Monday, February 28, 2005


Someone has been pissing me off recently and i want revenge.
I need feed back here - do I print up flyers with the person's phone number on under a heading like 'Big boobed blonde eighteen year old, will do anything, your place or mine!' and put them in every single phone box in brighton?
Do I do it?

Saturday, February 26, 2005

seafront shennagins II

The hotel job was horrific, there's a lot that I could write about it, so expect more. For now I'll just tell you about one of my co-workers, I'll call her sunshine.
Sunshine was about 35, and to be honest, looking a little bit faded, her hair wasn't as blond as it used to be, her makeup was collecting in her wrinkles more than before and her boobs weren't quite as perky as they once had been. Sunshine did exactly the same job as me at the hotel, but took herself very seriously, she kissed the arses of the mangers, flashed cleavage at the male customers, talked about being 'proactive' and slagged of anyone who was out of earshot. She also liked to talk very loudly and at great length about her ex-husband who lived on a yacht in marbella and wanted her back so much that he said he'd support her and wouldn't even ask her to sleep with him as long as she came back to him. Sunshine liked telling people about this and would end this little section of her story by saying,"the money's great, but having affairs is such hard work, and there's no way I can be with him, he's just too ordinary for a girl like me" and tossing her not-quite so blonde hair.
Sunshine did not like me, I think bitches can sense other bitches sometimes, and would do whatever she could to make my job that little bit harder and more painful. After an incident involving her accidentally on purpose spilling really hot coffee all over me and then telling me that I was clumsy, I was about to turn round and speak my mind, and by speak my mind I mean launch a verbal attack of such nuclear proportions that even she would be left reeling in tis aftermath. But I didn't. I turned round, smiled and said, "whoops, silly me". That freaked her out, but I was filled with a sense of enormous smugness, I had been about to tell her that she was past her prime and fading fast, a failed marriage behind her that she had ruined, a shitty job that she actually took seriously and that no-one of her age with any self respect would actually do, that she still lived with her parents and probably always would, and more of the same and more of the same. But I didn't say any of this because I didn't actually want her to see what she was and how pathetic she was. I rather leave her blind to herself, washed up and decaying slowly on the seafront like a low-rent version of Blanche DuBois in Streetcar Named Desire.

Seafront shennagins

The most worst job I've had since I've been in Brighton had to be at one of the big seafront hotel, the one that TS Eliot with good reason declared to be a den of iniquity. I was desperate for money and this was all I could get, so I just got on with it. I did conferences and banquets, corporate parties, room service, I served and cleared, served and cleared, was yelled at, had my arse pinched, by breasts commented upon, then I served and cleared some more; all for minimum wage and with no breaks, not even on the occasions when I was stupid enough to sign up for 12 hour shifts.
However, the guests provided me with quite a bit of entertainment, especially at their Christmas or end of year parties. The dancing was particularly interesting, and you can tell exactly what position a person occupies in the company by how they move their feet. Junior members of staff who don't care about their jobs, or people who have nothing to lose have generally drunk as much of the free booze laid on by the firm as possible, they will therefore be the first on the dancefloor, and in the greatest state of undress. Couple will be forming amongst this group to form the notorious 'dry hump' manouver. This is not restricted to male/female couples. Oh no. Whole groups of girls will get together in order to attract the maximum amount of attention, by creating what they hope will be recognized as a kind of lesbian frisson which will attract they attention of Gary from the Bracknell branch. Those amongst the higher ranks will be equally drunk and dancing with gay abandon and little regard for the safety of those in proximity to them. Arm and legs flailing, hips gyrating in a terrifying fashion, they don't care what anyone thinks, because they can't be sacked. And somewhere between these two factions is the most desperate and frightening move of all - the middle management shuffle. An aryhthmic sidestep, accompanied by the occasional head bob and nervous looks at the chardonnay fueled carnage going on around them, middle management are just trying to get through the evening with the minimum of personal embarrassment. Despite their shyness on the dancefloor, middle management man is by far the most likely to accidentally bring home a pre-op transsexual, and to find this out at the exact moment that room service (i.e. me) was knocking on the door with the cheap bottle of cava they'd ordered up.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

a bit of romance

i'm going to get uncharacteristically mushy here, and expose my soft, vulnerable underbelly here, but i think i'm a bit of a romantic at heart. Yes, yes, laugh away. But i am, so there, and i don't think i should be mocked for it.
Actually i do deserve to be mocked, it's so fucking pathetic of me that i hate myself.
I've got the perfect fella, JG, in most respects, he's really sweet, kind, attentive, i can talk to him about just about anything, we fix problems before they turn into arguments. Sickeningly mature isn't it? The thing is, he's not romantic, i think he feels guilty about it sometimes, like when one of his mates confessed to singing his girlfriend to sleep over the phone when she goes away (vomit) he said 'i never do anything like that do i?' with a sheepish look on his face. I think he, like everyone else, knows me as a bit of a hard-faced bitch, but with a small mine of softness which he's uncovered. However, there's also an untapped mine of hallmark style sentimentality that no-one knows about. Until now.
I met this guy in the summer, in prague, of all places, i had to meet him in a beautiful, fairytale city like that. We clicked, we just got on well, we made it each other laugh, we got pissed on a riverboat and then talked about deep things, like the world, and our relationships past and present. We watched the sunset on the Charles bridge and made wishes together, which was so fucking intimate it hurt. Bur nothing happened cos we were bith with people. There was this awareness too that it wouldn't just be a holiday shag, it would have gone on at home and we would have hurt other people. So we parted, and we kept saying that we'd meet up in budapest, or paics, or zagreb, but we didn't, we just missed each other every time. United by our interrail passes, divided by timetabling errors. Tragic, but probably for the best, we would have ended up having sex in a bunkbed in a hostel and falling out.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Portrait of a Wanker

My feathers were somewhat ruffled, shall we say, yeaterday, by an encounter with my ex-flat mate. What a cock.

Before i tell everyone about him, i think it's worth mentioing that i DID NOT, i categorically DID NOT choose to live with him, we were thrown to gether by Fate, who clearly has a more warped sense of humour than i ever imagined.

I'll refer to him henceforth as S.S.

S.S. makes my blood boil like no-one else i've ever met, i'd rather scratch my eyes out with rusty nails than be in close proximity to him.
My hate affair with S.S. began the second i first glimpsed him across a dirty hallway, I've never known such physical and mental revulsion before. I knew that this was the start of something big.

He liked to think of himself as a bit of a working class hero, an easy image to pull off in brighton, where anyone with a northern accent sticks out like a sore thumb. Particularly on the sussex campus, where there are a hell of a lot of middle class kids from london who've never been north of watford, and are full of awe and respect for the har life anyone who grew up in the north must have had, even if he did go to an expensive boys public school and have wealthy parents.

We lived together for a year and in that time he used the washing machine 5 times, and didn't even manage to finish off the one bottle of shower gel that he had in the bathroom. The smell in his room was so bad that if he opened the door in the morning, the foul stench that seeped out was still there in the evening. The smell wasn't just because he didn't wash himself or his clothes or bedding, it was actually coming from inside him. His diet consisted of cans of corned beef, beans and microwave beef hotpot. Not a solitary vegetable to be seen, not even peas, he was quite literally rotting from the inside out.

My real problem with him was the fact that he claimed to have been a member of the nazi youth league and had some rather foul views about 'keeping england english'. His unsanitaryness pales into insignificane in comparison. However, when he ran for office in the student elections he superimposed his face onto a picture of che guvara, with the caption 'S.S. leading the revolution'. What a twat.

Add onto this the fact that he used to pretend to be gay to get girls to feel sorry for him and be friends with him, the fact that he was physically violent towards my female flatmate, the fact that all his ex-girlfriends were anorexic (did he drive them to it, or just pick the most vulnerable girls he could find, knowing that only someone with exceptionally low self-confidence would go out with him?) and the fact that he respects har mar superstar as an artist and i think you've got a portrait of wanker.

S.S. seems a hard person to work out, but he's quite simple you bear in mind the fact that he does everything for attention. He looks for things that will shock the most, because at a university like Sussex, shock value equals popularity. S.S. has managed to make everyone see him as this charismatic, sexually ambiguous, politically radical figure which impresses the sad little twats, who are too short sighted to recoginse the contradictions in the way he presents himself.

I could say a lot more, but you're probably bored by now.

Monday, February 21, 2005

the condition brightaine


Jenny Holzer wrote these and pasted them all over new york in the late 1970s, early 1980s. I've wanted to stick them all over brighton ever since i moved here.
i love it here, but i hate it too, no the most original thing to say about brighton i know, but hey, i think everyone who lives here feels like this.
i love that people can live whatever lifestyle they choose here, but i hate how fucking cliquey it gets. Everyone is trying to outdo eachother in how 'alternative' they can be, but lets be honest, being 'alternative' in brighton hardly makes you stand out does it? especially as most people move here to find people just like them, and then there's the few who move here and than get pissed off that there are other people who look are a bit more different than them.
Take this girl i worked with over the summer. She was very vocal about the fact that she'd moved from south africa to brighton for the gay scene, and never tired of telling us about her lesbian flatshare in kemp town or the girl she'd pulled in the candy bar, she really was living the dream..........
My gay friend clare came into work one day, and my colleague didn't like it one little bit, oh no. Clare, to be blunt, looks gay, you can't mistake it, and this was obviously very threatening to the girl i worked with, who went round muttering about 'fake lesbians' and how 'not everyone who looked gay actually had the balls to live the lifestyle'. She refused to speak to clare when she served her for the rest of the evening.
The icing on the cake was that i caught her shagging Dan, the tall and rather hisute Australian chef, by the bins about a week later. Fake lesbians indeed.....
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