The Fake Facebooker, Never, September 2011

Now I fully appreciate that I started this blog with every intention of physically going and seeing every single one of my facebook friends, but I've decided to do a quick write up on one person that will be deleted from my Facebook 10 seconds after I have finished this post. Technically, I did see her (in passing).

There have been many deciding factors in this decision, but the most prolific are that I just plain don't like her and never have, and she's so fucking fake I think I'm talking to two double E silicone arse implants whenever I see her. The reason that she is on my facebook is that she is good friends with a few of my good friends, but you know what? Sometimes 2 plus 2 equals FUCK OFF. Just because we have mutual friends, doesn't mean we need to be friends.

Now to quash any thoughts that this might be because she 'forgot' to invite me to a couple of parties, trust me Love, it's not. It was the catalyst though! It was when I got the excuse "I definitely sent you a facebook invite! Oh no, now I'm worried that facebook didn't send the invitation to loads of other people!" OH COME ON YOU CAN LITERALLY FUCK OFF! In reality you didn't invite me to a party that would take me 3 hours to get to, which I couldn't attend anyway due to other plans, but you were embarrassed to fuck that our mutual friends pulled you up on it and you looked like a bitch!


The lesson we can all learn here (except for me because I learnt this fucking ages ago in my regular Common Fucking Sense class) is that if you don't like someone - for whatever reason - just give them a wide berth! Don't make up some fucking bullshit because it makes you look like a complete idiot with fuck all credibility! How pathetic! 


This counts as your write up. You're welcome.

Good luck for your future, whether you need it or not. 

My Mate's Mum, Norwich, August 2011

Now let me start by saying that although technically speaking this is my mate's Mum, I do see her more often than my mate (geography to blame) and I consider her more of a friend and Mother figure. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm in my late twenties, I would be adopted by her. That's a fact. I have known her for almost 15 years I guess, give or take a few years and through that time she has witnessed either directly or indirectly (through her daughter) some of the best and worst moments of my life. Thankfully it's more the better things these days.

I first got to know her through my mate (obviously) and when we were 15 we would go to clubs and raves, and bump into her Mum who was out raving with her mates! I always found it astonishing that my mate would be embarrassed at seeing her Mum out because I thought it/she was so cool, but I guess it's different when it's your own parent(s). I'd fucking DIE if I saw my Dad out but that's more because he's a Poindexter. He went to Uni through the fucking Sixties. TWICE. Can you believe that? He missed probably the most infamous decade ever to get his learn on.

Whenever I go back to Norwich to see family, I always visit her and normally stay over too. It's always nice to hang out at her house because she's a proper Mum and that means that basically I turn up and get fed, watered, and generally get waited on hand and foot until such a time that I pass out from over-indulgence.  This is something I have never encountered due to lack of a Mother, so naturally I'm going to still be riding this gravy train for years to come. It's brilliant isn't it?! If you have a Mum already then you might not understand my enthusiasm, but I've been looking after myself, sorting my own medicine, laundry, dinner, problems etc for a long time on my own so I'm WELL up for her making a fuss of me!


I always enjoy going there because it's a chance to have a decent conversation with someone that has some valid and interesting viewpoints on anything that's going on with me, or anything that we happen to be talking about. The all-time best thing about having a conversation with her is that it's just that - a conversation. It's not some bullshit school playground talk about something that literally doesn't matter a shit to anyone, we always talk about something that interests both of us and I always love the fact that I don't need to sugar coat my words (as I very often have to with most people, as some poor souls are rather delicate). She knows exactly what I mean and draws on her own experiences from the (very few) years ahead she is - and she does this without coming across as condecending. A very rare talent.

I have nothing but praise for My Mate's Mum, and look forward to getting shitfaced with her soon.

My Drunk Mate, London, May 2011

So it may surprise some of you to hear that I have a Drunk Mate - and by that I mean that most would assume I am the Drunk Mate of the group. This, my friends, is not the case. I have a friend that can only be accurately described as a some mutant from the loins of George Best, that somehow got Superman's liver, with the sheer doggedness of the entire English Rugby team who are trying to out-drink Freddie Flintoff. In short, she's a fucking animal. I literally have no idea how she does it. She actually had a drinking contest with a guy once and he ended up passed out in his own shit and vomit. She was fine, carrying off a relatively normal conversation and made her way home with no fuss or pomp. No need to go hat shopping for that little meeting...

This Drunk Mate invited me out for a spot of dinner one evening which I thought was a very nice offer and I was thrilled she had thought of me. Then I realised that in reality I'm a cynical bitch and she had a Groupon voucher that was about to expire. But it's the thought that counts. She very kindly thought of me after 3 other people told her they were busy. Hurrah!

We went off to Proud Cabaret which, if you haven't been, is one of those dinner/entertainment combos involving a 3 course meal and some burlesque ladies singing/dancing/hula hooping and the like. Now, I'm not really one for all that jazz hands malarky, in fact I am one hundred percent at the other end of the spectrum. I fucking hate it. However, I'd never seen burlesque or actually been to a cabaret show so before dismissing it as total bullshit I thought it only fair I give it a go. Attending the place - not literally giving it a go...

So off we went, and we had a lovely evening. The food was shit by the way - not that this is a blog about food, but I thought you should know. The burlesque ladies were very good, and I highly recommend seeing them. It was a nice venue too, 50's-esque. I'm not a prude or anything, but I do go slightly red in certain circumstances and I thought the show had a very good balance of talent and modesty, but yeah the tits were out.


I'm not really sure where to go with summarising the evening, because (much as I hate to admit it because she is quite literally the most arrogant/conceited person I know, and proud of it!) she is a good mate of mine. She was true to form though and got completely shit faced whilst trying to start some random dancing on what can only be described as an exit corridor with a couple that were very obviously having an affair. You can always tell the people that are having an affair because they are terribly gropey. 


I made a sharp exit from this place, with Drunk Mate in tow because The Affair were starting to make eyes at us like we wanted to, ummm, party. No thank you very fucking much you creepy weirdos that are far too old to be grinding like that.


So Drunk Mate, long may the drunken evenings continue. Bravo.

The Twin, Norwich, March 2011

I have a twin brother. At this stage it is extremely important to establish that this does not mean I am half a person. I was in my own egg. Also, contrary to popular belief, it is genetically impossible for girl and boy twins to be identical. Every single time I say my brother is my twin, it's the same lines:-

Douchebag: "Ohmygod you're a twin!"
Me: "Yep, wouldn't wish it on anyone"
Douchebag: "Are you identical?"
Me: *hangs head* "No. He is a boy"
Douchebag: "Oh you know what I mean"
(secret me-voice in head: "Yes I understand you are alluding to the fact you're a fucking muppet who just realised they said something fucking ridiculous")

Almost everyone I tell has asked me the same question, so don't feel bad if you've asked me, I only secretly think you're a tool. 

I went to visit him after he bitched at me about not seeing him enough when I go up to Norwich (where I am not from. I was not born there), so I went straight to the pub he works in and sat drinking until he finished, at which point we went to another pub round the corner with his colleague/flatmate who can also be classified as his no.1. Mancrush, and vice versa. It's quite sickening to watch actually, they really don't mind their love for each other being out there on display.


It was a typical evening with him; getting drunk, cracking jokes, and the thing that makes everyone around us leave after a while - we start regressing to when we where children and throwing punches, telling on each other, and generally being the most irritating we can possibly be in a short period of time. We think it's hilarious, but then again this in the regression-time: we think that we are children and being funny. In reality, when/if you grow up, it becomes painfully obvious that children are not funny. There, I said it. They aren't, I don't care if you think your kids are, because they are not. They might be for about 0.5-1.5 minutes but anything above that is serious frozen-smile time for witnesses. 


So my brother and I get drunk and I demand he makes me a snack, which he has to do because I am 20 minutes older than him so he has to do whatever I say. Then I crash out on his sofa, the awful/hideous sofa that I have seen him throw up on countless times.  A typical evening really.

The Dutch Guy, Amsterdam, March 2011

Way back in 2002, I was working at a horrendous backpackers resort on the East Coast of Australia. Many backpackers passed through that shitbox (to quote a fellow worker) but few stayed. The staff end up hanging out a fair bit, mainly to test the theory that a problem shared is a problem halved. Incidently, that theory is bullshit. And so our story begins with one of my co-workers here; The Dutch Guy

 The Dutch Guy will always be fondly remembered by me as a bit freakin crazy man. I couldn't talk to him for long periods of time because he's possibly the longest person in the world, and I'm vertically challenged, so you'd get neck ache looking up at the clouds trying to chat to him. He also had better English that me which is kind of humiliating...

One of my favourite memories is when he crashed the rubbish van into a ditch because he basically couldn't be fucked to drive it properly. He was the bin man, and I took various odd jobs to get bed and board (pool cleaning, painting, gardening, cleaning up backpacker vomit and dog poo that looked suspiciously like backpacker poo). To quote a line he said frequently: "They do not pay me enough to bother". Oh how right he was.


Now, my trip to Amsterdam was very much off the cuff (agreed with a mate to take a road trip so drove over there, which would have be fine except for the car acting like a fucktard). So, after not having any dialogue with him for 9 years he offered me a room without me even having to ask - this actually came about from asking for recommendations via facebook. He is a proper legend and by this point I'm already psyched about visiting him.

I spend two nights at this former Fire Department in Amsterdam, where he is living for next to nothing whilst the Firemen decide what they want to do with this place. It's HUGE, he has about 60 rooms and I instantly try to mask the terror I'm feeling about the likeness to The Shining. At one point I actually had to sprint back to my room from the bathroom because I'm freaking out about child-ghosts in the corridors. The endless, massive corridors *shudder*

From the second we arrive he's friendly, welcoming and I see straight away that he's not changed that much at all - just the usual mellowing out you get as the years go on. We hang out and he takes us to a random nightclub that squatters go to (in shifts I assume) and we have a great time.

I found out he comes to town from time to time on business so we're meeting up next time he's about. Really good start to this...although it's set the bar high and I'm kind of shitting myself about how low the bar can go...