Ona Na What’s My Name? It’s Ona, Stupid.

The on-going saga to get a flat the size of a postage stamp cleaned on a weekly basis. 

So Ona, our second cleaner turned out to be fairly flaky.

She said she was ill (and I’m sure she was) but her doctor appointments always happened to be on Saturday mornings.

The cleaning management company occasionally rallied to arrange temps but most of the time I just had to bear the brunt of the ex hissing venom at me at 9 in the morning when the cleaner had failed to show up, yet again.

“It’s your job to arrange the cleaner! Why isn’t she here?? I don’t care if her kidney is infected! Blah blah blah!”

The ex an I saved our relationship by getting a cleaner. We have totally different ideas of how often to clean and how often is too often, so cleaner issues turn critical very quickly.

On a side note:

This is such a desi wifely whine. More specifically it’s a very middle-class desi whine. Middle class Indians are always complaining about their cleaners.

Meet any woman running a house and she’ll give you a long rant about the cleaner or how the cook spoke to her very rudely the other day. (The cook and the driver are second and third in line of things to complain about.)

“Can you believe it? So rude she was. So I told her she can go look for another job if she speaks to me like that.

“And she always over cooks the daal. How many times I’ve shown her how to cook the daal but she still over cooks!”

“Plus I told her not to put salt in it. Every time too much salt. She never even tastes.

“Now the driver is upset because the cook got a bonus but the driver didn’t get the bonus.”

“Then the cleaner never jadhoos properly either. I always have to jadhoo the bathroom myself. She just does fut-fut-fut and thinks it’s done. Oof ho! Bus. What to do?”

“Haan haan, it’s so hard to find good cleaners… but have I told you what MY cleaner did…?”

In fact never ask an Indian housewife about the either the cleaner, the cook or the driver. It’ll never stop.

So to get back to my wifely whine, I’ve been designated as ‘cleaner manager’. My duties are to supervise and organise. (Catchy no?)

I’m expected to keep them up to scratch somehow. Inspect under the sofas, chase them around the 2 and a half rooms we live in. (Even if I did chase them around the flat my idea of “its clean” is clearly not going to match the ex’s expectation. So my supervision is really fruitless.)

The problem is the ex is the type of person who’d put of a pair of white kid gloves and run their hands down the furniture to test if it has been dusted properly.

So naturally the ex was enraged with the general incompetence of the temporary cleaners who came to fill in for Ona.

One of the temps dropped a painting off the wall. (Didn’t break, thank god. It was one of the ex’s tacky pieces of touristy shite. All hell would have broken loose.)

She then used the sulphuric acid that’s meant for unclogging drains to clean the oven. The ex caught that one.

I caught her cleaning a framed wall mirror violently and stopped her before she knocked that off too.

She then dusted the side tables by removing all the knickknacks and balancing them on the arms of the leopard print couch. The ex caught that one again.

In desperation I asked my boss at work if he knew a cleaner. This is the same boss who I once smoked a doob with. The fun one.

So he recommended a girl, so I called her and she told me she would send someone over one Saturday morning for a test run.

First day, the new girl (Elina, or Elita or something. Couldn’t quite hear her and now I can’t ask again) broke the power mop and left without telling us. Turns out she doesn’t speak any English.

We aren’t allowed to call her directly and can only contact her via her handler.

That aside, I’m still feeling optimistic.

Lit Windows

Buildings at Twilight

Essex Road with Moon

The Couch Is Out To Get Me

The Couch. Look at it just glaring at me. Defying me to drop something on it.

The good thing about this print is that it camouflages cigarette burns very well.

This is similar in theme to “The Goverment is out to get me“. A general paranoid whine, I suppose.

This fucking couch has been out to get me from day one.

First of all, this is no ordinary couch.

This is couch is upholstered in a Leopard print fabric. (As you can see.)

Like the couch of some over-weight, worn-out, Bollywood B-grade movie star.

Imagine her lying on it, draped in a hot-pink satin fabric, while eating rasgullas. When she runs out of rasgullas she claps her sticky hands together to summon her man Friday, Sreekanth to bring her some rasmalai instead.

The ex’s mother sent us these couches. She had them specially made and then shipped across the seas all the way from the Punj.

Not satisfied with the Leopard print, these couches also have cushion covers in a soft brown suede fabric.

Suede! The most easily wrecked of all materials. It’s not even in a dark colour. It’s light brown!

It’s like the couch is purposely trying to entice me to sit on it, so I can spill something and have the ex subsequently murder me.

Just look at it. Doesn’t it just seem like its saying,

“Oh look sit on me, just have a seat…no no I won’t stain my pristine, suede-ness, don’t worry beta ha ha. Of course I’d never lie to you, I’m your friend…”

Such a fucking liar! I try (as much as possible) to sit on an expendable cloth that covers the couch.

This is not to protect the couch, but to protect me from the wrath of the ex. This couch stains just by breathing on it.

“Come come, eat a meal on me. No, no don’t worry! If you spill anything and it’ll come right off!”

Nothing comes off suede. It is the devil’s fabric. All the furniture in hell is probably upholstered in suede and should you find yourself there you will spend all eternity worrying about what you may or may not have spilled on it.

Also I feel this eerie growing superstitious paranoia that the ex’s mother purposely sent this couch to ‘get me’. This couch has given me many heart palpitations in the past.

Once I was just sitting on it, innocently minding my own business… and drawing with a ball-pen (Reynolds – still good) and I accidentally swiped my hand across and a little black mark went on one of the pillows.

I don’t remember a lot of what happened later but there was some shouting and screaming and threats of,

“You better fix the couch! I mean it! You better fix it!!”

and

“I DONT CARE!! JUST FIX IT!”

I get that a lot.

The ex accuses me of ruining everything.

Which is ironic. My mother used to say that to me.

I accidentally broke one of her ceramic photo frames (one of my mother’s many collections) and in response she said very melodramatically,

“FINE! FINE! JUST BREAK EVERYTHING!! RUIN EVERYTHING!! I CAN NEVER HAVE ANYTHING NICE IN THIS HOUSE!!!”

HERE!! ARE YOU HAPPY NOW??”

On ‘HERE’ my mother grabbed another frame and smashed it on the ground. (Very silly.)

So the next time I broke a ceramic painted plate, (I was yawning and stretching. It happens.) to avoid any more tantrums, I hid it in my underwear drawer and then spent hours painstakingly, (and surreptitiously) glueing it together in the forlorn hope that she’d never even notice.

Of course she found it in my underwear drawer (I should have hidden it under the underwear), but I’m comforted by the fact that it took her a few days to find it. She didn’t have a tantrum. I think by now she’d grown accustomed to the idea of her unfortunately clumsy child.

Back to the couch and its vindictive campaign to get me:

Another time, I was sitting on the couch, yet again, harmlessly minding my own business, when I happened to notice a small burn on one of the suede cushions.

I started having cold sweats. I was pretty sure I didn’t make it. But if I didn’t warn the ex in advance, guaranteed I’d get blamed for it.

So I had to grit my teeth, steel my nerves and call the ex at work.

I prepped the scene with my stellar opening,

“OK. Baby. Don’t get mad. I have some bad news…”

Always open with the bad news, (the good news is that I didn’t do it)

“…OK…”

*uncertain pause*

“…what is it?”

“Uhm, I noticed a black mark on one of the cushions…

“…butIswearitwasn’tmeIdidn’tdoititwasalreadythere
motherswearonmylifedon’tbemadIloveyou.”

The ex must have been in a more than usually benevolent mood, because I passed. Whew.

Recently I was washing the cover I usually sit on (a rare moment of domestic responsibility) and then sat on the couch after painting something, and before I knew it a smudge of white acrylic paint went on one of the cushions. (which just goes to show you how unrewarded I am for my domestic responsibility).

It was after so long! And I had been so good! I really tried, really really REALLY, not to spill anything on that couch.

This is why I’m convinced, that it’s a curse. The couch has it in for me.

The ex was mad, and I couldn’t even say anything to defend myself. I mean, I don’t even know how the paint got on the couch. It wasn’t even on me this time. It must have been on my laptop and I didn’t notice.

Now I have to try scraping it very gently with a sharp scalpel in the hope the white paint will flake off.

It’ll probably leave a patch. (sigh)

Suede is an evil, evil fabric.

Shopper Euphoria

Selfridges Window (Rather good their windows. This series was showcasing rising young talent.)

I went shopping with the ex to Selfridges on Saturday. (Well a Saturday a couple of weeks ago anyway. I’m on holiday now.)

It was an eye-opening experience.

Not because I hadn’t gone to Selfridges before but because of the dramatic and noticeable personality overhaul the ex underwent while in the store.

I’m quite manic when I visit shops that have a lot of things to look at and I have no fixed agenda

i.e. I’m not thinking

“I want a kettle and then I’m leaving.”

I look at everything. I cannot talk or concentrate. I want to go through all the racks methodically one by one, sifting through the multitude of products. I need to be dragged around because I have ceased to function aside from browsing.

Muji, for example, is particularly irresistible. It’s like a pricey charity shop. I like to read all the labels and then mentally debate with myself whether I need anything. I desperately want to need something but the problem with Muji is that all of its products only look appealing en mass. Once you get them home you realise what a pile of junk it is.

Like those stupid plastic trays they always have. I love the clear acrylic compartments. I don’t know why. In my mind I’m filling them with things. What things? No idea, but just … some things that might fill an acrylic compartment.

After a while I reach a state of total shopper hypnosis and have sudden uncontrollable urges to buy things that have become crucial to my happiness.

JUST BUY IT!! BUY IT NOW!

YOU NEED IT!

YOU’LL USE IT!

YOU’LL USE IT EVERY DAY.

EVERY SINGLE DAY OF YOUR LIFE!

IT’LL BE AWESOME!

DO IT NOW!”

That’s my internal monologue. I’m not walking around Muji yelling. (Yet)

Occasionally the sensible quiet part in my brain says,

“Yes, yes, that’s very nice. Very nice.

But let’s not be hasty shall we?

You remember all the trouble we’ve had with things like this in the past don’t you?

You don’t want to be buying something only to return it do you? Think of how much unnecessary work that would be.

Why don’t we just look around a bit and come back in a little while?”

But the shouty part usually yells over the sensible guy, in a dastardly attempt to drown him out. (I don’t know why it’s a ‘him’. Its sexless really.)

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! JUST BUY IT!

COMING BACK IS BORING. COMING BACK IS FOR LOSERS!

YOU’LL WASTE TIME. TIME IS MONEY EVERYONE KNOWS THAT.

DON’T BE SUCH A SQUARE. YOU NEED IT.

WE HAVE MONEY. YOU DESERVE A TREAT. YOU HARDLY EVEN DRINK!! GO ON BUY IT!

THERE WONT BE ANYTHING BETTER ANYWAY! YOU’LL JUST HAVE MORE HASSLE COMING BACK.

ONCE YOU HAVE IT, IT’LL BE DONE. DON’T YOU WANT TO BE DONE??

JUST BUY IT. PICK IT UP AND PUT IT IN YOUR HAND. TAKE IT TO THE COUNTER NOW!!!!

NOOOOOOOOWWW!!!!!”

Eventually I get really tired and cranky. If I’m lucky I don’t buy anything.

If I succumb I come home with something useless, a lighter wallet and an agenda to rationalize my purchase. This is why I avoid shopping as much as possible.

So back to the ex: The ex’s personality underwent a remarkable and really quite odd change. You know those documentaries where some parasite crawls into the eye-ball of a snail, and then makes the snail change its entire behaviour so the snail crawls up on a branch so a bird can eat it, only so the parasite can live in the bird’s gut to complete its life cycle?

That’s what happened to the ex.

Well not literally. The ex wasn’t infected by a parasite that made the ex crawl up a branch on the look out for a bird, (You’ll be relieved to hear that) but what I mean is the behavioural pattern changes were comparable.

1. The ex became very relaxed. - Now the ex is not a relaxed person.
Sober. Not a relaxed person sober.
I felt I needed to add the ‘sober’ part. Un-sober the ex is suuuuper relaxed.

2. The ex seemed to be filled with a calm sense of inner well-being and benevolence.
The ex is quite benevolent in general, but the benevolence seemed more heightened than usual.

3. The ex also became surprisingly susceptible. Really susceptible.
Every time I pointed out something out there was a discussion, in some depth, of whether we could or should buy it.
New wine glasses, decanters, complete dinner sets. A new couch. We were both on some euphoric bender.

The ex started offering to buy me all sort of things. Just things I liked for no reason.

It was like Selfridges was some evil narcotic, some parasitic worm.

I didn’t take advantage of this, because I knew the ex wasn’t their normal aggravated self and I’m just not that kind of girl, believe it or not.

The ex bought me lunch (This was planned before our Selfridges jaunt. It was incentive to get me there in the first place you see. So no narcotic inducement)

I succumbed (dammit!) to Selfridges wicked wiles and bought myself 2 miniature bell jars things on stands.

Look. I need them. I’m going to use them. Really, I am. I’m going to put some drawings in there, like tiny cut-out things. I don’t know what yet but I swear I’m going to do it.

Both bell jars are now lying on the bedroom window-sill.

We finally walked out of Selfridges. It was raining and crowded on the grey pavement. Within mere minutes the hypnotic effect of Selfridges had worn off. The state of euphoria was palpably evaporating.

Back on the bus ride home though the hell of Oxford street, and the ex was back to

“GET BACK IN YOUR CORNER! BE QUIET! DON’T ANNOY ME. I KILL YOU!”

Fastest come down ever.

Why ‘The Ex’ is Called ‘The Ex’

Well the ex and I had a very turbulent time at the start of our relationship.

We broke up and made up so intermittently that it became embarrassing to constantly mention it.

So I just left it at ‘the ex’, that way if we broke up again there would be no need to drag it up.

Besides, it’s a handy pseudonym.

Here read this post: that was the genesis of the term.

Seville, Spain

I can't remember what this plaza was called but its very famous. We were in a horse drawn carriage.

This post is back dated from way back in April. But chalo, I’ll post it. 

It is a tradition, that a holiday must be interspersed by entirely stupid squabbles.

In the past these minor squabbles would have been swiftly escalated into a magma melting disaster-thon.

The ex and I maintain this holiday tradition, but have now mellowed enough that a minor quarrel will last for about a morning of intense sulking merely to give a certain piquancy to the merriness of the holiday.

Although I have deep founded suspicions that cheap flight carriers (Like Easy Jet or Ryan Air-Hole) are determined to find some excuse not to let people on their planes, they did let us on after all. This is a constant fear I suffer from when traveling.

In fact it’s not even such an unreasonable fear, since they try every low-down method imaginable to exhort more money out of their victims, I mean customers.

The luggage dimensions must be 35 cm x 45 cm x 25 precisely and must weigh 8 kilos and 0.23 pounds exactly or you will incur a fee of £40.

All luggage is must conform to the approved colours of black or brown only. Any other colours of luggage will incur a fee.

If you attempt to argue these rules you will incur an impertinence fee of £40. If you speak or make eye contact with a member of the Ryan air-hole staff in manner deemed inappropriate you will incur a fee.

Being the wonderful holiday planner that I am, I had not converted any money to euros until I got to the airport. I like to leave these essentials to the very last-minute as a matter of principle. (The airport had a terrible rate, nearly 1 : 1. It turns out everywhere had a bad rate except the ex who got a great rate by some secret undisclosed method. I remember the good ol’ days when going on a jaunt to Europe was like going to a third world country money wise. Ah those were the times. Now what’s the fucking point?)

I also like the ex to validate my financial choices because I’m mentally incapable of coming to any decision with things like money. The ex HATES my dependency on matters of efficiency and business. So the ex REFUSES to help me. (Yes, please notice my random capitalizations)

I pleaded, begged, groveled and eventually sulked furiously. Then I just bought the bad rate. I can’t be bothered with this good business crap. I leave that for the Gujus and Marawadis.

No matter how early you are at the airport, and how long you have waited, just before they close the gate you find you have something vital you need to do. Like pee, or eat, or buy a Frappachino.

Of course Ryan Air-hole has the briefest window for when the gate is open and being the sociopathic despots that they are they like to terrify all passengers by leaving the gate open only for about 10 minutes, while announcing nearly as soon as they’ve opened it

“The gates will be closing now. Please go to your gate. If you miss your flight Ryan hole will not be responsible. The gate is closing now.”

So this means I had to run like a maniac to Gate number 224 or whatever with my Frappachino. The ex being organised and timely was already waiting at the gate.

YEAH, BUT DID THE EX HAVE A FRAPPACHINO?? EXACTLY! I DONT THINK SO!!!

We landed late in the evening. The hotel I picked was in a very central part of town. (Thank god, or I’d never have heard the end of it). The next day after a breakfast that consisted of vending machine croissants and coffee we jaunted off to see Seville. I planned a number of touristy sight-seeing things to do.

Half way through the morning we had a small spat because of differing holidaying ideological beliefs. The ex wanted to stroll aimlessly, I wanted to see the Cathedral and the Palace and some other shit before we wasted the day.

Even though we were both sulking I made use of my time by drawing this in the Orange courtyard of the Cathedral.

7 Min Sketch - Orange Courtyard

It’s a fairly shoddy little sketch, but you know, I like it for 7 mins worth.

We patched up the quarrel once we left the Cathedral and had a late lunch, (I’ve noticed that a good meal always seems to patch up our spats.) and went off to follow my rigorous schedule of sightseeing.

Which I’m very glad we did.

I’m not flying Ryan hole to fucking stroll around and see nothing.

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Why I Think Talking About Personal Stuff is Ok. Mostly.

Fake Willie and Kata Engagement rings. I almost want to buy one.

I’ve thought a lot about this post I wrote, about the ex saying I shouldn’t put personal stuff on the blog. It’s a somewhat prickly issue about what’s considered acceptable public discussion as per your relationship.

I’ve stayed at a friend’s place for the last few days (the ex has some family visiting) and I think I might have accidentally put my foot in it last night and got my friend in trouble with her partner.

I didn’t even notice because firstly, I’m quite thick and secondly it really wouldn’t have occurred to me that what I flippantly mentioned fell under some unmentionable category, but I had this mild nagging feeling all evening that I must have done something wrong.

The partner doesn’t want my friend to talk about personal things and I had mentioned in a conversation:
a. G-chat
b. Gossip teasing (opening a conversation by baiting with some alleged juicy gossip, which later turns out to be a blatant exaggeration. None the less, highly entertaining.)
c. Something about some landlord issue the friend had told me about.

Note: Landlord issues do not strike me as personal. I don’t know. I think the partner of my friend didn’t or doesn’t want her speaking to me about anything vaguely to do with home life. I don’t know what she thinks I’m going to do with that information.

Perhaps she thinks that I’m going to judge her based on it, even so I’m not clear how landlords would come into the mix.

Maybe I’m reading into it too much.

I asked someone if I could use their scanner the other day, they responded in the affirmative but ended the email with a “…”. Naturally, I read REAMS into that “…”

For instance, this is what I imagined those dot-dot-dots to mean:

… – I don’t even know you, why are you emailing me?
… – Are you seriously asking me for a favour when I’ve only met you once?
… – How dare you! This request is a MASSIVE imposition!
… – I hate you.

So with all that in my mind I’ve thought up some arguments against this ‘Information Exchange Ban Act’:

1.

Everybody has personal stuff, I don’t see the shame in talking about it. Hiding = Shame.

2.

If you can’t talk to your friends who can you talk to?

A relationship can’t be an island anyway. If you spend nearly all your time with this one person surely it would be impossible to exclude any references of them from all conversation?

Unless you’re a double agent.

Or a robot.

(Caveat: I understand that some things should stay private.)

3.

If talking about a relationship is forbidden then all art based on/influenced by personal stuff should be banned – You shouldn’t be able to write about it, sing about it or draw things based on it.

That seems harsh, but I think fair.

Why should only talking be forbidden? Art lasts longer than a conversation.

4.

This “You can’t talk about stuff to your friends” smacks a little of control issues.

You will only speak about things that I allow you to speak of.

You will only speak about things when I say you can speak about them.

5.

Lastly how fucking boring would it be if no one ever talked about anything personal?

Simulated G-chat conversation

Hey
Hi
so..
yeah
what’s up?
nothing much. whats up with you?
oh nothing,
its cold today
yeah fucking cold
yeah…
so…what else?
just working…on stuff…
yeah?
Yeah.
oh cool
so…
ok bye …

Like, hello! Dullsville.

Friday Fight Night

Outside the flat. No, I wasn't thrown out.

The ex came home slightly inebriated last friday night and we had an almighty row.

Can I just say how much I hate drunk people? All drunk people.

Even if they think they are so-called ‘good drunks’. (They don’t really exist anyway.)

I accused the ex of purposely stamping on my art kit thus breaking my paint palette.

(That sentence, I realize, reads a little insanely. Just humour me.)

The ex decided to vigorously deny my accusation by bringing out every single weapon in the relationship arsenal to annihilate me.

All torpedoes targeted, battalions ablaze, guns stations firing, death star at the ready.

This self-defence mechanism went off for about 20-25 mins.

The ex then stamped on more of my art materials, just to prove that it was ‘accidental’ the first time.

I wasn’t worried because art materials are surprisingly durable.

However I had no good rebuttals for any of the torpedoes.

I said ‘fuck off’ a bit, ‘shut up’ and that I definitely wasn’t leaving just because the ex was having a massive strop.

If I left every time the ex verbally abused me after a night out drinking, we’d never have lasted.

None the less, I am feeling pretty pissed this morning.

The first words out of my mouth were “fuck off”.

That is never a good way to start the day.

The cleaner noticed our quietness and was a little worried.

Poor cleaner. She’s terrified of our domestics.

Update:

We kissed and made up the next day.

I can’t keep up a sulk for over 48 hours. A sulk is very hard work I’ll have you know.

Profile. Gay.

It's pretty when its empty. But then, I think that about all places.

One of the ex’s friends had a birthday party at Profile in Soho. Baffling choice for a girl. The bar was gay central – If you like Muscle Marys and shirtless bar tenders.

The entrance to the bar, which was essentially a 10 foot corridor (see photo on right) fitting on a handful of cramped tables had people sitting down eating a full dinner to the seriously loud and shady techno music the DJ was playing. The DJ was loving his music. He was so hot for himself, he couldn’t believe it.

This was not my kind of gay bar. It got very crowded ,very fast, mostly with men who looked like someone had inflated them with a bicycle pump. That probably didn’t help either. Burly men take up far too much room. I think bouncers ought to take that into account when doing a head count.

I got fed up pretty soon into the evening, once the place got packed. Unfortunately I was duty bound to stick around, at least for a bit longer.

To entertain myself I played little games with myself. It was hard to hold a conversation in there. We were standing right next to the speakers and the self-lovin’ DJ.

I tried imagining I was a gay man. Would this bar be cock heaven? Would I just wander around with my penis bursting from the seams, reading to pounce on any bloke for a little bum-bum? Would I be having a good time? Would I go for the weedier, skinny guys or the big ol’ burly ones?

I think if I was gay I’d probably be into bears. I don’t like burly men who are hairless – It looks unnatural. A big beard and many tattoos. Hot. Maybe some kind of ex-con.

I really love that novel Maurice, by E.M. Forrester. It’s a great gay love story. A repressed Englishman bonks the young under-gamekeeper. (I love the term ‘Under Gamekeeper’. Anyone doing that job is begging to be bonked.) It has a happy ending. I love happy endings, especially in gay fiction. Leave the unhappy endings for real life.

Gay men largely seem to get better love stories. I stopped reading female gay fiction after a while. It just got too depressing and in a way even the L Word is depressing. Everyone is constantly bitching, back stabbing or cheating. Nothing good ever happens and if it does, you know it can’t last. I can’t handle that kind of stress and disappointment in my fantasy life. At least that should go smoothly.

Speaking of sex, A4 sent me to her friends blog who writes (or at least wrote) about homo-sex. It has only has 11 posts, but man, they blew my mind. I’ve read some gay fiction, but the ones I read partly intellectualized all the sex. This blog is just hunting for the sex, having the sex and then writing the sex. I honestly can’t imagine thinking about sex, sex, sex all the time. Or having that much sex (without even turning a profit.)

While I was there I also had an epiphany about a new kind of chandelier for gay bars. I was looking at a disco ball rotating gently above my head (this is how bored I get at clubs, which is why I’ve never really enjoyed clubbing) and the lights reflecting off it reminded me of chandeliers. Then I thought how great would it be to have a giant chandelier, but made from thousands of small rotating disco balls instead of the individual crystals.

God I was really bored at this club. I told the ex I was going to go soon, of course they didn’t have to come home with me.

The ex was drinking wine and was already a bottle in. Not good. Not good at all. I knew I needed to exit and fast unless I wanted another failed drunk management strategy on my hands.

The ex didn’t want me to leave right away, so I strategized and used sex as a lure.

It worked.

I’m not ashamed.

Saturday: ‘The Date’

The ex and I decided we ought to go out on a date.

So on Saturday we went to the London zoo.

The tickets were pricey, the aquarium average, the bug house shoddy, the reptile house excellent, the gorillas hugely over hyped while the big cats largely ignored.

I’m pleased and proud to state that at the zoo I smoked 3 fags even though I was out numbered 8-1 by kids from all four quarters.

We went too late to visit the petting zoo (rats). I wanted to cuddle a rabbit but was forced to settle for a sheep (albeit very cute). So like my life, always late and always settling.

Met Nikki, one of the ex’s friends at a bar in Soho and then moved on to this new gay venue sponsored by Gaydar Radio uk called ‘Principles’: A very slick, quite camp, über gay production which was like walking into an orange clone of the pink G-A-Y bar.

There were two Amazonian, transvestites standing at the bar, gleaming, glossy and sparking; Lending an air of glamour to the other wise fairly formulaic venue.

The smokers were placed outside in a velvet roped pen every time they went out for a fag. Their glasses were confiscated and replaced with plastic cups (because you see, as a smoker we’re a very dangerous lot and much more likely to start glassing one another in a nicotine deprived rage).

I made sure I blew all my smoke in through the open door.

On principle I now try and make sure I do that with all non-smokers. Pre-ban I was a most civilized smoker. I moved away, I sat downwind, I even apologized for my vice. But no more! No more Miss Nice Marlboro.

A camp Indian boy with shoulder length floppy hair (very Munt we all thought) was there with a guy sporting an ever stylish mono-brow, both dancing around gaily (no pun intended).

The dancing evolved into a pelvic grinding and thrusting,

That turned into a groping, fondling lap dance,

Which in turn mutated into a frenzied session of dry humping.

At one point Munt’s doppelgänger had both legs straddled across mono-brow’s hips and was being pumped back and forth like a piston.

The both pulled away covering their groins and complaining ‘jokingly’ about their respective hard-ons.

Really, how anyone not love a gay bar folks? Even if it is non smoking now (assholes.)

Not even poor bastard snakes can smoke in their glass prisons anymore. What kill joys. Ah well at least they've got beer. (for now, but its only a matter of time...)

There's the bitch. Come to confiscate his fags. What a cunt.

No, I told you, you can't smoke now. Not in front of the children. Why don't you be 'healthy' and eat some hay. Victoria Beckham said it's really delicious, full of nutrients and she lost 8 stone!! See? Victoria Beckham said so.

The fishes are agitated and annoyed to find they can't light up in so much moisture.

"Goddammit sons of bitches!!!" They say as they empty liquid nicotine in the water.

We're not going to eat all this fucking green stuff. Give us some meat. And some fags. Hear that? Meat and fags you cunts.

Well finally........hey!...what the fuck? It's not even properly marinated...and where's my side order?? I'm like, so complaining to Gordon Ramsay.

And where are my fucking Marlboros?? I'm in the fucking open air now are you fucking happy???? Where's my lighter?

I can't stand this ban. I'm taking a fucking nap. Piss off now and wake me when you've bought a pack.

Pearl Of Wisdom Day

Squabbling over the loo early in the morning. Territorial snapping and flared tempers.

Both of us unforgiving. Me for being told if I did so and so I would be discarded, the ex for being told that kind of statement was unnecessary and upsetting. Having no keys of my own, am forced to leave excessively early.

What day is it? Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday. Security guard refuses me entry. Sit on the steps sleepy with hot chocolate and bag of lychees.

Am joined by Foz only to be shortly and rudely moved by some obnoxious asshole. We both smile and politely retreat while internally cursing the bastard.

The Great Job Hunt has begun but I procrastinate by reading Metro in the studio while Foz moans to Georgina and me about application forms. The bin is full to the brim with rejects. I’m amazed I ever made it through the door.

Go to the Mall at 2 for first year thing. It is a another convenient excuse to go drinking later and we are all only happy make use of it. Athier confesses he is too nervous to speak to first years about his work and hopes we don’t have to. We roll our eyes. ‘MAness’ Athier, where is your ‘MAness’?

We are instructed to hang around near our work in the hope that an eager first year can ask us loads of insightful questions while we provide loads of insightful answers. We mostly stand around looking shifty. I collect postcards and ask people to leave messages.

Martyn writes: “The world is full of arses”

on the front of his card which also has “Martyn Shouler – Illustrator, Mercury Prize finalist, AOI Bronze Award winner” printed proudly on the back.

Simeon writes: “Laminate all work”

Amalia writes: “You are a fucking slut with big tits”

Mike writes: “We both have great colour. Well done!”

Onnalin writes: “I’m famous already xx”

Anna writes: “It’s been a pleasure working with you, You are mad” Across both her postcards.

Bruna writes: “I am full of beer and chicken”

Mexican Firecracker writes: “FG FG FG tiny angry woman” (she so loves her name)

Armed with the words of wisdom from my fellow classmates, a select group of drunks go to the pub, leaving the first years to tear apart our work with Foz. A couple join us later in Chandos and we grill them for what they said about us. Did you slate us? Who did you talk about? What about me? What about me? Who else? Is that it??

I’m very disappointed that they were all nice and shit instead of being bastards like we were last year. (Maybe talking to us beforehand didn’t help I suppose quietly threatening to break their legs when Foz’s back was turned might have made them nervous)

Foz says he too is disappointed at their politeness. He has a lot of work to do next year, breaking them in and all. Their fragile, sweet little minds will be completely corrupted by this time next year and they will thank him on bended knees for it.