Pitching 101

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One tap to ride, real time pick up timings, reliable pick ups (we will NEVER let any sort of Eastern European put you under and quietly harvest your organs for a profit), clear pricing, cashless and convenient (pay with Paypal!) and you can even split your fare. If you have an ill friend with you, they too can pay for half of your UberAmbulanceHospital.

UberHospital, just one tap away.



You got questions? I got answers

Answering the questions that today’s news poses. Of course I haven’t read the article!


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Probably not

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All the pies / attention

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New Statesman

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Because of the hive mind


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They emigrated for a better pay cheque

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No. Is this article basically an exercise in click bait? Yes.

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I’m not a licensed doctor…but probably not.

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Two possible answers. 1) Never 2) When these kind of articles stop being pumped out. So actually 3) Never.

The Road To Hell Is Paved In Soya Milk

Today I found myself ordering a coffee ‘with soya milk please’. I have become that which I feared and derided.

The road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions. It would go something like this…


Not Caring About Milk Particularly

Needing Milk Cos Not HardCore Enough For Black Coffee + Tea

Not Using Enough Milk –à Milk Wasted By Going Off

Inside Out Face, Taking a Sip of Off Milk

Being Healthy!

Soya Milk At Home

Gently Talking About Soya Milk Amongst Close Friends

13’th January 2015, Circa 8:40 AM Ordering Soya Milk In My Pret Coffee


What’s next? Drinking cocktails out of teapots?

Salmon fishing …..in the office?

On my journey to work today I had a brainwave. Whilst this was particularly exciting for 8 am on a Monday morning, this also means I have now used up this week’s quota for ‘good ideas’.

My big idea is to buy myself a thermos.


This way I can have proper coffee at work and not have to pay for it. I always get this £1 coffee from Pret, which is a good price and decidedly cheaper than most people pay for their coffee but I’m still paying £5 a week for it and the coffee isn’t as nice as the stuff I make at home.

Anyways, I have just done some thermos hunting on Amazon, an experience that has proved more intriguing than one would have presumed. I swear that everyone who has reviewed it has said something along the lines of,’ I’m a salmon fisher’ or ‘ I go fishing a lot’ spring boarding their advice off of these credentials!




Now I’m pondering whether I’m allowed to buy myself a thermos unless I start salmon fishing.


House of Horrors

New Year, new you. Which is why this blog will now concentrate exclusively on the environment for the same amount of time as you are a new you.

Talking of the environment, yours truly was in an odd environment just before Christmas. I was doing the obligatory Grandparent visit and began to notice some creepy objects strewn around the house. Anyone with a Grandparent will probably recognise this rather ubiquitous plate collection featured below. Now, I’m not entirely sure whether this is limited to the UK branch of the Grandparent species (rest of world, I would love to hear from you on this matter) but Grandparents up and down the length and breadth of the UK will be nodding their heads right now, ahhing at the plate collection.


It just makes very little sense to me.. a plate is a functional object, what’s the point of hanging it up or putting it in a cabinet. Plate’s are not decorations guys, come on. Surely you’ve got enough Constable pastural paintings strewn all over your abode (Thomas Kincaid esque for my American friends). Maybe this makes sense to a Grandparent in the way that it makes sense to a figurine collector to never open his prized figurines because that destroys their worth. I have no answers for you here.

The other items pictured below are, I hope, not ubiquitous to all Grandparently abodes. God knows how, where or why these things were made. It’s like a fucking horror show. I am not liable legally or morally for any nightmares that may occur during or after viewing the following images.


What are you….


Why are you…..


What kind of a mind comes up with the world’s scariest (and potentially only) Sunflower baby? Also why is it’s face so dirty?


Don’t get a HEAD of yourself! This beheaded Santa loomed ominously above me all night long as I huddled crying in penguin pyjamas beneath the Christmas tree on the floor with a sheet and a pillow because there was no room in the fucking inn.

How to survive Christmas: Part the second

WH: Put your children to bed extra early on Christmas eve so that they won’t be too tired the next day.

 When has this ever worked? Anyone who has ever been a child knows that being put to bed early does sweet fuck all to rein in all that excitement which will then lead to hyper tears and screaming the next day.

The Man will probably try to do this with me because at 24 I still get very over excited and over tired just as easily as I did when I was 7 but the situation is so much worse now because I also drink (unlike when I was 7).

Wh: On Christmas Eve do not give the kids anything sugary such as sweets, chocolate or fizzy pop. Instead have some healthy water, juice and fruit snacks laid out on a table for them so that you won’t have to get any snacks for them which means interruption.

Grinch much? Should we just give them coal actually? Here, have a tasty snack of coal. That will keep your engine running.

I do like the table suggestion though; another viable option for not being interrupted by children that I would both suggest and recommend is to not have children. I can safely say that I will not be interrupted by children asking for snacks on Christmas Eve.

WH: Buy enough batteries and one extra pack of each just in case. There is nothing worse than receiving a present that you badly wanted and then discovering that you can’t use it because you have run out of batteries.

 There really is nothing worse than giving/receiving a festive vibrator and being unable to use it until the shops open again. #firstworldproblems

WH: Before you wrap the presents carefully remove them from the box and check that they are not broken or damaged.

This is just sound life advice really, especially when it comes to eggs. You don’t want to be there having given your loved ones their boxes of 24 eggs only to find their present (and dreams) shattered. You’d really have egg on your face then sir! Hopes and dreams cracked and shattered. Your relatives looking shell shocked……


How to survive Christmas: Part 1

Tis the season to be jolly! Tralalalalalalalala. Once again the Internet is flooded with ‘how to prepare for Christmas’ type articles so I thought, why the fuck not. I base my deeply insightful and life saving version on WikiHow’s article.

 WH: If you plan to make a traditional Christmas cake from scratch then this needs to be started at least a month before Christmas. If you have forgotten never fear; you can buy ready-made cakes in a store. 

I see your traditional Christmas cake / I don’t really love you guys so I bought one from a store cake and raise you one better. Fuck Christmas cake, no one in the history of history has liked that stuff. You know what says I love you? Steak. Get your loved ones a traditional Christmas steak. Anything is traditional if you just place the word ‘traditional’ in front of it. That was two tip top tips for the price of one, you are very welcome, tis the season to share and all that.

WH: Christmas shopping can be very stressful with all the crowds and you can’t take the children with you because they will see their presents. If you have kids get them to write out a list for you. That way you know what they most desire. You do not have to buy everything on their list; just get a few of the items and the rest is up to you. Also a good tip for Christmas shopping if you have children is to leave them with a trusted adult. If you do this make sure you tell the adult what they are to eat in case of any allergies.

My first tip would be, fuck Christmas shopping IRL. I both laugh at and pity everyone moved to murderous rage by Christmas hordes. I laugh as I sit here, clicking and ordering online. That’s right, it’s not just porn and my blog on the Internet. You can also buy things for money and have them delivered to your house/place of work, thus taking out the pain of shopping.

Unless you leave your order history and e-mails for everyone to see, this also means that you can keep your presents private. I raise you writing a list to Amazon wish list.

I don’t really have any advice when it comes to leaving your children with a trusted adult but I would have thought it was pretty obvious that the tiny humans that you love should probably not be left with a paedophile or axe murderer and shouldn’t be fed food that is poison to them. C’mon guys!

WH: Christmas for kids is all about the presents but make sure that you don’t just buy them toys, buy the things they actually need as well.  

First of all I really feel the need to point out that adults also like presents. ‘Buy the things they actually need as well’. Great advice. I’m buying my kids a big spoon for the disappointments they will face in life, a lawyer for their future divorces and socks. Because who doesn’t need socks?

WH: Many children creep around the house while their parents are in another room on the hunt for their presents. To prevent this, wrap their gifts, lock them in a secure cupboard and make sure the key(s) are always with you.

I think this is fantastic advice. I will be doing this one myself, wrapping the gifts up, placing those under the tree, taking the kids, locking the kids in a secure cupboard and potentially swallowing the key so I can be sure that it is safe inside me.

Stay tuned for part 2. But not too highly tuned because who knows when I will be free to write part 2 in this festive season of parties and promises.

A huge crowd of Christmas shoppers block the pavements and the road, as Oxford Street is pedestrianised to help with the large crowds

God damn, Time Takes It’s Damn Time

I recently went to (respectively) Rotterdam and Amsterdam. Before I left I thought about a lot of things, which I won’t list because, we’d be here for months shifting through the ephemera of my mind. One of those things however was whether I could somehow use the complexities of time changes and British Standard Time to my advantage.

When I say advantage I was thinking simultaneously of living longer, time crimes and also getting The Man to buy me a steak. My angle was going to be something like ‘oh but my body and mind are so confused with all these time changes and I need iron’. I don’t know, work in progress.

Here’s how I figure it.

So recently the clocks went a way. I’m one of those people they write Buzzfeed listicles about who is never sure whether we’re going backwards or forwards (both re: life and re: clock changes, I’m a deeply stereotypical mid twenties year old.) All I know is that when I wake up it’s kind of dingy which may be related to living in London or may be related to the time change and when I go home from work it’s really dark and depressing.

Note: I’ve just looked it up and we’ve gone back.

Ok, so what for a long time (well since Spring) we were all told is 5 pm is actually 4 pm (‘actually’). Flying to Holland where they don’t engage in time shenanigans my current 4 pm is 5 pm for them. Having only just acclimatised to going back in time suddenly I was forced back into my previous state of being forward an hour in time.

Is anyone else confused yet?


Update on Rotterdam/Amsterdam to come. Spoiler alert, I spent a portion of the trip arguing with The Man about how I don’t think I care much for Scotland dragging us down into playing around with time and deeply confusing me twice a year. Why should we cater to preventing Scotland from starting their day in pitch darkness when Scotland almost broke our heart? Scotland should be making me breakfast in bed. All of my feelings can always be assuaged by food.

I think The Man would probably like me to state clearly that he thought my line of reasoning was ridiculous and he would have no part of it. He agrees with all this time fiddling and isn’t feeling grumpy at Scotland.

I have a Scottish surname so I feel entitled to make these kinds of comments. I’m like the worst kind of racist.

 The Absurdity of Time

Same Rules Apply

Monday observation.

Filth is a very individual film. That might seem somewhat obvious to say of the film which everyone thought was unfilmable but I realised this fully today. I could write a long gushy piece on all the reasons why Filth is so very good. It was my favourite film of 2013, I saw it with The Man, it’s a really good job that we’ve been together for yonks because it is a deeply uncomfortable film to watch with someone who does not know you completely. I mean, man, not to spoiler anyone but the ending is my highest rated film ending possibly ever. Goodbye fourth wall.

Anyways, the above is the sort of long winded, waffling love letter you would get but everyone else has already written much better reviews than I could on a grimmm Monday so I won’t do that. I will just point out this amusing bit of evidence backing up Filth’s individuality.

Because its Monday, and as aforementioned I’m feeling a bit grim, I thought ‘I want to watch something a bit grim, something like Filth!’ Upon looking at IMDB’s (pretty much always useless but I still check it out) ‘People who liked this also like’ a mere one page of suggestions came up


From top left thats Trance, Welcome to the Punch, The Last King of Scotland, The Conspirator and Dom Hemingway.

Lets play a little game, it’s called ‘what do all those films bar Dom Hemingway’ have in common? Clue included in screenshot….

Yes, granted, IMDB doesn’t always do a stellar job with their user based recommendations but this has to be one of the poorest examples. Imagine sitting around that table, ‘so, let’s see how we can connect Filth with other films…..ummm……James McAvoy? Anything else? Alright then, we’ll roll with that. Job done.’

Then again, this conversation probably happened on a Monday in which case I can well forgive them.

Same rules apply eh?

I fucking love the Irish

I love the Irish. I first realised how much I loved the Irish the summer preceding my second year of University. I moved into the student house I was to reside in that year looking forward to a quiet summer filled with activities like reading, enjoying the garden and seeing The Man who had recently graduated and moved back to The Big Smoke.

My future housemate informed me by phone that an Irish friend of hers would be subletting her room over the summer and my heart sank a little at the thought of someone else being around the MASSIVE HOUSE.

Fast forward a couple of days later and it’s like I was living some sort of drug and alcohol fuelled, linguistic school,  housewife by day, coming of age summer novel. I’m sure there is one out there. I learned new phrases like ‘your man’, which does not in fact mean a man ‘belonging’ to you (not that I condone slavery) it just means a man. This was initially confusing for me when Irish would say ‘there’s your man’ and I would look for The Man who I knew to be in London.

Irish and I initially bonded over a love of red wine. At the start of the summer, being lazy so and so’s we left our first empty bottle of red wine at the end of our VERY long, bar length countertop. Jokingly we said ‘we should just leave them here and see how far we get by the end of the summer’. By the end of the summer wine bottles were spilling off of the ends, trailing down the floor and into the Conservatory.

Irish was finishing off her Masters so by day I would groggily recover, do a bit of cleaning (hence the housewife) possibly get in a few bottles of red and eagerly await for the key to turn in the lock (just like a housewife).

The Man would come down and visit me every couple of weekends. Because I’m the kind of person who shows love by buying food and drink supplies for people I would buy a couple of bottles of wine for us. By the time The Man arrived though, Irish and I would inevitably have already finished them and be merrily rolling around the house. The Man also got a lot of panicked ‘I think I’m going to die, I’ve gone too far with substances’ calls. It’s really a massive credit to him that he never hung up on me or dodged my calls.

I have a lot of stories that I could tell about this period of life but potentially should retain them rather than placing them all over the Internet. I will just say that by the end of the summer I’d lost weight, was considerably poorer, was on a path towards AA/NA (but in a fun way, this is not a thoughtful how I had to turn sober story) and was constantly exhausted. It was the best summer.

I was thinking about Irish recently as I went to an Irish friend’s barbeque. Irish 2 shares many similarities with Irish housemate. This is not the beginning of a vaguely racist rant on how all-Irish people love potatoes (although I have to say she made KILLER POTATOES at the bbq) but they do love Irish stuff a lot (Clonakilty sausages) which I have now converted to (because of their insanely high salt content, fucking delicious).

Irish people basically seem a lot prouder of their stuff than we are. Honestly we were all force fed Irish sausages and promised that they would change our lives. That’s such a high and confident bar to set. If it was me, a prototypically English person I would probably start out with something which devolved rapidly from ‘you should totally have a sausage, they are really nice’ to …’but only if you want to of course, I mean, they are ok, I could see they wouldn’t be to everyone’s taste and obviously I don’t want you to have one if you don’t want one and they probably aren’t that good anyways actually….’

Irish people are also really good at kindly and smilingly making you drink. It’s not normally hard to convince me to drink but the insidious way it is done gets your trashed so fast that you suddenly realise you really have to slow down otherwise your night will soon be over. It’s so hard to say no to a smiling petite blonde woman who just wants you to have fun and accept her hospitality though. I’ve honestly never really experienced drinking peer pressure before in quite the dangerously, lovely way that Irish 1 and 2 share.

On the standard Monday morning ‘how was your weekend’ chatter my boss asked me what I did over the weekend. I replied ‘ I went to an Irish barbecue’. The boss queried ‘what exactly is an Irish barbecue and how does it differ from an English barbecue?’

I gave him a look and said ‘cause it was hosted by an Irish person of course.’ I genuinely felt that summed things up.