THE ART OF BEING SINGLE

Helium balloons and soft toys shaped like internal organs. It sounds like the makings of a thrilling time, doesn’t it? It’s unforgivably deceiving, the entire façade of Valentines Day, but that is why I love it. It’s as if I’m watching the most intense and ridiculous romantic drama take place over the span of a few days.

You have happy couples strolling down the street, grinning serenely as they anticipate the arrival of Valentines Day, however, at least one half of that love-sick pair is bound to forget the occasion and end up having to present a can of condensed milk and tinned sausage to their lactose intolerant, vegetarian partner.

The wafting scent of chocolate and red roses stinks out the street like Mustard Gas when the dreaded day arrives. I look on fondly as people sprint in their pyjamas like greyhounds to corner shops and card stores before the crack of dawn, in the hope that their futile efforts will save their relationship for disaster.

I am single and free of obligations, Valentines Day is the only day of the year when I am #WINNING.

The good bit comes afterwards. As February 15th rolls into town, I take pleasure in strolling up and down the seasonal aisle of Tesco to embrace the essence of crushed dreams and unreturned texts, whilst I rid the shelves of discount chocolate and cheap wine.

Happy Valentines Day to me.

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CHRISTMAS MAKES MONSTERS OF US ALL

As the most wonderful time of the year draws near and you prepare to gain 30 pounds in the space of two days, there are a few things to keep in mind.

It is cold. It is stupidly cold, the kind of cold that makes me jealous of the equator. ‘Ooh look, they’ve gone and set their pudding on fire,’ God said ‘let me extinguish it with an expensive British winter!’

To avoid leaving your toes in your boots, I suggest you eat some ginger. Don’t ask me why, but my mum always said that ginger keeps you warm and in good health, she even made tea with it once and I don’t mean ginger and lemon tea, I mean she made English Breakfast with ginger water.

Come wintertime, my kitchen becomes a bloody ginger wonderland. I tried to point out to my mum that the guy from Titanic chugged from a flask of alcohol in preparation for being plunged into the cold ocean and perhaps I should do the same before a Christmas dinner party, but she wasn’t convinced.

‘Tis the season to be grouchy, fa la la la la, la la la la. Oh bow down to the everlasting cycle of headaches  and streaming eyes and no, I am not talking about the family gathering. As the scent of gingerbread and mistletoe fills the air, so does the smell of Vicks and Soothers.

It is Christmas, and an overweight, child spying man is rolling into town on an oversized dinner tray, we must greet him like a tenor choir. If he’s lucky, we may even choke up a ball of phlegm and leave it on a dish for his reindeer. Make Santa feel welcome, kids.

Speaking of Santa, why do children find it magical that a stranger, with an unhealthy BMI and an army of slaves, plunges down the chimney and into their home without warning. The guys even eats your food, for crying out loud!

When my neighbour found me with a hand in her Rice Crispies and a huge bag slung over my shoulder, she threw a saucepan at me and called my mother. Yet nobody has called Santa’s parents, he skips away scot free, whilst calling out the name of a gardening implement and jingling his damn bells.

Now, let’s talk poultry. It’s around this time of year when turkeys begin to pen their wills, and we all feel bad about that, but what about the chickens?? They’ve been demoted, turkeys are bigger, better, more exclusive. Even turkey sandwiches are celebrated, hardy anyone thinks to Instagram their stodgy old chicken sandwich.

It’s not until January, when we find that we can only fit a single finger in our mitten, when we go crawling back to chickens to save us. Bye bye steak and beef, hello chicken, you beautiful, nutritious alternative! Well, let me tell you a little something! Chicken is sick and tired of being your rebound bird, watch out for salmonella.

Arson is always on the rise come Christmas time, electric blankets, candles, pudding. Pudding is a beautiful thing, sacred even. For any non- British people out there, Christmas pudding is this brown/grey gritty mound, composed of something that was probably fruit a long time ago. It’s bad enough that it looks like a pie made of a sack of mouldy tea leaves, but folk have taken it upon themselves to douse it in sherry and burn it to cinders, before scraping the remains onto party plates for people to flush down the bog.

This cruel, cruel practice has left me so disheartened that I often feel like dousing myself in alcohol and setting myself on fire too.

 

Happy holidays to you all.

HOW TO BE A MODEL STUDENT

Half a decade ago, I started high school. I had a pink Puma rucksack full of crap I would never use and fish out from the deep dark depths of it at the end of the year. My blazer was as stiff as the ironing board it had been soldered against and I wore these translucent pink Ghandi glasses that made me look like a bug – the usual.

Since then, I have perfected the art of being a model student and am eager to pass my golden notes of wisdom onto you.

#Lesson 1:
Do not introduce yourself to teachers as ‘Viktor Pickles.’

#LESSON 2:
Avoid producing self portraits that look like this:image (4)

#LESSON 3
Know that this is not an acceptable thing to draw in your history book: image (1)

#LESSON 4:
Under no circumstances is it acceptable to eat fajitas in class.

#LESSON 5:
Try not to fart in assembly and blame it on your friend.

#LESSON 6:
Learn to spell correctly:

#LESSON 7:
Just because Scout is wearing a ham costume in To Kill a Mockingbird, it does not permit you to proclaim her as ‘dead meat.’

#LESSON 8:
Holden CAULFIELD, not Holden Cauliflower.

#LESSON 9:
If you still can’t spell ‘difficulty,’ I suggest you read Matilda.

#LESSON 10:
If you were meant to colour it in, just colour it in. image (6)#LESSON 11:
If you can’t draw, you can’t draw.

#LESSON 12:
Please learn how to spell
photo#LESSON 13;
Develop all points fully to avoid confusion and private meetings with your English teacher.
image (8)#LESSON 14:
Don’t giggle when being told off.

#LESSON 15:
Know when to ask for help.
image (7)#LESSON 16:
Try not to insult children by calling out: ‘YOU THINK YOU’RE SO COOL, HANGING OUT NEXT TO THE FIRE EXHAUSTER, BUT YOU’RE JUST LAME.’ =__=

#LESSON 17:
If you’re 12, you may not realise this, but swearing in every sentence is not okay. Please stop.

I hope you enjoyed this post and if you did please give it a like or maybe share it with a friend. All pictures and examples used in this post are my own and not intended to insult teachers, pupils or anyone in anyway.  =]

THOUGHTS FROM A TRAIN

9:46AM

For a Quiet Carriage there is a surprising numbered of yobs behind me, chattering and screeching away like a family of chimps. From what I can gather, the guy behind me (we shall call him Gareth) is a budding actor who is on his way to an audition in London. His clarion voice is now informing me that, not only had he played a dingo, but he has also been offered a position at the company of a successful business person, which he feels ‘positive, positive, positive’ about. Unfortunately, it seems that he is prohibited to give away any details about his shiny new job.

Here are 3 things I can safely tell you about Gareth:

  1. He lives alone and has great conversations with himself.
  2. He talks to strangers on trains.
  3. He is a grade A bullshitter.

Anyway, nevermind him, let’s discuss the free Wi-Fi on this train that doesn’t actually work – actually, that’s boring and you didn’t come here for boring, so I’ll tell you all about train stations instead.

I’m joking, don’t worry.

Here’s a couple in front of me now (we shall call them Cameron and Susan – Sameron) and they just shared a croissant, which was cute while it lasted, but now they’re both staring at the empty wrapper with their hands on their knees- apparently catatonic. I have a feeling that this is their first date and Cameron’s mum didn’t coach him past the croissant.

10:18AM

Gareth is still talking. It seems that he has found a buddy to talk football with (we shall call him Ron,) Ron’s currently raving about Aston Villa and Gareth is listing doughnut preferences. The telecom just advertised the tuck shop in carriage A – I think Sameron should invest in a family sized bag of Doritos, I’m having serious concerns about their lack of movement.

10:27AM

I’ve just moved places and now have a spiffing football commentary being fed into my left ear. Ron has found a new friend, who swears an awful lot (we shall call him Bucky.) Bucky’s Adidas trainers have crept dangerously close to my leg.

I think he knows I’m writing about him.

10:36AM

There’s a woman at my 11 o’clock who is drinking (what I assume is coffee, but since I can’t see it, it could be straight vodka for all I know) from a cup with a moustached man on it. I shall tell her telepathically how cool it is.

Bucky’s just complained about how idiotic some football fans can be and how much he hates flat lemonade. Now he’s opened two large cans of larger at the same time to prove his point.

Fun fact: Bucky is afraid of tunnels.

Ron’s just announced his phobia of flying and that he shits himself every time and doesn’t leave his seat.

I hope he wears a nappy.

11:00AM

Sameron update: still catatonic.

Apparently, the thing I’ve nudged with my foot for the entire journey is Ron’s right foot.

Fun fact: according to Bucky, he is okay with the Tube, as he is only scared when he goes through dark tunnels at ‘top speed.’

An old man has moved to the seat on my left (let’s call him Roger) with a can of Stella Artois on his table. I originally thought he was doing origami but, as it turns out, he’s hand rolling an impressive collected of cigarettes.

Origami is healthier, kids.

11:05AM

I’ve discovered that the secret to walking down a turbulent train is to step very rapidly and latch onto heads with a claw like grip.

Fun fact: Ron buys his jeans from the women’s section of Topshop.

Gareth has quieted down, I think he found something to eat. Susan has resorted to eating chunks of her Aloe Vera lip balm and Roger is still rolling cigarettes – maybe he’s entering a competition.

11:30AM

The train has arrived at London Euston and Gareth just left.

I shall miss him.

Bucky’s real name turns out to be Ross, but he’ll always be Bucky to me. He complained noisily about his flat larger and left too.

Fun fact: if you listen closely, you’ll discover that everybody is slightly nuts.