Please Stop Force Feeding Me Red Wine, I Can Feel My Kidney's Melting

I am almost certainly not going to see The Hobbit. I realize that this post may get me more hate than anything I will ever have to say on gender politics (or get me killed), but I feel that I need to put this out there. I am almost certainly not going to see The Hobbit. 
I never did the Lord Of The Rings phase as a child. Most of the people I know got into the books around the age of five, and never came out again. At my primary school, there was an after school club dedicated to Lord Of The Rings War Hammer  run by one of the year five boys. Every Thursday, three girls and four boys would bring in all of the models and scenery that they had made at home and spend an hour rolling several dice, to decide which character would die first. I used to try and work out the real life trajectory of the elves bows and arrows, to see of they would actually wound any of my class-mates, on the off chance that they suddenly came to life.  
I did, briefly, attempt to read the books some time last year. I borrowed my step-dads copy of all three books in one, and had a real go at the first one. I gave up. The book now makes a very handy door stop.
Truth be told, The Hobbit is just another tick on the long list of things that Things That Society Thinks I Like Because I'm A Bit Of A Nerd, But I secretly Hate (OK, terrible list name, I know.) It includes things like Star Wars, Ghost Busters, and red wine (I have no idea how people like red wine. It tastes like alcoholic cat piss that's been poured over coal.)
These are the things that I sort-of-pretend to like when talking to someone I just met, and am trying to impress, and will later sheepishly admit that I've never really had all that much to do with them. People then end to scoff and say something along the lines of, "Don't be silly, everyone likes red wine. You just haven't tried enough of it. You're a freak if you don't like it." and then they force feed me red wine, leading to metaphorical liver failure and a mental breakdown. 
So I'm not even going to try this time. I do not like The Hobbit. I have tried it, I did not enjoy it.  Deal with it. I will not go on about how much I dislike it outside of this blog post, that's just rude. But likewise, please do not go on about how broken I am for not liking it. That's also rude. Rude. There's a song that goes along the lines of "It's OK to not like things/it's OK but don't be a dick about it". Likewise, it's OK to like things, just leave me out of it please thank you very much. I've tried The Hobbit, and Star Wars, and Ghost Busters, and they did nothing for me. To end, if I may, with a quote from Daniel Radcliffe, "I tried, and therefore no one can criticize me."

There Are Six Year Olds Who Can Draw Better Than You

I'm in an art gallery right now. Like, literally, as I'm writing this. I've gone old fashioned and acquired a notepad and a half chewed Biro (the Biro wasn't half chewed when I bought it, just when I fished it out of the bottom of my hand bag.) I'm meant to be watching a scree, which is showing video clips of Sheffield and the surrounding area, but if I'm honest, it's really just a video of some damp trees. I'm just taking advantage of the bench space. Also, I'm listening to Adele, and she doesn't really fit with pictures of rainy council estates (would it have killed them to do some filming when it was sunny?) 
Since I've sat down, everyone else who was watching the screen has left. I can't tell if this is because the film is really boring  or because I look a bit like a really annoying art student, who may want to engage them in conversation about 'how the piece makes them feel'. The sort that takes black and white photos with cameras bigger than their heads, and sit in coffee shops discussing the methods of oil painting, and how they prefer digital art (ugh.) 
Art students are currently making up a surprisingly small percentage of the people in here. They're probably over the road at the potato print exhibition. This exhibition is full of charcoal sketches of weather, and a large, multi-coloured tent. Most people in here look like rather lost hikers, who have tried going for a walk, and accidently fallen into a painting of the hill they were meant to be up. It's a mixture of them, and middle class mothers, desperately trying to expose their pre-school children to culture. The children couldn't care less. They're more interested in the fact that they can do a little drawing and stick it up on the public display board. So am I. I just did a landscape sketch of Camelot, from Monty Pythons 'Quest For The Holy Grail'.  It was awful. I still stuck it up on the wall. I captioned it 'It is a silly place'. You're welcome.
There are three types of picture up on the wall, each (roughly) as awful as the next. There are the ones done by bored three year olds, who have desperately attempted to do a professionalism water colour of a mountain side, covered in trees. Then, there are the neat little drawings of perfectly shaded fur trees, done by grown up, who were probably just try to show off in front of a date. Finally, there are the worst ones; stick men captioned "By Ben age 17" or "By Clara, aged 17". No. You are not being funny by pretending to do a child's drawing. It's just annoying. And probably quite offensive to the children. Theirs are much better.

Next Year Is Going To Consist Of Gay Bars And Radio 4

So in less than two days time, it'll be 2013. That's well crazy, cause I'm pretty sure it was 2008 about five minutes ago. The last Harry Potter book came out over five years ago. I can remember queuing up round the back of Waterstones at midnight, dressed as Bellatrix Lestrange. I swear that was only last year....
Anyway, anyway, anyway, I make new years resolutions every year, and never, ever keep them (mostly because I've forgotten what they are by February.) But this year, I am determined, determined goddamn it to keep them . Mostly by making them really, really easy to achieve.

1. Don't start doing heroin. Do start doing heroines. They're well fit. But the lady sort, not the drug sort. I'm kicking off with this one, because I know I can keep it. There's no chance of me doing heroin. I listen to too much Radio 4.
2. Cut down on tea. Ahahaha, this won't happen. But the sentiment is nice, right? I need tea like a nun needs cock. If I go too long without it, I do get cravings. I wouldn't go as far to say that I have a caffeine addiction, because it is only tea. It's just.. really, really nice. Shush. I love tea. It's just turning me into a bit of an insomniac.
3. Don't make a tit of myself in another country. I'm going to Berlin next year, just for a few days. It would be nice if I didn't mortally embarrass myself there. Also, not getting lost in a German sex club would be nice. Damn, those things are scary.  There is a high chance I won't actually get there anyway, I have terrible organisation. 
4. Do more writing. This is actually quite likely, I like writing, it is fun. I want to learn how to write proper stoies, and have characters that talk to me, and get a column published in a newspaper. Also, it's really useful for picking up girls.
5. Get off with a transvestite. No real reason for this, I just have a bit of a thing for drag queens.

There's A Butterfly Amongst The Stars

An alternative ending for Merlin 5x13. Where Arthur lives, and everything is ok in the end.
For a second, Merlin thought about crying. They had come so close to Arthur dying, but now they were here, at the tower, and he was safe. Arthur would be healed. They would go home. And yes, he though, they had come so close to Arthur dying. Not Arthur alone, but both of them. A coin is nothing without it’s other half, after all.
Relationship: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: Gen
Words: 1,134
Tags: Cuddling, Fluff, Alternate Ending, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, 513

Read on AO3


They had made it. Just. Merlin watched as Arthur practically crawled up the steps into the tower, hands with bodies made invisible by darkness reaching down to haul him inside. Arthur looked back once to Merlin, before the door closed behind him, looking more scared than Merlin had seen him in any battle. 
For a second, Merlin thought about crying. They had come so close to Arthur dying, but now they were here, at the tower, and he was safe. Arthur would be healed. They would go home. And yes, he though, they had come so close to Arthur dying. Not Arthur alone, but both of them. A coin is nothing without it’s other half, after all.
Merlin thought about crying, but instead, he slept. He hauled their little boat up from the water, and propped it, upside down against the wall of the tower to shelter himself from the rain, and crawled underneath. He fell asleep to the sounds of the the lake moving against the shore, the rain clattering against the wood over his head, and a raven calling to it’s mate, as it circled above him. 

Your Fetish Confuses Me

So quite recently I saw an advert for a website called uniformdating.com. Does pretty much what it says on the tin: it’s a dating site for ‘people who work in uniform’, or people who ‘fancy those who do’. Despite the fact that it’s using language more commonly found in the play ground, it could have cut to the chase by just saying ‘we cater to those with a uniform fetish’. Using the word ‘fetish’ generally makes things much clearer, especially when the alternative is ‘fancy’. 
This is a concept that I (personally), find quite odd. In our society, uniforms are just another thing that have been grotesquely parodied and exaggerated into a fantasy land for sexual gratification, just like, well, most things, actually. And this is fine, there is nothing wrong with fantasies, kinks or fetishes. But uniforms? In reality? Let’s just a quick peek at the four main fetishised uniforms out there:

1. Policeman. The idea of a strong, masculine authority figure, someone to disobey and be punished by. Slightly ruined by the penis hat. I think the idea here is not so much the uniform itself, but rather the idealist image of the person wearing it. This could almost come into BDSM culture, and the dominant, commanding figure (no, get out Fifty Shades, you are not welcome here). But there’s still the issue of the penis hat, avec wild-west style sheriff badge. 
2. Fireman. The modern day knight in shining armor  Someone to come rescue you from your burning tower (the fire being started by a fearsome dragon, and definitely not because you left your hair straighteners on the bed.) Again, it’s the head wear that spoils it. I think it would be pretty hard to make out with someone required to wear a gas mask. 
3. Nurse. OK, I get this, but only if we’re in the 1950’s. Nurse’s uniforms were great back then; demure, knee length dresses, fitted blouses, the little caps? Adorable. But then the 80’s happened (doesn't it always), and scrubs appeared. Scrubs are the medical equivalent of feetie pajamas for bedroom wear, and one of the most sexless items of clothing out there. No stars.
4. School girl. If you like this, you’re probably a pedophile.

So no, I was never born to understand the uniform fetish. With a lot of imagination, and a dash of questionable morals, maybe a uniform could be considered attractive. But I don’t think it’s really the clothing that people find desirable  it’s the stereotyped person that belongs in the uniform. The authority figure, the rescuer, the carer (I’m going to ignore the school girl for the good of everyone’s sanity.)
I hope you all had a very sexy Christmas.

Things that are great this week:
Ben Whishaw in damp knitwear
Ben Whishaw in a short film
Archaeology in Rome
How to make a glow stick with Mountain Dew

Check out my Tumblr

Benefits of Wales

So I go to Wales a lot, if I haven't already made that obvious enough. And, y'know, Wales gets a lot of stick, mostly from me. So I tried to think of some benefits of being in Wales, and what wales brings to the table. More for my own sanity, than anything else.

1. It's really far away from everyone you don't want to see. Wales is far away, this is how Wales works. You can be in Wales, and still be really, really far away from everyone else in Wales. This is useful when you're not that fond of a lot of people, or if you've just committed a murder.
2. You can not shower for weeks, and no one will notice. The single benefit of rain. If you think it rains a lot in England, just wait till you get to Wales. It's just bloody silly.
3. I ran out.

Sorry.

How To: Bad Decision Christmas Earrings

It's Christmas (almost). The world hasn't ended, and for three whole days, it's socially acceptable to be drunk at ten in the morning. To celebrate, I have made some earrings. I've never really done the whole 'Christmas apparel' thing (mostly because I wear glitter year round anyways), but I'm making an exception for these, because I really, really like them. Also, I was bored. And we bought new tree decorations.

SO
You will need:

• Jewellery pliers (available from most craft shops)
• Earring hooks in gold or silver (see above)
• Baubles of your choice (Mine are from a garden center. They cost £8 for 20. Living it large.)

Making these is literally the easiest thing in the world. If you fail, you are an idiot. Use the pliers to open up the tiny loop on the end of the hook, slot in the bauble... circle-y... thing... and fasten the loop back up. LE DONE. 

Wear with pride, and do your best to not look like a tit. You will fail. You will look like a cockney pirate who got smacked in the face with... well, with some baubles from a garden center  probably. Best of luck.

You will also blend in with the Christmas tree.

Then Suddenly, Nope.

Me: Y’know, I always get really confused between Dulux, and Durex.
LB: Right? Same thing.
Me:  I mean, double glazing will not protect you from unwanted pregnancy.
LB: I think Dulux makes paint...
Me: What? Do who the hell makes double glazing?

I still have no idea. Help me.

Rewriting Cosmo #1: 3 Ways To Be Party Confident

Don’t get me wrong, I love Cosmopolitan magazine as much as the next girl, but I've never been able to shake this nagging feeling that it sometimes is a little bit silly. The magazine which we all know today has watched over the lives of women since the 1960’s - as long as those women are white, unmarried, childless, straight and with disposable income. It also helps if they're a little bit insecure.
So, because I feel that it can be a little bit silly, I decided to take some time to rewrite an article or two before actually reading them. Just for the sake of comparison, of course...

3 Ways To Be Party Confident

1. Get smashed. This may seem kind of obvious, but it’s still worth listing. Do it with style; you’re partying! I recommend purchasing a monocle, top hat and stick-on mustache a little ahead of schedule, then arming yourself with a nice big glass of red wine. Depending on how many of your co-workers you will have to interact with, feel free to skip the glass and head right on to the bottle. It’ll help. Trust me.
2. Wear nice shoes. It literally doesn't matter what else you wear, as long as you have nice shoes. If you turn up in a potato sack and a pair of Louboutins, it will be fine. However, this does not work in reverse. If you wear Westwood with a pair of trainers, I will come for you. You may not even know me, but I will find you. Oh yes; I will find you, and destroy you. PS - yellow shoes inexplicably go with anything. Anything.
3. If in doubt, just assume that nobody cares. The likelihood of you seeing these people again is way too slim for it to matter, and on the off chance you do see them any time soon, they’ll stop returning your emails after about six months. Probably because you both finally sobered up enough to remember that extra Jager Bomb, and how you and Jasmine ended up under the table with each others pants on your head. Jesus, you were a mess that night. What is wrong with you.

So that's my advice to you. You probably shouldn't follow it, although I hope you've already figured that out for yourself. I did actually go and read the original Cosmo article in the end, and it came up with this;

1. Don’t overthink it.
2. Ask a question. About Anything.
3. Remember you’re brilliant.

Whatever, that’s rubbish advice. Ignore what I said earlier, I talk shed loads of sense.

Time To Crack Out The Christmas Pants

In my little group, we have something called the Knicker Brigade. I can tell you'r interested. It's three or four of us, who buy each other knickers for birthdays and Christmas. It's fun, and quirky, and we all feel a little bit closer for knowing far too much about each others underwear drawers.

So, I thought it might a be a bit of fun to bring you some of my favorite underwear out there this Christmas season. I'm afraid the bras outweigh the pants; I don't want to be giving and secrets away! Also, me and bras? Best friends.

From H&M, I'm actually in love. It's everything I could ever want from some pants. If these don't sum up the meaning of Christmas, I don't know what does. A neat combination of comfort, value for money, and sequins. You can get them here, and I give them five out of five stars.

If you don't love Coco De Mer, then there is something wrong with you. This is the obligatory expensive bra, and proof that "You can be kinky at Christmas" is an actual, legit saying in some parts of Yorkshire (clue: it's not). You can get it here, five stars.

I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be who I am now, if it weren't for comfy Marks and Spencer pants. These are probably the only ones in this list that actually look Christmassy, but they're adorable, and perfect for slouching round the house in, on cold winter mornings. You can get them here, three out of five stars (nice, but a bit dull)

From Boux Avenue, Roxy satin plunge bra and briefs. It's Christmas, big, bold colours are fabulous, and I love this because it's just the right side of sexy, without being too garish, and simple without being too boring.  Also, there's a choice of briefs, or a thong, which I appreciate (I have a hatred of thongs.) You can find it here, and I give them four out of five stars.

And thus, that completes my Christmas knicker list. Which should be a thing. Knickers are so underrated as a clothing group. And can you imagine where we'd be without them? With cold vaginas, that's where. Also, my spell check refuses to admit that there is a plural of 'vagina'. I t keeps wanting to put commas in there, like the vaginas have possessions.

This is a real threat, people. The vaginas are stealing your pants. But only one at a time. because Google thing there isn't a plural of vagina. Unless it's like octopus, and the plural is something like vagini. 

I googled it. It's not vagini, it's vaginae. 

Close enough people, close enough.

Bereavement Mood Swings And Custard Muscle

My Nana died on Saturday. Which is a god-awful beginning to a blog post, but I really just need to put it out there at the moment. For those who don’t know, Nana, or Nan, is a colloquial term for Grandma, usually maternal. I have (had?) my maternal grandmother, Nana, and my paternal grandmother, Grandmama. Spot the posh side of my family. I dare you.
We've been expecting this for a long time, if I’m honest. She’s been ill for months, which caused quite a bit of disruption in our house, before she was finally rushed into hospital last Thursday. She died very peacefully in her sleep, and we’re all just glad that she isn't in pain anymore. 
Because she’s been ill for so long, we've all been reacting quite oddly to it all. Mum’s been on tenterhooks for the last two months, and now it’s finally happened she seems to have relaxed, and stopped being so nervous. Which is nice, but has also given way to, what I call, custard muscle. This is a made up disease, where someone has been tense for so long, that when they finally relax, they become a puddle of custard on the floor, and then fall asleep.
Personally, I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet. I found out in the afternoon, on Saturday, while I was at a Welsh farmers market with my Dad, (see, posh side). Mum rang me up, and we had a very brief sob, before I put my mascara back on, and went to buy a lot of cake. Today I’m referring to it all as ‘bereavement mood swings’. I've spent the day either clinging desperately to everyone I know, or screaming at them to leave me alone (sorry, Ben). 

This is the song that’s been getting me through the day week month. It’s one of the very few songs that I've ever listened to and gone, “yes this is exactly how I feel and also the most inspirational thing in my whole life”. So I kind of recommend that you listen to it. 

While I’m here, I’d also really quite like to thank imjohnlocked for this stupidly lovely review of my fan fiction, If Your Memory Serves You Well. Gave me the push I really, really needed, although I'm pretty sure I don't deserve it. Also to Holli, for being my human teddy bear/hairbrush/masseuse.  Thank you. xx

Trying to stay optimistic, things that are great this week:
Kimberly and Pasha dance to Those Magnificent Men
Anwen and I upset some social justice bloggers with a post about tea
This photo of Robert Pattinson

You Should Probably Avoid Me On Trains

I go visit my Dad once a month, and he lives roughly a four hour a train ride away from my house in Derbyshire. I spend a lot of my time on trains. I do three things while I'm traveling, and they are reading, looking out of the window, and staring at my fellow passengers like a massive creep, and generally being terrified, because I have to spend four hours inside a moving tin can with these people, and, oh my God, what if one of them's a murderer.
Last time I went up, I spent my train journey organizing my fellow passengers into neat little packages; I have finally come up with five sub-categories.

1. The confused, creepy one. Can be spotted by the cheap shirt, anorak  and overall kicked-puppy look. Usually hasn't shaved for a few days, and smells like vodka cheese. Will probably attempt to watch porn on his phone, before getting too nervous and calling his mother instead. Will sit close enough to you that he can look down your top, but not close enough that you can actually call the police.
2. The loud, child bearing one. Hard to miss, due to the amount of noise she's making. Will have one or more screaming children sitting on her lap, which she occasionally drops into one of the (many) Primark bags at her feet. Will, at some point call her friends to gossip about last weeks party. Big earrings, questionable colour of fake tan.
3. The knitted one. Doesn't actually know how to knit, but dressed from head to toe in knitwear and denim. Boys have fringes bigger than their faces, and converse with holes in. Girls have cheap, black eye shadow, and are wearing very uncomfortable looking shorts.  The ones that you irrationally hate for being skinny. also the only group that refuses to travel alone. 
4. The quirky one. Usually Japanese fashion students. Have manicured crew cuts, designer purses and nice shoes. Could be male, female, both or neither, but you fancy them anyway. Will go the entire journey without saying a word, and but will instead read on their iPad, while listening to foreign hip hop.
5. The nervous one. Will stand right next to the door, ready to jump out at a moments notice. Also doesn't want to take up seat room for other passengers, because he's the type you want to bring home to your mum. Will wear a well cut shirt, carry a computer bag, and have cuff links you can only dream of. Looks as scared as you feel.

I Prefer Victorian Semantics

OK guys, lets gets our maturity hats on (maturity pants will also be permitted).
I think we need to sit down, and have a bit of a chat about semantics. I know that normally we don't talk about 'serious things' here, BUT TOUGH, IT'S MY BLOG, I'LL TALK SERIOUS IF I WANT TO.
Phew.
So, what I think we need to talk about, is the word 'slut'. Or 'slag', or 'tart', if you're a mustachioed gent from the eighteen hundreds.
I don't often use the word 'slut', and it's not a particularly common term among my social circle. This may or may not be because I hang out with a lot of very left-wing, shy, English language students. So, I looked it up (I Googled it) and was presented with this:


Slut  
Noun
Slut is a term applied to an individual who is considered to have loose sexual morals or who is sexually promiscuous.
Synonyms
trollop - strumpet - harlot

Bless you Google for your synonyms, you sweetheart. 
Let me give you a quick background check on this post: one of our friends recently got  new girlfriend, and as soon as we found out, one of the phrases that I heard being thrown around a  lot was "Ew, her? But she's such a slut!"
And to this I say:
Big deal.
Is it honestly any of our business how many people this girl has slept with? I'm in an age group where people have finally realized that the word 'dyke' is unacceptable, and I think the word 'slut' really needs to go the same way. It's still judging people on their sexuality, whether it be who they sleep with, or how often. I don't know if it's still a word only applied to women; I know I've heard plenty of men being called sluts as well, but I don't think it's a title that any gender deserves to carry.
I'm not about to turn into a massive hippy who thinks that they identify as 'otherkin' (I Googled that as well), but I'd rather not go around needlessly offending anyone based on a random judgment of their personal behavior. In the words of Stephen Fry, be adorable to each other.
That will be all.
Thankyou, and goodnight.

If Your Memory Serves You Well

Bond had never been sure which view he like more; the one from the night time, or the one from the morning after. The nights lent themselves to shadows slanting across stretches of smooth skin, hands tangling in sheets and half admitted names taken on broken breaths. The nights are sin, and glamour, and that singular beauty that connects every human being on this filthy, dirty planet.

No, Bond prefers the view from the morning after. When everything becomes clean again, and the make up and masks are washed away. When lies stay in dreams, and reality comes with waking up. Bond suspects that people are not unlike an etch-a-sketch. The lines build up over the day, and sleep shakes them free. Some people, of course, are more memorable than others. The ones that stand out are those who shed the lies like a old coat, too big, too hot.

I'll Die In A Millets

My family like camping. They go quite often, sometimes with friends. They spend quite a lot of time in outdoor shops, looking at walking boots and mmming and ahhing over various types of cheap water proof coats, or using long words to describe tents. 
When they go camping, they go to all the local attractions, and use vouchers in restaurants with scrubbed, pine wood tales. They go walking in large, wet fields, and eat slightly damp sandwiches while sitting on half rotten benches, while nodding about how very pretty that hill in the distance is. 

This weekend, I saw a film called Sightseers.

And, oh God, I am never sleeping again. That film pretty much described almost everyone I am related to, then threw in a nice big glass of murder. And it was awesome. 
It's the two people you would simultaneously both least, and most expect to be murderers, and the charactarisations are just so ridiculously actuate, it's untrue. I know that the image of a desperate, attention seeking elderly mother has cropped up more than a few times in our house. 
The murders were good, old fashioned Monty Python murders. The sort where you can practically smell the plastic tube having fake blood pumped out of it. And for a spot of comical genius, how do you cope wish someone being run over? Put paper towels down on the bloodstains. 

A Conversation I Never Had About Hammers

Shop Assistant (hereby known as SA): Good afternoon madam, do you need any help?

Me: So, yeah, I need to buy a hammer?

SA: Right, what sort if hammer are you looking for, madam?

Me: I don't know, just one that, y'know, hammers things.

SA: Right... what sort of things do you need to.. um, hammer, madam?

Me: Uh, nails, I guess. Like, not the nails on my fingers, cause that would just be stupid. Just regular, metal nails into wood. I don't really know what else people would ever actually need to hammer. I mean, I don't need a fancy hammer, just a regular hammer. Also, the cheaper the better. But not at that point of cheapness that it works once, then breaks, because that could be unfortunate. I don't want to be hammering something, and then just have the head fall off, and wow, that sounds weird. But yeah, I totally saw that happen to a guy once. He was just hammering the floor, and then the head just fell off. Actually, it wasn't even a hammer. It was a spade. And he was digging a ditch. But it's basically the same thing, amiright?

SA: ...Um.

And then he left. Possibly forever. And no, I don't know what that means either.


Disclaimer: This conversation never happened, apart from in my head. Please don't ask me why I had an imaginary conversation with myself about hammers, but it probably has something to do with the fact that I am going to be terrible at living alone. 

Hipsters and Holli (I Never Said The Two Were Mutually Exclusive)

I had a moment the other day. One of those moments where your first thought is I have to blog about this. 
I was in Starbucks with my Mum, because we were in town and she was hungry, and I needed a wee. We were sat drinking tea and sharing a sandwich, when these two boys walked in. The first was wearing a tan frock coat, knitted scarf, winkle picker shoes, and that adorable hairstyle, where its all short at the sides, and longer and slicked back at the top. The second boy was taller, and dressed identically to the first one, only with a black coat. 
So these two kids walk in, and the first one instantly goes, "Ugh, so many hipsters."
I contemplated this statement after I had finished braining myself on the table due to the fact that I was laughing too hard, and I came up with this:

1. Those boys were the most hipster kids I had seen all day.
2. It's a Starbucks. That's like walking into a prison and going "Ugh, so many murderers." 
3. The only people apart from me and Mum were hundreds of very harassed parents with toddlers.

So, honey, I think you might be a little confused. I don't know, maybe they'd just walked in and accidently glimpsed a mirror.

I'd just like to take a chance to say best wishes to HB on her 18th. Baby, you will realize why I chose this post to mention it when you see your present tomorrow. I hope you like it. (4/4)

Why I Would Make A Terrible Bond Girl

So I act, right? I love it. Which means that quite often, after I've seen a film, I imagine what it would be like if it was real, and I put myself in different character roles, and different scenes, and it's great. So, of course, I tried doing this with some of the Bond Girls, and, um, it came out a little differently...

Bond walks into a bathroom, dropping his shirt on the way. Sévérine is already in the shower, running her hands through her hair. Bond steps in behind her, moving his hands around her waist. 
Sévérine: Hold up, bitch. The hell do you think you're doing? You can't just wander in here and get all touchy feely. When did we ever agree to that? What if I was on my period, huh? Then we'd both be screwed. Plus, I haven't shaved my legs in like, three months. I mean, I dunno, maybe you're a feminist and you're cool with that, or whatever, but I'm just saying it's something to be aware of. 

Bond and Sévérine are sat at a bar together, the latter drinking champagne  the former, a martini (shaken, not stirred).
Sévérine: What do you know? 
Bond: Well, it takes a certain type of woman to wear a backless dress with a Beretta 70 strapped to her thigh. 
Sévérine: Yes. A boring one. I prefer a shotgun stuck down the cleavage. 
Bond: Wha- 
Sévérine: Also I have throwing knives tied to my elbows.
Bond: I- 
Sévérine: And a machete on my shin.
Bond: But- 
Sévérine: Also I'm not 100% sure what the structure of my dress has to do with my weaponry. 

Bond and Moneypenny stand together in an office of MI6. Bond turns to walk away, as Moneypenny watches him go. 
Bond: In your defense, a moving target is much harder to hit.
Moneypenny: Who says I missed, motherfucker?


Or, you know, just maybe...
Bond walks into a bathroom, dropping his shirt on the way. Sévérine is already in the shower, running her hands through her hair. Bond steps in behind her, moving his hands around her waist. 
Sévérine: The hell did you get on my boat?

My Life Would Be So Much Easier If I Just Didn't Have Lungs

I'm ill, and it sucks. I hate being ill, because I do little enough at the best of times, but when I'm ill, my productivity drops below freezing. Actually, I just came up with a good system: from now on I shall measure productivity in temperature.

Anyway, I am ill, and I have so voice, which sucks balls, because this week alone I should have three drama lessons, one singing lesson, one elocution lesson, and one goddamn drama exam, which I now probably won't be able to do, if I can't talk by Saturday. Ew.
Plus, I missed media yesterday, which is always a downer, because my media teachers are incredible (especially MH, becuase unlike most teachers, he actually seems human, and isn't afraid to bully me, and accept to be bullied back).

Speaking of teachers, we had a fire drill the other week, while HB and I were doing some work, so we trudged outside, and I shoved my hat on, because it was freezing. As soon as it was over, we decided to go get a cup of tea before going back to work. I figured that since we'd only be inside for about five minutes, I'd leave my hat on, no one would care. Wrong, one of the teachers told me to take it off, and told me to not wear it again (it's against uniform rules). I said yes Sir, sorry Sir, because I'm a good student (honest). Then I saluted him. Because I'm a dick. Now he's out for my blood. 
We told MH about it later, and he made me fall off my chair, because I was laughing too hard at him skipping around the room singing about capitalism. I love school. 


Things I love while I'm stuck feeling sorry for myself:

Salvador Dali Eating A Bowl Of Surreal 
This Bat Skeleton Tattoo
Map Of The Roots Of State Names, Translated Into English
Knickerocker

Check out my tumblr

No, I Don't Think You Understand, I Am Q.

It was my brothers 18th this week! Congrats to him for living this far. He went out and got a tattoo of a compass on his shoulder. I am yet to see it and pass judgement.

Speaking of tattoos, my brother, step daddy and I all went to see the new Bond film last weekend (I'm getting round to the tattoos, honest). I'll be honest, I've never really seen a Bond film before. I've seen bits of some of the old ones (hello speed boat gondola), and once saw the beginning of Casino Royal, but didn't like the explosions. And I had no idea what was going on.
So I'll admit, I went into that cinema with very low expectations. However, there were two things I hadn't counted on; my developing love of cartoon violence, and Ben Wishaw. 
Let me clarify, my mother mentioned him to me the other day, and I thought, 'Oh, he's cute, I guess', and then thought no more about it. But goddamn, that man is a blessing on the acting world. Also, I am Q. Fact.
When I put glasses on, We do look disarmingly similar, especially the hair. Unfortunately  this has rather gone to my head, and I don't think my teachers are taking too well to the requests that they only call me by my initials. 

Oops, right, tattoos. Every time I end up in a new fandom, I always come up with a related tattoo that I will one day end up getting done. This time, it is 00Q on the inside of my left wrist. Because, my god, perfect couple. 

I'll be honest though, it was an incredible film. The plot was excellent, the dialogue to die for, and cinematography that would make the director of Sherlock weep. The only argument I have against it is that if you know you're going to be chasing assassins though Turkey, please invest in a tie pin. Honestly, it would have made the whole job much similar. Or you just wear practical clothing, instead of a very expensive suit.

In summary: I am Q, go see Skyfall.

What If Merlin Was A TV Cook?

In a time of cake, the destiny of a great bakery rests on the shoulders of a young chef. 

I am so, so not sorry for that.

(Background: James Morton from GBBO @ replied JW on twitter, and she made a joke that it was a sign. Then this happened.)

So There Was This Hat

I bought a hat last week. 

"Big deal!" I hear you cry. But no, wait, you don't understand. Let me show you.

Meet Anna Dello Russo, editor with Vogue Japan, and amazing fashion designer. She recently released a collab range with H&M.

Sexy box for a sexy hat. I could live in that thing, it's huge. 

 I was watching a program with my mother a while back called Show Us Your Wardrobe, and it was an episode featuring Paloma Faith. She showed off a hat that had been sent to her from H&M, to help with publicity.
I fell in love.

That is one big ass bird on your head there, Az.

So yes, I went out and bought the hat. I somehow, magically, got it half price, and I know that some people had been queuing for hours the day the range was launched to get their dirty mits on it.

Kind of a sexy bird, though. Right?

I am a very lucky fashionista.

Just A Quickie

Oooh, I haven't been on here for a while.

OOPS.

Live with it, it's my blog. ANYWAY, I've been busy. Like really busy. Let me tell you...
So I had my school play, which, oh God, it was amazing. Honestly, we did Dahling You Were Marvelous, a mostly unknown comedy by Steven Berkoff. It's an ensemble piece, featuring a horse of stuck up actors, directors, writers and designers all waiting for their big break, alternately complementing and bitching to each other in a ritzy West End cafe, after a show. I was playing a bloke (har har har), called Sid, a left-y fringe elitist, with a passion for expensive champagne. I loved him. 
My Dad moved house! He's in Wales now, in a sweet little bungalow, near his mum and my step mothers parents. It's nice, I know the area pretty well, and I've got my wee doglett up there, so yeah, Lot of getting used to, but it's nice. Also, I have a kick ass en suit. 
I have my grade seven speech and drama exam in two weeks! Don't get me wrong, I'm looking forward to it, but OH GOD it's scary. I have one last piece to learn, as well as my theory. It'll be fine. It'll be fine. Fingers crossed. 
On a similar vein, I'm doing a concert with my singing teacher next month, which, I'll be honest, I'm terrified about. I'll be doing a solo (!!!) of Let It Snow. I have to sit down, or I do the Nervous Sway. To be honest, I never stop doing the Nervous Sway, so I think I'm ballsed for life. 


THINGS I LOVE THIS WEEK

Neil Gaiman's books
Amanda Palmer's music 
This photo of the Queen
This blog post about Merlin

Whats new on my tumblr... 

Fuck Yeah Thespian Peacock is my life

The Knitting And Stitching Show

So I decided to go with the textiles department on a school trip to Alexandra Palace on Thursday, to see the the Knitting and Stitching show, as hosted by Twisted Thread. And it was AWESOME.
We had to leave school at stupid o'clock, to get to London by 11am, and then we had four hours to go around the two rooms it was held in, and just look at GOODNESS.
The first room was exhibitions from students and professional artists and knitters, and there were things like knitted dinosaurs.

I know. You're welcome.

There was also actual arty stuff, by far my favorite of which was the 'Jabberwocky' exhibition by Sue Walton and Ann Small, which was honest-to-god incredible. It was like all my favorite things in one 3x6 meter space. Big dresses, bones, dead flowers, and tea pots. What more could a girl ask for? 

There's a bunch of rusty keys in the middle of a bone heart. I'm not sure that 'adorable' is the right word here, but it's the one I'm going to use.

It's in sepia because, hey, turns out that camera phones don't have the best quality.

This. I want it.

See the collar on that dress? Here's a close up:

Again with the camera phone/picture quality thing.

So what you got THERE, is rusty pins (like what would be in a proper Elizabethan collar), and tiny bones, fastened down with string, and red wax. And it's beautiful. 

My favorite actual article of clothing from the exhibition was defo this dress, by Deimante Meilune:

What you see here, is a knitted dress, and a knitted suit. I would probably get married, just for an excuse to wear that dress. Sod it, if I ever got my hands on that, I'd never take it off. I'd go to Tesco's in that. It's made entirely out the finest, knitted lace you could possibly imagine  including the layering at the bottom. Admittedly  there may be some minor problems with the whole holes/see through factors, but I'm pretty sure these can be overlooked. 

All pictures belonging to Ariane Dean, many thanks to Jojo for names, and to Mrs Manvel for sneaking me onto the list.

It's Not Actually Dreaming If You're Awake And Not Drunk

So quite often I end up going into way too much detail about a dream that I had the night before,  to any friends who were apparently in said dream. 

Most of the time this is a downright lie. See, I daydream like, a lot, and my daydreams are always really interesting/funny/weird, so I feel a need to share them. However I also feel that if I go up to someone and say "I was sat in the library the other day and totally daydreamed that we ran away to Peru together and ended up adopting three children and living in a tree house." they will probably just back away and hope I don't know where they live.

BUT, if I say it was a dream (the kind you have when you're asleep), due to the fact that it was my subconscious creating the whole scenario, it resolves me of any creepy weirdness, and thus I escape without being labeled as a pedo. So quite often I end up telling people about these weird day dreams I have, but saying it was a night time dream. Even though it's probably just as creepy either way.

For example, I just got out of the bath, and I had a daydream that HB was talking to me about her media coursework, and ended up taking a photo of me, naked in the bath, and showing it to our media group. I would like to point out that this isn't entirely unlikely. Also, be flattered HB. The only person who has ever had the privilege hard luck to see me in the bath is CB. 

Normally I tell HB about this tomorrow, but say it was a dream instead. Now I'm going to face up to me demons, and tell her it was actually just a daydream. 
Not face to face, christ, what's wrong with you. I'm just going to tweet this to her and hope she doesn't stab me in the morning.

The Manic Sewer Bunnies Of Newcastle-Upon-Tyne

While In Newcastle this weekend

Me: Is that a rabbit?

Mum: Can't be, it's a tiny lawn in the middle of a flipping enormous city.

Me: I'm pretty sure that's a rabbit.

Mum: It's a rock.

Me: It's a rabbit.

Mum: It's not even moving- OH MY GOD IT'S A RABBIT.

Me: Yes.

Mum: Why is there a rabbit here?

Me: Why isn't there a rabbit here.

Mum: There are two more over there.

Me: I'm taking them.

Mum: I wonder if they live under the bushes.

Me: I'm going to hoard Newcastles rabbits.

Mum: But they'd have to travel over concrete.

Me: I'll open a geordie rabbit zoo.

Mum: Maybe they came through the sewers.

Me:...

Mum: Manic sewer bunnies of Newcastle-Upon-Tyne.

Some Things I do Like

I'm aware that I spend a lot of time on this blog having a bit of a moan( mostly about cardigans), and I'm really very sorry about that (but not really). So I thought I should mention some things I do like.

Parasols. They are the best Asian fashion accessory ever. In my opinion.

Adam Ant. It's quite a long time since he first toured, but yes, I still love his music, and I still love him, whatever he's been through.

Scones (pronounced to rhyme with bones). Shut up, I'm British.

My little dog. She's called Daisy. Naww.

Sherlock and John. Two of my favorite fictional character, portrayed here in book mark form, a present from HB.

Knitting. Here be my Black Widow yarn. Currently I'm working on an 80s style head band.

This seal. Aww.

A xx