Tales of daily life from a 20-something Student from London.

Wednesday, 29 June 2011

"It'd be rude not to..."

As far as formal do's go, I've not exactly got a good track record. When I was at the premier for 'The Dark Knight' a few years back, I took the free champagne to a new level (that level being 'Nobody should have this much champagne and then watch a film in the iMax as it will have disastrous effects on your viewing ability). During my year 13 prom, being one of only two people on a table of 6 that enjoyed a glass of wine with my meal (and, coincidentally, without a meal too) I felt it my civic duty to not let such wine go to waste. After all, wine isn't wasted when your getting wasted, or something like that. Last night, fate was set to intervene yet again.

Whilst sitting in Waxy O' Connors, a nice Irish pub just off China town, and watching another enthralling game of tennis, Empire Magazine sent out a tweet for a competition for five lucky winners to watch a VIP screening of gritty prison drama 'The Escapist' at the Soho Hotel. Winners would be greeted with a canapĂ© reception for them and their guest and a QnA session afterwards. This sounded to good to miss and when Pedro arrived to meet me, I received a reply letting me know I've won two tickets. Fantastic.  

Now bear in mind, this was around 4pm. I had already had a couple pints, and more were sure to follow before the showing. We arrived at the hotel looking a tad more casual than most other people and immediately I became incredibly self concious. I was not in my element here. Waiters were darting around the room offering us beers, duck spring rolls, mini fish and chips, and a strange paste that I decided not to touch, or eat for that matter. I had had a few of the delicacies (note: a lot more than few) when the waiter joked 'It'd be rude not to' when I was opting to take a further duck spring roll. Oh god, I thought, now I had to. I don't want to offend this guy, he had a waistcoat on, and all I had was a little badge that said 'admit one' on it. No way out. There he was, tray in my face, glaring me down with his simply quacking food luring me in. I'd had a few beers, how much more can a man take? I'm on the edge here, I thought, but valiantly battled on for just one more spring roll. 

Then it happened. In the plush arrival room of the plush hotel on the plush carpet, I had dropped an entire pot of tartare sauce off his tray, ruining the carpet and peoples condiment choices in one foul swoop. Pretty much everybody saw, too. I was ashamed, not only because I quite fancied the sauce myself, but I'm pretty sure a dab may have gone onto a mans shoe, which I opted not to notice.

"sorry..." I muttered
"...it happens all the time" lied the waiter.

In a moment of clarity, the Irish man from Film 2011 began to talk, and dragged everyone away from Tartare swamp to the screening room. Thank god for that.

So there I was. Drunk, but full, in a posh hotel in Soho. The curse had come true yet again, and had fulfilled its destiny. Safe to say though, the film was fantastic, and they gave us copies of the dvd, so I can lend it to anyone who wants a watch, which was lovely of them. So yes. To sum up, don't do what I do and get drunk at posh events. It's never smart. But then again, neither am I.

Over and out. 

Or maybe I should say, Tar-Tare?

Friday, 24 June 2011

Schnell! Schnell!

Ok. So it has become apparent to me that I have a fair few entries that revolve around running. Apologies for that, as I'm sure they do all bore you, but I feel the need to tell you about one more running mishap. 

Around this time every year, the local secondary school bring over about 20 German exchange students to experience the Cranham way of life. This year is no different, and as I ran over the bridge into Cranham, there they all were waiting at the bus stop. Only, I didn't know they were Germans. I just thought they were 20 teenagers who happened to also be wearing similar running gear to mine, which although seemed strange at first, I thought soon after that A.) I look dashing in my running gear (pun intended) and B.) it was a nice 'noon for a run. As I ran past, on the opposite side of the road, one of the assistant teachers, who was clearly English and just along for the ride / potential German date, began flagging me to come over. I had my headphones in and was intrigued, so I crossed. I'm sure you can see where this is going. 

I was looking at the Germans, puzzled. They were looking at me, puzzled. The assistant teacher was looking at me, expectant. I took my headphones out. I told her I was English. She told me my English accent was good. I told her it was because I was, in fact, English. A small German boy backed this up by saying 'I have never seen this girl in my life', which showed that his English needed work, but made the teacher realise her mistake and awkwardly tell me to get on my way. Now I promise never to write about running again. Unless I have to. 

Over and out.

Friday, 17 June 2011



Some people say that winks are a bit gay. I disagree. I think acknowledging someone with a wink is a pretty slick thing to do. It's effortless. Blam, eye closed and reopened in, quite literally, the blink of an eye. When I handed a CV into Superdry a few days ago, the guy who I handed it to responded with such an accurate wink that moved at the speed of a Puma on steroids, that I was blown away. I bloody wish I could wink like that. Why is winking a skill that is gifted only to a unique few, much like being able to do that hand thing out of Star Trek? Why can't everyone be as badass as famous, manly winkers such as Harrison Ford in Indiana Jones, Jeff Bridges in True Grit (ok, so he has an eyepatch, he still winks!), and the robot at the end of I, Robot? Where is the wink for the average Joe? Why is it that, when I try and wink, the right side of my face decides to cut out and leave me looking like some sort of half-grinning pervert. I'm 20 and it's still something that I haven't come to terms with.

Oh well. 

I can do it on a keyboard.


So, I got a job. Superdry in Romford are now the proud owner of a me. As far as interviews go though, it was a strange one. Did you know Superdry was originally spawned by two English chaps in peaceful Cheltenham? News to me, which didn't go down too well after I professed that I was aware of its ancient Japanese origins. It does say 'JPN' in big letters, after all. 

Over and out.

Monday, 13 June 2011

"Smile for the camera, now..."

As I perused a busy Lakeside shopping centre earlier on this afternoon, it came to my attention I needed (/wanted) a new pair of shoes. The current pairs I owned were all a bit garish, so a new, less colourful pair, were definitely on the cards. As I strolled into Schuh to find said pair, I was greeted by an enthusiastic "Hi, how are you?" "erm...yeah, ok thanks", I replied as I walked towards the Vans. I had a look. My fancy was not tickled, so I opted to leave. "Bye, thanks for coming, see you again soon!" beamed the smiling shop assistant.

Am I missing something? Why is everyone so happy? Well, okay, that's wrong of me to say. There could be any number of reasons. They could have won the lottery, but only won enough to go on a cheap night out where they can only afford Carlsberg, and so still had to work the day job. Or found out that Asda are yet again doing cheap Ben and Jerry's (I'm not guaranteeing that as fact though). But in particular, shop assistants. A hello is fine, nice even. But some of them treat you like you're a long lost relative who they haven't seen for ages and happens to be rich.

"Jack! How are you? SO glad you've chosen to shop in HMV, really I am, is there anything particular you need today? I'd be more than willing to delve into the small cabinets under the CD racks and have a look. Anything? Anything? Please let me help!"

As someone who used to work in retail, I know that managers ensure you greet the customer when they walk in. My weapon of choice when I was planted at the front of store was always a "hey man, how you doing". Notice the lack of question mark. It shows I acknowledge your presence but don't give a shit as to how you actually are. They know that, I know that, they know I'm there to help, everyone's happy. Not like those I saw today. If I'm honest, it put me off a bit. Greet me at the door if you like, but that's it. Having some fake-caring teenager at the front of store just lets me know I'm being watched. And I don't like that. Especially when I'm browsing the underwear section of Debenhams.

That was a lie by the way.

I prefer BHS.

Over and out.

Friday, 10 June 2011

Dew I know you?

As far as days go, today was not one of the best. I lost a job I haven't started yet. I found out I need to retake an exam even though I passed. I had to pay £1.45 for a Capri Sun. All painful events in downward spiral. I could moan for hours about these events. But no. Instead, I'm going to discuss the polar opposite. For this day wasn't full of bad. Instead, it had some good tossed in there for good mix. Like the unhealthy stuff in a salad, helping you have a nice meal and feel all healthy, all at once.

Pulling the usual 'sorry mate, can I just pop out of the station for the toilet?' trick when buying the Kings Cross to Upminster single left me free to explore the West End and visit a shop I'd heard about that sells all sorts of special (note: sugary as shit and not legally sold over here) treats. Due to a shop in Hatfield, where my uni is, selling Mountain Dew Original for 60p a can, I've developed somewhat of an addiction for the stuff and was hoping that this den of debauchery may have some of the other flavours. 

They did. Four different ones. All with a different zing (note two: probably just different amounts of sugar/goo from a Giant Worms tail like Slurm). Having hastily purchased one of each, and strolling toward Orbital Comics, I cracked out the first....then second...third...and finally fourth. I felt a little bit 'light' reading through a potential comic I may buy (/would never buy but fancied a read regardless) and the strangest thing happened. I mean, I'm not wholeheartedly saying this was the cause but my hayfever dissapeared. Not there at all. Nor is it now, at 8:05pm as I write this. I'm considering marketing my new found cure to Mountain Dew. There's probably laws protecting such a sugary concoction, but it's worth a punt at least. 

Besides, after it's worn off, I'll probably be a sneezing mess again. 

Over and out.

P.s. Do me a favour and follow this link:


and vote for the Fifty Fours. All you need to do is click vote, so go and do it. You can even have a listen to them when you do it, how about that! So off you go. Buh-bye.

Monday, 6 June 2011


All Washed Up

On Saturday, I decided I'd go out for a light jog before a night out in Camden. Being as my running shorts didnt have a pocket, I could only hold one thing, meaning I had to make the ultimate choice: Powerade or Ipod. Naturally, to keep me sane for 3 miles, I opted for the Ipod. 

This proved to be an awful choice as the heat on this Saturday afternoon was sky-high, and by the time I reached the top of Avon Road I was ready to collapse. But next to me, I saw an unlikely aid appear. 4 lads in a Corsa with a Super Soaker. Perfect, they'll shoot me, cool me down, and I'll be ready to go, and they'll think they're causing me to get all wound up. Here we go, I thought... Except it didn't happen. I looked at the passenger in the eyes as he realised how I was shrivelling like a prune and double bluffed me, instead choosing to leave me high and dry. The bastard. As I carried on slugging it home, I had to admire his dedication what he was doing, even though I was probably as red as the car that was so kind as to not soak me. 

Then the car came back round, and he shot me in the face with it. The bastard.

Over and out.

P.s. yeah, not been blogging much recently. I've been playing a LOT of Fifa. More to come this week...