http://oibarman.wordpress.com/

Moving to new offices!

As you know "Oi Barman" has been seriously neglected... if it was a Tamagotchi pet it would have died long ago. It is owing to this that I have started a new space for "Oi Barman" to flourish... I'll be re-posting content off here (after editing it, because it needs editing) and there will be new stuff... exciting stuff... stuff that will make you laugh and cry... there'll be pictures of kittens... wedding planning... cupcakes... Oh no wait that's Pinterest...

I am excited about the move because mostly I love the banner photo on the top...

Also I'll be under a pseudonym because my mum panics about my safety... especially when I mock the Christians.

x

The Reborn Identity

I suppose it was just a matter of time before I became compelled to write about religion. I’m usually not one to air my religious perspective however I’ve reached the point where I feel the need to rant a tad.

There are few things I enjoy more than a good old rant littered with some choice controversial elements chucked in for good measure. Being subversive is second nature to me which is a genetic disposition I've been lucky enough to inherit from the fine folks that made me. That's why I love being back in South Africa because it isn't short of character and colour. Folk in the UK think that they have the same level of character but if we could just talk about the Royal Wedding for a moment...on second thoughts, let’s not.

My favourite psychologist who I’ve named “Barry Tim” says that there are two kinds of people in the world, Ferrari's and Volkswagen's. I think that there are Rice Crispies and Fruitloops. Either you’re in the box or you’re in the bowl but if you’re a Fruitloop no matter where you are you’re still a Fruitloop and if you get into the Rice Crispie bowl you’ll taint the flavour and piss off the Crispies.

So writing to my fellow Fruitloops and the odd Rice Crispies that may read this I thought it time I get belligerent about religion because it’s been a long time coming.

Here’s the deal, I don’t really factor religion into my life because I just don’t think I have the space. It’s like those gifts you get from relatives that you think you need to give houseroom to be polite. I’m talking about the doily you put on top of your television, that statue of a girl kneeling by the fountain, that nice dolphin ceramic soap dish, the scatter cushion with wild flowers, the soap and handcream; flavour- lavender. That stuff is crap and I won’t give it house room. I am 27 and if I don’t want a dolphin soap dish I don’t want it. Exit Charity Store or exit gift to person I don’t like much. I view religion as the doily on the television. It’s out-dated, it detracts from what’s important, it gathers dust and it just gives you that nasty feeling every time you look at it.

I’ve lost some fans I can feel it, but before you retreat shouting heathen and burning incest just hear me out.

I truly love the idea of God and goodness and light and love but that’s not really what religion is all about. ‘But it is…’ I hear you protest. Nope it’s not, let’s face it religion is being used as a tool to show up how bad everyone else is and how good “you” are as a person. The thing is that most of the really annoying religious folk are new recruits for the God Squad so they’re making up for lost time by being particularly verbose about right and wrong. They’re there wielding the New Testament like a weapon of mass destruction.

 I seldom meet churchgoers who love everyone. I have some examples and they’re so good that you’ll know I haven’t made them up.

Hilton is a small town with Colonial sentiments. People here live in the dark ages. I had a beautician who was a born again Christian and she just loved to make people beautiful. That meant she wanted their souls too. I had to stop going there because she kept trying to force me into going along to Youth Group which I view as a free-for-all orgy for teenagers. Anyway as much as I would decline she would insist even offering me lifts to get there and back. She must be very high on Gods payroll. Anyway she was complaining about her maid and the theft problem she was experiencing. In the next breath she said ‘and it’s not like she needs to steal, I pay her R25 a day’. Her cup runneth over with generosity. Sure there are people who pay their maids dogshit rates but at least they’re not in church every Sunday telling everyone what good Christians they are. 

This same lady wrote 'no teenage mutant ninja turtle gifts' (sans please) on the bottom of her son’s party invitations. It took all of my mother’s strength to obey the rules. Satan lurks in ninja turtles, and Nirvana cds. In fact Satan lurks in all music bar that played by "hip" Christian rock groups. Needless to say this particular citizen was so favoured by the Lord that she was blessed with her daughter’s wedding and a grandchild within weeks of each other. God works in mysterious ways.  

The gym is another breeding ground for religious fundamentalists. This is because gym goers generally adopt the “my body is a temple” adage and therefore find God at the water fountain in between their benchpress. I was on the elliptical trainer and had my eye on BBC News which doesn’t really generate a lot of energy but apparently it was what adults like to work out to. Evidence? Zero. Anyway I was minding my own business like a hamster on a wheel and the next thing Spandex enters. Spandex was a new recruit to the gym at this time and was very much into "body and temple" and "lunging for the Lord". God was obviously having a positive influence on her because she was rapidly turning into a muscle building machine. Anyway I greeted Spandex and went back to watching the Iraqis bomb the crap out of their landscape. It was at this point that she said ‘I hate Muslims. I reckon we should just bomb them all when they’re kneeling down to pray.’ When it comes to Christianity and the spirit of tolerance I reckon she’s the poster child.

So where do folk like this hang out? (So we can avoid them.) Well there’s this place that attracts like-minded Christian folk. It’s like Makro. Don’t be disappointed when you get there and expect to find awesome cheap stuff to buy. You won’t find it. Instead you’ll find thousands of people praying and complaining about all of the other religions in the world. Tell them Jesus was a Jew and they’ll come after you with pitchforks and flaming torches.

I know of people who go to this wholesale religious factory. I reckon they think that they’re cutting out the middleman between themselves and God which is why they’ve made it look like Makro. Also it’s an excellent way to get new recruits who mistake it for an awesome shopping experience. 

As they march to the sound of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ with stones in their hands you can literally hear the glass crunch under their creep to Jesus sandals.

Jaqui's Guide to being a Quitter

Seven Highly Effective Steps:

Apparently being a “quitter” is a bad thing. The word itself annoys me as does the act of quitting. As I result I’ve never previously aimed to quit anything. However in the past two months I’ve quit three very important aspects of my life, my job, London and smoking.

I started smoking because I broke up with my personal trainer boyfriend and I wanted to torture my body which I had been steadily improving for the two years I dated him for. I remember looking at my stepdad’s cigarettes thinking, ‘I could smoke one of those’. I didn’t though. I got into my Golf, rattled down the road, and bought my own box of Marlboro Lights from the Shell Garage. The thing with smoking is, I believe that you have to own it. There is nothing more annoying than people who say, ‘I don’t smoke’, and then bum a smoke off you in the next breath. Actually there is something more annoying, random strangers asking for a cigarette. Personally I’m not in the habit of going into  bars and asking folk for a sip of their tasty beverage so I don’t see why people should ask me for a cigarette and then get pissed off when I lie, ‘sorry it’s my last one’. I don’t mind friends and family bumming but that’s not bumming, that’s sharing, which is very different. Obviously there are some things that should never be shared, like STD’s, toothbrushes, email passwords, underwear and sex stories with your folks. Gross.

Anyway once I’d returned home with my box of 20 I poured myself a glass of wine and lit my first cigarette in a very long time. Up until that moment I’d smoked sporadically as most teenagers do, but I’d decided I was going to be a smoker and my asthmatic lungs weren’t going to tell me any different. I still remember the guilt I felt. Not guilty because I was tarring my fragile lungs with thick tar but guilty because my stepdad had been relegated to an outside area for months because I was asthmatic and it wasn’t good for me to be in a house filled with smoke. I still feel guilty, actually that’s a lie I don’t.

I come from a family of smokers. My family have historical links to Rothmans, so for me it wasn’t a very rebellious act however my extended family loved to lecture me about how filthy it is. What they didn’t realise was that they were just encouraging me to smoke more. I would light up just to annoy them because reformed smokers are easy targets. The Reformed Smoker is a character I am not terribly fond of. For years and years they were at the centre of the bar surrounding everyone in their wake with a film of tobacco smell and thick smog, and then all of a sudden you light up 50 metres away from them and ‘they can smell it’ and then they look accusingly at you and say ‘when are you going to quit that disgusting habit?’ The answer to this question is invariably, ‘never’, because you’re pissed off with them and want to annoy them for all eternity. Reformed Smokers can pat themselves on the back for keeping my lungs tarred for six good years.

My doctor in South Africa is a reformed smoker but I don’t mind because she has medicine backing her up. She also said ‘have you thought about giving up?’ which is an improvement on ‘you must stop that shit’. She then said that I should only give up when I was ready to do so. At that point I really did not care about the black lung or my yellowing teeth and index finger so I just kept on puffing.

Reformed smokers told me I’d give up when I got to the UK because it’s “expensive”. This is true, it is expensive. However London is expensive. For example, I can buy a daily travel card into the city and let me tell you it costs more than a box of 20 and gives me none of the pleasure. When it comes to bandying about the term “expensive” I like to use the “wine economy” to define the price of goods. When I was last home cigarettes cost R28 a box. A bottle of house wine cost about R45 depending on where I went. In this country a bottle of house wine is usually about £15 and a box of cigarettes is just shy of £7. Therefore you can pretty much see where I’m going with this… Obviously it’s cheaper not to smoke but according to the “wine economy” everything is relative when it comes to vices.

So my budget managed to stretch to nicotine, alcohol and taxis (because when I’m drunk wild horses can’t drag my arse onto public transport) and I was happier for it. I was happier until after 6 years my little lungs had had enough. I’m not going to go into medical details because I don’t want to be the one to put you off smoking but I went to the doctor and I left with a sinking feeling. At first I thought I was telling another lie to the NHS but it turns out when I told my doctor ‘I’ve quit smoking’ I was telling the truth.

The thing with the NHS is they are a bunch of flaming ritards. Before you poo-poo me and delete me from “favourites” I’m just going to mention “Swine Flu Hotline”… … …. And you’re back and nodding in agreement. Say it with me, ‘the NHS are a bunch of FLAMING ritards’.

For those of you who don't know, the Swine Flu Hotline was a number you phoned and laymen would read out the symptoms to swine flu and if you had any you were at risk and should stay away from your place of work for as long as possible. Actually, correction, 16 year old's were reading out the symptoms. Now I’m not sure about you but putting a room of pubescent teens in control of swine flu is a fucking scary thought.

I liken the NHS to public transport, it’s great when you’re drunk. Now I know my mum reads my blog occasionally so I just want to clear up what I have lied to the NHS about in case the government get involved and stalk my Facebook account, and then start stalking me, and then realise I wore a burqa to a fancy dress party and my life unravels like a Sandra Bullock film called ‘The Net’. So… I may or may not have told the NHS that I previously smoked 1 cigarette a day and my maximum weekly units of alcohol is exactly 14 and that I NEVER NEVER EVER go over my 14 recommended units of booze.

To all intents and purposes you can imagine my surprise when I realised I’d actually told the truth to my NHS doctor.

I returned home with my antibiotics (it's true they gave them to me), nebuliser, asthma pump, asthma spray, asthma pills, cortisone, inhaling cartridges and the keys to the Death Star which kick start the nebuliser and climbed into bed. Obviously with the black lung a cigarette was the last thing on my mind so I was safe from the dreaded Silk Cuts lying on my side table. When my lungs recovered I thought about my life. It was like one of those cheesy made-for-tv-films where a bunch of kids make friends with a lion cub, they feed it and nurture it and cuddle it but then one day it gets too big and they realise it could kill them. They then release it into the wild to the sound of Bette Midler and a lump wells in their throats as they say goodbye… the sun sets over the African Savannah and they realise they will never experience happiness like that ever again. Their lion cub is gone forever… Saying goodbye to cigarettes was like that except I chose a Phil Collins song instead.  

Now I’m a non smoker and I feel weird. Firstly I have this incredible urge to tell people I’ve stopped smoking. Anyone who will listen. Literally anyone. I can imagine this is quite annoying behaviour which is only exacerbated by my other annoying qualities. So what’s the secret? How do you quit smoking?

7 Highly (Effective/Ineffective) steps:

Step One: lie to the NHS and tell them you’ve stopped.

Step Two: puff on a plastic cigarette which gives you a head rush quite unlike anything else you’ve ever had. I used one for about 3 weeks and it did the job. You generally look ridiculous so it’s easy to ween yourself off. Kind of like a toddler with a dummy who continues to use it when he/she is 17.

Step Three: tell everyone you’ve stopped even the lady at Tescos. Personally I like the line 'you used to sell me cigarettes but now I’ve quit so I can afford another bottle of wine instead… because now I’m an alcoholic…'

Step Four: Hopefully someone will say to you 'I’ll believe it when I see it…' This person should be someone you’re attached to. Someone that you need to prove wrong at any cost. Ex partners are ideal, as are incredibly anal and annoying relatives who scoff, 'oh you’re giving up are you?' and then laugh hysterically. Having someone not to believe in you is all it really takes. The minor successes I’ve had in my life have all hinged on people who don’t believe in me.

Step Five: Announce every monthly victory like it’s breaking news. 'I haven’t smoked for One whole month'. Get people to applaud and congratulate you, preferably buy you alcohol. Act smug, being smug makes you realise the pain and suffering and lack of perpetual happiness is worth it.

Step Six: Avoid other smokers unless you can trust them implicitly. I used to be that asshole who offered recent “quitters” a cigarette and then would give them a 'come on…' when they refused. I now realise that I should have been punched in the face for this… I got away lucky…

Step  Seven: All good plans come in seven steps so I should think of one last step… okay… here’s the deal… it’s not that difficult… I bought an epilator the other day and pulled my underarm hairs out… that was the epitome of difficult.  Buy an epilator and use it every time you feel like a cigarette… you’ll be bald and will develop nervous twitches…but you'll have been successful.

(For more EXPERT advice on how to quit smoking phone the NHS hotline. Or visit their website www.saynotoantibiotics.co.uk)

Musings

Tata Cashflow is Bangala

I remember watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time and wondering if I’d ever feel the same way about a shop. Don’t get me wrong I love Tiffany’s, but I don’t go in there very often for my budget does not stretch to the “Tiffany’s lifestyle” and I don’t believe in credit cards because that's how I was raised. I come from a “cash is king” background and the term “cashflow” is part of the fabric that stitches my childhood quilt together. Every family disaster hinged around the indomitable “cashflow” situation and it became a Hiltermann stock phrase. Some children are raised on God, my father raised me on Cashflow.

I have been into Tiffany’s once… I was wearing an old pair of Converse and a summer dress. I was about as obvious as a teenager in a nightclub; trying to blend in but failing miserably. When I entered I might have actually said something Christian’s would disapprove of. Loudly. The Doorman subtly approached me, said ‘silver’s upstairs love’ and winked. I should have been mortified, but I was grateful. I left with a little turquoise bag and a smile. It was a gift, possibly the best gift I’ve ever given anyone. (At this point alarm bells… yes, ALARM bells, should be going off. ‘best gift to give’, ‘Jaqs doesn’t have anything from Tiffany’s’, Christmas, Jaqs’s Birthday fast approaching… I’m just saying… I don’t ask for a lot… cough cough…) Anyway I’m moving off the subject…

Tiffany’s was a sparkly treasure chest filled with happiness and joy. So lovely, so sparkly, so clean… but would I want to eat breakfast there? Not likely. Would I want to go there every day? Not likely to that too.

There’s a place that resides in cyberland… it has everything and more, and dreams are made there. It’s a veritable jungle of joy. In the highest treetops you can find exotic dvds, rare albums, mystical kitchen utensils. Further down in the lower canopy hide box-sets, cheap printer cartridges, books. In the undergrowth there’s stationary, bedding, toiletries, shoes, tents, Russian Mail Order Brides. Banners advertising the new “Kindle” fly past, soar up into the air… flutter casually… The more you search the more you find, but don’t be careless it’s dangerous out there. ‘One Click’ shopping lurks ready to trap you, ‘Next Day Delivery’ ensnares you, the deadly bite of Internet shopping will course through your veins until you’re infected by the fever. Amazon.com, a whole world of discovery. You’re wondering about my cashflow situation aren’t you?

I remember when I first purchased something on the Internet. It was in the days of dial up connection, so it was a lifetime ago. My mother and I decided that we needed the collector’s edition Scarlet O’Hara Barbie Dolls. Initially we believed we would be satisfied with one of them but secretly we knew that we needed the whole set and wouldn’t sleep until we had them all. We had seen the dolls in America but owing to the “cashflow” situation we could not buy them. They haunted us, like all dolls tend to do. Years later we decided to search for them on the interweb machine and hours later the page had loaded and we were informed that we could enter a bidding war for them. This was risky business in the 90’s but being intrepid children of the postmodern age my mother and I entered credit card details, ID numbers, residential addresses, security passwords and the name of our first pet… and then we sat back and waited. 

In the year 2010 I can sleep easily knowing that I own 4 Scarlett O’Hara Barbie dolls and I have their original boxes. In fact when I received them I watched the movie and surrounded myself with my new treasures. Now there’s a state secret I was not intending to part with!

Personally I cannot believe my faith in online shopping. This was before it became the safe haven that it is today. Don’t get me wrong I’ve had my fair share of buyer’s remorse. The fake Tiffany’s bracelet aka “the bracelet of shame”, the fake Eddie Izzard tickets, the fake Fleetwood Mac ticket… but astoundingly I’ve wasted more of my hard earned cash by shopping in the real world than on the Internet. As a general experience I find that I take more pleasure in Amazon than I do in a shopping mall. I have no crowds, no prams, no screaming kids, no temptation to stop for a cup of expensive cold coffee, no queues, no parking issues, no wondering ‘is this toilet clean’?

The best bit? I get it delivered to my desk and the excitement of tearing through the package and wondering which item has arrived? Well it’s like Christmas. In fact it’s better than Christmas, which is why I also do my Christmas shopping on Amazon.

Being a single woman with very little financial obligations I’ve decided that I would rather not have a credit card. Also I am very obedient and I still have the faith in Cashflow that was drummed into me. As Cashflow dictates I don’t buy anything that I can’t afford, if I don’t have money I don’t have money. It’s a simple financial belief system but it works for me. And I can sleep easy knowing I’m not responsible for that darned “credit card crunch” when all those credit cards went around stealing people’s money. ‘What? That’s not really what happened?’ ‘But some guy in a bar… oh… he was taking the…’

Cashflow equates credit cards to a gambling addiction, and I have had this instilled in me by my father who basically said, ‘by all means get shitfaced on whisky but don’t you dare get yourself into a situation where you have no cashflow’. This has meant that I don’t have a credit rating. What this means is that when Amazon offered me a special credit card I wasn’t allowed it, because of my credit rating, which is probably that of a toddler. Luckily enough I was sweating beads whilst filling out the online application so it’s just as well they didn’t accept it because I would have had a guilt induced pulmonary embolism on the spot. Father’s voice would have boomed, ‘for Cashflow’s sake daughter have I taught you nothing?’

So now I have an Amazon basket FULL of stuff I want but can’t buy and every day it grows like a lion cub that you thought was cute, but is now looking increasingly scary. What have I done? And can someone please just tell me how to get rid of banner ads because if I see that fucking Kindle fly past my screen one more time… I will buy it… Cashflow help me I will buy it…

Amazon… it really is a fucking jungle out there.

Dear Readers

So I am not sure what I'm writing about next because I avoided the Metro this morning for fear that I may find out how many folk are now blind owing to apple bobbing.
It's a Moanday and the only thing I can be happy about is I'm wearing my new boots which are less painful then they were on Thursday and a hottie smiled at me on the train.

Also I believe Posh and Becks are on speaking terms so we can all rest easy. Phew.

Jaqs

PS: Since my existential crisis resulting in my name change I have found more and more people caling me Jax... people who previously called me Jaqui... this curiouses me... I am sure it's not to deliberately wind me up, because I would never intentionally wind up individuals...

Musings

The Apple of his Eye

I was beyond amused reading the Metro this morning. I reckon Boris secretly writes most of the editorial because the quality is that of an oik. And in my opinion Boris is an “oik”. I usually boycott the Metro however this morning I took my seat on the train and it was spread out, tantalisingly, on the seat next to me revealing its double page spread. I perused Stalkerbook for a while avoiding the temptation of the grey pages but unfortunately there were no sex scandals or dirty laundry for me to enjoy. Instead I got the generic, ‘So glad it’s Friday’, ‘Go the Sharks’, ‘I’m tired and working so hard’,  ‘My life is crap’… boring stuff… After a couple of minutes I was left dejected and finally picked up the paper and began flipping the pages for a worthy story to grab my attention. I glanced over The 'UK are the fattest nation in Europe' story, the latest X-Factor saga, Maria Carey up the duff, the lame excuse for a pun in the form of “Doggie Pawtraits”, and an article dedicated to apple bobbing.

Last Halloween 3 people were injured owing to the ruthless sport, “apple bobbing”.  You’re not actually going to believe this but the opening of the story is,

‘A ‘high velocity impact with an apple’ has the potential to cause serious eye injury while unclean water could lead to infection, officials say.’ (http://www.metro.co.uk/news/845561-halloween-warning-apple-bobbing-can-damage-your-health#ixzz13kMlFfmp)

You cannot actually make this shit up can you? The article suggests disinfecting the water in which the sinister fruits bob, waiting to gouge out your eyes with their stalks. To prevent the forbidden fruits from impaling you with their “high velocity impact” it is also suggested, by South Hampton Hospitals and the trusty NHS, that you wear goggles. Better still, remove the fuckers from water with your hands to add a new “twist” to the game, wow the children must be bobbing with excitement. Apple Bobbing is such a violent sport that we are also told that at the “extreme” end of the scale one could even lose an eye! I actually had a bloody good chuckle especially because the piece de resistance came from yea old man on the street. They asked a shop assistant what he thought and he said, ‘I’ve done apple bobbing for years and never had any problems.’ Well that’s good to know isn’t it?

(Read more: http://www.metro.co.uk/news/845561-halloween-warning-apple-bobbing-can-damage-your-health#ixzz13kN7E7Gi)

So that was my second favourite story of this morning. I know, you’re thinking, ‘it’s going to take a hell of a lot to top that’, and you’d be correct. The next story actually had me crying. I skimmed the pages and Posh and Becks have had a fight, The Saturday’s are singing for our troops… yawn… And then, ‘Wedding bells for pair who met via ‘ugly’ dating website’. As I scanned the page the story unfolded into an absolute cruncher, it just kept getting better and better. To begin with I was just Godsmacked that this is considered newsworthy and then as the narrative developed I was left feeling utterly amazed at the lunacy; surely so-called ugly people wouldn’t subscribe to this? The website is called www.theuglybugball.com and it is for “aesthetically challenged” folk. The website actually adopts this euphemism despite having “ugly” in the main title. Curious. Aside from being for “aesthetically challenged” folk the website has the following to say:

·         Half of UK daters aren’t pretty so instead of fishing in a small pool of prettiness and getting nowhere dive into an ocean of uglies and have more choice.

·         Ugly people are a better calibre of human- pretty people generally aren’t very nice and tend to be a bit shallow.

·         Ugly people have had a tougher life and therefore tend to be more considerate and more loyal. A recent Uglydate survey also proved that they try harder in bed.

·         Once with an ugly partner it is unlikely that anyone will try and take them from you meaning you can let yourself go completely once you’re together.

·         In these straightened times Uglydate is cheaper as a) We don’t charge much as the pretty sites and b) Ugly people have lower expectations- for a first date A Family Bucket will usually do the trick.

(Taken word for word (bad grammar included) from www.theuglybugball.com)

I am trying to find words at this moment. I can only come up with the simple phrase, ‘What the Fuck’? Seriously I don’t know if these people are having a laugh but ‘ugly people try harder in bed’? They’re having a laugh surely? And the audacity of the verbose and general claims? I have met some very pissed off and miserable mingers which makes them all the more “aesthetically challenged”.

Anyway this story heralds the fact that the site is celebrating its first engagement, “Hooray”! Two mingers met via the website and are making their love official. Obviously the couple have great personalities which is what attracted them to each other. Their story is undoubtedly very charming in the usual contrived romantic cybertale manner. He sent the first witty email, she replied, eventually they decided to meet face-to-face and weeks later in a whirlwind they were head-over-heels and engaged. Yawn. The only thing that makes the story unique is the fact that they are not your average “Mr and Mrs Beautiful”. I was about to upchuck, especially after the vomtastic, ‘To me, Tom’s the perfect handsome prince- I’m just so pleased to have been able to meet him- and I’m head-over-heels in love’. But then came the bride and groom on the tip of the wedding cake, the miraculous honeymoon that has been given to them, FREE, by the website. Brace yourselves:

‘The couple, from Stow-on-the-Wold, Gloucestershire, have been given a free caravan honeymoon in Borth, west Wales…’

Now that just says it all doesn’t it?

(Read more: http://www.metro.co.uk/home/845540-wedding-bells-for-pair-who-met-via-ugly-dating-website)

Jaqui's Guide To Business: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Degrees of Separation

'It's not what you know, it's who you know' is an old adage that gets bandied about by smug bastards who've landed some incredible job or opportunity because they can name-drop someone important. I was thinking about this belief on my commute the other evening because some phone monkey that I work with was throwing around some hot shot motoring industry person. I think he was trying to impress me but I'm too fly to be impressed by a cheap black suit and brown shoes. Seriously I don't mind the cheap suit but I do mind the black pants and brown shoes very much. In fact I take umbrage that men actually find this fashionably acceptable. So he was swanning about the kitchen making his cheap instant coffee to get the "caffeine" hit that is so important to salespeople don't you know? And he came out with it. I literally had to pinch myself out of the stereotype. It pains me to say but he actually said, 'Jaqs, babe, it's not what you know it's who you know in this industry. I'll have a chat to Mr Wellendowed and see if I can pull some strings.' Honest to God I nearly lifted the recycling bin and threw it at him; but I didn't for I am a lady. Instead I gushed, 'wow Jobsworth (pseudonym) that sure would be neat.' The only thing helping me to cling to any sense of self worth and dignity was the dripping sarcasm and the fact that he'd given me a bloody fantastic business plan. I did however tell him I'd staple his scrotum to the office bulletin board if he ever referred to me as "babe" again.

So you may be thinking, ‘well of course it’s who you know’. You're sure about that? Really? Well here's the thing, I know some folk, name-dropping worth folk, folk who can get tickets to English rugby internationals, but I'm still skint and still drinking house wine so these folk are not exactly lighting my financial fire. And despite the fact I know (using the term “know” very fast and loose) some mentionables my life isn't going to change without some help from the gods and I don't have much of a relationship with them. I tend to name-drop God a lot but I don’t really know him personally. (Panic not I shall not inflict my ‘Tata Jesus is Bangala’ (BarbaraKingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible: 1998) views upon you dear readers.) On the other hand I do name-drop Santa Claus regularly because I do believe in him as he is the father of commercialisation and our insatiable desire to buy crap we don’t need. Also I figure asking Santa for a new laptop (not a craptop) makes me sound cute and endearing and more likely to receive said laptop.

As is my nature I am moving off the topic here and you’re probably bored of my self-indulgent ramblings; notice how I managed to fit in my religious views, my anti-consumerist campaign and hint for a new laptop. GENIUS.

So being a writer I keep my ear very close to the ground for material is everywhere. This means I know stuff, I know a lot of stuff. Stuff that makes excellent writing material. Since I lost my ethics I have a new found respect for Jashraf Amiable (Ashrafism) who nicked my life for a short story and bothered to change my name to Jackie. Previously I was enraged that he had the audacity, but folks, the long hard truth is I'd sell myself to the devil for a good story.

So here goes...

"Jobsworth" enlightened me that actually what you know and how you use it is what's important; people come and people go and staking your skills on the fact that you know "Famous McWow-you-know-him/her" is only going to work for a handful of lucky bastards. So here's my big idea...

It's a Facebook Group and it's called "Degrees of Separation". It's based on the theory that everyone knows everyone in some way through mutual friends, acquaintances etc. The premise is that disgruntled mistresses, blokes, betties, toy-boys etc. will email me and say ‘I need to tell, let’s call her “Jenny”, that James is cheating on her...’ I will then use my cunning stalker analytics and trowel through Jenny's friends, pick a friend, pick a friend of that friend, and pick a friend of that friend... I'll then message said degree of separation link and ask him/her to deliver a message saying:

‘Dear Jenny, James is a cheating bastard… I’ve been told to separate you’. Jenny will find out about James' roaming without finding out who the mistress is and, hence, will place the blame where blame is due, on James.

Personally I am sick of mistresses getting a bad rap. Now before you go all spastic and start judging me just hold the phone whilst I explain myself. I’m not saying that cheating is right or should be tolerated but it’s a sad hard cold truth and it’s not going to go away. It’s like Wagner from the X-Factor, he’s just going to return week after week like a nasty STD. Also, I’ve been cheated on and it’s like a walk in the rain sans umbrella sans pina colada. Yet, as much as it sucks there is absolutely no logic in blaming the hooker/bastard who snipered your man/woman.

Ultimately the partner should be held responsible. All too often I’ve seen said partner walk back into the sunset having been reunited with his/her disgruntled boyfriend/girlfriend/wife/husband etc. and the sex object is left licking his/her wounds and spending the rest of his/her days shunned from society. “Degrees of Separation” aims to shift the blame to the correct person. ‘So where does the money making part come in’ I hear my future investors exclaim. Well basically the idea is that I email the cheater and say,

‘Dear James, you are a cheating bastard. To avoid separation please deposit £x into my bank account or I tell Jenny. You might want to think twice before cheating again.’

I then give 25% commission to the poor male/female who has been victimised by the cheater and has felt that the only way to move forward is blackmail. As investors you'd be there to share the load, there are a lot of cheating bastards out there!

I understand that this concept is a little unorthodox but I grew up on a diet of Monty Python, White Mischief, Gone With The Wind, The English Patient and Dangerous Liaisons. Take your time to chew the cud on this one, I understand genius is often not recognised in its time. 

Next week’s excellent business plan… “turning good horses into pet food”.

Jaqui's Guide To Living: Chapter 2

Chapter 2
The Game

I was thinking about “The Game” that we play when we start out a new relationship. And believe you me, I am playing very fast and loose with the term “relationship”. The Game of, “when to text”, “how long to wait before you text back”, “whether to phone”, “whether to compliment the other person”, “whether to request him/her as a friend on Facebook”, “when to ask her/him out”, “where to go on the first date” etc.? Personally I’m not a fan of “The Game” it’s very stressful, there are rules and I’m generally not one to stick with rules. For example there’s the, “wait at least 2 hours before replying to a text message rule”, the “say you’re busy when he asks you out” rule, the “refer to your outfit as ‘this old thing’ when he compliments you” rule. It’s just not my thing at all. In hindsight this may be why I’m so bad at “The Game”.

So thinking about the games that we play I decided to Google it and what I found was much more interesting. I don’t know what I expected to find; maybe something resembling He’s Just Not That Into You. Instead what I found was a reminder that I’ve actually been winning “The Game” for nearly 2 years.

There is a well known psychologist in Hilton (the village where I am from), a man called Barry Tim (Ashrafism). Barry Tim says that if you can sit or stand on a carpet without thinking of polar bears it will be able to fly. However the catch is that you have to have been told about this in order for it to fly. I have not yet been able to make a carpet fly because every time I think about getting it to fly polar bears come flooding into my head. This concept is at the heart of “The Game”. The Game has become a phenomenon and the simple idea is that if you’re thinking about The Game you’ve lost. The rules to The Game are very simple; when you think about it you lose, you then have to announce that you’ve lost The Game otherwise you’re cheating. You have a grace period of 10-30 minutes after you’ve lost where you can think about The Game but once this has passed and you’re thinking about The Game again then you’ve lost... again. People who are not thinking about The Game are winning. However if you’re not playing you can’t win, and you have to be aware of it to be playing. Sounds simple and ridiculous; that’s what I thought.

I first heard about “The Game” in The Metro (a free morning newspaper) but I just glanced over the article so I wasn’t completely aware of the concept in its entirety. I kind of got the gist but didn’t give it much thought. Hence for nearly two years I’ve been winning The Game and up until a few moments ago I was blissfully unaware of how awesome this was. I am bitterly disappointed at my loss and can now think of nothing else but this game that seems so utterly pointless.

Delving into the premise of The Game is deeply fascinating. It’s more than a game, it’s a virus. Each time I lose The Game I have to tell someone that I’ve lost it. This person then either asks me what I’m on about or then admits that they too have just lost. Ultimately everyone will become a loser. The idea behind The Game is make everyone aware that they’re playing it, and the game will only end when everyone knows about its existence. The Metro article that was published in December 2008 was a hoax in order to infect over 3 million people with The Game. Radio stations have infected listeners by announcing that they’ve just lost The Game.YouTube and Facebook have infected millions of people and continue to do so.

It’s been referred to as a “mind virus”. Once you have it you can’t get rid of it and it will continue to spread each time you lose. Since finding out I’ve lost The Game I have told people about it and I’m beginning to feel that it’s now ethically wrong, but the problem is the more I tell people the more I win. My aim is now to infect as many people I can with The Game virus.

At the heart of The Game's success are our channels of communication. What has become apparent is the speed at which information travels, is the key to the longevity of The Game. With the Internet, Social Networking Sites, Mobile Communications, Email etc. The Game can spread globally at speeds that cross boundaries.  So who is safe from The Game and how does one protect oneself from The Game? Postmodernity has dictated that I have had no choice in avoiding The Game. I am infected.

Ironically medical viruses that spread in the 3rd world will largely be spared by The Game. But ultimately the question is, how far will humans go to win The Game and at what cost?

Jaqui's Guide To Living: Chapter 1

Chapter 1
I make my bed don’t lie in it

As expressed I have an above average memory and to further illustrate this I shall draw upon another anecdote which I shall end with a sense of smug accomplishment. The resurgence of this vivid picture came about because I was reading my favourite blog author one Jigsaw Pig. For fear of losing my valued readers I shall not tell you where this blog resides.

Pig was questioning the validity of bed sharing. He argues that it’s a silly idea. He has numerous excellent reasons why this is the case which I shall succinctly list in a very perfunctory manner:
Couples have separate cars why does the same not apply to beds?
They give their children their own beds, and in some instances bedrooms, why not allow themselves the same privilege?
With central heating and warm blankets the argument that partners are necessary for heating is flawed.
Trying to convincingly argue that it’s more enjoyable to share a bed is irrational because if this was the case then hotels would charge more to share a bed. Conversely individuals in a solitary bed would be given a discount for having to suffer through the night in a bed of his/her own.
The love and affection argument is also flawed because no one can rationalise enjoying each other’s company whilst sleeping.

I admit that after a while the burden of bed sharing becomes apparent. Issues like snoring, blanket thievery and mattress boundaries become more prominent. And, let’s be honest the sight of seeing your partner having woken from slumber with the pillow case stuck to his/her cheek from the drool that ventured south just minutes previously is not exactly a romantic picture now is it? Then there’s the fidgeting, and the excuses you have to come up with because he/she wants to cuddle and you don’t. Also it’s best not to get me started on the annoyance of having to fight over the right side of the bed or who is going to make it in the morning.

Pig’s idea seemed preposterous to me in earlier life as I shall explain. I remember when I was very young I walked into Nana and Grandpa’s bedroom for the first time and there they were. Two wooden beds of the singular variety neatly made. Nana’s had a floral cushion and Grandpa’s had a brown chequered one. At the foot of each was a neatly folded “itchy” blanket, you know the type that is built for warmth rather than comfort? I was deeply shocked because as far as I was concerned Nana and Grandpa were in love and happy. I immediately went to the source of this burning question and approached Nana who said ‘because we like it’. The simplicity of answer did not fulfil my inquiring mind so I thought that being a woman with a well known intellect my mother would provide me with a more satisfactory response.

After a couple of minutes I left the warm comfort of mother’s lap and sulked away pondering this anomaly. Being a young child I soon found another question to solve and Nana and Grandpa’s sleeping arrangements simply became a curious acceptance.

Bed sharing had all but vanished from my mental landscape until I met a lovely couple who not only didn’t share a bed but they didn’t share a bedroom either. They made no bones about this fact and said that they both liked their space. Having never analysed my feelings towards bed sharing I found this to be an idea of the preposterous sort. Was not the point of having a partner to enjoy the ritualised getting into bed pleasure?

Having shared a bed with a boyfriend full time for about 2 years I can comfortably say that sighs of pleasure at getting into a nice crisp bed were rare. This is unusual because getting into bed is often the best part of my day. The soft pillows, the warm cuddle that your duvet gives you, the joy experienced at being horizontal after a tedious day at work, the singular idea that you’re about to embark on slumber and when you wake you’ll still be in this linen paradise. Sharing a bed with someone means that you are constantly disturbed by their breathing, snoring and God forbid teeth grinding. Every movement they make vibrates through the covers like an avalanche… hardly the stuff that pleasurable sighs are made of.

I think that the divorce rate would drop if couples slept in different beds. When partners are separated the idea is that their reunion is a time of intense passion. Imagine the delight of waking after a restful sleep to leave the privacy of your bedroom and find your partner ready for his/her day smiling at you? What a rare treat that would be. It’s no secret that not everyone is a morning person like me. I wake up and I’m rearing to go, immediately. I smile, and laugh and bash around the house merrily shouting about the day I’m likely to have. I understand that this is not the behaviour of 70% of the human population. I can imagine that the annoyance that I feel about miserable, slow, uncoordinated zombies with a penchant for pressing the snooze button is equally shared by them towards me. Personally I haven’t met many couples where both parties claim to be morning people or both claim to be terrible in the morning, so wanting to avoid one’s partner in the morning is not just a silly whim of mine. I dislike someone hijacking my sunny disposition with their snooze button tendencies so it would make perfect sense for me to go about my morning in my usual manner whilst my “other half” rests cosily in his own chambers.

Oh I can see the faces of all the couples who are reading this thinking, ‘shame poor Jaqui, she’s just a lonely singleton… besides, that’s not how it is with me and (insert partner’s name here).’

Chuckle chuckle

Jaqui's Guide To Dating: Chapter 19

Chapter 19
The Walk of Shame

I’ve done the walk of shame, the bus of shame, the taxi of shame, the tube of shame, the train of shame, the drive of shame and the lift of shame. Wow my mum must be so proud! We’ve all done it though, haven’t we? To be fair, on some of these shame rides I was the wingman so it wasn’t actually my shame burden to carry down the pavement towards home.

One of my all time favourite shames was the taxi of shame. My wingman and I ended up at some random house after a great night of Tequila induced revelry. I woke up on a blowup mattress with what I believed to be the beginning stages of hypothermia and went through to find my wingman fretting about how to get home. What she didn’t know was that I have cunning tricks that I’ve picked up from various folk that I’ve met throughout my lifetime. We went through his post and found his address and a bit about his lifestyle at the same time; result. Job done, the taxi was ordered and before long we found ourselves on the journey towards home congratulating ourselves on our excellent stalking skills.

The Shame run is anything but pleasant however it is kind of amusing when it’s not you. You can recognise a shame victim immediately. You know the type of betty who’s stumbling along with a Coke, panda-eyed, high heels slung limply to her side, tight little number looking a bit creased, bed hair, eyes looking pavementward? I’ve had friends who’ve done it with the addition of red feather boas and fishnets, Christmas hats, 80’s lycra... but none took the cake quite like “Emma” after the baby oil incident. You may remember Emma from a previous entry, she had to ride a London bus looking like she’d had a date with a chip fryer.

There’s a lot of shame in my life, some self inflicted and some because I have really strange relations like Cocaine David for example. There’s also my late Aunty Emmy who nicked an entire bag of Malteasers from under my cousin’s nose, no one steals candy from a baby do they? Emily does. Anyway on one particularly surreal morning I did the walk of shame around my own house. Hold that thought, should I not be writing this as if I’m someone else…?

Okay… I have a friend, let’s call her “Sally”. Sally just so happened to live with the lovely Wayne and Fiona. You remember Wayne and Fiona don’t you? They’re that dynamic couple I used to go and visit, she likes to iron and starch? Anyway Sally moved into the house that they lived in and they didn’t really take to her terribly much. She wasn’t like most girls they’d met who like to darn socks on Saturday nights and attend church services on Sunday, thereafter preparing the evening’s roast with three veg and insipid gravy. She was feisty and loud and worse of all opinionated. Sally moved in and by the end of week one the cabin fever had set in, she had to go out. Sally rounded up the troops and all but Wayne and Fiona were keen on a little razzle dazzle.

Sally decided that after a week of being housebound she needed to break out the Laura Mercier “Seduction” and high heels. Her transformation was complete and as she trotted downstairs she was sure she looked like a million dollars because Wayne said, ‘not many people can pull off red lipstick without looking like a hooker’. Sally was pretty sure that he meant that she looked like a hooker which was good news because the last thing she wanted was Wayne’s approval on an outfit, unless she was going to a nuns and mums party.

Sally entered the bar and Seduction worked a charm as you may remember from the 'Red Lipstick' entry; however you’re missing a few of the finer details. It turns out that London taxi drivers are not charmed by Seduction and will take advantage of inebriated folk at every turn. The Tescos said taxi driver dropped Sally and her new found New Zealand pal was the wrong one so they had to walk about 3 miles to the house. No matter they were drunk and the adventure ahead lay in getting home in exceptionally high heels without falling over.

The mood in the house the next morning was odd to say the least and Sally couldn't quite put her finger on it. Sally awoke and promptly informed New Zealand that the path to success was out her door. She purposefully sported her finest Springbok jersey thinking it would rile him to the point of distraction. However he took this as an illustration of keenness for sport and therefore asked if she would escort him to the door whilst they discussed their mutual passion. Sally pondered the scenario whereby she would have to escort New Zealand (“What the Hell was his name again?”) out the door, walking past Wayne and Fiona and the rest of the homies. ‘Unlikely at best’, she thought and told New Zealand she was too hungover to move. New Zealand looked slightly put out but Sally has dated assholes so she’s developed a Brazil nut exterior and was unmoved by his look of ‘Que?’

Sally bade her annoying accented friend adieu and wrapped herself in her duvet. Had it not been for the hope of Coke downstairs she wouldn’t have exited her comfortable nest until Monday morning. However Coke was most necessary so she took the plunge towards the unknown. As her foot landed on the last step leading towards the kitchen she knew that what she was in for was sure to be a delicious treat. In her "hangoverus maximus" state she forgot that her homies NEVER EVER go out… EVER. It was a picture of domestic bliss, Wayne and Fiona were sitting discussing their bills and the rest of the homies were watching some poor quality tv. Sally knew she had makeup all over her face and she was feeling a little dizzy, her face reflected not only someone who had over imbibed but also there was a clear picture of shame. As Wayne met her eye she knew the game was up.

‘Did you have a nice evening?’ he enquired. Sally being new to Wayne’s world pipped ‘mmm yes thanks…’
‘We’re going to have to do something about your bed…’ he uttered in his most patronising tone…
‘Huh?’ thought Sally and then realised in a fuzz of vague drunken haze she may have remembered some squeaking. On further inspection she did the "jump test" and the penny dropped as to why Wayne’s eyes were dark ringed and he looked a little sleep deprived. As luck would have it Wayne and Fiona were in the room beneath Sally’s.

The other homies were obviously delighted with Sally’s performance especially as she was new to the world of the house. At first they liked to torment her and tell her how absolutely foot-stamping mad Wayne was as he likes his sleep and he's into the Old Testament rules. Sally felt like she was paying rent for a room that wasn’t even hers which made her even more ashamed. She mused about the likelihood of Wayne and Fiona shagging and wondered why it was okay for them but not for her? Feeling so down in the dumps and ashamed about a random napover was a new feeling and the shame simply increased as she started to doubt her lifestyle choices. After some realisation and a couple of ironing incidents she returned to her senses and realised that Wayne's missionary position is not only a position in the bedroom but a position on life.






I am happy to report that Sally is currently living in a flat with her wingman… and her bed no longer squeaks.

Bracelet of Shame

The Bracelet of Shame

It's taken me ages to be able to face writing about the “Bracelet of Shame”. This piece has been sitting in the depths of my brain wailing to get out and ironically it's the shame that's made me procrastinate for so long.

Not so long ago it was my mother's 50th Birthday. In my world this is a big deal because I love my mum and I love buying gifts; I especially love buying gifts for my mum. I've got this thing for Audrey Hepburn, I think it's the fact that she can't sing for shit but looks killer in a little black number. Breakfast at Tiffany's made me drool over Tiffany's jewellery without having even gone into the store. I made up my mind that only one gift would suffice for this occasion and that was something from Tiffany's. I'm actually blushing as I write this because it gets so bad.

I'm into online shopping. When I say I'm "into" online shopping that's actually one mammoth understatement. If my life was made into a movie it would be called "Breakfast at Amazon.com". Seriously, I cannot go one day without adding stuff to my shopping trolley; books I've always wanted to own but haven't bothered to buy, dvd box sets, kitchen gadgets, shoes etc. The best thing is you simply pick what you want, click the mouse a couple of times and hey presto you've just maxed out your credit card. It's genius. The other benefit of Amazon is that you wait for your shit to arrive and when it does it's all boxed up nicely and it's a massive surprise. I like surprises they float my boat. I especially love surprises when they arrive first thing on a Monday morning.

It is this faith in online shopping that is my nemesis. I automatically assume that everything that you purchase in cyberspace must be fabulous. So it was that I went to tiffanystore.com and did the unthinkable. I purchased this beautiful bracelet (so the picture led me to believe) that was marked down from £159 to £49. 'Too good to be true' I hear you muse. Well you'd be right. In my defence there was some lame story about no one buying jewellery in the recession hence major price cuts aka "sales". Cringe. So £59 spent, including postage and packaging, and as I click the mouse for the final time my heart drops and I feel like I've just contributed to the illegal arms race.

Unlike my little Amazon gems this parcel arrived with a clap of doom. I guess the feeling I got was similar to the one I get when I receive that letter from the NHS telling me that I'm due for a pap smear. Joy! When the parcel was handed over I immediately put it in my bottom drawer. I caught a couple of Chinese characters as it was being handed over by the post room guy, special Chinese characters typed by little Chinese slave labourers. Fuck.

Initially the contents of the package didn't look too bad . Good turquoise box, nice turquoise carrier bag, fantastic turquoise mock-velvet jewellery pouch, lovely nice shiny-as-shit bracelet proudly shouting 'hey cheap skate I'm fake!' Double Fuck.

It took me a day or so to open the bottom drawer of my desk. I even converted the bastard shiny bracelet from pounds back into Commercial ZARs to add value to my status as the world's biggest muppet. There was only one thing for it. Tequila and shit piles of it.

Tequila led to drunken debauchery, which led to having sexy times with a bloke with a girlfriend. Monday morning I wanted to bowl for Columbine in my office. Not only did I have to face the piece of shit bracelet in my desk drawer. Not only had I shagged a guy with a betty. BUT I also had nothing to give my mum for her birthday.

I opened my desk, undid the cheap clasp on the bracelet and emancipated my bad tiffanystore.com purchase. Throughout the day as the cheap silver clanked on my desk, as I typed out boring client emails, I actually smiled. Each clank of silver was greeted with a liberated buzz as I realised just how shameful I should feel. The shame of buying cheap shit on the Internet, the shame of being a home wrecker and the shame thinking I was back to square one on the gift front.
Since then the Bracelet of Shame has practically been soldered to my wrist. This bodes well for the longevity of my fake tiffanystore.com purchase, especially because if I’m not wearing it one of my mates is. The thing is wearing the bracelet is like “sitting in the corner and thinking about what you’ve done”. Once you’re removed from the corner you go back to being a pain in the ass and smacking your sister around.

In anticipation of the shame bracelet...

Jaqui's Guide to Dating: Chapter 7

Chapter 7:
Having Eaten The Apple

I don't know if you've ever woken up and wanted to chew your arm off. But you can't because you're so hungover that if you even gnash your teeth together you get that tense feeling in your jaw and you feel vomitorious may erupt at any second. It takes you a brief moment to realise that you are in fact naked and then the flashbacks come and smack you over the head; a montage of flashbacks without the inspirational theme tune.

There are options at this point and they vary depending on whether or not you've had an away game or a friendly home game. Before we get to options I suppose I better clarify how you got yourself into this naked, shameful, chew-your-appendages-off position.

I suppose, like every good scenario, it started in the bar. You were merrily quaffing a decent bottle of fine white with some mates and he came over and joined you. You know he's a good bloke because you've had elevator chats, smoke chats, train chats, "etc." chats with him and every time he's given you a diatribe involving "love" and "girlfriend". He refers to her as "my girlfriend" which reminds you of that scene in the English Patient where Ralph Fiennes abhors ownership; well at least I am reminded of that. You know him reasonably well and therefore if he suddenly said 'Wendy and I are going to share a Chinese and watch Marley and Me' you would know he was referring to his girlfriend. On the contrary it's always 'my girlfriend and I are going to cuddle on the couch and share a slab of chocolate'. Of course she's the type of girl who eats chocolate and doesn't care because she's naturally skinny and beautiful. You hate her already. Anyway said bloke, joins you and you're not remotely phased because he's name-dropped "my girlfriend" at least three times in two minutes and you're quite sure he's about as interested in you as a personal trainer is in a fat betty.

You're quaffing your wine and he's guzzling his beer. Your mates have dropped off throughout the course of the evening and the next thing you know you're alone and completely ass-about-face shooting tequila and solving the mysteries of the universe with this bloke. Any mention of "my girlfriend" ceased about two hours ago. You forget quite how it happened, one minute you were downing tequila, the next you were slumped in a toilet cubicle, the next you were on a bus and then somehow he gained access to your house. No matter, you open a bottle of wine and continue solving universal conundrums.

That's where it starts to get hazy in the inebriated montage of shame. At some point there was snogging and then the next thing you know you're awake naked in bed. (For the record if you ended up at his place it's little matter at this point, the only thing that changes is the exit strategy.)

You're desperately trying to piece together where it all went wrong and simultaneously trying to stay as still and silent as possible. It's better that he's sleeping although the sight of him makes you want to rip out your eyes with a blunt piece of plastic. Surely you didn't really? I'm afraid to tell you that you did. After agonising minutes, hours, seconds you cannot bare it anymore and you begin strategising operation bugger off/fuck off out my house.

Whether you're leaving or he's leaving it's key for you not to have to display your naked suit. It is thus essential to robe-up before his lids open, this way you have the upper hand. No one wants to be the only naked body in the bed. Secondly you want to make sure that if you're leaving you have everything with you. My mate once left her "lucky bra" at a random's house and let's just say her napovers became very scarce thereafter; also you don't want an excuse to have to see this bloke ever again.

Once you've robed up and have all your shit together the ideal option is to flee. However if he's awake you may just want to do the awkward "visit sick granny in hospital" speech. Once you're out of his house you can sit back and enjoy your journey on the bus of shame. On the flip side if he's in your bed then the power you hold is immense. If you're in full attire and he's still napping you can either bring him the subtle "fuck off out my house coffee" or you can merely shout 'oi it's time to go!' No matter he'll have to chug down hot coffee or simply put his clothes on whilst you glare at him. It's good to put the shame on the other foot if and when you can. To avoid maximum self shame make him feel like utter crap, after all he's the one with the girlfriend.

Things become more complicated if he's robed up before you. You do not want to be on the receiving end of "fuck-off coffee" or have him watch you whilst you play "hunt the knickers" (it's always the bloody knickers that escape you). If you do find yourself in this position it's near impossible to retain any sense of dignity and the bus of shame home will be almost unbearable.

You think to youself, 'so, I've eaten the apple and it wasn't as tasty as I'd hoped' and what's more it's come with an extra serving of guilt. You know it's guilt sex because you wake up and you couldn't be further away from him if you tried. The normal post napover cuddle is about as likely as breakfast in bed with a single red rose. You''ll be lucky if you get an awkward conversation out of the guy let alone any kind of bodily contact. Pillow talk involves the simple phrase "I'm dying..." or "Jesus I'm never drinking again".

When you get home you take a long look in the mirror and vow never to drink again and you wonder how he's feeling. What you don't realise is that it's so simple to be male, he's simply gone out and bought a nice big bunch of sorry flowers for his girlfriend and he's cunningly disguised them as a nice gesture.

I don't care emoticons are still gay!

AmaPod

31st July 2009

In the Zulu language (for those of you who aren't familiar with the 11 official languages of South Africa, Zulu is one of them) "i" (pronounced "e") is singular and "ama" is plural.

Thus in 2004 there was great excitement at cinemas throughout the land when Will Smith's iRobot came to town (the first Will Smith film to be translated into Zulu, or so we thought). The entire South African population embraced the "i"Robot phenomenon and are still eagerly anticipating the sequel "amaRobot".

When I returned back from the States in December 2005 I returned with a shiny new bit of kit that had only just become semi-popular in Johannesburg. You need to understand that Johannesburg is at least a decade ahead of the rest of the country when it comes to trends, food, fashion, life, crime etc. When we were still marvelling over pizza back in my hometown Pietermaritzburg the folk from Joburg were munching on sushi with this amazing hot green stuff called "wasabi". When sushi came to Pietermaritzburg friends from Joburg were amazed that they could still get someone around the table to eat the blob of wasabi; Country Bumkins sure are good for a laugh.

So when I landed on home soil and entered the world of Pietermaritzburg with my shiny new iPod (in those days it was the mummy of all iPods with 30GB in what is termed "cocaine white") there was a buzz of interest. Most people from my little Burrough were only vaguely familiar with the Nano or Shuffle so imagine their shock when I showed them that photos, films, tv shows, games, etc. could be stored in a 30GB fat credit card sized bit of gear? It was like I'd just shown them the key to the land of free beer.

As time rolled on and docking stations, remotes, covers, av devices, etc. etc. were unleashed on the population of Joburg, back in Pietermaritzburg it was nothing short of a miracle. "AmaPod" had been unleashed and there was a general frenzy over white earphones and making sure you could distinguish between iPod and iMatation. Now it was not just the cellphone that was being knicked left right and centre but now Pod's were the next victim of crime. I remember crying real girl tears when cocaine white was knicked and my entire 11.5GB collection of music went with it. It had to be replaced.

Pod fever is something quite impossible to explain. 30GB was too much space even for a music junky such as myself. When the Daddy Pod I considered buying in 2005 was 60GB I thought, 'bloody ridiculous nobody has that much music it's sheer madness'. Just two years on and I found myself leering over an 80GB and a 120GB beauty thinking '80GB just isn't enough'. What was also sheer brilliance was that the thickness of the iPod Classic was exactly the same. Those Apple inventors sure know how to be geniuses.

I settled for the Mummy iPod in black. I needed a change and the difference between the white and black is well... black and white. Currently I have 54.1GB free and this little revelation has lead me to set up an iTunes account so I can spend less money on Amazon and more chewing up the remaining gigs on my iPod.

With the iPod comes all sorts of new and interesting phenomena. I was thinking of photographing people and making a coffee table book, however my photography is pretty crap so I can't imagine it being an award winner. More fun lies in writing about it and continuing to observe strange behaviour as our iWorld expands and spans generations.

On a visit to the cheese and wine festival in Stellenbosch I found my favourite example of "two-peas-in-an-iPod". Stalls at the festival were pretty much booze or food related so it's no surprise that the water stall was not a crowd pleaser. The two teenage boys (obviously forced to man the store whilst their parents got pissed on Sauvignon Blanc) were looking like someone had just taped over their favourite video of WWF Smackdown. Strangely enough I was encouraged to take a second glance at the water stall as these two young teens were attached to a central pod by one set of earphones. Their heads bobbed ever so slightly to the apparently angry music that was filtering out. This custom of sharing earphones is not new, I remember detaching my headphones from the central alice band of my Sony Walkman to do the same back in '92.

iPods inspired much of my Masters and ideas such as iSolation were ones that kept my brain ticking over trying to find witty "i"-isms and more material for my coffee table book with crap photography.

It wasn't until recently where a dinner inspired by great company and lashings of alcohol gave birth to the idea of a business called "iDeas". So good is this idea that we even considered a visit to the Dragons asking them to invest in our fantastic venture which would give birth to the iParty, the iGig and even the iQueen.

It's 2013 and I'm going to a club to throw some toe and as I'm probably still single I'm going to make myself available to other single blokes (if there are any left). I enter the club and it's silent. I go over to the bar and can eavesdrop on this really ugly bloke telling a Russian supermodel that he likes her shoes as I order my Jamesons on the rocks. The barman gets it right first time, probably because he can hear me perfectly. I decide to go outside to inhale on a cigarette (yes you can still smoke in London in 2013 if you can believe that) and meet up with my only other single friend as the rest are all married or in the hospital giving birth.

After a couple of whiskys it's time to head to the dancefloor. We put our wireless earphones into our ears and stream the bouquet of music options that are available. I feel like getting the party started with some music that was popular in my youth rather than the hardcore rave that seems to be the popular choice as illustrated by the violent dance moves getting busted out by the much younger generation. It's an ideal party and when you feel like a chat you just unplug another bonus is that no one can complain about how loud or how shit the music is.

The iParty will not only bridge generation gaps but cultural gaps too. It'll be like one world party where the only obvious thing will be that whites can't dance and white dads certainly can't dance. Which leads me to the iQueen.

The Queen has her own version of English which I'm pretty au fait with however judging by the general level of English I hear throughout my daily tasks it's a bloody wonder how so many people tune in. I reckon for some members of the general public listening to the Queen speak must not be disimilar to listening to Chewbacca. Hence, the iQueen. The iQueen will translate the Queen's speech into your language/dialect of choice enabling you to not only get the gist of the speech but digest every aspect of it.

My ideal world is not one that says "bad evil techonolgy" my ideal world is one were I can choose to be bloody antisocial if I want to and able to mock idiots who behave badly or strangely. We're the iGeneration and we're living in a world defined by AmaPod. Apple is the new Microsoft and they're heading for virus city, I'm just here to sit back, relax and enjoy my iParty.