CHRISTMAS SPECIAL: A 'Special' Christmas

I racked up outside my aunt's house in Hendon this morning, sporting a tacky jumper plastered with a picture of an over-zealous Rudolph the Reindeer. My family are Jewish, but somehow we manage to conveniently meet up every year on the 25th of December, weird right? The gang managed to remove our religious guilt this year by ending the meal with the lighting of the Menorah whilst singing 'on the 8 days of Chunukah'.

Christmas is a huge anti-climax, my extended family gather to discuss the big events of their years in a manner which makes me feel very uncomfortable; "Hmm, fascinating, but I truly couldn't give a shit about your son learning the trombone... why doesn't he learn to jump off a bridge instead?". Fortunately, every year I'm labelled 'resident alchoholic' and instead of engaging in any sort of conceited conversation I resign to the end of the table with my bottle of red and a driedal. I quickly fall into a sort of withdrawn glaze, and begin repeatedly humming "simply having a wonderful Christmas time" under my breath like a deranged elf. 

One of the most surreal moments of the afternoon commences immediately after the meal, we decide it would be a good idea to play 'pass-the-parcel'. I must strongly clarify that all may be fair in love and war, but not in pass-the-parcel. The table simmers into quiet chit-chat as the adults pretend as though they care little whether the music stops while the parcel is in their desperate hands... it's all about the children, isn't it? But even they seem to have more decorum than the elder members of the family. My forty year old aunt-in-law passes this abundant package of gifts suspiciously slowly over her steaming coffee as my sister and I glare at her from across the table. You'd think after experiencing over double the amount of festive afternoons she'd have been a bit more giving: I bet Santa isn't pleased at her lack of cooperation. I found myself getting extremely frustrated as the parcel passed from my fingers onto the next player as they were the one to win the sparkly lip balm. 

The most priceless member of my family is my grandpa. He sits in the corner as me and my sister watch him intensely, and here's why: because when the adults discuss the problems with some "pesky immigrants" he will remain silent until he bursts out with a line of a musical. All of a sudden, "my mummy says I'm a miracle" (from Matilda) or "if I were a rich man" (Fiddler On The Roof) or even "the hills are alive with the sound of music" (guess :|), this causes me and my sister to burst into a crescendo of hysterics, til we're ushered out the room by my mother, causing us to get coal for Christmas. 

Christmas messages are an interesting phenomenon within itself. People I haven't spoken to in a year, exactly a year in fact; since the last time they berated me with fake messages of 'cheer', feel it'd be socially acceptable to pop back into my life. This one guy I slept with three years ago wishes me "festive cheer" and my gynecologist is "thinking" of me this Christmas... creepy.

I think it's about time I roll home and make peace with the ghost of the Turkey I just single-handedly devoured. I hope you all received the materialistic bullshit you ordered off Amazon. A merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

The Art Of Coning

Five nonchalant youths rack up outside the McDonalds 'order' window. The banter in the vehicle is fruitful and pleasant. The evening is humid; light British rain dampens the dashboard, a brisk and purposeful wind explodes into the car as the driver winds down his window. The pungent fumes of minimum wage seep in through the cracks.
They are only here for one thing.
"An ice-cream cone please", the deep voice drifted up.
"With flake?"
"No", the driver allows a quick glance to the teen who sits patiently in the passenger seat. The whole car seems to be smirking. Whether the server has noticed the concealed giggles erupting from the backseat or not is difficult to tell.
The paths of six people, and one child-luring fictional Ronald McDonald were about to collide. Fate, destiny, call it what you will but they were all there in this one moment, this one thread in the large, soon to be unravelled, tapestry of life.
The driver slipped the car back into first as he moved towards the 'collect' box. Twenty yards and twenty seconds later ...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wMYwYbMnDRU&feature=autoshare

Friday's Child

She was surveying the university, it was large and she felt so small in comparison to all the bustling students going about their academic business. Violet was passing one of the bigger student residences along the strip; it was early winter and it was already beginning to get dark. Girls and boys lolled over the balconies of different rooms; in one, there seemed to be an array of youths smoking and drinking, having what seemed to be a fun time. She was only a stranger to them - one who yearned to know what went on inside. 

The sun began to fade behind the balcony which secluded the university campus from the outside world and at the last glimmer of light she saw the high street across the river. Then it began to rain. The rain was owned by the night and, having no umbrella, Violet ran into the little coffee shop that sat quaintly opposite the main residences. 

Other students began to take shelter under the overlaying roof, and Violet had to work her way through her elders to find refuge. As she came in she noticed a man noticing her, giving him a quick short smile, not wanting to convey the 'wrong' idea. She ordered a small vanilla coffee as the man behind the counter looked her up and down. He drank in her long, luscious legs barely covered by her formal blue mini skirt and worked his way up to her white blouse slightly unleashing her full youthful breasts. The cleavage alone was enough to drive any man wild. 

She sat by the window with a good view of the bridge, allowing herself to relax and listen to the symphonic rain hitting the pavement lightly mélanged with the intimate student chatter. The sun had left her behind by now and she was consumed by the dark. The prospect of travelling home seemed long and treacherous; the train didn't leave for a good few hours anyway but she'd have to make her own way to Paddington. She decided to pull out her copy of 'Wuthering Heights' from her satchel and relish in the unconsummated love of Catherine and Heathcliff. 

The window seemed far more tempting than the book after a while and she gazed sleepily out at where she'd be this time next year, hopefully. All of a sudden, there was a cough from behind her. She looked up: over her shoulder there stood the man that had noticed her. "Is someone sitting there?" He pointed at the chair opposite her. His voice was coarse but warm; he was tall and not typically handsome, with a brown thin pencil moustache, high cheek bones and deep set green eyes. Those eyes - she felt penetrated by his very presence. She nodded meekly and gestured towards the seat, implying it was free from company.

He sat and began to stare out of the window. By now Violet was fascinated by this man; he didn't seem like the typical student, his very presence screamed maturity. For a while they sat in this tense moment, locked by the symmetry of their bodies. Her paramour made the first move. He snatched the book which lay in front of her, read the title then let out a small wry chuckle: "Fancy yourself a Catherine, eh?"

"I don't fancy my death will be as romantic." She gave him a look, no ordinary look. Violet could be a little vixen when she wanted to. She felt a hand placed on her knee. Her meekness was extinguished as she felt the familiarity of a man's sensual teasing. Fingers moved higher up her leg until the tiniest nudge more would make her powerless. Instead, he grabbed her hand and squeezed... hard.

"Follow me?" he enquired. He stood up and made for the door. Violet was not hesitant; she had a few hours to kill and they may as well cut out the hunt from this amorous encounter. He led her across the lawn, his hand gently placed on her firm, pert bottom which was accentuated by her tight skirt.

They entered the student residence building, walked steadily through the red corridor and rushed into a lift. As soon as the door closed, he turned to face her, pushing her against one of the walls. Trapped in a box of hot, steamy passion, he held both her hands up. She felt his prisoner as he began kissing her. She strained her body forward so that her torso gently caressed his trousers, feeling something grow hard against her. The doors opened and a group of students that seemingly came from the party Violet had surveyed earlier entered. The few girls joined her in the lift, one beginning to giggle profusely; this laughing stranger leaned over to Violet and whispered in her ear, "He's the English professor - he loves the young ones...like you".

The entire company got off at the penthouse floor, one party going left, Violet and her lover journeying right. He grabbed her hand as they traversed the corridor to the end room. As he pulled the key from his pocket and slowly twisted the door knob, she became aware of the unbearably pleasurable heat and seemingly immeasurable member which grew between them. 

She pushed him down on the bed and pulled out a set of handcuffs from her bag. He was trapped by the bedposts and hers now. Violet felt something stirring inside her. All of a sudden, she slapped him. He was puzzled, initially feeling that this strike was simply a fetish of hers. Then she did it again. "What are you doing‽" he cried. 

"Shut the fuck up!"
She slapped him again. 

"Bitch, stop it!" cried the powerless professor. At this she began to laugh, hysterically and heartily.

She brought her face right up against him as he struggled, just out of her reach. "Do you know who I am?" she shouted. He continued to attempt to break free, but to no avail. She grabbed his chin and made him look at her. "I said, do you know who I am?" 

He shook his head defiantly and at the same time answered her question. She stood up and walked over to the window looking out over the river. Violet placed her hand on her head and pulled off the wig, the black long hair that lay beneath falling down. "I'm Rebecca Black", she whispered, "today is Friday, tomorrow is Saturday and Sunday comes afterwards". With that she placed the CD of her 'hit' single into the boombox and suddenly her lover was subjected to worst song ever. The sick high pitched auto-tuned melody began to play. The song was banned in every country other than Iran and Libya, often being utilised as a weapon to torture the opposers of evil dictators. 

"No, please, no! Have mercy! I voted against banning your song in the 2011 referendum, please!" he cried, his desperation so apparent. She revelled in his fear. 

She laughed, flung her bag over her shoulder and strutted out of the room. The professor knew his death was imminent. He sobbed silently. By morning, he was dead.

Rebecca joined the party downstairs and she sipped on a Martini as she overlooked the river sultrily. The night was hers; the night was Black.




Twitter: myamedina


Author: Mya Medina
Editor: Raph Torrance

I Have Ceased All Joys In Life

This may be an odd thing to start a blog with, but you should know, I'm a quitter. Recently, I've given up drugs, smoking, alcohol, caffeine and bad meats - All in all, I've given up anything that made life worth living. However, I'll have you know that this was in no shape or form an easy task, mainly because all these things are addictive and I'd rather be attacked by a number of Martian tripods from Mars then be seen going into an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

However, I am not alone in my plight against the forces of Satan. My sister too recently 'quit' this whole smoking craze, she however lasted 24 hours, which is pretty impressive, compared to my initial 24 minutes. She arrived home this afternoon from the same institution that I had, the thriving cesspit known as school. She had an informative chemistry class where she was subjected to a bias rant about the inevitable death smoking ensures, and how this professor of hers would rather "bath in a tub full of evian and drink bottled water for the rest of his life" (direct quote) than have one puff of a ciggarette. This seemed a bit extreme to me, starving suffering dying children in Africa need that water. But I simply don't understand; isn't smoking like really cool? For the next ten minutes my sister sat in life-prolonging agony as she simply was 'dying' for a ciggarette. Suddenly, and without and warning, the table next to her spontaneously combusted into a pack of Marlborough Lights. She blinked and tried to snap out of it but her friends still remained tall, lanky and pale, with an edge of weakness about them which left a horrible after taste. As this spectacular hallucination occurred she imagined sparking her lighter and waving it about her head... R.I.P Nicotine.

Today we saw our first bought of true sun. This genuine ball of heat in the sky caused me to become parched and my thirst desperately needed to quenched. Times like these can only call upon one thing... the vodka and orange ice-pop. It's the anti-AA, one becomes miraculously drunk whilst still having quit drinking. Baffling, I know. However, my will power prevailed and I watched 'The Weakest Link' sober. Anne Robinson turned from a sassy middle aged fabulous bitch with a humour to evoke my squeaky laugh to an old crony who seemed to be monotonously quizzing the working class whilst remaining beneath them. So unless you've realised, smoking and drinking are out and afternoon interrogation games are in!

So as 'happy hour' slowly approaches and the hood of darkness tempts debauchery, ever closer, I feel compelled to tell you the quote that keeps me going... "a hangover is the wrath of grapes". So maybe a night-cap will do?

Valentine's day

13.02.11

It's that 'special' time of year again. I was made aware of this when two weeks ago I journeyed to my local ASDA to attain some ingredients for breakfast. I was on aisle 12 perusing the different wines with which to enjoy my first meal of the day. After grabbing a rather fruity Cabernet Sauvignon I headed towards the cashiers but what ho? I was smacked in the face by what initially appeared to be a low-flying red Albatross. This encounter, only predicted by Alfred Hitchcock, prompted me to turn and flee. However, I pulled myself together and decided that this story wouldn't be another case of self inflicted embarrassment. After a second of base human logic I realised I was actually smacked in the face by a huge, imposing heart.

I turned to face the adjacent aisle and there it was, everywhere, contrasts of reds and pinks. Murdered bunnies sat on the shelves marked with arrows through their tummies. A huge blue elephant had been mutilated, some sick bastard had inserted a voice recorder into his trunk, which when tightly squeezed spoke "Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you". I had just been fucking rick-rolled by an undersized Loxodanta Africana (Latin for 'Elephant').

...

14.02.11

I asked someone how they'd be spending Valentine's day when I arrived at school this morning. My companion lifted up his right hand and pointed to it, "I'll draw a heart on this then masturbate until it rubs off".
Although his comment was crude and a classic example of the basest teenage humour, he made some sense. A good wank is far cheaper than a table for two at Pizza Express.

Here's an interesting statistic, the major category of people that swap Valentines cards range from 6 - 10 years old. Typical. They literally have no clue! They have no clue that Saint Valentine was a male chauvinist pig who was capitalised upon by men to advance the 'cult of femininity' and secure monogamous relationships, causing safe and sure paternity, meaning male heirs can take over private property. But worry not, because out of it all I got one day to call 'my own' with an added bonus of a lifeless blue elephant that was haunted by the overtly queer soul of Rick Astley!

V-day - where sex is only a box of chocolates away.  Don't forget your entire future depends on how impressive you can be on this single (sense the irony) day. It's also a give-in that you'll love your partner substantially more on this day than all others so be sure to take any shit they throw your way, but don't only take it, take it with a smile because you aren't at all alone in the universe and weeping into a Pot Noodle.

The Night Bus

From my humble yet inspiring experience I could happily write an in-depth novel about the night bus, it would be a sort of psychological thriller meets romantic comedy meets queer musical. My most recent experience on the night bus took place on Saturday night, it was so poetic. As I wearily stepped on the 24 from Tottenham Court Road to Chalk Farm, I felt as though I was united with my people. I skipped over the skimpy eastern european lying drunk on the floor, the cheap duty free vodka protruding from her vagina. Like a piece of art I took a moment to admire her, making note of the fine detail in the way that the puke ran down her cheek, I tapped her gently and mused "we've all been there love". She laughed and spat some disease at my face - charming.

As I climbed the stairs I became vaguely aware of the slimy man captivated by my ass. Looking at this from a primitive perspective I took it as a compliment. However, when he propositioned me later it wasn't as amusing.

I took my place on the upper floor of this red double-deckered British novelty and sat right at the front. Peering over the top I felt like a king riding a very slightly bumpy roller-coaster. I surveyed my kingdom to the romantic tune of 'Frisky' played by the chavs at the back of the vehicle. They sang along, as if they were some heavenly choir gently narrating my evening. It was no 'songs of praise' that I might experience on a sunny Sunday afternoon in my local church, but it was peaceful none the less.

Suddenly the bus ground to a violent halt. Oh my, it was happening again, I looked around for a sense of reassurance from the other passengers, we were all in this together now. A woman was gently weeping into an empty Sam's Chicken box, whether this was because we both knew what was about to occur, or simply a tableau of her pathetic life, I simply did not know. I stood. I made my way over to the twisted staircase, wading through the ravaged chicken bones and piss stained floor. I peered over, only to inquire the full extent of the damage.

At the door way, there she was, dressed head to toe in tacky, fake Juicy Couture, and worst of all, she bared no ticket. Needless to say, the busman wasn't pleased. The vile 'woman' proceeded to bang violently on the thin slate of plastic that lay between her and her prey. "Let me on you fucking Paki", she squealed in a heartless, and rather non PC way.

The busman replied in words that I couldn't make out. Then the kicking began... one of her cohorts had began assisting her in committing minor atrocities worthy of an ASBO. I didn't know which primitive instinct to call on: fight or flight? I decided it was too late to run, I was through the looking glass now.

The villains began running up the stairs, one spotted me, "what you looking at?". This was it, my moment. Do I confront her poverty stricken ways? Do I pay for her ticket? Do I take pity on her and offer her the multiple McDonalds discount vouchers stored in my bag? Alas, I did none of these things, for I am a white, middle class haughty Jew. That, and I doubted whether she would understand the basic English in which I speak.

I returned to my place at the front of the bus, a seat which I initially deemed fit for a queen, now felt like the naughty chair. The bus didn't move for a few minutes, wherein I pretended to be captivated in a tattered copy of the Evening Standard. The cycle hire scheme is expanding into east London I hear...

She eventually threw herself of the bus in a fit of rage, not neglecting to give the bus driver a piece of her tiny mind, using the only sordid adjectives in her limited vocabulary.

The bus continued on its journey and I ended my trip safely. But we all know, the night bus will never be really safe...



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The Gym: A Tale Of Horror

Today I went to the gym. 'The gym?', you may question, 'but why?'. I shall tell you why! There was a drama workshop I was subjected to, and that's right, I'd rather risk a heart attack then face a nouveau, ponce, "creator" (they don't like to refer to themselves as 'actors'), self-professed lunatic make me walk around a room in circles reciting King Lear to relate to a character that I shall never have the pleasure of performing. Oh, and unless I've mentioned, pay £12 for it.

I excused myself with a dentist appointment, an adequate lie, much like other well known lies, such as: "no, it's more maroon than purple", "the dog ate my homework", and "yes, you are the first guy to ever make me really orgasm". I proceeded to leave the theatre and make my way towards the gym, after changing in front a load of bitchy year 8's wondering why this fat cow doesn't have better things to be doing with her obviously busy schedule. I covered up my huge tree trunk thighs and stomped out of there.

The gym is a truly frightening place, there are loads of metal objects with white wash walls and unnaturally placed rave music playing from a small stereo in the corner, much like a tacky brothel really. There were already two men working out on the rowing machine and the running machine. At first I thought I better not come near these folks, as I sincerely didn't want to fuck with their extremely precious 'zone'. I thought I better acquire a 'zone' as well, so I headed towards the bike-like machine, that simulates all the worst parts of taking to a bike - the exercise. I set the timer and of I cycled '30 minutes, walk in the park', I thought naively to myself. 5 minutes in and I was struggling. I stopped after 20 minutes and when I heaved myself of the seat I seemed to have lost the feeling in my legs and stumbled like a gunned-down, semi-conscious moose over to the taps. Someone had rigged it and I sprayed water all over myself, at this point it was a blessing.

I returned to my everest and decided that perhaps some weights. Well that was horrific. I must have given myself some sort of minor hernia. I mixed yoga with lifting and ended up with a dramatic struggle against the rope. After 24 seconds I decided that this challenging machine simply wasn't for me, let alone anyone that can't lift an elephant.

I ran to the running machine in an ironic fashion, as the gentlemen that appeared to have far more stamina than I, judged away. I jumped on, I set myself to a sort of fast walk and just to mix things up a bit, I let myself climb a steep hill at the same time. Before I knew it I was sweating, it felt as though I had just dived in to an artificial pool of testosterone. I wanted to run for as long as the men had, to regain some sense of dignity that I've probably lost to them in other exercise based activities. I hadn't been to the gym in two years before today. I went for the full 25 minutes. However, everything went downhill (literally) when I got of the machine, I felt as though I'd somehow overdosed on coke, killed my baby and not slept in 3 consecutive days. My heart was pacing and I mused that perhaps I'd die at the feet of an egotistical male, as he flaunted his ability to be just that bit better than me. I stumbled to the P.E. office (although I didn't feel very physically educated) and collapsed by the door. I was hauled in and kept there until my eyesight returned. The good looking teacher walked by my crumpled form, I was a wheezing, husky dog, lapping water from a bowl. In a weird way, I hoped they'd find this slightly attractive.

So, to conclude, on a plight to satisfy my radically feminist ideas I nearly died at the feet on a man. I'm now going to lie on the couch, eat some ice cream, and watch 'My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding'.

People I'd Like Killed In 2011 and How.

Santa Claus
He's been around for a while as we all know. The useless c**t isn't real. Subsequently, for the last 17 years I haven't received a single My Little Pony (Fairy Sparkle Limited Edition), nor a nose job. His white beard and semi-endearing chuckling simply isn't cute anymore and Rudolph should probably opt to stick him in a nursing home. He'll die in his sleep with ironic music playing in the background like "here comes Santa's slay...". His passing will directly slow the rise of 'chimney fear' causing a number of children to require therapy.

Nick Clegg
The reasons are obvious. The government clearly isn't working, so just stop making everyone's life more mundane and oblique than they already are. Nick Clegg will unfortunately die in a phallic tragedy. He'll slip and fall into David Cameron's ass, amids the flurry and confusion Nick will do only what he knows best and try to lick his way to freedom. Cameron thinking this was some sort of spontaneous sexual act that often occurs between the couple will become over excited and open his arse. The extreme amount of pent up bullshit will unfortunately drown not only Nick Clegg but the entire party, rendering them all useless... because they'll be dead.

Nicole Scherzinger 
This one is tricky. It turns out that she in fact tried to kill me first by putting 'poison' in my ears. She still persists by assassinating me whilst I watch TV or listen to the radio.

Tom Cruise
However vagina numbingly gorgeous he is, it doesn't negate the fact he is an idiot. The 'operating thetan level six' Scientologist will get lazered by the evil galactic ruler, Xenu, angering her because made another shit film which somehow contradicts the idea that the world began 75 million years ago with space aliens hatching from Volcanos. I literally wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire (my vagina would be to numb).

Daniel Radcliffe
Dobby's death scene moved me more than the entire 6 films that came before it. Radcliffe's freakish height deficiency and geeky baby face certainly doesn't make him aesthetically pleasing, and after wasting 20 hours of my life and around £50 of my earnings I've come to the conclusion the sincerest emotion he's ever been able to allow me to evoke has been a mild sense of awkwardness when he grabs Hermoine and I thought they were going to have sex. I left feeling guilty after paying to nearly watch kiddy-porn. He'll be killed after being kidnapped by crazy fans who ask him to perform magic, using the wand his captors give him he bashes his own head in (worth: £70 million).

Paul Dacre
Editor-in-chief of the Daily Mail. I wouldn't use his toilet paper to kill a fly. The little creature deserves a dignified end, the same doesn't apply to Paul. Ironically, he'll die of cancer.

Aslan
- oh wait...

Kate Middleton
That 'middle class' bitch can't stand in the way of true love. If I can't have William, she certainly can't. Perhaps another conspicuous car crash will do the trick.

Joe Gaus
After sleeping with a woman that wasn't myself I want him killed. Not only did he betray every queer in the country, but also our friendship. They'll be a substantial reward, followed by a celebratory tea at mine.