Monday, May 18


Repeat after me...

Seeing the same underground posters every day makes one a little obsessive. Do I need osteo-vitamins? Have I got chlamydia? Am I happy?

One movie poster is 90% about the film 'Role Models' and 10% about the film Frost/Nixon. I think they've definitely got their ratios muddled up there, especially considering the pullout quote about the former says "Like watching a couple of monkeys throwing poo at each other on Youtube". Has anybody here ever Googled 'poo-throwing monkeys' on Youtube? Even if you have, would you be prepared to PAY up to £15 for a dvd of men doing the same thing (metaphorically)?

This one is burned into my retinas at the moment:


It just makes me think about Marmite Cheese ALL THE TIME.

I will NEVER buy Marmite cheese now, as a result of it's aggressive visual offensive on the way up the escalators in Maida Vale tube station.

I'm thinking of starting a blog with a new stupid underground poster on it every day. But then I'd have to take my
camera everywhere with me. Hmmm.

Sunday, May 17


Christ's eyes.


Last night I rekindled the ancient tradition of celebrating Eurovision with my old uni friends. We do not believe in proper parties, with more than five people, so we watched as a merry trio, filling out scorecards and feasting on onion rings, chips, millionaire shortbread* and cupcakes.

Early on in the night Rob had an excellent idea.

"Zing! Why don't we rename all the songs?"

An excellent idea, which yielded varied results.


Malta became 'Your Mum'
Lithuania became 'Fisting'
Iceland became 'Cold, Dead Eyes' and 'Record Exec Rape-a-thon'
Estonia became 'Fiddle Me This'
France became 'Milf Noir'
Norway became 'Zac Efron is Safe'

Mead was cracked open...

The Ukraine were ROBBED... and the evening ended with us all yelling Wonderstuff songs in Elin's face and mocking her for buying a ticket to see them next week. We were all secretly pleased that we were too young to remember many of their songs properly.

*Why is it called this? It is inexpensive.

Friday, May 15


... from Doctor Who was possibly the worst-conceived and most ill-performed character in the history of British Television. And that is all I have to say about that.

Thursday, May 14

"I'm not a racist, but..."

Sometimes, for fun, I go on Facebook and actively seek and report all racist posts on right-wing discussion groups and forums for fun. I think it's important to know your enemy and, judging by the standard of the posts I have reported, the enemy is ill-informed and illiterate. I'm not naive about the fact that I am actually making very little difference at all, but I do believe that every little helps, and it can't hurt to get a few racists removed from social networking sites every now and then, can it?

The one phrase that predominates on these boards is the title of this post. Surely it's a known cliche by now? I'd have to actually join these groups to challenge these people, but I do like to have imaginary conversations with them in my head.

I'm not a racist but...

No... stop right there. The fact that you have to prefix that sentence with that statement means that you ARE about to say something dubious about people from a different culture to your own.

No, I'm not. I'm not a racist. But...

NO. You ARE a racist, actually. Why else would you feel the need to add that disclaimer before expressing your view?

You won't let me finish. Stop taking away my right to free speech!

Okay. Go on then. Show me how you're NOT a racist.

I'm not a racist, but I would be nervous getting on a tube train with a man holding a copy of the Qur'an.

See? I know I can't really win against these folks. But I do try.

Hold your breath...

... the charger and battery for my new camera have arrived! Charging is taking place in my bedroom as I type. When the light goes GREEN I will immediately dash around my flat taking pictures of all sorts of things and posting them here.

Tuesday, May 12

Hello! Ok! Take a Break!

I've never really mentioned this on here before, because it's a bit embarrassing and makes me sound like an absolute dick. Oh fuck it. I'll just come out and say it. I'm Gemma and I was a celeb-a-holic. It's true, I was actually addicted to fame. My psychiatrist told me! From the age of 13-24 I was utterly obsessed with all celebrities. There are SO many reasons why I ended up following Jason Donovan down a dirty corridor at midnight in Norwich, and why I pursued Ainsley Harriot into a lift in Waterstones bookshop, and why I sat outside King's Lynn Corn Exchange until 3am on a weeknight, warming my hands on the exhaust fumes of the Mansun tour bus. Boredom is the fundamental and most obvious excuse for these escapades. Factor in the knowledge that I was a tool when I was younger; really arrogant and not entirely sane. I was also on and off more psychiatric medication than I can possibly care to recall here. I did not want to be living my life, I wanted to mould myself a false life in the similar way that Katie Price created the monster that is (or was) Jordan.

I held an unshakable and sustained belief that I was destined to live among the bold and the beautiful. This was fuelled by two overestimates on my part:

1. That I would become a celebrity myself, despite having no performing talent whatsoever
2. That if the above didn't work out one would fall in love with me and take me with them on their glamourous journey through celebdom

Yeah, like I said, dick. I would have been happy even with C-list ex-Hollyoaks/Living TV presenter fame. So long as it meant I could go to parties and occasionally feature in the glossies. It didn't help that I grew up in the least glitzy place imaginable; West Norfolk isn't particularly renowned for it's famous inhabitants. We've only got Stephen Fry, who is wonderful, but not very cool when you aspire to grace the pages of Heat magazine, getting drunk in a hot tub with several naked members of NSync.

I was totally obsessed with meeting celebs, any celebs. Much of my university experience was wasted calculating exactly what it would take to rub shoulders with C-listers, and then executing these plans, with varied outcomes. I did actually meet quite a few famous people. But many were douchebags. Some were hilarious. Most were disappointingly normal. And the irony is that even though I revered these people I never felt enriched or fulfilled as a result of meeting them, just anxious and hungry for the next experience to take place. My most active years were 1999-2003, naturally, I had the most time on my hands then, and because this was pre-diagnosis, I was frequently off meds and operating on psychotic autopilot. They were the best of times and the worst of times.

One thing I wasn't, however, was a stalker. I had absolutely no interest in finding out where these poor souls lived, or what their phone numbers were. I certainly didn't want to have any dealings with their families, friends or everyday activities. These things would have made an awfully unsightly tear in the glossy exterior of their media lives (that I devoured so fervently). I wanted them to be idols; gods and goddesses of tabloid gossip pages to venerate above all others. And for a time, some of them were.

Then I had a grand old breakdown at 24(ish) and everything just seemed to fizzle out. I started worrying about getting through the day, instead of getting off with Robbie Williams. I see quite a lot of moderately famous people every day now, because a few live on my road, and in my area of London. I don't report them to my friends unless they're funny and/or remarkable. Now I'm just a boring, one-dimensional husk of a human being, living a life of banal everyday experiences, carting around fuzzy memories tinted with sadness and regret at the stupid life I never had. Nah. Not really. I'm absolutely fine, and definitely more content.

*Right, there are now THREE adverts on this blog and I still have no idea how they got here or how to turn them off. The one of the kid with the cleft palate is particularly stubborn.

**She's gone! Can she read?

Monday, May 11

Nonsense? No. Adsense.

I honestly do not remember adding 'Adsense' to this blog at any time. It's possible I did it whilst hypomanic or smacked off my face on Valium in the recent past, though I usually ban myself from using my laptop when I am either of those things. It's very ugly, isn't it? And a little presumptious. Also, how do they decide what sorts of ads to put there?

However, apparently I've 'earned' 48p from it so far, so that's one unwanted visitor that's sticking around I'm afraid. The only question that remains is how do I get my 48p? Postal order?

P.S. HELLO 128 PEOPLE THAT READ MY BLOG YESTERDAY! Where have you been all my life?

Sunday, May 10


How did these adverts get on my blog? And how do I get them off? Why is there one up there *points up* ???

Meejah types

Very occasionally James gets invited to comedy gigs and parties. Mostly we don't go. Usually I avoid these sorts of occasionas as much as possible, the social anxiety at having to make small talk with people who are mostly a) twats and b) on cocaine makes my hands feel like they are spraying sweat out of every pore. I subsequently spend the rest of the evening wishing I was at home with the cat on my lap drinking Twinings and watching Britain's Next Top Model. But a few weeks ago we got a shiny black envelope containing a VIP invitation to a gig at the O2 arena, and we just couldn't resist it's glossy embossed loveliness.

First off I would like to point out that three hours before setting out for the venue I knew it was a mistake. Good, we have that on the record. When we got to the venue the backstage area had the vibe of a slightly upmarket doctor's waiting room, albeit with a scattering of D-list celebs. Greg Rusedski was there, and that guy Marc Whatsisname who made puppy-eyes at Cerys Matthews on 'I'm a Celeb...' They were okay. I didn't mind them. The people I did mind were the nobodies. The people who work for the agencies, and the newspapers, and the promotors. Seriously, what is wrong with them? I mean, what's the deal here? Is this some sort of joke? How can they be so clueless and survive in a city like London?

Question 1
Why do they talk so loudly? Have their ears become defective from listening to so much bullshit over the years that they have to shout into each other's faces like market traders to make themselves heard?

Question 2
Do they live in a bubble? Or a house like in The Apprentice, or Big Brother, where they all sit around talking shit to each other all day and nodding sagely thinking it's completely reasonable and normal? Check out this overheard conversation:

Salon Selectives Girl 1: 'Who's that guy?' (points to man her mate has just been chatting to)
Salon Selectives Girl 2: 'Oh, he's from Uxbridge. Fwah Fwah Fwah!'
Salon Selectives Girl 1: (bemused) 'What?'
Salon Selectives Girl 2: 'It's hee-larious. I asked him where he was from. You know, like, where are you from? And he misunderstood and said Uxbridge'
Salon Selectives Girl 1: 'Ha ha *snort* Uxbridge. Ha ha *snort*

She asked the man where he was FROM? Geddit? Not from.

Nah. I don't get it.

Oh hang on...

Ah yes. I see what is happening here.

Do I?

God. I am so glad I'm a teacher.

Yes, I know they're networking and making valuable contacts and all that other stuff that helps to put crap on my television and in my glossy magazines, but why aren't any of them normal?

Actually, the man actually answered her question more accurately than she'd wished. How can she take umbridge with that? Women like them make me want to rip out their extensions and curl them round their Hermes-scarf-adorned necks.

Monday, May 4


Just back from Norfolk, stuffed full of mum's white chocolate and raspberry trifle. If God was real he would eat this every day. She uses Swiss roll (SWISS ROLL!) instead of trifle sponge and vodka instead of sherry. AND, as if that weren't enough, she melts white chocolate INTO the custard. I wish I could have taken a photo of its swirly, custardy goodness.

So today I spent £40 on this digital camera. It has over 8 megapixels, which I am told is good. I don't take many photos, as I'm sure you can tell. Any that I do take are usually with my shitty old mobile and come out all grainy and rubbish.

The second the new one arrives I'm going to take a photo of my cat looking mischievous and post it up here.

Do Google searches and that...