Davina, I Care.

17 Jun

I have to discuss this now because I feel like this is the right time of year.  I’ve come to realise that I have an enormous irk.  It seems really silly but it agitates me no end and that friends, is when people bad mouth Davina McCall.  I don’t know if you’ve watched this TV show, it’s on the television and it’s called Big Brother.  Davina presents it.  This programme is fairly distasteful.  All it really consists of is the UK’s biggest morons running around a house like a bunch of hyperactive chicken drumsticks. I’d say that Davina does a pretty good job of jazzing it up.  Not only does she nail presenting, but she also holds grand rank as my God Sister.  What in hells bells is a God Sister I hear you ask? Well, this one time my parents joined a cult…

…Just kidding gang!

No really.  It means that we share a God Father, Colin, who is this tough old bag that lives in Fulham.  The other day I visited Colin in Fulham and he told me that the police had found a dead body wrapped in a shower curtain under next door’s patio.  Yes! A murder mystery! Not in Wisteria Lane! In Fulham! Put that in your back pocket Hackney.  Anyway, I digress. Colin, Davina and I, we’re like a sub family.  If anything were to happen to Davina’s or my parents, god forbid, Colin would be in charge of us and we would live off sardines and marmalade until the end of time. Looking at this though, I don’t think Davina eats that much anyway. Look at that for a rejection! She’s pushing away Colin’s sardines and marmalade in disgust.

Because the UK is as boring as an old squash, often there is little to talk about other than the TV.  This is when the conversation turns to Davina. Most people think she’s ‘annoying’ or ‘over the top’ or ‘acts like a small child with ADD has taken residence inside of her and exploded’. That last one’s a little unfair don’t you think?  All I can do when this happens is look at my shoes.  As much as Davina is my goddam sister, at this point, I don’t want to explain the family connection and make the other want to look at their shoes as well.  So I leave it, and take one for team Davina.

BUT. Remember that time when Peter Pan told us that every time a child says they don’t believe in fairies, there’s a little fairy somewhere that falls down dead? Yes? Well. Every time someone calls Davina ‘annoying’ look at what happens to her.  Look. LOOK!!! This is overpowering me right now.

Do you really want to be responsible for this? Do you? When the words are stewing in the big word pot in your brain, remember this image. Tie a knot in your mean pipes and clamp your mouth shut.

I love Davina because she’s pretty darn fun. She used to date Eric Clapton of Clapton-On-Sea when she was 19 and was one of those mad 80’s MTV kids who took so much coke on air, they all (apart from Davina) ended up with faces that look like a gnarled old piece of bark.  Contrary to popular belief, she was not a prozzer. FACT (alright Holly and Dave you pair of pizza orbs??).  Look how much that old pervert Dermot loves her!

I know what you’re thinking. Everyone looks good next to Dermot.  He’s like an overgrown bear chubb.

Once, she wrote me this note on a card that looked something like this:

Is it me, or does she look like an Eastern European car trader? Who wears a polo neck, underneath a leather blazer with lapels THAT POINTY? Who wears a leather blazer full stop? Those things are awful. Honestly Davina.  Anyway, the note said something like ‘I remember when your dad used to call me Shark…’ then I think she said something about how much she liked Jamie Oliver’s cooking…Why would she say that? I don’t know. I remember thinking, ‘who in god’s kitchen is Jamie Oliver? Why does he have two first names? What the fuck is going on here Davi?’

My brain boggles as to why people feel the need to talk out of their business ends about Davina.  It’s not cool and it’s not funny. It’s sad. Like I am when I have to listen to that crap. So remember what I said and remember the picture of her bleeding throat.  It’s just a little something for you to stew on. For now.

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WAG- Way (to) Aggravate Georgie

14 Jun

Patriotism has vomited over my building.

Bono lives in that flat on the top right. On Saturday afternoon he came out onto his balcony, shirtless, Stella in hand, and gave a touching rendition of ‘Beautiful Day’. When he finished, he smoked a B&H and then spat over the railings.

That was a good day.

And to think people pay to see him live? And to think I pay to live here? And to think Donatella Versace paid to look like that? And to think Sting is an international hero for paying attention to the oil slick? And to think I pay someone to write this blog? And to think Paypal? And to think Obama paid our goal keeper to let one through the net on Saturday?

Ouch. Too soon?

Break it Down

6 Jun


Look at my sick new layout. Jelly in your FACE!

On Saturday mornings I listen to pop music.  I switch between Capital and Kiss and when I’m back at home, a new station that’s on 103.2fm (check it).  When one station plays adverts, I switch and listen to the other, and when that one plays ads, I switch back, and so on and so forth until I die. I do this because I have a sense of loyalty to the former me who used to be so on it with current music that I could probably name every number one single from 1998-2002. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.  I also vowed never to become one of those out of touch losers who just had no idea who B*Witched were.

What? You absolutely know who they are.

Let’s just get one thing straight, pop music is not what it used to be when everything was blamed on the weatherman.  For example, I totally get what Ke$ha is saying: “Stop talk talk talking that blah blah blah/not in the back of my car ah ah”. Seriously, these are pretty good lyrics- she’s just telling her boyfriend to pipe down in the back so she can dance. This whole song is just way too much fun!

But wait a minute, what’s that you say Ke$ha? You wanna dance with no pants on? Don’t be a little bitch with your chit chat, just show me where your dick’s at? Urrr…not in my Ford Mondeo you won’t young lady.  Excuse me if I say holy smoke Johnny Vaughan, why are you playing me this filth while I’m trying to concentrate on eating my porridge?  Not that I’m against this; GOD NO. I’ve had boyfriends that talk shit the whole time, I just don’t authorise shutting them up by piling on the pressure to give me one on the back seat. What the $?

Also, I don’t understand the names of half these modern musicians and quite frankly, I prefer ignorance. I know there is one called Big Boi, whose name I can only assume substitutes the size of his genitalia and then there is Tinie Tempah who got angry because he forgot how to spell.  I have also heard some great tunes by B.O.B and LMFAO but I need a goddamn dictionary to crack these ones.  Seriously though, what in fresh hell does all this mean? Do the letters even stand for anything? Have I become my own worst nightmare not knowing all of this? What the fuck is going on here?

Last night was the first Saturday night that I’ve stayed at home in about 8 years. After watching my neighbour’s BBQ on the pavement, which I thought was a pretty innovative dining; I decided that to make me less of a failure in life, I need to get a new name. As I mentioned above, titles and abbreviations are apparently in, so here are some cool ones that I came up with for myself last night:

Jor.ji

Georgie BOOM!

Oran Gina

O M Georgie

Jelly & Ice Ice Baby

Gee Whiz

Ori-G-nal

G- block

Got Jelly?

Pop a Cap in Yo G- String

Hard to Believe I’m this Great

Get me a Strobe Light

Get Georgie or Get Gone

Shots Fo Sho

Taylor Swift Eat Your Heart Out

Hey Ho, Geo

Wave Goodbye to another Boyfriend

Say Hello to Chardonnay

Not on the Backseat

Tinie Brayn

G.A.S.H (remember?)

Yo Gabba Gabba

Any more suggestions are welcome…

Where’s My Goddamn Plaque?

27 Apr

Foreword: Apparently there is not enough room for two blogs in my life. This is what I have been doing in the mean time and yes, it goes against all my morals.

Well done to my amazing friend Pickle who completed the London marathon along with golf ball sized blood blisters, in a matter of hours on Sunday. Considering she smokes like an 18th century locomotive and had her last cigarette at 6pm the night before, I’d say that finishing the race in less than 10 hours was a straight up miracle.

Of course I am jesting Luce. You are the greatest.

After caressing her quads of steel, I have pretty much decided that I will run the thing myself next year, and in the last 24 hours have made a binding verbal contract with my brother who has vowed to do it with me. This is good, because a bit of sibling rivalry goes a long way these days and at last we’ll be competing for a place in the fastboat rather than the failboat. Amazing.

I’m not going to lie, in my youth I was a first-rate athlete. Not many folk can say they won the national indoor speed bounce championship aged 11. Nor, could they say they broke the Wessex record for 70 metre hurdles aged 15. Is Wessex even a place? I don’t know and nor do I care with a goddamn achievement like that. My face nearly got put on the school crest. I am a champion, someone mentally high-five me right now.

But my friends, I have a problem. I moved to London nearly 3 years ago and have been sitting in a grey chair ever since. I am reluctant to admit this, but I’m going to estimate that my metabolism rate has halved since getting here. This means, I am no longer officially classed as an athlete, apart from in my own head. Although I know this is the place where it matters most, it has begun to cause me a few problems and recently I’ve found I’ve had to lie quite a lot when talking about things like PB’s (if you know what this is, high-five. If you don’t, it means Personal Best’s) and stamina, to make me sound like I’m still in decent shape.

My friend’s boyfriend asked me the other day; in how many minutes can I run a mile? First off, who the hell counts Dave?? Secondly, I had to approximate and if there’s one thing in the world I hate, it’s approximating. Someone clearly got bored with trying to find out the actual answer one day and so invented the word approximate. Well done them. But that’s not important right now. The athlete ego-maniac in me told Dave I could run a mile in 5 minutes. This, I have since found out, is 1 minute more than record breaker Roger Bannister, who did it in 4 minutes in 1954 and then nearly died. Anyway, Dave obviously felt a bit competitive after hearing this and being a pentathlete himself, suggested we go running together. There aren’t enough excuses in the world for this kind of thing! So, I have had to put him off for a few weeks while I devise a training programme for myself that will allow me to casually beat him.

I had a bad start on Saturday because I was overtaken by someone running in jeans. Luckily, I rectified this and managed 3 laps round Clissold Park which felt like Christmas. Christmas in my face.

Anyway my point is this: I could let loose a whole load of adjectives about how great I used to be at sport but I guess I know I’m really growing up, now that pace only counts when I’m drinking.

A Damn Fine Cup of Coffee

5 Apr

This weekend has been a strange one.  I’m not going to lie, the standards at home have slipped since the last time in was here.  Home cooked food? The only thing I have eaten that has come out of the oven is two watery baked potatoes and a chicken kiev with a hellish bone in it. The rest of the time I’ve been living off mini-eggs and now I feel like I want to brush my teeth all the time and then die.  Also, my brother is playing some sick mind game with my parents by moving out, but then accidentally spending more time at home than he has ever done before. Right now he is microwaving sausages and watching Deadly North Sea in the kitchen.  This is probably because he got pissed last night and tried to cook a rabbit in his own microwave or something. I don’t know. Remember that time when I wrote about Aggie the dog consuming the whole interior of the house? Well it’s been exactly a year since she ate my leather boots and it’s like bloody ground hog day. Easter day 2009, I spent the day clearing up her vomit. Easter day 2010 I spent the day clearing up her vomit.  Things are getting out of control and thus far, I can see that the problem is this: My parents have become obsessed with Mad Men.

Apart from the chaos, this is ok because Mad Men is like the coolest programme on T.V right now.  I am also glad because my convert mission is beginning to work.  Too many of my friends and family don’t watch Mad Men and it’s a bloody tragedy.  So ignore all that crap about the Easter failings in my family home, because the real reason I am staying in on a bank holiday to update my blog is to educate the world on Mad Men.

Don Draper. I so would.

Let’s just get one thing straight, Don is unfaithful to his wife and he likes to establish this about 4 times per episode.  He is junior partner at Sterling-Cooper ad agency and soon to be partner depending on where you’re at with this thing.  He is responsible for coming up with slogans such as ‘A damn fine cup of coffee’ for a diner that sells, well coffee.  Don is a great father.  He is slowly killing his children by breathing alcohol fumes all over their bed sheets as he kisses them goodnight, and sometimes jokes about his daughter Sally being a lesbian.  He is slowly going from hero to zero in his wife’s eyes since she found out about his secret past, the one where his father was a hillbilly and his family poorer than a coop of chickens.

Peggy Olson has gone down in my opinion since she shagged that knob-end Duck Phillips.  She is Copywriter at Sterling-Cooper and has had an unknown pregnancy, mental breakdown and a whole bunch of other drama to deal with since series 1.  Her taste in men is atrocious but I am hoping that some hot old dude is going to come and whisk her away to a farm upstate, next door to J. D Salinger, where she becomes the subject of his next novel. (He would have been alive in those days you see and probably would have taken a likening to Peggy’s weird lego fringe)

Betty Draper is Don’s estranged wife.  One of Betty’s hero moments was early on when she took out a shot gun and fired a round of bullets at her neighbour’s pigeons.  This was when she wasn’t a demon so it was quite unexpected.  She ignores her kids like, all the time and in this one episode I watched yesterday, fed them 3 fish fingers and half a can of tinned peas each, which is pretty much the worst dinner in human history.  Certainly her mothering techniques should be commended. As I said before, she has just found out about Don’s pauper past and now thinks he, “doesn’t really understand money” so is probably going to bugger off with someone who does.  Family literally hasn’t been this dreadful since I came home for Easter.

Goddamit I love Roger Sterling! Look at that silver fox.

Roger treats all girls, apart from his ex-wife and his daughter, real nice.  He is senior partner at Sterling-Cooper and has a strange relationship with Bert Cooper that I don’t really get, so won’t go into.  He had an ongoing affair with Joan until his excessive smoking, drinking and shagging gave him two heart attacks which frightened him to death (not literally, thank god), so he put an end to it.  They are pretty much meant for each other though and I wish Jane would fuck off.  I’d love to work with Roger.  I imagine he’d tell me I’d done a great job and then give me a little pat on the butt cheek which would totally be ok.

Joan Holloway has the best figure in the entire world and could make cupro look sexy.  She is actually Joan Harris in season 3, but that’s not important right now because her new husband is a douche and I’m holding out for a Roger-Joanie reunion.  She used to be the fairy-godmother at Sterling-Cooper and is so intelligent and witty, she should be a regular participant on Q.I because she would know all the answers.  If I have to stay in my current role at work for much longer, I am going to turn myself into Joan and see what happens.

He actually looks pretty happy here but Pete Campbell sure cries a lot.  Pete, amongst other things is: a blackmailer, a snob, an adulterer, an almost rapist, a liar, a thief, a racist, a cry baby and always makes a massive tit of himself which is great.  Basically, he’s a prick.  His wife Trudy is also a bit of a wet blanket and gets all pissy when Pete can’t give her a child.  Funny that he can give Peggy one though? Anyway, my point is that Mad Men is Pete’s show and the other characters are just there to humour him.  One day, Pete will take over the world and by 1993 he’ll be transported around in a magnetic levitation train stroking a white cat. This is why he is my favourite character.

Catch Mad Men on BBC4, Wednesday @ 10pm. But actually, probably buy series 1 and 2 on DVD and watch them first.

Tough Crowd

31 Mar

I’ll get back to the real Georgie.Jelly after this short interlude, but I just wanted to take the time to congratulate D.G Dawkins for creating the second issue of this wonderful magazine.  Well done. It was really cool of you to do that.

In this issue, they interview Owen Hatherley who is about the only person I know that can make architecture cool.  Partly because he is a youngster and partly because he is a genius, he has this accessible, fresh view of universally commented on buildings.  Also, Ebe Oak who is a musician AND healer, is hopefully going to divulge some secrets of the ‘high-art’ realm so I can use them on this blog.

Issue drops tomorrow and can be picked up for free at galleries, bars, cafes and Universities across London. It can also be seen digitally here.

A Little Regulation

24 Mar

Gentlemen. I’m sensing a monogamy crisis amongst our generation. I know I’ve harped on about it before but WTF. Stop cheating, just stop it. Films lie. There is as much truth in films as in Tom Cruise’s sexuality. Nobody lives happily ever after anymore. Where has all the romance gone?

Hi Mark Owen hiiiii, having fun in sex rehab? It sure looks like you are. Well done for going to The Sun and declaring you’ve had over 11 affairs because now, not one respectable girl is going to touch you with a barge pole ever again. Hopefully including your wife, and this is a good thing. I’m also going to stop buying your records. Could it be magic? That’s slutty Mark and no it couldn’t.

Vernon Kay. Thank god that cheesy northern smile has been wiped off your face at last. See that pretty lady next to you, your wife Tess? Yes? Well listen to this. You need to buy her a new car. Yes that’s right, a brand new Dodge Caliber with diamante hubcaps. Then you need to serenade her with a mandolin like Captain Corelli because guess what? Earlier today she blow dried her goddam hair. She probably shaves most of her body, if not gets it waxed which I’m telling you now is pretty painful. She also wears sexy but punishing dresses that are liable to give her a coronary due to lack of slack around the rib area, all to please you. And what do you do in return? Have sex text with someone who’s got 800 bucks worth of boobs. Buy Tess a car. Like now.

Hey Jesse James, why don’t you go and rain on Sandra Bullocks parade? She just won an Oscar for god’s sake and you’ve pissed all over it with your tattooed lady friend, the one who claims she didn’t know you were in a relationship. Well this is what you need to do Jesse. You need to get a facebook page. Get a facebook page and tell the world you are in a relationship so mistakes like this don’t happen. And this goes for all guys in relationships too. You need to click the button and put that shit on your profile. If you don’t, it’s just cheap . And weird. And a bit suspicious. People already know everything else about your life through those adolescent pictures of you at Uni downing snake bites, so what harm can declaring a relationship do? Think about it.

On a similar note. Tiger Woods is making a comeback this week and I read somewhere that he wants to, “hear a clap here and there”. Are you serious? Really? Really Tiger Woods? The general public are more likely to come on down there and pop a cap in yo ass. I’d watch your back dude, seriously.