Drinking Is Fun But Maybe There Should Be Rules

This may be a shorter post than normal (possibly a blessing in a false beard and moustache) but I feel like people deserve to hear this particular story. A few weeks ago, the Fleetch, her ex-girlfriend (normally and lovingly referred to as 'Tanyakit', 'Cublet' or 'Shut Your Pretty Mouth') and I were all out at a local gay bar. This was in fact the night I was (I suppose the only appropriate word is "accosted", although in my mind I'm leaning more towards "emotionally molested") by a young lady who was very drunk and horribly, terrifyingly, seemed more than a little obsessed with my teeth. Now, my teeth are fairly normal. They're not perfect, sure, but I don't think there is much you could criticise. I rarely think about them in detail, given that I only use them for crushing stuff in my mouth, and occasionally for tearing open a packet of something if I can't find scissors and the Fleetch isn't around. But this girl looked at me like she wanted to tear my mouth apart and make trophies out of me. My breaking point came when she had me backed into a corner and the Fleetch started humming the tune for Deliverance. We got out of Dodge pretty quickly, let me tell you.

In any case, we ended up sitting on a sofa next to a lesbian couple. They were not, to put it politely, aesthetically suited to each other. I'd be the first to point out that physical looks only  get you so far in a relationship, so don't be hatin'. The problem is that my friends, particularly when under the influence of alcohol, have  a tendency to speak their minds directly. I rather like this about them. It's why we're friends.
Now, it's not that Tanyakit is particularly loud when drunk. When sharing a room, I have never been tempted to edge away to ease the auditory pressure, although I have several times noted that her voice seems to carry ridiculously well (the Fleetch and I once sat in our living room, a good ten feet or so from the firmly closed window - bear in mind we live on the first floor - and could clearly hear every word of her conversation with the takeaway guy from across the street). However on this occasion, the couple in question were about three feet away. I saw my friends eye them. I considered throwing myself over them in slow motion, but decided that it would't help. This was going to happen anyway, and it was better just to batten down the hatches and wait out the storm.

Tanyakit: Look at that! Mismatch of the CENTURY! Wow! Seriously!

Me: Dude-

Tanyakit: I'm not even kidding! Look at them!

The couple pretended, very nicely, not to hear.

Me: (pinching my nose) Oh sweet merciful-

Fleetch: (leaning over) Hey. Hey. Towncrier. Why don't you pipe down for a bit?

Tanyakit: What? I wasn't even being-

Fleetch: Oh, but you were. Ten o'clock and all is not well.

Tanyakit: I didn't-

Me: Now that you have delivered the news to the populace, go forth and tell the king!

Tanyakit: You guys are dicks.

Meet Me At The Clocktower

Some amusing things have been happening this week, my pretty little reader-minions. I'm not even sure where to start - I feel like a kid in a candy store, or perhaps an otter in a river full of juicy trout. Perhaps I should mention that I'm due for a hair cut later today, and thus will inevitably be found complaining about it on Twitter later (I promise that unless something really out of the ordinary happens, I won't blog about my complaints.. this time) so I may as well enjoy my good mood while it lasts. In the spirit of goodnatured joking, I hope you enjoy the following video by the Biebershop Quartet. Incidentally, on a music-related note, I suggested the other day on Twitter that I would be up for forming a gay tribute band called Bi Jovi, if anyone is interested.

One of my colleagues approached me yesterday with the opening sentence "I overheard something really weird and I knew you'd appreciate it". She wasn't wrong. Here the following conversation is between two young adult males of European descent, and was, I'm assured, held with completely serious tones.

Guy 1: Mate. Mate. I just don't get it.

Guy 2: What?

Guy 1: Why do gay people have so many friends?

Guy 2: (without missing a beat) Because they're spies.

Picking this tangled mess of thoughts apart is a task far beyond my mental endurance, much like a politically-incorrect Krypton Factor. The points I could make are all immediately obvious so I won't patronise you by pointing them out, and will instead settle for spluttering in indignation and amusement. In addition, the thought did occur to me that if some of my friends were in fact spies, firstly they've been hiding that damn well, and secondly, I've not been utilising them in the most effective way. Clearly, 2012 is going to be a very different kind of year.

The other amusing thing, which I am loathe to admit (for it makes me and my friend look like complete dillholes) but of course will, for the entertainment of those on the interwebz. I was supposed to meet my friend Sam for dinner last night. We arranged a time, we vaguely had restaurant ideas in mind, and then she text me with instructions to meet her at the clock in Tollcross. Now, for those of you who don't know Edinburgh, there is a large clock outside the Sheraton hotel in the Tollcross area. It is immediately visible as you walk up the hill, and as far as I knew, there was no way of mistaking it for anything else. I arrived a couple of minutes early despite the hurricane winds that threatened to float me Mary-Poppins style into the oncoming traffic and stood around awkwardly under the clock, waiting for Sam to arrive. A few minutes past our arranged meeting time, she rang me. Again, because of the wind, it was hard to hear her but I just about managed to make her words out.

Sam: Where are you?

Me: I'm here.

Sam: Wait...so am I. Are you at the clock?

Me: Yes?

Sam: Are you invisible?

Me: I don't think so....Okay, hang on, I'll walk around the clock.

I walked around the clock. There was no sign of her.

Me: Huh. Weird.

Sam: Wait, which clock are you at?

Me: The one in Tollcross, like you said.

Sam: Oh, I'm at the other one.

Me: What other one? The one on Princes Street?

The clock on Princes Street, I hasten to add, is only a 5 minute walk away, but is clearly on Princes Street itself and could not possibly have been mistaken for the Tollcross clock, especially not by someone who'd lived in the city for years like Sam has. I sighed, rolled my eyes and told her to walk towards me and to stay on the right side of the road. I began to trot towards Princes Street. About half way down, I started to get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I hadn't seen Sam yet and by my calculations she should have been visible walking up the hill. I'd been keeping an eye on both sides of the road, so I was sure I hadn't missed her. I rang her back:

Me: Dude. Where are you?

Sam: (giggling) I'm at the clock in Tollcross now. Did we miss each other?

Me: Okay, this is ridiculous. Where are you?

Sam: Okay, walk back and I'll meet you halfway.

I dutifully returned to the clock at Tollcross, only to find that Sam was nowhere to be seen. I rang her again.

Me: DUDE. SERIOUSLY. We are two adult women and we have now missed each other twice in an area about 600 yards long. How is this happening?

Sam: (now in complete giggling hysterics) I don't know! Let's try again, you walk towards me and I'll walk towards you.

We tried a third time and likewise failed. I called her back.

Me: (mystified and suspicious) Am I on Candid Camera?

Sam: Okay, I will come and get you. Stay where you are.

After another couple of minutes she turned up, still giggling. As if the whole debacle hadn't been bad enough already, we realised that in fact she had been talking about another clock in the Tollcross area entirely. We agreed that next time we'd just meet at the restaurant to save ourselves the 20 minutes of unnecessary exercise.

In conclusion, I am a complete idiot, there are too many damn clocks in Edinburgh, and if I had to guess which of my friends were spies, Sam would not be my first choice.

One Coat To Rule Them All

I bought myself a new jacket a couple of weeks ago. I am aware that the number of coats I already own could probably clothe a significant number of people (not necessarily the clichéd 'small country', just a medium-sized office, possibly including support staff) but I decide to splash out a little. It's a sort of khaki-coloured parka from ASOS, one of my favourite online stores which is - depending on the financial time of the month for me - either a heavenly eden of fashionable yet affordable delights or a hellishly unattainable assortment of beautiful garments which I crave but cannot afford even in my wildest dreams (which incidentally can be pretty wild - I had one recently about a group of elves who kept trying to put me and a friend in prison and then set fire to us, which I'm still not 100% sure is the traditional elvish way of killing people but then my knowledge of folklore is admittedly a little rusty).

The problem with the parka, or at least, what my friends see as the problem (I personally see this as a slightly creepy bonus) is that it is quite large, and long, and if I'm going to be perfectly honest it looks a lot like something a flasher would wear. Once I discovered this, I began to pretend to flash my friends, which they did not seem to appreciate as much as I thought they might. One particular friend was particularly uncomfortable with this, and so of course I zoned in on her and insisted on doing it over and over, to the entertainment of everyone else.

Sarah: (pinching her nose) Could you please stop that?

Me: (more pretend flashing) Stop what? This utterly erotic and seductive behaviour?

Sarah: (recoiling and covering her face) Yes! That! Seriously, no more flashing, for the love of god!

Me: But I'm fully clothed. It's not technically wrong.

Sarah: It's still creepy.

Me: I don't understand. (still doing the flashing motion, but slowly and tenderly, like a lover would) Look, I'm unfurling for you. See? Unfurling. Like a gift. Like a GIFT.

Sarah: Go. Away. If I have to tell you again, I will set you on fire.

It probably didn't help that the Fleetch was helpless with laughter in the background and was therefore to blame for encouraging my behaviour. As you have seen from the banana notes, things are often her fault, even things that happen when she is not there.

Speaking of Fleetch behaviour - on one of the crazy weekends we've had recently, as we were heading into a club, without breaking her stride, she flashed a nearby policewoman. I am still not over this traumatic ordeal.

Me: (springing away in horror and self-preservation) What the bloody hell are you doing?! I don't know what kind of odd cultural greetings you have in America, but that's not legal here!

Fleetch: (unfazed) Oh, it's fine. I know her.

Me: (gobsmacked).... I ..... I ....still don't think you're allowed to do that.

The poor policewoman was in the middle of trying to arrest a drunk girl but had time to grin briefly at the Fleetch and I before the club swallowed us up. I'm still reeling from this particular event, but I'm glad to know that I have enough sense (even when drunk) to step away from someone visually molesting the police. Hey, somebody's got to pay the bail, right?

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.

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.

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.

Are You Sitting Comfortably? Then I'll Begin.

Did you ever read a story as a child (or perhaps you had it read to you by an adult who wasn't thinking about the subject matter much and was probably more concerned with forcing you into Dreamland as soon as possible so they could go and relax) that didn't sit quite right? I remember several of these at different points in my childhood, and upon reading them again as an adult I found myself appalled at the tales that had entranced me as a kid,. Take Brer Rabbit for example. Brer Rabbit lived in a small village seemingly populated by only one of every species (even at age 5 I was aware that this didnt match up at all with the things I knew about nature) who were all, rather puzzlingly, named Brer (originally it was "Bre'er" - pronounced "bruh" - which meant "brother"). There was Brer Bear, Brer Fox, and Brer Something Stoaty that I can't find any reference to on the internet but am positive I haven't made up. I swear it's not a misguided attempt to force an otter character into this, despite how much better otters make everything.
 
The stories inevitably began, ended or somehow managed to weave in one or more animals trying to molest and/or kill and/or eat Brer Rabbit, not necessarily in that order. It seems odd that no one ever seemed to wonder why these animals were confined to this one place, or why none of them had mates or children, or why - even though they could all communicate to each other like humans, and hell, even dressed in human-ish clothes - morals went completely out of the window when the question of dinner was at stake. 
 
I'd given this a lot of thought recently, and came to the conclusion that the Brer animals were trapped in a kind of hideous, mutated universe. Unable to get out, unable to find comfort in others of their own species, they descended into an immoral, cannibalistic, crazed hierarchy where the only goal was to feast on Brer Rabbit, who was the obvious choice of prey, being weaker and not as predatory in nature as the others.
 
Now, I can kind of understand WHY they wanted to kill Brer Rabbit. He did kind of seem like an insufferable little dick, always outwitting the others and stealing their vegetables (even if he happened to be stealing back vegetables the other animals had stolen in the first place, in a pointless cycle of theft,). He always seemed to rain vengeance down upon them in some way, using his brains to outwit their brawn, and took great delight in yapping about his triumph. But whereas in other books, I have found characters that I love to hate, and characters that I hate to love (Umbridge from the Harry Potter books springs to mind), I never really empathised with any of the characters in Brer Rabbit. It wasn't the animal factor, I've read plenty of great books with animal protagonists that I encourage everyone to read - the Chronicles of Narnia, for example, or David Clement-Davies' Fire Bringer, and let's not forget my ultimate trashy thrill in the Warrior Cats series - but I always felt that Brer Rabbit just never quite made the cut.