2009 vs 2010

Less drunk [2009] (please note: insane hotness being worked here)


More drunk [2010] (please note: camera angle, wideness of smile)


Less drunk [2010 -12.05am] (note: strategically placed Sazz kisses)


More drunk [2010 2.35am] (note: grumpiness, amusement at grumpiness)


(Can't recall if that was before or after he went to sleep against that lamp post and fell over a bit. Do remember lolling at it lots though)

Photobomb

Balding guy in suit vest demonstrates a classic photobomb. This discovery has kind of made the start 2010 that little bit sweeter you know?



(P.S. They are 'wheying'* about something I think. Duno for sure but that's the only explanation that makes sense)

* Whey [way, wa-ay]
–verb (used without object)
To express mirth, pleasure, or derision, with an audible, vocal expulsion of air from the lungs that can range from a loud burst of sound to an appreciative continued loud-to-quiet sound and is usually accompanied by a slow clap. Used in reference to puns, innuendo ('in your end-o'), or accidently dropping a glass in a pub usually employed only when in large groups. Most male noise that the human body can create.

More presents I like

I like cheese a whole bunch. If I had to choose between a stubbly Robert Downey Jr in a black chunky cord coat (swoon) or a box of cheese then I honestly don't know what I'd go for (I would probs go for the cheese, natch).

This is why a box of cheese present is the best present of all.


And look! He even wrote out little nametags for them! <3 <3 <3

Happy Obama Day!

Dude, I had the most awesome dream a couple nights ago. Turns out the key to time-traveling is to just sit in a room full of things from that year and then vibrate your molecules and you go back to that time. I went back to 1993 to try and stop a crime of some kind from happening. If you were wondering whether I was joined by a Ford Capri that had sentient consciousness akin to Herbie and was my kind-of sidekick on this dream adventure then yes, yes I was. How did you know?

Basically, I'm telling you that I'm pretty much convinced I can time travel now. I just need to surround myself with objects from a certain time period. Which might be why I ended up wearing this:

Of course, Monday nights are generally a good time to wear Sonic Youth t-shirts, plaid shirts and a blue tutu. And flip-flops with tights. We all do that on Monday's right? Right?

Anyways, how you celebrate Obama day? Did you Obama-ize yourself and then bake a cake with the poster colours that was supposed to say 'Happy Obama Day' but not make the white icing thick enough so that it kinds of just blobs out all over the place and prompt your mother to say it 'looks like a bird pooped on it'[direct quote]? No? Just me then.





[Please note: I only said it was supposed to be done in the colours of the aforementioned poster. I did what I could with the food colouring in the cupboard]

While we're all gathered round, I'm 100% seeing this movie.


Also, I'm going to try and get my moms to start saying I'm her best friend and then say I'm the coolest person she knows and then fistbump me. I'm not sure the woman who says my cake attempts look like they're done by three-year-olds which birds have then pooped on is going to go for that but I can but try.

Shit yeah

I stayed up all night, I've cried three times (from joy/relief/lack of sleep/whatever) and all I can think is...

Thank fuck for that.

I saw this

I also have had a hostel owner that looks like Bob Fossil in Prague and spent four evenings in a bar called 'The Peach Pit' (awesomely a Shannon Doherty picture indicated the gateway to the ladies and a Luke Perry picture was used in a similar fashion for the mens).

I've fallen in love with a camp tour guide in Paris and been there for Bastille day without realising it was going on.

I've watched a cat fall in love with my brother in Amsterdam.

I've met a 'Fun Manager' in Krakow (SLACKER JOB ALERT) and had to come to terms with the fact that not all of Poland is a bleak, desolate landscape but is in fact gorgeous and vibrant.

These are just some of my adventures thus far and I'm not even half way round yet.

I am, however, craving being able to not have to get dressed in a toilet with the door locked and sleeping in a room full of strangers. Need. Own. Space.

Chaos Theory

Chaos is dead. Long live Chaos.

Kaput.
Over.
Done.

Not the Jeff Goldblum-associated-chaos I hasten to add. This is the club of my youth. The setting for hook-ups, heartbreak, sweaty dancing, busted ankles, sticky floors and a soundtrack that, if you went often enough (as I, at one time, did), you knew exactly what songs would follow what songs. Every single week a strict musical formula was followed that ensured ska preceded metal which lead into garage rock which bled into indie and always ending with a blast of hair metal or something of a similar ilk just as the lights came up to encourage the patrons to exit the premises. All this and it was located at the end of a faded white pier in Southsea.

As far as club venues go, I think it's unparalleled in it's uniqueness - especially given the low-key wedding reception/school disco vibe it always gave off. Mis-matched chairs, scuffed carpet, dark wooden tables dotted about the place, red velvet curtains that reached from the ceiling to the floor to block out the sight of people getting blow jobs and dealing drugs on the pier outside. Even when I was going every week, even when I was going through my post-irony stage (where you do things that you claim are lame because it's ironic), even when I'd stopped going regularly and would just find myself there on Saturday nights because no-one could think of anything better to do and wanted to relive a bit of our youth, I'd always get a strange thrill walking along the seafront, seeing the steps that lead up to an amusement arcade (which have some pretty kick-ass graffiti in the ladies toilets if you're into that sort of thing. Which I am) and going all the way to pier's end. Walking past the shuttered ice-cream and fish and chip booths, the familiar booming of 'Killing In The Name Of' struggling against the sound of the tide to make itself heard, striding past goths, hipsters, white-boys with dreadlocks who would always seem to be hanging around on the benches that lined the pier's railings to reach the door and try and make it past the bouncers without getting ID-ed. Roger the door guy who dressed like an Asian extra from The Matrix (whatever time of day and whatever the weather he is always always always in long black coat and heavy bovver boots Even when spotted shopping in Woolworths on a Saturday afternoon. Always with The Matrix attire) nodding slightly to let you know that he recognised you and handing you a lolly if you happened to be there early enough.

The lolly's were one thing but I loved Chaos for a myriad of complex and hauntingly beautiful reasons. For one thing I was pretty much always guaranteed of getting to at least first base with at least one willing participant. Without ever having to do anything. Just standing around or dancing in the middle of the floor. No effort required. My friend Lisa and I would even occasionally have snogging competitions such was the classiness that Chaos inspired. I loved dancing in a crowd of people who's own dance styles varied wildly from pogo-ing, headbanging, to the robot (the last one inevitably being me). I loved the sticky floors, the one River Island shirted man who'd been turned away from the R'n'B club opposite for being too drunk as he wondered around with a look of dawning realisation on his face that he maybe should have gone home after all because here was not a friendly place for the likes of he, I loved always striking up bizarre conversations in the line for the ladies and wondering whether I had a freak magnet or was just lucky to always be stood next to the nutbar when awaiting a wee. I loved it all.

In hindsight at any rate.

And now it's dead. Of course, they're selling it as merely moving to a more central Southsea location and yes, I haven't been for at least a year but it still smarts. Chaos was an institution. A much derided institution but an institution nonetheless. My friends don't get why I'm so gutted, particularly given the fact that I didn't actually go to the final night (we had to get tickets, TICKETS IN ADVANCE! Screw that. It's Chaos!) and went to Babylons so I could dance to 5ive and Hanson instead. But still, in memorium, Chaos we knew ye well, we took the piss out of you constantly, we owe you at least three eventual boyfriends (although you probably could have kept all of those to be honest, turns out we didn't really want them in the first place), we neglected you for many-a-year since we went to university (mostly because you made us a bit depressed and feeling quite old once we had hit 21), but ye shall be sadly missed.

Chaos is dead. Long live Chaos.

Me and Fred and John

Last night I had a sex dream about Fred from The B-52s.

I hope this goes without saying but this was fairly unexpected.

I was in Egypt (?), at a vinyl fair (!) and singing ‘Wig’ to myself (… no, that’s a fairly common occurrence actually) whilst I perused the Nancy Sinatra offerings (ditto) and who should be behind me but Fred and Keith of The B-52’s. They did not look like they look here:

Fred (second from left for you heathens that don't instantly know) was way chubbier and more heterosexual. Keith looked like the guy that Sharon Osbourne uses as the singing coach in the post-audition/pre-glitzy stages on X-Factor (he’s the one with the dyed facial hair and an undeniable air of creepiness surrounding him. Got him? The one that could be Billy Connolly if Billy Connolly was American and a bit gay. Yes. That one).

Anyway, they offered me autographs (I was too stunned and excited to speak) which were written on a cocktail napkin (presumably they kept a stash with them for such purposes – i.e. whenever they overheard someone in a dream singing B-52’s songs to themselves) and when they handed them back I noticed they’d each given me their telephone numbers (if I concentrate I can even read Fred’s number: (303) 555-6061, at least I now know how to get hold of Fred in a dream emergency). I wasn’t that bothered about Keith but the fact that Fred was willing to give me his number, hotel room, and indeed his signature, in blue biro on a sleazy airport-lounge bar napkin made me feel like I might burst with joy. I was to be a B-52’s groupie. (I would like to make it clear that although I am a B-52’s fan, I have not now, nor have I ever, been attracted to ANY members of the B-52’s). (Alright, MAYBE Kate). I pretty much jumped him right there and then. He was wearing the same kind of outfit as in the Love Shack video, his shirt in particular was jazzy to the max. This only fuelled my passion further.

Anyway, I get to work this morning and, for a laugh, google the B-52’s to find out that THEY ARE EMMINENTLY RELEASING A NEW ALBUM.

Now I have to wonder if each of the band are going round every B-52’s fan’s dreams and sexing us all up so as to recall and re-ignite our B-52’s fervour. As far as a publicity campaign goes, you can’t really beat invading people’s dreams. The biggest advertising execs in the world would KILL for that kind of exposure. As such I’m giving 17 kudoses to the B-52’s. Well done them.

The other thing that has got me in a tizz recently is this guy:

This youtube video in particular I don’t just find amusing but incredibly soothing. There’s something about a bad wig coupled with a New Jersey accent that gives me an instant ‘Ready Brek’ glow. I can’t explain it. The first three times I watched it I just sat there open mouthed in (what I can only describe as) horror but I guess is more akin to intense intrigue. On the forth spin (I should mention this was over a few weeks, not all in one go, but I kept thinking about him in inopportune moments for whatever reason… getting out of the shower, putting a petrol nozzle in my car, sat outside a pub in Cardiff having a rollie and watching two young men homoerotically grappling to the point of knocking over a flower pot, that kind of thing) I laughed like nothing else. I then investigated ‘mittymoo’s’ other offerings. His ‘Debra’ character is particularly disturbing. If you’ve ever subjected yourself to an episode of ‘The Hills’ you’ll realise quite how note perfect he’s got it. And again, I could watch and listen to him being Debra all freaking day (although the sellotaped nose puts me off a bit). It hits a button in my psyche that I didn’t realise wanted - or indeed needed - hitting. I don’t find ‘The Dance’ quite so addictive but it did have me shaking with hilarity (I think an element of that was due to the fact that I was terrified in a way I’ve never been terrified before). But yeah, I’m intrigued and I can’t stop thinking about him. That means its love right?