gibbon-arsed ramblings of a hopeless underachiever
Friday, February 27, 2004
I walked past a man who smelt like sweeties. Dolly Mixtures, to be precise.
For a split second, I wanted to tell him how lovely it was that he smelt of sweeties and ask him why. But then I remembered the golden rule about London - don't talk to people. Don't be friendly. Just don't even try.
posted by bandhag | 2/27/2004 11:12:00 AM
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Just following orders.
And to give you all a refreshing break from my bitching, I shall tell you that one of the cutest things in the world is that when I'm up late, working, Kitty Bandhag has recently taken to stirring herself from her own sleep, for the sole purpose of sitting beside my desk meowing at me until I go to bed. Took me a while to realise that that's what she was doing, rather than just the normal "Oi, feed me" thing. Awww. See - from supreme bitchiness to tragic sappiness in one easy move. Nice.
posted by bandhag | 2/25/2004 12:08:00 PM
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
DSL modems that act like a firewall but only one way (stops you getting probed - ooer matron - but doesn't stop malicious code that might get onto your machine from sending all your damn passwords etc out into the ether), and that if you try to use another firewall with them, stop you getting on the facking Intermaweb at all. Gah, and also Bah.
posted by bandhag | 2/24/2004 02:34:00 PM
Monday, February 23, 2004
What is it with the youth of today?
I went to two indie clubs over the course of this weekend, and both of them served to reinforce the fact that, on the whole, indie clubs fall into two categories - the ridiculously cool and the sublimely shallow. Here are my tips for spotting which you've stumbled into, and how to cope.
At the ridiculously cool indie clubs, the clientele are so achingly hip that they aren't allowed to smile at all whilst on the dancefloor - perish the thought that anyone should think they are here for FUN. They are here to be seen being cool, whilst "dancing" to music that is so cool that they actually don't have a clue what it is, but all the people who look like them are dancing to it. Therefore, it must be cool. Ok? Cool.
Authentic vintage clothes are a must here, so that the entire place will smell like the back room of a giant Oxfam shop, and there's a serious fire risk should two of the manmade-fibre-clad skeletons accidentally brush against each other on the dancefloor (but fear not, dear readers, they're utterly sexless, so they won't). If authentic vintage clothes can't be found, then new designer ones will do, but they must look old. The music will largely consist of twee rubbish - the flyers will promise The Smiths and The Cure, but you'll get a brief flash of This Charming Man, plus Friday I'm in Love if you're lucky, crowbarred in as an afterthought to hours and hours of Ballboy and Belle & Sebastian. Girls, you may dance, but only in a contrived and awkward-looking "Northern Soul" style - elbows pinned to waist, forearms flailing "daintily" to the music, kicking out/pointing the toe of one foot after the other. Remember to hang a Hello Kitty satchel from your wrist*. Be careful, though - if you're doing things right, you're so thin that the slender straps of a child's bag will probably snap your twiggy little limbs like a dry breadstick.
Boys, if you could avoid eating for a couple of months and go out of your way to exude "Ooo, I might be gay. Aren't I just, like, so now?!" air, that would be great. Camp is great - androgenous would be supercool. Obviously, you actually need to be so homophobic that if a gay man actually approaches you, you either tell him to fuck off or actually shit your pants in pure fear. Hey, here's an idea - why don't you carry a handbag, like your girl chums? Show everyone how totally leftfield you are! Go on, you zany motherfucker. You know you want to. Dance like the girls are dancing. Alternatively, dance like you're trying to put out a fire in your thermal longjohns but the only method you have of extinguishing the flames is the medium of performance art.
So, on to the sublimely shallow. Imagine you go to the nearest Wetherspoons, round up the Ben Sherman shirt-wearers and their ruched-trousers-and-spray-on-tan girlfriends, and put half in Topman/Miss Selfridge "Authentic 80's ROCK" wear and half in blazers and jeans. Add in some clueless and infeasibly posh Economics/Accountancy students, still wearing their business trousers, university scarves and pure wool overcoats. Then some Art students (mostly boys, all scowling, all looking like their haircuts fell on them from out of a tree, as R would say). Get the DJ to play a "Totally MAAAAD" mixture of music that, like, NO-ONE except him would have EVER thought to put together or play in public (Franz Ferdinand, best known Nirvana tracks, old Michael Jackson, 80's pop - the guy's a radical genius, I tells ya. Pfff). Dance. Like you're at a family wedding, if you like. Who knows whether you're "cool", but you're trendy like New Look, baby. And you look about 12.
I went to one each of these kinds of clubs at the weekend. The second one was a real gas - much better music and even if the youngsters were trying too hard (and yes, they were), at least they were enjoying themselves and managing to dance without "Ugh, I'm so bored. I'm only doing this for the benefit of you who are watching me, you know. Sigh" attitudes, like the people at the so-called cool club. At the second club, I was shocked by the number of very young girls with very large thighs, wearing very short skirts. Very short ra-ra skirts. Saints preserve us. This high street 80's revival has got a lot to answer for.
Special shout-outs go to: the couple attempting to jive (full body, not just hand) to Hole and the girl in the white, fringed pixie boots. Y'all made this old lady's night something reeeeal special.
I'm quite the curmudgeonly old bitch, n'est-ce pas? Next weekend, I think I'll stay in with some Horlicks and The Daily Mail or something. It's obviously the next logical step for me.
*yeah, ok, I have some Hello Kitty stuff. But I'm not twee, right? Say I am again and I'll DO ya.
posted by bandhag | 2/23/2004 06:01:00 PM
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
so...nah nah neeee. Tuesday Tuesday, it was all I hoped it would beeeee. diddle diddle dee.
And so on.
The cat is currently attempting to strangle me by sitting on my lap playing with/fighting/eating the cords on my hooder, so if this is even more drivelly than normal (not possible, surely?), it's down to the lack of oxygen. Please send help.
Ho hum, another week of flitting around to gigs and clubs and staying in during the day, waiting for people, getting pissed off, and fighting with the intermaweb and technology as a whole. I won't bore you with the details, but there are Problems with my internet access, and specifically with the access to one of my employers' sites. Sigh. Oh yeah, and I'd just like to state for the record that bloody ADSL is way slower than cable - my 150kb/s connection on cable went like shit off a warm plate compared to this so-called 256kb/s ADSL thing. Don't it make my geek eyes blue...
Meanwhile, the bathroom floor is still concrete with a sheet of hardboard on it, we still don't have a shower curtain/rail and the safety glass is still missing from the cooker so we can't use the oven. God bless British workmen, no?
Better go... I've a pressing appointment with a long relaxing bath and then perhaps a little light "Get yerself a job ya fuckin' slacker". Hurrah.
posted by bandhag | 2/17/2004 11:24:00 AM
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
Good morning, my lovelies.
I'm blogging not from the new Bandhag Towers, but from my friends' house, as they've kindly let me use their computer while they're both out earning an honest crust (Guv'nor).
So, The Move happened. It was, predictably, a fucking nightmare. We arrived the day before the move to find that, in replacing some taps, the plumber had burst a pipe in the bathroom, which flooded it and ruined the floor. We're still waiting for them to put in a new one and meanwhile we get to take baths in a room with a concrete floor with one sheet of hardboard laid over the top of it. Mmm, classy.
Blah blah, pissed it down with rain while we were trying to move, blah blah, took 5 people and the removal of feet (the sofa's, not ours) to get the sofa in the house, blah blah, fridge broken, washing machine broken, blah blah, no gas, no TV, some gas, heating not working properly and stuck on all the time, no gas again, blah blah blah.
But all in all, it's ok. I've been out to lots of gigs, met up with my sister who's also in That London, and despite the odd pang of "Wah! I'm alone in a huge city!", it's been ok. Why, I even get strangers talking to me on the Tube. Probably because they think I'm a local. Innit.
Having been stuck in the house most of the time, waiting for workmen to arrive, I've not really got anything of any real amusement value to report.
I did, however, get into a car with my mates on Friday night, blind drunk, and excuse myself for having a big fat arse, adding to the Ex "Still, at least I'm not as fat as your Missus, eh?" I do not remember doing this at all, another friend told me about it. He said that silence descended in the car, but the Ex hasn't mentioned it since, so it's vaguely possible he's forgotten since he was as drunk as me. I feel really really terrible about this - it is, sadly, true (the friend who told me I'd done this said that the rest of them had been shaking trying not to laugh) but still... I'd never say anything that bitchy and mean to/about someone normally.
Ahem. Writing doesn't count as "saying", obviously...
That's it, see. London has turned me into a horrible mean bitch already.
So, like, you can all kiss my arse. 'N' shit. Innit.
God, all this "urban" behaviour is exhausting. Time for some crumpets. Toodle pip.
posted by bandhag | 2/11/2004 09:51:00 AM