Tuesday 30 November 2010

La pute des blogs

Guess what?
I now have a second blog!!

fanatastical.blogspot.com

It's all about the current project we're doing a la art school so it's a lil more serious than this blog so don't expect megalolz.
Check it out, check it out, check it out, check it out.

Wednesday 24 November 2010

Meet somebody

Everybody I'd like you to meet Aunt Flo:

Aunt Flo is my aunt or something.
To be completely honest she's a total bitch. Whenever she comes over for her monthly visit  to our house she's a total bitch, especially to my mum but for some reason she just puts up with her.

Unfortunately the stress these visits cause make my mum mirror Aunt Flo, thus she becomes a total bitch too, demanding chocolate and Midsomer Murders (Aunt Flo loves Midsomer Murders like anything) in bed!
This is Aunt Flo getting mega-bitchy. Don't ever cross her when she's like this. She just rants on about how her life is so shit and wants to be left alone and stuff...even though she does all the visiting. It is so hard to ignore her.
As you can see, mega mega hates herself when she visits.

What a bitch.

Monday 22 November 2010

A Fame Review


One day I decided to become famous.

I can't recall the specific date date or time I though this but one day I decided to become famous and I did.
I am currently a very famous person. So famous that you can't actually find me in OK! or Hello. That's how famous I am. I'm classy famous.
Today I decided to compare my famous self to my fellow famous counterparts by googling 'famous people'. These are the first people that came up.

The Queen Yeah I can see why I'm totally like the Queen. We were both born into fame. Fame comes natural to us. We just take it and roll with it. Although her fashion sense is a bit too retro....well at least it's not all Ugg boots and jeggings so I guess she has some class and dignity. It's just the Duke of Edinburgh isn't doing anything for her. Certainly not the most avant-garde accessory of this season...time to let go.

Albert Einstein Sometimes it's better being famous for being different. Einstein does this (mostly) effectively; he's not famous for his beauty, his thespianity or his operatic voice. No. He is most known for that intelligence of his. And intelligence is hot. It gives fame a better name. Although...that hairstyle of his isn't all that...
that's where Einstein fails on being different. The copycat. Don't copycat - stand out and innovate!

Elvis Presley Not only is this famous one famous for his songs, he's most importantly renouned for his tics. That hippy shake; that weird lippy thing; that accent. Additionally he's also heralded as the guy who died on the toilet. What a glamourous way to go. I'd choose asphyxiation, but whatever.

Who's this guy? There is a fatal flaw with this famous person - I don't know them. Never ever EVER be this person! That hunch is also highly off-putting.

Now you know how not to be famous, send me a picture of yourself and a brief essay on how and why you're ever so famous by the 2nd December to conglats@gmail.com. In order to encourage you to carry out this task, the most famous person will be interviewed by yours truly (probs over msn or something) and the results from this said interview shall be posted on this very very famous blog, so you will as a result become super-famous!! What a prize!

You'll also get a mixtape I've licked in the post. Not too sure what's on it, but there is some music on it.
Be famous!


Tuesday 16 November 2010

I am so turned on right now.

In case I get a bisexual beating by C.J., it'd only be fair if I wrote a list of my turn-ons as I am extremely 'sexual'. So without further ado, Germanotti is at present turned on by...

  • London. No, not the Canadian London! I mean the real London, like art English London, duh! Who would be turned on by London, ON? It's like a complete ripoff of real London; it's on the Thames River (N.B. not River Thames), has its own Hyde Park and Covent Garden! No one's turned on by a copycat.
  • Dutch-ness. The Netherlands if you want to be so 'ra' about it. I love Dutch-ness. Dutch food (sprinkles on toast anyone?), Dutch design, Dutch psyche, Dutch bicycles (got one of them, it's a beaut)...Dutch anything! Except the weather cos it's pretty much like the UK, so crap.
  • Fashion Illustration. Fashion illustrations are the sexiest motherfuckin pieces of art in the whole wide world. I envy Rene Gruau and the many others who illustrate in a similar FASHION (yeah, I went there). Check it out, please, it'll make you wet.
  • Lady Gaga. Despite being vegetarian I'd screw her wearing her meat dress. No, in fact if I were to attempt to screw the lady herself, we'd probably have some surreal conceptual sex like be cover entirely in bubble wrap which makes a very intimate moment very not intimate at all due to the fact we wouldn't be physically touching one another, but metaphorically blah blah blah...
  • Andy Warhol. OK, I'm not kidding but everytime I pass the Andy Warhol shelf in the college library my heart races with excitement and my palms get all twitchy. Crap then starts spouting out my mouth like 'ohmygodisototallyloveandywarhol'sworkit'samazingit'sjustwow' or something if anyone is in the vicinity of the Andy Warhol shelf. He was a good artist I think.
  • Blogger Stats. It's a bit of an unhealthy obsession with my stats. I watch them every day in hope I'll have more visitors! You see, basically bust my load all over my diddy laptop when I get a view of my blog. The orgasm is even more intense if the view is from abroad (i.e. not the UK) because then I know it's definitely not just me constantly checking back for comments. Come on world, make me jizz!
  • C.J. Natch which means natuerlich which is German for naturally or obviously.
What I'm not into is/are:
  • Boundaries and Restrictions. Read into it as much as you will, but I'm going to keep it vague. I'm not fond of restrictions. Restrictions and boundaries can limit your choices or world or outlook on life and what's the fun in that? You could be missing out on many things!
  • Narrow-mindedness. This is the biggest turn off for me ever. If you're narrow-minded and not willing to take a risk or try something new, go abroad or say 'fuck it', go on living your life but in a tunnel. Again, you could be missing out on many things!
  • Art Bullshit. Ugh, just ugh. I have no patience for deep arty farty bullshit, although I'm meant to be into it, but it's just a fucking mattress with a stain on it!
  • Gerkhins. Why? They don't taste nice at all! Olives don't either!
Happy now?

Saturday 13 November 2010

Followup

You see if you do listen to Christina Aguilera, you end up like this whiney bitch:

LINK

True fact.

The use of multiple colours is unfashionable.




You learn something new everyday.

I'm such a fucking freak. In real life you'll notice that there's something...off...about that child you're talking to.
Oui, c'est moi! T'es con, petasse!
But if you're self confident about it, you can go fuckin wild! You can say anything! That's how George Bush went about hsi presidency: his message was retarded but at least he believed in it and didn't say 'this war's been an epic fail, lolz'.

To start with I was a quiet, reserved child who preferred to conform to (or at least attempt to conform to) 'cool' which didn't really work out.
I remember once sitting down at the dinner table at lunch time at primary school asking my knowledgeable companions for how to be cool. My first response I got from them was 'you wear grey trousers, in order to be cool you must wear black trousers.' Oh shit. 'you need a games console' Double shit. 'you can't really 'make' cool by just having things' Shut up rational friend!!

6 years plus tard...(that's later by the way) I gained the life skill of 'self confidence' through GCSE drama in a somewhat unorthodox manner (this means bitching about the teacher and knowing the curriculum and how to perform better than her - seriously, we did!) and realised that if you have this vital ingredient 'self confidence', you can be who the hell you wanna be. You can be George Bush for all I care and people will think you're cool for it.

Or if you haven't gained sufficient self confidence, LIE! Lie through those teeth of yours, or if not, those perfect dentures of yours. Lie until it kills you. Lying gives you an air of confidence that makes you appear as if you know what you're doing (George Bush, no?). Oh and listening to Christina Aguilera patronise you about being beautiful is an unhealthy habit. Don't take it up.

Get out there and say 'fuck you world, I'm cool, you're mediocre!'
Boom, creepy old man, boom.

Thursday 11 November 2010

I am so vexed.


Being a student, it is important to do studenty things such as partying until it kills you but not quite, being liberal and non-prejudice, learning stuff (yeah, I know right?) and protesting.
I believe that I can now tick these four studenty traits off my student trait list and I have the evidence to prove that I can:

Partying until it kills you but not quite: A few posts ago I mentioned my fun fun party I went to in London and its consequence, but also quite recently I got so shockingly fucked on alcohol that I never ever want to drink again. A friend I had only seen many moons ago (like 3 weeks) and I got to the pub at about half 6. I drank and spillt many a-bevarage on my £10 blazer (charity shop, yah) and £25 jeans. This excessive drinking led me to have awkward conversations with others I hadn't seen in a long time (as in a seriously long time!). My chosen phrase for conversation was "Oh shit, I'm so fucked, this is terribly embarrasing, you shouldn't see me in this state..." and that exact phrase was repeated throughout the night.
I then threw up when I got home at 10 and felt a little better.
It was horrible.

Being liberal and non-prejudice: I come from the leafy-green suburbs of Surrey, where everyone is merry and gay and mostly white middle-class Christian do-gooders. Somehow I imagined the whole of Britain was  just like Surrey until I was introduced to the wonderful world of Peckham and Camberwell, where white middle-class Christian do-gooders are a minority.
That's just the surrounding area.
Now when I got to art school, I recognised that this so wasn't Surrey anymore - it was so racially, religiously, sexually, class-ly diverse my head imploded at how narrow my view of Britain was.
Fuck going abroad, try art school!

Learning stuff: Sure art students don't actually 'learn' as such, they just play with glue, pens and sparkly things all day in order to create a piece that look like a six year old could've made it, except the piece requires lengthy explanations of bullshit as to why it looks like a six year old could've made it. BUT we actually do have to learn stuff too!
A few weeks ago we had to submit essays on pieces of art or design we had seen during our time at uni and what we thought of them. And to do that we had to RESEARCH using BOOKS, WEBSITES and JOURNALS. We also were required to make a BIBLIOGRAPHY according to the annal teachings of the HOLY HARVARD SYSTEM OF REFERENCING (what a bitch). Yeah, we had to use our BRAINS.
(By the way my essay was on the UK road signage; you'd be surprised at how interesting it actually is!)

Protesting: Yes being able to perform the three former student traits means you are fully qualified to protest. I went yesterday on a demo to prevent tuition fee increases and the potential privatisation of art and humanities unis/colleges as the government believes them to be low-priority subjects (yeah, cos maths and sciences are high-priority?).
We were pretty pissed off.
Well actually no we weren't really. We were having a pretty jolly time and it was dead peaceful  (we didn't know about that Millbank window breaking kerfuffle until we got home). So dead peaceful we still had time to read our texts and eat lunch whilst marching. We also made some pretty confetti out of publications handed out by a Militant Student member. Lol.
Seriously, protests seem to be a time when anyone who has any sign of some sort to come out of their activist nests and wave it proudly. For instance I saw a 'JESUS IS COMING' sign. Swear I saw a 'ROMANS - FOR SALE' sign too.

And now I can officially say I'm a student.
I can die happy now.

Tuesday 9 November 2010

INDOCTRINATE!!

In one month's time I'm seeing Lady Gaga.

To get us in the mood listen to this sexy remix:

LINK

Now listen to it whilst reading my blog.
You'll feel like it's the coolest blog you've ever read and you'll never leave.

Friday 5 November 2010

Paris Part 1

I present unto you the first blog collab between C.J. and I (C.J. is of course famous for her blog found here)
It is about our trip to Paris.
In each part we write about the same events and happenings, but from different points of view. We then simultaneously post the parts onto our blogs.
My pov is in my usual font colour, C.J.'s is the one in red.
Understand?
Read on!

This photo basically describes our day trip to Paris in its entirety:

This picture was taken on the morning we arrived in Paris, fresh from the 10 hour coach trip. It's about 7am and a Saturday, meaning fuck all is open. This is C.J. standing in front of a Metro station looking pretty miserable after a really miserable trip (she only had the photo taken in order to shut me up). The photo's blurred because I'm so exhausted to give a shit about whether the shot was in focus or not.

The original idea was for C.J. and I to go to Paris to see an exhibition viewable for a limited time only (as well as to see the many Parisian sights) and to arrive by coach as it was cheap. So we would take the late-night Eurolines coach from Victoria Coach Station, London; sleep on the coach; and arrive at Gallieni early morning then take a late-night coach back again on the same day to arrive the next morning in London.

Sure sounds like a plan.
C.J. was so excited she had to put "Paris <3" into every online conversation we had.

But what a crap plan it turned out to be.
I tried to sleep, God knows I tried, but I just couldn't. C.J. and Anthony (the guy we met at the coach station) seemed fine but I was persistenly fidgeting (a few days after Paris C.J. commented on how dangerously unhealthy my sleeping positions were).
Getting up on the Eurotunnel train to find the toilet whilst sleep deprived didn't make my Parisian experience anymore fun. Our coach and only a few white vans occupied the 12 coach train, so walking to the toilet for 5 minutes in a basically empty train which lacked any windows or natural lighting was my idea of a living nightmare or hallucination. The "please return to your vehicle" warning displays didn't help my dreamlike panic state when I was running back to the coach, but being forced to wait 2 seconds for the 20 million doors between carriages to open.

Once returned I woke up 6 hours later at the bus terminal, feeling pretty unwell and pissed off due to the poor quality sleep. Then I realised "shit, I'll have to use my A-Level French in this state" unlike my previous thoughts of "hurrah I'll have to use my A-Level French in practical situations and not for debating about vegetarianism".
We got on the Metro, said goodbye to our new-found friend Anthony after a few stops and got off to take a photo of the barren Parisian night.
I wanted to be upbeat and positive about the situation and to show I knew what I was doing but truth be told I wanted to hide in the familiarity and comfort of a non-foreign-speaking country and didn't want to be with C.J. any longer, The Burden.

God, I haven't even mentioned anything about Paris properly yet. But yes the coach journey hurt.

Bad.




Fact.

"Want to go to that?" asked Germanotti via msn, after he sent me a link to a Lady Gaga art exhibition in Paris.

"It's in Paris...?" I responded, wondering what the hell he was thinking.

And then a plan was hatched to travel to the supposedly wonderful city in France, a journey much like that of the Lord of the Rings, only it was a nine hour coach ride and in the end I wish I had ended up with arrows in my back, rather than the foot of an inconsiderate foreigner.
 
And yes, I was pretty damn excited. I don't think I ever typed so many <3 s before; in reference to Paris. But alas, I returned, cold, wet, tired and heartbroken, plus almost unconscious; and I was actually coping better than Germanotti. So you know he must have looked like Alice Cooper, only sadly, no eyeliner.


The train ride to Waterloo was pretty uneventful; not many drunks, I only got hit on twice and nobody tried to stab me. The coach ride started off well. There were two of us, and then we made a friend in an Anthony (it'd be cool if we had gotten his facebook,no?) , a guy who was meeting someone called Caramel. I whispered to Germanotti when we first overheard him on the phone: "that's a stripper name if ever I head one", a nice little joke that G disclosed to our new travelling friend after we had known him all of an hour. Thanks, man. At least he laughed with us and didn't seem to mind I called his friend a stripper, so its not like I had to worry about Anthony putting shit in my mouth whilst I slept.
 
All too soon it became that awkward time where other people start wanting to sleep and I was staring wide eyed at my companion; slightly hyperactive. Then old Germanotti folded himself up like a fucked up deck chair and I swear I spent at least ten minutes looking at him, wondering how long it would be before he realised sleeping with your neck under your leg was a bad idea. He never did. 
 
That boy got himself into some worrying positions. Worrying, yet ever so slightly erotic. At one point he had his hand firmly clasped to his man luggage, by which I mean his junk.
 
I woke up startled. The fucking coach was glowing yellow and some arsehole was shouting french on some speaker; we were getting on the train thingy. Germanotti left to use the bathroom, meanwhile I fell asleep with my face squished against a cold and unforgiving window. I awoke, startled again. Some dingus was wrestling my numb leg, so I kicked out; the luggage handler had returned, and was kindly trying not to wake me whilst he wedged himself in the small gap my curvacious arse had afforded.
 
More sleep occurred. A rather heavy head decided to lodge itself against my right boob; I was too tired to care whether it counted as sexual assault or not. My fidgeting companion then accepted an offer of my lap to rest his sleepy head on, but he rudely complained, saying "your vagina is too hot" or something along those lines.


Take from that what you will, dear readers. You have my email address...


We then arrived in doucheville, by which I mean, Paris. A frustrating argument took place with a machine. I was in no mind to be operating any machinary, so Germanotti was kind enough to get the ticket robot to ejaculate a ticket for me. We then barged through a barrier, that was only there to injure weary travellers and dislocate shoulders for laughs.
 
A warm metro train took us to some French place; my companion can regale you with the names of the stops, I was merely an English girl in Paris. G can speak A level french you see. 
Once we left the warm, warm sanctuary of the metro platform, we whizzed up and down steps and walked into the cool air of PARIS!
 
At this point I was excited, regardless of how tired and dehydrated I was. And then that bastard friend of mine whipped out his bastard camera and took the miserable photo which I am sure he won't remove from the top of this page. I didn't want to pose at first, but in the end I stopped moving so he would shut the fuck up, because I love him, naturally.
This time, I think France won.


And that miserable, blurred photo you see before you is of me, pre-paris. The pink is actually my orange scarf and I'm bundled up in my thick black jacket, which was a lifesaver man.


But a fucking jacket couldn't have kissed away all the mental and physical scars I suffered from this trip. I don't even think a casual shag could have cheered me up after Paris, sorry Germanotti. It was just...



Bad.


Tuesday 2 November 2010

At the pop show

Living a 2 hour commute away from London is never fun.
Pre-Foundation I thought: yeah sure I can suffer the 10 mins cycle, the 10 mins wait, the 1 hour 10 mins train ride, the another 10 mins wait and the half hour bus ride between home and college.
2 months into the course I've realised it's the shittiest thing one can ever experience (other than a coach ride with one of your good friends and your relationship suffers because of the ride, but that's another story). In the morning it's alright, although cramped, however the journey back you have to suffer under the wrath of  cramped carriages AND pissy commuters.

They get seriously pissy.
The 'Commuter Glare' is the worst. Or the 'Ow That Really Really Hurt' grunt - I didn't even touch you, you mong!

Another backlash is not being able to go out late. My last train leaves at half 11 and most of the good stuff in London starts at 10/11. So what do I do on Halloween night?



Go out fucking partying.

YEAH!

Then at about half 1 or 2 (not too sure, the clocks went back) I realise I have no way of getting home. Logically I should ask one of my wonderful friends to see whether I can crash at theirs as I have no way of getting home.
Retardedly I decide to lie that I'm going home and then take some of London's many night buses up and down the town until the first train on a Sunday morning home.


I don't know where I went that night.
And I didn't know when I was sleeping or not.
But the buses kept me warm and I wasn't considering lowering myself to sleeping on the streets when I have a season ticket valid until December! Duh!

Finally at 7am I arrived in a daze near Putney station. Walked up the hill. Then walked down again realising the station wasn't that way. Waited for the train. Got on the train. Slept through my stop. Took the train going back the other way to my stop. Walked home. Had a piss. Went to bed.

I hadn't had a wash since the previous morning.


I am never doing that again. Ever.

Due to this experience (and also many other factors), I'm intending to move up to London in January.

So if you have any room for someone who just wants to do some art sometimes and then party the other times, please email me at conglats@gmail.com . I don't take up that much room and can tidy up my own mess when asked to.


Thanks for looking!


Oh and the actor of Dobby from Peep Show was at the club we went to too! How cool is that?