My (slightly crazy) view of the world

Archive for April, 2011

The Obligatory Royal Wedding Post.


Ahhhh, the royal wedding. Romance fills the air as England prepares for the wedding of the year.
The excitable hum of anticipation is obvious whenever in public. Tv documentaries are filling the screen, a film has been made, florists from around the world are voicing their opinions on tv interviews, as are cake makers, tailors, wedding planners…..

Seriously, I couldn’t give a tiny rats ass!
Do you know what the best thing about this over-publicised wedding is for me?
An extra fricking bank holiday! Hell yeah, baby!
Do I care what flowers Kate and William have chosen for decoration – errr, nope!
Do I give a shit about what the reception tables will look like – Hmmmm. Let’s see, errrrm, NOPE!
And do I REALLY want to watch a film about how they met?! DO I F”*k!

Don’t get me wrong, I realise I am being a tad grumpy today, and that actually, yeah, this is an important historical event; and I am oooooh so VERY grateful for the additional day in bed, not to mention the extended opening hours of the pubs. But really, what difference is this actually going to make to our day-to-day lives?
I’ll tell you: none.

And anyway, how in Gods name did William even bag a looker like her?! I mean, have you SEEN him? He very sadly got the very strong Y chromosome the day he began to form. He’s as pretty as his daddy!

And don’t even get me started on the bloody ‘royal dolls’ and other bullshit paraphernalia… I mean, really?!
“Oooh, I absolutely HAVE to have one of those weird dolls for my bedroom shelf…and, oh gosh! Look at that lovely paper plate!” AAAARGH!

So anyway, tomorrow I will be doing pretty much nothing, but that includes NOT tuning in to watch Kate as she glides down the aisle to her Prince Charming (aha! See what I did there!!!!).

Actually, sod it, perhaps i’ll have a scone in their honour – very British 😉


I’ll have a Double Mocha-Choca-Flopa-Tocha-Locha-Boca-Knocka-Socka-Rocka, Please!


I have recently discovered the joy of coffee, having been a self-confessed tea addict for about eighteen years. And do you know why?

Because I just LOVE the fancy names!

I love saying them and hearing them, and (now this is a seriously lame-ass confession) I really do think I sound SUPER cool and sophisticated when I order them! (Please don’t judge me – I already know I am beyond lame..).
Have you ever seen one of those American films where a person goes to the counter and orders a coffee? A stream of words come out their mouths, at a speed on par with a racehorse, and the assistant just nods and gets the drink. I’m sat there, oblivious to the film carrying on while I am still, ten minutes later, trying to work out what the hell they just ordered!

Now I know you could say it’s just a film, both the ‘customer’ and ‘assistant’ have rehearsed their lines, they don’t need to understand it.
I’ve been to America, and I’ve witnessed it! It’s real!!

So I have decided all Americans are born with a natural ability to order complex coffees. It’s a gene developed as they grow in the womb, and while our English kiddies are at school learning their ABC’s and simple sums, American kiddies are refining their ability to order a coffee; “Now then Tommy, let’s hear you recite your coffee order.”
“I’d like a Flappa-Flipa-Mika-Tricka-Licka-Bipa-Loca-Nocka-Choca, please..”
“Very good, Tommy. You may sit back down.” (this is by no means an insult to American children or America’s education system, I realise they too learn ABCs and simple sums…)


So anyway, I decided I wanted to be a part of this seemingly exclusive club of coffee drinkers – my ultimate goal: to order a Starbucks!
So I thought I’d nip into the supermarket and get started…..


It’s was f@&*ing disgusting!
I had never tasted anything so bitter and foul-tasting in my life, making me want to vom on the spot! Gross!

BUT. I reeeeally wanted to be able to go into a Starbucks and order a coffee! So, I did what any sane person would do who knew anymore of that foul liquid would make them vom on the toes of their shoes….

…I kept drinking it.

You know, like they say you can train your taste buds to enjoy something, well, I was in training! (much like cigarettes – I’m pretty sure when I tried my first cigarette all those years ago that the coughing up of my lung wasn’t particularly enjoyable, but, you get passed these things, don’t you) Everyone else seems able to enjoy this disgusting drink, I’m sure I will eventually.

So, the training of the taste buds commenced, and I tried an assortment of things to assist the process: 7 sugars – White then brown; gallons of milk instead of water; minimal coffee and loads of water… But nothing seemed to work.


I discovered a Cappuccino sachet!!
Brilliant! It sounded cool, it tasted better (marginally), and I got to sprinkle chocolate powder on the top!!
Horrah!!!! (the angels sing).

So, I started drinking these, and I was able to go to a small coffee shop here in sunny Brighton and order myself a Cappuccino.


It still wasn’t the really cool order I wanted. “A cappuccino, please,” didn’t really have that same ring to it. And besides, if I’m totally honest, I really didn’t like it all that much.

So I continued my supermarket search, assuming there must be SOME variation of coffee i’d enjoy.
Then, as I was perusing the coffee aisle, I saw it: an amazingly named coffee sachet by Necafe.
(angels singing pretty loudly at this point – aaaAAAAaaAAAAAAhhh!)

How fricking AMAZING did that one sound! I HAD to have it.

So I bought them, got home, and VOILA! I loved it!

Awesome. By now I feel I have the confidence to enter a Starbucks – my ultimate goal – and order a coffee. I rehearsed my line all the way to work on the train. I knew what I had to say, I knew the drink I wanted, and I knew I would no longer feel like an outcast in this exclusive coffee club of people.
I was ready.

I stepped into the darkly lit room, the smell of various coffees filling my nostrils. Bliss. I am SO ready to do this.
There is a queue of around four people at the counter, so I take the time to look at the board on the back wall, where all the types of coffee are listed.

And my heart stopped.

On said board, was not just the coffee I wanted, but THREE variations of it!


A Cafe Mocha
A Choca Mocha
And a White Mocha!


(I realise, NOW, that the above options are really rather simple to decipher: cafe (normal), choca (extra chocolate) and White (White chocolate), but you need to understand I felt WAAAAY out of my depth here, surrounded by coffee graduates (yeah, I just made that qualification up), and I felt so intimidated that my mind just froze! I couldn’t suss out what the hell it meant!)

So I stood in line, awaiting my turn like a lemon. I wanted to bolt – screw this coffee lark; I want my tea – but the queue had extended behind me, and I’d look like a right douche if I legged it now. So with that option out the widow, I had no other choice than to try and revise the line of my order….”a mocha please/a NORMAL mocha please/er, a tea please..”
My hands had began to get clammy as I nervously awaited my turn. And then, BAM, I was next.

“Erm, I’d like a Mocha, please.”
“What type of Mocha would you like?”
So, of course, I totally embarrassed myself.
I stood as tall as I could, cleared my throat, and went for it:
“Oh look, I’m not really au fait with this coffee thing-” nervous chuckle as the large queue behind me watch my increasingly reddening face, “I just know I like Mocha’s.”

I’m a Dickhead.

Stunned silence behind the counter and in the queue, and practically in the entire shop followed my lame-ass comment.
AN INTRUDER! This girl knows NOTHING of our coffee world – off with her head!!

I kid you not, I felt like I was five-years-old and the size of Thumbelina.

Fortunately, the Italian guy serving me took pity on this painfully uneducated woman standing before him, and lowered his voice.
“The White Mocha is great – White chocolate – I’d recommend it.”


“Yes, yes, I’ll have that please.” Relief washed over me instantly. Until..

“Okay. Tall? Cream?”


“Yes? To which?”
Flustered beyond belief, “YES, yes to both. Yes please.” GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!!!!!
He smiled. Then leaned forward and -joy of joys! – whispered, “next time you come in, order: a tall White mocha with cream.”

Woo-fucking-ha! That’s my super-dooper order! How cool did that sound?!!!

So I left, unharmed, with my coffee in hand and my objective met!

Life is great!!

And then my brother in-law – genius that he is – texted me this little beauty:
Double ristretto venti half soy nonfat decaf organic chocolate brownie iced vanilla double shot gingerbread frappuccino extra hot with whipped cream upside down double blended one sweet’n low and one nutrasweet and ice.

Ah crap!




I have just spent the last twenty minutes or so reading through my blog posts.

Isn’t it so unbelievably crushing to re-read something posted, and only THEN discover the numerous grammatical and spelling rookie errors?!

Proof reader I am not.

I promise to double check my posts with a more thorough eye going forward.







The weathers been fabulous this bank holiday weekend, and…I have a tan!!

A bloody good job, too, as I accidentally bought the wrong hair dye, and now have BLACK hair! Yes, Morticia lives. So without the tan, I would have looked rather washed out.

These little accidents often happen to me. My family affectionately refer to them as, ‘Belleisms’. And believe me, there have been quite a few Belleisms over the 28-year stretch of my life.

To name a few:

The Morticia Hair:
I was hot. I was irritable. And I was in the worst place in the world on a hot day: the supermarket.
Hoards of people flock to these places the minute the sun decides to peek around from the clouds. We English, we love a bit of sun, which is apparent the moment it appears – regardless of whether the sunshine is actually HOT, we strip to our shorts and t-shirts, push down the roof of the convertible (not that I own one. Not that I own ANY type of vehicle for that matter), and stampede the supermarkets for BBQ food while our lilly-white skin turns a rather unattractive shade of red.
So of course, with my patience getting thinner and thinner as I am pushed around, cut in front of, and my ears are abused by the wailing sound of spoilt brats begging for an ice-cream they are told will not be bought today, I rush to the appropriate aisle, grab the usual box of dye, and head for the checkout.
I get home, make a cuppa, try to find the energy to die my hair, and then discover I have bought the wrong colour in my haste to leave the shop.
Damn. I have to die it anyway, so I figure ‘what the hell’, and voila, I look like a character from the ‘Adams Family’.

The Eyebrow Incident:
This one is also quite recent.
I have an obsession with eyebrows. I was unfortunately born with both my parents eyebrows – thick, bushy, and apparently trying to take over my entire face. Not attractive.
My younger sister, however, did not inherit such eyebrows, and grew up with naturally beautifully formed eyebrows. I was insane with jealously. You see, my younger sister was apparently born with ALL the good genes: great legs, height, natural popularity, and AMAZING eyebrows. And as we were not too far apart in age, we shared a room. So I spent my entire youth having to look at these perfect features while my own fuzzy brows grew into an untameable mess; I never grew taller, and my legs remained skinner than a couple of cocktail sticks. Sickening.
So the eyebrow obsession grew, and as I got older, I learned to pluck. But I still find myself fascinated by other womens eyebrows.
And so…..
I was sat on my sofa the other day, watching a U-tube video on ‘smoky eye’ makeup application, when I stumbled across one for eyebrows! Imagine my elation!! So I watched, watched again, and then took myself upstairs to get my tweezers and little nails scissors, and went to work at creating perfectly formed eyebrows.
Later that evening, I had a bath, and as I got out I caught a reflection of myself in the bathroom mirror.
“What the..?!” went through my mind. I stared hard at the reflection of my face in the mirror: WHERE THE F*!@ING HELL ARE MY EYEBROWS?!
It was only then, as the realisation dawned that I no longer had any eyebrows (save for a few stay hairs), that I had plucked my eyebrows earlier while wearing EYEBROW PENCIL! I had completely forgotten that it had been applied earlier that morning, and had plucked and trimmed assuming the dark line was hair!
Douchbag doesn’t even cover it.

The Supermarket Trolly (Cart):
This one goes back a few years, when I was about eighteen.
I worked in a building very close to the supermarket my mum works at, and so after work I decided to nip in, grab some bits for my dinner, and say hi to my mum before I went back to my flat.
I’d chosen a short skirt suit that day, and in my eighteen-year-old mind, thought I looked fabulous (I was young and a tad self-obsessed). I grabbed a trolly (cart) and strutted my way around the shop, pretty chuffed with the looks people were giving me (even if they did seem a little odd…) I lapped up the attention, and filled my trolly with dinner.
This particular trolly was weird though; it seemed to have a metal flap I needed to lift in order to place my items in. Strange. Must be a new trolly, I though to myself. Though couldn’t understand the purpose – to save goods being stolen from your trolly prior to purchase? Pretty dumb, if you ask me.
However, I continued. I found my mum on a checkout with quite a large queue of people. Still, I wanted to see her, so remained in the queue. After a while, following a few more looks from people (DAMN I must look hot today!), it eventually became my turn – a huge queue of people had now formed behind me.
I lifted the ‘lid’ of my trolly, and began to place the items on the conveyor belt, and causally mentioned to my mum that I didn’t think much of these new trollies.
“What new trollies?”
Everyone in the queue behind looked at me.
“These ones, with the stupid lid,” I replied for all to hear.
Mum looked over the counter to look at said new trolly.
After a moment of laughter, she said (again, for all to hear), “that’s not a new trolly; you have two stuck together!”
Not as hot as I thought, after all. Just bloody stupid!

And the last Belleism I will divulge…

The Indoor Barbecue:
I had moved into my new flat with my boyfriend. I was SUPER excited, as it was the first flat I had ever owned, and as we unpacked our belongings, I was overwhelmed by excitement; everything was BRILLIANT in my eyes.
We moved to the kitchen, and started to find homes for things, when I looked at the little electric cooker (which came with the flat).
I soon discovered the ‘lid’ lifted, taking the rings up with it, leaving a bare, flat surface.
“AN INDOOR BARBECUE!” I squealed in delight, again SUPER excited! What an amazing thing to have!
My boyfriend at the time fell to the floor in fits of laughter.
“Thats just so you can clean underneath, you Berk! There’s no such thing as an indoor barbecue!!”
Ah. Belleism strikes again.