Hoxton's Hottest Dog

It was The German's idea. She knows how much me, The Foodie and The Pin Up love animals. Specifically dogs. So when she suggested that we head down to Shoreditch Bark Dog Show (see what they did there?), we didn't hesitate. Hipsters and hounds, what's not to love?

However, when telling people that my plans for Saturday were going to a dog show, I mainly got the reaction of  "....what? A DOG show? .....why?" On the way to the park, we discussed whether it was actually strange that all of us, dogless, were going to a park. To look at the dogs of other people.

"I mean, is it weird though? Is it like adults hanging around a kids' playground? Are we - doggyphiles?"

As expected, this being Shoreditch, there was a high density of people wearing boat shoes and big glasses. But it felt weirdly communal for London, we chatted a bit to a lady who owned a magnificent Labradoodle called Archie. Well, communal and friendly until the witless teenage boys starting antisocially kicking off. The German handily gave us a running commentary.

"Look! Fatty has Ginger's shoes, look!"

We discussed various dog breeds between squealing "Awwwwww! Look at him! AHHHH!". The German has some strong ideas about Labradors which the Pin Up independently backed-up some time later.

"Labradors are fucking thick. They are stupid. They eat poo - seriously, they eat poo and the darker coloured the dog, the more they love eating shit. Not even just their own. It's true!"

We watched the classes with interest (and slight perturbedness when the vet who was compering the event kept talking about how good looking the dogs were in a slightly breathless and eager way), cheering the winners and telling our favourite dog owners that they "were robbed" when they didn't get placed. One of the highlights of the day was during the 'Me and My Best Friend' class where children entered with their pooches for the judging panel to assess who had the best bond. The class had to be stopped part way through as an overexcited entrant pulled it's teeny child guardian across the ring. On it's face. There were tears. (Admittedly ours as we giggled.)

After we all fell in love with an adorable Lhasa-Poo puppy called Huxley, and we tried to figure out if we could fit it in anyone's bag, we wandered down to Shoreditch for some afternoon refreshments. The German played a classic in the 'language barrier' game she likes to throw down on the odd occasion.

The German: "So when are you moving house?"

The Pin Up: "A week on Monday."

The German: "On Monday?"

The Pin Up: "No, a week on Monday."

The German: "On Monday?"

The Pin Up: "No.... a week from Monday."

The German: "No, but I mean, you're moving house on a Monday?"

The Pin Up: "....yes."

Me: "You could have saved yourself a good five minutes of conversational cul-de-sac had you just used the 'a' before Monday."

Sometimes it's our duty to educate her. We then, her English boyfriend included, convinced her that the correct English pronunciation of 'maths' was actually 'marrrrrrths', as we worked out the bill. We are good friends to her.

Someone, somewhere hates me

Do you ever wonder to yourself if you did something really, really awful in a previous life? In this life I would like to think I've been alright. I mean, on a Biblical basis, I'd without a doubt be going straight to the firey depths of Lucifer's lair, but I've been nice to people. Generally. Sure, I've had my moments of unspeakable selfishness and frankly batshit mental episodes, but I don't think I've ever done anything really bad to anyone.

Fate and I are having a tricky relationship at the moment. What's totally ace about life is that things change. All the time. And it's amazing to reminisce over the past and think of all the little tiny actions and people that collided and created the present. But sometimes, Fate decides to tease you. Gives you a little glimpse of something that makes your tummy do a backflip and dizzies you with possibility. Then it cruelly snatches it back again. The thrill of anticipation morphs into the dull ache of disappointment. Like a Blur gig followed by a shitty little set from Bruno Mars or something.

So I kind of believe in some nice Universal system* where, if you're not a total fucking prick and generally treat people with a bit of respect and humanity, that things work out for you in the end. But judging by Fate's current dangle-and-snatch routine, my previous life wrongs must've been fairly bad. Maybe I interfered with animals, or was a James Blunt fan or something. (In which case, to be honest, I probably deserve everything I get.)

So essentially, I've been fluffed by Fate. 

What a cunt. 


*I'm not some kind of hippy though.

The morning after

It's gone 5pm and I'm lay in bed listening to Marianne Faithful on 6 Music and the Hackney rain, trying to force myself to keep drinking water and debating if paracetamol will make me feel more or less queasy. I'm not even relishing the idea of another cup of tea, and I'm still wearing yesterday's eyeliner. That's how good last night was.

Despite the lovely birthday dinner with my excellent friends inevitably turning into drunken silliness outside a bar, I managed to keep hold of the pretty lillies kindly given to me by The Norwegian  - I'm quite proud of that. I'm also proud of the cards that I got given, two of which were handmade, and one of which contained a drawing of a big gay dancing pirate, which was actually a portrait of me. Pretty accurate.

During dinner, Mr Scooter bet No'rn Ir'on that she couldn't fit her whole steak in her mouth. She did, so she's owed cash money by him. In her words, "payoff for having a massive gob and no gag reflex."

Attractively, an evening of rich food and excessive amounts of white wine and mojitos resulted in me being struck with a bout of comedy hiccups which caused much merriment amongst my friends and handily was documented in both photo and video form, apparently. Brilliant. Might put that on my dating profile.

Badger was staying with me and we decided to drunkenly teach No'rn Ir'on the cardgame Shithead, seeing as this was how we spent our entire first year of uni, along with drinking tea, listening to Mark and Lard and copious roll-ups. It's nice that a decade has passed, we've got proper jobs and that, one of us has been married and bought a house, but yet we recement our friendship by calling each other gay and playing a silly card game. No'rn Ir'on enjoyed the fact that it was her first ever game and she managed to totally rinse us both. We got owned a bit. I blame the wine.

Shit to do before I'm 30

I'm 29 today. I know, I know, I look about nineteen still. You're too kind. And a liar.  Anyway, it got me thinking about the fact I've only got one year left until the big three-oh. 365 days. And all the shit I've still not done. So I thought I'd write a little to-do list of thing I really ought to get off my arse and do before then. This is not some gap-year-Jack-Johnson-braids-in-my-hair-yah? wishlist, nor does it involve sky-diving/trekking up Macchu Pichu. I'm not that rich, or adventurous. Lower your expectations.

1. Be able to run a couple of miles
Without puking up a lung/having a coronary.  That would be nice.

2. Do something creative
A course of some sort. Writing. Life-drawing. (I'm not a pervert. I just like life drawing.) Jewellery-making. Yeah, jewellery! Then I can make accessories based on religious iconography with the Saved-By-The-Bell-twist like the Shoreditch dickhead I aspire to be.

3. Stop dating fuckwits/ falling for totally, ridiculously inappropriate people.
Speaks for itself really. The problem is that I only seem to attract/ be attracted to these sorts.  Need to figure this out. It might involve some gin.

4. Perfect the art of baking macaroons
I can add to my wife-skills list with this beauty. It's an important accomplishment. You'll all benefit as I test batches on you. What do you mean, these are shit? YOU MAKE MACAROONS THEN.

5. Visit some London things I've not yet
British Library. Natural History Museum. Night-time museum tours. Last Tuesday Society. Somerset House outdoor cinema. Basically, be a London tourist instead of sticking around the same areas. However, I'll be sure not to get in your way on the Tube/pavements, I won't wear a matching rucksack as my fellow tourists, and I won't clog up your bus shouting "That's AWESOME!" as I take photos of a Hackney tramp.

6. Watch some classic films/read some classic books
If you're my friend, you'll know I'm notoriously rubbish at actually sitting and watching films. I do love them, I just have the attention span of a special-needs magpie. So this year, I'm actually going to compile a list of films I ought to have seen. I've never seen The Goonies though, and I know loads of you think this is a childhood classic, but I once tried to watch it as an adult and thought it was gash. There, I've said it.

7. Learn to drive
I don't need to in London. But, it would be so nice to embark upon ill-advised spontaneous road-trips with my friends. Even if they end in near-crashes and full-blown arguments over directions. It'd just be nice to have the ability. Should I wish to. Actually, I've just given this slightly more thought and it's probably best I'm never allowed in control of a ton-plus of metal and engine. I managed to break the Badge-It! machine at work. (Aimed at 7-11 year olds.)

8. Get a Macbook/SLR
I have no right to live in the east end without owning either of these things, yeah?

9. Do more blogs
Write more shit on the internet for my friends to read. I find it vaguely amusing even if no-one else does.*

*I know you don't.

10. Ask that person out
Actually, see point 3.

There. I'm sure I'll be reviewing this post in 365 days time, crying gin-soaked tears as I've accomplished none of it due to being too busy feeding my 79 stray cats that I've adopted. Ah well, good intentions and all that.

Commitment issues

I've been thinking about this online dating malarkey recently after a few funny encounters. Or non-encounters, as it more accurately were. And I thought I'd share my thoughts with you. Lucky, huh? Don't act like you're not interested.

It seemed quite straightforward at first - get chatting to people you like the look of, exchange a few pleasantries (not a euphemism), arrange a date, go on said date, assess if you want to see them again. But lately I can't help thinking that I'm missing out on some unspoken games that you're supposed to engage in to do this with any degree of success. And I'm shit at games. Except Scrabble. And Shithead.


These games aren't fourth-date-politics-do-I-call-or-not, these are before the first date games. So many times you add someone saying you like the look of them, they add you back, the usual. Not recently. It seems that simply arranging ONE drink to spend half an hour in each other's company to judge that they're not batshit mental/rapists/Mummy's boys is a minefield of headfucks and second-guessing. Cases in point:

Theatre Man. He looked interesting - arty, Irish, tall, approached me first - we exchanged very brief emails as his first one was basically asking me out for a drink. Brilliant, no dicking around - you can exchange all the pithy, wry emails you like, but if they've got no social skills or smell of wet dog, it's never going to work. He suggested central London, I said great, when and where? And...... nothing.

The Chef. Added each other, up and coming Scottish chef, looked fascinating - again, emails, drink suggested - then the classic message, "Sorry but I'm chatting to someone else on here and want to see where that goes." That's all well and good, but it's not totally MENTAL to go on a couple of first dates around the same time because the likelihood is you're not each other's ONE - so back to the drawing board.

If we were having drawn-out, getting-to-know-each-other chats, it's totally understandable that I could have said something spazzy and offputting - actually, inevitable. But that just can't have been the case here. Unless there's some male radar I'm not aware of that reads "Yeah the City would be great, when are you free?" as "I'm a fucking psychopath and I will ingratiate myselves into your friendship group, kill your pets horribly and tell your work colleagues the intimate details of our sex life." Perhaps it's a numbers game; guys message tons of girls knowing only a small percentage will reply. Again, fine, but I DID reply and was up for one little drink to check each other out.

Maybe it's some weird guy thing where the minute you express a bit of interest back, you're not desirable any more. Thrill of the chase and all that. BUT YOU'RE ON A FUCKING DATING SITE.

So why is this first drink such a big deal? I always go armed with a friend's text message prewritten, ready to hit send if you need an escape route. "Oh I'm SO sorry, but I need to go as my cat's on fire." Actually, that could be taken the wrong way. "My friend's having a clothing crisis/ my hamster's depressed/ I need to go and see my therapist." Whatever. Or, if the first drink is a disaster and you find yourself in the company of an absolute fuckwit, just neck that one drink really quickly. In fact this is kinder, if they see you scull your pint, sorry, glass of wine (I am trying to be ladylike after all), they probably see you as a raging alky and thank their lucky stars that you are fucking off so quickly. Everyone's a winner with this method.


So it's more baffling than anything. I feel much like I imagine the girls from The Only Way is Essex feel when they have to blink, breathe and walk at the same time. Maybe it's me. Perhaps there is a huge game where I've not had the rules explained to me. It's my birthday next week. I best get the order for the cats, blanket and lifetime supply of gin in, quicksharpish.

Hipsters and hellhounds

Shopping in Hackney is always an interesting experience. By interesting, I mean sometimes amusing and often ball-achingly frustrating.

I live in one of the best cities in the world for shopping. I ought to be at Borough and Broadway markets buying fresh asparagus, venison burgers and stinky French cheese. But, I'm lazy and poor. So I go to my Tesco Express.

In the aisles, the twentysomething E8 hipsters mope foppishly about, baskets full of organic hummus and CheeseStrings. (It's fucking ironic, yeah? Like, it's not REAL food, yeah?) Maybe a can of cider or two. Hipsters don't really eat anyway, skinny jeans are unforgiving and it's important to have the slightly rickety demeanour of a Victorian orphan round here.

I once nipped in for a quick vaguely hungover shop (paper, bacon, Diet Coke) and got to the checkout only to question how drunk I'd been the night before. There stood three art-studenty looking types, two in full animal outfits (I think zebra and bear) and a guy sporting shiny leggings so tight I could tell he shaved his gentleman's area. They had big messy hair and were probably called Poppy, Giles and Jinty. They tried to buy three single cans of Kronenbourg (OMFG, I'm like sooooo drunk from last night, ya? Let's get beer for breakfast, it'll be, like, MENTAL!) then had an intense debate about which fucking pack of chewing gum to purchase. I gripped my basket tightly and restrained myself from swinging it violently in their direction.

Mingling with the big specs and deckshoes is normally an eastender or two, their slavering, big-bollocked Staffy-cross guarding the door while they yell across the shop.

"'ere! Maureen! Put that fackin' real butter dahn, I ain't fackin' made o' money. Pick me up a Sun yeah? And forty Sovereign."

I actually quite like the people in there, it's always entertaining. What drives me mad about Tesco is the product selection. What I LOVE is that I can't buy ground black pepper but I can buy four different varieties of chickpea flour and coconut milk. And I most certainly can get mugged off by paying over a quid for a teeny butternut squash. Oh, and I might be a working-class northerner living in Hackney, but SOMETIMES I JUST WANT SOME FRESH HERBS, DAMNIT.

So, while I commercially and morally disagree with Tesco's aggressive land-buying and marketing techniques, I'll just keep moaning and still patronising them because I can't be arsed with Borough Market today, and they once forgot to scan my bottle of wine resulting in FREE BOOZE. In your face, THE MAN!

Dear Twitter...

 This blog post comes from a conversation with a fellow Twitter user @CyrilCacoethes, who's quite amusing if you like mostly rude inanity. I requested he expand on a story he told me about a deer that spat IN his mouth, and he did me a special blog post and everything. I was then pondering my next post, and he suggested a Twitter complaint letter.

I love a good complain. So here it is.


Dear Twitter,

Hi. You're mostly pretty fun and amusing, and even educational from time to time. (How else would I know what Jedward are doing when they give their carers the slip and gain internet access? IT'S IMPORTANT.) However, there are a few things, just little things, that frankly, get right on my tits.


 Celebs being shit at Twitter. I know they all get told by their agents to get involved in social media (or, as I was once corrected by a date, "a real-time information network" - fuck off), but just because they *do* it, doesn't make them good at it. I get driven potty by celebs who retweet their OWN #FollowFridays - to their EXISTING followers. In order to see that tweet, they already follow you! It's more pointless than Fearne Cotton, you flangewombles.

Overuse of exclamation marks. I've said this before in relation to general communication. But please, for the love of GOD, stop it. Adding seventeen exclamations to a statement like "Going shopping!!!!!!!!" doesn't make it more interesting or informative. It just makes you appear to have the mentality of an American seven year-old.

Pedants. Now I'm not against pedantry persay. Detail is important. But don't criticise someone's use of language, if you type tweets in text speak. Because it just makes you look like a twat, not me. I don't really understand having a go at someone on Twitter because you don't like what they write. Just unfollow. Or, if you are compelled to have a pop, make sure your own ramblings are immaculately spelled and all language is correctly used. Then fair enough.

Moral highground bandwagons. Twitter is highly entertaining on big news days, as everyone wades in with an opinion, mostly from people who don't actually understand the issues or stories. However, the same faux outrage and topical 'jokes' can get a bit wearing.

Anyway, that's it. If you could find a way to remove boring and stupid people from the service, that would be splendid. For the most part, I like conversing with entertaining people, watching celeb feuds kick off, the incessant punning and the endless videos of kittens riding tortoises.

Ok, thanks. Bye.