Saturday, 27 August 2011

Smells Like Fleetch Spirit

This post has been a month in the making. Well, I say that but what I mean is that for a month I have been telling myself I should write it, rather than actively working on it. Nevertheless, I finally got around to it, so ladies and gentleman, it is with the utmost pleasure that I introduce the friend who is currently staying with me. I refer to her as 'Fleetch' (a combination of 'flatmate' and 'leech', as we are inevitably found hanging around the other's bedroom whispering singsonging phrases like "Hey... WHATCHA DOING?" in a purposefully annoying way) and she refers to me likewise. A fleetch is for life, not just for a summer, so taking one in is not a decision to be made lightly, and not everyone can be a fleetch. It requires a special personality to match your own in such a way that you only have to raise an eyebrow in a certain way for your fleetch to catch on, or utter a certain word in order for your fleetch to know exactly what you're thinking. After some training, your fleetch may be able to conduct whole conversations through the use of subtle facial expressions, although for best results this should not be attempted while drunk.

This month has been incredibly entertaining. We have built up so many in-jokes (that she is actually my sister from another mister, the particular voice we use addressing each other which is reminiscent of Terence and Phillip and suggests that mischief is about to be planned poorly and carried out swiftly, the awful films we've spent hours mocking together, our matching Zombie Protection Squad trucker caps and Red Dwarf 'Chameleonic Lifeforms - No Thanks!' tshirts). I'm sadly very aware that she's probably going back to the States soon and there is a time limit on the fun, which has possibly only increased our enjoyment of it.

Fleetch can often be found cuddled up on the couch with one or more cats in a strange, bestial pack-sleeping formation or simply wandering around the flat singing songs with the word 'fleetch' inserted into them (much like the Muff Game mentioned in a previous post) such as "She Wants To Fleetch", "Son Of A Fleetcher Man" and of course, the classic Nirvana song of the title of this post. In our spare time we've been known to paint bowling pins to look like otters and pirates, spend hours joyously discussing how epic the new hoover is and even more time trying to decide on a theme for the living room - so far we're going with Beach Party and I've already sourced some genius inflatable animals which I fully intend to purchase on my next payday.

My fleetchbro likes to leave me banana notes (please see photographic evidence below) instead of Post-Its, which is an important and economical way of exchanging messages in these hard recession times.

She has also been known to burst into the bathroom while I am brushing my teeth to take mock hiphop photos, because "dental hygiene is important, yo" (more photographic evidence - note I am discovering how uncomfortable it feels to laugh hysterically with a toothbrush in one's mouth) and despite my best efforts she's created an album of these called 'Fleetchsta's Paradise' on Facebook.

In addition to all this wonderousness, today is her birthday, so here's my toast - Fleetch, if I had a glass I'd raise it to you. And then I'd drink it, and you'd pour me another, and it would end up being one of those weekends again where we don't sleep for 36 hours because we're too busy partying with hot foreign girls, watching cagefighting and leaving each other hilarious banana notes( I love those weekends). In short, I hope your shot glass is always full, that your ladies are always fun and open to being verbally abused every ten seconds, and that you'll start your training as soon as you get home, because when I come to visit you next year we're going to party like this again. Furreals.

Thursday, 18 August 2011

The Hath Strikes Back

The best way to describe this post is to point out that my friends and I have some very odd conversations at times, or at least, conversations that start off normally and then swiftly devolve into surrealism and insults. (And to think I almost published my newest blog post in progress, which was about the Festival. Heh. This one is much more fun) As an example, I found the below email from last year in my Sent folder and really can't remember why I thought it was so funny at the time (even though it undoubtedly was)

“Dear Life,

I never want to give you up. I never want to let you down. I never want to run around and hurt you. I never want to make you cry. I never want to say goodbye. I never want to lose my robot arm made of grain.

Love RickRoll“

Hmm. It's an enigma wrapped in a mystery surrounded by a RickRoll, that's for sure.
In any case the following conversation took place shortly after a discussion about the newest Anne Hathaway film, which if you have read the previous Hath-related post, you will know already that one of my friends has a deep and undying love for the deer-eyed actress which almost rivals my love for The Dern. I also made the mistake of permitting my friends to choose their names, which as you will see was a great (terrible) idea.

Me: I named one of my GFs from Final Fantasy VIII “Hathaway” in your honour, Tanyakit – she’s a naked Siren who sits on a rock and damages enemies by singing. Ha.

Tanyakit: That is a great honour, indeed

Me: Oh yes, the honour is indeed noteworthy. In addition, I have named my brutal, rock-smashing, horned minotaur-like firebeast  “Rachel”. I think we all know who I am referring to. 

Tanyakit: Wow, really? So you would say that’s an accurate description of McAdam?

Me: Actually, it’s about as nice as I can manage to be. She is pretty powerful though, and her Hellfire attack simply squishes everyone. It’s just a shame she’s so homely and barrel-chested.

Tanyakit: She is really not that special in real life either. I am pretty sure she suffers from the same too-much-mouth affliction as the Hath, and Jennifer Garner…and Julia Roberts…and…pretty much everyone else.

Me: So true, so true. Except at least Hathaway has some redeeming qualities, like her ridiculously overlarge anime eyes, and her ability to act a maximum of one and a half emotions at any given time, whereas Rachel brings nothing to the table.

D$ha: Not even side boob?

Me: (reluctantly) Well...she might bring a little sideboob. But it’s inadequate sideboob. The quality is below poor.

Tanyakit: Does she have enough to quantify side boob? All I know about McAdam is she walked out of a Vanity Fair shoot because they wanted her to show some actual skin. She is meant to be quite strait laced and prudish, or at least that’s her image.

D$ha: (whispering) BOOBS.

Wetsoks: BOOBS!

The Sarahinator: Really, guys?

At this point Other Half jumped in, although since we have been split up for some time I shall have to refer to her as Ex Other Half (although not Ex OH in case people mistake it for a Gossip Girls reference)

Ex Other Half: I can't take this anymore! She has been naked in at least 3 films I have seen her in.

Me: That’s true, you did have that desktop wallpaper with a naked Rachel on it, thus proving that she has been naked on film. She has not, however, managed to look attractive, or to radiate any sexuality beyond the capabilities of an ordinary household sponge.

Tanyakit: You obviously haven’t got our sponge. Its always making bedroom eyes at me.

Me: I get mine from Tesco.

Tanyakit: See, that's your problem right there.

Tuesday, 9 August 2011

Harry (P)Otter and the Deathly Haircut

This week, I have been telling people things and people have been innocently/wilfully/accidentally-on-purpose ignoring me. I'm just back from the hairdressers and am still utterly confused as to how I ended up with this style. I shall explain.

What I Really Said - "Please don't cut anything off, just give me a layer and trim the back."

What My Hairdresser Chose To Hear - "Make it BOUFFANT, my friend! Heap that volumising product onto my head! Go on, don't be shy! I want it to resemble a perfect tousled beehive, or possibly a giant cake. I'm planning to attend a spoof 50s zombie party and this will be just the ticket. Oh and cut whatever you like, wherever you like, with whatever shearing tools you feel necessary. Don't mind me."

I spent a lot of the walk home frantically pressing my hair down in such a fashion that people were beginning to look at me oddly, as if I was perhaps trying  to hide an unsightly lightning-bolt shaped scar on my forehead or similar. Now, I've mentioned the hair issue in a previous post (or possibly more than one, considering I get my hair cut about every 6 weeks or so and the same thing always seems to happen even if I switch salons) and although I am still verging on Bieberhair territory, I'm not living in the centre of the Biebertropolis. I suppose things could be a lot worse.

I honestly don't know why people don't listen to me. I quite often talk a lot of sense, although no one seems to be aware of this fact, possibly because no one listens to me in the first place. Take this conversation between me and my friends last Friday night, in a local bar:

Friend 1: So, that group of girls over there...

Friend 2: Yeah. We should...

They exchange furtive, knowing looks.

Friend 1: Exactly.

Me: What are you guys talking about? Are we buying another round, because I already feel quite smashed.

Friend 1 (cheerily):  Nonsense! You're fine.

Me: I think I need to sit down.

Friend 2: You ARE sitting down.

Me: Oh. Can I have some Goldschlager?

Friend 1: Anyway, about these girls. You should go over and talk to them.

Me: Who, me? Why?! What did  I do?

Friend 1: Talking to a group of young attractive girls isn't a punishment, dude.

Me: Why me? You do it!

Friend 1: No, see... you're the bait.

Me: .....Um...

Friend 2: Yeah, you're like the cute little worm on a string that we dangle in front of hungry groups of lesbians to reel them in.

Me: I'm utterly disturbed by that...and oddly flattered at the same time...

Friend 1: Uh huh. Now go.

Me: Um, you've seen me talk to girls, right?

Friend 2: Oh, definitely. They love that whole shy, awkward thing.

Me: That's not a thing, that's actually me.

Friend 1: Well, it works. Go, young one. Return with hot girls or on them!

Me: Is that a 300 reference?

I still have very little recollection of what happened that night. I do remember on the way home around 3am, we met a guy standing outside his flat trying to call the RSPCB because there was a seagull nearby that wasn't afraid of him. The gull may or may not have been injured but he couldn't get close enough to tell and he was freaking out because he was an environmental lawyer and seemed to really, really care, whereas the bird looked like it was just trying  to have a private moment without all these pesky meddling humans around. It was funny, but odd. It's not waking-up-with-plastic-bullets-in-your-purse odd, but it's definitely not an everyday occurence, even in Scotland.

In summary, I shall leave you with this old otter saying - live like it's your last day, drink like it's your first bucket and never turn down an opportunity to play table tennis at 3am with a guy you met in an alley.