tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067934537157169252024-03-05T09:06:38.729-08:00Bossy ThingUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger69125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-40985976665494751272015-12-16T03:39:00.001-08:002015-12-16T03:39:46.923-08:00When you see what Don from Serial really looks like for the first time<b>Expectation ></b><br />
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<b>Reality ></b><br />
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<b> ***Both pics posed by models</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-71310672372381062732015-07-29T05:24:00.000-07:002015-07-29T05:29:32.263-07:00A sober and restrained review of the Undisclosed podcast<b>Millions of people around the world can agree that Serial is a good candidate for the best podcast that has ever been made. It's gripping but a breeze to listen to; complex yet simply told.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The same cannot be said for its bastard step-child, Undisclosed. By the Adnan fangirls, for the Adnan fangirls, over the last four months it has smeared poo all over Sarah Koenig's masterpiece.</b><br />
<br />
<b>The brainchild of Rabia Chaudry, a family friend of Adnan's, Undisclosed
also features Susan Simpson and Colin Miller, two legal geeks who
became convinced of Adnan's wrongful conviction and blogged extensively
on the matter.</b><br />
<br />
<b>Pretending they want to solve the murder of Hae Min Lee, when all they really want to do is chat about how lovely and cute and innocent Adnan is, the concept is inherently flawed and why Undisclosed was always doomed to fail. For the same reason I don't choose to sit and watch QVC for its honesty and realism, listening to three lawyers colluding to get Adnan released under the pretence of investigation is really quite irksome.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Our first defendant is Susan Simpson. I have no idea if she is a real lawyer or some kind of fantasist. Now I have this theory that people with alliterated names are bonkers - and Ms Simpson only convinces me further. But the real problem - and it's a fairly important thing when someone is speaking on a podcast - is her shrill, grating voice. Poor Susan Simpson suffers from a life-threatening case of vocal fry extremis - and I would gladly donate a large amount of cash to get her some speech therapy classes. She also speaks faster than a chipmunk on helium - I've checked several times to see if my podcast speed was x2, but nope. I've never heard a woodland creature sound so frightened. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>"HGKGFFDGHJGFDRFDGKH," she trills. "HGGFDJLOPIIUYYTRRASFCVBK." And I'm like, for Christ sake, take a breath, babe. Mid-sentence, mid-clause, mid-word. Just sloooow the fuck down and enunciate those syllables. Isn't there some trick speech therapists do, where they put something between your front teeth? Well, get one to Ms Simpson before next episode, stat. Or remake every episode with a vocal actress playing her part. Undisclosed's popularity would probably shoot up within hours if they did. I'm going to be blunt and say it sounds like someone shoved an object inside poor Susie and made her read her blog out at knife point. (Now I think about it, maybe Rabia <i>did</i> do this.)</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>And her blog. Apparently she's written 300 page posts on why Adnan Sayed DEFINITELY DID NOT KILL NO GIRL. If she is an actual lawyer, I'm guessing work must be pretty thin on the ground if she's got all day to dick about doing that.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Next we have the waspy Colin Miller. Colin is, in some ways, a very different creature. A slimy toad. America's own <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nick_Freeman" target="_blank">Mr Loophole</a>. I've a feeling that, in some prophetic way, Lionel Hutz from The Simpsons was based on him years ahead of time. He is a snake oil salesman. If I had a dog, I wouldn't leave it with him. I can<i> hear</i> his shiny suit through my earphones. Deception is leaking from him, but at least he can allow the air from his lungs to travel through his vocal chords in a way that doesn't make my ears bleed. But if sounding like a patronising c*nt is wrong, Colin doesn't want to be right.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Both the lawyers speak a constant barrage of boring, hooky legalese. You long for the easy honesty of Serial, but there is certainly no honesty in this. You long for one of SK's witty asides. I don't think Miller or Simpson are capable of making a witty aside. Humour and personality are not to be found here. They drone on and on and on, repeating their phrases and saying that everything in the whole world is a conspiracy theory. Not Adnan though. That boy is a saint.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Episode five had Simpson and Miller reduced to reading the terms and conditions of a 1999 mobile phone contract - for an hour. At that point I wondered if they were trolling, but could a pair of androids really do such a thing?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>They take 50 minutes to say what SK would have said - nay, illustrated - in five. They try so hard and so patronisingly to hammer home a point, that when they finally do make it, I realise I've been in a reverie the entire time. There is no clarity in what they say, ever. Tbh listening to Undisclosed is more like hard labour in a concentration camp. I wish I could get the hours back. In episode seven, when Colin made a particularly dire metaphor, I felt an actual tear rolling down my cheek.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>At least the podcast's production has improved since the first episode. That sounded like they'd put socks over their mics and gone in another room with the door closed.</b><br />
<br />
<b>The third presenter is Rabia, who is a milder legal eagle and family friend of the Sayeds. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Voice-wise, Rabia is fine. She doesn't sound like a distressed woodland creature or a Lawyer4U. It's the small matter of her sanity that concerns me more. She is on Twitter 23 hours a day telling people to fuck off if they slightly disagree with her. Did no one ever tell her you get further with honey than with vinegar? Now I understand why SK discreetly dropped her from Serial and never mentioned her again. Her scarily aggressive obsession with Adnan's case is embarrassing. I'm glad he is safe in prison because she would probably stalk him IRL and he would have to pepper spray her (or strangle her).</b><br />
<br />
<b>The stupid thing is, it's actually counter-productive. She's turning people against him with her fanaticism and combativeness. If she'd puff-puff-chilled when Serial ended, the case would still be taken seriously. Instead, it's becoming an unfunny joke.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Rabia can be a bit pompous or condescending at times on Undisclosed, as though this is the platform her ego has been waiting for all its life. Her evangelical zeal over the case can be weird, too. She says things like, "I knew Susan Simpson would be the person to solve this case," as though Susan were the new Hercule Poirot. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Hae's family must be upset at the way Undisclosed has positively shredded the poor girl's remaining dignity. SK took extreme care in leaving the gory corpse talk out of Serial, but the Undisclosed episode which concerned lividity totally undid all that discretion in the most graphic way possible. Oh dear.</b><br />
<br />
<b>In contrast Rabia preserved Adnan's modesty when she told the story about how one of the cops told Adnan he was going to get his prostate tickled in big boy jail. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Together, Rabia, Colin and Susan are sounding more and more like stir-crazed loons. For their own safety, and that of the public, I hope they will soon destroy their microphones and internet-enabled devices. But I don't think they will. They are going to keep going with this, probably until they are in their 90s, in nursing homes. They will scream, "Adnan is innocent, I tells ya!" at the nurses. Susan Simpson will seceretly hide all her medication and use it to create a "cell tower evidence should be illegal" flow chart on the wall behind the wardrobe. A similar thing happened on a French film I watched. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I can see that Rabia is deperate to keep the Serial train rolling. But it's a shame that in the process I've stopped caring about Adnan and Hae and their families. Instead, I'm wondering how or why I ever cared. On a human level, I feel sorry for Adnan that his case is being harmed by Simpson et al's buffoonery. Maybe it's time to let Adnan and Hae both rest in peace.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-44738488621649171092015-03-26T11:53:00.003-07:002015-03-26T11:53:28.813-07:00Learn to love your horrible step sibling<b>So just yesterday I got home after ten days of familial hell spent in a lovely Portuguese town called Alcoutim. Ok, I admit, the first couple of days felt like hell and I may have had the odd irrational adult tantrum over a coconut shell of freshly-squeezed guava juice. (No seeds por favor.) That's because I was forced to share close living quarters with my dad, a man known to be of Type A personality, his wife of five years (Stepbitch), my younger sister and our four year-old stepbrother. He's the douche we shall be focussing our ire on in this blog post, dear readers. He is, to be Sinatra, F, a self-entitled little shit. </b><br />
<br />
<b>He "needs an X Box" (Stepmom). He "needed the biggest room because he has the most toys". Shit me, I just turned 30 and I forgot My Little Pony. Quick, gimme the broom cupboard to sleep in. The child suffered repeat irrational toddler tantrums, usually in view of a baying mob of Portugeezers. Staring at my knees suddenly became very interesting during this time and I learnt a surprising amount about Iberian pavement tesselation as my father tried to drag a screaming ball of flesh to the nearest donkey and cart. Yeesh. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Anyway, we all began to feel a bit more comfortable with each other as the days progressed. It's amazing how much you can bond while scraping what was once part of a cow into a crusty artisan bap. And that was just breakfast. I also learnt how important the art of distraction is when it comes to child-rearing. "Look at the man on that nose!" can quell the nastiest tantrum threatening to shatter the tranquility of the hypermarket's hallowed aisles. </b><br />
<br />
<b>By day 9 I almost felt a like a real grown up big seesta and even a little sad that I would no longer feel a tiny hand trying to push me into the Rio Grande on the daily. Back to frequent doses of good British food (Nandos) and the sun peeping shyly - or lurking like a pervert - behind the grey Bristol clouds. But with a newfound love for my little <strike>step</strike>brother. </b><br />
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<b>We flew Quesyjet (oh I did enjoy my squirrel sized snack pack) and stayed at the Multihotel. I give it five stars because awesome.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-79055648658368555622015-03-06T11:02:00.001-08:002015-03-06T11:03:04.403-08:00My first panic attack<b>My first brush with the panic monster was an unforgettable punch to the gut. I was eight or nine and my small village primary school had gone to a big inner-city secondary for some county sports day jaunt. My mum was even there with us, acting as a driver, teacher's assistant and secret comfort blanky for me. We spent a while on the netball courts - I can't remember if we played or not. We probably did for a couple of hours. Then we were going to see the other stuff that was going on at the massive playing fields at the back of the school. This involved going through the car park and circling various buildings and recreational ground. As we went by my mum's and the teachers' cars it seemed like we would stop for a drink, as several people went and got water bottles out so I assumed we would be staying there for a few minutes. But when I looked up - and this happened in what seemed like less than a millisecond - they were all gone. Somehow I had been left behind. I was shouting, "Mum! Mum! Wait," but no one heard me. They were long gone. Three older girls were stood chatting and I said, "Did you see a group of people just go that way?" But it was the weirdest thing, my voice was coming out in rasping breaths. I was hyperventilating, severely. <i>Hello panic, nice to meet you, ya bastard.</i> </b><br />
<br />
<b>I still have no idea what it was that made me panic so badly within a few short moments. I think it was a combination of being far from home, the frightening busy road the other side of the barrier and the way they had been right there next to me, then I looked up and they had all vanished and I was totally alone. I've always been a very disorientated person, as well. I can find an empty banquet hall labyrinthine. Anyway, the girls said they didn't know so loudly I wheezed down a path I thought they had taken. It was just like a dream where you are trying to run away from something but you cannot move fast enough. My body was crippled with panic and I couldn't catch my breath. They must have walked off at pace because I did eventually catch up with them up on one of the hills behind the school buildings. </b><br />
<br />
<b>They were completely nonplussed and not at all sorry for having left me behind. I never did adequately explain the extent of the terror I experienced when, as it appeared to me, they disappeared in the blink of an eye. It was very out of character for my mym not to notice that I wasn't part of the group. And for all the teacher cared I had been whisked into the back of a passing Transit van. Stuff like that can happen in a matter of seconds, something I was all too aware of at the time. Thankfully I never did experience such a violent panic attack again, though I have often been frightened that I might. It would be several years before a different type of panic attack became a regular feature of my days with the symptom that terrifies me more than anything else on this planet (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Derealization" target="_blank">unreality</a>). But these have all been quiet, passive affairs that weren't at all apparent to anyone else. </b><b>Of that at least, I'm glad.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-46020157249469868782015-03-03T11:04:00.000-08:002015-03-03T11:04:28.517-08:00Embarrassing behaviour witnessed on Instagram<b>So I told you guys already about my cringey encounter with a really hot guy on Snapchat. Well, he himself had an even more embarrassing moment on Instagram not long after, which made me feel vindicated. Even though he has nearly 1,000 followers I'd wager that not many of them picked up on what actually happened. Over the Christmas period Mr Snapchat, we'll call him, went on holiday and started a relationship with a local girl. This was documented with many IG posts: their hands entwined at McDonald's, her dragging him into the hotel elevator, post-sex selfies. This was when I still held a (virtual) candle for him and I felt a bit sick with jealousy. Then he came home, the selfies stopped, though he kept mentioning his girlfriend on Twitter. I can only guess that it was at this time that she stopped contact with him for whatever reason. But Mr Snapchat couldn't let it go. He started posting subliminal stuff about bitches always being bitches. Then he must have got really desperate and he posted an intimate snap of the two of them snuggled up with their tongues poking out. He geo-located it so it seemed like it had just been taken back at his holiday destination. But the next thing he posted was from home. So it was clear he was at home and the intimate pic had been taken weeks ago when she was still into him. And she totally ignored it. Ouch. Hurts when people are mean, doesn't it Fat Boy? He has now written SINGLE on his bio and is following lots of girls whose usernames all end in 98. I guess I can understand more now why he was snappy - do excuse the pun - during our exchanges on Snapchat. It was when this girl was trying to do the ditch'n'dash and when I wouldn't send a bunch of sleazy pics, he got extra pissed off and I ended up blocked. What can be learned from all this *Jerry Springer voice* is that when someone rejects you, it's imperative that you accept it or at least appear to accept it. If you persist in throwing yourself at them, Mr Snapchat style, with increasing desperation, it will only feed their dislike of you and social media is the worst place for this to be played out because you don't know who might be watching. And feeling all your embarrassment for you. </b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-29162621604388457412015-02-03T10:39:00.000-08:002015-02-03T10:40:53.002-08:00Awkward Snapchat encounter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>My past week included a ridonkulously lolsome episode on Snapchat of all things, an app I find tiresome and have little time for. So there's a guy I've internet liked for quite a while now, he's super good-looking, intelligent and cool, different in so many ways from the idiots I meet irl. I'm crazy about him, but I know he'd never be interested in me - I seem to be getting older and uglier by the day right now - and I'd never dare talk to him. Well, I did try a few times on Twitter in the early days and he either totally ignored me or rdiculed me. Rejection is absolute. Or at least that's how I felt until last week when I had a sudden "fuck it" moment and decided to quickly dart out of my shell. (I feel more and more pathetic just writing this, though I can't help but lol.) </b><br />
<br />
<b>He sent me a DM on Snapchat that said, "Who are you?" So I replied "Someone who finds you hot." Douchius extremis, I know. When my school friends said I couldn't talk to boys, it stuck big time. Anyway, this must have flattered his over-inflated ego somewhat, for he replied: "Hahahaha." Then he said, "And you?" wanting me to send a pic of myself. Urgh. This has ended in disaster before so I wrote, "Nah, too ugly for you," and he said, "Can I see?" When a hot guy is begging you for anything it's pretty hard to say no and I felt my resistance slipping. Quickly I went back to the start of my camera roll and found the best photo of my adult self that exists. I mean, it's getting on in years itself now, but it wasn't like I was going to take a selfie right there on my iPad camera. The idea wasn't to make him actually vomit. So anyway, I sent him the best photo of me that exists which would be anyone else's worst ever. Five minutes went by. Ten minutes. Fifteen. He was either wanking over it, uploading it to Imgur or just loling. Dry heaving? Anything's possible. Then he replied. "Ok." <i>Ok. </i>Isn't that the most crushing reply to a shy selfie in the whole history of the world? Pretty sure it is. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Next he wanted to know what my Instagram ID was because he couldn't remember how he'd found me. Cripes. How to breeze past this clusterfuck without revealing that my IG profile is, um, um, kinda catfish and that I'm only on there to look at his pics? Trying to be all casual like I said, "Oh I don't use IG, I can't remember how I found you, I don't understand Snapchat *crying with laughter smiley* (because that makes any statement instantly fucking hilarious)." But unconvinced he wanted to know my Twitter or Facebook profile. This guy might be gorgeous but stuff like that is such a dick move and so rude. I didn't want to give him those so I gave him my imessage ID and said he could message me there. Which (obviously) he never did. I am such a fucking loser. Then he kept asking me for more pics, more pics. Well, sorry but I'm not a supermodel, nor am a whore, so it's not like I have an album of sexy n00dz I can just send out willy-nilly on demand. I sent him a really lame one of the jeans I had on and he sent me one back of what could've been a slight boner under his jeans. The thrilling world of Snapchat, ladies and gents. I made some lame joke about, oh is that an anaconda in your pants and he said, "No, small dick." I think he was fed up with my reticence by then and our conversation ended. I should have left it there. Go out on a high like Brucie Forsyth, you know? </b><br />
<br />
<b>But I am so desperate, insecure and ugly that I waited a few days and went back in. I sent him a surprisingly cute pic of part of my body - and not between the legs before you start thinking that. Just a part of my body that wasn't my highly unfortunate face. So a while later I saw he'd replied. And what delightful comment would he make - would he even send a pic of his own body back? Nah. He'd written, "And?" Wow. If "ok" was crushing, the blunt "and?" is an even ruder way to respond to an insecure and annoying girl's selfie. At this point I got pissed off and decided to stop talking to him ever again, to go back to stalking his pics from afar. But guess what? The twat blocked me. Yes, actually blocked me. It's certainly a new low for my love life I must say. If a 30-year-old man has to act like such a little bitch then it doesn't matter how good-looking he is, I can't be bothered with him, and he was so boring to talk to. "And?" and "Ok" do not a conversation make. I could simply make another account and stalk him anew on that but I just don't want to know him any more. Romantic life 2.0: hell.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-32854786793398627292015-01-30T10:45:00.000-08:002015-01-30T10:58:14.977-08:00French Slebs: Swagg Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Dear France: you're making this waaaay too easy.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I first noticed the inhuman form of Swagg Man a while ago but had him filed away under Twats I Will Choose To Ignore, until today when he popped up during a YouTube binge.</b><br />
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<b>Swagg Man is without doubt the most idiotic, pointless waste of
oxygen I have ever seen. Thank Christ, then, that for once a fool of
epic proportions does not hail from the British Isles. Let's all feel
extreme second hand embarrassment for France, for that is the appalling
country that spawned this monstrosity. </b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPq5pyNUQCJ2ssl7_iYgWJK0xuuMhxUiwMrHwwJ53mqLGooQE79Q8iecSA50O91vIaVvN6LQ5Dwyg6cAOuKew7n4r2Kz2k0bj0dxyZ8QeSH45GAbURsdyZTAEic_kW3S6zJsLiY51VFhsl/s1600/swagg_man_mohawk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPq5pyNUQCJ2ssl7_iYgWJK0xuuMhxUiwMrHwwJ53mqLGooQE79Q8iecSA50O91vIaVvN6LQ5Dwyg6cAOuKew7n4r2Kz2k0bj0dxyZ8QeSH45GAbURsdyZTAEic_kW3S6zJsLiY51VFhsl/s1600/swagg_man_mohawk.jpg" height="192" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hang thy head in shame, Twatt Man</td></tr>
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<b>Since I last encountered his mouldy face and body, his popularity has been on the ascendant. He has an album out, his YT videos and vlogs get millions of views, he has 125k followers on Twitter and over two million on Facebook. This surely warrants a text to the French consul saying, "U ok hun?"</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNTqW7414YMlDMTy26KOaNSI-OnrVsWT3G33ZbTdhgX0iJM8xuKYfuEdDh7zd9Y7KPSz29qFR0x586GnN6BJ12j1iQgX4S28tgpnAxMgHmHggc6mGAQHVPFNdANIb_K8CzCvKzvvnOGeQQ/s1600/swagg_man_douche.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNTqW7414YMlDMTy26KOaNSI-OnrVsWT3G33ZbTdhgX0iJM8xuKYfuEdDh7zd9Y7KPSz29qFR0x586GnN6BJ12j1iQgX4S28tgpnAxMgHmHggc6mGAQHVPFNdANIb_K8CzCvKzvvnOGeQQ/s1600/swagg_man_douche.jpg" height="320" width="319" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">El Doucheo</td></tr>
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<b>Swagg Man is trying hard, so hard, to get a name for himself with highly controversial antics: he wants <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BCSym0u8vEQ" target="_blank">your grandma to suck his dick without her dentures in</a>; he lines the toilet seat with cash; he burns cash; he wipes his boogers on cash. He boasts of being part of the "AIDs Gang" and his album is called Sexually Tranmitted Music. Ah, a true artiste. He drives a Lamborghini and a Bentley, he smokes cigars and flips the bird. Fucking revelatory ain't it. </b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQiwRDFJ_Y5zc10-wu3FTy6k3upLsJirvcZxftln54AYlteczbO67oOAdtpErVm2aEjjQe5wcD-yWoUBeHtlqg-lV0CxGY4tjZ3MdBxOqznzEjkWWHaH3tjNLjbkxopRZH10lR6NS5uO82/s1600/swaggy_doggy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQiwRDFJ_Y5zc10-wu3FTy6k3upLsJirvcZxftln54AYlteczbO67oOAdtpErVm2aEjjQe5wcD-yWoUBeHtlqg-lV0CxGY4tjZ3MdBxOqznzEjkWWHaH3tjNLjbkxopRZH10lR6NS5uO82/s1600/swaggy_doggy.jpg" height="400" width="395" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poor Swaggy Doggy :'( Your owner is a twat of epic proportions</td></tr>
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<b>Swagg Man's real name is Rayan Balarfa Sanches, he is Brazilian-Tunisian and owns the admittedly adorable <a href="https://www.facebook.com/TheSwaggyDoggyTV" target="_blank">Swaggy Doggy</a>. You may notice that Swagg Man has undergone extensive tattooage, which include a liberal smattering of the Louis Vuitton monogram over his thick scalp, numerous red lipstick marks, leopard print, a Picachu, his own face, "every day is my birthday", "Mum's" - like, what even? He mean the cheapo wine? - slutty pin-ups and a load of other solid looking shit that's pretty much forming into a huge dirty mass over his entire flesh. Ewww. In line with the American counterparts he seeks to emulate so desperately, Swagg Man has invented his own way of speaking and he has these trademark pseudo-American catchphrases, the most frequent and well-known being POSEY. This makes up a good 40% of his speech with another 40% being "bro" at the end of every clause. Posey is derived from <i>pos</i></b><b><i>é</i>, meaning serious, and is apparently delivered in what the French believe to be an American accent. It's basically Swagg Man's version of Lil Jon's YEAH or Dappy's Na-Na-Ni if you'd like a British comparison. In fact Swagg man is extremely similar to <a href="https://twitter.com/thedappy" target="_blank">Dappy</a> in many aspects of his persona: they both have the same mixed race looks, they both make a poor attempt at appropriating black American culture and they are both in denial of their own nationality. </b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh86ZxvIu5p38Pqjyfz_bUg1tR8IEw294yFjjvjtbEZze9X65YAEU-ldLJJ3aYuEG5yblqs9ZavbohYIDocZlnIiifsYrnZmOFCDTdwUohb_fufL-CHwz1LxDq8pYl3VKfcPaksgI8WwYJR/s1600/swagg_man_gay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh86ZxvIu5p38Pqjyfz_bUg1tR8IEw294yFjjvjtbEZze9X65YAEU-ldLJJ3aYuEG5yblqs9ZavbohYIDocZlnIiifsYrnZmOFCDTdwUohb_fufL-CHwz1LxDq8pYl3VKfcPaksgI8WwYJR/s1600/swagg_man_gay.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ooh</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Purely for research purposes I got on a Swagg Man binge to see what he gets up to. The most amazing thing about him is how camp he is. He must be the biggest gay icon in France right now. Whether <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L236R2Z3N5k" target="_blank">he's being interviewed in the bath</a> or <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXnveCTmxk0" target="_blank">having his makeup done in a leopard print blouse</a>, his feminine, limp-wristed mannerisms and what seems to be lipgloss rather detract from the machsimo he is so desparately trying to attain. I think the most vile video I watched was the one where he was <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yvMSrTR-e7g" target="_blank">lying in bed surrounded by ladies fetish shoes all around</a> and he was openly disrespecting the dollar with pleasure. </b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim_xR3uVCMcQmGeZchyphenhyphen5NG2yjGFLzI2WqglQA4ky4e04z4Nxo_J43mB-6hDaSNPv-_E2FF_1_Pu2f1DGHSwGjS2LZyX1NzgiyTA7zAVhX4wyvK-7n8RumhmRhMQRcDARRVttepBn-BpUvu/s1600/swagg_man_pool2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim_xR3uVCMcQmGeZchyphenhyphen5NG2yjGFLzI2WqglQA4ky4e04z4Nxo_J43mB-6hDaSNPv-_E2FF_1_Pu2f1DGHSwGjS2LZyX1NzgiyTA7zAVhX4wyvK-7n8RumhmRhMQRcDARRVttepBn-BpUvu/s1600/swagg_man_pool2.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No one loves me :(</td></tr>
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<b>He also made a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NcYqPzHUBFA" target="_blank">really lame soft porn reggaeton video</a> though mercifully we avoid seeing what his miniscule cho-cho is decorated with. It's hilarious that he doesn't realise "Ay Papi" isn't something a heterosexual man is usually comfortable saying. </b><br />
<br />
<b>In many ways Swagg Man is a perfect illustration of France's love-hate relationship with America, on one hand being a ludicrous and fraudulent imitation of his rap idols, on the other committing the ultimate dicourtesy of defiling their currency. As someone on <a href="http://www.reddit.com/r/cringe/comments/1w8by6/this_is_swagg_manjesus_christ_i_have_no_words/" target="_blank">Reddit</a> said, "Why do the French people emulate only the stupidest of American ways?"</b><br />
<br />
<b>Swagg Man's music is a craptacular attempt at the Pitbull type of genre: he's got no flow, no rhythm, so most of his songs are just lists of luxury brands. He wouldn't know a catchy hook if it bit him.</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sF5fCCmni-hCGbuGYxLgba1swzqsj03SnOsksWuxGkAycV_IsNw9OoDQqED5ekBYIbC82vOZEJONlXWIx6t-ZmOBtLDhEcYIcLeyFnLRsJnxImZgcHyqAU28cj2aw8Q9_Tb1QwT42ecX/s1600/swagg_man_gun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sF5fCCmni-hCGbuGYxLgba1swzqsj03SnOsksWuxGkAycV_IsNw9OoDQqED5ekBYIbC82vOZEJONlXWIx6t-ZmOBtLDhEcYIcLeyFnLRsJnxImZgcHyqAU28cj2aw8Q9_Tb1QwT42ecX/s1600/swagg_man_gun.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guns are so trendy in Paris rn</td></tr>
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<b>A lot of the buzz about him in France comes from Swagg Man's bragging about being a multi-millionaire businessman. He claims to own restaurants and innumerate luxury properties including palaces (lol now you've gone too far) in Miami, Dubai, Brazil and Tunisia. Not France though..huh, funny that. His social media accounts are a constant stream of Rolexes, foul-looking bling and bundles of cash. But it's extremely obvious to me that the cash is just toy money he prints out of his HP Deskjet and that the jewellery is fake shit he buys off a market stall. Like duh. Maybe the tattoos did cost a lot but then again maybe he used his benefit money, maybe it's free if you agree to be their practice board. Maybe his parents* are well off and indulgent of him but having seen <a href="http://swaggmanrealfake.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/le-mytho-part23-coming-soon.html" target="_blank">a pic of Swagg Nan</a> that seems laughably untrue, boo. Swagg Man a gazillionaire? Nah. If nothing else he seems remarkably unconcerned about Flanby's infamous 75% tax. I mean he also claims to be part-time resident in Miami and, God, he can't speak English for shit and is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KAmiVVzBlOI" target="_blank">obviously an inexperienced tourist</a>. In other words, rappers lie. They all make out they're rich and shit when in actuality they're unemployed without a pot to piss in, wank over the Grattan catalogue and cry themselves to sleep every night. Besides, no real millionaire makes <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZ4cxiIavJQ" target="_blank">shitty informercials for Lovoo</a>. </b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQtYfuwECContJ8CmU9vNP9b56wMJeVQSlYuGlm3UhtcFPwsOoWMzrckSHRTGVc43Ybs6eekKy6iOFIV1SCeaFApHpCPgCblWwx_grB5jyBDZLl5BHePbUf9ZKqCPyHhLFdbMd2EEXD7N/s1600/swagg_man_close_up_tattoos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQtYfuwECContJ8CmU9vNP9b56wMJeVQSlYuGlm3UhtcFPwsOoWMzrckSHRTGVc43Ybs6eekKy6iOFIV1SCeaFApHpCPgCblWwx_grB5jyBDZLl5BHePbUf9ZKqCPyHhLFdbMd2EEXD7N/s1600/swagg_man_close_up_tattoos.jpg" height="400" width="331" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Y u so cool, Swagg Man</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>As pathetic and gross as Swagg Man is, I have to applaud him for being totally unpretentious and having fun with his image at the expense of his entire human dignity, something a large percentage of the French population could learn from. The more you watch him, the more you see he has a certain kind of charm, an open-heartedness. He is smiley and friendly with everyone he speaks to, even if mimicking oral sex with every woman he meets is a little uncivilised. </b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz-an96KDx7NZm6sZe3ttKhtRANYI_jxnzL3NAM33oUx9KXfL8HPlAGkGB-8LkB10Grq4Z_Fg_XQNw32NRURkK78f5tIXdt8pZcibHRj5itJRvne62D5NnQwDIPYcJe0slxn_WV_Qpl4r_/s1600/young_swagg_man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz-an96KDx7NZm6sZe3ttKhtRANYI_jxnzL3NAM33oUx9KXfL8HPlAGkGB-8LkB10Grq4Z_Fg_XQNw32NRURkK78f5tIXdt8pZcibHRj5itJRvne62D5NnQwDIPYcJe0slxn_WV_Qpl4r_/s1600/young_swagg_man.jpg" height="400" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Young SM was kinda hot tbh</td></tr>
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<b>Swagg Man, Rayan, if you're reading this, with the help of Google Translate: just stop acting like such a fucking shitbag all the time. You don't need to pretend to be Lil Wayne to get attention. Cut back on the Americanisms, it sounds really stupid to people who speak English. You're still young. You've got nice teeth, you're <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mDjCr0yAnME" target="_blank">actually pretty funny</a>. There's real charisma behind this weird facade you put on all the time. They're building bigger lasers all the time that could one day take care of the worst of your facial ink. Saying you are a better rapper than the legendary Tupac Shakur is going to make every American hate you before they've even had a chance to get acquainted with the frankly genius refrain "G-G-G-G-G-GOSS TRISOW". There's probably some musicality in there somewhere that could allow you to pen a decent song, a song with a traditional structure, real feeling and for Christ's sake a melody. Quit copying Lil Wayne, who everyone loathes anyway. Don't make up stories about being rich because you feel terrible inside about being dirt poor. Being poor is nothing to be ashamed of, au contraire. Revelling in your own self-hatred is a losing game and if your career has no longevity, you are going to be stuck looking for a job at the hypermarket covered in those ludicrous etchings - which by the way, might one day lead to skin or vital organ cancer /sadface. Learn to be honest with yourself, then be honest with your fans who do some pretty crazy shit to support you no matter what. You can be a better person, Swagg Man. And please treat the adorable Swaggy Doggy with kindness because he really is the inncoent victim of all of this. I'm happy to dogsit if needs be. </b><br />
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<b>Love, <a href="http://www.reddit.com/r/cringe/comments/1bq6tj/this_guy_in_my_country_thinks_everyone_would_like/" target="_blank">The Internet</a> X</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>PS. Please get with <a href="http://bossything.blogspot.co.uk/2013/06/french-women-are-most-beautiful-women.html" target="_blank">Miss Nabilla Benattia</a>. You are literally <a href="http://bossything.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/nabilla-benattia-murder-charge-thomas-vergara.html" target="_blank">perfect for each other</a>.</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEq0ApnGpm-2MDMQc58EUZj6jcUFb20Vue9LvLGyfUIMxS3Zhe92MLq2zXgGQ5Sm5mQg19XI63rPC6_7sX9HELwgU5JtvVSjVIuMwrq3bUEYLVqY9u9DOyYAi0pwHLIJe7JkYfkLVP-5yI/s1600/swagg_man_et_nabilla_meme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEq0ApnGpm-2MDMQc58EUZj6jcUFb20Vue9LvLGyfUIMxS3Zhe92MLq2zXgGQ5Sm5mQg19XI63rPC6_7sX9HELwgU5JtvVSjVIuMwrq3bUEYLVqY9u9DOyYAi0pwHLIJe7JkYfkLVP-5yI/s1600/swagg_man_et_nabilla_meme.jpg" height="376" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[Not actual Nabilla]</td></tr>
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<b>*For some reason a lot of Frenchies actually believe that a Kenyan president is Swagg Man's dad even though they all look like this if you comprende: </b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTCW-XZeYhTEhcTZlSivebqrvYL05NGpCMTxUjKA7RBW-GSYWrt1GrRoSoih_eAWMDLwGdcbFMzWKGEnvK4jnx_0QJMnCwkg_1SZrBA7mCcl0SsBGtR7DFbkl9D6DT4sGOkuAwqoRmnZp/s1600/Kenya-moi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTCW-XZeYhTEhcTZlSivebqrvYL05NGpCMTxUjKA7RBW-GSYWrt1GrRoSoih_eAWMDLwGdcbFMzWKGEnvK4jnx_0QJMnCwkg_1SZrBA7mCcl0SsBGtR7DFbkl9D6DT4sGOkuAwqoRmnZp/s1600/Kenya-moi.jpg" height="400" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Swagg Man I am your father"</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-27394456024252301932015-01-15T07:21:00.002-08:002015-01-15T07:27:24.451-08:00I'm ugly and I know it<b>A few months ago I saw this lady who used to run the play group I went to. She was fairly pleasant to my face though I did think she was acting weird, being very over the top and insincere. I've since found out she was loudly remarking to anyone who would listen "OMG is that what she looks like now / she's so ugly / what a freak" etc. This woman is a sixty-something year-old supposed pillar of the community and devout Christian so it's not very nice of her to talk about any young ladies this way. Plus, it was right before my period, I had a huge pimple, it was just after the first anniversary of my mum's extremely tragic death and understandably I was feeling somewhat fragile anyway. So to find out afterwards that this person was having a laugh over how ugly she thinks I've become is more than a little gutting, it's actually rather heartbreaking. I live in a very small, gossipy village so I can be sure she told everyone exactly how frumpy, old, mad and gross I now look, and that they all had a good laugh about it too. That's exactly what this place is like, no one escapes the gossip mill, not even bereaved orphans. Sometimes there is no way to fight it; you must simply accept that some people think you are too ugly to treat with one iota of human decency. It's a bit silly really - I am so much more than my face, hair, clothes etc. and so probably are you. Appearance is only a shell. The woman who think I am ugly doesn't know the real me; how funny and loyal and kind I am; and if she finds my face to awful to get past, she is probably not someone I would wish to spend any time on. I also think it is very unkind of my friend to a. tell me what was said in the first place and b. that she keeps repeating it almost every time I speak to her. What good did it do to tell me someone thinks my appearance is hideous? I can only conclude that she herself harbours spiteful feelings towards me, though I have no idea why. I have just been very sad and quiet since my mother died and I don't see why anyone would want to torment me with how much they don't like my appearance. All I know is, I have never and would never treat someone's sad, bereaved daughter that way.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-16694119765772357692015-01-14T06:47:00.000-08:002015-01-14T06:47:14.237-08:00My most embarrassing school moments<b> *This blog post contains very strong language and crude imagery*</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwLXSRYWcNkK2QmC2tNXqjHUBgfiaB78nziV1ZkUGEKo-xK4rYpLqkkrS1vnlFvD9rp1JOvVdwXV6XR-NLhV3dsv55UD-z9ZoyiEzNfO52iZ5EEYdI0j8WUOEmWxoJ8A-hWv5D5zi864Kj/s1600/meme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwLXSRYWcNkK2QmC2tNXqjHUBgfiaB78nziV1ZkUGEKo-xK4rYpLqkkrS1vnlFvD9rp1JOvVdwXV6XR-NLhV3dsv55UD-z9ZoyiEzNfO52iZ5EEYdI0j8WUOEmWxoJ8A-hWv5D5zi864Kj/s1600/meme.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<b>Today I had such a laugh reading about people's embarrassing school incidents on Reddit that it made me want to impart my own moments of shame. The only trouble is, the ones I've seen on Reddit and Yahoo are such small fry compared to my own that writing about them is quite, erm, embarrassing in itself. I mean I have dozens and dozens of occurrences to file away in my personal cringe archives, and most of them involve my extremely poor bladder and bowel control. I also embarrass very easily which puts me under an even more intense spotlight of shame. Nevertheless, the following incidents all really happened to me during my school days and I hope you'll be able to ROFLMAO with me because your own moments of shame will fade into obscurity against mine - guaranteed. Tbh it's just nice to be able to have a laugh about it; it certainly makes a change from bitter tears at 4am. Let the cringe begin.</b><br />
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<ul>
<li><b>Not long after I started secondary school, when I was eleven, I got weird feeling in my stomach in the playground after lunch. I didn't think much of it, but I probably did a while later when it turned to severe diarrhoea - during class. Being a meek child - very meek - I asked to go to the toilet probably two times when it became apparent an explosion was imminent. To be frank, though I had that awful colicky feeling, nothing much would come out but the freaky feeling in my tummy wouldn't go away. I (stupidly) kept going back to class only to become desperate again after a few minutes but then the teacher started getting pissed off at me and I didn't dare to ask any more. So I...y'know...right there, in my pants. Quite a few times. I wasn't aware of this acronym at the time but: OMG. I thought it would draw more attention to myself to ask to leave the class so I sat tight and pretended all was well. The other pupils began to notice. "Someone's shat themselves!" My face puce, I laughingly agreed and told my besties, "Oh no, I think I trod in dog muck earlier." I remember changing classes at least once in this state. It was much worse in the food ed room because the chairs were hard plastic stools. (Hard stools. Unlike mine. Har har.) God knows what the particularly mean teacher thought when she found liquid faecal matter on one of her stools afterwards. I never asked her. I was very upset when I got home from school that night and my knickers had to be cut off.</b></li>
<li><b>The secondary school I attended had a lot of very rough, mean boys and that, coupled with normal teenage self-consciousness, led me to get a phobia of reading aloud to the whole class. Despite it being obvious that it was unbearable for me, the teachers seemed to ask me to read to the class more than anyone else - a crude attempt at immersion therapy, p'raps? I think my worst experience with reading out loud was one day in English class: I got in such a state after the first few sentences, and shook so much that I choked. I actually choked, dear reader, in a very audible manner. But being a pleaser I tried to keep going. It was literally the most humiliating thing ever. If YouTube had existed then, it would have been a viral sensation.</b></li>
<li><b>In another English class, everything was very quiet as we concentrated on what our well respected teacher was saying. I was in a reverie, I'll admit. I thought he said my name, prompting me to answer whatever he was blathering on about. So I piped up loudly, "UM, UM, ERM." Everyone turned and looked at me. Because he hadn't said my name at all, just a word that sounds a lot like it. I am such a bumbling fool, it's amazing I've never been sectioned tbh. Onward we shall cringe.</b></li>
<li><b>Ah, the long jump of humiliation. Actually I can't remember if it was long or triple jump that I was doing that day. I was good at athletics and they were my faves. I know I had been in a rush to get changed and for some reason hadn't put any shorts on under my PE skirt. Rookie mistake. All I had on underneath was an extremely inadequate* (*baggy and old) pair of knickers which was just daft. Anyway, with lots of other kids watching, I took a run up and did a great jump. But the male teacher, next to where I landed, called it null - I had my foot over the board. That's not what was embarrassing though. It was that my skirt was up, my legs were open, my knickers had shifted to the side and my whole vagina was exposed :O If anyone noticed they didn't say so. </b></li>
<li><b> Having a large pimple on picture day wasn't nice :.( and for some reason they allowed the entire year to crowd around and watch as we were called in alphabetical order for our celluloid humiliation. I was up second and I could hear the taunts as I tried to ACT NORMAL for the camera. "You don't have to look so scared," the photographer announced loudly to the room. Cunt.</b></li>
<li><b>The Lord only knows why but for some reason they got a judo expert in to give as a PE lesson one afternoon. I so wanted to be like one of the fat girls who had perpetually broken wrists and dodgy knees - they always got to sit the lesson out no questions asked. (The one time I was coming down with severe flu and asked to sit out stupid netball the bitch forced me to do it.) Anyway, so I got forced into this bloody judo lesson. I was that kid who looked like a starved eight-year-old from beginning to end of secondary school and there was this girl, let's call her Fanny, who absolutely hated me because of said physique, my pallid complexion, my posh accent, goody-goodyness and childlike lack of cool. School is nothing if not a brutal character assassination, that's for sure. Fanny was a tall, chunky beast of a girl with a real mean streak - if you would like to see what she looks like now, shoot me an email. She may have got skinny but I can still see the fat, mean bitch she really is :) So guess who Fanny chose when the judo instructor asked who she would like to fight in the middle of the room with all the other kids encircling? Skinny little me of course. Rather than put a stop to what was an obvious case of bullying the judo TWAT forced me to face Fatty in the ring. I gave it my all but it was pretty much Chihuahua vs pit bull. All the other boys and girls jeered and whooped and taunted as Fanny crushed me against the floor within seconds. I felt upset and humiliated but maybe not as much as the boy who got an infamous boner during his bout.</b></li>
<li><b>Assembly always made me nervous because I was so afraid I would have to go up on stage in front of the whole school but I always relied on the belief that I was pretty much safe as long as I didn't volunteer for anything. I mean, they can't literally force you, can they? Pfff. I don't think they give a shit how much they violate you quite honestly. So one day I got to assembly a while before my little group of friends which was unusual - they normally got there early and chose us some good seats away from all the horrible boys. This day I got us some seats away from the hoi poloi and it seemed fine, they came and joined me and assembly began. We had one of those idiotic Gideon's bible fundamentalists yammering on and on about whatever boring shit they tried to indoctrinate us with. Suddenly he was saying, "Everyone look under your seats, one of you has got a sticker underneath and you've got to come up here." Fuck me, it couldn't be could it? It just couldn't be. It fucking was. I can admit now I didn't actually check under my seat because frankly I didn't really give a shit who had it. Next the fucker was walking straight to the back of the hall, straight at us, his walking stick pointing right at me. "I've got MS and you've made me come all the way back here," he berated me, like I cared a flying fuck about someone I didn't even know. I could feel my friends turning to look at me, more than six hundred people turning to look at me, my face engorging with blood. I still don't know wtf this pathetic exercise was supposed to prove but he gave me a chocolate bar that my "friends" said rustled loudly throughout the rest of the whole assembly. It took me at almost ten years before I could tell my mum about this because part of me died inside that day. I have hated Gideon's International ever since and I personally hope to see their downfall within my lifetime. </b></li>
<li><b>In concurrence with my weak nerves, I startle, or jump, very easily - and not just at loud or sudden noises but lots of other things too, such as suddenly being touched. One day during a science lesson we were being given a demonstartion with everyone crowded round a bench with me near the front when midway one of the bastard boys threw a pen at me and it clipped me round the ear hard. I jumped so badly I nearly fell off the stool. It must have been bad because he actually apologised. Once again I was the butt of the joke. Sucks to be!</b></li>
<li><b>I had an extremely weak bladder and lol'd til I weed myself on a regular basis. Sometimes I would even wee myself standing at the bus stop and faced a whole day of feeling gross with no way of changing. The first few seconds when the urine is warm doesn't feel too bad but when it's cold and wet, it's just miserable. Buy some Tena Ladys, girl. I often left a little wet patch behind me on the plastic chairs and I was rightfully very self-conscious of standing up at the end of lessons. I must have really stank - I definitely did because just recently I found a note my friend had written me that said "Hi smelly". I didn't see it at the time, luckily, but she was spot on. I must've smelt bloody terrible. It was my friends' fault for making me laugh so much - I haven't done it since I left school purely for the fact that nothing ever makes me laugh like that any more :( </b></li>
<li><b>There was a really nasty group of boys in my form group who came from the nearest city. They were already going to clubs by the age of 13 and getting into real criminal mischief. They were already men, essentially. It was quite a shock to find myself having to be in close contact with them, believe me. I was but a scrawny child among ruthless thugs. I suppose it was my pale, skinny appearance and air of vulnerability, but I became a figure of fun to them and every time I saw them - at least twice a day - they would shout abuse at me and intimidate me in a very cruel way. That fat bitch Fanny and her beautiful and perfect BFF Angie, the school hottie, would watch and laugh as these Mean Boys taunted me. What really hurt was that the girl I sat next to wasn't that different to me but they ignored her picked on me relentlessly. I would think, what is it about me that is so different and strange and terrible? One day in particluar I will never forget because suddenly all these boys plus a few from a different form all converged on me, they were all surrounding me shouting abuse and laughing. One came right behind my chair and held my shoulders so I couldn't escape. I'll never forget that feeling, it was absolute humiliation. It was an embarrassing moment because Fanny, Angie, the girl I was sat next to and all the other kids, they didn't do anything. They just sat and watched and probably joined in the laughter. That's what really hurt. Hey, if you want to know what any of those boys are like now, definitely just shoot me an email and I'll tell you their FB! They are just as scary now. I see them in the court list from time to time.</b></li>
</ul>
<b>So there's a selection of my most embarrassing school moments. I know that last one is not so funny for me, in fact I had a little tear going over it again. Please tell me what your most embarrassing moment was at school....I would love to know :)) </b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-80033086384893807942015-01-14T03:29:00.004-08:002015-01-14T03:29:37.858-08:00Pat that<b>So I have made many posts on here before detailing my own epic struggle with acne and tbh it's not easy to find (safe) products that actually do anything to keep the pesky boils at bay. Salicylic acid can be more irritating than a Real Housewives omnibus. Benzoyl peroxide became mysteriously and suspciously unavailable a few years ago. And Roaccutane...well. If inflammatory bowel conditions are your thing, it comes highly recommended. </b><br />
<br />
<b>But personally I no longer wanted to take the risk of using these toxic chemicals for what is, after all, only a matter of vanity. Tea tree oil might be the safest option but I ended up abandoning it again because it is so itchy and only seems to make things worse. Anyway, time for my tip. It's 100% guarenteed safe and non-irritating as long as you do it correctly. It's basically free, it's supah easy, it's fricking everywhere. </b><br />
<br />
<b>It's toilet paper. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Don't scoff, this really works. I know it doesn't sound all that glam like Gwyneth Paltrow's weekly unicorn rainbow dust facial. But just try this for the next week. </b><br />
<br />
<b>When you get up in the morning, take one unused sheet of Andrex's finest and gently dab away all the oily parts of your face. I know I always look like I've been rubbing bacon grease on my cheeks when I get up,and it's really refreshing to see my skin turn matte as if by magic. Next, wash and moisterise as normal, or whatever you do. Take another sheet of toilet paper and remove the oil again if needs be, then apply your makeup. Wait a few minutes and if it looks shiny already, gently press with a new sheet of paper again. You are now ready to leave the house. Or, in my case, turn on Jeremy Kyle. </b><br />
<br />
<b>The oil may not show through for a few hours now but by afternoon it probably will. From this point on I pretty much blot my face every time I take a bathroom break. It's extremely easy and convenient to use a sheet of toilette papier after I've washed my hands and it instantly makes my makeup look perfect again. As the day goes on it does start to remove a bit of my foundation but it's perfectly easy to touch it up with it being so matte and clean. I continue blotting this way throughout the day and evening, right up until bedtime when I do it again before I remove my makeup. </b><br />
<br />
<b>This is one habit that has completely changed the way my skin behaves and looks. My pores aren't exploding, I don't have massive new pimples every day - just the occasional small one - and my face feels much less heavy without all that disgusting grease on it. The simple act of removing the oil makes pores appear instantly smaller, and apparently the sooner you begin doing this, the better your skin will behave as you age and pores get naturally larger. </b><br />
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<b>If you are posh and toilet paper is a bit non-U in your world, then try a more ladylike tissue paper or even the proper blotting sheets. I like blotting sheets too - the Kleenex ones are the dream - it's just that when you excrete as much oil as I do, it would take about ten packets a week to do the job properly. They probably do a better job of getting rid of the oil but it seems to be a much more effective technique the more frequently you do it. So that's what is so good about toilet paper: it's there for you to use every time you take a time out and it won't cost you a penny. </b><br />
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<b>My laughter lines always looks extra bad when my skin is at its oiliest and removing the oil really hepls to make them look less pronounced. The only thing I would say is that you must be sure to press very gently with the tissue paper because it can make the skin a bit sore. You don't need to press hard at all; just pat very lightly. Please give it a try and your skin will start to look better within just a few days. </b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-65416096041745834982014-11-26T10:58:00.001-08:002014-11-26T11:05:20.322-08:00No but like I need a lawyer stat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizA9FxyJZuUyuTAOlk3Qt6x2PzSKwRRMZWuGqypCAE66WQz4Z98PO-jqPK0cQfe_H67-pBr3B94DHV08PqZD5sk2UaM0EWWJBm9i6VX2KrPjJ0oFb24NfKoXW6RCk56ylPrbJkMFwSRIsa/s1600/nabilla_benattia_thomas_vergara_lol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizA9FxyJZuUyuTAOlk3Qt6x2PzSKwRRMZWuGqypCAE66WQz4Z98PO-jqPK0cQfe_H67-pBr3B94DHV08PqZD5sk2UaM0EWWJBm9i6VX2KrPjJ0oFb24NfKoXW6RCk56ylPrbJkMFwSRIsa/s1600/nabilla_benattia_thomas_vergara_lol.jpg" height="640" width="464" /></a></div>
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<b>God knows how this stunning piece of news escaped my attention but maybe it's because I don't sit here Googling her name every day. The Honey Boo Boo of France, Nabilla Benattia, <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2825028/Model-known-France-s-Kim-Kardashian-arrested-alleged-murder-attempt-stabbing-reality-TV-star-boyfriend-multiple-times-chest.html" target="_blank">almost murdered her little flower of a boyf,</a> Thomas Vergara, the other week.</b></div>
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<b>IKR?</b><br />
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<b>I can't even!!!!1!</b><br />
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<b>Certainly came out of left field.</b><br />
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<b>It is claimed that the almost murder happened when Madbilla and Thomas had a screamer of a row and she <strike>kinda</strike> <strike>maybe</strike> definitely stabbed him in the chest till he nearly died of it. Yikes. La grosse salope. I mean who even does that?</b><br />
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<b>Further evidence that French chicks are cray cray and will leave you for dead, fellas. The DM also informs me that Twatbilla was charged last year for spitting at someone who was just doing their job on the train. Not only is she a dog, she's a camel.</b><br />
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<b>Kim Kardashian, Fatbilla's brain-dead idol, may be annoying but at least she doesn't go around phlegming at people and stabbing them through the chest half to death.</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJWNqGeNPRfIZVuMKYN0Xzf6N2VEZXacYygaAzfM1bjMbpVrKnFTlhxTrzCh-bgLPsyxLmFJkTlC_AHCOXcbhI4gcJTLfs4F6RSsBwjwQCJHpD30Thvo6Gza5kwb4TxNWCAitIov_8V9_c/s1600/nabilla_movember.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJWNqGeNPRfIZVuMKYN0Xzf6N2VEZXacYygaAzfM1bjMbpVrKnFTlhxTrzCh-bgLPsyxLmFJkTlC_AHCOXcbhI4gcJTLfs4F6RSsBwjwQCJHpD30Thvo6Gza5kwb4TxNWCAitIov_8V9_c/s1600/nabilla_movember.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>And how did Blowbilla handle this PR disaster? With really stupid selfies, duh. Including this sensitively timed lolmovember one. That must make Poor Thomas's family feel really good, right? It wasn't enough that she trapped him in her web to begin with, she then took him to Shiv City, return flight extra.</b><br />
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<b>Of course Flabilla is pleading self-defense but is there ever really a plausible excuse for burying a knife in someone's breast, really?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I admit his off-duty Conchita Wurst look with that little ponytail might drive anyone to the kitchen drawer full of sharp things but yo' gonna pay gurl.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>She faces 30 years of hot lesbian shower sex if found guilty and Reality TV purgatory if not. Either way her face won't be leaving the cover of French Bella magazine any time soon.</b><br />
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<b>:(</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHsVqEtMB_TFGLXgQtWIN0R6SXwQSjKOcKoW2qBAKwJngpCjHiBH1zV0k1s2BjpKuDRv3DN9pV_S5QTua0736kw-sIkfMP87JL4EcKRsABxwxmnOuPwuFVyOlZP6QpD9vLEjzmyjOdAfLJ/s1600/nabilla_benattia_nip_slip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHsVqEtMB_TFGLXgQtWIN0R6SXwQSjKOcKoW2qBAKwJngpCjHiBH1zV0k1s2BjpKuDRv3DN9pV_S5QTua0736kw-sIkfMP87JL4EcKRsABxwxmnOuPwuFVyOlZP6QpD9vLEjzmyjOdAfLJ/s1600/nabilla_benattia_nip_slip.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-3207869299010591512014-11-07T11:08:00.000-08:002014-11-07T11:12:38.660-08:00People with chronic, severe, disgusting coughs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIt2EgWVLdmzlVv_Qm5ocGrvEZfiiuYbpwDqlQvtdGyFfB16GRM71Fi5GrXAj3q6xFRZ-RiVx8Di40gnDFTf2BM0SKb9APkm0t3OgpTE3eb-RzuqX9sjwMl-iDcyEEW0FlFZHZS7bJaM5a/s1600/annoying_severe_chronic_coughing_people.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIt2EgWVLdmzlVv_Qm5ocGrvEZfiiuYbpwDqlQvtdGyFfB16GRM71Fi5GrXAj3q6xFRZ-RiVx8Di40gnDFTf2BM0SKb9APkm0t3OgpTE3eb-RzuqX9sjwMl-iDcyEEW0FlFZHZS7bJaM5a/s1600/annoying_severe_chronic_coughing_people.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></b></div>
<b>So one of my recent posts described my life-long struggle with Misophonia, the intense hatred of noise. It's difficult to put into words how hard it is to deal with and if I could swap places with a deaf person, I honestly would 90% of the time and I mean that sincerely. </b><br />
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<b>Anyway, I didn't go into details on several factors of my experience with this horrible disorder that have caused me untold stress.</b><br />
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<b>Now I still live in the family home with my dad and brother. My dad, 67, has been a heavy smoker since he was barely old enough to crawl - because, I can only imagine, his mother was some old whore who never found any time to bother with any of that boring "parenting" stuff. </b><br />
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<b>Throughout his life he has been the most dedicated smoker and his - and our - fate was surely sealed with some kind soul introduced him to roll-ups. Anyone who says these are somehow better or healthier is an out and out liar. They have wrecked my dad's lungs, body and mind to a murderous degree - although true to the c_nty smoker mentality, he has no idea there is anything wrong with him at all. </b><br />
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<b>It was around ten years ago that he found rolling up was better than merely lighting up and in that time it's no exaggeration to say my life has been turned into a never-ending nightmare. His tickly little smoker's cough that was unremarkable in its formative years is now a chronic, severe cough - a constant HURK-HURK-HUUUURK that permeates the whole house at least five times a minute, all the while he is here. </b><br />
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<b>I think it's the loudest, weirdest sound I have ever heard another human make. Fuck you, Golden Virginia. </b><br />
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<b>At best he might be able to go twenty seconds between sputum removing episodes but that's pushing it. It's like I've been living in a cancer ward for over a decade. </b><br />
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<b>When he takes a bath is the weirdest, it's like listening to someone projectile vomiting all their internal organs. You can hear it at full volume through the tracing paper thin walls all over the house and it's like "Jesus, is tonight the night to call an ambulance?"</b><br />
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<b>Because presumably it's not going to end well, though I often think it can't get any worse, there must be a limit to the amount of noise one person's throat can make, and boom. The weather gets warmer, it gets worse. Winter comes, it gets worse still. Right now it's like he's got a litre of phlegm in his lungs. </b><br />
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<b>When the cough started it was dry, unproductive. Nowadays it's all too productive. It's loud, sharp, barking. I know he's going to do it but it still makes me jump out of my skin all day long. It's like my nerves have been wrecked. </b><br />
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<b>When he gets out of bed, which is often (day and night), he does the whole "throwing up" routine for a good ten minutes, then has a fag, chokes on it, gets a bit of phlegm in his throat, the cough goes apeshit, reaches for another fag. Repeat. Hardly the way to live. </b><br />
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<b>Smokers are by far the worst drug addicts of all, I guess because it takes so long for it to kill them. The heavily addicted ones, I don't think they think about anything but when they can have their next fag.</b><br />
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<b>Sometimes I wonder WTF the neightbours make of all the coughing, not to mention WTF a doctor would say if they could hear it. I imagine most people would feel deep pity for me for having to live with this for so long. </b><br />
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<b>Quite honestly, it has brought me to breaking point so many times that being in a permament state of high anxiety is my default now, and I can't imagine what I'd think about if I didn't have someone coughing in my face for hours every day. Merely writing a blog post can feel Herculean when you are undergoing sound torture. </b><br />
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<b>It's difficult not to sit there Googling and obsessing over it. When you look at the lung cancer symptoms it's like "if you've had a cough for 2-3 weeks..." and I think, Bitch Please. 2-3 weeks is for pussies - try over 500 weeks. </b><br />
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<b>Using Google as my doctor's manual I've narrowed it down to:</b><br />
<b>Chronic bronchitis</b><br />
<b>Emphysema</b><br />
<b>Lung cancer</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Take your pick, they all sound like tremendous fun. I can just picture my dad say there on an oxygen machine...with a fag in one hand. I just know that image will become reality one day. </b><br />
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<b>There's not much online for people like me who live with chronic coughers. It's mostly people with work colleagues who cough the shit out of themselves all day long and that must be awful. But there's something about living with it in my home that feels extra unfair and horrible. I wonder why I have to live with this terrible thing, and no one else I know does. It's like my home has been taken away from me and it's all because of tobacco. </b><br />
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<b>(I didn't want to make this post too depressing, so I didn't even get into what it's like living with the smoke of 50 roll-ups a day.)</b><br />
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<b>If you work or live with an annoying cougher, please feel free to vent all to me in the comment section. Lean on me, babe.</b><br />
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<b>May your weekend be quiet and the air fresh.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-16465582897400877662014-10-16T05:54:00.000-07:002014-11-26T11:05:43.784-08:00When someone you love marries a foreigner and goes native<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixkTzS5dA4-mDcP-XPRvW9mDyi7_1lehEn7F7ztfQKaZi0xyLk3mArjY2X8KlKZRm4yAsF7CNAYy0zzeqJnTaAmbs0XC3bitX9-4Ja0WsMol0FQ-4ONnt0tBNdwGdZkPbJS1G8C7nCoiJw/s1600/meme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixkTzS5dA4-mDcP-XPRvW9mDyi7_1lehEn7F7ztfQKaZi0xyLk3mArjY2X8KlKZRm4yAsF7CNAYy0zzeqJnTaAmbs0XC3bitX9-4Ja0WsMol0FQ-4ONnt0tBNdwGdZkPbJS1G8C7nCoiJw/s1600/meme.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<b>In the last few years I have become aware of a strange phenomonen. Actually I knew of it in a different form when my brother worked in a gun shop and his girlfriend fully pretended to love clay pigeon shooting just so she could catch him in her trap (pussy). </b><br />
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<b>But some gals take it a step further. They go all out to get their man; fully native, even.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>This one girl I know - let's call her Ann - is crazy for black dudes. It's probably racist to say bitch got jungle fever, but she's craving big dark donkey dicks like I crave mac'n'cheese. She actually went and lived in Italy for a while when she was about 22 with the soul intent - it became obvious - of hooking up with one of those African refugees who just doggy-paddled across the Med on a shipping crate with ten of their friends. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Not joking, this actually happened.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I'd love to have been a fly on a palm tree when she paraded past one of those gangs of skanky, idle young Africans you see on Donal MacIntyre exposes. You know the ones that live in encampments made of people's old trousers on some industrial wasteland in an Italian port city? </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>In a matter of weeks she'd picked up a Nigerian who was supposedly about 30 but, to put it politely, he had obviously seen a lot of life and must have been pushing 50. He doesn't know exactly because he never had a birth certificate. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>A month after her arrival in the Big Boot they were married - legally bound for all eternity. El oh el oh el.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>After a visit home to the Motherland, where the locals had never seen white flesh before, constantly harangued Ann and corn-rowed her hair, they came back here to the UK to live. They are still together eight years later with a growing son who has a name that sounds a lot like Ibrahim - so everyone thinks he's a Muslim. He just had to have an extra special name because he wasn't extra special enough already, haw haw.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The really weird thing in all this is how Ann now behaves. It's like she's had a personality transplant or, should I say, a nationality transplant. She would actually appear to believe she is an African.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>She's lived in the same tiny English village as me all her life, is a bumpkin, small-minded, ignorant. God knows where this lust for black men came from, it's all white as snow in these parts. But she obviously feels she was wrongfully displaced from some Nigerian village.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>She gets her hair done in an Afro salon even though she's got fine European hair. In her work as a sewing lady she now only uses African fabrics. All her Facebook posts are pictures of jollof rice and plantain. She sends her son to primary school in traditional robes and a turban on non-uniform days. She lives by African proverbs and speaks the way a noble old Nigerian lady might - "My husband presented me with a rose on this day".</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Soon I fear she'll be using an umbrella to shield her from the sun and carrying the shopping in on her head.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>She gets freaked out when Hubby boils a whole pig's head or nibbles on chicken feet but accepts it and loves it all 'cos it's so darn foreign and cute.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>This has all been quite embarrassing to watch from afar - as Scott Mills would put it, I've got goosebumps on my cringe glands. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Another woman I know, Sharon, is exactly the same only her husband is from <i>RRRoma</i>, as she would say, so she has had to become totes Italian. All her FB pics are of pasta, she can only accept friend requests from people called Giuseppe and Anna Maria, and she called her son Matteo, which sounds really stupid when you say it with a Wiltshire accent. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Her speech is littered with <i>Ciao</i> and <i>Grazie</i> and in general she has found a way to exude an amount of faux Latin spirit. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>CRINGE.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Similarly my brother, who prefers Eatern European women, now lives happily as a Ukrainian with his wife and two kids, who amazingly somehow escaped being called Artem and Oleksandr.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>These three examples all have common traits. Utter deperation to be married to anyone, anyone at all. Such a total insecurity and lack of self-esteem that they have failed to hold onto to their own culture, eschewing it for another that seems foreign and therefore better. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>People also seem to fetishise foreigners to a startling degree; perhaps there's something colonial in it. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Look, ladettes and geezers, it is possible to retain your own culture, dignity and sanity when you marry one of those sexy foreigners. Their language, food and everything else is not superior - just different. Get over it and be yourself.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-58109461114952185322014-09-05T05:41:00.001-07:002014-09-05T05:41:14.350-07:00The social anxiety scale<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxkV7cdwaQPpyhTmhJzLhxj7hHwVz1P3rEotKWePwLr_6zDKFJjyaw3EopRAuTtL95H1lauZ76Ssfp9lFC9iDOhRSt0FVLtmBUQqK99R7P7sUi92cmyYlH6F5-4xk9GKti4P0Jp01bCFQ0/s1600/socialanxietymeme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxkV7cdwaQPpyhTmhJzLhxj7hHwVz1P3rEotKWePwLr_6zDKFJjyaw3EopRAuTtL95H1lauZ76Ssfp9lFC9iDOhRSt0FVLtmBUQqK99R7P7sUi92cmyYlH6F5-4xk9GKti4P0Jp01bCFQ0/s1600/socialanxietymeme.jpg" height="236" width="320" /></a></b></div>
<b>Have you ever tried putting the people in your life in order of how much anxiety they cause you to feel? It can be a worthwhile exercise and even rather fun. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>To begin, think of people you're totally comfortable around, with whom you can be yourself. It might be one or two, or even none. Count these types of people as zero. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Now move up the scale to the people who freak you out and push that anxiety button the most. These people score a full ten. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>All the other people you know can be rated and fall somewhere in the middle. They might make you a bit nervous, or freak you out but not cause your worst anxiety.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>You can add detail for why each person makes you feel a particular way. This can help you to look at your negative thoughts objectively and understand why you see the people at opposite ends of your scale as so different. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>For example, on my scale the people who score a zero are calm, quiet, non-judgmental, undemanding. They also happen to be family members whose unconditional love I can count on. If I mess up, I know they won't reject me.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The tens are all type A personalities who tend to get right in my face and bellow their conversation at me, asking rude questions, making me explain myself and generally making me feel ashamed of myself. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>There is one woman in particular I'm thinking of here, a family friend I am sometimes forced to deal with, who has what might be the world's LOUDEST voice; she always looks right into my face for minutes at a time as she regales one of her lengthy anecdotes. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>It makes me feel utterly uncomfortable and has done since I was a child, but like a lot of these people, the more scared I get the louder and more ridiculously animated she becomes. Sometimes I have literally been cowering at the back of my chair during one of these ordeals. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I think she knows I'm terrified of her and is desperate to make me like her. Um, awkward?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>If I'm honest, I try as hard as possible to avoid her company at all costs which I know is the veryt hing that makes anxiety worse. That's what we're continually told, right? It's just that mine has only ever got more extreme every time I face a trigger situation.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Ok, so I'm still working on ways to feel comfortable around the people I score as tens on my anxiety scale, but I now know I'm happiest around reserved, non-confrontational types who don't make cutting remarks, do sudden things or carry any kind of agenda. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Give it a try and let me know in the comments what sort of people cause your worst anxiety :))</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-53830769316094276772014-08-12T06:16:00.000-07:002014-08-12T06:17:30.843-07:00Noise Abatement Society<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1R3-CBv6mW7hNxBPkspzCWy-w8gRVCsdlmuhlAEPwfTIj8djEkZbsg5y3L631mNTCN-20oQeBnGsvvbj8KQ9_UnyVq6yehiO3_2vpy5tGTmGLjQ7XVsWPPpjdFjHB2ykjw4ozRm6debp/s1600/I_have_misophonia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1R3-CBv6mW7hNxBPkspzCWy-w8gRVCsdlmuhlAEPwfTIj8djEkZbsg5y3L631mNTCN-20oQeBnGsvvbj8KQ9_UnyVq6yehiO3_2vpy5tGTmGLjQ7XVsWPPpjdFjHB2ykjw4ozRm6debp/s1600/I_have_misophonia.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></b></div>
<b>Howdy friends! Or frenemies if you came from the I hate Postcrossing post.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>This is my coming out post - not as a lesbian (this time).</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>From this day and for all days to come I proudly announce myself with enormous pride as a life-long sufferer of Misophonia; a Misophone; une misophonique. Je suis. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Misophonia, if you don't know already, is the neat Latin name for members of the official We Hate Annoying Noises Club. To clarify: the word literally means hatred of noises and boy do we have a lot of that. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Next we must pick our poison as to what sort of noise is the offending nuisance. In my case, it is sharp, loud sounds - doggies barking and old people coughing, those currently top the list. Either could have me reaching for a loaded revolver after ten minutes any day of the year, even if was promised £10m just to sit there and listen to it. I know it's nutty but I am a slave to sounds. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>TBH though, just about any repetitive noise can take me there. Sneezing. Yawning. Dance music with a really annoying sample looped for its entirety. A child shouting the same thing over and over. Alarms. Radio 4 through my bedroom wall (more of later). Pitbull. </b><br />
<br />
<b>I feel much more disgusted than the average person by farting and burping. Breathing and blowing your noise is pretty rank. The confident jet of someone urinating (ick). Metal on metal; blackboards; felt tip pens; the sickening sound long nails make. Ew, ew and ew. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Sometimes I trigger my own Misophonia. It's that bad. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>A lot of Misophonics centre their obsession on the noises people's mouths make when they eat. I've only had this a few times but I'm sure if I had to frequent a canteen every day, I'd soon be going bat shit. Comprendo, amigos.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I think I first knew I was a bit mental in the audio depratment was when we used to visit my dad's family every Sunday. They had this horrible aggressive Collie that would follow you everywhere and bark. Sit in front of you and bark. Make like it was going to bite you and bark. </b><br />
<br />
<b>That smelly miscreant just wouldn't stop barking and it made something in my mind go utterly cray cray. And it was absolutely impossible to think of anything else all the time we were there. The barking wasn't so regular that I could let myself relax with the loud noise going continuously right in front of my face. </b><br />
<br />
<b>It was spordaic and made me jump out of my skin with frightening intensity each time. Every bark would set off deeper waves off panic and the obsession grew and grew within minutes of our arrival at that awful place, like a monster in the back of my head that I couldn't even begin to describe to anyone. </b><br />
<br />
<b>I did try but they just didn't believe how truly overwhelming the experience was for me every week. Only fellow Misophoncs can understand how debillitating it is when you get stuck in a particularly bad episode; when your mind hears something that it simply can't accept. </b><br />
<br />
<b>When I tried to explain all this to my family though, they'd just be like, "What barking?" or "Just ignore it." But sadly my ears never ignore anything. I'm fairly convinced they're supersonic. </b><br />
<br />
<b>One of the most prominent emotions is rage. Oh how you would love to slap that person or thing stupid and stop them from ever making that noise again. From looking at Google, it doesn't seem like anyone's actually committed murder in the name of Misophonia yet, but surely it's only a matter of time and it's certainly one of the more understandable reasons for harpooning someone through the head. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Anyway, I have waaay more to say on this subject but this post's getting kinda long so I'll just leave it at this for now and bid ye a (quiet) adieu :)</b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2144936/Misophonia-Emma-Riehl-rare-condition-makes-simplest-noises-unbearable.html" target="_blank"><b>Read this Daily Mail article for a bit more info on Misophonia.</b></a><br />
<br />
<b>And if you have Misphonia, please share with me in the comments what really grinds your gears. Let's cover our ears and sit rocking together. </b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-33783729360432535582014-06-11T03:57:00.000-07:002014-06-11T04:00:01.972-07:00Interesting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUz97hkeoBbcyDqvdu2mEOpdq13JCBQniXoxp0fnBRJqTbh6EMq-79ZfQVLktiPXzCyOLKdEStU9XCaADS7bb6Qt_ZWhM0NdDYheYQ4-NuHIDQqZDNwJfTAkpHTiW3bweCK02nB_jUItH2/s1600/talk-about-money-meme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUz97hkeoBbcyDqvdu2mEOpdq13JCBQniXoxp0fnBRJqTbh6EMq-79ZfQVLktiPXzCyOLKdEStU9XCaADS7bb6Qt_ZWhM0NdDYheYQ4-NuHIDQqZDNwJfTAkpHTiW3bweCK02nB_jUItH2/s1600/talk-about-money-meme.jpg" height="312" width="320" /></a></b></div>
<b>Recently a family friend gave me a pile of out-of-date copies of my
childhood favourite, Reader's Digest. Perfect as ever for a snoozy
summer read, I set about getting through them all in one afternoon. In
one I came across this financial titbit:</b><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>"Zombie accounts can gobble up savings. Watch out if your savings account is no longer on offer because interest can plummet - some pay just 0.03% a year. As inflation is currently 2.8%, that's effectively £97.23 for every £100 invested, so check rates regularly to stop your savings shrinking." </b>
</blockquote>
<b>Yikes.</b><br />
<b><br />
This made me beat myself up a bit. You see, I've got three accounts with
Nationwide: two Flexaccounts and one Cashbuilder. One more Flexaccount
than I need because it's hard to make them understand what you want
sometimes and I ended up with a new account when I asked for a debit
card on my original account. Le sigh. Of course I've been too busy
procrastinating ever since to close one. Ruminators FTW.</b>
<b></b><br />
<b><br />
The sad thing is that none of these accounts have any interest on them.
It's a bit of a nonsense given its name but the Casbuilder gives a
paltry 0.10%. Perhaps that tickles Nationwide HQ but me not so much.</b>
<b></b><br />
<b><br />
So after I read the RD's tip, I thought I'd get off my arse and find
some better interest for my pounds, especially as I've recently got
quite a bit more money. Well, dear reader, the Nationwide savings guide
might as well be written in Cyrillic. It uses doublespeak,
misinformation and cunning withholding of certain facts* (*terms and
conditions apply) to blind you with technicalities and draw a veil over
the fact that there is no interest. Rien. Nada. Niente. Or at least,
about 1% if you're lucky. And that's only good if you're a Russian
oligarch.</b>
<b></b><br />
<b><br />
Any semi-decent interest rate I thought I found was quietly bracketed
with "variable". Half of the accounts it's only what you pay in that
month that attracts the interest. Most of them it's what they call a
bonus interest rate for one year which slips to sweet FA thereafter.
Rude. It was one of the most devious Mensa puzzles I've ever attempted.</b>
<b></b><br />
<b><br />
My essential conclusion from all this is that unless you don't mind your
pennies being squirrelled away in Nationwide's underground grotto and
fiddled with for five years, 1% is about your lot.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-19158835576728834032014-06-10T03:30:00.000-07:002014-06-10T04:01:11.119-07:00Michael Kors watch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfYU8dQ9J_D5J-L500ASCNSKhUT_ZrPWE7wItwOohJ41XCbGKeIFDmWQIokPQrMvGf9hizY7TZYa7b12Lo3sOup7rGCAe9JeJqwUI0B3pOP0OMnNJD3N-wqMEdhrdn_MRKlWVecBzof899/s1600/2014-03-25-michael-kors-preppy-chic-petite-lexington-PINK-face-watch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfYU8dQ9J_D5J-L500ASCNSKhUT_ZrPWE7wItwOohJ41XCbGKeIFDmWQIokPQrMvGf9hizY7TZYa7b12Lo3sOup7rGCAe9JeJqwUI0B3pOP0OMnNJD3N-wqMEdhrdn_MRKlWVecBzof899/s1600/2014-03-25-michael-kors-preppy-chic-petite-lexington-PINK-face-watch.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a></div>
<b>Are MK watches still on? I only ask because around the 2011 mark, these chunky gold timepieces were the It item that no Z-lister, camwhore or tween could be seen without. Remember the whole irksome #wristcandy thing on Instagram? The Kors shiny piece of Chinese tat was the one everyone wanted to make their followers swoon. Or at least, anyone who couldn't afford a real Rolex. </b><br />
<br />
<b>But it's been a good while since I saw any MKs featured in magazines or on the arm of some slaggy-looking fashion blogger. So did the PR freebie machine stop to give the watches a more high-end feel, or are they just dunzo in general? </b><br />
<br />
<b>A quick search reveals they are still being sold in newer, glitzier, gaudier designs than ever (above), still at wince-inducing price of £200+. That may be one of the biggest mark-ups ever for a product that must only be worth a couple of quid. You don't need to look at many watch forums to learn of the shoddiness: the thin gold plating that rubs off after only a few months wear, and the lack of any sort of design or engineering credibility is hardly appealing.</b><br />
<br />
<b>For a time I got a bit obsessed with buying one myself, but never quite grew the balls to actually pay out two hundred big ones. For once my cowardliness served me well and I'm really glad I didn't spend that on one of MK's vulgar Rolex imitations</b>. <b>Fashion has moved on to other things now: backpacks, yadda yadda. Whatever else we are commanded that we simply must consume this month. And I wouldn't want to still be wearing a rattling mansize watch with all the gold rubbed off. </b><br />
<br />
<b>The trend has died but taken with it a heck of a lot of money. Ultimately Mr Kors has only damaged his own brand with his unpleasant tactics. Sales don't lie and quality always sells. His watches are but a fading memory while the prestigious brands need to do little marketing. They certainly wouldn't go gifting random PR girls. Also worth noting is that Americans were charged roughly half of what UK customers were for one of his watches. Pfff.*</b><br />
<br />
<b>*Oops! I take that back. Having just checked Amazon, all Kors watch prices are way down on what they used to be. Pile 'em high, flog 'em low ;) </b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-75827654350180569852014-05-01T06:44:00.000-07:002014-05-01T06:44:04.454-07:00Happiness can be found in a bar of soap<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgYrgIhMTwU8t4_dD0LagOas7_75xQStd9SQ2B3bwn7Di6OqrDlELo7OiD2SH9Tj7NVfIB7YcUewgceaImwq3fC0evPRB4D7hE8no-cc4-dwjfOrbAFCqdDtWmOFV3-e53VRfhWfi9Y1c7/s1600/savonsoaps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgYrgIhMTwU8t4_dD0LagOas7_75xQStd9SQ2B3bwn7Di6OqrDlELo7OiD2SH9Tj7NVfIB7YcUewgceaImwq3fC0evPRB4D7hE8no-cc4-dwjfOrbAFCqdDtWmOFV3-e53VRfhWfi9Y1c7/s1600/savonsoaps.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<b> For me it's a very rare day indeed that isn't some kind of emotional rollercoaster at the moment. But there is one thing that brings me joy no matter what and that is a beautiful new bar of soap. They seem to have got better, much better, in the last few years. Finely milled and deliciously fragranced is even the cheapest Tesco Value bar nowadays. I love the first waxy, cool feel of the soap as I unpackage it, unsullied by hairs and dust and the imprint of my bath's edge. It looks so pure and new! And there's so many to choose from. Imperial Leather Original with that old-fashioned masculine scent and rich lather. The transparent orange of Pears with its strange, distinctive smell. The viginal purity of Dove. Chanel No5, the only one my mum's friend will use. My brother is a devotee of Wrights Coal Tar but I can't imagine wanting to smell like asphalt. My current love is the Tesco Aloe Vera and Green Tea bar which has a lovely fresh smell, though soon I'll be moving onto the Pomegranate one. I reserve Simple's unfragranced bar for places I get an allergic reaction, even if it's weird with no nice smell. The lather you get from a bar of soap is much creamier than with shower gel and it always makes me feel much cleaner too. It's also perfect for shaving with. I've lived long enough now to know that there's infinitely more romance and nostalgia to be found in a bar of the soap than in a bottle of shower gel. From the cheapest to the most high-end, there's something magical in a bar of soap. So if you haven't used one for a while, give it a go :)</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>And if you feel really creative, you can even make your own! Here's the deets:</b><br />
<strong>Be sure to put on goggles and rubber gloves as the first part
is quite dangerous. Put 900ml of water in a bucket and add 295g of
caustic soda. Whisk. There will be steam and weird science stuff
happening but try to brave it out. Take 615g of coconut slab and melt in
a pan with 800ml of sunflower oil and 800ml of olive oil. This mixture
is added to the bucket mixture and stirred for 40mins until the colour
and texture change. Now add essential oils and/or food colouring.* Put
the mixture into plastic tubs. Put a blanket over them for 24hrs until
they set. Leave for six weeks in a cool, dark place for saponification
to occur. Cut into blocks and use.<br />
</strong><br />
<strong>*For lime and parsley soap add a handful of parsley and 20g
of lime essence – whisk. It’s really limitless but some other nice ideas
are oats and honey or cinnamon and orange. You can also set things in
the top – little roses, pieces of orange – to make it look all pretty.</strong>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-29277877591607906432014-04-29T06:15:00.000-07:002014-04-29T06:15:39.163-07:00Safe alternative to benzoyl peroxide?<b></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeXkIX3uNUWic1fArufJJxGS3RiS0p5N7cVPuWS-2lUFfXZ1mtsHTxKhGQA__Gs0tKRI28j_Kzg3ghBI1y7UshAvZPRL_Y4UIzkLNf0b8jbIseQ7u0Z96Pij0YwvjqIMAjPLXCJ2BWUxJ/s1600/tea_tree_oil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeXkIX3uNUWic1fArufJJxGS3RiS0p5N7cVPuWS-2lUFfXZ1mtsHTxKhGQA__Gs0tKRI28j_Kzg3ghBI1y7UshAvZPRL_Y4UIzkLNf0b8jbIseQ7u0Z96Pij0YwvjqIMAjPLXCJ2BWUxJ/s1600/tea_tree_oil.jpg" height="255" width="320" /></a></b></div>
<br />
<b>It's now a year since GlaxoSmithKline discontinued their mega popular acne treatment, Panoxyl Aquagel. (Read my infamous Liz Jones-style takedown <a href="http://bossything.blogspot.co.uk/2013/04/acne-is-hackneyed.html" target="_blank">here</a>.) I thought my life was basically over because my acne would come back worse than ever before and there wasn't another benzoyl peroxide product on the market that I could use to keep the pesky bubonic boils at bay. Well, there is Quinoderm, but that's a <a href="http://bossything.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/acne-diary-update-with-quinoderm-5.html" target="_blank">disgrace</a>. In the end, the acne did return pretty badly but for the most part it's been ok as long as I can use my foundtion and concealer to effectively cover it. There was a few months around October time when it was the worst it's ever, <i>ever</i> been, but that was due to a horrible bereavement I suffered. The spots were massive and horrendously painful but I suppose it was only a reflection of what I was feeling on the inside. Anyway, thankfully that seems to have calmed down now and my skin manageable. But of course I'm still quite spotty - sadly, I don't think it's ever going to go away now, it seems to be here to stay. </b><br />
<br />
<b>It means I'm always on the lookout for a new acne product but there really aren't many available here in the UK. So I thought I'd give tea tree oil another shot. I always used to put it on my spots back in my teenage years but it never seemed to achieve much and stung like hell. This time I thought I'd use it just as I did the Panoxyl Aquagel, applying it to the whole affected area of skin as a preventative, not merely dabbing it on individual spots. It really works great like this and is keeping things under control. And all without those hideous harmful chemicals that do God knows what to the body! My skin is clearer in the morning and just feels healthier and smoother. Tea tree oil is only about £3 too, so even though it uses up quite quickly, it's nice and cheap to buy some more. I'm sold!</b> <b>Personally I use the pure oil with no problems but you may wish to use a diluted version. I put it on after my moisturiser which probably helps protect the skin from any burning sensation. </b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-47719998375295766752014-03-26T08:07:00.000-07:002014-03-26T08:10:47.742-07:00Pale and I know it<b>This isn't an easy thing for me to revisit, but as I was reminiscing about it recently, I thought I'd make a blog post of it, as there aren't many others on the subject. </b><br />
<br />
<b>I was bullied badly at secondary school and it was largely due to the colour of my skin, which might sound surprising when I tell you that I was a white girl in an all-white school. Not an inner-city school with a bad rep, but a 400 pupil semi-rural comprehensive. And I was brutally tormented almost daily for five years because of my pale complexion. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Until I went there, I had zero idea that I looked any different to anyone else but it was soon hammered into me that I most certainly was. I was constantly called "ghost" and asked, "Why are you so pale?" Even the teachers would make cutting remarks about my snow white skin, so I never felt I would be taken seriously if I confided in them about the bullying. The kids who loved to humiliate me in front of everyone else were mostly boys - really rough ones who came from the nearest city. They were the sort that already looked like they were in their twenties by the age of 12 and were going out to clubs, sleeping with older girls and committing real criminal acts in and outside of the school gates. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Whereas I was one of those girls who looked like an eight-year-old until I was at least sixteen, all little and skinny, like a newborn lamb put in a pen with a pack of wild dogs. It was so easy for these boys, once I was isolated from my two besties during form time, to literally corner me and shout abuse in my face abut how pale I was. I really never knew my lack of a tan was such a big deal until I was being utterly tormented for it. </b><br />
<br />
<b>These boys were so powerful in my year group that none of the other kids did anything to help me, they just sat and watched, probably having a good laugh. There were two girls who were considered "hot" who were accepted by this gang of boys and even though they could see how much I was suffering they never once tried to offer me any kind of sisterly support. People always say that with boys it's physical bullying, but this was sneaky, psychological torment that was always done far behind the teacher's back. </b><br />
<br />
<b>One day, a random kid told me that one of those girls had been saying to people in mock serious tone, "Did you know that [Bossy Thing] is dead, and that's actually a ghost that comes to school?" Writing it down now, it sounds absolutely silly, but I was so hurt at the time and I didn't understand why I had to be made to feel alienated, like a freak of nature. </b><br />
<br />
<b>In fact, looking at my school year photo now, I barely look any lighter than a lot of the others. But it was me that always attracted the bullies. I guess that, as is the story of my life, my face simply didn't fit and people thought it would be ok to treat me like a piece of dirt on the floor and tear apart every little flaw about me.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Searching online for people bullied for being pale, some float the idea that it is a form of racism, but I don't agree because that only describes descrimination against those of a different race. This was merely gang mentality and ignorance and stupidity directed at someone of the same race. This inter-racial discrimination seems to exist in all races - think of the Indian caste system where the lighter you are the higher up the social chain you go, and blacks who jealously bully their lighter skinned peers. The part of England I'm from happens to be home to some very "swarthy" people (my father included) and it just so happened I turned out a lot lighter than most of them. Why I should have to justify that to anyone seems extremely superficial, not to mention pointless. </b><br />
<br />
<b>That is another reason, along with the details already outlined in my infamous Liz Jones-style diatribe <a href="http://bossything.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/pity-post.html" target="_blank">Pity post</a>, why I have always declined to join Facebook. There's no way I would want the bastards who bullied me so relentlessly to now call themselves my "friend" and be able to look through photos of me. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Now I'm a grown-up, people are still frequently amazed at the whiteness of my skin so I guess I really must be freakishly pale. I still don't get what answer I'm supposed to give when they ask me why. "Because I don't have any pigment"? </b><br />
<br />
<b>I suppose the bullying did awaken my mind to worry about being pale and sometimes it bothers me and I'll apply a little fake tan just to take the edge off that blue-white. But I don't like to think I let the bullies win. </b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-87549376850757969182014-03-20T06:48:00.002-07:002014-03-20T06:48:53.796-07:00Exclusive! Hollywood hair maverick reveals his tricks<br />
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<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVwPJ5kQXdQqGhExWHCC9BVT8moe6nX_y0hKa2AgHayemAZLebouiON1efg-qPoAvO0RnfiAumyZ_4i8iqQbO2TgFK_ktxbaSOIUOKEDPSzY6GDs_ujOD_pamNnBjeLG11VP-VFXsGBLOu/s1600/Ken-Paves-victoria-beckham.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVwPJ5kQXdQqGhExWHCC9BVT8moe6nX_y0hKa2AgHayemAZLebouiON1efg-qPoAvO0RnfiAumyZ_4i8iqQbO2TgFK_ktxbaSOIUOKEDPSzY6GDs_ujOD_pamNnBjeLG11VP-VFXsGBLOu/s1600/Ken-Paves-victoria-beckham.jpg" height="244" width="320" /></a></b></div>
<br />
<b>OMG. I randomly emailed hairstyling megastar Ken Paves asking if he'd answer a few Qs for Bossy Thing. No idea why he said yes but it meant I had to pop on my Sir David Frost head and quickly dream up a few things to ask. As I've never done an actual interview before, this wasn't exactly easy. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Paves is the guy Jennifer Lopez, Victoria Beckham and Eva Longoria refer to as their BFF and he practically invented clip-in hair extensions with his HairDo range, which he launched with Jessica Simpson in 2006. He's a Hollywood hair legend with tons of other stuff on the side - he's a TV regular, has penned a few beauty books and is now creative consultant for haircare range Color Wow. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Here's Ken's tips on how to take your hair into the A-List - in his own words...</b><br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>Which essential tools are in your styling kit?</b></span><br />
<b>I always carry a bone comb - it's completelt seamless and doesn't snag, which makes it a great substitute for finger styling. Hooked elastic bands (bungees) are essential to avoid leaving ponytail creases - I'd never reach for a scrunchie. And I always have an array of extensions - I actually style most of my clients' hair nowhere near their heads!</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>What are your top tips for keeping hair healthy?</b></span><br />
<b>Don't overload it! Wash it two or three times a week, maximum, and only lather the roots to cleanse your scalp. Between washes, just rinse with tepid water to remove debris. Also, everyday styling should only take 15-20 minutes. If it takes any longer, you've got the wrong cut.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>What do you recommend to rehabillitate over-styled hair?</b></span><br />
<b>Olive oil is an amazing overnight mask. Mix a small amount with water and spray onto your hair before bed. You can't beat it!</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWnL_HdOZ37F7cOunmrH5HWNcs2bGvcBxr7mIsxCcpf50JrFCYPvDque6vlMNZmJpTkD4s8fxMpfPU4AniUVOEqgYugkURuRxCOIBjFnccMJscvp8TdU5PgxU2M6OTHdju4HqXm0L-vSnP/s1600/jlo-side-swept-cascading-curls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWnL_HdOZ37F7cOunmrH5HWNcs2bGvcBxr7mIsxCcpf50JrFCYPvDque6vlMNZmJpTkD4s8fxMpfPU4AniUVOEqgYugkURuRxCOIBjFnccMJscvp8TdU5PgxU2M6OTHdju4HqXm0L-vSnP/s1600/jlo-side-swept-cascading-curls.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>Ken on J-Lo's cascading Hollywood curls...</b></span><br />
<b>"One of my most memorable jobs was in Milan with Jennifer Lopez. All my hair extensions were confiscated at customs. I had to ask J-Lo's make-up artist , Mary Phillips, if I could cut off some of her hair to sew some pieces... She said yes! But don't worry, no drastic action is needed for this chic side-sweep. Curl your hair towards your face with a 1in tong. Pin the curls to your head while they're still warm - once cool, brush them out. For a modern look, brush some highlights into your roots using Color Wow Root Cover Up in Platinum."</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-65206802147981440352014-02-24T06:36:00.000-08:002014-02-24T06:38:30.758-08:00Blocked<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghc_IFCV6rMWwtq671vjKD97neXZCvRJVeoipoDMZ_4cTGGsmjbYyaTixxKdI5eIFOjYqE_Xdq4Gu6KSsl4c6aYCLCAoQKy7E5Yu-SCsamlIsoB1MwbgYjWD2xLegiu6VtKsGsL8RLoAJ1/s1600/twitter_blocked.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghc_IFCV6rMWwtq671vjKD97neXZCvRJVeoipoDMZ_4cTGGsmjbYyaTixxKdI5eIFOjYqE_Xdq4Gu6KSsl4c6aYCLCAoQKy7E5Yu-SCsamlIsoB1MwbgYjWD2xLegiu6VtKsGsL8RLoAJ1/s1600/twitter_blocked.png" /></a></b></div>
<br />
<b>I find reading about Twitter utterly mind-numbing so apologies. I think it's a fun way to spend two minutes a day, perusing people's hilar capers, but I could never take Twitter seriously and it almost frightens me how zealous people seem to be over it. They are on there every minute of the day, checking, checking, checking, getting mad, acting like it's real life, expending a great deal of emotion over it. Ten years ago, if someone behaved that way over a chatroom, it would have been socially unacceptable. Now, being a die hard Twitter user is normal. </b><br />
<br />
<b>It really shouldn't be, though. Real Life is so much better. It's tangible, palpable and true. It's not right to emote over something you read on screen. Nowadays I never emote over anything I see on Twitter, not one thing. That's because it's ultimately a silly fad we are likely to have forgotten about in ten years' time, discarded in the virtual wasteland alongside MySpace and FriendsReunited. It's silly and trivial, and I treat it as such, with disregard. Like AA Gill said, "Twitter is a smell."</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I joined Twitter yonks ago, back in late '09 when Stephen Fry and co brought it to the media's attention. Though old enough to know better, I was tremendously naive, which is a very dangerous thing on the internet. I don't think I had ever chatted to anyone online before and hadn't yet developed the fuck off and die attitude I keep at the forefront of my online life today. After days and days of Tweeting without a response from anyone, I was thrilled when some guy started talking to me on there. Let me rephrase that: when some guy started grooming me on there. He was funny and charming and seemed so normal. </b><br />
<br />
<b>For once, it seemed like I had actually made friends with a sane male of the species. I wanted to be nice and sweet and keep him as my friend. Lord, what a green banana. I bet he was having a real laugh about what an innocent lamb I was. As with all internet predators, he didn't have patience for long and started to pressure me and pressure me into giving him my mobile number. I would try to let him down gently, I was so desperate to stay friends, and he'd do the classic grooming lines of "you're so boring", "all the other girls give me theirs" and on and on. It was making me sick to my stomach. Why the heck didn't I use that block button? I can't rationalise it now. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Anyway, thankfully I didn't give him my number, but wanting to placate him I gave him my email address and exchanged a couple of pretty weird, long messages, and he even talked me into sending pics of myself which is undoubtedly the dumbest thing I have ever done. I've never been one of these girls who likes the thought of guys wanking over her - call me Victorian but it's something that really disgusts me deep down. The whole thing creeped me out so much I deleted my Twitter profile, even the email account. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Even though it was a horrible episode, I'm actually glad it happened because now I'm - rightly - super suspicous of every single person I talk to online. In fact, I very rarely chat to anyone online because in my opinion they all turn out to be absolutely nuts. I also wield the block button on Twitter so liberally it's funny - anyone the slightest bit odd gets it, and I very rarely reply to anyone. Perhaps that defies the point of it, but so what? </b><br />
<br />
<b>I am looking at that guy's Twitter page in between typing this and he's still doing the same thing to other girls, still playing tricks on their minds. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Now I'm hovering the cursor. </b><br />
<br />
<b>"This user has been blocked."</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-76690210295264923702014-02-14T07:11:00.000-08:002014-02-14T07:17:00.370-08:00An oldie but a goodie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaxR_CFpEvcy12Kv8PrH6ubLDsuYpkEBx47Py6ks3u3jnPmBQm_8TosybXxvI-D4CIfHWyKXn8JbcezaCdd-QpSOMZCP4NFW4aaIdBa0pJUX7RivjNQJATwtoZRwBESOmDeEj9MooODftR/s1600/max-factor-product-creme-puff-translucent-review.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaxR_CFpEvcy12Kv8PrH6ubLDsuYpkEBx47Py6ks3u3jnPmBQm_8TosybXxvI-D4CIfHWyKXn8JbcezaCdd-QpSOMZCP4NFW4aaIdBa0pJUX7RivjNQJATwtoZRwBESOmDeEj9MooODftR/s1600/max-factor-product-creme-puff-translucent-review.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<b> I only just learned that Max Factor was binned off in America a few years ago in favour of Proctor and Gamble's more popular CoverGirl brand. Who knew? Rude! Anyhow, it's still going pretty strong on these shores and after seeing Gwynnie Paltrow looking quite simply radiant in the centenary advert for MF's Creme Puff, I felt utterly commanded to try it out for myself. This is an absolute classic with a near mythical status. However, online reviews runneth over with people complaining about its strong and "sickening" fragrance. "It smells like my nan." But is that really such a bad thing? My own grandmother was a very groomed lady, a veritable dame, so if emulating her is wrong, I don't want to be right. In fact, I find the smell pleasant, fresh and far from overwhelming - it barely registered, unlike that of many popular face creams. I declined to apply the powder with the eponymous puff; rather I used my own regular (massive) face brush. This, I feel, is generally better, and lessens the cake factor of any powder. The shade I decided on was the ultimate cop out of all powders: translucent. Opening the compact for the first time, its hue seemed a worryingly brown but having been assured of its sheer quality, I took the plunge and gave myself a good dusting. It's actually a good colour on my stupidly pale maw - it certainly gives me a glow, whereas the Rimmel Clear Complexion translucent I usually use leaves me peaky, albeit matte. Actually that comparison brings me to my next point. Mega finely milled modern powders aren't in the least bit chalky, but the Creme Puff, true to its old-fashioned formula, is quite heavy and when you have just applied it, the ultra-matte effect isn't the most flattering. I find it looks better after a few minutes' wear and, while the shine-free finish doesn't last, the old oil spillage certainly didn't arrive quicker than with any other powder. It's simply a case of having to use an oil-blotting paper like most people take a 4pm tea break. To sum up, then: good coverage; nice glow; no oilier than with other powders; wholesome retro feelings. Winner!</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-83301018797603056792014-01-29T06:48:00.000-08:002014-01-29T06:56:01.942-08:00Don't you just love blind items?*<br />
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<br />
<b>*Not really.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>They are annoying and I just want to know who it is they are talking about. Curious like a cat, I am.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>A gentle perusal of my dad's Current Bun sent my curiosity gland into overdrive at the weekend. The front page (non) news story went like this:</b><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>SHOWBIZ EXCLUSIVE: SPORTS TYCOON AND THE POP STAR</b></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>One of Britain's best-known pop stars had a secret affair with a super-rich sports tycoon, The Sun can reveal. They only split after the multi-millionaire's long-term partner found out and "hit the roof". The lovers, who both have children, are understood to have asked family members to sign non-disclosure agreements to keep a lid on their relationship. </b></blockquote>
<b>Further deets inside reveal the tycoon has spoken of his happy family life in the past and is now grovelling to wifey. It describes the man as "one of the biggest names in his field" with a very luxurious lifestyle, and the "pop beauty" as a familiar face to millions with a turbulant love life. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Ok, so who is it? </b><br />
<br />
<b>When I read Britain's best known pop star who's also a parent I thought of Adele, but then again "pop beauty"? Hmm. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>My best stabs at the pop star were:</b><br />
<ul>
<li><b>Nadine Coyle (who recently became a mother and is generally into black American Football players)</b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Any of the Old Spices (understandable why he's so keen to cover it up!)</b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>One of The Saturdays (most of them have kids so that fits; Frankie already has form having been with Wayne Bridge for a while, she's extremely beautiful and has had a fairly turbulant love life in latter years; Una likes the rugger guys and while we could assume the article means a football tycoon, that's not neccessarily the case; Rochelle does lots of telly so is very "familiar" and also has a baby)</b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Dido (too boring to have an affair with anyone though)</b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Rebecca Ferguson (hardly one of our biggest pop stars)</b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Rachel Stevens (ditto)</b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Alesha Dixon (very beautiful, a recent mum and familiar on Strictly, BGT etc)</b></li>
</ul>
<b><br /></b>
<b>As for the man, I was gunning for:</b><br />
<ul>
<li><b>Roman Ambramovich (the man's rich as hell, very famous and a real goer)</b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Simon Jordan </b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b> Daniel Levy (I know I would...)</b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>David Beckham (he loves putting it about and is about to buy an MLS franchise so could be described as a tycoon) </b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Tim Leiwike (just a random to add to the mix, as it seemed to so pointedly avoid giving the man's nationality)</b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Flavio Briatore</b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Bernie Ecclestone</b></li>
</ul>
<b>Hmmm hold the front page, Batman. Could be on to something with those last two. Maybe Bernie's getting a little bit old for that sort of thing, even with the V pills. And Flavio's been a good boy lately... </b><br />
<br />
<b>So just who could it be? </b><br />
<br />
<b>Well, I thought it'd be nicer if they told you themselves.</b><br />
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<b>Mystery solved (actually a bit boring on reflection).</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-606793453715716925.post-75945256519787954882014-01-25T07:36:00.003-08:002014-01-25T07:36:35.775-08:00That time I was scared of going to the opticians...<b></b><br />
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<b>Hey gang! Just a little motivational message for neurotic types like myself. I've had to wear specs for about 12 years now and I went that long without going back to the optician. This is because I worked myself into a stupid state of anxiety about going. I don't know why, but I kept thinking I would really embarrass myself as I am quite the social anxiety study anyway. You know, shaking, sweating, blushing, not being able to speak and other fun symptoms that generally f' up your life. Anyway, I got really fed up of not wanting to do things because I was ashamed of my smelly old glasses - not to mention the constant worry about breaking them and having to live as some kind of blind human mole because I was just too darn shy to go and see Dr Eye. </b><br />
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<b>I am finally starting to realise that all types of anxiety are make-believe - non-existant monsters hidden in the depths of our psyche that feed us a stream of rubbish and poison our minds. And the more attention you give them the more they grow. So the best thing is to ignore them and stop avoiding. Tell your fragile ego that you may well feel uncomfortable for a few moments, you might shake and sweat and say something stupid. But so what? No one will be filming you and putting it on YouTube! And the older you get, the more you see that other people rarely think of anyone but themselves and they are unlikely to give you another thought - unless you are extremely rude to them. Otherwise life is very much out of sight, out of mind. </b><br />
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<b>My optician's visit finally dawned this morning and I had been working myself into a ridiculous lather over it all week, getting stomach ache I was so worried. Well, I can honestly say it was all for nothing! The worst part was actually when I went in and the receptionist was chatting to me and my mouth was so dry I could hardly speak. But the actual test was so quick and unthreatening that all my worry was totally redundant. I did shake a bit but so what? Probably half the people he sees do the same. Going to the doctor would definitely be a worse situation for me as it involves sitting close to the Doc and looking them right in the eye as you discuss your most intimate problems. So the optician is nothing, don't hesitate to go for it. Shake, rattle and roll, if that's what it takes! I'm so excited about getting my new glasses and all the things I'll be able to do. </b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2