My Blackberry turned me...

Nope, this is not some thinly veiled attempt to blog my waltz from 'the closet' in all its probable sparkly sequin covered, marching band flouncing, frantic arm flapping, rosy cheeked choirboy singing, white collared dove releasing glory.

(See I say I know gay, and yet...)

Sidenote: To be honest, considering my new Blackberryness I probably would blog my new found sexuality were it ever to, um, change. you know. Um... *desperately tries to claw blog back into at least seeming smidgen of reality*

The point of this 'grubby pawed toddler showing his less than impressed mother the large worm he found in its death throes' information, is that I acquired a Blackberry a few months ago from a very good, very generous friend of mine. (Thank you, Sarah.) I've always been a bit of a snob when it comes to technology, something I ranted about in my first ever blog, and not in the cool, that is sooo last year, Apple way. In the way that smacks of a caveman that simply doesn't have the brain capacity to appreciate modernity. Don't get me wrong. I think Apple products are PRETTY. But apparently that's not the point. So, I've always insisted that having internet on your phone is just plain stupid and unnecessary and that no I don't want to see how you can access the latest news and events on your phone and update your facebook status and check the weather in Chulmleigh and take a picture to send to your Aunt Matilda in Australia and summon a personalised unicorn with the power of one button all at the same time. Thank you very much. But now I've actually got internet on my phone...

...well it's a whole different story. Facebook is horribly accessible. A friend makes a comment on a photo or someone sends me an invite to an event I'll never go to and WHAM BAM THANK YOU MA'AM. My phone trills and flashes a little blink-y red light at me instantly. No more squabbling over which actor was in what when Google is at your fingertips. Or ever getting lost, when a map shows you just how retarded your original route was and how clever this suggested new one is. Oh and I've started tweeting. Tweeting *blushes* quite a lot. About really quite trivial stuff.

Ok, that's not fair actually. If you'd witnessed that muffin based loveliness you would have taken a picture of it too. Don't get me wrong, I used the internet before. Obviously. I mean, my Grandparents use the internet. But I used it at my desk, on a computer, connected to a plug of some kind. Not all portable and cool and modern. And I'm not just a grudging convert either - I'd happily glaze my nipples and skip squealing through the streets, lauding the merits of internet on your phone. So essentially I'm a big, fat hypocrite. One little Blackberry and all my snide scoffing is thrown - nay, HURLED - out of the window. And the worst thing? I'm too smug, grinning like a loon, to actually stop tweeting rubbish or checking information on my phone when there's a perfectly good computer with a much larger screen just next to me. I'm like that nerd who FINALLY got invited to the party and is now running around like a small child at Christmas, on meth, wolfing down cake and snortsquealing (*hangs head* my speciality) as they run around the dance floor spraying crumbs and slowly turning purple with excitement.

And yes. I'm totally going to tweet this.

Warning - some may find the below distressing

I haven't blogged in a while. Consider it a combination of spending too much of my spare time chuckling at other people's blogs and remembering that I have a grown up, quite demanding job that takes up an inordinate amount of the rest of my time. Plus I seem to have had nothing interesting to say. At all. Nada. Which is sort of disappointing and a bit odd since I live in an exciting foreign country and all that.

(Anyway)

I read an article yesterday that chilled me to the very core. So moved was I by the news relayed to me by the Guardian online (it's not The Times but it'll do) that I felt compelled to send a strongly worded missive out into cyberspace. *Looks over at current number of followers (three) concedes that LETTER OF OUTRAGE may be overlooked somewhat* This news affects all that is British-y in us. It threatens our culture. It encroaches upon our childhood memories and creeps, Bogeyman like, into our happy days of yore. It's that nasty, bigger child on the beach that kicks over your painstakingly constructed sandcastle palace then skips off all innocent, chuckling cruelly. You know, of course, what I'm talking about. Yes. The possible sale of United Biscuits to some big, fat Chinese conglomerate.

To put it into context -- a sad farewell to Twiglets, Jaffa Cakes and Mini Cheddars. (There are heaps more but these are my favourite and, being my rant, the most important. Obviously.)

Ok, so nothing is set in stone but the 'in talks' with Bright Foods alone was enough to make me reach for the paper bag. I mean, good grief people. Is nothing sacred any more?! I won't bore you with the history (United Biscuits can trace it's roots back to 1830, employs 7000 in the UK alone, has sales of 1.3billion a year, operates out of 24 locations worldwide and is loved by tummies from Greece to Australia, Sweden to Nigeria - thank you Google) but what on earth will kiddies, students, stoners and gummy-toothed old people alike snack on now? Besides, when questioned on the above, a spokesman for Bright Foods merely issued the statement, "We are in talks about buying United Biscuits." Snore. Is this really who we want snatching up the very foundations of our youth? What's next? Marmite gets sold to a Peruvian philanthropist?? *swoons*

There are several other companies circling, however, notably Kellogs, Nestle, Kraft and some unnamed Indian chaps. I think, therefore, the only fair solution is to do some sort of a test. Bah humbug to who has the most dosh (I reckon the Chinese might have the edge there), United Biscuits must go to the most deserving. I think a quick pop quiz on the snacks, some recipe ideas and dip alternatives, favourite hours of the day to eat said snacks and why, hand sewn cushion cover of favourite snack, a 5000 word personal statement, best snack moment and poetic 'ode to a snack' should suffice. In iambic pentameter.


Here's hoping.

Ode to a shower singer/foot tapper/bus hummer

Well, it's a little late considering the shortlist of nominees for the controversial Mercury Prize was announced last week -- but I did my teeny weeny bit for the folk'ing fantastic Laura Marling a few months ago and now feel it's time for me to fly the flag for this glorious lot. Mumford and Sons.

Again, my musical vocabulary is somewhat wanting, but their debut album, 'Sigh No More,' is delicious. Believe the hype. Curl up with it, rewind and listen again and let it wash over you in all of its toe tapping glory. As my brother recommended them to me, my mind leapt to awkward country themed discos, clutching a sweaty Smirnoff Ice as my scuffed boots (NONSENSE. ARMY BOOTS ARE PRACTICALLY THE SAME, DARLING) and wilting cowboy hat navigated gingerly through grubby straw and leering, chubby hands. But those first, haunting notes, simple sweet lyrics and that voice that's both gravel and chocolate left all that behind.

A white blank page
and a swelling rage,
You did not think
when you sent me
to the brink,
You desired my attention
but denied my affections,

They. Are. The. Shit.

Not particularly eloquent, but sometimes there's just no point beating about the bush. Truly, buy the album. Listen to it. Then listen to it again. It doesn't get old, or tired, or dull. If anything, frankly, it gets better. I can't decide if I even want them to win the Mercury award. (Not many have escaped the aftermath of the poisoned chalice.) But I do want them, music snob that I am, to explode into the modern musical consciousness. To be recognised and celebrated for their talent. To not be resigned to the bargain bin at HMV or, God forbid, themed dances.

Besides, not just anyone can make a banjo sexy.

A bash at politics. Ish.

Behold. Doesn't he look all Prime Minister-y and delicious? Sadly - no offence, Dave - this is not our Prime Minister.

(DING DING DING. *the crowd cheers* Fine. Not exactly the finest display of parliamentary deconstruction, but at least applaud my tentative toe dip into political waters.)

Nope. The point of this picture is because Cameron is currently making his first official visit to America, as Prime Minister, to meet the effervescent Obama. And whilst newspapers up and down the country are either lampooning or lauding the 'special relationship,' my mind jumps to a rather different place. Two words.

'Love Actually.'

Tell me you're not already there, eyes shut, bum-in-chair wiggling, humming oh so enthusiastically before belting, I CAN FEEL YOU GETTING HOTTER. OH BABY. Fear not friends. You're not alone. Then, of course, I make the obvious leap to that picturesque moment in the snowy dusk where skinny, 'still had antennae fringe hair,' Keira is gazing sadly at a stack of dreamy message boards, blushing prettily to faux carol singing as Andrew Lincoln declares his patient and undying love for her - only to receive a cold peck on the cheek. (At this point you'll find me on my knees in front of the tv, wailing, HE LOVES YOU JUST THE WAY YOU ARE, NINNY, DITCH THE LOSER UPSTAIRS.) And from there I progress to Colin Firth marching through the cobbled streets of Portugal, all dark haired and determined, proposing in pigeon Portuguese in front of the entire restaurant. Then I drift to our thwarted but delicious and bespectacled Frenchie......

And then it all goes a bit hazy from there as I simultaneously praise Richard Curtis for his impeccable taste in casting and desperately attempt to claw my thoughts back to the supposed theme of this blog. Politics. Well, Politics. ISH. Emphasis on the ish. Because as many people scowl and scorn this supposed special relationship between the UK and America; try to decipher and translate what it even means, I drift off to that speech old Hugh delivered with such gusto in the film. Where he celebrated, "Shakespeare, Churchill, The Beatles, Sean Connery, Harry Potter, David Beckham's right foot. David Beckham's left foot, come to think of it," and it sort of makes me yearn for a similarly gutsy display of patriotism from Cameron.

I don't hate America. Far from it. In fact, Obama is kind of cool in a 'can't name your policies but you don't look like you'll shag your secretary or invade a Middle Eastern country' sort of way. Nor do I think it wise to expect our politics to play out like a Richard Curtis script. (Ok. Secretly I do. A little bit.) But I do think that, as we all hold our breath for reports from Washington, we should expect a steely determination and pride from Cameron to set the tone of his tenure that reflects the English people. A people that has had their fair share of hiccups but say RECESSION SESMESSION (what, people say that) and bah humbug to the loss of Rooney's striking foot. We are the people that wait chilly months on end for the sun before stripping off to bare goose-pimply skin in our lunch break, perched on a wobbling wooden bench in a full-to-bursting park. We're determined. Yes, we moan and grumble. Snipe and complain. But we don't give up. We stay resolute.

Hang on. There's a point here. Somewhere. (Note to self : next time, STICK TO FOOD.) Oh yes...

So a message to David Cameron from me -- Stand firm. Oh and don't be afraid to channel Hugh Grant.

Diplo - oh - oh

I dislike Diplo in so many ways. Actually, maybe dislike is a little strong. I 'meh' Diplo in so many ways. The snob in me thinks he can be a mite sell out-y at times, his Philly accent is tinny - ok, that's not particularly fair but admit it, after her cartoon-esque curves you scowl at Scarlett because of that voice - and his frighteningly constant twitter updates are downright cruel. No Diplo. I do not want to hear that you're swigging dark rum from the bottle as you salute hundreds of yelping fans behind your decks. On the beach. In the sunshine.

But ....

That boy knows how to party.

My lovely London girls and I rocked up to a Major Lazer gig on Wednesday, 26th May at Village Underground expecting a party. What we got was in fact a giant slap in the face with some Caribbean soul, champagne launched off a jiggling bottom, crowd surfing, sweat pouring off tangled, jumping limbs and daggering. Daggering that would make Samantha blush. I watched amazed - mildly horrified but also unable to tear my eyes away, car crash style - as Skerrit Boy climbed up the most precarious step ladder in all of Christendom, pulled his jeans down, waved his tackle around at the shrieking ladies of the audience then leapt - nay, DIVED - onto an excited slash terrified creature beneath him. Oh and then he jumped about a bit on top of her for good measure. What. Would. Mother. Say.

These boys hardly ever tour England so if you can - go, go, go, go, go, go, go. It was phenomenal. The music was great fun full of 90's classics and modern shaking, they definitely know what they're doing and have, more excitingly, brought an exoticism and new flavour to the genre. They're onto something. Just leave your sense of propriety at home. And possibly bring a flannel.

Fancy food.

I like pretty food. Look at that, erm, scallop and ... erm ... well look at it. Doesn't it look dainty and delightful? Oh yes it does. (Of course, if I was being r-e-a-l-l-y picky I'd make the portion about seven times bigger but hey, that's just me.) I think this lust for attractive nosh is sister to my utterly inappropriate method of supermarket shopping too. I am the prime target for those marketing moguls who yell on about fancy packaging to seduce the fools who amble idly down the aisles, casually picking up bright packages or items boasting the words 'rich,' 'stone baked,' 'parmesan crust,' *wipes mouth* and the like. Yep. I am a sucker for food porn.

I even sort of do it with books too. If I'm in a library feeling adventurous enough to throw caution to the winds and NOT get a Richard and Judy voted book, I tend to just browse willy nilly, going for the books with the prettiest or most eye catching titles. Which, if you think about it, is quite funny when you ponder the ol' proverb about not judging a book by its cover. Hmm. Not sure what this says about me but ...

So. Me and my aesthetically charged appetite went for supper (oh and the boy and his wallet came too, of course) and what did I choose? The linguine with the cream AND gorgonzola in. Bacon AND chicken in. My saucer eyes could not be dissuaded. I was definitely going to eat it all. Even the fact that the rather petite waitress needed help just to carry the gargantuan bowl over to me couldn't stop me. DIG IN, I thought. (And yes, yes I did put extra parmesan on top.)

Later as I sat in the bathroom, my cheek resting against the cooling tiles and my tummy yelping furiously at me, I thought about my greed for fancy food. Creamy goodness is just evil wrapped up in an appealing disguise. I sighed loudly enough for Marc to poke his head around the door and deliver the entirely unhelpful line, 'Well I did warn you it would be too rich, didn't I?' before I furiously lobbed the Andrex twelve pack at his big, fat head. (Women are meant to have MYSTERY attached to them. This is clearly quite hard to keep up when your boyfriend catches you on the loo.) So yes, yes I was warned but did I heed? No. No, I did not. But I defy you to ignore the menu when something whipped and creamed and tousled into something beautiful is staring back at you.

Revolving restaurant of DOOM

Ok, so the title sounds dramatic but it was truly, truly one of the worst restaurant experiences of my life. And as a humble foodie obsessive, dedicated to the carbs cause this was shattering.

Yes, I was hanging out of my arse and thus unable to come to sensible eating decisions, or any sensible decisions come to think of it... but my friend, Holly, had come up from Cape Town and was jolly and perky as only the dead sober and moderate can be. (Witch). We decided lunch would be a very wise plan since I had only munched liquid calories in the last 24 hours and my skin was turning a funny colour. APPARENTLY I have Lonely Planet to thank for the subsequent horror... my friend leant over and squawked, 'ooh let's go to Revolving Roma!' It sounded quite fun and I wasn't in any position to discuss anything coherently so I just mumbled 'gafudidiparr' and off we went.

I hate it when people over use the term surreal. You know- when silly, sparkly creatures flick their hair and squeak "OHMYGODWEJUSTBUMPEDINTOEACHOTHER....sooooo surreal." Argh! No it's not! That's a coincidence airhead! *calms down* Anyway what followed actually warranted one of those comments. We emerged on the top floor of a rather shaky building, the restaurant slowly clunking it's way around as only a revolving restaurant born in the 80's can. What greeted us was part horrifying, part hilarious. It was like someone had vomited chintz everywhere. The walls were daubed with fat, slightly leery cherubs and nude Raphellite sort-of-beauties. Everything was in dark mahogony and the carpet bore a slightly exhausted it-was-fashionable-in-the-70's look. The Manager was the only person who took orders (ego trip anyone?) so we sat for forty five miserable minutes before we were graciously handed a menu. I, now almost dribbling from the night before's antics, decided that since I'd been bullied into this (I just wanted a burger) I would have to get hopelessly drunk again to survive Giuseppe's plastered on smile and Isabella's 90th birthday celebrations on the next table.

So I opted for pasta carbonara and a bucket of red wine. Simples. It's an Italian, isn't it? Oh dear. My carbonara arrived in a twee china bowl that looked like it should have been chucked many moons ago and the pasta was cold, covered in tomato and had SPAM in it. Wait a minute- didn't post war Britain eat spam? Hmm? Where was my crispy bacon, egg and cream? I wilted in horror, my headache screaming DON'TMAKEAFUSS as I attempted to wolf down my main course.

A part of me died that day.

I LOVE pasta and that horrid restaurant ruined it for me. Ok that's a lie, I'm definitely eating pasta again- as soon as possible actually- so I can reassure my poor tum that it still tastes nice really. And actually the decor was quite funny. In fact, the restaurant experience was akin to seeing that old relative of your's plastered at a wedding and groping as much bridesmaid bottom as possible. It's horrendous but sort of amusing at the same time. And I was hungover slash drunk throughout the experience. I would warn you all off it but I doubt you'll find yourself in Durban by the water, a little too close to the CBD for my liking, musing on the benefits of a fun afternoon out in an Italian that charmingly revolves around grey tower blocks. But just in case- DON'T DO IT. Lesson learnt.