gibbon-arsed ramblings of a hopeless underachiever

Sunday, May 30, 2004

Dancing queens  

My younger sister went to her very first festival type thing yesterday and when she phoned me this afternoon, before she'd said one sentence I knew she'd have tried "macaroons" and "room deodorisers", just because I know that all the things she was saying about them beforehand ("I'm definitely not going to take them - guaranteed I'll be the one to drop dead of a heart attack" etc) were the exact same things I'd said before I tried them. Not "I don't want to. It doesn't interest me in the slightest". She had, of course. I jokingly told her off for once again copying me in doing naughty things and then we talked about how great it was and how we should do them together some time. Bad influence, moi?

Meanwhile, while my sister was hands-in-the-air in a dance tent, I was at an indie disco in That London. It was good - we danced lots and I saw my braids in UV light (a bit - didn't quite have the nerve to get up on the stage). I also slipped and fell most of the way down a beer-covered and therefore very slippery spiral staircase.

I'm so cool.

posted by bandhag | 5/30/2004 11:35:00 PM

Saturday, May 29, 2004

Still not watching Big Brother  

But if I was, I think that as a straight woman I'd feel slightly cheated that the most (and very) attractive people to look at are

Daniel, who's gay (and only sleeps with straight men, apparently...)

and Kitten, who's also gay (and reminds me of a young Jarvis Cocker... though not so much in this photo)

Dermot's still my favourite. Though I hear he's gay, too.

Gah. How's a girl supposed to do any fantasising with such utterly unattainable prospects on offer, eh? Back to real life people, then, I guess.

posted by bandhag | 5/29/2004 10:26:00 AM

Friday, May 28, 2004

It has been a good day  

other than a bit of a going-out balls-up. But that's ok, I don't even mind it, because I'm going out tomorrow night anyway. And this time there will be dancing. I've limbered up for it good style with my Baggy day today.

I've had some beers, I've chilled out on my own in front of the telly for a while, listened to some more long lost music, exchanged a few texts with people who make me smile a lot. I like days like this, where I don't actually get much done but where the going-to-bed feeling is a warm one. Would be even warmer if someone was in that bed but you can't have everything...

posted by bandhag | 5/28/2004 11:36:00 PM

Not blogging about Big Brother  

Because I won't be watching it this year. Oh no. Just like I didn't watch it any of the previous years. Other than the daily round-ups, the evictions and maybe a few hours at night. And checking the website. Sometimes.

So I don't even care about the fact they've obviously deliberately chosen people they think will be at each other's throats the whole time. I couldn't be more blase about whether or not they work out how to make the toilet windows opaque before someone really needs to use it. It bothers me not that someone will be left with no clothes for the whole ten weeks. And I won't be bothering to predict that Kitten could be the first person ever to be thrown out of Big Brother, if she stays in longer than about 3 weeks, or another one to walk out if she doesn't.


Not interested.


posted by bandhag | 5/28/2004 10:40:00 PM

Mad fer it  

I'm feeling extremely restless. I'm having a Madchester/Baggy day. I have this compilation thing that has stuff on it like The Farm, Happy Mondays, Jesus Jones, EMF, The La's, The Charlatans, Smiths, Soup Dragons, early Blur and I'm mixing it with more Smiths, more Charlatans, etc etc. It is making me feel about 15 again and it's quite literally all I can do to stop myself from just spending the day dancing in my bedroom. And the great thing is, there's such specific dances to do to this kind of music. Viz:

- the "walking on the spot" move
- interspersed with actual walking backwards and forwards

- always look at the floor/your feet/bottom of your flares, or close your eyes
- choice of facial expressions
- looking melancholy/sulky (Smiths)
- grinning like you're "on one" (anyone else)
- making an "ooooo" shape with your mouth

- lots of alternate shoulder dipping
- "shaking one maraca" mime - to be used with care, and generally with the oooo mouth
- arms folded behind you
- hanging loose in front of you, doing a kind of "alternately pulling at rubber bands attached to the floor in front of you" move.

Oh fuck it. I'm going to prance around my bedroom for a bit. I'm sure it'll help me work up to writing case studies about geeky IT stuff. Innit.

Come and dance with me.

Bring drugs and booze.

posted by bandhag | 5/28/2004 12:31:00 PM

Thursday, May 27, 2004

In summer, when you were kids  

after the men had been round to cut the grass, did you used to make houses out of the grass clippings? My sisters and I used to mark out the floorplans of houses with little "walls" of grass clippings, a few inches high - gaps for doors, sometimes even basic furniture or appliances marked out. We spent days and days playing games in these houses, rebuilding them, adding extensions, making a shop across the green a bit.

No-one else any of us has ever mentioned this to ever did it. But you did, right?

posted by bandhag | 5/27/2004 03:33:00 PM

Wednesday, May 26, 2004

Non-surprise ending  

Fluffy's comment about sex shops a couple of posts ago reminded me to blog about sex shops, and the assistants thereof.

I've only been in one sex shop in my life. I don't know why. I'm not bashful about them or anything. It's always just struck me as kind of a group event, and no-one I knew ever wanted to go. Plus, I must be either dead careful with my appliances or very good at choosing quality ones, because they never break. And I have no qualms about slapping down a massive box of condoms on the counter of any old shop. "Yep. Gonna have me some fuck. What of it?". And so on. So I'd just never been.

Anyway, I digress. The one sex shop I've been in. In what strikes me as typical Cambridge lunacy, the sex shop in question is two doors down from a church. The street goes: lots of houses, church, pub, sex shop, some other shop that I can't remember. I expect the shop next to the sex shop is actually Hell, which probably makes things rather handy for the church, since it gives them a chance to show the sinner's descent into firey brimstone, should they choose the wrong exit. Metaphor-tastic. I imagine they have a poster near the door:

[Yes. I made that. Just now. Instead of working. I am bandhag, see me slack!]

So, anyway, the time I went into a sex shop: I timed it for a Tuesday day time, since I figured there wouldn't be too many people around. I suppose perhaps I was a bit put off by the idea of wandering into the local Shag Emporium while a sermon was in full swing.

It was a bloke serving. He was grinning at me like I should be embarrassed, and kept asking if I needed any help or advice and pointing out things he thought I might want ["Jesus Christ, how many more times? NO I don't want an 18" double-ender, and NO I'm not embarrassed by the fact it's there. Fuckhat."] so while I was making my purchase, I made him squirm by asking if he had any R18 films "You know, proper fucking, like" and then turning down what he offered, with disparaging phrases like "Fake lesbians?!! No thanks", "Hmmm. Too much anal, not enough oral by the looks of it" and "Pfff - if I wanted soft porn I'd pay for it off cable". Then I asked him a couple of questions about cock rings, which lube he sold most of and why he didn't have any leaflets for the local safe sex centres around. His crest was well and truly fallen by the time I left, and he was eyeing me like I was Ms Sexpert UK and he was some spotty virgin. "HA!" I thought, strutting towards the door, "That'll teach you to try and intimidate lone women in your shop, Mister. GRRRRL power!"

My uppance was extremely quick in coming, as I walked through the fly-strip door of the shop clutching my brown paper bag, straight into a very large vicar and group of schoolchildren obviously on some fucking special "Hey, It's Tuesday Let's All Skip School, Go to Church and Then Have a Stroll in the Local Community" day or something.

Let me tell you - no-one does non-verbal righteous indignation and horror quite like a vicar and a group of under-tens.

Have I mentioned how heartily I endorse online shopping?

posted by bandhag | 5/26/2004 02:50:00 PM

Tuesday, May 25, 2004


WHY do people always give me shitloads of work to do right at the end of the month? Also, I've had to turn down the offer of a commission to try some journalistic reportin' type stuff (albeit at a geek conference) because it falls on my sister's birthday and I've promised to take her out during the day to make up for the fact I'm missing her night out 'cos I'm off to see the Pixies (The Pixies! WOOHOO!) instead.

It's kind of a shame, because it'd be great to have some of that kind of work to put in me CV, and the editor even said people would be so busy falling over themselves to be helpful to one of the few women in the room that no-one would mind the fact I'd be the only person there with pink hair. Ho hum, the trials of life. He said they'll send me to the next one if I can go, so that's ok. Would be even better if the company suddenly shifted its focus from IT to music and they asked me to report on that instead, but I sense that may not happen...

posted by bandhag | 5/25/2004 10:15:00 PM

Monday, May 24, 2004

New toy  

I have a digital camera now, but the fact that I'm even doing this post is a sign of how much I lurve my braids.

Ok, so here goes my anonymity...

[snippety snip]

Et voila. The colours are a bit more orangey in these pics than it looks in real life, where everything's a bit pinker like. These pictures may self-destruct shortly...

posted by bandhag | 5/24/2004 06:19:00 PM

All braided up  

and ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod, the braidy lady reminded me that the pinks I've chosen are UV-reactive!! How did I forget this?

I need to do me some clubbing, quick smart.

posted by bandhag | 5/24/2004 05:44:00 PM

Sunday, May 23, 2004

Freedom! Horrible, horrible freedom!  

[geek points to those spotting the quote]

Out with R& A last night to the first gig I've been to in what seems like forever (Two Whole Weeks). And very good it was, too - Wet Dog and The Schla La Las at the 12 Bar. There was another band in between missed them. Sorry. Both doing veh good girly indie pop type stuff. Wet Dog in particular blow me away for the fact the stuff they do on one level sounds really simple and almost shambolic/like they've only just picked their instruments up. But it's so fucking good. I'm not explaining it very well, I think. Let's just say that they're ace, shall we?

Anyway, as usual, we ogled the geetars in the shops along Denmark Street on the way there and back. And when I say ogling, I mean pressing our faces against the windows like orphans at Christmas, cooing over the goodies inside. R still hasn't found the aluminium bass she's been coveting for what seems like forever. She must've looked in those windows so many times the shops should give her one as some kind of pseudo customer loyalty thing...

Finished the night off with some lovely chickeny noodly concoction from (I think) Chopsticks? Some takeaway noodle place near Tottenham Court Road tube, anyway. It came in one of those cool boxes that folds together like they always have chinese food in on American tv/films - I think I enjoy the novelty of that almost as much as the noodles.

Ah, simple minds, simple pleasures, etc.

And tomorrow, the braiding. Seven hours of having someone yank my hair really fucking hard and plait in brightly coloured fake hair that I won't be able to wash properly until whenever I finally take it out.

Mmm, sexy.

posted by bandhag | 5/23/2004 08:47:00 PM

Saturday, May 22, 2004

I love you  

You're fucking great, you are. Not like those other cunts. They're all...cunts. 'N they can fuck right off. But you... you're different, cos you're really fucking GREAT.

No, but listen - LISTEN, right. Listen to me. You really are fuckin' great. Like, I can't believe how great you are. I love you, man. I mean I really love you. No, you don't understand, it's not just the drink talking, I really really love you.


I'm sorry, I can't keep it up. It's all a thin veneer. I'm not half as drunk as I thought I'd be. Dammit.

I do love you, though.

Ya cunts.

Fancy a shag?

posted by bandhag | 5/22/2004 01:58:00 AM

Friday, May 21, 2004

Are you lookin at me? Are you lookin at ME? I don't see anyone else here...  

I went to the corner shop and bought many many beers and a packet of toilet roll, and that is all. Beer because we need to get drunk tonight and toilet roll because we had run out.

The lady behind the counter looked at me funny.


I refrained from saying.

In other news, this afternoon I got off the phone from an extremely emotional and painful conversation, only to find an ulcer had suddenly appeared under my tongue.

'Tis witchery, I tell thee.

Yes, I am half pissed. You can expect more of this crap in a while. I can tell your hooks are well and truly tentered.


posted by bandhag | 5/21/2004 09:03:00 PM

Wednesday, May 19, 2004

Because I know you want to know  

I'm getting my hair braided again on Monday. Last time, I was working in an office so had mostly natural colours with a bit of burgundy and some really bright red. This time, I are fully-fledged freelancing from home type person so I'm getting a bit of natural, the very bright red, hot pink and baby pink. Pink, I tells ya!

I am quite excited.

posted by bandhag | 5/19/2004 03:19:00 PM

"My heart is hurting" or How I Cursed My Own Lovelife Before I Lost My Milk Teeth  

When I was 7 years old, I liked boys' stuff. I liked to talk to boys. I liked the games the boys played. I liked to fight with the boys, the way boys fought. I liked the music the boys liked and the jokes boys told.

(I liked ponies too, but that was ok as long as I kept it to myself and didn't try to make the boys play gymkhana or anything).

We were in the first year of Junior school and an American boy joined our class. Scotty, his name was. He had light brown, slightly curly hair and very very blue eyes. The kind of boy I would now say was beautiful. Scotty and I were soon Best Friends. We hung around together at playtime. We played cops n robbers and pretended we were spies. He was one of the few children allowed to my house after school, and I went to his sometimes, too. For that year, we were inseparable.

Then, on the last day of term, a funny thing happened.

We had brought toys and games in to play, because that's what you do on the last day of term. I was very sad, because Scotty was going to go back to America the next day. He wasn't coming back to our school the next year, and I would never see him again. My best friend was moving away. Forever.

We made the best of the situation, as lads do. We played Connect 4 and Guess Who, and built things out of lego for each other to blow up.

And then, at break time, while we were hanging around the coatpegs, avoiding going outside into the cold to play, Scotty suddenly seemed uneasy and quiet. After a bit of shuffling around from foot to foot, he gave me a piece of paper. The piece of paper was folded in half like a greeting card, and on the front was a heart, and inside he had written

"To Bandhag

You are pretty
I love you

love from Scotty"

And there were kisses.

Skirting straight over the "pretty" nonsense, which I knew was complete bollocks, I asked "What do you mean, you love me?"
"I love you. I want you to be my girlfriend and write to me when I've gone home", he answered.

Horrified beyond words, I thrust the note to the bottom of my shoebag and went back into the classroom. If I did not mention this again, he would forget about it, and we could go back to normal, I thought.

I began dealing out the cards for a game of snap.

Scotty looked sad. I ignored him, confident this madness would soon pass. He couldn't possibly love me. At 7 (and younger), everyone had girlfriends and boyfriends - you would ask someone to be your boyfriend, they would say yes, you would tell people that you now had 4 boyfriends, you would forget about a couple of them, swap around every few days or whatever, but that was as far as it went. It was like collecting football stickers. There was no romance involved, no emotions, no heartbreak and certainly nobody ever talked about love.

So the afternoon went on and Scotty was still sad and I was getting cross because he wouldn't play properly. At afternoon play, he wouldn't come outside. I made the best of the situation by getting into a fight with some boy who'd annoyed me somehow a couple of days before.

About 10 minutes before home time, Scotty gave me another note. It had a drawing of him on it, with a big sad face and underneath he had written "My heart is hurting".

I screwed it up and threw it on the floor.

He picked it up, unfolded it and put it back in my hand. "Please", was all he said.

I tore it into tiny pieces and threw it at him. "No".

Then Scotty cried. He cried. He was crying because of me.

Our mums came to pick us up and, confused at the atmosphere between us, tried to encourage us to say our final goodbyes. I don't remember exactly what happened but nothing much in the way of goodbye, that's for sure. It may be revisionist, but the last thing I remember saying to him was that "No".

To this day, I'll never know why I behaved like that, and despite the fact I'm sure he forgot about it almost straightaway, I still feel really ashamed about it. I liked Scotty. I loved him, as 7 year olds love people. He was my friend. He was beautiful - I was aware of it then in a naive ghost of the way I know it now. People often asked if he was my boyfriend and I emphatically told them he wasn't. He was too special to me to have that label that I knew meant nothing of any worth. He was defined as my best friend, and that really meant something about how much I liked him. It would have been so easy to say yes to being his girlfriend, to have been pen friends with him, to have been nice to him, so why was I so fucking horrible about it? Even being that age when ego is all-ruling, it was completely out of character for me to be so wilfully unpleasant and hurtful to someone.

I guess nowadays I glibly think that maybe it was the old "I didn't want to be a member of any club that wanted me as a member" thing. So I jokingly attribute the disappointments of my romantic trysts as an adult to how mean I was to Scotty back then. I say it's karma paying me back, that the only time I get into that "club" is on a visitor's pass, and I end up getting lost in there, behaving badly and being thrown out, or realising the music's stopped and the person I was so looking forward to dancing with went home not long after they'd got me in.

But of course, since I'm a grown-up now, I know that it's really because I'm a crap shag.

posted by bandhag | 5/19/2004 01:18:00 PM

Saturday, May 15, 2004

Is this weird?  

Despite having not lived with someone for over three years, I still only ever sleep on one side (whichever is either up against the wall, or furthest from the door) of my double bed, rather than in the middle or swapping sides.

posted by bandhag | 5/15/2004 10:35:00 PM


Thought Serbia were going to win for a while, there.

posted by bandhag | 5/15/2004 10:20:00 PM

Giddy with glee  

Remember how I was saying my cough had got worse after the club last week? It's still really bad, so I daren't risk taking it out for more gigging/clubbing tonight.

But I'm not sad. Oh no. Because on BBC1 tonight, we have Strictly Come Dancing and the Eurovision Song Contest. Woohoo! I shall drink beer and enthuse over sparkly outfits.

Who are you calling a gay man trapped in a woman's body?

posted by bandhag | 5/15/2004 05:17:00 PM

Thursday, May 13, 2004


They'd say, surely. And if they didn't, and they were all moody like about me not "getting it", it would serve them right for acting like such GIRLS.


posted by bandhag | 5/13/2004 08:52:00 AM

All this theorisin' and no drugs - what gives?  

I frequently mention how you can't not phone girls* or reply to their emails or whatever, because if you do, they assume you're in a mood with them, or trying to put some distance between you, or trying to make a point or something. I like the fact that hanging around with mostly boys all the time, I can generally assume that if someone doesn't call/write/whatever for a while, it's just because they're busy and/or a bit slack, and they know the same goes for me. Boy mates will generally tell you if they're pissed off with you or they want to be left alone for a bit or you're doing their head in. Even if they don't say it right away, they will eventually.

But I have just suddenly had a thought. What if, actually, I'm missing signals? What if sometimes when boys don't write or call or whatever, they are in a mood with me, or trying to put some distance between us, or trying to make a point or something? What if they assume that because I'm a girl, I'll know that that's what's happening? And instead, because no-one's actually said anything negative, I'll just be blundering along thinking all is hunkydory. What if my boy mates are all rolling their eyes to heaven about what a thick-skinned cow I am that I never take a hint when they go incommunicado?

And having had that thought, am I now going to be locked into thinking that when a boy doesn't phone or email me, they might be making a point/in a mood/telling me to fuck off? Am I, at nearly [whisper]ty years old, turning into A Girl?

Dear God. I've made myself dizzy with the thinking. Time for a beer.

*excludes R, who is a fantastic human being and doesn't count as a girl like "bah. girls. pfff"

posted by bandhag | 5/13/2004 12:41:00 AM

Wednesday, May 12, 2004

Don't go looking for coins down the back of MY sofa  

I have lost a vibrator.

No, not like that, silly (I like to think I'm still fairly tight. Innit). I found it when I was going through a box looking for something, I had it in my hand while tidying up, wondering where to put it.

Stop it.

And now I don't know where it is. Even though I've torn the flat apart looking for it, you just know I'm going to have left it lying around somewhere that someone else is going to find it. I'm particularly afraid of this scenario as it's an enormous comedy bright pink thing that makes your eyes water just looking at it. Bought for me as a joke. Never used. But Lovely Flatmate isn't to know that, is she?

This is why I don't tidy up - I always end up throwing things away by accident (please, oh please let that be what I've done), or I'll make piles of things that need to be moved into other rooms, move the pile into the appropriate room, then have to tidy that room. Meanwhile, I'll get distracted by an album I'd forgotten I had/a packet of stickers/box of paints/trial sachet of face pack I've just found/nail polish I forgot I'd bought... Put album on... Make a pretty picture/paint nails/apply face pack. ..Instantly forget where I'd got to with tidying... Realise that I've lost a huge pink vibrator...


In other news - I know I'm a tiny bit slack about updating, but I'm genuinely shocked to note I've only done a measly 191 posts in comparison to Stu (1100+ posts) and Fluffy (500+). I'm rubbidge.

posted by bandhag | 5/12/2004 10:00:00 PM

You'll never guess  

Where I should have been, three years ago today.

posted by bandhag | 5/12/2004 11:29:00 AM

Tuesday, May 11, 2004


When I was 18, I ran the campaign for the Labour party at a mock election we held at school. This was in Huntingdon which was, at that time, the home town of the Tory Prime Minister. Obviously we were thrashed, and I was disgusted. How, I agnonised, could these seemingly intelligent people, who wanted to go on and be students (if nothing else), vote for these oppressive, lying scumbags, who would mortgage all our futures just to ensure they lived a comfortable life right now? And that was the ones who could be bothered to vote.

I remember - christ this is tragic - sitting up late into the night watching the voting results coming in as one seat after another fell into Labour control. I remember waking up the morning after Labour had got in, feeling happy, positive, optimistic, like finally we were getting somewhere.

If you'd told me that seven years down the line we'd see ID cards, university fees, the abolition of grants, immigrants sent off to prison camps, the country led into an illegal war that every day just brought fresh horrors and lies to light, all under a Labour government, I'd have thought you were fucking mental.

I caught the end of their party election broadcast last night. "Britain is working. Don't let the Tories mess it up again". More like "Yeah, we're bad - but just think how bad they'd be". I can't. It doesn't bear thinking about. There's no difference. Vote for the cunts, or vote for the complete and utter cunts. The choice is all yours.

Let's hear it for democracy.

posted by bandhag | 5/11/2004 06:06:00 AM

Saturday, May 08, 2004


I say that, but today I've been in agony. Dunno if it was the dancing, or the copious amounts of other people's smoke, but I can't stop coughing - worse than before - and my chest is really tight and very achy. Uncomfortable sitting, uncomfortable lying down. Urgh.

In other news, the cat went on dirty protest in the bathroom for reasons known best to herself. She tried to cover it up with the mat. As soon as I'd stopped being fucking livid, stopped feeling really sick, cleaned it up and gone back to bed, I was faintly amused by the idea of her gripping the edge of the mat in her little kitty hands and pulling it over her "surprise" - either in a cartoony "HA HA, she will NEVER suspect! The trap is laid" Wiley Coyote style, or in an "Oh my God, I've had an accident! I can't pick it up myself - no opposable thumbs. I know, I'll hide it under here, she'll never know!" panic style.

And now she's sitting on my lap, purring like she's the world's stupidest, most innocent cat, what's never 'ad a thought about nuffink other than whiskas and catnip, innit.

I know better, lady, so don't come it with me.

Think on.

posted by bandhag | 5/08/2004 10:36:00 PM


I am way less fucked up than after a usual night at the club, despite all the contraindications.

It was good.

I bought a part chimp t-shirt from lovely Tim. They haven't had any in stock for ridiculous amounts of time. He bent over double and put his hands on his knees so he was low enough to hear what I was saying. He still had to bend down some more. I felt approximately eight years of age. I'm a pragmatic girl, I know when a situation is hopeless.

Nice crush while it lasted, though...

posted by bandhag | 5/08/2004 04:07:00 AM

Friday, May 07, 2004

Going mental. arithmetic  

Haggy gets out of bed on Thursday at 9 am.
She works until around 7:30 am on Friday morning, with a break for E.R., two ten-minute coffee breaks and an hour or two messing around on the Web.
She gets up again at 9:30 am on Friday and starts working again until 5:15 in the evening, with half an hour's break somewhere along the day to tear half of her hair out.
She now has until 6:15 to get ready to go out to a club that lasts until 3 am on Saturday, where she will probably be forced to pour alcohol into a stomach that has been lined only with several penicillin, many ibuprofens, lotsa paracetamol, one orange ice lolly, two squares of chocolate and a packet of crabsticks since last Sunday.

How long will it take before Haggy passes out?

Please show your workings and pass your answers to the person sitting next to you to mark.

posted by bandhag | 5/07/2004 04:33:00 PM

Thursday, May 06, 2004

It's all "meme meme meme" with you  

1. Because I am lazy
2. In an effort to be a little less uptight about you GETTING INSIDE MY BRAIN AND FIGURING ME OUT, AAARGH AAARGH, and
3. (most importantly) to waste some of the precious time off I'm taking trying to get this Enormously Important Project finished by tomorrow despite my sickness (cue violins)

here's an thing what I nicked off Lou Lou's site (that I have only just managed to look at. Because I am slack. And rubbish).

Um. Not feeling quite that divulgey. I can tell you that it is NOT pronounced with an 'e', though. And that my middle name is pretty damn near unpronouncable. Both first names foreign. Last name scottish. Apparently.

Me, Lovely Flatmate, kitty bandhag and, on occasion, Lovely Flatmate's bloke.

Now magazine, because I are ill. ISP tariff schedules because I are working. Love in the Time of Cholera because I are an sap.

Urgh. A budweiser bottle top. I hate it. It came free when I bought the pc and I've never got round to replacing it. I asked for a Bagpuss/other 80's children's tv/powerpuff girls one from Secret Santa one year. I got gloves.

Does Buckaroo count? Any, if not. Board games rule, especially when you're pissed or otherwise...altered. Though ultra-competitive people make me edgy. I had an ex who would storm off to bed if he lost at board games. Twat.

Anything with celebrity gossip in. Or music magazines (but not Q). Or magazines for children with cool presents on the outside.

The smell after it's just rained. The smell of cold air off someone who's just walked in from outside. Man sweat (not the oniony kind, though). Other people's skin. My cat's fur. Coffee. Dope. Cakes. Lots of other things.

Music. Other people's laughter. Cat purr. The rain when you're inside and warm and dry. Ice cracking in a g&t.


Red, black, blue

4' 11"

Sorry? How many rings must a man buy me before I return his calls? Why, none, of course.
A ha. Ha. Ha.

Who's doing what now?

Love, friends, laughter.

Vanilla wrapped in chocolate (mmmm, choc ice). Or minty choccy chip.

Can't drive.

My cat is rather rotund, but I do not "sleep with" her, you filthy sod.

I've never owned one and my folks didn't have one for most of the time I was a kid. Hippies? No. Poor.
We had a Ford Escort Mark II Estate for about 3 months when I was 17. It was like a fucking hearse. My dad took me out for driving lessons in it. I had to put the house doormat under the pedals so I could reach them, and peer through the steering wheel. I wish I'd had a friend with a video camera, who could have filmed what must have looked like a car driving itself around the streets of my home town.

Other people away

That's my little secret

too many to name. I'm very partial to musicals (mmm, camp much?), especially My Fair Lady. And Buzzby Berkley (sp?) ones - y'know, where they do all that aerial-shots-of-people-lying-on-the-floor-waving-their-legs-about stuff. And Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. And Muriel's Wedding. And the original Star Warseseses. And Leon. And Lola Rennt (Run Lola Run). And Goodbye Lenin. And.... others.

Yus. Broccoli ROOLZ.

Singer/writer/sound engineer/landscape gardener/actor/any number of other creative things I'm woefully underqualified/inexperienced to do.

Yes. Ouch.

If it's half empty, it's your round.

Scrubs, Malcolm in the Middle, Spaced (when, oh when, will you return to me?), Family Guy. Other cartoons. Things. Stuff.

Yes. At 80wpm+. I used to be a sekreeterry.

Another bed, among other things. I have two beds - one was one of those double loft-bed doodads, which there wasn't room for here. We had to completely dismantle it to move it. I have lost the instructions for how to put it back together if/when I ever want to. I rule, no?

Free. It's the magic number. Sorry. I never get tired of that joke. Unfortunately for you.

Figure skating. Watching sport sucks arse, on the whole.

She seems a very lovely lady indeed.

posted by bandhag | 5/06/2004 07:20:00 PM

And in other news  

The NHS Direct guy also asked me whether I could touch my chest with my chin. This was immediately after he'd asked if I could swallow. Had I not been mindful of the fact I needed this guy to take my ailments seriously and tell me where to get some bloody help, I'd have warned him that I'd need his credit card number if the phone call was going to continue in that manner.

posted by bandhag | 5/06/2004 01:34:00 AM

Almost forgot  

to blog about the bizarre questions medical types ask you, no matter what you tell them is wrong with you. I phoned NHS Direct (because I don't have a doctor here yet) and then the walk-in place before I went, to see if I should go or whether there was something over-the-counter I could get. Described my symptoms, and both times, the person on the other end of the phone asks
"Is there any chance you might be pregnant?"
".....? Sorry?"
"Is there any chance you might be pregnant?"
"Um. I don't think so. No. No."

And the nurse and doctor (yes, I had to queue twice. Joy) both asked me the same.

What? I mean, fucking, WHAT? I remember thinking that I'd paid pretty close attention in sex education classes and I surely didn't remember the list of "Signs you might be pregnant" including a hacking cough, cruddy throat and ears that knack.

But then I remembered that they always bloody ask this - they asked it when I fell on that bus and did my hand in ("Oh yes, good point - I haven't damaged anything at all, it's just that pesky baby moving into the Wrist Trimester"). I suppose they ask because if you were, they'd treat it more urgently because the illness/treatment could damage the baby or summat, but they always, always manage to word the question or ask it in such a tone that it sounds like they're suggesting that's what the problem is. How do they do that? Is there special training? Is it designed to freak people out, so that they're thinking "Cunty bollocks. Not only do I have this large piece of metal stuck in my head, but I might be up the fucking duff as well!"

Maybe they get a bonus if they manage to get people to have a pregnancy test done along with every visit they make to the doctor/hospital. The NHS Pregnancy Test Conspiracy. You heard it here first, folks.

posted by bandhag | 5/06/2004 01:33:00 AM

Wednesday, May 05, 2004

It wasn't me  

Yep, the throat/ear thing definitely is "doing the rounds", although the chest infection seems to be all my own work. I, like, take fashion and, like, add my own, like, twist to it. Y'know?

Lovely Flatmate now has what seems like an eerily similar lurgee and I know I didn't give it to her because she's only been home for three days, having been away for over a fortnight.

Conversations in our house are fucking surreal at the moment. Due to (and I apologise for the graphic ickyness here) the crud built up in our throats and the fact our ears are all fucked up, we're both talking like we're a) deaf and b) holding a tablespoon of water in the back of our mouths. "Wha's appenin on eee-aarg?" "Neegla's in truggle [hack hack hack] Gallan's tryig to helber out". "Ah". Or we sit in silence, wincing every time we have to swallow a mouthful of our own saliva.


I have managed to eat half an orange ice lolly today, though. And a couple of glasses of water. If I'm not slyph-like and unspeakably fanciable at the end of this plague, heads are going to ROLL. Yes, I'm looking at you, Lord God Al-so-called-Mighty.

posted by bandhag | 5/05/2004 10:21:00 PM

Tuesday, May 04, 2004

Stay away - unclean! Unclean!  

You don't want to be breathing too near my blog. I'm really rather ill.

I've managed to get a chest infection, tonsilitis and an infection in my right ear, according to the doctor. Right up until the throat and earache kicked in yesterday, I thought my asthma was just playing up a bit. How wrong could I be? I haven't even been able to eat or drink since yesterday lunch time.

Being ill sucks dog cock.

Send hugs, flowers, cards, semi-naked germ-resistant men to stroke my fevered brow.

posted by bandhag | 5/04/2004 09:38:00 PM

Sunday, May 02, 2004



"1-2-3 REPEATER!"

has become

"1-2-3 RIBENA!"

but this is utterly their own fault, as you'd have to reeeally want to hear the word "Repeater" for it to sound like that's what he's singing - can only tell that's what it's meant to be because that's what the song's called.

Alrighty then.

posted by bandhag | 5/02/2004 10:28:00 AM

Saturday, May 01, 2004


I'm not sure how much that is influenced by the fact that R has taught me to substitute the line

"Sometimes I feel like throwing my hands up in the air"


"Sometimes I feel like throwing my pants up in the air"

so often that it's now actually physical impossible to even hear Candi singing "hands", let alone for us to sing along with that. And equally impossible for us not to be dancing along, loving it, but also tittering like schoolgirls.

posted by bandhag | 5/01/2004 01:50:00 PM


Candi Staton's* "You Got the Love" = best dance tune EVER.

That is all.

*or for the pedants amoung us you, The Source featuring Candi Staton

posted by bandhag | 5/01/2004 01:18:00 PM

Trapped in the Disco of Weird  

Once again, the music upstairs is so loud I can make out every word, and the table with my PC screen on it is vibrating with the bass.

A more paranoid person might feel that their upstairs neighbours were spying on them. They never do this when anyone else is here. Never when I have guests and never when Lovely Flatmate is home - only ever when I'm here alone, so that when I talk about it I sound like the mad old woman who stands at her gate, shouting at passers-by that she "knows about their plans" and they'll "never take her alive". And so on.

Anyway, the upstairs neighbour. She started off on a roll in the "put Bandhag in a really bad mood" vibe, by playing Celine fucking Dion (see, it is a conspiracy - how else do you explain the fact that both downstairs flats I've lived in have had Celine Dion fans upstairs?). But then, a strange thing happened. She played some R n B thing, and then the theme tune from Inspector Morse.

So I'm sitting down here thinking "What the....?", when something else strange occurs to me. There have been no breaks in between the tracks.

Is Upstairs Neighbour Lady practising her DJ mixing SKILLZ? I try to imagine her on her decks, headphones held under her chin, one hand twiddling the mixer buttons as Inspector Morse gives way to Britney's "Toxic" (No, I'm not making this up), the other hand pumping the air in triumph. Toxic then gives way to some light country thing I don't recognise, which moves on to Outkast's "Hey Ya". Damn her for throwing in the Britney and Outkast. Now, I'm bopping around in my seat at precisely the same time as my brain is melting and dribbling out of my ear.

I'm going to have to put a note through her door and find out whether she actually does this set live somewhere. Can you imagine? Throngs of sweaty clubbers giving it some to Candi Staton and then DJ Fucking Surreal mixes it into the jingle off the Birds Eye Potato Waffles (they're waffly versatile) ad?


posted by bandhag | 5/01/2004 01:14:00 PM

And the award goes to  

Bandhag, for Laziest Woman in London.

I only got up at 8 o'clock this evening. I had to go back to bed this afternoon - got about 20 minutes' sleep last night and I was fucked.

Anyway, the consequence of all this is that it now feels like lunchtime. Which is lucky, since I have a shitload of work to do. Hurrah for nocturnal living! Bed at 4, up at 11, lots of good intentions to do work, which will no doubt crumble as soon as someone suggests going out...

You'll have to forgive me, I'm in a Very Good Mood. It's a disaster from a writing point of view, I can tell ya. Who wants to read someone bleating on about the fact that they're great, and everything seems great, and aint life great sometimes? I've considered all sorts to try and make myself miserable enough to write you something entertaining - throwing myself headlong down the stairs (rejected immediately - I live in a one-storey flat); having some kind of accident (not so keen on the sight of blood); applying for lots of jobs I'm unqualified for, just so I get lots of rejection letters (can't be arsed). It's no good, I can't shake it.


I know - I'll go and do all that work I've been putting off all day, then at least I'll be bored. I'll be back then.

You lucky fuckers x

posted by bandhag | 5/01/2004 01:02:00 AM
eXTReMe Tracker

All material on this site is copyrighted to the author. Reproducing material without the author's express permission is a breach of copyright.