I have a new blog.

It's here.

Lovely.

Because everyone likes a cuddle

Knowing no bounds

Pirate
Demon
Fairy
Fajita
Catwoman
Jigsaw Puzzle
Greek Goddess
French Maid
Punk
Gangster
Zombie
Cowgirl
Schoolgirl
Witch
Hippy

What do all of the above have in common? Don't be thrown by the jigsaw puzzle, nor the fajita for that matter...

I have dressed up as all of these for previous parties with much hilarity. I do not, however, have the continuing imaginative genius to think of anything new. I have a fancy dress party coming up on Saturday, and in the past few years I've given myself something of a reputation for being a bit of a master of fancy dress. I do however, feel that I have peaked too soon and am running dangerously low on ideas. I'm NOT doing the mermaid thing, much as I could get away with particularly the hair part, I refuse to spend an evening rustling awkwardly to the punchbowl in what would be a rather restrictive get up probably made of bubble wrap. Nor am I going to follow the bunny girl/nurse thing (I was pushing it with the french maid) that so many girls seem to think is the most original outfit they ever came up with and will have all the men panting... it probably will, but honey, if you need to wear a leotard, a bow tie and furry ears to attract a man, there's something going horribly wrong.

I've been toying with the idea of going as a chav, but that always runs the risk of upsetting any geniune chavs that might be there, which of course would ultimately mean the loss of one of my limbs; not the conclusion I generally seek of a night out. Also, I thought about going as an emo kid, but then to my dismay that it's not that far off how I often look anyway so people might question whether I was actually dressing up or whether I had merely decided that pink is, after all, my colour, and tends to go amazingly well with a lone fingerless glove and too much eyeliner.

Who knows? I could just wear a fancy dress.

Oh, do get off your fat bum...

Trying to write Posts With A Theme is trying when my natural inclination is to just winge about how boring my life has become. Whilst arguably a theme in itself, this theme is so widely penetrating that this 'ere blog would become much the diary. Although I do not hold myself in such high esteem that I regard the musings contained herein to be of a great deal of interest to anyone that isn't me, let alone anyone that doesn't know me, I think that a diary would cause my few remaining faithful readers (all 3 of them, one of whom is a blood relative, another, as my unlucky chosen one, has little choice) to run, screaming, back from whence they came, never again to show their half-interested presence this side of cyberspace.

Henceforth, I am making the concerted effort not to dissolve into rantings, nor indeed, ravings, about what a dull existence I am currently leading. Instead, I will choose to pluck a topic randomly from the vacuous space between my ears and hopfully entertain for a short while with a thematic discourse on, for example, the subject of potatoes. Or jam. Or the inadequacy of the current American president.

Ok, I won't do that. I'll just upset myself. With the American presidency, that is. Not the jam. Or the potatoes.

Today's topic is the addictive power of television. Television is, I believe, truly the source of my problems. When I couldn't get a job; mainly down to Paul Robinson's devious antics keeping me away from the application forms. The fact that, since my return from Costa Rica, I have become as unfit and blubbery as a paraplegic sealion; has a lot to do with the subtle and intriguing plotlines woven seductively by the writers of Emmerdale. Even as I write, the theme tune to that very programme is causing me to debate my priorities and perhaps catch up with Betty Eggleton and the gang. Follow that with Coronation Street, then the evening film on E4 + 1 and Hey Presto!! Couch Potato.

Now, I don't often sit down deliberately to watch anything specific. But when you happen to sit down with your cornflakes and a cuppa of a sunday morning and notice that David Attenbrough's entire series of The Blue Planet is on repeat on UKTV History, well it's just asking for trouble, isn't it? That useful textbook that is theoretically going to help me secure a place on my MSc course goes unread. Lyrics for my newly found band remain unwritten. Job applications go unmade, letters begging for funding to help on my return to University stay, elusively, begging solely in my head. I blame television for many things, and I believe it will ultimately be my demise.

Now, I'd love to continue this tirade, but Corrie is about to start and I think Fred Elliot dies tonight...

I must update my blog soon

who the hell would even WANT scented tampons?

I think I am in the wrong job. Working in 'business development' I have just realised quite how much I hate advertising. I'm sure someone ought to let the poor, ignorant advertising people know that rather than encouraging people to buy products, good adverts merely go ignored, and the bad ones put people off buying the damn thing altogether. I mean, those tango adverts. Whose idea was that, really? That individual should be particularly ashamed. And will someone PLEASE tell the Cillit Bang man to stop shouting? Whilst I am keen to retain face, my defence for my current employment situation is no match for my contempt for such appallingly blatant insults to my intelligence that comprise most adverts today, nor my contempt for shameless marketers who devise such idiotic compositions, who are, as Bill Hicks once pointed out in a particularly insightful and forthcoming bad mood, the scum of the earth. nay, the universe.

If their lack of creativity, insight, respect or brain cells wasn't bad enough, these people have to resort to cheap gimmicks that have truly less than sweet fuck all to do with whatever badly made rubbish they're trying to sell. How, pray tell, does putting pretty pictures of puppies on bog roll make it any more effective? Do scented tampons make one smell of pot pourri for that all important week in every four? And I'm very inquisitive as to how they manage to turn silk into deodorant.

I'm just waiting for the day they bring out chocolate teapots.

All I can say is "...?"

My unusually good mood can almost definitely be explained by my discovery of and constant listening to this band, thanks to my lovely boyfriend, who I have officially been going out with for a year (hurrah! get me and my successful relationship...). Anyone who can listen to these guys and not feel amazing about life is either deaf, a liar or made of stone. Or possibly Margaret Thatcher.

My unusually good mood certainly can't be attributed to much else at the moment. Said boyfriend has in the last week said a fond farewell to these fair English shores and is spending the next 10 months studying Japanese in Spain.* Having said that, whilst feeling lonely and sad to the expected degree, I must admit to a tinge of relief at not having to keep up a rigorous leg shaving ritual for a while**.

On top of this, I think there is conspiracy at work. I have been 'encouraged' to apply for another position in the company, which - although looks better on paper - seems in practice to be, in short, a bit shitty. My current job, although not particularly interesting or well paid - is at least comfortable, and my boss is nice. However, I think the desire for me to be in another department comes from above, so if I stay put, I'm worried that my life might be made more difficult.

Furthermore, my good mood cannot be attributed to the fact that my parents have just sold the house I grew up in and it looks like we're moving to the MIDDLE OF NOWHERE. As if my social life isn't bad enough.

Yet I'm still pretty chirpy. Well... I was until I wrote all this. I've just reminded myself how crap things are at the moment and am feeling distinctly shitty again.



Whoops.




*I shit you not
** Alright, it was never that rigorous anyway

Interesting thought of the day (that I stole from a stoopid email)

There is more money being spent on breast implants and Viagra today than on Alzheimer's research. This means that by 2040, there should be a large elderly population with perky boobs and huge erections and absolutely no recollection of what to do with them.