Small Talk

Babs always said ‘don’t talk to strangers’ and never is that truer than in London town.  There are only two occasions when the rule can be officially broken:

a)    After vast consumption of alcohol.

b)  When in the midst of a horrific and frightful terror attack.

As I spend about 70% of my life pissed, I am no stranger to strangers but even I broke the cardinal code yesterday. 

About two months ago I was blessed with experiencing a sandwich that changed my life.  I’m talking chargrilled broccoli, spicy ginger, wrapped in love, pitta and seaweed.  But then the capitalist scum-sucker food chain withdrew it, leaving me in a homemade tuna salad turmoil with guilt ridden boobies, covered in Dorito crumbs.  

EYE ON THE PRIZE

And then…yesterday, in a glimmer of sun and hope, Pret a frickin’ Manger reinstalled THE sandwich to end ALL sandwiches.  The Veggie mutha Supreme.  I strolled up to the counter and bought two right off the bat.  Boom.

“This is the BEST sandwich to have ever been born” I shouted in the face of the underpaid, humour starved employee.  “This would be my prison meal bitch.  For real”.

I hadn’t so much as sniffed a Pinot Grigio for at least five hours.  The world went Slow Mo.  Silence grew heavy as my vision blurred.  Business men shifted weight between swollen feet.  Tourists readjusted their bum bags and full-capacity double deckers screeched to a halt.  I winced and waited for the fun police to cart me off to the tower. 

Of course, there are exceptions to the No Speaking Rule.  Small talk can sometimes be credible when:

1) …having a FOOF WAX. 

It is perfectly acceptable to discuss the chance of precipitation when a Turkish lady is ripping strips from your bum hole.  “It’s partly cloudy out there...OWWW…I mean, it’s trying to rain…ARGHHHHHHH”!!!!

2) …avoiding AWKWARD FLIRTING.

The man at the crisp kiosk makes wheaty snack innuendo and you find yourself clenching said hairless bumhole in nervous anticipation…

Him: “You don’t want spice on your taste buds darling?  Spicy snack for spicy blonde darling”…

Me: “Er…BBC Weather hinted that the sun will make an appearance before the clock doth strike noon”…

Damn me and my prawn cocktail addiction.  At least the charmer charges me 5p less than the guy with arthritic fingers, (his fingers closed into a claw from years of overcharging the fat bastards of Soho).

3)…COMMENTATING on an INANE object. 

Just yesterday I biked past a guy with an oversized, photocopied Qwerty keyboard sticking out of his *basket.  “My, that’s a **big keyboard, I hope you have big fingers” I bellowed, overtaking and narrowly avoiding hari cari on the Old Street roundabout.

*Not a metaphor

**A metaphor

If anyone breaks out and tries to talk to me I assume they want money, directions or as in most cases, a piece o’my ass. 

Assuming everyone fancies me has often been my Achilles heel, (I’ve no idea who Achilles is but I’m guessing that he would probs want a piece too).   Even when a guy avoids eye contact, doesn’t call or asks out my bezzer, I assume that he’s playing hard to get.  In actual fact, I’m like easy listening chart toppers the Beautiful South; most of the nation’s second favourite band.  That’s all well and good but who wants to listen to Rotterdam when you have the Lighthouse Family’s Greatest Hits at home, eh?  EH??!?!

Anyway…I’m not entirely opposed to this no talking zone business. Perceived anonymity is a perk, like leftover conference sandwiches or free hand cream in a sexy Wetherspoons (my God, I’m a cheap date).  Your local shopkeeper not knowing your name can be alright, (especially when buying Triple A’s and a pot noodle on a Friday night). 

In many ways, London is the opposite of belonging.  But even in the dead of Zone 3, bus drivers wave at the same number in the other direction. 

Silence is not to be underrated.  A wave, a nod of recognition and no words...lovely.

Besides, who needs to talk when your mouth is full of Veggie Supreme? 

Not me mutha frickers.  Not me.

Losing My Religion...

Deal breakers.  We’ve all got ‘em.   Here are some of my big No Nos:

*Tribal tattoos.

*Monobrows.

*Raised moles.

*Uneven balls.

*Sweaty fingers.

*Manscaping.  (Let those hairs grow wild and free). 

*A man in a low cut top.

*A man in skinny jeans.   (You never saw Wogan in ‘em).

And the piece de resistance:

*A man in a necklace.

(Wooden beads can occasionally be accommodated if worn by someone from the southern hemisphere but chains, pendants and necklaces are a big fat NO).  It’s a bit weird. 

So imagine my dismay when the work crush was packing silver.  You had a chance here, pal.  A genuine shot at an E-cupped woman.  Congratulations!  You just ballsed up.   Refined zinc on pale skin.  Not cool.

“What the funk is this?” I slurred, yanking it from his neck.

But then…

A very real and new deal breaker came into play.  On the end of the chain was a…doh doh doh…crucifix.

“Oh, you’re a Christian.  That’s…cool”. 

Er...

Cider flowed freely down my perfectly warm, unholy throat as I cried into a pack of stale and tampered Scampi Fries.  

Each to their own and all that but this was a dead end pour moi.  A dry walled cul-de-sac.  A Rolf Harris record playing in a vacant corridor in Animal Hospital.

“I can confirm an absence of hidden moles and shit tattoos.  You are free to ask me out”.

I was more envious of his faith, than I was perturbed (ooh, perturbed is a fun word).

I WANT to believe in something but my heart and reason won’t allow it.  

The only thing I believe in, is beards.   And at a push, Ferrero Rocher.

I spent the rest of the evening in a corner, lapping cider like a death-wish estate cat.  Occasionally I insulted work people and befriended anyone hairy.   At one point, I stroked the facial masterpiece of a guy from Acquisitions. 

“What kind of a product are you using on this, Albert?  Pantene?”

Quickly followed by…

“I’m Loll by the way.  You’ll make a great Santa when you’re old”.

Apparently, his daughter had said something similar.  Although I doubt she'd preceded it with “never shave it off or you’ll look like a shaved ball sack”.   (My tongue being one of many reasons why I limit my attendance at ‘after work drinks’).

(FYI, Albert has never once acknowledged me, (before or after this conversation) and he is the only person to look genuinely angered when someone sent him fairy cakes.   Frickin’ legend.  His post-Sutcliffe beard, a middle finger to the world).

I see my belief in collective cheek-hair, as a modern day paganism.   A peaceful and humble religion to save and nurture the soul.

And for some boys, who may be thinking of tapping this, it might prove to be THEIR deal breaker.  (Along with my burger nips and chipolata fingers). 

One day, I might believe in God, or Sambuca chasers or an all knowing, encompassing calm.  I might even expand my mind to love a mono-browed East London twat with a V neckline and tightly cropped pubes.  But until that day I’ll rely on the piss poor city stars and my own potty mouth to guide me home.

Another crush bites the dust.  But it’ll be OK.  Aldi have a ‘buy five, get one free’ offer on Italian chocolates consisting of a whole roasted hazelnut encased in a thin wafer shell filled with hazelnut cream and covered in milk chocolate and chopped hazelnuts. 

And with those odds bitch, life really is mutha frickin' spoiling us. 

THIS IS NOT THE 80s! Thatcherism and the Beginnings of Summer...

Thatcher croaks it and the sun comes out.  Coincidence? 

There was a protest against her funeral but it was in Trafalgar Square and I couldn’t be arsed.  Not on a weekend, with tourists on the Central Line and a reduced escalator service.  I also felt a bit bad.  She may have screwed Nottinghamshire in its pleasantly green and coal rich asshole but she was still someone’s mum.  And she was old at the end.  With a lavender scent and jowls.

JOE PUBLIC EXPRESSES HIS OPINION

So I slummed it around the East End nursing girl flu and a wistful nostalgia about shell suits and miners.  Thinking of when things were good; when my mum had taped the Goonies, cleverly omitting the adverts (like an early premium Spotify) and Nottingham Forest were top of the league.  And it was then that it happened…

Clouds parted, the sun came out to say bonjour…

And London went BAT SHIT CRAZY.  

“THE SUN IS OUT.  THE MUTHA FRICKIN’ SUN IS OUT” they cried from the high rises and narrowboats and the long bit at the back of the double deckers.  

“Polish off your Havanas and buy some low strength cider”.

Childline, (redundant in times of splendour) closed its switchboard, beer gardens spilled out like middle aged spread and sales of horse burgers went through the roof.  People were feeling groovy.

Sun-shee-ine.  My ex-housemate refers to this first Gregorian day of hope and happiness as ‘Tit Friday’.  (I prefer ‘Ball Bag Tuesday’ but let’s not get caught up in minutiae).

 Alright, so it wasn’t that sunny but at least there weren’t snowflakes.  If you closed your eyes, it was almost not winter and the grass was merely damp, like cinema go-ers at a Ryan Gosling film.  You could perch on a jumper and pose for photographs, looking all warm and juicy.  And that’s what London Fields did, people.  That’s what it did. 

“Hey Rupert, ‘X Pro 2’ the shit out of this double denim and put a ‘tilt and shift’ on these sick, new fixie wheels, bitch”.

I looked around at our post-Thatcher generation, as they collectively crashed Instagram.  (The site traffic was like Grindr at a Legally Blonde press night).  Hashtag ‘wanker’ and hashtag ‘sailor tatt’ were trending like a bastard.  

Wearing shades with a new and renewed purpose, the trendies soaked up the 'lefty' sun.  Basking in mediocrity and Hawaiian Tropic.  (Got to keep that skin pale).

Trying to be something you’re not is the new black hot pants.  Viva Strongbow!  Viva Cous Cous on a spork!  Viva ‘men’ in pleather pedal pushers!  Oh, oh wait while I just… *hurghhh.

* That was the sound of my femininity dying.  After all, the only thing worse than crimes against animals is crimes against fashion.

‘This is it’, I mused.  Here is the by-product of shafting a nation:  marinated chicken on Costcutter barbeques.  Hundreds of (ahem), 20 somethings, camoflauging into each other like a big A-sexual salamander. 

Not cool, guys.   Not cool.  What’s with the Bowie nylon and apologetic moustaches?  What next?  The return of the mullet?  Another Falkland war?  THIS IS NOT THE 80s!

In the space between my front door and the Cat and Mutton, my vulve had shrunken to the size of a reject Malteser.  I had been dehumanised.  Much like the Tory leader, herself.

So allow this post to be a pithy protest.  Because I couldn’t be arsed to get on the tube and hold a placard.  And I voted Lib Dem at the last election, which  makes me Tory by association.

10 million quid is too much to spend on a funeral.  And it’s not OK. 

Then again, neither is teaming orange cut offs with patent brogues but people SOMEHOW get away with it. 

Plenty of Chumps

When using a guys impending Crematorium speech as a means to flirt, it’s a sure fire sign that you should a) get a life and b) get laid. 

My colleague stood before me, all puffy eyed and vulnerable. 

“Have you seen any dead bodies Loll?  It’s awful”. 

“Me?  Yeah, I’ve seen frickin’ shed loads.  I’m not even Catholic”.

Reel it in Lolly.  REEL IT IN.

This was not a time to prey, all hunter eyed, (even if he did have a VERY tidy backside).  And I should have stopped there.  I really should have.

‘Hey.  Just sending you a quick e-mail to say that I hope it goes OK today.  Will be thinking of you.  L Dog’.

Get in quick, (in case of tasty mourners by the sandwich buffet).  After all, even moderate girls look good in black. 

In my game, you have to strike quick and you have to strike hard.  And if we have learned anything from this, it is that life is too short.

In these situations, you have to think ‘what would Stevie Nicks do’?   

And what WOULD Stevie do?  Why, she’d join a dating site of course.  

So in my moment of weakness, I joined ‘Plenty of Fish’, the site that everyone bangs on about.  Predictably, it is awful.  Free to join, the clientele is a smorgasbord of troll like bandits, all limping to the finish line.  I’m talking multiple torso shots, taken in the mirror.  One guy had written a monologue about his hair.  Luckily for us ladies, it was ‘full of vitality and bounce’.  Praise be!  Just what I’ve been dreaming about on those cold winter nights.

The registration form was a mix of patronising and weird.  The fourth field, below name, age and location, asked ‘do you own a car’?  Always a high point on my mating agenda, to be fair.  Don’t be coming around here without keys to a Volvo Estate, pal.

 A WOULD BE SUITOR

Next, you must describe yourself in one word, selected from a drop down menu.  Choices are as random as ‘Vegan’, ‘Poet’ or ‘Brogrammer’.  Don’t ask me what a ‘Brogrammer’ is, I don’t know and I don’t want to.  I got stuck.  I’m a ‘Vegetarian’ but I’d also consider myself a ‘Narcissist’ AND a ‘Dickmunch’.  I wouldn’t give any one preferential treatment.

There was another option towards the end: ‘I only date single parents’.  Big deal, I only date fat fucks and men with commitment issues but who’s keeping score?

I clicked Save.  Suddenly, any answers I’d left blank, flashed up.

‘WHAT IS YOUR BODY TYPE’?

 ‘Ooh, ooh, ‘average’ I suppose.  Hit Save.

‘DO YOU DO DRUGS’?????

I clicked on the drop down menu: ‘Yes, No, Socially’.  Best to click ‘no’ when searching for a life partner.  Besides there wasn’t an option for ‘I did half of something fourteen years ago but chances are, it was a half-sucked Spearmint tic-tac’.

Within 30 seconds of going live, my email was pinging.   I must have had 20 messages in three minutes.

YOU HAVE A NEW MAIL:

“Hi gawjus” said Obi-One-Shlong-Obi.

Do girls dig that shit?  Seriously, would anyone ever, EVER reply to that half arsed, cut and paste job?

North-London-DJ offered a very charismatic “hi”.  And Who-is-da-daddy quoted me some L’il Kim.  (I’m guessing he described himself as a ‘Poet’).

And then something weird happened.  It was like my fagine just shrivelled up, like a prune or a date (ironic).  I didn’t feel so fruity any more.  Living in a string of house shares for another decade SUDDENLY became more appealing.  I clicked delete, DELETE.  But it wasn’t that easy.  More questions followed:

Would you recommend Plenty of Fish to any of your friends?
No.

How many dates did you go on?
0.

What are your reasons for leaving POF?
It’s shit.
It undermines my intelligence.
I feel like a piece of meat (as we have established, I don’t like meat).
All of a sudden, I think I might be a lesbian.

Hit Delete Profile.  But it wasn’t that easy:

‘YOUR PROFILE CANNOT BE DELETED UNLESS YOU HAVE BEEN ON THE SITE FOR 24 HOURS’.

It appears that Plenty of Fish is like the Tory party.  It’s sick, sucks your soul and once you are ‘in’, you can NEVER leave.

Perhaps, it is better to let fate take its natural course.

So, what time DO funerals get out these days?

Going for a Job, Not Wanting the Job, Avoiding Life

Waking up with pink hair and red wine mouth on the day of a job interview is less than desirable. 

Still, you have to try these things.  I see it as nurturing my inner dick-wad, like a Tamagotchi or pet Bull Mastiff.  We have to keep our spirit alive underneath the corporate front, the black smoke of ‘working for the man’. 

It is beginning to occur to me that I’m avoiding responsibility, like my ancestors would have done the Plague or the earlier works of Des’ree.  I freely drink cheap imitation Cava in the early section of the working week and chat up portly, middle aged men, brazenly and without shame.  While this practice has a hit rate of 0.01%, it makes me feel groovy and fuzzy inside.  Young, in a word.  Frickin’ young.  And you need that when the Tesco man hits the ‘CLEARLY over 25’ button without hesitation.

I’m not sure I want to grow up.  But I am trying.  Outside pressure and all that.  Here are some recent attempts at adulthood: 

1) I had brunch.  South of the river.  (Eggs Royale bitch).

2) I laughed in the face of superstition and walked over ‘three drains’.  You know what?  Nothing bad happened.  (Unless you include ‘life’, ‘cause that definitely happened).

3) I met Red Ken!

KEN FOR PRESIDENT!

4) I ate a Cheese and Onion Grab-a-Bag in TWO sittings.  (Granted those sittings were close together but they stand in time, as two separate and defined events).

5) I became a big deal on Ebay.  You really curb those late nights when there’s an impending deadline on your wireless Logitech mouse, (with optical tracking system and side to side scrolling).

BUT (and here’s something they don’t tell you at Wood Green job club), the side effects of responsibility are worse than triple strain antibiotics.  You could find yourself with:

• Bills in your own name.
• A next of kin who are YOUNGER than you.
• Repeated migraines.
• A car, avec shammy leather. (Every one over forty owns a shammy leather, right?)
• A house.
• A garden sans discarded fridge.
• A garden sans scary dog from next door’s estate.
• A shower with a temperature between cold and scorching.
• Piles.  (I don’t know, sounds plausible).

And/or

• A Smartphone (barf). 

I’m not sure I’m ready for all that.  Ultimately, life as a responsible adult will involve doing stuff for OTHER PEOPLE.  Less time on Instagram, more time on other people’s feelings.  (People you might not even like). 

Being a grufty isn’t even that bad.  I’d recommend it.  Just last night, (after dyeing the dreads), I bagged myself *two salmon dinners, just by looking a little bit sad and hungry. 

*When asked if you’ve eaten, always say no.

And yes I stand out a bit today… looking, for all intents and purposes like the love child of Green Day’s front man and Alecia Beth Moore (that’s Pink to you and me).  But it does detract from aforementioned gruftiness, like an eye patch or a wooden leg.

And if I don’t get the job, I don’t get the job. 

After all, there’s always Ebay.  

Never the Bride

Being a bridesmaid does funny things to a woman.  Everything suddenly doubles as a dumbbell; baked beans tins, unopened wine bottles, empty wine bottles.  It’s tragic.  There is no way these bingos are being let loose on Instagram.  Not with the lighter filters now available.  Oh no.

In two days, I will be donning my first bridesmaid dress of the season.  I haven’t yet told my brother that I have 100% success rate, (in my long and varied career as a bridesmaid), of the happy couple divorcing within two to three years.  I’m like the opposite of a lucky charm.  A rabbit’s hand or something.

Maybe it’s because I’m a black cloud of suspicion.  I generally work on the theory that there is 'love', 'Love' and 'LOVE':

‘love’

I fall in ‘love’, on average about six to seven times a day.  Usually with the smokers in my building because I see them more often and they are a little more badass than the average Joe.  Nonchalant and contemplative, smokers are a perfect breeding ground for my sick, romantic narratives.  These crushes reach an all time peak on a Tuesday lunch time, when the tall boys from the second floor collate in the reception area, in football kits.  That hairy section between their shin pads and nylon hem does things to my heart strings and moo moo, that folk lore only hints at.

‘Love’

And then we have ‘Love’.  Long term and dependable, which is enough, for most people.  Love is putting up with someone, even when they do a smelly poo or buy an album based solely on an NME review.  Love is allowing your boyf to put your hand on his manhood, (as if you were not aware of it poking you for the entirety of 8 Out of 10 Cats), when you're not really in the mood.  And Love can be nice. *It can buy you brunch and shoes and lend you the Indiana Jones trilogy and sometimes, even watch it with you.

*'It' referring to a concept and not the de-personification of said, mostly erect, man.

‘LOVE’

I find myself chasing ‘LOVE’.  Shooting star, book inscription, shiver from a Spooning, type of LOVE.

I know it’s impossible.

I had it once with my first boyfriend.  For a good few years it was movie LOVE, (before he turned into a nobber).  It was meet me at Robin Hood airport, fresh from Paris LOVE.  Slap me on my ass but cuddle me after, kind of LOVE.

Then there was a certain Scottish, married guy.  (There should probably be a special betrothed clause for actors who marry in their twenties and view an acting ‘tour’ as international air space, belonging to no woman, country or thing).  These duty-free shenanigans were non sexual but he drew me in with poetry, egg whites and THE most incredible foot massages.  “So this little piggy had roast beef you say??  Oh, oh and where did that sordid little piggy go?  To the marKET…Oh….Oh MY DAYS….”

And then there was a guy at drama school, with an encyclopedic knowledge of the Shakespeare histories and a way of looking at me that made my sphere melt.  But we can’t really talk about that.

Meanwhile, back in reality…

So, after working on the guns last weekend, I took them out for a test drive. I was ready to dance off the croissant weight I’d been carrying (from a thousand Pret-guilt hangovers) at a friend’s gig.  I was fired up and raring to rock.  I danced like Rainman, on Ket, in the glare of a neon strobe.  (Despite my jager bombed feet sticking to the floor in the dinge of a basement local).  And lo and behold, by ten O'clock, I had fallen in ‘little l’ love with the bongo player.  I dedicated the remainder of the night and subsequent house party to vie for his attention.  The gold lamé tights failed to reel him in, as did faking sleep in his bed.  So I finished off the Pinot, (did a few reps), dropped on I Phone 5 on someone’s face and fell ‘real asleep’ on the corner of a threadbare rug, alone.

I suppose you have to ask yourself which ‘love’ you can live with.  Because waiting for a bus home, mid-morning, with a screaming migraine and laddered, mosh-pit lamé tights, does not come recommended.  

Maybe it’s time I faced up to the uninvited stiffy of a Thursday night.  The small of my back; a relaxed border control of Loved up cockage. 

Or maybe I’ll hold out once more for the thunderbolt of LOVE to twat me in the face.  Like that I-Phone 5, like a Russian meteor. 

And where better to find it than at your brother’s wedding, up north, in a snow storm?  After all, nothing accentuates a perfectly formed scowl like shit hot guns and purple chiffon.

Being Defined by your Bus Route

“Excuse me, could you turn your music down”? 

“Er…no, no I couldn’t”, came the Lollster’s reply.

Are you effing kidding me?  It was all I could do not to Glasgow Kiss this mofo into the dark of the Regent’s Canal.  A coroner’s verdict; death by smug entitlement. 

This was 8 in the AM.  I was yet to have my Shreddies.  This ‘suit’ was pushing my buttons.  It’s the assumption, the ASSUMPTION, that my sodden Converse and knackered Nano suggest that I’m a reprobate.  Just because my hair is uncombed and my socks mismatched, does not mean that I’m a *scuzzbucket. 

*As it goes, I am a scuzz bucket.  But don’t just ASSUME.

We are all a mix of things.  Can we not play Mumm-ra above Government-recommended-decibels, whilst also having a thoughtful and decadent Moonpig card on order for Mother’s Day?  (Or as I like to call it; Babs’ Day).  Just how do we show our softer sides at the arse end of a bendy bus? 

I have this trouble with men too: blind them with skank so they have to dig for the good shit.  The dinosaur bones of warmth and loveliness below the layers of potty mouthed chic.   It’s hard to show your fair maiden-ness when upstaged by your own spade hands knocking back shots.  It doesn’t matter how mean you make your mousakka or how soft your lower arms are, if you have a ‘mouth’, that’s all the brethren may see.

There’s this guy at work…he has a beard, (quel surprise) and a chip on his shoulder; lovely.  We were flirting, we were flirting good, for a long while.  But the eye contact dropped, the emails stopped and I was left out in the cold; an icicle for a heart and a carrot for a nose. 

My mates think it’s the brashness.  The intimidating stench of sordid stories.  That I come across, for want of a better word, as…slaggy.  (Regular readers will know the ridiculousness of this idea, being that I see less action than Bruce Willis in **Die Hard 5). 

**I haven’t seen Die Hard 5 but I imagine it’s shitty with a lack of vigour, hair and thought provoking car chases.  

Maybe we all become parodies in the end.  I was North London once, with morals and unchipped nails.  I thanked the bus driver with the rest of them and moved aside for pushchairs.  But back then I was both young and stupid.  This was long before ***E8 penetrated my blood like glorious, saccharine Smack. 

***As everyone knows, you’re not true Hackney unless your pizza boy is too scared to deliver to your door.  Call me old fashioned but I don’t want to take out my rubbish unless a pit bull tears me a new asshole. 

Poster children for the Hackney massive.  Someone get these slags a Synth.

Now, I ride the 55 where there ain’t never a seat and hair gel smudges the windows like standard-issue pedo lenses.  Your music could never be too loud in this passive aggressive wonderverse.  It’s goddamn beautiful.

I can't change.  As the great Ghandi once said, "once a skag, always a skag".  No more riding the 341, mid morning through Farringdon.  I will stay within the Hackney fort walls at all times.  A member of an indigenous tribe, safe inside a tracing of a Bloc Party in-sleeve.  Resolute-like London, sturdy-like a Boris bike.  Starting the revolution with pewter Rimmel lipstick and scores of Oolong tea.  Putting off men with tea-bagging stories, enunciated swear words and made to order graphic mimes. 

Who knows? Maybe a beard will never unearth my dinosaur bones but at least the beats of a mediocre pop band will permeate, defiantly, through tiny specs of sand and stolid desert winds…

Or maybe I’ll just tweet Bruce Willis and together we will take some fuckers down. 

Ippy ki yay mother funkers, ippy ki yay.