So... I haven't been about much recently because to even consider being about in London, one needs at least one of two things; money and more importantly, in season, dalstonable clothes. As I have neither two dole pennies to rub together, nor anything in my 'warbrobe' that remotley resembles norm core, I haven't left the house enough to enable me to exaggerate a plus one party invite.
I've recently become more determined to succeed in life. I've decided to go down the old fashioned route and really push myself into becoming really good at twitter. It's paid off, after two or so months of insensitially tweeting, re-tweeting and hashtagging my tits off I've recieved 2 new followers which is great as now I have 15. (You better watch out Katy Perry)
Though as you may know, I consider myself more of a instagramer, I mean if my caculations are correct, after my recent activities, one of two things will happen.. either Dita von Tease will follow me back and reply to my despo comments or ... she'll do me for cyber harassment. (hopefully the latter because I really fancy my name in the Metro)
My life was spiralling out of control, I had nothing to do, nowhere to go and Orange is the new Black ran out of episodes.
I was just about to stick my head into the oven when Cecilia minced into the kitchen and declared that she was off to galavant in Venice the following weekend so obvs, I decided to go too. Venice is actually the most kray place in the entire world and if it wasn't for all the Italians and cling film ponchos, it would be perfect.
We stayed-or shall I say- were put, in the Venice generator hostel, it was decked out like one of those clubs in Mayfair that has red velvet ropes and black tie bouncers yet, will let anyone in.
I have never actually stayed in a hostel before, As far as I was aware, hostels are places in Bristol where Big issue sellers and smack heads live, beggars beg £2.73 to sleep in and the only place Rose is considered a style icon.
Never did I believe they would be kitted out with fancy chandeliers, pseaudo baroque sofas with views of St Marks square. It was wasn't for the constant thunderstorm I would have looked pretty good in my unwaterproof wet dog smelling YSL jacket and felt hat, you know, the outfit that got 21 likes on instagram. #winning
I recently learned that venice, like most of East Ham, doesn't have any form of modern sanitation system. All the waste flows down biblical pipes straight into the canals that the tide sucks away. I also learned that Venice, with the lowest violent crime rate of any city in the world, is noutorious for pickpockets, and when they are not pick pocketing you they are flogging you snide Louis Vuittons.
Of course, I'm not trying to put you off, I love venice, If I were to succeed in putting you off I would tell you that Venice, through no fault of it's own, is full of Americans.. and not even those fat Americans that clog the up walking space in Oxford Circus Tube, I'm talking full on fraternity and sorority types , and unfortunately for us, the hostel doubled as spring break. Its not much of a suprise considering every Italian, Dontella being the only exception, lives in London.
The infracturure in Venice was invented, one can only assume, by the same brains behind the district line, though it operates daily like the northern line on a Sunday. In other words, don't rush or plan to get anywhere for any set time. Venice isn't the kinda place you can get anywhere on time and you will just end up missing your flight home like Cecilia did.
Of course, there are alternative methods- private taxis, as aslong as your credit card goes through you can have the experience of being taken around by a waxed and polished vision of Mahongany though if that isn't your thing, there are less italian looking drivers too.
We were placed in a 16 bed dorm with a range of performers ranging from life models to drag and all things inbetween. Everyone seemed to be naked and I distinctly recall the sound of felatio whilst backstitching a bust seam of my Tudor look that incorporated the Ram look that I worked NYE 2010, vintage.
The evening went accordingly, there was free pizza and somethingVenice calls white wine. Cecilia and I taught random Americans how to make masks which is perfect for someone like me who has zero patience with others' incopetence. My obvious efforts didn't go unnoticed as I recieved a drink off a French nazi genetic experiment who marveled at my craftmanship that consisted of stapling a ostrich feather to his plastic souveiner mask.
The performances were what would expect, an array of ball sacks and tits re-heated with hot candle wax. The Italians loved it, the Londoners Instagramed it and the Americans hoped god didn't judge them for doing either.
We stayed-or shall I say- were put, in the Venice generator hostel, it was decked out like one of those clubs in Mayfair that has red velvet ropes and black tie bouncers yet, will let anyone in.
I have never actually stayed in a hostel before, As far as I was aware, hostels are places in Bristol where Big issue sellers and smack heads live, beggars beg £2.73 to sleep in and the only place Rose is considered a style icon.
Never did I believe they would be kitted out with fancy chandeliers, pseaudo baroque sofas with views of St Marks square. It was wasn't for the constant thunderstorm I would have looked pretty good in my unwaterproof wet dog smelling YSL jacket and felt hat, you know, the outfit that got 21 likes on instagram. #winning
I recently learned that venice, like most of East Ham, doesn't have any form of modern sanitation system. All the waste flows down biblical pipes straight into the canals that the tide sucks away. I also learned that Venice, with the lowest violent crime rate of any city in the world, is noutorious for pickpockets, and when they are not pick pocketing you they are flogging you snide Louis Vuittons.
Of course, I'm not trying to put you off, I love venice, If I were to succeed in putting you off I would tell you that Venice, through no fault of it's own, is full of Americans.. and not even those fat Americans that clog the up walking space in Oxford Circus Tube, I'm talking full on fraternity and sorority types , and unfortunately for us, the hostel doubled as spring break. Its not much of a suprise considering every Italian, Dontella being the only exception, lives in London.
Its also worth noting that Venice is the only city in the world where health and safety doesn't exist, its pure freedom to maim and kill yourself however you see fit. It's actively encouraged; holding on for dear life and jumping gaps are popular past times with locals and tourists alike.
We were placed in a 16 bed dorm with a range of performers ranging from life models to drag and all things inbetween. Everyone seemed to be naked and I distinctly recall the sound of felatio whilst backstitching a bust seam of my Tudor look that incorporated the Ram look that I worked NYE 2010, vintage.
The evening went accordingly, there was free pizza and somethingVenice calls white wine. Cecilia and I taught random Americans how to make masks which is perfect for someone like me who has zero patience with others' incopetence. My obvious efforts didn't go unnoticed as I recieved a drink off a French nazi genetic experiment who marveled at my craftmanship that consisted of stapling a ostrich feather to his plastic souveiner mask.
The performances were what would expect, an array of ball sacks and tits re-heated with hot candle wax. The Italians loved it, the Londoners Instagramed it and the Americans hoped god didn't judge them for doing either.
I only spoke to one American as he looked looked a lot like Ben and all things considered, it could have easily been him. On this instance it wasn't. This American was called Michael, he was 21, curcumsized, obvs of Mexican descent and is currently earning thousands of pounds a month growing weed as he is from one of those random states where it's legal and you can sell it to the government. I ditched him to spend the rest of the early hours in the store room with my new Venice mates. Micheal ended up with a girl that I assumed was part of our group only to realise she had actually been following us all night as no one knew who she was.
Awkard.
As if leaving Venice to go back to N15 wasn't torture enough, I had to endure the horrors of Ryanair. It was either the smell of the cabin though more likely the excessive use of hair grips in the Stewardess's hair that proved to much for my delicate, hungover constiution and before I could get to the -what Ryan air likes to call- toilet I had a epi fit and awoke to a find my legs being held in the air by the stewardess with the hair grip addiction and many other Randoms shaking me awake. I was poked and prodded and treated me like a drug mule and a chemo kid in equal measures. Before I could speak they argued amongst themselves wether I was English or Italian, grip girl assured them I was Italian on the basis of my choice of shoes. Which is kinda rude considering they're clearly french.
3 firemen, 2 paramedics, 1 ambulance, 2 immigration officers, 1 Starbucks grande cappuccino with sprinkles on top later I was realeased.
It turns out there is actually nothing wrong with me, though lukus keeps reassuring me I have cancer. Perhaps I just enjoy delaying flights and being a strain on NHS resources.
DONE
DONE
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