The Sex Factor and The Disappointing Truth

Saturday and Sunday saw the conclusion of this year's x-factor. Thank god for that. They managed to milk it for 4 months... 4 months too long, it seems like nothing could lactate as thoroughly, apart from a screaming cow who has had her udders yanked for too long. But to be honest, I know the feeling all too well. (Ex-lovers take note). I lie, I know something that manages to just keep coming back... every time I hear their name announced it's like a punch in the face, "Take That, and that". All I can do is cower behind the couch and just wait for them to go away!

The most entertaining part of the evening was possibly the questionable 'performance' that was undertaken between Matt Cardle (the undeserving winner) and Rihanna (Chris Brown's bitch). With a slit up her leg that could rival even my slutty behavior (which is impressive), she looked hot - emphasized even further with the tacky display of flames in the background. Then the singing began, and the pair steadily got closer and closer, until just how short Matt is was highlighted, all of sudden he was staring at her breasts and what else could he do but get an erection. He's a man, it's understandable. But with 20 million people watching... To some extent couldn't Matt's proposition towards Rihanna seem a bit abusive, I mean, she doesn't even know her own name?

At one point it was a slut-off between Ri-Ri and Christina. Christina won, because last year she was getting married under a chuppah. I'm not sure if Hashem approves of her dancing and singing like that in front of all those men ... even if Louis and Simon are gay.

Then there's Robbie. You know, good ol' Robbie William. He is literally crazy, it's not his fault. It's just when you're raking up lines of coke on the Harry Style's underage cock before you perform it's fair that your singing could be a tiny bit off.  However it was kind of cute when one of the One Direction boys exclaimed "let's get hammered" after they found out they still had a chance. My instinctual response: Can I see your ID please? An 11-16 Oyster Card doesn't count.

So after a disappointing Saturday night's 'entertainment' the final final final on Sunday night was even worse. Perhaps it was the way Louis kept saying to Rebecca "finally, Liverpool has a pop star", mmmhmm, and the Beatles were irrelevant, right?

The evening went pretty much as follows: Matt, Rebecca, Take That (featuring others), One Direction, Take That, Take That, Matt, Rebecca, One Direction, stimulated Robbie making a move of Louis, results.

Oh, the results. Well it was such an anti-climax. Perhaps I've been doing too much English Literature coursework but didn't it seem as though the protagonist (Rebecca) was slaughtered by the token enemy (Matt) turning the entire show into a bit of a tragedy. Maybe that wasn't the biggest lost, perhaps it's the fact that in a few years all these people will be forgotten about, or that Matt Cardle literally murdered Biffy Clyro with his girlish screaches. He has the blood of three extremely talented artists on his hands!

No, the disappointing truth is that it will be back next September with the force of four frightening judges and an army of camera crews, with a number of terrible singers holding spears and brandishing their mediocrity in my face. "Take That and that...".

AHHHHH! Cowers behind couch, crying.

The Show Must Go On...

From tree to annoying prostitute, my parts in JFS School productions have always been true to life. This year JFS attempted to put on the musical Little Shop Of Horrors... only mirroring the script because it was quite literally was horrific.

Maybe the fact I was cast a small, relatively insignificant role that went from being intended from 3 girls to 8, making my initial 30-40 lines become more like 3-4 that made this play bitter at the start. I can't sing either and that prompted a tad of my cynicism, the first time I attempted 'downtown' it resembled something similar to Mongolian throat singing. Then there's the company, only paralleled to Glee in the fact that we're at the bottom of the school's social heap, with a token gay guy stuck in there somewhere.

We had the crazy drama teacher and the short, fat music director, the immature youngsters and the bitchy singing teacher... but then there was the costume lady. A mystery to me, I believe that she escaped from her tragic Czechoslovakian drunken husband to have a better life... 'in charge' of costumes at JFS. Although she does not make the costumes and can't actually sow, she can tell which colour is which and find pictures of items of clothing she wishes the company to wear from the internet and assemble them into a vapid power point. The most disturbing thing is when she gets stressed out she says "now that's over - where's my Prozac?". I mean, is she joking? And if not, can I get in on this?

The best part of this show may have been the waking up at 8am on Sundays to practice the bows for a few hours. I loved lining up, marching forward - step. bow, left, bow, right, bow, front, bow, bow again, wave. The voice of a hundred grumpy children still haunts my nightmares. If we dare bow a millisecond too early our drama teacher had no problem making a spectacle of us, she prides herself on the ability to make children cry.

When the night of the performance came I wondered if there was a stage below Amateur, like Primary or Infant, even Baby would have sufficed. But the show went on, only half audible though - of course the microphones would fail on three consecutive nights, only working when the company went off-stage so the  audience where subject to the occasional "shit" on my behalf. Make-up was tragic as I was painted like a Satsuma that had molded round the eyes, and dressed like the office whore rather than a cheap prostitute but the line in that case wasn't particularly distinguished.

What we gained as a company from this experience wasn't skill or talent, but perhaps a mild sense of community and 'friendship' only established due to the excessive sharing of similar experiences and a large amount of time exposed to one another.

The actual production was perhaps acceptable, and the after party at mine a drunken blur. The real icing on the cake however was when I went to Habs school play the night after my last performance - why the fuck did I waste 8 months of my life?

And that's the god-damned truth.

"Mr Potter. Our... new... celebrity"

On the 25th of May 2004 I sat by my postbox for the entire morning. A keen eye and an eager expectation overcame me. It was my 11th birthday, and I was desperately awaiting my Hogwarts letter. Ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock; time ticked on - mocking me. Perhaps my trusty owl had been caught in a particular furious jet stream and had somehow ended up in Diagon Alley. ‘If my Hogwarts letter does not arrive’, I thought to myself ‘then how am I meant to harness my powers to destroy Voldemort’. I seriously considered that the fate of the world and wizardry rested on the counterfeit scar delineated on my forehead. Needless to say I didn’t receive my letter that day, it may have been lost in the post or intercepted by the dark lord to make his conquest easier.  

If you understood all the references in the paragraph above then you, like me, are part of what is known as the Harry Potter Generation. Us kids of the 90s grew up in anticipation of every different Rowling instalment, were lulled to sleep by the animated Stephen Fry and genuinely surprised at how good looking Rupert Grint had become over the space of seven movies.

So what is it about Harry Potter that makes it so successful? A series so tantalising and popular that the author J.K. Rowling is now richer than the Queen. In an article published online by Lee Kitcher in 2005, he commented that “there’s attention to detail that has helped to create such a believable fictional universe”. This could be the case, I won’t try to hide the fact that I shed a tear when I read about Dumbledore’s death (then another when I found out he was gay... another one turned, another conquest complete). Harry Potter recently caused young Devin from Florida to not remove his Harry Potter outfit for 8 months, convinced that Hagrid was on the way - he daily bounced round the garden with a kitchen broom wedged between his legs, screaming out curses on his slightly older, slightly more mature and slightly more sane brother.

Due to the connotations of dark magic that Harry Potter holds, a number of god-fearing Christians have forbidden their children from reading the childhood classics, good on them, why should any child enjoy reading? These beliefs can only be paralleled in there certainty to the working of Scientology.

The Harry Potter series also seems to be creeping it's way into my life ever so subtly, this morning I found myself humming the infamous 'Potter Puppets' song on the bus, as I jumped up and shouted (in a slightly pitchy tone) "Dumbledore", the old woman in front of me nearly had a heart attack. Bless her, she is not part of our kooky generation. Similar to this, in year 8 a bitch (she-who-must-not-be-named) threw some tacky insult at me. My return... "Avada Cadava". 

I don't think this particular blog has much direction, but it's been a while... and with all the recent hype about the latest film I feel a dedication to the world I once lived (and from time-to-time still do) needs a little mention. So this is for you Potter....

A SMALL (LARGE LETTERED) NOTE:

So as I'm sure you all know, because you simply aren't idiots, the student protests are back. With sit-ins all over the country in schools and mainly university's we need to pledge our support. Last night I sat in UCL til 2am, with people that really care about the cause, and they are still there. Continually, join me and many others at the protest on Tuesday 30th November. 

If you hadn't noticed I just used my popularity and media to enforce my political agenda. I've become everything I hate :'(.

The Queertopian Meadows. Part II.

An in-gathering of Queer Royalty from across the land was called post-haste. Present were all the Lords and Ladies of the fair kingdom. Chaired by their Royal Highnesses, King and Queen Queer, furious at their son's betrayal, the conference was one of the most important moments in homo-history, trumped only by Joe McElderry coming out the closet; just like Gaybe, no one could possibly have seen it coming. The decision arose that the Fellowship of the Rod should be established. The queers would assemble their allies...

Since the Battle of Stonewall and the founding of Queertopia, 1967, a civil war (cat-fight, if you will) has ravaged the kingdom and plagued its inhabitants. In this world, there are two types of men; those that dwell in Heaven, on the northern Embankment of the river dyx. These fair creatures are accustomed to spending their free time in flares, singing along to Grease and Lady Gaga whilst harmlessly thrusting their hips naively at one another. Their teeth shine a brilliant white, as though they had brushed them with Cillit Bang. Their hair is perfectly coiffed in a way that Cheryl Cole could barely rival. The other type of man that inhabits this world is of a different calibre. They manifest their twisted lives in the gay underworld, Gaydes. On the Southbank of the river Dyx, in a realm known only as 'Vauxhall'. These despicable people could not be more opposed. The sick world in which the devilish queers inhabit sees lines of fairy dust snorted of the back of toilets seats in exchange for acts of naughtiness in the same cubicle. Heart pounding, terror inducing 'House' music is blared loudly throughout the realm. Choking tobacco fumes fill the air and the rejects of the queers work there. None other is so rejected as the infamous (Doctor) Faust(us). The realm rests not between the hellish hours of Friday afternoon until Sunday night. Their greatest enemy are themselves and those that work in the name of good across the river in Heaven. It has and will always be that way, those that dance on the north bank and those of disgrace on the south.


The monarchy often never dibble-dabbled in the conflicts of the people unless absolutely necessary, but the Queen couldn't think of a time which was more important. The vibrating cock shape staff was gone, and taken none other than her one son. The power of the staff had the ability to make men weak and the knees and fall in love with this rubbery inanimate object. By now the family could assume that the Wicked Gaybe of the West was hiding with his accomplices in the underworld, abusing the stave in unthinkable and purely disgusting ways. But we expected no more, his desperation was controlling him, the longing for the rod was apparent. He was, after all, a virgin.


The journey to G-A-Y heaven wasn't difficult, the family were welcome with open arms and had their own karaoke booth, which often the King and Queen utilised as a recreational activity on the weekend.  God of heaven was the biggest and best gay icon known to history, she was fabulous and good, kind and generous, benevolent in her nature, and the only woman in the northern hemisphere that any queer could trust... Julie Andrews.


"High priestess (after all, she did start out as a nun), I assume you know why I am here?" the King muttered to her as the family were shown to the royal table.
"Indeed, King Josephine, Gaga and Madonna informed me that one of our own has betrayed us...", she seemed concerned, but this was only apparent in her eyes. The rest of her body remained composed.
"You must understand." said the Queen, "It is not Gaybe that is wicked, it is the rod. It makes men powerful, when I last spoke to Gaybe he tried to destroy the fundamental structure of Queertopia. The staff is dangerous, it does things".
"Call upon the Fellowship Of The Rod, go to Onyx and destroy it. You have my approval and army. God speed, may the force of ABBA be with you".
"Amen" whispered the Prince under his breath, "we'll need to take a chance on a super trouper".


They crossed the Thames, the stench of the river was overpowing, typically Princess Lyna began to weep, as she did so she spun a golden ball of yarn so they were able to find their way back.


The Queen was apprehensive, but she used her sexual prowess to bypass the guards at the gates of Vauxhall. The family stood outside, amongst the stumbling, intoxicated queers. For a moment a mutual understanding of their mission shuddered through them all, they held hands, only for a moment though. They weren't that gay. Then they went in, penetration was imminent...

Anarchy and doughnuts.

There has never been a day filled with more woe than the day which contained a cataclysmic event that changed my life forever. This unspeakable happening occurred 7 month previous to this day. It was a day like any other. School seemed vapid and uninteresting. My conversations were bland and floppy. My trip to Sainsbury's that gentle winter's morning was tragic.

I perused the aisles like a duck gliding through a still lake on a wistful day in some sort of semi-exotic land, like Peru, heading straight for the bakery section. I reached the sectioned area, and displayed a casual greeting to my 'friend' (I use this word loosely now) behind the counter, our relationship previous to this day had seemed consanguineous. But no seemingly close relation of mine would hurt me like her.
I ordered my usual... the jam doughnut. I was so unsuspecting that I failed to look at the packaging, I mean, why would I? Why would this day have to so different than any other? I looked up at what only time could reveal to be my greatest foe, and she said "That'll be 14 pence please." She flashed an odd grin which I should have recognised as betrayal.

I hissed under my breath, a barely audible "no".

Never in my seventeen years of existing on a planet amid nuclear threats and terrorists, with climate change and the death of Princess Diana. Never had I expected this. My mind went blank, I didn't know whether the stuttering, heart-rendering emotions I felt were escaping through my mouth or my eyes. Was I crying, or simply in shock? Never had the price been raised so high before, before this day doughnuts were 10p. I couldn't possibly afford the extra prices. What was to become of me? Were was I to gain my tasty afternoon sweet-treat that I so eagerly awaited every day of my pitiful and simple life? I felt as though I was destined to wither away from starvation and I would be found under aisle 8, nothing but a pile of bones, amidst the cleaning products.

I decided the only way to respond to this sickening part of the economic recession was by breaking the glass counter before me and burning the bag in which my doughnut had inhabited. Jumping over the counter and storming the bakery, doing a shit on the bread slicer. It was individual anarchy. I marched through the Sainsbury's aisles petitioning for fair and just fees for my daily snack. But surprisingly, I was kicked out and asked kindly not to return.

The price of doughnuts are still on the rise, and unless we as a people do something about this atrocity the luscious taste of what we have all come to rely upon will dissapear... forever.

Fright Night

I had just been performing some rather awful debauchery with my boyfriend on an average Sunday afternoon, as one does. When all of a sudden (contrary to previous blogs) my father stormed in through the front door like a bull in a china shop to declare, "Quick, assemble yourselves, your grandmother will be here in 5 minutes".

It went quickly from pleasure to nearly wetting my pants (although a fine line can be drawn between the two). I jumped out of bed and struggled to find my knickers, kicking my cat in the face whilst doing so. Upon reflection, the cat being in my room at this time cannot be healthy for his personal development at all, and since this afternoon I've felt he may have lost a little respect for me. Loss of respect, a concept that's new to me. 

What one is to understand about my Grandmother is that her presence in my household is reminiscent to a visit from the Queen of England... tea and sandwiches at the ready, or one can expect to have their head chopped off. My family and I ran about the house in a flurry, tidying, cleaning, cooking, preparing, etc. In so many ways I should have seem what was to come, the cliche when the boyfriend meets the grandma for the first time. We've all watched geeky American sitcoms, we've all sat through that questionable episode of Friends in which we simply 'cringe'. On some levels, I blame myself.

I bowed and hugged my grandmother as she entered the door, baring some delicious kosher goodies. I pointed at boyfriend to indicate this was the person we had had a number of conversations about. We discussed how he was a 'good Jewish boy' and we kept a good 2 metres from each other most of the time. Most of the time. The scene was set. It was like watching a bomb go off. Powerless to stop the events, yet this awkward social situation was far too strong for a girl like me to stop, what was to come was in the hands of the universe. They both swung left. They both went right. They kissed on the lips. I think a part of me died today.

Deleting contacts on my mother's phone. De-flowering the daughter. Hated by the cat... and now the grandma? I've crawled into a hole, and am sufficiently dying. When the next apocalypse occurs, maybe this time I'll be better prepared. What a frightening Halloween.

The Queertopian Meadows. Part I.

Welcome to Queertopia.

Think about a land beyond G-A-Y and just short of Never(touch that young boy)land, direct yourself straight to the Southern star; a long, hard, strenuous journey. However, when you get there it's like nothing you've ever expected. Long thin streams of white cream run all along the coast, acting as an excellent tourist attraction as well as fertilizing the land and being the national dish. The sun is always shining. The rainbow flag stands erect in the centre of the capital, Old Compton, and in the heart, soul and pants of each of its humble citizens.

Like in every great nation, there is also a hierarchy, and none as infamous as the Gay Family. There are the King and Queen, who spawned two children: the great and wise Prince of the East and the wicked Gaybe of the West. Like all great men, there is a humble faghag behind them, illustrated perfectly by Princess Lyna: a beautiful young girl who is, however, rather naive. Their wedding was a white one: white swans, white napkins, white dresses (on both participants), and cheesy white smiles. Bride and Groom said their vows, swearing an oath to obey the teachings of Gaga and live by the ways of Madonna.

After the wedding there was a reception held in the Royal Court and therein was a majestic performance from Diva Fever, an avid influence over contemporary pop culture in Queertopia. Little and large sausages were served covered in the national dish. As all marriages that have occured over the years in the nation, the royal vibrating staff is passed from generation to generation, and this is how it would be today, or was to be.

The royal advisor finished giving her speech, which is the equivalent to parliamentary approval of the match. The regal Queen stood. Looking down upon her subjects she felt proud - people had turned up wearing the colours of the empire: blues, reds, yellows, purples...especially purple. The scene was set, the newly wed couple approached the cock-shaped podium to receive the jewel-encrusted vibrating staff. The people were just finishing the anthem, with a crescendo of "I will survive, yea, yea!" when the doors to the royal court swung open...

There he stood, the Wicked Gaybe of the West, draped in black and possessing the only thing the average gay man has ever feared... clogged pores. He was technically the first adopted son and should be the one to own the staff, but his definite virginity never allowed him to legally qualify for the position. He fled the kingdom a while ago after discovering he had a slight Oedipal complex, only reversed. In his hands he grasped the complete series box set of Will & Grace, including unseen edits.

"I will destroy it, I swear", Gaybe spat on the ground by the feet on the royal couple.
"You know not what you do!" the Queen said, sensing the panic that was growing in the room. Most of the people had begun to pray to Gaga or say goodbye to their loved ones. The Queen remained calm, and composed herself, "Son, please, for all that is right and just in Queertopia, give me the DVD".
He snarled, and clutched his cape tighter to himself. "Never!" he hissed. He grabbed the staff and whispered an evil spell then he disappeared, with a poof, ironically.

In the coming days a dark grey cloud arose over Queertopia; the only silver lining is that a homosexual adventure had begun, as bright and shiny as a supernova and as long and hard as a...well, you know.

Soya cappuccinos. The bane of my life.

Dear Diary,

In truth that's what 'blogging' is: an online diary. This can provoke two main reactions from my audience

1. Giggling like a 5-year-old girl who just uncovered her sister's hidden diary and a lifetime of blackmail. Remind you of anyone, Ruby? November the 6th 2003, the day I gained power.
2. A re-evaluation of one's life; recognising one has nothing better to do than read my blog. If you decide to stop reading now, I think you should remember I still get a hit on Blogspot and hence feel super good about myself. 

So let's carry on, shall we?...

So what to rant about this evening... As I often complain about meaningless things that have very little significance in anyone's life but my own, I'll do the same again. I hate working. Yes, somehow I was able to attain an actual job. I would say it was good luck, if you call 'good luck' a lot of lying on your CV. I won't name the shop specifically due to copyright reasons - darn those bastards in Human Resources! So for legal reasons let us say that it is a frozen yogurt shop in Mill Hill... yes... conspicuous. If that doesn't work, I'll simply have to call my lawyer who lives next door. His name is Mr. Bigglesworth and he is a cat.

This weekend I worked for 15 hours... 15 hours. I'm going to break this down for you (because I've had a substantial amount of time to think about doing so), 900 minutes or 54000 seconds. Clearly, this longs out my life. In this time I surely could have done something productive, like invent the world's biggest vacuum cleaner similar to the one that sucked the life out of me. Oh no, wait. That was this shop.

The customers are the best thing about this shop, all eight of them. So wonderful to observe, watch, judge; an anthropologists dream and a young teenage girl's nightmare. I've had one Jewish family come in in the past 2 hours. They bought a small cup with no toppings and shared... typical. Perhaps the guy that winks at me would serve as a better subject to study. I call him Blinks McCoy, a slight Scottish accent and 3 years champion of the National Staring Competition. He's a wonderful character and always seems to be on the phone whilst ordering. He likes to repeat the same few phrases, such as; "Yes, we can close the deal, I'll email you" (WINK), "Oh dolly, you know you're special" (WINK), "Yeah, last night was brilliant" (WINK). My reply: a coy, nervous and uncomfortable laugh.

Then there is the most anal couple on the planet; a pair of new-earth contemporary sold-out bohemians living in their mediocre-sized home in Mill Hill, riding wistfully on their failed dreams and taking their dog to a Frozen Yoghurt place to have coffee every day... how avant-garde. Can't they just do me a favour and go to the Costa across the road? So where do I begin... I imagine their names are something totally incompatible to the look they are trying to achieve, perhaps Mr and Mrs Smith, even though they wish they were called Apollo and Rain. Perhaps their detestable look would work if they weren't the most harrowing people I'd ever met in my life. Mrs. Smith likes to bring in her own soya milk to the shop. That's right. And expects us to keep it in our fridge... for her sole benefit. Herein lies the recent issue we had. She came into the shop, as per usual, appearing as though she had a bad smell under her nose. Maybe she too could smell trouble.

Ordering her kooky soya milk cappuccino with a sense of normality, my colleague proceeded to remove said necessary soya milk carton from fridge. But wait, what ho? Her face began to turn bright red and her pierced lips began to wither even more (which originally I couldn't conceive to be humanly possible). "That carton was full when I bought in yesterday: who's been using it? That is my milk". I felt the need the need to duck and cover as she flung herself over the counter. Well it all kicked of from there really. The issue is, she needs to recognise that this is a shop and not her kitchen. I wanted to explain to her that Costa have soya milk... which they provide themselves and probably for half the price. But I didn't. I fear death.

Arguably however, the best customer of my day was my own mother. She waltzed in at around 7pm, took a good look around and muttered not-too-quietly under her breath "What a shithole...". I stood, gob-smacked... next to my manager.

Home time couldn't come soon enough.

Middle-Eastern shenanigans and my tortoise friend.

Oh my darling readers, how I have missed thee.

An absent blog for ten days and my strange disappearance, you must have all believed I went to Hogwarts or something along those lines, but alas, I went to a place even more magical than Daniel Radcliffe's penis in Equus... Israel. Now now, before you begin raving about how Israel is the evil 'slut' of the world, taking everyone else's land, or the opposite and doing the whole Zionist thing, I went to Israel for a holiday. This week's portion will be an explanation of all my shenanigans and not-so-sexual endeavours, so listen in faithful flock and let me guide you through a mystical journey.

Well it all began in the airport, as most holidays often do, unless you're going somewhere like Cornwall, in which case a trip to the airport would be a massive inconvenience and waste of time, instead, I advise you drive. I arrived at Luton airport, potentially the smallest and most useless plane hut ever, containing only one minute duty free and about 20 boarding gates. After having an overpriced panini from a understaffed Starbucks I proceeded to Gate 15 to board. Boarding is often a simple experience, one waits patiently, sitting in a spacious lounge, reading what appears to be a classic novel with a copy of the latest Mills & Boons tucked inside, but this wasn't like the magnificent Heathrow I had come so dearly to love. Instead, I was hauled into a tiny room with one door and a small window (which I later realised was my symbol of hope and escape), passengers came in there hundreds squeezing us in like cattle. Everyone pushed together, I was groped a few times, it was pretty standard. Then from nowhere a feminine high pitched voice commented "they don't call it Squeezy Jet for nothing"... I chuckled and as I did so  banged my head against a middle class man who turned to scowl at me, in my fear I retreated into my sister's bosom and was stuck for a while.

The flight was as a flight often is, high and unentertaining, similar to my average Saturday night.

As soon as I was re-united with my mother (who you shall remember as flying out before me and leaving me alone to fend for myself against the big purple suitcase) was propositioned to be bought for 100 camels. Fortunately she declined the offer seeing as I have not yet learnt how to rear a camel farm.

Let's title this next bit, bored. Time goes by slowly when one is abroad, that may be because of the complicated time difference or the fact that I don't really know how to read an analogue watch but I felt that I needed to do something alternative and creative with my energy. Now, for all readers who have not tried this difficult and competitive activity, I urge you to... Shell-collecting. You may snigger, but I was up against the wrath of every five-year-old on the beach and the sea who was trying to reclaim my precious gems. This excitement lasted for around 10 minutes, it had to cease after I was heckled by an Israeli mother who was complaining about my elbowing her child in the face, but I saw the shell first. 691 trinkets later and I was growing wearisome...

There must be something else to do... but what?... what?

Two days later and I found myself in the underworld of Tel Aviv. It was an odd scene, sitting in a drug dealers apartment with my mother and her friend looking far more sluttier than I, and appeared to be having a better time then I have ever had... ever. We drunk-drove of to an exclusive hatched club, me holding on for dear life in the back while my mother sang along to Britney, called 'Cats&Dogs', I thought I'd be going to a petting zoo of some sort, apparently, it was a petting zoo... of some sort. The rest is a bit of a blank, I was never one to say 'no' to guys buying me drinks, a glass of wine, three vodkas and two tequillas later and I was getting into a cab. My mum forced herself to bring me home because I was on the verge of passing out and all that jazz, I felt grotty and shit, it was 3 in the morning and I was ready to retreat to my bed around 2200 miles away, but I was not appeased. Instead I was kicked out the cab, while my mother sped of, not to return til 5.30am.

Now this next part of my tale is a truly sad one, the events leading up to the moment I am about to describe were done with nothing but the love of a good Samaritan and a heart of gold. It was Tuesday night in Tel Aviv and my family and I were strolling along the busy night streets of the way to have a nice bottle of wine in a small restaurant when there, in the middle of the pavement was a huge tortoise. It was heading straight for the busy road... "We have to save him!" cried Ruby.
"But how, how?!" I replied.
We picked him up and took him far away from the road so he could live in a small patch of grass. Feeling good about ourselves we continued on our mirthful way. The night was warm, we drunk and got merry. On the way back we thought we'd visit Torti (original name, I know) and see how he was progressing in his new life, perhaps he had settled down already, married a nice Jewish tortoise and got that business deal he had been wanting for a while, but suddenly... CRACK, CRUNCH, it was a real horror show, I doubt whether Tarrantino could have imagined something as brutal. There lay Torti, or the pieces of him anyway, three lanes in (which was pretty impressive if you ask me). Ruby fell to her knees "NOOO! Take me instead", she banged her hands of the coble streets and reclined into herself, sobbing "take me".

R.I.P Torti

We did all we could.

We think you were trying to make it to the park, but the grass isn't always greener on the other side.

That really put the holiday on a new low. The food didn't seem to taste as nice after that, every time I bit I just heard the distant crunching of our long lost friend.

Eat, Beach, Eat, Eat, Drink.

Eat, Beach, Eat, Eat, Drink.

We were sitting on the plane on the way home, awaiting for take-off, the usual crowd were there. People from JFS who you smiled at coyly knowing that for the next 5 hours it would be best if we sat on opposite ends of the plane to avoid awkward conversation, a few old people, some young people, and a boy, a young troubled torched soul, who would not shut the fuck up. He just kept crying, I say 'crying' but it was more like the wail of a banshee meets Karen Walker on acid. So this Air Steward stood up, minced (I use that term deliberately) his way through the isle, pointed at this blond 2-foot-something cupid and said "Now you shut the hell up you little bugger because you don't have a choice whether you sit down during take off, get it?". I didn't know whether the laugh that followed was from nervous shock or absolute. He was so anal about the whole thing, which I suppose was a reflection upon his sexual preference. They don't call it Sleazy Jet for nothing.

I landed in England to step of the plane into 12 degrees and torrential rain into the open arms of my wine cellar on legs, Josephine GaGaus. It feels good to be back.

You are cordially invited to the 'packing party'...

 Another year, another holiday. The time approaches faster than one thinks and I'm at that special time of year again. Packing, p-a-c-k-i-n-g, backwards = gnikcap, I even feel the need to procrastinate in writing the word. It simply can't be done. I believe whole-heartedly that 'packing' was a challenge sent by God, a test if you will, which only takes the bravest, strongest and most anal people to complete. Even Moses couldn't be bothered to pack, he thought matza was a better substitute, to lets say, something sweet, fluffy and delicious, like Brioche, and because he decided that mopping around was better than getting his act together we now have to suffer eating bread that tastes like stapled cardboard every year. 

Before I begin packing, I must write a list of things I will wish to take, I need to look at my suitcase for at least 5 minutes, discuss it's exact colouring, find it's length and times it by it's width then compare it to the surface area of the clothing i'm thinking of taking, all in mathematical approximation of course. Usual activities that would postpone any productive movements.

As I stare into the abyss of my empty suitcase I wonder where I last was, I then realise that for years I've been harbouring sand from the beaches of France ... and they never caught me. Packing was due to commence two days ago, which is fair, that gives me five days not to pack and a good one and a half hours before we have to leave to shove unnecessary cosmetics into my bag. However, this year my mother has flown off early, and while it is she who usually ensures that my clothes and other essentials are neatly folded and labelled, I am left with father. What father doesn't understand is that leaving packing until last minute is a way of life, like white wine, or Madonna. This evening it was apparent that sister and I wanted to spend an evening doing something we were good at, nothing, yet father was having none of it.

He tried to inspire us into packing, first he said we could go to the 'packing party', what are we? 8. I was offended, I had no fun at said 'party', if this was actually some sort of shindig I would be the awkward one in the corner, with my hands in my pockets, dancing alone to electro-pop and staring at the breasts of women half my age as they walked past, my mouth half-open to reveal my glow-in-the-dark braces. No fun. So naturally, any sort of packing was delayed, I needed to go elsewhere and remind myself that I'm not actually a pre-pubescent male teen at a house party.

But was this nonsense over? Of course not, the fun was to continue, my father's efforts pursued when he ensured we play 'packing games'. One of us had to guess the volume of the cloths we were intending to take, and then speedily retrieve said clothing from our wardrobe and deliver them in quick hast back to the suitcase. I lost the first time, luckily the game was only ever played once. I think with time and effort this could be perfected to become a very popular Olympic sport. Hurrah. England takes the gold in speed-packing, the Medina sisters have done it again. But I tell a lie, neither of us are packed. 

This blog, for example, is another method of procrastination, and upon realisation of this fact I stare vacantly at Mr. Purple Wheelie in the corner, crying out for me to penetrate it with my fundamental holidaying material. And with this I leave you, not to pack, never to pack, but I am feeling rather peckish...

I didn't find the golden ticket... this time.

Chocolate; sweet, succulent, rich, tasty. As I came home from yet another torturous day of school this afternoon I needed a treat, a yummy juxtaposition to the mentally scaring afternoon I had prompting me to find a spiritual high ground (Jewish Studies), and so I did. For fifty pence I picked up a kitkat from the news-asian down the road, which still confuses me, fifty pence for a chocolate bar, the value! Back in the day (the day I don't remember), during the Aztec reign you could buy a slave for 100 cocoa beans. I returned home excited to unwrap the silver alluminium cage which surrounded my precious, yet small feast (and maybe even find a golden ticket) but what-ho? Something was missing. Then it hit me, I don't know why the most obvious of priorities hadn't occured to me, in a way, I was slightly ashamed. Like the great Englishman I am, my kitkat needed a companion and what more appropriate then a cup of steaming tea? I'll tell you, nothing.

Thus began the longest two and a half minutes of my life, boiling the kettle. There is a lot of nonsense I did in these 150 seconds, I informed my sister of the fact that 'the sooner she gets sectioned, the better', I folded some laundry and attempted to lay on the ground next to my cat trying to learn his cunning and mysterious ways but he sprinted lightly out of the room, I know when this happens his ambush has been unsuccessful and I survive another day. Then the little clicker turned off red which indicated my time was up and I had failed to save the world again. I yoke (that's right, yoke). 

Now began the process of making a cup of tea, the recipe may seem simple, but you're wrong. As I've grown  up I've realised the complexity behind the 'average' Twinnings mug.

1. Put tea in mug (no water just yet).

2. Wait 10 seconds after the kettle is boiled, this avoids the scorching bubbles missing the cup or burning your hands, then poor in around 215ml. (Leaving a sufficient amount of room for milk).

3. This part some may find difficult, so perhaps ask or call a friend for help while completing this step. Depending on how you like your tea is relative to how long the teabag remains in the mug. I wait around 53 seconds for my tea, yet my father is more of a 46 second man, you see. The UK average is 1 whole minute. If this amount of time seems daunting to you, perhaps take a nap before undergoing said activity.

4. When you have timed your cup just right (and by right, I mean 'precisely') remove the teabag and pour in a dollop of milk. Yes, a dollop of milk, some of our less experienced colleagues may be bewildered and intimidated by this measurement. I referenced the dictionary, it means 'a lump or blob of some substance', interpret it how you will.

5. Stir the tea and enjoy, after participating in such a strenuous process you deserve it.

Then came the time that I had long (3 mins: 23 seconds) awaited, I picked up my kitkat, unwrapped the little red paper, then the foil and dunked. The moment my first finger of chocolaty goodness graced the mug my mouth began salivating, like a hungry wolf desperate for sweet relief. I freed my stick from this burning cage to find it wet and glistening, slightly melted, and I bit. Then it came to me, a rush, the feeling of indulgence, I had nourished my craving. Did you know, one in seven 15-24 year olds claim life isn't worth living without chocolate. Well, they're idiots, we always have wine. But what if there was not any wine or chocolate, but I will try not to worry my readers with the idea of an alternative dystopian future. Fortunately, 66,000 creme eggs are still being produced per hour. 

There's just something about chocolate, it's an aphrodisiac, I won't claim to know the precise chemical makings behind why we get horny from a dairy milk bar but I will claim to have experienced it. You often here people joking about the question 'chocolate or sex?', is it wrong for me to say 'both', or is that greedy? If it was the case, then I would have to pick chocolate. 

I think I'm preaching, there are tastier foods, but readers, don't forget that the first chocolate was made in Bristol, Engand, 1848, so be happy and patriotic about something so tasty. Sit at home, watch Chocolat or Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory and be content in knowing that yet again, the great British people are responsible for another awesome thing. From one Englishman to another, "put the kettle on". 

Qu'ils mangent de la brioche

It seems to me as though people are asking me for a story. So far my blogs have been going nowhere, and like my life, I like it that way... Yet I also like popularity. I enjoy spending my Sunday evenings refreshing the stats button on Blogspot.com and finding that I have three readers from America, and I shed a slight morose tear when I find that those readers have fallen to one. So if its a story you want, then, my humble droogs, it is a story you will have...

One day there was a rabbit, his name was Dave. Dave was a simple soul, not particularly intelligent, or liked for that matter. He had his loyal band of brothers, but they were drab with very little charisma or zest for life. Dave worked in the carrot factory, mashing long orange vegetables all day for bunnies and other small furry creatures that weren't able to consume solids til over the age of 9 months.

Dave, like many other rabbits of his generation had gone to bunny school, then to university, but he always knew what was imminent... death, lol, JK, a wife. Dave had one tooth longer than the other, and very unbridled hair that made him look something of a Rabbit tramp. His mother had always referred to him as 'Dave, my precious Hobo', which was understandable, because the day, the hour, the minute in which this story is set, Dave was wearing trousers which fell messily to reveal the tops of his Superman underpants and a square white shirt covered with carrot stains from his lunch.

Dave was walking down the road when all of a sudden....

'Let them eat cake', Marie Antionette, one of the most infamous women in history never gave the people what they wanted, and neither will I.

Note to readers, when I typed in 'like a carrot' on google to aid my story-telling, this is what came up http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:Carrot-like ... I don't know whether it was the true randomness of this page, or the fact that everything written sounds exactly like my boyfriend.

Preaching Purple

Every year I feel as though maybe going to synagogue won't be as torturous as I remember, maybe I won't feel the urge to rip out my eyeballs when I see a load of over-excited 50 year olds fiddle with a book, or try and saw of my feet every time I'm asked to stand for more than five minutes and listen to a load of incoherent dribble that may as well be an in-depth description into how the Teletubbies were created, and not the world. Usually, however, I'm able to do all this in the comfort of a Shul of which I am a member, however, today I was thrust into unknown territory, utilising nothing but a socially awkward nature and a pair of 32E's to defend myself with.

As I walked into this strange and magical place (I often use the term 'magical' to describe my opinions on religion; I don't believe in magic) I found myself meeting people from my school, or people that I could recognise the face and not name, or people whom I've heard the name tossed about yet never really met , or individuals who were the siblings of someone I had met at a social gathering a couple of years back, or someone's aunt who knew the person I was sitting next to. I know, if you think the writing is hard to follow, imagine the actual situation.

The 'community' exhibited seemed like a competition for wealth and social stature, maybe it was everyone wearing the same black little hats on their head, but my urge to rebel raged in the afternoon when I thought to die my hair purple. Now, dying my hair specifically purple was not due to the novelty factor: Mya Purple. HAHAHA :|. Purple in religious terms symbolises death and mourning, for example, during the Christian holiday, Lent, churches are often decorated in purple clothing. For me purple was an indication the death of any individualism in Judaism, and it also looks awesome. One could argue that I was being alternative simply because it's cool, and that Hollister is actually fashionable, and coincidently everyone has a Blackberry just because one day there was a big sale at the Carphone Warehouse, and literally nothing is official until it's been set in stone on facebook, but if they argued that, I would classify them whole-heartedly as an uneducated troll that's been living under a bridge for far too long. Maybe some readers will get offended, and yes, in fact I am being a hypocrite, owning a blackberry and posting this very blog straight to facebook. Neither am I stating that any of the people who comply to these typical tags of Judaism are intolerant or nincompoops, i'm plainly trying to illustrate a point: that the Jewish community lacks in diversity. I feel as though my sordid observation and potentially too detailed view of my day needs to come to a coherent finish, so I will digress...

One of my favourite quotes from Ronnie Shakes sums up my qualms about Religion, in a comedic and generally dickish mannor, "One day I fear I will meet God, he'll sneeze and I won't know what to say"

I thought Mum and Dad weren't in.

For the readers that aren't aware; I have sex. Shocking, I know. So, this evening I had invited my boyfriend over to undergo the usual couple-like things: watching television; making dinner; performing the old in and out; having tea and biscuits, that sort of thing. As Boyfriend and I participated in the third agendum of the evening, we were making no attempt to muffle our apparent (and I use 'apparent' intending no offence to my other half) pleasure. As the moans grew louder and attempting to maintain the sexual positions became more strenuous we didn't notice the subtle sound of the key turn in the lock, nor the more obvious footsteps in the hall, nor the slamming of the door as my parents tried (in vain) to make us aware of their presence. We didn't notice; we continued.

A few minutes later we heard a loud series of bangs coming from what we thought to be the neighbouring bedroom. If this was so, it would have been my sister trying to encroach on what Borat appropriately refers to as 'sexy time', and we weren't prepared to stop simply to acknowledge her chastity (that potentially can be seen as an advert to any male subscribers).

Forty-five minutes and 2 condoms later we congratulated each other for the good work. As one does post-coitus I had to tell all my Facebook friends about the wonderful intercourse in which I had just been involved and so grabbed my computer. As I lifted my laptop lid I was saluted by this message from my sister:

If you wouldn't mind keeping it down up there with sam, would you? The whole house (including mum and dad) can hear you. We're trying to watch tv.

FUCK, was my initial thought, which ironically got me in trouble in the first place. I informed Boyfriend about said message who simply starred at me in awe. After deleting all the contacts in my mother's phone last week and now de-flowering (pah) Mr Medina's eldest daughter, his position in the family remains questionable. Needless to say, I Facebook-chatted Ruby to ask if what she had informed me of was true. It was.

It's been 2 hours, I haven't left my room, and Boyfriend is looking for an alternative exit, through the window perhaps...

First day back.

As if forcing a load of unmotivated socially retarded teenagers to do exams wasn't enough 3 months ago, the process of a slow and soul-destroying routine begins again. When I entered JFS's iron gates today and was greeted by the customary Simple-Jude begging to see my ID and flinching when I reached inside my bag as though I was a terrorist about to pull out a gun was somewhat comforting. I was honestly slightly excited to start Year 13. Although Summer 2010 (lusms) was awesome, I missed learning, reading, Mr. Bremner <3.... At 8.30 this morning, I realised all my pre-conceptions of a new start were utter bollocks. Spending the first two hours of my day doing meaningless administrative work (which just means playing games on miniclip) was a bundle of fun. But wait, JFS stealing valuable education time from me? Never. Hold the phone, no, that's not all they're prepared to steal, I've worked out that this weekend I will be spending over £200 in WHSmiths, let alone the £42.50 I will have to spend to re-mark one of my drama papers that was 2 marks off an A, which the school would have been prepared to assist me with if it wasn't for the new con-dem government. Yay you Cameron :|.
Then there was that familiar feeling, oh, you know, when you're sitting in English, and you recognise that every word the teacher is saying will somehow help you when that fateful June afternoon arrives, yet you simply can't fight the sudden weight of your eyelids... and... and... ZZZZ. Hmm, that's why I got a B at as level...  nothing changes :/.
I left school after 5th period today due to the lack of organisation from the JS department (well there's always a silver lining) and trudged mindlessly down the windy path as though a dementor had sucked out my soul. Maybe if I had the same spring in my step that I had this morning I wouldn't have missed the 204. Grrr.
So, you see where I'm generally coming from, another year jamming with the uniform Nazis, the Miller teddy bear, and willingly being aware of the fact that we are simply another cog in the works so JFS can remain strong in 'The Times: Official State School Results Table'. Happy (Jewish (Free School)) New Year, it's going to be a good'un...