Still a Northerner

I went back to my Sheffield roots this weekend but I didn’t stay with my parents; they do like having me to stay but it puts them a little bit on edge.

I think they worry I might want a bath, or I might turn on the oven just to heat up a hot cross bun or worst of all I might leave the wireless box switched on ALL NIGHT.

My friends are a little more relaxed about their utility bills and this time I stayed in my mate’s brand new city centre pad.

Friday was spent doing this:

I woke up face down in my party dress on Saturday morning feeling like this:

I had no time to nurse my hangover.

With only a couple of hours before I had to meet my mum for a nice lunch I needed to wash away the sins of the night before but unfortunately my friend’s boiler was not yet working and there was no hot water. This left me with two options:

Option 1 – ask my parents to heat an extra tank of unscheduled hot water

Option 2 – try to blag my way in to the Hilton Hotel and use their facilities instead.

Of course the Hilton won – I learned from my mother at an early age that going swimming is a good alternative to having a bath.  All my friend and I had to do was pretend we wanted to join the gym.

The plan after that was that I would take my Mum out for a nice lunch. However my Mum was a bit excited to see me and she arrived at my friend’s house an hour early, having just eaten breakfast and as I was hungover and starving, she ended up taking me out for breakfast.

We went to a cosy cafe and shared a pot of tea and I tucked into poached eggs on toast while she nibbled on a piece of toast. The bill came to £9 which I thought was a quite a bargain for breakfast but I didn’t say so when I saw my Mum’s horrified face.

Then we met my Dad for tent shopping. It’s my birthday next week and Glastonbury next month so my Mum and Dad had agreed to buy me a tent – hooray!

The first suitable tent I saw was £50 and looked okay apart from it would clearly leak badly if it were to rain. My parents agreed and we carried on looking.

I soon came across a tent that was absolutely perfect for a festival. It was a little more expensive at £80 but it was a good make, very waterproof and a nice size for me and my wife. They both umm’d and ahh’d about it and insisted we keep on looking.

We moved away from the festival tents to the mountaineering tents and my parents spotted a tent, identical to the one we had just seen, for £250.

They were extra guy ropes and complex poles which would make it sturdy on the side of a windy mountain and it weighed 2 kilos less than the £80 one.

“We think you should get this one” they both agreed, “it will be lighter to carry”.

“I think I should get the cheaper one. We only have to carry it from the coach to the festival and it’s still pretty light.”

“But what if there’s gale force winds?”

“It’s a festival at in the middle of summer, it’s unlikely there will be gale force winds”

“But what if the festival site gets flooded?”

“It often does when it rains. I don’t think this tent will make any difference”

“But you can use the mountaineering one to go camping”

“We don’t go camping very often in London”

I had nothing against owning a £250 tent but I knew it would only get used once a year, if that. It looked pretty tricky to put up and there is always the chance we will be so broken by the end of Glastonbury we can’t be bothered to carry it home.

In the end they relented and bought me the £80 one.

I then met up with my friend again and we went for a delicious four course Thai banquet she had got from a deal on Living Social. We paid £11 each – you’ve gotta love the north.

The next day my Mum and Dad met me in town and walked me to the train station.

I needed to use the loo before getting on my train back to London and the station toilets at Sheffield cost 20p so I rummaged in my bag to find a 20p coin but I didn’t have one.

“Have you got 20p Mum?” I asked meekly

“20p to use the loo!” came the horrified response.

“It costs 30p in London” I said, but neither of them would relent and give me 20p.

We had to follow my Dad outside into the pouring rain, walk for ten minutes along a dual carriageway and into the back of a pub he knew where we could use the loo for free.

“What a waste of money” they both said on the way back to the station, hauling my luggage with us, the rain lashing down.

“Fancy charging 20p just to use the loo.”

As I got on the train my mum slipped me a five pound note and told me to buy myself a nice treat in London.

Fair weather cycling

There has been a lovely bit of weather in London recently hasn’t there? In fact it feels like the first bit of sunshine we have had in years. Hooray!

Of course, this has meant all the fair weather cyclists have taken to the streets in their work clothes and unsuitable footwear.

I am a fair weather cyclist myself and proud of it. Frankly, what masochists want to cycle in the freezing cold or pouring rain?

I am forever getting overtaken by sweaty men in luminous cycling shorts gritting their teeth and grunting as they whizz past me, clearly in great pain. What is the point of cycling so fast you hate every moment? And why do they always jump red lights? And why is it that us fair weather cyclists get the blame for their poor road skills?

I cycle in fair weather because it’s nicer than then tube and more fulfilling than a spin class and it saves me £4.20 a day on tube fare. I am very careful, which often makes me slow, and if a section of road is too tricky I get off my bike and walk in order to save my life. If this makes me the most hated women on London’s streets, so be it.

I enjoy my daily cycle commute but these ‘all-weather’ cyclists look even more miserable than tube passengers and are a rather strange bunch.

The first all-weather cyclist to overtake me today yelled ‘HELLO’ right in my ear which startled me so much I almost swerved into the kerb. Was he warning me he was there? Is this a normal way to greet a fellow cyclist? Do comment and enlighten me.

The second all-weather cyclist to shout at me today was approaching a junction to turn right. I was approaching the same junction to turn left. I thought the fact I was breaking hard and gingerly turning into the junction at approximately 1mph was enough to show her my intention (I haven’t quite mastered the art of taking one hand off the handlebar to indicate while steering the bike at the same time).

‘FUCKING INDICATE!’ She growled at me as she followed me into the road.

As luck would have it, she ended up behind me to my left and I was turning left again at the next junction, so I was able to pointedly extend my left arm…and my middle finger.

There is a game that all cyclists in London play. I don’t know how I know about it, I just do. If you overtake a girl on a girl’s bike you get 1 point, a boy on a girl’s bike, 2 points, a businessman on a Boris bike 3 points, a girl on a boy’s bike 4 points, a boy on a boy’s bike 5 points and if you overtake a serious cyclist kitted out in all the right gear you get 10 points, regardless of whether they are male or female.

The best part is, if you are a girl on a girl’s bike and overtake a serious cyclist you get 100 points.

It’s quite a fun game because even though I conceded at least 30 points today I still ended up with a score of 70 after overtaking a serious cyclist whose pedal flew off as we cycled up High Holborn. (That’ll teach him for peddling so fast).

Don’t get me wrong, games aside you have to be really careful when cycling in London. If you are not falling into potholes (there’s loads) or being choked by exhaust fumes then a psychopathic taxi driver is probably trying to flatten you as he overtakes you at 50 mph. Drivers will open their car doors for you to fly over, buses will swerve into the cycle paths without warning and pedestrians just act like you’re invisible and walk straight into you.

Fair weather cycling in London is fun with that slightly terrifying edge that you might die at any moment. Oh, and of course there’s the fact that everybody completely hates you.

I am a bit worried that writing this blog post is a terrible tempting of fate, and if I get knocked off my bike tomorrow it will get published in the Evening Standard and serve as a poignant warning to cyclists to always wear a helmet and a high vis vest.

If this does happen please use this photo of me:

Poser

Not this one:

Geek

But back to slagging off serious cyclists. Why is it such a serious business?

It’s like that moment when you are out clubbing and a great song comes on and some bore tries to recite the name of the DJ and the album to you and tells you there is a great bass line coming up. Who cares? I just want to dance to it.

This half marathon, Run to the Beat, is exactly the kind of exercise I am a fan of.

There is the race element for the competitive people and for people like me there are DJs playing motivational music and a big party at the end.

I am so inspired by the idea I have decided to enter, even though I am crap at running. This is what’s known as being an optimist.

If anybody wants to jog around with me let me know!

My (first world) housing crisis and why it’s Maggie’s fault

Tags

London house prices, London rent, Right to Buy, Thatcher's children

I am trying to buy a flat in London at the moment and it’s an impossible task.

My wife and I are no longer able to stay in her flat (for reasons I will explain another time) and already being homo-owners it seemed sensible to purchase another property rather than pay extortionate London rents.

I hear the word ‘housing crisis’ on the news and read it in the Evening Standard but it has only been since actually trying to buy a house that I realised there is a massive bloody housing crisis! How on earth are Londoners expected to ever afford their own homes?

I understand Margaret Thatcher’s ‘right to buy’ scheme saw social housing sold off to council tenants without these homes ever being replaced. Of course, this lead to a big shortage of council houses.

Statistics show these ex local authority homes are not occupied by their owners and families but are being rented out by greedy landlords who are profiting from the fact that everyone in London is forced to rent as houses are so expensive.

Good old Boris Johnson is on the case and has set up various schemes to help first time buyers onto the property ladder. It is in his interest to do so, we all know the government spends loads of money on housing benefit and does not waste it on things like state funerals for ex Tory Prime Ministers (£ 8 million!). Let’s not imagine how many social housing rents that could pay for.

Housing benefit is bleeding the government dry. They have even had to apply a bedroom tax on any council homes with a spare room, although I must say in that case I agree with them. Why is it that council tenants should get a nice, big, free house when most working Londoners have to house-share and can’t even afford to rent or buy a tiny studio flat?

The council tenants with big houses are furious at being asked to downsize, why shouldn’t they have a spare bedroom? But the fact their children grew up there and they have tended the garden for years does not get my sympathy. If they no longer use their spare rooms they should move to a one bedroom place and free up the space for families with children, or else pay the tax. It sounds so right-wing but I can’t help the way I feel. I am one of Thatcher’s children and she spoon fed me these thoughts (after taking my milk).

The first scheme I looked at was ‘help to buy’ which seemed great. The government lends you a deposit to buy a house, you only pay interest after five years and then only at a rate of 1.75%. When you come to sell your home you pay back the loan at the percentage of the house sale price, so if the house doubles in value the government has doubled their money. Everyone’s a winner?

I thought so until I saw a clause in it stating it was illegal to rent out your home under this scheme, you would have to live in it.

I can see this is probably to stop greedy landlords using the scheme to make a profit, but what if you bought your place and then lost your job? You wouldn’t be able to rent your home out to pay the mortgage and you would also owe the government a huge, scary amount of money. As you would not be eligible for any kind of benefit (housing benefit covers rents not mortgages) you would be well and truly fucked and your only option would be to sell up immediately.

My next plan was trying for shared ownership but I was not eligible due to not being a key worker or living in the correct borough.

The final plan was getting one of these new builds on a 95% mortgage but I couldn’t help thinking, if Boris is pledging to build thousands of these new builds surely they will decrease in value? Then I would be stuck with a huge mortgage and negative equity.

This left me and my wife with just one option…

After a long battle with her morals some years ago she purchased her council house under the ‘right to buy’ scheme. She justified it because she could not afford to buy her own place in the borough where she grew up.

We are joining the ranks of greedy landlords and renting out her flat for an extortionate price so we can rent another flat at a slightly less extortionate price.

It cant be helped, we are Thatcher’s children, she made us do it.

Whoops

Tags

Alcohol, breaking into work, drunk on work night out, embarrassing stories, embarrassing work stories, reasons to get the sack, sleeping at work, too much to drink, why people resign, Work night out

Ever got really drunk on a work night out and spent the following day cringing in embarrassment and hiding from colleagues?

If so, spare a thought for a poor lad in the office above me who recently got himself into an almighty pickle following an afternoon boozing session.

Dave (not his real name) is a 26-year-old experienced professional. Young enough to drink irresponsibly, yet old enough to be able to handle it… or so he thought.

Dave and his colleagues went out for lunch on a Wednesday. Lunch turned into a few drinks which then turned into a bar crawl. Very soon Dave was inebriated.

Before he knew it, midnight had struck and it was time to get the last tube home. Off he stumbled to the tube station, only to find the gates closed and the last tube already departed.

Unfortunately this is often the case in London and is generally only a minor setback. The rich get a cab, the poor get a night bus and the brave set off walking. Dave, however, did not choose any of these options.

Perhaps he had no money and was far from home?

The next logical step would be to call on a friend or colleague and see if they could lend him the money to get home or provide a sofa for him to sleep on. Dave was not thinking logically and did not choose this option.

Dave decided to go back to work and sleep in the office for the night.

I can actually understand his reasoning.

We can all remember drinking too much on a school night in our 20s, forgetting how challenging work can be with a mega hangover. There is nothing worse than drunkenly setting your alarm for 6.00am when it’s already gone 3am and knowing the following day is going to be truly horrible. Even if you make it to work without vomiting on the tube, having to be polite, professional and competent after so much booze and so little sleep is not a pleasant experience.

Men have much less morning admin than women. No need for makeup or a hairdryer and they can live without moisturiser and toothpaste.

In fact, if I was a man I would probably have opted to sleep in the office too. A quick wash in the work toilets and a Polo mint and I would be all set for the day. As an added bonus, everyone would be impressed you were the first person into work, despite being out drinking the night before.

Dave arrived back at the office around 1.30am, all set to spend the night sleeping under his desk. The only problem was Dave didn’t have a key to the building.

Dave therefore decided to scale the wall and break in through the window.

Up the drainpipe he climbed to the 4^th floor of the building, where he smashed the window of the ladies toilets to gain access. Pulling himself through the broken glass, acquiring a few cuts and bruises in the process, he made his way to his office.

Dave then found he did not have a key to his office either…

So he kicked the door in.

Mission accomplished, Dave happily took off all his clothes and fell fast asleep.

SIX HOURS LATER 

The cleaner arrived in the office and was disturbed to find shards of broken glass, blood and a pile of discarded clothes on the floor. Peeking around the corner to the office, she was horrified to discover a blood-stained naked man, fast asleep on the floor holding his penis in his hand.

She immediately called 999 and informed the police they needed to come immediately as there was a naked pervert asleep in the office.

The police arrived fairly soon, but found it challenging to wake Dave from his slumber. By the time his colleagues arrived into work on Thursday morning, Dave had woken up, but unfortunately had not had the chance to explain himself, or put his clothes back on.

Dave was handcuffed and escorted naked out of the building as all his colleagues looked on in astonishment.

Apparently, he spent the rest of the day in a police cell before being charged with breaking and entering and public indecency.

Unsurprisingly, Dave never returned to work and was never seen or heard of again.

Better luck next time hey Dave?

Lesbian shopping

Tags

lesbian clothes, Lesbian shopping

Today I am proudly wearing the fabulous white G-Star shirt my wife bought me for Christmas and will be rocking this Friday night lezza style.

It got me thinking, does G-Star stand for Gold Star? In which case, is G-Star a coded way of saying ‘clothes for lesbians’?

For those of you who don’t know, a lesbian who has never slept with a man is what’s known in the lesbian world as “gold star”. They get VIP treatment in gay bars, discounts at the baby-making clinics and can join Gaydar Girls for free.

Not really, but they do receive a certain level of appreciation and approval from the other lezzas in society (and even more so from each other).

I can see why G-Star  (who, let’s face it, make lesbian-wear) would name their brand after these coveted creatures.

It’s not the first time a clothes brand has targeted gays. Legend has it that the clothes shop GAP was set up by two gayers and stands for ‘Gay and Proud’. I wonder if all the GAP hoodie-wearing Christians I used to hang out with on church camp knew this?

I then started thinking about all the other women’s clothes shops and who they are really for.

All Saints – Clothes for non-vegetarian lesbians? (mmm I love my leather jacket)

Urban Outfitters – Clothes for rich people who want to look like they shop in charity shops

River Island – clothes for black girls (those bright yellows and oranges do nothing for a pale pallor)

Next – Clothes for middle managers and choir singers

New Look – Clothes for fat birds and the poor

Primark – Clothes for thin birds and the poor

And yes, I shop in all the above shops (apart from Primark because I can’t handle the queues) which makes me a carnivorous, wannabe, pale, geeky, fat, impatient, poverty-stricken lesbian. Yay for me!

Fifty Shades of Grey (abridged)

Tags

Anastasia Steele, Christian Grey, Fifty Shades, Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades of Grey Abridged

I spot Christian Grey
Holy crap he’s hot!
I blush
Can I really consider his indecent proposal?
I flush
‘Consider it Ms Steele’ he says lasciviously, staring at me with his steely gray eyes
My inner goddess does backflips worthy of an Olympic gymnast
‘He doesn’t love you’ my inner subconscious chides me
Holy crap he wants me to be his sub!
I flush scarlet
I struggle to find my equilibrium
‘I’m scared Christian’ I whisper
His mouth sets in a hard line
‘Who said you could call me Christian, Ms Steele?’
I feel my insides constrict
‘Okay I will be your sub’ I whisper
Holy crap I have just agreed to be his sub!
‘What have you done?!’ my subconscious screams at me
My inner goddess claps her hands in full cheerleading mode
‘See you tomorrow’ Christian says wolfishly
Holy crap I’m seeing him tomorrow!
I struggle desperately to find my equilibrium
‘Have you eaten?’ Christian asks me sternly
Holy crap how can he tell?
I blush
‘No’ I whisper
His mouth sets in a hard line
I peek up at him through my lashes
He smiles sardonically
I bite my lower lip
‘You know what that does to me Ms Steele’ he growls carnally
He smiles lasciviously
He spanks my behind, hard, with his palm
Holy crap it hurts!
Holy shit it feels hot
I flush
I struggle to find my equilibrium
I peek up at him through my lashes
‘Tell me about your past’ I whisper coquetishally
‘I am fifty shades of fucked up’ he says sardonically
I blush
Holy crap he is so complicated
He grins salaciously
‘I will put you over my knee’ he growls carnally
Holy shit…. That smarts
I followed my heart and now all I have is a sore ass
‘I’m sorry’ I whisper, ‘I can’t do this’
His mouth sets in a hard line
‘No’ he breathes, as if I have knocked the wind out of him
I flush scarlet
Holy fuck, all my hopes and dreams have been dashed
‘Goodbye Christian’ I murmur
The anguish in his expression is palpable
Holy crap I’ve left him. The only man I’ve ever loved
I weep into the deflated helicopter balloon

Jog on January

Woo hoo happy February everyone!

Gawd I am so glad January is over. I hate it when the days are short, and the weather is shit. Christmas is over and it’s ages until summer. No Halloween, Bonfire Night or even Pancake Day to look forward to and you can’t even get pissed because you are too skint after New Year’s Eve and everybody is detoxing anyway.

January is just 31 long, cold, dark, miserable days that need to be endured.

Feeling masochistic, I decided to make January even more miserable this year by going on an elimination diet. The stuff I eliminated was: Alcohol, caffeine, sugar, wheat and dairy.

Yep, this January I have been fun, fun, fun to be with.

Without the help of any of the above, this is what I have been up to:

1. Colonic hydration

I was dubious and rather embarrassed at the thought of my colon being cleansed by a stranger, but Princess Diana was all for it and the website promised me clear skin and boundless energy afterwards.

Unfortunately I wasn’t so good at it. Have you ever tried having a normal conversation about the cinema with a pleasant middle-aged hippy while she is pushing a hosepipe up your backside? Even I am not that good at multi-tasking. I left afterwards feeling not very much different apart from mildly lightheaded and a little bit violated.

2. Hyde Park

Speaking of Dianas, the lady called Diana at speakers corner in Hyde park provided me with some amusement. I find her fascinating because her appearance is so at odds with what she says.

Diana is an elderly lady, I would say late 50s or early 60s. She has a cherubic face and grey hair which she wears under sweet bobble hats or pretty hairbands. She wears warm, fur-lined winter walking boots and carries a thermos flask full of tea with her. At first glance, you can imagine her as a caring grandmother who likes to tell stories to her grandchildren while baking them scones in her cottage full of kittens.

I don’t know if Diana has grandchildren, or indeed any family at all, but if she does, Sunday is not the day she spends with them. Sunday is the day she stands on her soapbox in Hyde Park and proclaims all people from outside of the UK are “disgusting sewer rats” and should “piss off back to where they came from”.

Here is Diana having one of her racist rants:

She has made quite a name for herself, and lots of foreign people crowd around her and deliberately provoke her to receive the dubious reward of a tirade of her racist bile.

3. Django Unchained, Best Tarantino film yet – go and see it.

On the plus side, I didn’t have any hangovers this January (okay that’s a lie, but I did have fewer), I knuckled down with lots of work and I can now run 5k in less than half an hour.

Bring on February and getting a life again!

A response to the gay marriage malarkey

Tags

Dr Laura Letter

Not my own and must be at least 10 years old now, but this letter really makes me laugh (yes I am going to hell). The letter is a response to Dr Laura Schlesinger – opposer of gay marriage.

Dear Dr. Laura:

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God’s Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other specific laws and how to follow them:

When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord – Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness – Lev.15:19- 24. The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can’t I own Canadians?

I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?

A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination – Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don’t agree. Can you settle this?

Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?

Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?

I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? – Lev.24:10-16. Couldn’t we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God’s word is eternal and unchanging.

The unbeautiful people

A while ago I interviewed the CEO of the website beutifulpeople.com and in return I received lifetime free membership of the website. The premise of the site is that only the very beautiful are allowed to join, voted in by existing members of the opposite sex.

Shallow and soul destroying? Yes I kinda thought that too.

They have recently launched a version of the site for lesbians, which is the reason I interviewed the boss and the reason I received lifetime free membership. He very kindly offered me the opportunity to “shape gay women’s interpretation of beauty” by becoming a founding member of the lesbian site.

Anyway, there was some glitch meaning I was put on the straight site instead of the lesbian one which didn’t really trouble me as I doubt I would have bothered logging in anyway. However, I had also been put on the mailing list for the exclusive Beautiful People events listing which I found intriguing.

I was quite interested in the networking event at Home House, until I scrolled down and realised it cost £30 and was actually speed dating with a glass of “free champaign” (sic).

I received another invite last week inviting myself and up to four friends to join the beautiful people guestlist at Movida.

The email explained beautiful women should ask to be directed to the Capital A-List table to enjoy complimentary drinks and then unashamedly stated:

The one guarantee is everyone will be beautiful… and if they are not beautiful they will definitely be rich.

While absolutely disagreeing with the appalling, discriminatory, sexist and completely shallow nature of this offer, I am not one to turn down free club entry with free drinks and my bezza was down from Sheffield so I added myself, her and another mate to the list.

The email stated we were to arrive before 10.30pm but we were busy downing pints of lager and stuffing ourselves full of Pad Thai (the pre-requisite to every beautiful woman’s evening out) and therefore did not arrive until gone 11, giggling and slightly tipsy.

The tall, dark, exquisitely manicured door whore stared down at us coolly

“Yes?”

“Hello, we are on the guestlist”

She slowly stared each one of us up and down, wrinkling her nose ever so slightly.

“Which guestlist?”

“Ah, erm the Beautiful People one”

“That guestlist is closed” she said crisply, “It’s table service only and a £20 entrance fee”.

She stared at us belligerently, squaring up for a fight, and seemed rather disappointed when we just shrugged and jumped into a passing rickshaw to take us on our way.

Weeeeeeee!

Four hours and many shots of toffee vodka later we were having a blast of a party… on my roof terrace, in our dressing gowns listening to hard house through my headphones.

“Let’s get a tattoo!” we yelled, bopping up and down to our favourite song ‘The Osaris’

Did we know what Osaris meant? No. But who cares! We love the song!

“Wooo! The Osaris! The Osaris! The Osaris!” we sang.

It was decided we would get “The Osaris” tattooed on ourselves at the next available opportunity.

Fortunately London’s tattoo parlours were all closed as a quick Google search shows an “Osaris” is this http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osaris.

The following day, as I was skulking past my neighbour’s front door, he popped his head out and asked if I had heard some drunken people singing in the night about a thesaurus. I shook my head genuinely baffled.

What kind of loser would sing about a thesaurus? Definitely not someone like me. I am one of the beautiful people.

“Thesaurus”

The story of Facebook Female

Facebook Female hates Mondays

Facebook Female: Yippeee it’s Friday! Time for a much deserved glass of vino

Facebook Female is dwuuunk

Facebook Female: Never drinking again. Bleurgh

Facebook Female: OMG Ryland what next!!!!!!!!!! It’s a fix!

Facebook Female likes Take That

Facebook Female is looking forward to seeing a certain someone this weekend

Facebook Female is in a relationship with Facebook Male

Check in: Facebook Female is at Pizza Express with Facebook Male

Facebook Female is being cooked breakfast in bed. Lucky me

Facebook Female claimed on offer for a weekend away for two on Groupon

Facebook Female: Sorry I haven’t been on here in ages. Very busy

Facebook Female and Facebook Male’s offer got accepted on their house! [54 likes]

Facebook Female is engaged to Facebook Male [87 likes]

Facebook Female: OMG can’t believe there’s only 467 sleeps until I am Mrs Facebook Male!

Facebook Female created an event: Hen party weekend. Dress code: Anything goes!

Facebook Female is nervous…… but very excited!

Facebook Female is married to Facebook Male [143 likes]

Facebook Female and Facebook Male check in at Heathrow Terminal 3 “off on honeymoon yippee!”

Facebook Female: Back to work

Facebook Female: We have some news…Little Facebook Junior is on the way [98 likes]

Facebook Female updated her profile picture [a foetus]

Facebook Female: Off on maternity leave hurrah!

Facebook Female: Eeeek six centimetres dilated. Apologies if that’s TMI. LOL.

Facebook Female: Proud to announce the birth of little Facebook Junior, we are all happy and doing well. [143 likes]

Facebook Female: Haven’t slept in weeks and covered in baby sick. I am absolutely in love with Facebook Junior though, here are 3,000 photos of him

Facebook Female: Facebook Junior had his jabs today, it was heartbreaking. I cried more than he did

Facebook Female: I’m so tired.

Facebook Female likes Ocado

Facebook Female commented on a post “Facebook Junior did that for about six months too. Don’t worry she will grow out of it”

Facebook Female: Facebook Junior is asleep and I’m tipsy on two glasses of wine. Hic!

Facebook Female: I’m doing a crazy dance in front of the mirror completely NAKED apart from my hen party bunny ears. I look sooooo hot.

Facebook Female: OMG that was a frape guys! Oh my God Facebook Male you are in such big trouble!!!!!

Facebook Female: Baby + Hangover = Bleurgh

Facebook Female: God I’m so bored of Facebook, I’m deleting my profile.

[three days later]

Facebook Female: I’m back! I’m back! What did I miss? And more to the point… who missed me?

Facebook Female hates Mondays