Sunday, 15 November 2009
I am STILL working at Cat Case and am very close to the edge because of it. My manager has been off getting married (to a bloke who is almost 99% definitely gay) and my assistant manager is really ill, so we’ve been left with nobody but my disgusting sex offender (yes, seriously, convicted sex offender) supervisor to run the shitshow. I’ve been doing his job for the past 4 weeks and if he doesn’t get fired when my boss comes back on Thursday, I’m walking out. I’m bored of his constant smoke breaks, email sessions and sexist comments, never mind the fact that he wears tshirts that are far too tight and I can see his tits jiggle when he comes down the stairs. Fucking vile bruv.
Oh yeah that’s right, he told me off for calling a customer ‘bruv’ the other week and said it was disrespectful. What? The man said ‘can I try these on please love?’, I replied ‘course you can bruv’. If I had said ‘those jeans are £70, sure you can afford dem bruuuuv?’ or ‘nah, come back when you’ve had a face transplant bruuuuv’ then yes, that would be disrespectful. Oi Jase, I’m gonna get you fired for sexual harassment and bein a lazy fucking wanker bruv.
I have also been struggling with Amy and her new ‘boyfriend’. I use the term boyfriend in the loosest possible way – it’s a boy who shes been buying things for and sucking off on a regular basis for the past 8 weeks. During these 8 weeks, they have never gone anywhere but his house or our house together, Amy has spent around £280 on him and he has bought her a kit-kat in return. I don’t even know what his name is – Amy only ever refers to him as Sauce, I affectionately know him as Blowie. This name came about after Amy came crying to me one night cause she realised that she was always the one chasing him, she decided to not contact him until he called or texted her. So, after 3 days of hearing nothing from him, she was fast asleep in bed when at 3am one night, she got a text from him simply saying “blowie?”. So of course, Amy gets out of her little bed, in her pyjamas, drives to his house in the middle of the night to provide her services. WHAT THE FUCK SON? I should point out that Blowie is, at a conservative estimate, 18 stone, balding (like, well badly), smells of a combination of mushrooms, damp and stale fags, refuses to disclose his occupation and snores like a fucking motorboat. His smell makes me physically sick. My poor mother called by this morning and wretched because he had been in the front room 12 HOURS AGO. His odour stains the atmosphere :(
I must say, I might just be jealous (I’m not doe am I?) after my recent man drought. Bus boy is but a hazy memory, as I realised I had gone fucking mental about him and it all got a bit too weird. I actually went to zara one day with the intention of talking to him and giving him my number. Thankfully he wasn’t there, God gave me a chance to cling on to my last remaining molecule of dignity. No more stalking boys who I see on the bus/in the pub, thankyou. All of you bastards should be ashamed of yourselves for encouraging me.
In other news, I turned 24 last week. I am a massive fan of the birthday. The birthday gives me a valid excuse to do what I try to do most days and make everything about myself. Last year, my celebrations dragged out for 8 days which was a touch excessive even by my standards. Im not Lil Kim yet. So this year I kept it to a paltry 3 day celebration. My London boys made a very welcome visit and came to party up with me here for a couple of days. Thursday & Friday were great, I scored an excellent haul even in my old age and ate, drank and got merry (offensively shitfaced). Sunday was the day from hell. 3 days of hefty alcohol consumption, heart-stopping regret and the stench of stale kebab all contributed to the most depressing day of the year so far. Just when I was about to smother myself with the remainder of my birthday cake, I decided to dust myself off and start cleaning my house and bleaching the weekend away. I have since discovered that bleach is my comfort smell. Theres something lovely about the burning stench of domestos, like a big hug that says ‘its okay, the horrible sex pests and buckfast cocktails are gone now, you can watch come dine with me in peace!’.
I tend to make my resolutions at the start of a new birth year – fuck all you hoes who do it in January, I work on my time, bitch.
So here is my list of things I would like to do or achieve during my 24th year on this god forsaken planet.
1 – get a fucking job. A real one that pays me a real salary (25k please, fanx guv). I’m pretty much incredible at anything I turn my hand to, but I would essentially like something where I sit at a computer all day looking at pictures of hedgehogs in lion costumes and listening to Dru Hill. Any takers?
2 – be debt-free. By ‘debt-free’ I mean ‘pay off my credit card bill and overdraft and keep pretending that my student loan doesn’t exist’. For this to happen, I’m gonna have to stop spending my money on stupid things that I don’t really need. In my old age, Ive developed a penchant for scented candles (£17 for a candle. £17 for some wax and a bit of string. Am I mental?) and expensive bedding (not even apologising for that one, I like rolling around my bed without having my skin cut to ribbons. Although I do sort of miss the exfoliating effect of the old £2 asda double fitted sheet, I must say)
3 – do more voluntary work. Yeah believe it or not, I’m actually a well nice bird and I like helping other people. I’ve been involved with performing & visual arts stuff since I was little but I haven’t done anything since I came home from Leeds. I’m about to do some stuff for the MS Society, going to help out at art classes for some kids who have MS. My aim for this year is to continue doing voluntary stuff for the whole year, working with a few different projects. Voluntary work is well thug, if I can give up a few of my precious hours a week then you can too. Get involved.
4 – learn to DJ, or whatever the correct term is. I don’t wanna make any music of my own obviously – although how fucking INCREDIBLE would that be? - just learn how to mix and put stuff together so it sounds supaflyyy. Maybe I’ll start my own clubnight playing old skool garage & grime that nobody will ever come to, so itll just be me, alone, raving in my pants.
5 – star in a Griminal video, playing the part of ‘Slut #1’ or ‘Prime Bitch’. Yep, I wanna be in Griminals video, playing the part of the skank that he takes home and pours champagne on and force feeds Ambrosia (in a sexy way) while I wear a gold sequin bikini and a floor dragging leopard print fur coat. This is definitely more important than any of the other aspirations that I have for this year. Firstly, I’ll actually make Griminal fall in love with me and he can sort out all of my other resolutions anyway – think about it, he’ll give me a job being his down-ass bitch, he’ll pay off my debt, he’ll take me to the ghetto (although I think hes from Notting Hill, but we’ll pretend hes from Hackney) where I can volunteer with hoodrats who will teach me to DJ.
Secondly, the technology they have for video editing or whatever will make me look at least 800% more attractive than I actually am, so I’ll become an FHM high street honey or something.
Thirdly, I’ll be on channel AKA and Starz, so I’ll get teenage boys texting in photos of their torsos with texts like ‘LIL NIX IS DA MOST PENG TING I EVA SEEN, I’M GONNA SEND HER SUM OF MY PUBES IN DA POST’
Oh god, I cant wait for Griminal to fix my life! GRIM, I LOVE YA!
Okay I got a bit sidetracked there. I’d like to say you wont be able to check back in a year to see if I accomplish all of my goals for Year 24, but I’d be lying. We all know that come my 25th birthday, I’ll still be bleaching away the aftermath of my weekends, trying not to inhale when Blowies around, lusting over Griminal from my sofa and crying before each and every Cat Case shift – and blogging about it.
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
This blog writing session has started off dreadfully, my spotify aint workin and I want to listen to Donell Jones ‘u know whats up’. Whats a girl gotta do to listen to some early-noughties RnB innaplace, eh? Oh, perhaps paying for internet instead of bein a fucking pikey whore and stealing my neighbours might be a start.
Anyway, life update. Im still stuck working at Cat Case, simply because when I finish work I cant be arsed with the soul destroying task of job hunting. 2 days off this week and a WHOLE FUCKING PAID WEEK OFF NEXT WEEK will be spent job hunting, I am determined to be out of that joint before Christmas. Meanwhile, Im spending my days dressing up in kids clothes in the fitting rooms, flirting with old men, jumping out of shelves in the stock room to scare my managers and singing Neneh Cherrys ‘Buffalo Stance’ in my head to get me through. It aint bad y’know?
I also had the pleasure of meeting the Hour Stealer last week. Shes a little poisoned dwarf and I despise her already. Shes rude and patronising and up her own abnormally tiny behind. She wouldn’t swap a shift with me cause she had to take her cats to the vets, she doesn’t ‘do’ Saturdays so I have to do them all and she eats canned sardines for lunch. S’wrong wif you bruv?! Whatever, everyone hates her and my boss told me shes trying to get rid of her anyway, I’m gonna be runnin that show in no time. I even had a meeting with my boss where she promised me at least 30 hours a week until the end of December and begged me not to leave cause I’m the bomb-dizzle at selling mac-in-a-sacks. Am I bragging about being really good at retail sales? Yes. This is what my life has come to.
I have made one rather large change to my lifestyle recently. Instead of spending all my spare time eating chicken, drinking beer and abusing my neighbours from my bedroom window, I have started running. Yep. Two feet on the ground moving fast running. Its fucking hard. I didn’t realise how unfit I was before I started. I knew saturated fats and dirty living wouldn’t have a great effect but really, wheezing like one of those women who smokes through their throats in health films and coughing up blood after running for 60 seconds? Shit aint right. Anyway, 2 weeks into my regime and Im a fuckin badman of the running world. I’ll be running marathons in no time (aiming for 2030) and that Bolt dude will be chasing my ass, asking if my sports bra has magic powers.
(on a totally serious note, anyone who wants to get fit and likes the idea of running, follow @Austinslide on twitter. Good dude and total machine. I also feel that I should now point out that spotify has started working and I’m listening to En Vogue, pretending to be Dawn Robinson. Sha-wiiiing)
In my last post, I mentioned the new love of my life. Bus boy. I hadn’t seen him for quite some time and I was getting worried. What if he noticed I wasnt around and thought I was catching a different bus to avoid him or summink? He needed to know that I’m still in love with him. Should I send a gift? Maybe a muffin basket?
‘To Bus Boy, c/o Currys/Jessops. Love from your ample breasted and upsettingly easy stalker xoxo’?
Just when desperation was setting in, me & my lovely friend Becka were doing some shopping in Zara early one Saturday morning and while coming down the escalator, I almost died. There he was. Putting some trousers on a hanger in the doorway to the fitting rooms. When I say I almost died, I really mean it. I almost fell of the escalator, there could’ve been a horrible scenario where my hair got caught and I got eaten by it or whatever, and Bus Boys last impression of me would’ve been of him pulling my bodily remains from the escalator. Aaaaanyway, I composed myself and swiftly left the shop. I proceeded to bend Beckas ear about him all day, talking about how much I love him and how we totally made eye contact while I was looking like a fucking dick, trying not to have a seizure.
Later that night, we went for a dance to Laverys. Alas, he was there again! I know I know, ‘MEANT TO BE!’ I hear you cry! We spent ages standing outside beside him and his group of incredibly attractive friends while I tried to look as cool as I could when my skirt was blowing up every 30 seconds and I hadn’t shaved my legs properly. I managed to get a stealthy photo of him on my iphone that I now like to zoom in on and place beside my face, imagining what our wedding photos will be like. Just when I had plucked up the courage to talk to him, he was gone. My bursting heart was crushed. But seriously, before he left we totally had eye contact again. Granted, it may have been him looking at me and thinking ‘why the fuck is that mental whiskey whore making eyes at me, cant she tell I’m at least 5 levels of superfly hotness above her?’ but whatever. I think he loves me.
I have also managed to find out his name, which I wont disclose on here incase of some horrible incident where he may actually find out how ridiculous my levels of stalkerdom have reached. I know his full name, where he works and roughly where he lives. This isn’t right. Still, something has to happen. I am very much a try-hard. I don’t mind not getting what I want, as long as I know I’ve done every single possible thing to try to get it. Therefore, bus boy (who is also apparently single, cha chiiiiing!) must be mine.
This weekend, me and the lovely FlopsiLopsi have made plans for a stalking session in Laverys. If hes there, I WILL make my move. If not…well I’ve decided that drastic action needs to be taken. This is where I need advice from my male followers. I have the following options…
A) the ‘confident and sexually liberated woman’ approach
I go in to zara, obviously lookin fierce as hell *fingersnap*, talk to him, tell him I’ve ‘noticed him around’ (understatement of the entire century blaaad), give him my number and tell him to call me if he wants to do something.
B) the ‘my mate fancies you’ approach
I get Amy to do the above for me. I’ll go in with her, do a lap making sure he sees us then she does the speech and gives him my number.
C) the ‘waiting game’ approach
I wait it out. I wait until I see him in Laverys again and make sure I make my move then.
All of the above have problems. With option A, I can end up looking like a fucking tool, he could be terrified of me, and how do I give him my number? Is it pre-written on a little piece of paper? Do I tell him to get his phone out? It seems awfully complicated. With B, its all a bit juvenile innit? And Amy really isn’t the best example to send on my behalf, she’d put any bastard right off. And with C…well I just cant wait, can I? A man of his rugged beauty and…erm….great…personality(???) will be snapped up sooner or later.
So boys, what do you think? If a girl approached you would you be flattered and feel like a supapimp or would you run a fucking mile? Answers on a postcard/tweet please.
And on that note, I’m off to fetch some icecream and get back to trying to find bus boy on social networking sites. Peace out bitches
Friday, 18 September 2009
I’ve had tonnes of wastemen asking why I’m wasting my time in retail when I’ve got a degree. Well, lets see, while youre sitting at your desk pushing paper from 9-5 Monday to Friday and having work commitments outside of normal working hours, I’m helping attractive men into their jeans, working whatever hours I fancy and not even bothering to think about work once I walk out of the shop. Oh, and I’m probably getting paid more than you too, sorry bruv. I actually enjoy working in retail, probably because I’m fucking mental – you have to be to deal with the general public on a daily basis.
Unfortunately, my Cat Case dream has been short lived. Some bint with a horrible name who has worked there for years got ‘sick’ and had to have some time off. Some time turned into THREE FUCKING MONTHS, so the manager put me on a temporary 24 hour contract but said once we found out that sick wanker wasn’t coming back for sure, I could have her 30 hour contract. So I’m blissfully (may be a slight overstatement) working my 42 hour weeks, earning skrilla and spending it mentally on fine cognac and hoes, when sick bitch decides she aint fuckin sick no more and wants to come steal her job back. What a fucking whore. So, all my hours have been cut and its highly unlikely that I’ll get anything more than 12 hours a week once my temp contract runs out. MOTHERFUUUUUUUUUUCK. So its back to the job hunt for me. Im going to run into a burning building.
Being a working woman has had one main benefit – Bus Boy. Bus Boy is a dream and I’m totally, 100%, definitely not even joking or over exaggerating my mild feelings towards him IN LOVE WITH HIM. Bus Boy is a boy, who gets the same bus as me, which you’ll have worked out already unless youre a fucking donut with no mates. I mostly see him when I get the 6.05pm 3A or the 5.06pm 4A, I get on at city hall and he gets on at the stop outside office. He gets off at either the stop before me or the stop after me, depending on what bus we’re on, so he definitely lives well close to me. Yeah, this all sounds like I’m a stalker, and what? Incase you didn’t notice, I’m IN LOVE WITH HIM so its ok to stalk. From his bus mounting location and blue shirt/black trouser combo, I have used my mad skillz to deduce that he works in either Currys or Jessops. Ahem.
There is one problem with Bus Boy. One big elephant on the bus of a problem. We have had one previous drunken encounter that either he doesn’t remember at all, or he just hasn’t noticed me on the bus. About 8 weeks ago, I went to Laverys (stinkin bar in Belfast, usually populated by tramps & winos, but filled with the cool kids on weekends) with some mates. Bus Boy was there, we had a romantic night of making ‘yo, youre a visual fucking delight, do you wanna go eat some chicken and touch eachother up sometime?’ eyes at eachother. This went on for a few long hours, before I accidentally bumped into him (after my drunk friend gave me a highly uncalled for shove in his direction). As I was so blinded by his beauty, I had no intention of actually talking to him, so I was unprepared. As he looked at me and waited for me to say something witty and cool, I came out with the best chat up line of all time…
“you……you look like a horrible rapist?”
Yes, I called the love of my life ‘a horrible rapist’ on our first encounter. His reply was “eh, a horrible rapist? That’s even worse than just a normal rapist” so y’know, he took it well. Instead of me using this as my in, I totally lost my cool and mumbled something about needing a wee before running to the bogs to drown in my own pool of shame and self-loathing. Its okay, when we’re married with 3 kids we can all sit on our big bed with loads of fluffy pillows and talk about what a fool mummy made of herself when she first met daddy, while we all wear matching monogrammed bathrobes.
Bus Boy always gets on the bus, stands at the front and constantly looks at his phone or ipod. I like to think that this is just his lovely little way and hes watching episodes of one tree hill on his ipod because we really are a match made in heaven, but in reality he’s probably seen me and just likes to keep his head down incase I tell everyone on the bus that hes sexually assaulted me in the alleyway behind Laverys.
Whatever, Im totally going to Lavs every Saturday from now on, I will find him and I will be more prepared, I’ll show him what a fucking catch I am and he’ll fall in love with me, then I’ll find another love and break his heart. Natch.
In other news, Amy has finally moved in with me. Well, she isn’t really moved in properly, cause shes just sleeping in the spare room surrounded by boxes of her own shit. My brother decided to go back to college for a year, so I’m letting him stay here til the end of the month so he can get settled back into studying, then hes out as fuck and Amys taking his huge room. When she was moving her stuff in, she paused to show me the contents of one of her boxes – her Michael Jackson Box. Amy LOVES Michael Jackson. She cried for a week when he croaked it, went to lay flowers in London and carried her own telly into work so she could watch the memorial. The MJ box is the freakiest thing I have ever seen. It contains about 500 news clippings, every cassette/cd/video/dvd ever released, posters, pictures and stickers. My favourite items from the box are the Michael Jackson memorial plate and ceramic thimble. What the fuck son.
Living with Amy has so far been good. Here are a selection of our text snippets from the last week to sum this up…..
“think im wearing your knickers. sorry”
“just don’t period in them or anything”
“did I ever tell you about the time I shit myself in work? dark days mate”
“you should know, i heard Jordan & Natalie at it last night and it sounds a lot like your brother yelps when he spaffs”
“can you bring me home a burrito please? shredded beef, guac & sour cream but no fuckin cheese fanx babez”
“might be getting bucked after work but if not, ill bring your burrito home and hope you at least poke my tit in return”
“welllllll sittin right behind bus boy, think he had a haircut over the weekend, looks fuckin sexy as fuck”
“you cut his hair, didn’t you? youre wearing his hair braided into your own, aren’t you? you make me sick”
“i definitely don’t fancy him but I still want to”
“you don’t, he has a ginger mullet”
“and public lice. yeah, youre right. be home in 5”
“if an old man tries to tip me £2 in work for helping with his button fly in the changing room cause he ‘has arthritis’, is that a bit like prostitution? cause like, i took the £2”
Fuck. My. Life.
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
I’m in a very angry and hateful mood right now, I figured it might be a good time to write it out. This will either prove to be cathartic and help, so I can go and watch One Tree Hill in a relaxed stupor, or it’ll make things much worse and I’ll set myself on fire and jump out the window. Place your bets, ladies and gents…
Not much has been going on, apart from the fact that I got swine flu. It was really fucking boring, aside from my bad reaction to tamiflu, which I think was cooked up by the Devil in the darkest pits of hell. Projectile green vomiting and shaking so violently that my bed was quaking, I was on some next level chick-from-the-exorcist shit. After I got switched to relenza, I mostly just spent a few days lying in a pool of my own piggie sweat (makes a change to vomit), hacking up funky coloured phlegm and forcing my flu-friend (my mother) to attend to my every need. Fuck the swine ship and all who sail in her.
Anyway, my bad mood was brought on by my aunties husband lecturing me about how I must not be trying very hard to get a job. This was after I had looked after his 9 year old son all day – his son who is fucking mental. I mean proper, chicken oriental. He only ever talks about death, murder, the best ways to kill people, how hes gonna be an assassin when he grows up and his bedtime reading is ‘The Encyclopaedia of Knives’. His dad came home from work and started telling me how I should check the job centre website every day (O RLY?!) and sign up to agencies (WOT SHOX!) as well as checking shop windows in town regularly (O MAI LYFE!). Fucking pretentious cunt. Incase you were wondering, he sells third rate cleaning products to second rate cleaning companies for a living.
I have a little book where I write down all the jobs that I apply for, just so I can keep track of things, chase things up if need be and know whats going on if by some fucking miraculous chance I should get called for an interview. So far, I have applied for 73 jobs. SEVENTY THREE. I didn’t even realise it was that many until I counted today. I am both impressed by my efforts and struggling not to commit suicide at the same time. 73 jobs and I have had 3 proper interviews. And I still don’t have a job. Fuck my life, anyone?
My first interview was the one I mentioned in my last post, a surprise job for the government. I turned up and had to fill in a bunch of forms before they would tell me what I was actually applying for. After giving a list of all the places I’ve lived in, people I’ve lived with and ex-boyfriends for the last 5 years (that last bit was a good time) I was told the job was processing terrorist deportation forms. When I said ‘surely we don’t deport our terrorists? dont they just go to prison?’ the nice lady replied with ‘oh no, we process forms from other countries, theres less chance of you getting hunted down over here!’. Great!
I then went to an interview with 2 fucking terrifying men in suits at the city hall – one of whom was DEFINITELY wearing a man bra. And a toupee. They asked me if I had ever been involved in terrorism (“only the sexual kind”) or espionage (“I don’t think so, but then again I haven’t a fucking clue what espionage is, so I could be little miss espionage 2009 for all I know”) and testing how easily I would be bribed (“I’ll do mostly anything for a fiver. But no anal.”) they offered me that job, depending on me clearing the security checks. That takes 6-8 weeks. I am not hopeful.
My other proper interviews were for Gerry Weber, the clothes shop for old ladies who think theyre something special cause they have a few quid to spend on some fine woven chinos, and at A COMPANY*, for a PA position. I really want the PA job, even though the daily tasks sound about as easy as trying to cram my tits into a training bra. The position is as PA to A MAN who is a foreign correspondent for ITN and is a well important broadcast journalist or summink. The salary is incredibly attractive to both myself and the rum demon on my shoulder who needs feeding, and the dude lets his staff go on holiday to his holiday home in A COUNTRY
*name of company and man and location of his holiday home have been left out, incase they have some fucking mental MI5 style computer hacking systemz that can seek me out.
As well as that, I went to a recruitment evening at Ted Baker. They told me it was an interview, but when I turned up there were about 8 other people waiting outside. The 8 people turned into 40 others, all there for one position. This was a fucking joke. First we all had to have our photos taken (front and side angles, unfortunately no money shot or I’d be working there now) and fill in some forms that asked why we wanted to work for ted baker, where we saw ourselves in 5 years time and 3 words that our friends would use to describe us. Now, I could’ve chosen to fill my form in honestly – why do I want to work for ted baker? Because the pay is good, I could easily do the job hungover/drunk and I appreciate the discount Id get on every Christmas/birthday/anniversary/fathers day/bah mitzvah present I’d ever have to buy again. Where do I see myself in 5 years? Bangin an old rich man and plotting his demise so I can steal his skrilla and run away with my one true love, tinchy strider. 3 words that my friends would use to describe me? Dangerous drunk whore.
Of course, I lied and told them what they wanted to hear.
After that, we all stood in a line and were told to introduce ourselves. Of course, it was my spunked-on luck that I was first in line. I went for a simple “I’m Niki, Im 23, just graduated from Leeds University, I previously worked for Gap which I really enjoyed so I’m looking for a new position in fashion retail”. Yeah, I came off like a really normal, well rounded individual! But other people started getting cocky and telling little ditties and jokes - go suck a donkey off you ball lickers, I hate you. This one girl decided to tell her life story and how her claim to fame was that she ‘nearly got on shipwrecked’. Again, fuck off, I hate you. One poor bloke who was in his 50s, complete with comb-over and unfortunate sweat patches was just screaming ‘I’ve been made redundant and my wife might leave me permanently for the man shes secretly been humping for the last 10 years, please give me a job so she doesn’t take my cats too’ came off with the brilliant line “my name is David and next time I’m in this store, I’m gonna be on that side of the counter instead of this! YEAH!”. With the YEAH! there was a fist pump. I loved that dude. I hope he didn’t intentionally run out infront of a bus on his way home, you could tell he was close.
The manager then asked if anyone knew anything about the company. At this point, nearly-shipwrecked girl stepped out of the line, went to stand with the staff and started telling everyone every available fact about ted baker. She knew how the business had started, how many stores there were, what their mission statement was, like everyone who had done their research did too. But she went on – she knew about ted bakers family, the annual turnover, their annual losses through theft, fucking everything. I was genuinely surprised she didn’t tell what ted bakers favourite flavour of hula hoops were or how big his cock is. She was a fucking tool.
We got divided into 4 groups and were told to come up with an advertising campaign. Again with my luck, I got nearly-shipwrecked-knowitall-cunt in my group. I gave up before we had even started and decided to turn my efforts to getting to know the pretty little thing with the nice eyes and good beard instead. I managed to score a date with him and he took my number. It later transpired that he was 18 years old, so that date never did happen. But its nice to know I still got it, right? Oh fucking hell.
So there it is. An update on how fucking awfully my job hunt has been going so far. I’ll link my aunties husband to this blog and let him see exactly how hard I work to get jobs. I’ll just cut out all the bits about gettin pissed, engaged and stalking men, which actually takes up most of my spare time when I should be learning about Ted Bakers wifes favourite dildo model.
I’m off to find me some kerosene and a box of matches.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Life ruining – now, this was previously a major factor in my life. The last couple of weeks have been pretty quiet on the life ruining front, by comparison. My parents had a barbeque a couple of weeks ago, which ended in me having 2 riots, punching a man in the eye and accidentally on purpose setting another man on fire before falling asleep at the bottom of the garden. Amy has a superb video where a man asks me who the fuck I think I am, and I respond with ‘oh baby boy, right now I’m your worst fucking nightmare’ while doing gun fingers in his face and my mother physically carries me away from him. My mum now thinks I need to have anger management. Again. Its not my fault I suffer from rage blackouts.
I went to London at the weekend for my best London birds birthday. When me and The Kit Borry get together, its usually absolute madness. Whisky drinking, man terrorising, pantie losing, mother shocking madness. This time, it was relatively tame. The worst thing I did was nestle in a mans beard for a while and convince him that my name was actually Sugar Honey Ice Tea. I woke up each morning, knowing exactly where I was, dignity and all underwear in tact. Best quotes from the weekend include “you know how I sleep with loads of people? Does that mean I’m a slut?” and “seriously, I might sleep with a lot of people, but my cooch is surprisingly tidy!”. Good days.
My own life has been ruined by the finest wankers of them all at Abbey. They have decided to steal £1700 of my hard earned cash (their overdraft tbh) back, leaving me with a paltry £300 overdraft. I cant remember the last time my account was actually in credit…2005 maybe? They can see my account activity, they can clearly see that I have monthly outgoings to pizza places, chicken establishments, liquor stores, shoe shops and cash withdrawls at 7am when I’m desperately trying to get home from whatever tools house I’ve ended up at after a night on the sauce. I have an appointment with my bank manager on Wednesday to discuss my ‘issues’. After we’re done with my cashflow problems, I think I’ll start on my body dismorphia issues (thinking I’m thinner than I actually am and thus purchasing items of clothing made from ‘lamé’) before moving on to my image issues and asking him if he thinks my nail beds are too short to have 1 inch acrylics attached. I think it’ll be a good meeting.
Job hunting – this has been as depressing as ever. At one point this week I was driven to thoughts of suicide and decided I’d shove a 2ft dildo down my throat before choking to death in a pool of my own faeces. I got very low and applied for a job in nandos. I figured, my best friend Chicken will always be there for me, when I need a job, Chicken will come through. Well, Chicken fucked me. Chicken fucked my up my ass. I got a text from nandos saying ‘Hey! Thanks for applying to join our team! Unfortunately you didn’t make the cut this time, but keep checking back. We’re always on the lookout for Grillerz in the mist!’. Welllllll how about you suck on it, you pretend-to-be-a-bit-classy-but-actually-are-well-shitter-than-chicken-cottage-and-arent-even-really-a-real-‘restaurant’ chicken joint. Getting rejected by nandos = all time low.
However, I got a call today about a job I applied for a few weeks ago. The lady called and asked me to come in tomorrow to fill in a few extra forms for security clearance so we could get me started. I’m not entirely sure if this means I actually have a job or not, but whatever, we’ll see tomorrow. She said on the phone that she would email me details of where to go and a list of some ‘things’ that I had to bring with me. I figured it’d be the regular passport, proof of national insurance, that sort of shit. But no. I got the email and almost shit myself. This is on some next level mission impossible shit. Actual extract from the email…..
Please bring with you the following
- Full driving license, including paper document
- Long birth certificate
- National Insurance card and P60
- Consecutive bank statements from the last 6 months
- Bank account details
- 3 utility bills
- Details of BOTH your parents places and dates of birth
You should also be prepared to discuss details of people you have known in the last 5 years, including boy/girlfriends and give full details of every property you have lived in over the last 5 years.
Erm….do you want a shit sample too bruv? The worst thing is, I’ve gone through my emails and have no clue what this job is. The woman on the phone mentioned something about government. I cant work for the fucking government! I really don’t think rockin up to work in last nights make up, reeking of rum and seminal fluid, wearing my mums suit jacket over my raving dress will really cut it there. But fuck it, I might have a job or something!
Men – this too has been rather quiet. I got a text last night from a boy who I’ve been having sporadic good-cause-its-a-bit-bad humping with over the last 2 years to say he’s getting married to the girl he told me he had split up with. Fiiiine, go settle down in your shitty flat that smells of mushrooms with your Oprah lookin girlfriend, see if I even care.
Oh, I so totally care.
My good friend Will is moving into his own flat round the corner from me, so we’ve decided to basically live like we’re married from now on. I’m learning to bake pies and he’s learning to become a high earner, we’re gonna go get a pug puppy in a couple of weeks and treat it like our child, before I inevitably realise that having a baby really is the only way to save myself and let him knock me up. Itll be a beautiful thing.
Yeap, that’s pretty much all. Just your usual fortnight of setting men on fire, shitting your pants about going through security tests for a job you don’t remember applying for, owing the bank nearly 2 grand and being bitter about your hump buddys impending marriage.
Oh and some people think I’m some kind spoiled little hussy whos living off her momma and livin the life of a low class hooker with no repercussions. If only my breds, if only. I’m still hustlin cash moneys by making pretty pictures for this mental man who asked me for a bronze body cast of myself (I politely declined that commission), doing some costume making work for a lady I know at the Lyric Theatre and helpin my moms & pops by doing their paperwork and replying to all the emails that they cant bother their asses to deal with.
My main man Diddy posted a P-Twit a few days ago with a quote from Abe Lincoln - "Things may come to those who wait..but only the THINGS LEFT by those who HUSTLE .” OH DIDDY, U SO DEEP, I LOVE YA.
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
After last weeks man related stupidity, me & Amy started reflecting on where exactly we go wrong with men. It was discovered that we don’t actually go wrong at all, seeing as we set out to bag the worst, most inappropriate, womanising, momma horrifying little boys that we can find. I’m not looking for someone to marry (contrary to what last weeks events may have suggested) so these travesties against human nature will do for now.
We also started thinking about our past relationship fails and which of our pitiful ex-mantoys were the best and worst. So here it is, a definitive and sort of cut down list of my past boyfriends. Let it be known, some of these boys cannot be considered human, most of them cannot be considered to be previous relationships because they were mostly a fucking joke and I have left some of my more serious involvements out because, quite frankly, theres fuck all that’s funny about some of the poor excuses for males that I’ve been involved with in the past. Unless they have chlamydia now.
These are listed in order, some names have been changed because I know these pricks are the kind of morons who google themselves.
Ian Walker – my first ‘boyfriend’ when I was 14. I met him in the dark days when I spent my Friday and Saturday nights at Dundonald Ice-Bowl. We went skating every weekend, I had my own speedskates and was proper good and everything.
Why? – he was really popular and played ice-hockey and all the girls loved him and he was 16 and just a dream. He was really fit – acne, bit ginger, wore stonewashed
Best bits – being able to skate with him while holding hands during the ‘couples session’. Every week they played flying without wings by westlife and we skated round together in a big sweeping dream of love and tuna odours.
Worst bits – he alone is the reason why I don’t like crisps. One night he had eaten a bag of prawn cocktail crisps and decided to kiss me, with half the contents of said savoury snack still on his tongue. Swear down, I just wretched while thinking about it. I’ve never liked crisps since.
The break-up – he found some slag who wore belly tops and tiny skirts and decided to drop me for her. After a week with the hook-nosed hoe he wanted me back, but by then I’d realised that he was actually really vile and make me sick in my mouth a little bit every time he looked at me.
Dave Carson – he was the first boy that I seriously liked, we were together for about 6 months which I guess is long enough when youre 16.
Why? – my first example of internet grooming. He was a friend of a friend, my friend was on msn when I was at her house one night and he signed in with the screen name ‘Coby Dick’. Papa Roach were my favourite band ever at the time (no shame, first album is a banger) so I was automatically in love with him. We started talking online and eventually met eachother at a party that we were both going to. I thought he was the most attractive thing in the world and he was so cool cause he wore baggy jeans and vans. Fucking hell.
Best bits – when he came to meet me from school and all the girls were dead jealous cause he was such a fitface. When he passed his driving test and I thought I was the don when he drove me to Sainsburys in his black Ford Focus.
Worst bits – he got ‘THUG LIFE’ tattooed across his stomach, cause he loved tupac so much. He lived in a big mansion in Comber with his dad and his grandparents – one day I was pushing his nan down the street in her wheelchair when a mental dog started going apeshit and jumping all over me. I shit myself and accidentally pushed his nan out into a main road, full of moving traffic, causing a minor road traffic accident. She was old and mental and thought I was trying to kill her for the rest of time.
The break-up – he went away to uni in
Big Poppa – this is what he saved himself in my phone as, which says a lot about him. Me & big poppa have been on & off for years, when we do decide to stop fucking around and be legit, it all goes up shit creek.
Why? – it started because he was the most attractive man I knew and he bought me a pair of sunglasses. Yeah, I’m easily pleased. When I first met him, he was a vegan straight edge mommas boy. Several years on, he’s the guy who gets baked at lunchtime and has about 6 ladies at any given time. His hair is of questionable suitability for modern society and he still wears a shoelace for a belt. He texts me biggie lyrics as booty calls and calls me at 5am to tell me he loves me and ‘I’ll always be his number 1 bitch’. Clearly, hes my ideal man and I go back every time he snaps his fingers.
Best bits - when we’re good, we’re very very good. The day I met him in New Jersey and we spent the whole day trying to taste something from every Mexican joint we could find was a good one. He also had a methadone addicted dog who always provided goodtimes. The time we drank a bottle of whisky and several hundred beers, went out with our friends, argued about following eachother to the bathroom, went home and made up over a dominos, then spent the entire night throwing up pizza & liquor into my toilet while rubbing eachothers backs.
Worst bits – when we’re bad, we’re very very bad. I threw a knife at him and cut his arm once. I also chipped his front tooth by throwing a mug at his face. Let it be known, he provoked each of these events. My mum hates him because hes made me cry more than any other person, place or time in all of history.
The break-up – which one? It always ends when one of us does something stupid (we have a good habit of kissing eachothers friends to piss eachother off) or when one of us leaves the country. He moved to
Aaron – horrible boy who I may or may not have been with to piss off Big Poppa. He was fucking mental. I cant even divide this into sections, it was all just one big worst bit. Actually no, wait….
Best bits – when he told me he only had one testicle.
Worst bits – he actually only had one testicle. We broke up because he was jealous and mental. He had the outline of my ex boyfriends silhouette painted on his bedroom wall. When we broke up, he wouldn’t leave me alone, calling me non stop and showing up at my house and work. One night, about a week after we broke up, he showed up at my house and when I opened the door he was standing there with his shirt pulled up, showing his stomach. When I asked what the fuck he was doing, he replied with “LOOK AT MEEEEE! I HAVENT EATEN SINCE I LOST YOOOOU!”. He was still a tubby bitch, but I brought him in, fed him a sandwich and sent him on his merry way.
The next day, I came home from work and had some food, pottered around downstairs a for an hour or so before going to my room to get changed. When I got into my room, he was sitting on my bed. He had got a key to my house cut when we were together and had used it to let himself in and wait patiently for me on my bed. I obviously went fucking apeshit and threw him out, threatening him with a restraining order. After that he got funny, whispering hilarious threats into my ear when he saw me on nights out.
Amy saw him a couple of weeks ago and said he’s a fat mess. I have also heard some confirmed reports that he tattooed a smiley face on his own bellend. As mental as he is, he’s obviously a fucking hero.
This is getting too long and a bit too soul destroying to finish. I’ve left out all of the boys I was unfortunate enough to encounter during my time at uni. There was one who came to my house drunk out of his mind and took a shit in my bin in the corner of my bedroom. There was one who kept stealing my money to buy sandwich ingredients. Oh and there was the one I was with for almost 5 months, before he confessed that he was already in a 3 year relationship.
So when I start thinking about how maybe I should settle down and find myself a boyfriend who I can start a little love nest with and start wearing pink cashmere sweaters and get soft focus sepia portraits of us done, I just look at my dating history. If that doesn’t convince me that I’m better off hustlin men in bars for drinks and going to their houses to drink all their whisky and steal their monster munch before running back home, nothing will. Besides, if I was tied down I couldn’t pretend to be Beyonce and dance like a warrior princess when ‘Single Ladies’ comes on in tha club.
Sunday, 5 July 2009
Another Sunday, another day filled with regret, crushing guilt and calls for help to my mother and best friend. Such is life.
This week started off fine, lots of applying for jobs that I don’t want, grooming men on the internet and consuming my weight in saturated fats, as standard. I planned an old skool all day drinking session and night out with my best friend Amy. Me & Aims (or Titty McEverest, Double E,
Anyway, Thursday we started drinking gin & tonics at about 4pm, by 7pm we were falling over ourselves and declaring how we’d always love eachother and be there to pull eachothers babies out of our cooches and stuff. Beefeater gin is 47% dun know. After terrorising my brother and his 3 friends for half an hour, we danced in my bedroom to hits such as ‘Hotel’ by Cassidy, ‘Never Leave You – Uh Oooh Uh Oooh’ by Lumidee and my personal favourite, ‘Home Alone’ by R Kelly. Amy asked the taxi driver what his favourite brand of coleslaw was which progressed into us screaming abuse about man mayo. Shoulda got him to turn around and take us home there & then really.
We went to Sketchy, which is a club full of school kids but Rigsy always drops Jay Z and Ghostface for me so I’ll always have love. We were behaving as we usually do, dancing inappropriately, trying to do the dutty wine, bunking the queue at the bar by touching men in the gouche and drinking Hennessy, thinking we were ghetto supastars. A lot of our male friends were there who we take out with us to supervise and make sure we don’t get ourselves shot or knocked up or nuthin. We realised we’d had a bit much and Amy had already been punched in the tit by some blokes angsty girlfriend, so we called it a night and came back to my house to spoon eachother to sleep.
Friday morning came around, I struggled to get my mascara glued eyes open and made sure Amy was up for work – anyone who had a burrito from Boojum on Friday would’ve been wholly disappointed with its quality. After about 20 minutes, I discovered a big shiny ring on my finger that I didn’t have before. I figured the magpie in me had spotted it after some poor bint took it off to wash her hands and I pilfered it. Then…then things started flooding back. One of my male friends taking me to the side and telling me how great I am (he was right), how beautiful I am (he was right), how funny I am (he was right) and how I’m gonna grow up into a really great woman (he was so wrong). Then the “we’re such good friends and you deserve better, I think we should get married” came back. Now the problem is, I ask men to marry me on nights out ALL the time. They rarely say yes. The fact that the tables had turned and my lovely little friend - who is pro-bmx and has some sort of hookups that could keep me in free rum for life – had proposed to me obviously made me squeal with excitement, roll around on the floor in a fit of manic laughter and say “yeah bruv we can get married, but only if I can wear a gold lamé leotard at the wedding” (true story) before going to buy a celebratory shot of Jagermeister.
After a conversation with Amy, it was confirmed that I was engaged, to my friend who I had never so much as groped in public let alone been on a date with, he had been totally serious and we had celebrated with a bowl of pasta and hotsauce when we got home. This was a new low. Although I did have a bloody huge diamond on my hand that Lil Kim would’ve been well jelz of.
After an hour or so of mental torture, lying in bed in the foetal position and repetitive whimpering, I decided to man up and go call off my 12 hour engagement, armed with a sheepish look on my face and a caterpillar cake, cause caterpillar cake solves everything innit. I explained as best I could that as much as I really love my little friend, I didn’t wanna marry him cause I didn’t like the idea of him ever seeing my fanny in anything other than a non-comedic scenario. Oh, and that I just didn’t think it was a good idea for him to throw his very good life away to try to save mine. I also asked where he got the dollar to buy me my super bling ring, when he told me it had belonged to his dead mother. Guilt. Burning, gut rot, crying inside hate myself and want to throw myself out his 4th floor window guilt.
It wasn’t half as bad as it could’ve been though. He realised it was probably a bit extreme, gave me a proper telling off for havin such low standards and chasing men who are no good for me and will treat me bad cause they have daddy issues then gave me a hug and told me it was okay. We spent the rest of the day watching come dine with me and eating caterpillar cake, I analysed the smell of his armpits and stole one of his hats. Everything was right with the world again.
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
After I finished uni, I went to stay with my grandparents in Spain for a while. I had planned on staying there indefinitely, probably for a few months. However, living with pensioners in 42degree heat and having no regular access to television, phone or internet started to take its toll and I only lasted 3 weeks. In those 3 weeks, I made enough money to keep me in food, rum, ridiculous dresses and shiny new kicks for a few months by hustlin old men in card games and placing seemingly stupid bets that always came off. Despite this, I hate not working – being able to roll around in shallow pools of liquor all day while wearing a bikini made of 50 dollar bills with no responsibility sounds like a dream, but I need to keep myself in the real world. So on my return to Belfast, I set myself up meetings with 7 recruitment agencies.
This was one of the worst weeks of my entire 23 years of sorry existence. Don’t get me wrong, a few of them were fine. By ‘fine’ I mean ‘less brain dead than others’. A couple of them were weak and made me want to take their desk staplers and bash little bits of sharp metal into my own eyes. However, there was one agency that was worse than all. We’ll call them Office Angels, which may or may not be the actual name of the agency (no lawsuit yeah?). Long story short, I was there for almost 3 hours and of those 3 precious hours, I was left alone in a room for 1 hour and 50 minutes. For the other hour, I was filling in forms that my CV already covered, taking typing and maths tests that a blind monkey could do and filling in little boxes in excel with big numbers, which was all very pleasant. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop thinking about the better things that I could be doing during the other 2 hours when I was left to sit and scratch in a well lit room*. When it all got too much and I went to ask what was going on, I was told that my consultant had gone on lunch and she’d be back in ‘half an hour or so’. Nah bruv, I’ll take my 63 word per minute typing fingers elsewhere and give someone else the commission, cheers. As another negative point, it was the hottest office I had ever had the unpleasant experience of spending time in. Yes, it was a warm day but hello, air con? Or y’know, open a window? Or alternatively, all the consultants could stop harbouring the gateway to burning hell between their legs.
*FYI, just a few of the better things I thought that I could be doing with my time included eating chicken, stalking the moderately attractive man who had come out of mcdonalds earlier, downing whisky chasers with questionable characters in the scummiest bar I could find or getting a colonic. Jus’ sayin.
I also spent a lot of this time reflecting on old jobs that I had. Here is a definitive list of jobs that I’ve worked and their levels of dreadfulness.
Dunnes Stores footwear assistant – my first ever job, where I worked in the footwear department of low-brow department store Dunnes. I started when I was 16 and worked there for about 18 months.
Best bits – napping in the stockroom on a big pile of pillows, when we got a pervert who drilled a hole through the joining walls in the fitting rooms and spied on women through said hole, when tramps came in and took brand new shiny shoes but instead of exchanging cash, they simply exchanged their own piss-filled carpet slippers instead.
Worst bits – my boss, who constantly discussed the importance of having ‘nimble fingers’ while working in the footwear department.
Reason for leaving – the smell just got too much.
Tesco local – deli assistant. I worked in tesco for 2 weeks. Let it be known that I was a strict vegetarian at the time and touching cold meats was my worst nightmare. I did 5 shifts and threw up during each one.
Best bit – eating raw cookie dough from the walk in freezer, old people who insisted on giving me tips for serving them their scotch eggs. I hustled an extra tenner each day, usually.
Worst bit – slicing ham. Shit son.
Reason for leaving – the cookie dough wasn’t enough to compensate for the constant vomiting throughout shifts. And I’m sure health & safety wouldn’t have liked it anyway.
Harry Corry – I worked here during my darkest teenage days, when I spent most of my time crawling between the limelight, katy dalys, auntie annies and various houses in the holylands in a cider induced stupor.
Best bits – hiding behind the curtains for naps, crawling into the display beds for naps, nestling in the pillow boxes for naps…the naps, essentially. Oh and the fact that my mum and her best friend were the managers.
Worst bits – the customers and their lack of understanding in what you need to know when ordering curtains. There is no ‘standard sized window’ and I don’t want to take measurements from some knicker elastic that you’ve held up along your window frame.
Reason for leaving – I got fired for dancing infront of the security cameras and calling company merchandise ‘dogshit’. My mum and her friend left, we got a new manager who was a horrid bitch. One night she left me, my friend and the mentally challenged supervisor alone to process a delivery and close up. Instead, we put J-Lo on the cd player and had a rave. During my disciplinary I was asked why I wasn’t putting out the delivery. I responded with ‘well there was no room, if they would send us stuff that we actually need and not the same old dogshit every week, maybe I wouldn’t wanna dance to J-Lo when I should be working?’
Claires Accessories – I actually liked this job for a while. I cant remember why.
Best bits – things being ‘damaged’ and my jewellery collection expanding hugely. Getting to play with piercing guns. The Christmas CDs.
Worst bits – having to pierce babies ears. The customers. When gypsies (sorry, members of the travelling community) came in and asked why their ears had doubled in size and were producing green fluid.
Reason for leaving – needed more cash monizzle and got a better paying job at…
GAP – I loved working in Gap. I was a sales assistant, then moved on to being a visual merchandiser.
Best bits – my managers and all the other staff were all badmen, I loved them. Making mannequins look like ghetto superstars. Doing new delivery nightshifts, getting drunk, wrapping ourselves in cashmere sweaters and napping under the fixtures.
Worst bits – customers who asked ‘was this made in a sweatshop?’. Getting locked in the front window and having a conversation with a drunk tramp through the glass until my manager came to rescue me.
Reason for leaving – I moved to Leeds, but kept working there when I came back on holidays.
Awesome badges – this was a merchandise company that I worked for in Leeds. When I took the job, it was under the impression that I would be designing custom merch for bands and businesses. In reality, I was mostly loading bits of metal into a machine to make little pin badges. It was factory work.
Best bits – nothing.
Worst bits – everything.
Reason for leaving – left to ‘focus on final year’. Read as – I couldn’t fucking take anymore. Mind numbing.
So here I am, with a plethora of experience and a wealth of knowledge, with 10 GCSEs, 4 good A levels and a degree. Yet it appears that I am utterly unemployable. I am now taking bets on how long it’ll be before I start chicken eating demonstrations for money. Odds on 6 hours are currently tight at 2/1.
Monday, 29 June 2009
I aint no writer or budding journo or anything, but I figured its about time I start documenting my everyday difficulties with life in an attempt to start learning from my mistakes (sha right) and to give me something to look back on and laugh at how much of a tool I’ve been. If we didn’t laugh we’d cry, right?
I’m Niki, I’m 23 and I’ve just finished my degree in Contemporary Art at
In the past, I’ve worked in office admin, as a retail monkey in Claires Accessories, as a visual merchandiser and sales assistant at Gap and in a badge factory. Yeah, a factory that made badges. I’m generally not fussy about where I work, but having just graduated with a 2:1 from a good university, applying for call centre work is crushing my delicate little soul. Expect ‘nuff rants about my job hunt and the idiots that I have to deal with on a daily basis because of it (I’m looking at you, recruitment consultant morons).
My parents are lucky enough to have another house in Millisle (a shitty little seaside town about 45 minutes out of
At the end of August, my mum & stepdad are moving into their house in Millisle permanently, my brother and 3 of his friends are renting this house in
My life fails mostly come as a result of my love for dark coloured spirits (fuck you, Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels) and intense cravings for a cold beer on a hot night. I go out with the best intentions – have a drink, dance like a hiphop supastar, chat with my mates about how much better we are than everyone else and be tucked up in my heart covered duvet my 2am, alone.
Sadly - my dreams of a civilised night are rarely realised. In the past week I had 2 nights out, one ended with vomit in my shoes and the other ended with the line ‘Seeing eachother again probably isn’t a great idea. You said yourself, youre a trainwreck’. Despite the aftermath of my nights out, I’m not doing myself or anyone else any harm (the only things I’ve damaged in the last week were my own shoes and my mothers opinion of me), so I’ll continue to ruin the lives of myself and those around me for my own entertainment. Why not spread the love?