Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Friday, January 29, 2010

Casting Couch

So I was having a burger in what equates to an upmarket McDonalds (very well, you may serve beer, but you still have to go to the tills to order your bacon & avocado burger like some rat-haired commoner spending her benefits on Chicken McNuggets) when I noticed some woman looking at me. Now this happens rarely, but it does happen. Here's your for instance: I was at a house-party the other week and accidentally fell into conversation with a nice lady (chucky knitwear, discrete jewelry; perfectly acceptable) and we were chatting about books and films and all sorts of things, and she was going on about her favourite feminist author and I was wondering when exactly I'd got to the age where I'd stopped talking about tv shows at parties and started talking about books I'd read. And she started leaning in conspiratorially to tell me something she considered risque, and I listened and inwardly thought I was doing stuff like that before my teens but I cackled like a hag anyway, and we seemed to be getting on like a house on fire until my boyfriend came over and put his arm around me. At which point she smartly turned on the spot and walked off, just like that. I thought 'what a cheeky bitch!' before said boyfriend explained that she may have been interested in me to do whatever messy, squelchy stuff that happens between a man and a lady. He felt very sorry for her, whereas I just didn't fancy finishing my salmon vol-au-vent.

Anyway, back to the restaurant. This woman was definitely staring, and at me. It was putting me right off my cocktail so I got up to leave, shirking on my coat and heading for the door. At which point, she got up and dashed forward, brandishing a piece of paper.

Inwardly I was already groaning, poised to have that very difficult conversation where I had to say I was flattered and all, and it was very sweet of her to come over and hand me her number, but I'm actually so far up the front of The Other Bus that I'm in charge of the tape player for the whole journey. At the very point I'm opening my mouth to say this, she completely blind-sides me by saying she really liked my beard, following this up with the fact that she's a casting agent, looking for people who 'look a bit French' to be background extras in a new film called 'Bel Ami'.

Now clearly my brain was a bit addled and the words I heard were 'French', 'film' and 'Bel Ami' and I went away a bit confused as to why I was being asked until I read the flyer, and it turns out it's a proper film, starring perennial favourite glittering vampire, Robert Pattinson, as well as Uma Thurman and Christina Ricci. Interesting enough, but the final line of the flyer she gave me was 'lots of beautiful costumes'.

WELL, YOU HAD ME AT HELLO LADY.

I'll keep you informed as to what happens...

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

"Hands That Do Dishes..."

Here's a list of adverts getting on my goat. Because I need to share the pain.

1) Evian Roller Babies

Apparently this travesty is in the top ten things watched on YouTube last year (the top of which being Susan Boyle showing us all you can't judge a book by its floral print, badly-plucked cover). I can't abide it. I don't care if it looks realistic and cute, the idea of babies on rollerblades coming at me - I see this akin to an Egyptian plague of frogs and locusts. And it does look realistic. Creepily so. If I didn't know better I'd think it was the most flagrant breaking of child labour laws this side of China. Still, you have to love how those tiny hands can do stitching - you can barely see the seam on this Vera Wang, can you?


2) Josh's T-Mobile

The basis for this campaign is someone apparently went out and interviewed The Great Unwashed - though in all reality they were clearly graduates from the Sylvia Young School and just waiting for their free episode of 'Doctors' or 'Casualty' that comes free with an Equity card and slumming it in phone commercials. Among these was the 'break-out star' named Josh, who claimed he'd use his free texts to set up a super-band. Now Josh has the looks, cheer and downright punch-the-screen irritability of Peregrin Took from 'Lord of the Rings', so you can picture how cheered I was when he span off into his own set of commercials, stating that you could pop on his MySpace page (MySpace? Is that still going?! I think I popped on there a few years back and all that rolled by were two tumbleweeds and some goth with glittery text on her header telling me to go to her gig. I closed the window and crossed myself) and join his 'super band'. We are then presented with clips showing Josh jumping around with all the excitement of Tom Cruise in a sofa shop, singing a song that tries to inspire more 'coming together' than a download from Hotjocknicecock.com. Fuck right off, Josh.Your songs is as irritating as crotch crabs, and you're right up with them. I hope your fucking mobile phone explodes in your ear while you're talking to your mates about how you've managed to get someone with bagpipes to sign up for your corporate-sponsored band, slowly killing you over a matter of weeks.

3) Google Chrome (alas, I couldn't find a link to this one, so you'll just have to take my word for it)

All hail our overlords! Now I like a bit of Google - and yes, it's scary that they're going to have a complete monopoly on information in a few years, but isn't their new browser pretty?! And yet, the advert sets my teeth on edge: it's a list of things that one user had done on the browser that afternoon, primarily finding a cheap holiday to Barbados. All well and good. But what this user then goes on and does is use it to have a conference call with 15 or so friends, and then writing 30 tweets about it. Thirty-fucking-tweets about a holiday you just booked. Can you imagine reading that banality? I reckon it'd include words like 'squee!' and 'ZOMG!' and frankly if they were using a lap-top, I'd hope that someone had installed razor-wire on the lid so it could be remotely slammed shut and chop their uncontrolled tippy-tapping fingers off at the knuckle to save us from this vapid ooze.

Speaking of Google controlling all, I decided to read the GoogleBooks version of '1984' for irony's sake. Bless, there are pages missing, with a rather sorry note saying such things as 'Pages 4-18 unscanned'. Well, scan them, you lazy fuckers! And yes, I know you're reading this. Although in all truth I'd just finished reading end-of-the-world miseryfest 'The Road', so took these gaps in the narrative to make up my own - much cheerier - parts of the story where Winston Smith gets a haircut, facial, and finally sees to that varicus ulcer on his leg with a bit of cheap laser surgery on the Miniluv.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

The Nothing

Well, bang goes my new year's resolution of writing this more regularly.

Well, happy new year, darling readers. Welcome to the hopefully scandalous Twenty-Tens! I'm here due to slight insomnia and sudden reappearance of snow, I decided to trek into work early and get a bit of work done. Well, read that as 'a couple of rounds of Treasure Madness on Facebook, a nasty Starbucks coffee, and a long-overdue chat to you, my darling'. Hello!

I do love the snow in London, purely as it normally has the grace to fuck off after a day, leaving much less picturesque grey slush to tramp through. And it gives us, the uptight weather-fetishists that the English are, something to tut and fuss about and proclaim how long it took us to get into work in our Facebook updates, seemingly treating it like some sort of endurance competion you find on primetime ITV. "I spent 3 hours outside Worksop in a crowded carriage!" people are already telling me. Equally, transport companies seem to use this slight dusting of frozen water to demonstrate how the whole network is held together with rubber bands and luck, adding an extra fifteen minutes to any estimated tube arrival, slowly pushing crammed conveyances into each station, where people angrily shuffle forward, secretly delighting in that their otherwise dull journey with a Maeve Binchy has some sort of newly-prized goal to it.

The only delay to my journey was due to human error - in London, you stand to the right of the escalator, and walk down the left side, and the Lord God Cher help you if you don't. Some moron (see? I'm also delighting in my usually tiresome journey having a bit of spice in it!) didn't walk down, causing me to miss the train I would have clearly gotten if he'd Obeyed The Rules. I thus had a seven minute delay instead of the usual three. I decided it was a 'Sliding Doors' moment, fantasising what could or would have happened if I'd made that train, but then realised that my life not that interesting to have dramatic change thrust upon me by a whole seven minutes differeence, and that was it. And yet I was still cursing said moron as I arrived into work quite safely quite before time; I hate people who don't know how to use London. My attitude to them is wholly "put it down, you'll only break it."

Still, there's the return journey to look forward to - already I can hear Twitter streams warming up for the combined wrath. My dear boyfriend hopes I don't get trapped, although I misheard his parting cry as "I hope you don't get raped!"

I thought, I know London is apparently two meals away from being feral, but really. All that'd happen if I was set about on the tube is the person behind would tut and tell you to move down the carriage more, mentally composing their blog entry about how rubbish London is in the snow.

And yes, I'm aware of the irony.