered all the things of cultural significance, which leads me to think that unless you have a thing for Gothic Churches there is no reason to go to any of these places because that is the best example of beauty in building form possible. We prayed for Lenny not to die whilst we were away for one night, lest he find some ribbon and choke to death or something equally stupid - you never know with that cat!

Brussels! Just go already. Just make sure you time your morning better than mine.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Like a Fart on the Dancefloor

One thing I definitely miss since moving to London is my girlfriends. I mean, girlfriends aren't easy to accumulate, you start collecting them in high school and you hold onto those ones like a life preserver, and if you are lucky you might pick up a few good ones along the way. Luckily I attend to my friendships like a gardener pruning a rare delicate flower that could die at the slightest whim of bad weather.

Since moving to London though, I can count my friends on one hand. So I was definitely looking forward to my night of Ovaries and Oestrogen based fun.

Went out to Chinatown, had some yarns and magical egg rice from the restaurant creatively titled "Vietnamese Restaurant".. then it was time to go out and get loose. We had wandered past a venue that had people spilling out onto the pavement, people wearing name tags, and more importantly, people holding clipboards. There is always some small part of me that wants to find out if I can trick the people with their stupid high and mighty clipboards and gain access to the party I know nothing about.

So we did.. my tactic is to stand over the person holding the clipboard and use my eagle eye vision to spy a name and then pretend I am that person. Last night the clipboard police must have thought I was a right bit of spastic because I didn't seem to know my own last name. But she let us in anyway.. suckers.

Turns out the event was something called "city socialising" which pretends to be an event for people to meet new friends, but really - it is just a place to hook up and have casual sex with strangers. Talk about a sea of desperation.

Me and my pal stood around like dejected Napoleon Dynamite rejects. If this truly was a place for people to meet and find new friend/fuck buddies, than 90% of the people in the room are gonna die alone.

We decided it was beyond lame in this stupid event we blagged our way into, so we moved to the room that didn't seem so sad. Finally some guy in a suit came to chat to us so we did what any normal weirdo would do, and made up fake persona's to fuck with this guys head.

We were florists, we were exotic, we didn't even have the right names on our name tags. He didn't know who the fuck we were. He said he was a head hunter and we said we were really into trees. He eventually backed away because we made no sense, but he did say he never thought in a million years he would wander into a place like this and meet two florists. Talk about a gullible schmuck.

Then, this is part I feel mildly bad about, some cute naive girl came up to us lecherous lying vultures and wanted to make friends. Poor Sam, she gave us the spiel about having made no friends since leaving Uni 6 years ago, and being all alone in London. I truly felt sorry for her, but we made no assurances, we told her straight up that we were pathological liars who had no idea what the hell "city socialising" was and that every man in the room keeps eyeing us like a supermarket for rapists. Eventually she backed away as well.

The thing is, I can obviously 100% relate to Sam, she has no friends, I have 3 friends, if we had met in a park chasing squirrels around we might have become fast friends. Two Losers equals a great friendship. However this was not the time nor the place.

We moved our two man clown show to the bar and the fool who still thought we were florists came up to us and we felt it was time to burst his bubble and we shattered his world when said that we a) weren't florists, b) didn't own a florist in Hackney called "Lara's Flaras" c) weren't even called Lara. He seemed shocked but not totally put off, that was until I told him and his mate that I was married. He asked what Marriage was like and I told him the best advice I could give a man is to 'Marry your Best-Friend'.. profound. I pointed to his mate in the suit and said "so you should definitely snap this guy up before someone else does" and he goes "I'm not Gay!!!!!!!!" then disappeared into the darkness.... well that's no attitude towards finding true love buddy..

It's sad that announcing to the world that you are married can clear a room, like a fart on the dance floor.

We tried to leave and pay for our drinks, however the numpties behind the bar said their card machine was broken so they wrote down our phone number on a piece of paper and disappeared upstairs. Rookie mistake. So we ran out of there like the Pirates we are. Ha Ha! in your face stupid rape event.

Then we went to another bar in Soho where the normal people hang out, or should I say the incredible drug fucked. I thought I lost my phone on the run from the Rape Bar, which would be the instant karma we deserved for robbing them blind, but then I found it in my secret pocket. HAHA!

So basically what I learned is if you want to make friends in London, don't tell anyone you are married, and pretend to be a florist.

Monday, October 11, 2010

GREASE: aka: Fuck Kenickie

It is my dream of late, that Grease 3 will go into production with the original cast from the first movie. Mainly so I can see Jeff Conaway hobble around in his neck brace whilst his girlfriend Vicky (who will be written into the script) gives him drugs and beats him with his own walking frame. Then they sing jazzy 50's songs and drive an ambulance into the sky.

However, upon closer inspection of Grease, I have come to realise that Grease is nothing but a John Travolta Mugfest, and that Kenickie gets totally fucked over the whole movie - is it any wonder Kenickie ended up in Dr Drew's Rehab??

Let's revisit:

The first time we meet Kenickie, everyone is back from holidays and wants to catch up on what's been going on over the break, Kenicky has been lugging boxes over the summer and hence not hanging out on beaches making out with hot Australians. No one cares about Kenickies stupid job.

It is then established that both Kenickie and Zucco are the leaders of the gang, and everyone wants to sing a song about Danny's weekends at the beach.

TRIVIA: Jeff Conaway had to walk around slightly stooped to make John Travolta appear taller. I bet I know who was behind this!! John 'this movie is going to be all about me' Travolta!

Kenickie arrives at Bonfire with his new car that he spent all summer working in a shit job to pay for. They all call it a hunk of junk, even though - nobody else there drives. What a bunch of jerks.

Rizzo shimmys down the drainpipe - but sloppy seconds aren't Danny's style. He would rather walk off and masturbate.. however sloppy seconds are Kenickie's style, and he drives off with Rizzo and his trashheap car.

Whilst making out with Rizzo the slut in his piece of junk, we learn that Kenickie is a big virgin, having brought a rubber in the 7th grade and still not used it. Loser. That guy with the pocked face comes and smashes up his shit car a bit more, like it needed it?

The gang decides to fix Kenickies car and sing a song about it.

TRIVIA: The song 'Greased Lightning' is supposed to be sung by Jeff Conaway! However John Douchebag Travolta used his clout to have his character sing it, of course the director asked Jeff how he felt about it - and he refused, but eventually gave in (to John's incessant whining)

Now let's just stop and think for a moment if Kenickie had sung this song.... for one, I bet he wouldn't have spent the past 30 years addicted to drugs and feeling shit about the way his life turned out. The movie would have had a completely different tone and Jeff Conaway might have emerged a bigger talent than John Travolta.

Poor Kenickie, instead of singing this song he has to stand around with the rest of the plebs whilst Danny gets to ride down from the ceiling on an engine and run around with cling film, whilst Kenickie stands around like a jerk on the bonnet with nothing to do.

Moving on...

The gang goes out to the Diner.. Sandy and Danny have a perfect date. Kenicky has a milkshake thrown in his face.

It's the big school dance. Kenickie's going to have the hottest date there. At the dance, Rizzo is grinding all over the place with pockmark face who dented his car (injury) and then Danny the jerk steals his date and wins the dance off (insult)

Everyone's at the drive in. Rizzo thinks she's pregnant, Kenickie being the stand up guy says he'll help out, but Rizzo is a bitchy slut whose all "what makes you think this is yours??" Fail.

It's the big stake out at Thunder Road, Kenickies big moment, and of course he ends up with a serious head injury and Danny has to take over and win all the glory.

At graduation, Rizzo and Kenickie make up even though, there is no way he should go back to hanging around that skeezy skank. They probably end up in a sad marriage where he drinks all day and she has affairs, and they end up with a baby that looks like the next door neighbour and everyone pretends like nothing is wrong.

Poor Kenickie. John Travolta is flying around in a private jet and Jeff Conaway is dodging bottles thrown at his head by Vicky. Sometimes life just doesn't make sense.

Grease is the word. If the word is: fucked up.

Saturday, October 09, 2010

At least they have clean clothes...

One of the good things about renting in London is that the places come pretty set up with appliances, and basic furniture; a fridge, couch, and washing machine.

When we moved into our flat we soon realised that our washing machine wasn't a dryer also and that we had all these wet clothes and nowhere to dry them.. so our lounge room takes on a look of a clothes bomb exploding when we wash stuff.

When you don't have a huge apartment, when its time to wash things like sheets and quilt covers you could be waiting days for things to dry.. so I decided to take these things to Launderette.

I live in the middle of two worlds.. the rich snob Notting Hill world, and the Gritty World.. And typically I end up in the Worlds End version of the Laundry.

To be honest, this is the only Laundry I knew of in the area.. the fact that it has shot out windows and junkie lighting should have put me off in the first place, but goddamit I needed to have clean dry sheets that night.

From the first moment I walked in I realised this wasn't like any normal laundry I had ever been to, to begin with I slid halfway across the room because there was a flood coming out of a broken machine. That's ok because some nice man helped me up and I steadied myself in finding a machine.

The man who helped me up then walked away and started having an in depth conversation with the cleaning bucket, it was then that I realised I might not be in the worlds most normal environment.

Pretty much half the machines didn't work, and there was no one in attendance working there, it was kind of a free for all laundry.. There were a group of Laundry Locals loitering around the entrance who clearly thought it was hilarious that a noob had shown up and skidded half way around the room.

That's when I realised that I had forgotten my laundry powder. There is no way I was going to walk the 10 mins home and leave my stuff there, so I decided to look around for the most likely person to hand over some powder and plead stupidity.

There was only one person in the room, and he looked like this:

hmmm. Well I didn't have a choice did I?? so I went up the guy with one tooth and asked if I could please have a cap full of laundry powder...

Not only did he say that of course I could use his powder, but he also had some fabric softener for those sheets that he highly recommended.. I thanked him profusely and went back to my machine.. Then I realised that I didn't have the correct change.. again.. I looked around and there was no one there except me and Sleeps Under A Bridge.. so I bit the bullet and asked if in the off chance of this being the worlds strangest laundry in the universe if he would have change for £5 so I could use the machine... Of course he had change I could use!! and he pulls a handful of pound coins out of his threadbare pockets with holes.

I learnt a lot in this Laundry. I learnt that just because someone hasn't bathed in a year and has never used toothpaste and has one tooth, that they are nicer than most of the jerks I interact with in wealthy establishments everyday. I learnt that it doesn't matter if you have nowhere to sleep as long as you have enough money to do your laundry and if your clothes are dry and soft, then that's all you need in this life.

The next day I found a ritzy well lit snob laundry one block down from my house. I'll still go back the homeless person laundry. It was real.

Thursday, October 07, 2010

Gwyneth Paltrow Day!

I am always whinging that I never see any famous people in London, It seems like everyone else is seeing famous people all the time, and I just see the two Indians who work in the Newsagency.

Luckily though, I work next to a snazzy fancy pub. It is a lame pub. The drinks are really expensive, the clientele all look like gold digging whores and their rich sugar-daddy's, or just aristocrats who go and tan in the south of France all summer. Basically it's full of people who wear Pearls all year round. And they have weird high backed red velvet chairs. Half the time I expect to turn around and see Morpheus sitting in there offering me Blue Pills or Red Pills.
I like a place that is a bit more real, a place where you might just get glued to the floor from all the grime.

NOT ANYMORE!!!!!!!!!!! Guess who went into the Lame Rich Pub!
Gwyneth Paltrow. I love her. She achieved so much by the time she turned 30, and married a rockstar.

Thankfully this wasn't another Peter Jones scenario, I was fully dressed with clean clothes and hair. I walked past on my way to the post box on the corner and did a double take, then had to re-walk past and do a triple-take.. I must look like someone who doesn't know how to post mail. I should go in there and tell her that I do know how to post mail, and if she wants to employ me to be her minion her post is safe with me.

I suppose I will have to start going there now if this is where all the famous people hang.

Life is Hard.

ESCANDALO Update!!: I have been very graciously stalking around the building, walking past in different glasses frames and moustaches and I hate to be the one to break the news - but Gwyneth Paltrow the lactose hater/no gluten/only eats a macrobiotic diet handpicked by fairtrade ethiopians.. is in there eating PIZZA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm going to throw a cabbage at her head as she leaves and steps into her giant AUDI SUV.

Go Planet Earth!!!!!!!!!

Monday, October 04, 2010

5 Years!

Wooo Hoo Weeee. Happy Blogaversary for Me!

5 Years!

5 Yearrrrrrrrrrrrrrs.

Think of all the things I could have accompished... written War and Peace 2, written a screenplay for something to rival the Godfather (The Godmother) Raised a 5 year old and be whinging about dropping my kid off at kindy. Ahh think of all those imagination good times.

To think it all started here because I couldn't help myself stealing lettuce from Woolworths.

Here is a picture to celebrate.

Lenny looks pretty excited.
He is just excited because he ate all the catfood in London.
He is going onto Weight Watchers.
Let's see what else can transpire over the next 5 years, and if I will be able to download my thoughts straight onto my blog with the power of technology advances in the future. Weeee.


Friday, October 01, 2010

Peter Jones Day


As I have previously mentioned, if I had the chance I would so totally allow Peter Jones from Dragons Den to do bad things to me (and then sue him for billions)... imagine my surprise when we get a job shooting Peter Jones in the studio at my work.

Helllllllllloooooooooooooooooooooooo. YAY.

All week I have been planning what I'm going to do on Peter Jones Day, what I'm gonna wear (1980's powersuit with shoulder pads) how I'm going to corner him to get him to give me £200,000 (ideas book) how I'm going to entrap him into touching my boobs... basically my whole week was spent trying on glasses frames to look smarter and coming up with entrepreneurial ideas to throw at him, so it's just typical that the night before Peter Jones Day we go out for work drinks and I get so beyond maggotron that I can't even function on Peter Jones Day and have to hide at the other end of the building because I look and smell like a hobo.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this!!!!!!!!!!!!! I don't know what happened?? Except that every time I turned around there was a free drink in my hands. Laughing, Drinking, Planning future drinking, then cue the taxi ride home.

Taxi's get me every time. Especially London Taxis because they have those fold down extra seats so you are traveling backwards. Backwards. Car Motion. Drunk Beyond Belief. Not going to end well. Not to mention the fact that I am sharing the cab with my Senior Producer and want to brown nose as much as possible with this woman.

And then I spew a bit into my mouth... and I'm thinking, there is no way I can roll down the cab window and spew down the door like I normally would, this is my boss in the car here! not Mark! she doesn't need to see my wagamamas spew all down the side of the door. So I just sit with the spew in my mouth for awhile, until the thought of the spew really makes me want to spew more, so I wind the window down a bit and hock it into the street.

Now that I've done this I don't even bother pretending that the only thing on my mind isn't projectile vomiting everywhere.. so I tell the cab driver to pull over because I am going to do an Exorcist, I quickly fall into the gutter and projectile all over the bus-stop whilst the cab drives off. Awesome! Except I have left my jacket in the cab, and now I'm freezing and covered in spew and having to walk down my road and the pavement is moving like a Jetty Wharf in the middle of a 6 foot swell.

I finally get home and I know that Mark isn't going to be happy about my spew mess, so I trick him by getting undressed really quickly and jumping headfirst into the shower. Whilst in the shower I spew a bit more all over myself, but unfortunately the plumbing in my building is crap at best and my drain can't handle the Wagamamas mushrooms that are plugging it up so I am now standing in an ankle deep pool of rankness. But the most important thing is that Mark doesn't find out about this.. I am actual in denial that I have been spewing at all and covering it up with long over elaborate coughing fits.. then I start to scoop out the wagamamas from the drain and mark's like "is that spew??!" and I'm like "no way *cough cough* just pulling hair out of the drain"

Finally I make it into bed, but the urge to spew won't leave, so I give into it and carry my lamp with me whilst I bump into walls naked so I can spew some more. I do naked lamp trips up and down the hall all night until the morning.

Now, all week I have been planning these shmick business outfits, and now morning is rolling by and I haven't had any normal non-spew sleep all night, so I just get dressed in the dark and hope for the best. It takes me about 20 minutes to find my skirt and I consider leaving the house in my ripped tights and flannelet shirt. This is so not how I imagined my Dragons Den Day beginning.

The tube ride is not fun at all. There is a clearly homeless man sitting opposite me who can barely keep his eyes open and there is a huge golly on the floor. I can barely hold it together without spewing everywhere again, and the only thing that gets me through is imagining the big bucket of Dirty Bird KFC I'm going to get as soon as I get to work. I meekly sip the Gatorade I brought at the Tube Station like it is the essence of life.

Once I am free of the Underground, I walk to work and have to jump into some bushes to hide and spew because the Gatorade is not going down well, the most important thing I decide is to keep the vomit out of my hair, so I sacrifice getting it all over my boots instead.

When I finally walk into work, I have spew remnants on my boots, my hair is a mess, my makeup is running from the spew tears. I look really hot. Totally ready to meet Peter Jones!!!!!!

I collapse into a heap on the work couch and make someone bring me a bacon sandwich and a lemonade, and about an hour later I can move again. Peter Jones arrives and I hide behind camera equipment. I catch a glimpse of the back of his head, and that is enough for me.

When lunchtime rolls around everyone decides that they are going to order in Wagamamas, and I look as if someone just said they accidentally killed my cat in a hit and run accident. Don't mention Wagamamas to me. Ever.

Peter Jones Shmeter Jones.