A post

Tom came to visit me recently, he made up some random lie about picking a mate up from the airport to diguise the fact he missed me and/or was meeting some random off the internet.  I love tom, not for any of his dishernable qualities you must understand but for the single significant fact that he is perhaps the only person in Bristol that hasn't closed the book on the page I was on.

But yeah, we hard larks. He slept on my camp bed and wrapped up in a quilt inwhich he resemebled a maggot epecially with his small black head sticking out the end.

He now works in my Mother's gay sauna.

Mother says the customers love him. 

Bless.

And as for Tinder, I gave up on Tinder because its virtually impossible to play hard to get.. which is irrelveant to me of course but I would still like the option.

I did however find Harry on Tinder. Harry is a drop out student freak who happens to make great cakes.  He was- for a day or two-my tintern. It's basically a intern you download off tinder.

so anyway, for my efforts and dedication during my one night in venice, we were invited- in the form of a plus 1 of course) to the king cross generator hostel which is roughly ten times the size of the Venice one but unmeasurably worse. The decor and fittings looked like they belonged inside what one can only imagine the inside of  Plymouth's urban outiftters (I apologise Ranicar if you had any involvement in this)
You see, though there was free Gin and the music was ..amber, it was one of those places  that is full of people you know but don't want to talk to. Similiar to that feeling when ever you spot jodie harsh or Daniel Lismore.

Pat and I are BFFs once again- the natural balance of life itself has been restored. 

We often meet in the kebab shop at the end of my road for some weird reason. 

Having a friend that eats this kind of cruisine is really refreshing as virtually every single person I know in London is either vegan, Orthorexic or ...just doesn't eat. Pat as always, isn't up to date  with the current fashions therefore his food tastes reflect that of a welsh morrisions checkout girl after a long night out,eating her feelings because she didn't get fingered. 

#lad #colesterol

O btw, I must  apologise for my life has reached new levels of pov. The battery on my 2007 vintage mac book died about 3 years ago and only worked if the lead was forever plugged in. That lead has now broke resulting in no laptop which has caused great issues in my life. Not only are my posts always referencing my life two months prior but it also means I've gone from watching Eastenders on a 16 inch to a 4 inch  screen. 

My plan is to get a job as, According to a girl in the Regent Street apple store, you can't get a mac and iPad on finance without one. Fail. People suggest I should not bother getting a mac but as I told them, not only would I get laughed out of Starbucks, the fact remains, the only thing worse than having a broken mac is not having a mac at all. 

In social news, Cecilia (who has recently developed a red stripe addiction) has organised some voodoo ritual sacrifice party to celebrate the full moon on Friday the 13th. She assures me it's a big deal as a full moon won't occur on Friday the 13th in another 50 years or something. Sounds like a perfect reason to have a party. #londonlife 

To continued...

Venice; shakes on a plane

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.

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. 

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. 

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

Tinder

 Waiting to be seen by an advisor in Tottenham job center the other day..  Sat in my Burberry over coat and playing with my iphone 5 , It dawned on me  that,

as it's impossible for my life to get any more tragic.. I might aswell branch out and install Tinder. 

Tinder, btw, is the best invention since open return train tickets.

I'm never one for dating apps or sites because they are usually full of bubbly men and woman with GSOH and pictures depicting what they looked like in the 80s.. You know.. Before  they got married, had kids and became alcohol dependant. 

                                    

 How evs, everyone on tinder is young and weirdly hot though I did come across a few pictures of people with apparent undiagnosed birth issues.

The joy of tinder (if you didn't know already) is you have the option to like or dislike people judged  purely on their physical apparence (it's a bit like hot or not from the early 2000s. I scored a 6

Once) and the twist is...upon liking someone's holiday snap or beach look you then descover wether or not they apreciate your picture from 4 years ago and if so, tinder allows you to connect.

And obvs, im connected to all the tinder members with 2km radius. Maybe im born with it. 

                                                                                 

The creepy thing about this app is the fact that it syncs with your Facebook profile and uploads your profile pictures automatically and in addition to that, it also uploads your 'about me'... which was awkard as mine said 'I made this new account becasue I couldn't be bothered to delete everyone off my old one'                                                                                      

             

I live in a house, not Hackney Wick

                                             My house, courtesy of instagram

When I  moved to london last september I was under the distinct impression that if I was ever going to be reconised as a creative genius the only place I could possibly be seen to inhabit was Hackney wick. 

I went to a warehouse party in Hackney Wick a few years prior and it ended early because someone got stabbed. The sirens, the paramedics,  the gurning 17 year olds and the silver foil blankets proved that this was a hub of culture and nightlife, and obvs I needed to be part of it. 

I  viewed a  place in Hackney Wick, I found an amazing place that had all the features and trimmings of a room that a creative genius such as I should have; no windows, breeze block walls, concrete floor. with the added luxury of a plywood bedroom door and a communal bottle bong.. it was perfect, ideal for starting a drug addiction and if I dyed my hair the right color, everyone would assume I study at St Martins and it was only £650 a month.. it would be a small price for my Mother to pay for the huge success and opportunities it would grant me. 

During this time, I was currently sleeping on my friend's sofa which was great as the only thing cooler than living in a underdelveloped 'live/work' warehouse is sleeping on  sofas. It made me feel like Gareth Pugh. So my friend... o wait...how rude of me... 

                                                                     CECILIA

Meet Cecilia

Cecilia and I met a few years ago during our short lived career as being extras. It was this video that I first met her and her tits. Unfortunatley I wasn't considered buff enough to be part of the crazy roman orgy scenes so they clad me in a red burka which is unfortunate as A) I looked like Daniel Lismore and B) I could have been spotted and I would be a famous a junkie porn star by now. 

Cecilia obvs comes from Sweden. Swedes are like black people, they are permitted to wear nothing at all and no one can say anything because its their culture, thus making negative remarks  racist and racism is illegal in east London. 

When wearing clothes, she makes perfume; speaks french and also creates fur masks for luxury sex shops.

It was I that engineered her place on page 3  when she wore my Raven hat on the catwalk like 7 fashion weeks ago. I'm proud that I inspired Charlie Le Mindu to do the same a few seasons later.

Mother thought I had made it when she saw it on page 3, so much so, she threw it out. 

But obvs, those days are oves. Cecilia is now one of my grown up friends.

 Her daily routine starts by going for a run at 6am before coming home and baking a cake or making face masks before heading off to work. 

Cecilia follows a strict orthorexic diet of mung beans and Kombucha cultures in a quest for eternal youth. She's one step away from bathing in the blood of virgins. 

anyway...

SO, as I was saying.. I was spending my time sleeping on her sofa and it suddenly dawned on me.., I could live in a conventional house and no one would ever know. The only issue was, there wasn't any room and the house was full of psychos. It was never going to be easy but I was never one to give up easily. Alas after a few months of not going anywhere, 3 co-habitants passively aggressively responded my moving out and my place was secure. And this is where I have resided ever since.  

When I first moved in, the house had  ... what Cecilia liked to call 'a Berlin squat vibe'.. it would have been cool if we were paying £700 a month in someplace like Stoke newington but the fact we were all paying under £400 for spacious double rooms in a 3 storey victorian house in Stamford Hill meant it wasn't an ironic dive.. It was just a dive.

                          The duck egg was my idea obvs



 Cecilia and I set out to restore the house to its former glory #sarahbeeny #betterthanrisehall  with help of the new additions that filled the rooms of  housemates past.


With the lack of magnolia walls, 80s carpet and laminate flooring that we should be grateful for having in london, we have set out to use the house for lucrative schemes e.g porn shoots, slamming parties etc as.. we're artistic.. but more importantly, always skint.

to be continued....

Georgia

                                                #neomagpie

Meet Georgia

Likes: 

- hologram

- the smell of litter trays

-getting chased by animal rights activists

- looking like the mum from beetlejuice

Dislikes:

- optimistic Facebook status updates

- The natural look

- Day light

-  This blog post already

- the memory of her natural hair color

Georgia and I go way back but she's only recently became a fixture in my imaginary social circle.

We met during the glory days of MySpace circa 2005, I believe she responded to a bulletin I must have posted probably to the tune of 'what colour do you bleed' those were different times.

Georgia is a full blown Bristolian, a declaration that appears redundant as soon you she opens her gob.

Unlike most Bristolian girls, she doesn't dress with heroic disregard for the thermometer and is usually seen wearing...or more like worn by a coat or jacket 5 sizes too big. Stella McCartney will be proud.

But don't let her Oo arr and alreet my lurver fool you as she does, infact hail from Bishopston.. You know the posh part of Gloucester road

Georgia ditched Bristol a long time ago, along with being a transmuter goth, having eyebrows and romances with Bristol's  lesbionic vegan anarchist elite.

Who would leave this? 

Like everyone I know, Georgia left Bristol to chase her dreams of being a creative genius.  After many years of 'wasbianism', bar work, volunteering in oxfam- then finally running out of internships to apply for-she's finally living that dream and has a salary to prove it.

It's taken a lot of modeling hair, shoes, hats and kink wear for ten year olds to get where she has... This west county maggot has eaten her way through many ginster pies. 

O, She currently lives under the same roof as lukus. They've recently purchased a Xmas tree, though you've probably already seen it on their Instagrams 

P.s last night she attended the porn star awards- as far as I know she left empty handed. 

Computer says no

It just so happens my lol speed internet is down  like Tom Daley's speedos in a locker room. 

It is a shame as I am desperate to showcase the many ways my week has been better than yours (especially yours Nigella) but  sadly I can't..

mainly because 3G won't allow me to google, save and then paste images of gigs and nights out that I was planning on going to. 

Living without the internet is as awkward as a Lost Prophets tattoo on a teenage mother with self esteem issues- though  I am enjoying the abscence of those ball ache ads inbetween angry birds levels. Every cloud and all. 

Anyway, bear with. 

Where are they now?

so..

TABI

Tabi - since she was last mentioned- met a guy on Tumblr and they fell deeply inlove. Like any sane  tumblr queen, she  sold all her belongings in a yard sale and moved to L.A to marry  and finally meet him. 

I was, however suprised to hear that Tabi was not only back in England, but back in Bristol and  working in Mother's Ruin.  

JESS

 Remember Jess? 

 Jess went to Brighton to study product design, lesbianism and kurt Cobain hairstyling. I visited her once. It was cold and to my horror, nothing like Sugar Rush.

O, and this happened... 

.

RANICAR

Remember Tom?  difficult as it may be..

Tom still works in Urban oufitters, so obviously he now has a beard. He's moved  to Exeter  as Bristol proved too difficult without me in it. He's been in a relationship with a female and spends most of his spare time adjusting his privacy settings on facebook so that only his gf  and muv can contact 

him.

BEN. 

This fall, I went to the Tate modern with Lukus . We wanted to do something  we could tweet and instagram about obvs.  Whilst in the photography room I delcared a photograph of a tesco bag was too boring to look at and thus lukus accused me of being stupid and ignorant so I left him to stare  at a picture of a rock whilst I went to calm down in the surrealism room. 

In the surrealism room, I stood staring at a  Picasso as I wanted people to think I was staring at it. Many people were standing staring at this picasso and being competitive, I proceeded to stare as I didn't want to be the first person to give up pretending I had a clue.

Standing next to me also staring at the painting was a man, it took about 10 minutes for me  to realise it was infact Ben. 

We spent the rest of the day taking cringe tourist photos like this  and talking about worms. 

anyway....

Ben is the result of a gap year gone wrong. He's been on a gap year for about 5 years. He has little need for material posessions or luxury though

 he still  wears a pair of primark leopard print polyester pants I bought for him as part of a halloween costume in 2009. 

As Ben never speaks English anymore, he's adopted a really weird way of speaking which puts me in mind of a cult leader or part time gimp or something.

and finally....

ROSE

Rose is a student now. An art student. In other words she's doing what she was doing before. Wasting Time. 

Rose got bored of girls stealing Ranicar, mine sweeping and faking stamps and  moved to a place where people may find her attractive.. Manchester. 

To be continued.........