My weekend hasn’t got off to the best start…

Had to pay a visit to the hairdressers ce soir. My nail scissor trims just weren’t up to scratch anymore and I was in danger of having a fringe feature that encircled my entire head. So off I went to have the situation rectified.

It started badly when the girl who was shampooing it failed to ensure that my neck was covered properly, and then proceeded to ignore my attempts to get comfortable and more importantly STAY DRY. Therefore I ended up with a couple of puddles in my ears and a completely saturated top. I had to take said top off and ask the girl to dry it with a hairdryer. Not good.

Things improved with the actual cut. “It’s like Fearne Cotton’s!” squealed my hairdresser. “Oh behave,” preened I, basking in the glory of having a semi-decent haircut.

The bubble burst approximately ten seconds after getting home. “You look like someone….” mused Our Paul. Then – “Oh God. I’ve realised who it is and I’m not telling you. It’s too bad.”

“It’s not Dawn French is it?” I panicked.

No. It was worse. ALICE FROM EASTENDERS. I’d rather look like Dot. I’ve paid £45 for a haircut that makes me look like the worst geek ever and I am RAGING.

I HOPE YOU ALL HAVE BETTER WEEKENDS, WITH INEVITABLY BETTER HAIRCUTS, THAN ME.

Britain’s Got Talent – please, END THIS DROSS

In the absence of anything else being on television, and due to still failing to summon the enthusiasm to watch this week’s Apprentice, I again found myself watching Britain’s Got Talent this evening.  It was the first episode I’ve watched all the way through this series and I sincerely wish I hadn’t bothered.

Tonight’s semi-final featured two sub-standard singers – one of whom whinged “no-one’s ever clapped or cheered for me before” (I wonder why, love?), and another who should really stick to bricklaying.  We also had Pre Skool, a group of manic dancing Welsh kids who I think were supposed to be cute but I found quite sinister – fame-hungry five year olds ain’t my bag.  Stevie Pink claimed to have been a magician since leaving school but I failed to see any magic in his cringeworthily bad performance.  The Luminites were akin to a cut-price N-Dubz, which given that N-Dubz are shocking may give you an idea of how bad they are.  MC Boy only managed to get about three audience members on their feet, Joseph Hall wasn’t a bad dancer but how anyone could sit through a full show of his is beyond me, Thomas Bounce is frankly weird and I’m still not sure what Freelusion’s act was all about. 

The judging isn’t much better.  Amanda didn’t even know who was on, and Alesha’s “intelligent” critique consisted of telling one act that he was crap.  Eloquence personified, is Alesha Dixon.  The very few good points include the ever reliable Ant and Dec, Simon Cowell’s 45-year-old midgets shout about Pre Skool and David Walliams being one of the few to not be afraid of answering back to Mr Cowell.  Other than that though, it was painfully obvious that this tired and more importantly talentless format really needs to be put to bed.

J-Lo’s performance on Britain’s Got Talent last night

Blog to follow at the end of the current series of Britain’s Got Talent.  About how UTTERLY DIABOLICAL it is.  But I digress.

Anyone catch it last night?  It was quite the talking point on Facebook and Twitter.  It featured Jennifer Lopez apparently performing her new single on the results show.  I say “apparently”, as it transpired that her outfit – or rather, lack thereof – was the topic of conversation.

Now, I’m no prude.  Far from it in fact.  But a couple of things.  Firstly, although it’s post-watershed, BGT is clearly a family show, featuring kids as contestants, and there’ll have been children across the land begging their poor, long-suffering parents to Sky+ this complete dross so they can watch it the next morning while doing their poor, long-suffering parents heads in as they’re getting ready for school.  I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I’d want my kids to be gawping at J-Lo’s nether regions over their Coco Pops.

Secondly, why oh why do all female pop stars feel the need to dress like this to promote their new singles?  J-Lo is 43 years of age and looked a bit tired, like she was a bit bored of the whole shebang.  When my mum was 43, I was 21, and if Mother Goose had taken to dancing provocatively with her lady bits out on national television I would have had to leave the country.  I don’t see Bruno Mars or Justin Bieber or Olly Murs feeling the need to don Borat-style mankinis to go on promotional tours.  Daft Punk were number one for weeks and they don’t even show their bloody faces, for God’s sake.  I would love Rihanna and Queen Bey et al to rebel and turn up for performances in onesies with no makeup on and get to number one regardless.  They must be exhausted by all the waxing alone.  God bless ’em.

The only thing for it is for me to fulfil a lifetime ambition and win X Factor.  I will do this while being the most unsexy contestant of all time.  I can’t dance, so won’t be able to writhe sexily on stage.  I’m a bit podgy of belly, so I won’t be flashing no flesh.  I can’t walk in heels, so it’ll be flats all the way for me.  But I will still have fun, and feel good, and sell records by the sackload (naturally.)  So fret not, dear blog readers.  I’m ON THE CASE.

Getting emotional over the last episode of Shameless – the end of an era

‘Twas the final episode of Shameless last night.  After nearly a decade of charting the lives of Frank Gallagher, his always weird and sometimes wonderful family and the rest of Chatsworth estate’s inhabitants, the plug has been pulled.

Now, I don’t even know why I’m blogging about it, as I haven’t even watched the last three series, so can hardly class myself as a diehard fan; when it started to become more about the Maguires than the Gallaghers I started to lose interest.  Gone were the glory days of Steve and Fiona, Kev and Veronica.  The slightly zany aspect of it, previously always just about within the realms of possibility, started to err on the side of the frankly ridiculous.  The series became too lengthy and started to drag, rather than leaving me hungry for more. 

However, for old times sake, I decided to watch the last one with our Helen (a fellow ardent Shameless fan back in the day) and am very glad I did. 

It wasn’t the best episode I’ve ever seen.  It was even, at times, a tad distasteful.  But it had glimmers of its former glory.  Some of my favourite characters returned – Fiona, Lip, Kev (no Steve though – devastated) and Frank’s drunken musings were, as ever, eloquent and intelligent.  I cried like a baby on more than one occasion and I realised the reason for this was because I still cared about the old characters.  That’s why, at one point, it was one of the best programmes on television.  That’s why I will always remember the almost Shakespearean tragedy* of the episode** that gave us Frank’s soliloquy in a Manchester art gallery after his two youngest children had finally been taken away by the dreaded Social – “You are my life’s work…my Sistine chapel.”  That’s why, although it should perhaps have gone out on a high several series ago, my lasting memories of it are of truly great British television.  I’ll miss it.

*Slightly pretentious phrasing, I know.  Sorry.

**Series 6, Episode 13, if you’re interested.  Genius.

 

Made in Chelsea blog, 27/5/13

An absolute CORKER of an episode, so much so that I hardly know where to begin…

I’ll start with Louise and Andy, a.k.a the most nauseating couple of all time – they are rapidly starting to bore me rigid. They spent the episode play fighting while painting Louise’s front room and skateboarding hand in hand, the sight of which irritated me an irrational amount. Not a fan of “couply” couples. Louise was still telling anyone that would listen (which is no-one) that she was the “happiest she’s ever been yah yah yah”, and Andy and his nostrils are still blatantly terrified of the maniac he’s found himself in a relationship with but, regardless of these two minor issues, they were falling in love with one another by the end of the episode and sharing a passionate kiss (with the camera crew just inches away. The romance!)

Elsewhere, we encountered Jamie and Spencer standing around in the middle of a suit shop in their pants which as Mark Francis pointed out, is not ok. At this point, I must make a confession to you, dear blog readers. This week, I agreed with Spencer, my nemesis, not once, but twice. On Lucy – “Lucy is very black and white; she’s the complete opposite to Louise,” followed by “…hand on heart, I feel sorry for Andy.” Both valid points. I feel embarrassed and ashamed that this has occurred and I hope that it will never happen, or be mentioned, again. To be fair, he later ruined this by saying that he feels funny and cool around her and unfortunately he’ll never be either of those things which made me feel better about it. Just had to get it off my chest though.

This episode, however, belonged to the magnificent Lucy Watson. From texting Andy asking him to tell Louise to “keep control of the crazy”, and saying to potential new flame Alex “I’m so single it’s disgusting”, she knows exactly what’s she’s doing, has a fabulous way with words, makes absolutely no bones about being evil whatsoever and has everyone eating out of the palm of her hand. She is GLORIOUS. This week saw her inexplicably moving in with Stevie and hosting a housewarming party to celebrate this, not in the house that was supposed to be being warmed, but in a bar that her father has just bought. As you do. She started proceedings off by letting Spencer make an absolute fool of himself by baring his soul and telling her how much he liked her only to inform him that she didn’t want to be with him. Just as Alex walked in. Crushed, Spencer left, quiff askew.

Later on at the shindig it turned out that Alex used to go out with Phoebe (who I cannot bear – faux cute – least favourite type of female) as we are, after all, in incestuous Chelsea. Neither Alex nor Lucy seemed particularly bothered. Phoebe, however, most definitely was, and called in the cavalry (Olivia) in an attempt to bring Lucy down a peg or not, forgetting that Watson is utterly unflappable and has probably never been intimidated by anyone in her life. Lucy let them both believe, for the tiniest nanosecond, that they were victorious, before musing why either had even been invited and showing them the door. A masterclass in understated evil.

We were left with a broken Spencer pouring his heart out to a slightly incredulous Jamie, saying that he likes having a girlfriend and that he really wants to be with Lucy. This is Spencer who at the start of the episode was “happy to be single.” He even came out with the classic shout of needing to get out of Chelsea for a while to sort his head out. Poor lamb. He has no idea he’s been Watsoned in a big, big way.

See you later Spenny indeed…his demise continues…

A Few More Things

As pointed out by my Glaswegian pal Louise (who is thankfully nothing like her namesake Miss Thompson) – when Louise speaks it sounds like this: “meep meep meep.” That is it. We’re tuning out the meeps, Louise. NO-ONE IS LISTENING.

I have realised why all the girls’ hair is so crap. London water. It makes the glossiest of locks look lank and greasy. They now have my sympathy.

Alex has a Scouse face.

It’s totally unfair that my dad has never bought me a bar.

List of Love, Volume 2

Just realised I’ve done three Records of Rage and only one List of Love. Which just goes to show that I am more angry a person than I am loving, but here’s the second List of Love in an attempt to redress the balance…

Jesy from Little Mix

Little Mix are my favourite X Factor contestants of ALL TIME, and Jesy is my favourite member. I imaginatively dubbed her “Pugface” early on in the series as I think she looks like…well, a pug. Some people think this is an insult but I think pugs are cute; ergo, Pugface is cute. I am in awe of her moves and her fearless approach to clashing prints. She is, in my eyes, a legend. PUGFACE FOREVER.

Airports

I’m not seasoned enough a traveller for airports to irritate me, and as a dedicated people watcher, these places are my idea of heaven. And the shops. The SHOPS! Shops that, granted, I can go to in Liverpool city centre generally, but I love wandering around them regardless. Plus no flight from Liverpool John Lennon airport would be complete without an over-priced Burger King preceding it.

Yarden dances

Not a typo – we only have a yarden, not a proper garden – I am unable to get home from a night out and go straight to bed. Generally, I head straight to the yarden with my headphones in, armed with a pizza or a burger, and have a good ol’ dance to (more often than not) Queen Bey. God knows what the neighbours think if they ever see me mid-yarden rave. Everyone should try it though. It’s very liberating!

Sloths

I was almost definitely a sloth in my past life. I feel a special kinship with them. They are very lazy and, according to Wikipedia, “move only when necessary.” I can totally identify with that. Also, they are adorable. Finally, look at how amazing my sloth bag is off Jenna:

Probably the best present ever.

Probably the best present ever.

My first stag do

And my last, most probably.  Convention was ignored for a night as I (along with our Maria and Helen) gatecrashed my cousin Brian’s stag do.  The lads had arrived on Friday from Glasgow and were left to their own devices on Friday night, but due to having no willpower I was unable to resist the lure of having “a couple” of drinks with some of the best people EVER, stag do or not. 

The lads had managed to find a bar that I had never heard of to while away the afternoon in, which was pretty impressive.  From there we traipsed halfway around the city centre attempting to find somewhere to a) have something to eat and b) watch the Champions League final.  Obviously, with it being a group of 20 people, and due to the fact that it was a glorious bank holiday Saturday, options were limited, until Maria saved the day with a great shout of Passage to India, which is usually quiet.  God help anyone who was there for a romantic meal for two.  It was, shall we say, a tad rowdy.

Then onto TriBeCa to catch the second half of the game, plus to find out that two members of the stag do were distantly related to me, even though I had never met them.  Mad!  At this point my memory goes a tad hazy.  However, Mother Goose informs me that I managed to lash rice all over the kitchen when I got home, I thought I’d lost my hearing aid, I owe someone (I think it’s Mikey) £20 and I still haven’t got round to taking yesterday’s makeup off.  So it’s safe to assume that it was a good night.

Ta to all the lads for looking after me, apologies for cramping your style for so long, and see you at the wedding!