[October 05 2003]

Yes I have many plugs in my apartment. SINCE I BLEED ONCE PER MONTH

I couldn't sleep on Friday night, so at 2am, inspired by a comment on Vanessa's blog, I translated yesterday's post into French. Then I translated that back to English again. Highlights below. Also, if you do it into Italian, you get Barry Di Blanco, which I shall take as my stage name if I ever become a novelty pop singer.

• A plane ticket with the following writes on him. By me. "White De Barry. Can you imagine to be one of its barons of porn. Carriers De Pall. LUBRICATE AND SEX AND DEAD. DEFECT OF THE SOUND REPRODUCTION. Nobody ever returned to me so transversely that I wanted to tear his hair pubic outside. Front. Never."
  
• Torn to the top of the package of Marlboro ignites with the following written on him. By Peter.
  "a large pair of the titmouses and a large tap. PUT THAT ON YOUR BLOG FOUTU."
  
• Paul resembles to Kirk captain.
  Peter wants to be on my blog so bad that it touched my centres earlier, though it is merry.
  I should be with the Bulgarian bar snogging the miniatures full with hope this evening. Instead of that I keep the children a car accident.
  
• And I am here, surfant the sequence Friday harms as one kisses sad instead of dancing with small men of Balkans as never kisses it saddest. Tomorrow I will go in Bloomingdales (with the Troop of the evil - they want) and I will buy something which will make the bar Bulgarian weak with desire. I will have of small language anybody in my mouth by the âm Sunday, or die in the attempt.

• What if its citizenship is letton? Or Switzerland? I went to jump hamburger this evening and it was full with the she-cats. Really terrible she-cats. She-cats of sister of Wannabe Hilton. And each one smoked. Never go.

Posted by eurotrash at 5:59 pm
Eighteen comments were posted (add / view)

[October 03 2003]

Yes. I have a lot of tampons in my flat. BECAUSE I BLEED ONCE A MONTH

Landed last night at Newark with Freddie Von Firetrapp. We cabbed to Hoboken and caught up with Paul and Peter, the Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Uhura of East London. Went out and got utterly drunk to cope with jetlag. Great idea.

And today I woke up with the following things in my handbag.

• An airline ticket with the following written upon it. By me.
  

  "Barry White. Can you imagine being one of his porn barons. Pall Bearers. FAT AND SEX AND DEATH. WOW. No-one has EVER made me so cross that I wanted to rip his pubic hair out. Before. Ever."

  
  
• A ripped up packet of Marlboro Lights with the following written upon it. By Peter.
  

  "A big pair of tits and a big cock. PUT THAT ON YOUR FUCKING BLOG."

  
  
• Another airline ticket with the following written upon it. By Peter.
  

  "Darling. From my neck of the woods we would say; "Bring it on. Bring on the fucking BLOG." What we mean by that is; "Your old granny twat is so dry it's like a FUCKIN desert dry like a FUCKIN bone". Stick that on your fucking blog. A dicksplash. I DARE YOU."

Posted by eurotrash at 10:40 pm
Seventeen comments were posted (add / view)

[October 02 2003]

It's here.

As I type this I am pretty much halfway across the Atlantic on a 777 heading home. And I come bearing gifts. One F. Firestarter, America, for the delectation of.

Yup. Freddie is on her way people, you just don’t know it yet. You will when I land in three hours and tell you all about it, though. Freddie hasn’t seen my blog as she’s been away on a hen (trans: bachelorette) weekend in the Eurotrash capital of the world – Puerto Banus, in Spain. Where all the men have ponytails and armoured Porches, and all the women are 90% silicon and can blow smoke rings out of their vaginas.

So Freddie doesn’t know I told the world about her failed threesome. I suspect that’s the reason I’m still in one piece. She’s going to fucking kill me when she finds out. But I’m going to die happy and here’s the reason why. At this moment I am lounging comfortably in my Club Class British Airways seat, which would recline to absolutely flat, should I desire it to, having had two champagne cocktails and four glasses of excellent French wine, a gourmet meal and ten shedloads of pampering from those love people at BA.

Freddie meanwhile is back in the cargo hold where she belongs, with the rest of the peasants. Because she didn’t get upgraded and I did. Laugh? I nearly passed out with sheer delight.

And because I know she’s going to kill me I’m going to go out on a high. We’re going to be out and about in NYC this weekend, almost certainly ending up at the Bulgarian Bar on Canal and Broadway at some point. And in case you’re going to be there too, there’s a few things you need to know in case you run across Freddie.

THINGS THAT FREDDIE FIRESTARTER HAS ACTUALLY, REALLY, DONE. IN ADDITION TO THE FAILED THREESOME.

• Convinced me for the first three years I knew her that she had been a pole dancer and stripper in New Zealand.
  
• Told the entire office that she and I were lesbian lovers when I was her flatmate, and, more importantly, her boss.
  
• Made two girls cry in pubs – one on her birthday.
  
• Punched the woman who stole her man. In a bar. In cold blood.
  
• Introduced me to a friend of hers who gave me several of his ginger pubic hairs in a cigarette packet by way of saying hello.
  
• Got locked out of our flat all night in her “sheep” pyjamas when I was away on business in France. Broke into a flat and slept wrapped up in some curtains. More on that escapade later.
  
• Downed a pint of WINE (yes, WINE) in one.
  
• Got so off her face on frightening substances at a club in Brixton that everyone she saw was wearing glasses and tartan clothes. Except they weren’t.
  
• Shot almost an entire roll of film when she was last in New York of us completely ratarsed in bars wearing comedy hats and hugging strange men and neither of us remember a thing about it.
  
• Glued cigarette buts, beer cans and a real live dead rat to a friend’s head when he’d passed out at a party.
  
  I’m just warning you now, New York. She’s landed. Run. While you still can.

  Posted by eurotrash at 8:32 pm
  Thirteen comments were posted (add / view)

[October 01 2003]

Letter from a fainthearted feminist.

I managed to get up and about yesterday. I had to really, as A Certain Person I Do Not Care To See was coming to stay at my sister's for the night. So I had to take refuge in South London, or Saaaaaaaaaaarf Lahndan, as the locals say. South London is full of criminals, all looks the same and has far too few roadsigns. It is one of the only places I ever get horribly lost in when driving. And I really fucking hate the place, because I am from Nawf Lahndan, where everybody is rich and beautiful and even the criminals are posh. Freddie Firestarter lives in South London. Enough said.

Anyway, I was limping through the train station when I saw the most extraordinary thing. A woman with a very large bottom. But it was what she had ON her bottom that made me question my very philosophical being. This woman with the large, blobby behind was wearing a pair of tight black leggings with the word "DIVINE" embroidered right across both arse cheeks in vibrant pink.

WHAT I THOUGHT FIRST
"Bloody fucking hell. Is that ironic? No. Surely not. That is one of the largest arses I've seen this side of the Atlantic. That's an AMERICAN-SIZED arse. That is one of the least fucking divine things I have ever seen. Christ. She's gargantuan. That arse could survive marrooned in a jungle for three months. What on earth was she thinking of putting those leggings on? Why not just smack herself around the head with a plank? Or walk around with a big sign on her back saying "laugh at me please"?

WHAT I THOUGHT SECOND
"Hang on a minute. When the fuck did I get so shallow? So she's got a huge arse, so what? Why can't that be divine to her? Why shouldn't she think her arse is divine if she wants to. I don't have a perfect arse. In face I'm often told I don't have one at all. But I like my arse. Why can't she like her arse? And why can't she wear whatever the fuck she wants and celebrate her body instead of having to be ashamed of it? And why does everyone have to be thin anyway, it's only a passing fashion fad. She would have been Reubens' ideal of beauty and she'd be really popular in Samoa or Tonga or wherever the fuck it is they like those really big women. Tahiti? Is that it?"

WHAT I THOUGHT THIRD
"Well yeah, but even though I'm quite fond of my arse I wouldn't fucking wear a pair of leggings (I mean, leggings? Please?) with DIVINE plastered in pink across my cheeks. I mean it's horrible. Objectively horrible. Even pissing J-Lo would look bad in them. Leggings should be banned. No-one at all looks good in them. I mean, she could wear jeans, or skirts or anything really and still love her arse, but she doesn't have to be *tacky* about it. I mean, that's just a crime against fashion, whatever the size of her arse."

WHAT I THOUGHT FOURTH
"God, what the fuck does it matter what she wears? Why the hell do you care if she runs around with an arse the size of an airplane with "MY ARSE IS FANTASTIC!" punched out in sequins? It's a free country. She can do what she likes. And you should stop being so shallow and judgemental. Christ, you can be a bitch sometimes."

WHAT I THOUGHT FIFTH
"True. But if *I* had an arse like that, *I* wouldn't wear tight black leggings with DIVINE in pink bisecting my bulging cheeks."

WHAT I THOUGHT LAST
"True. And the fact you're a right anal-retentive miserable cow most of the time might possibly have something to do with it."

Posted by eurotrash at 1:34 pm
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[September 29 2003]

Rosy cheeks.

One of the only good things about being incapacitated with a bad back is that I've been doing a lot of lying around and reading. Everything I can get my paws on - a biography of Cicero, the entire works of Philip Pullman, the back of my cigarette packet, National Enquirer (Bennifer! Crisis! Gasp!) and my favourite English magazine, Private Eye.

Being a reader of Private Eye is like being in a small, highly-elitist club with its own rules, its own language and a set of archaic in-jokes. If you get the joke, you're in and you're smug. If you don't, well, just go and die somewhere quietly, there's a good chap. It's kind of like being a member of Soho House, only cheaper and there's no swimming pool.

One of the best bits about Private Eye is the personals at the back. Or rather, the Spankers. The Spankers are always tall, posh (ex-public school, which in England means private school for some dumb fucking reason), professional gentlemen in their early 50s. They are "stern disciplinarians" who would like to meet "willful" young ladies for "discreet correction".

I guess "willful" is defined as wanting to be smacked on the bare bottom by older men. But not get paid for it.

Don't get me wrong, I'm broadminded and whatever consenting adults want to do in the privacy of their own bedrooms is fine by me. Even if it is nailing each other's scrotums to wooden planks. That really did happen in the UK. It was a celebrated court case. But I digress.

What freaks me out about the Spankers, is how they go about doing all this spanking. I mean, let's say you decide you are a *willful* young lady and you phone one of these chaps so you can set about getting spanked. I guess you'd want to meet in a pub first of all, to check out whether he is obviously a psycho (not that they have it tattooed on their foreheads or whatever), and maybe you'd say hello and he'd say hello and he'd ask if you wanted a drink and you'd say yes please, and he'd go to the bar and get you a gin and tonic or whatever.

And then what?

What the fuck do you say?

"So. Have you been spanking long?"

I dunno. Maybe you discuss costumes or something. Like how you should do French Maid one week and Victorian Governess the next. Or implements. Hair brush? Or birch twigs? Even then, lets say you've managed to fill enough dead air time to get round to the actual correction session.

How the fuck can you keep a straight face when some retired elderly vicar tells you you've been a very naughty girl and to bend over so he can give you a sound thrashing. I can understand the erotic thrill of sado-masochism (apart from the pain bit), in the giving up of control, the surrendering to someone else's ability to make you indulge in the forbidden. But try as I might I can't understand why someone would get turned on by dressing up as a schoolgirl and getting spanked on the bum by a 55-year-old mustachioed history teacher from Kent. It would be horribly banal. Wrong wrong wrong.

Unless they were paying you of course. Whole different ball game there. People will do a lot of dreadful stuff for money. But then if I ever needed money badly enough to become a prostitute, I'd go for the dominatrix end of the market. You get to humiliate rich men in your artfully decorated upper East Side dungeon, and you don't have to fuck them afterwards. Marvellous, in its way.

Posted by eurotrash at 5:46 pm
Twenty comments were posted (add / view)

[September 27 2003]

Fuck you and your Harvard MBA.

I was going to write about spanking, but then I saw an article about this piece of filth and suddenly I was spitting tacks.

Apparently, people who bought this book on the "ultimate hard sell - a woman over 35" also bought the following:

• How Not to Stay Single After 40: The Secret to Finding Passion, Love, and Fulfillment--At Last
  
• If I'm So Wonderful, Why Am I Still Single?: Ten Strategies That Will Change Your Life Forever
  
• Stop Getting Dumped! All You Need to Know to Make Men Fall Madly in Love with You and Marry "The One" in 3 Years or Less
• 4 Steps to bring the Right Person into your life Right Now!
  
• Why Men Love Bitches: From Doormat to Dreamgirl-A Woman's Guide to Holding Her Own in a Relationship

1. Marketing Focus - decide that you really want a husband
   Well, if you're sad enough to have bought her rancid book, I think that's a given.
   
2. Packaging - always look your best
   Hmmm. Better buy me some new teeth. And a wig. And some plastic surgery.
   
3. Market Expansion - Look for Mr Right in as many places as possible
   How many bars are there in Nowheresville, Ohio?
   
4. Branding - show what makes you different from the crowd
   Look! I have more teeth than her! I know. Let's all get tatoos done with our unique selling point. "I'm desperate to have children!" "I'm so desperate I'll consider ugly men!" "I'm just desperate. Full stop!".
   
5. Niche Marketing - ask your married friends if they know any nice men
   And then fuck their husbands, why don't you.
   
6. Mass Marketing - think of everywhere you might meet men and try them all each week
   Ah, just fuck everything that moves. One of them might want a repeat performance and then you can get pregnant and then he's trapped, eh? Mag-fucking-nificent.
   
7. Quarterly Performance Review - take a hard look at why you are still single
   And then kill yourself you sad, 35-year-old loser.

Posted by eurotrash at 8:54 am
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[September 26 2003]

It's just as well, really.

So Maccers is off to another wedding. That's all she seems to do these days, jet off to exotic posh weddings full of glamourous rich people.

But I don't actually envy her, because truth to tell, I hate weddings. Well, most of them. Having escaped a maniacal religious nut champagne communist mother, going to church makes me uneasy. The last time I was in church was for said mother's funeral, and I had to go to communion because all the old biddies would have been horrified if I hadn't and I forgot what you were supposed to say when you got the wafer. It's Amen. But I panicked and mumbled something like: "Thanks be to God" and the priest gave me a sharp look and I was mortified. I could tell he was thinking that having such an irreligious child must have had something to do with her death. Rather that 30-odd years of dedicated booze and depression.

So I don't like churches and I hate it when friends who have absolutely no religious bones in their body pick a church and start vowing all kinds of shit to a God they don't believe in. And you just KNOW they're going to have their kids baptised so they can get them into a good religious school later on.

But most of all I hate it when I stand there in the church thinking: "Why the fuck are THEY getting married?" He has problems getting and maintaining an erection, possibly because he is a homosexual who just doesn't know he's in the closet yet, which is why she has had at least two affairs behind his back and was just summoning up the courage to leave him, when he panicked, knew something was up and proposed out of the blue. And she fancied a big party so she said yes. Blech." One should always be careful what one tells one's friends.

And then you move on to the rubber chicken, the bad wine, the *disco* (and a band, if you're really unlucky), the bride and groom's first dance where they shuffle round the ballroom in an ungainly fashion, never having learned to dance with anyone else. Too busy jigging frenziedly round some club off their tits on E. Not that the beaming Auntie Doris, tears in her eyes as she watches their solo shuffles has any idea that he's a coke head and she drinks far more than she should. It's romantic, see?

And then everyone is SO FUCKING SURPRISED when they get divorced a few years later. Well excuse me. Does anyone really think marriage is for life any more? Do you really think that's it? No fucking anyone else ever again? That this WILL BE the last relationship you ever have? More importantly, does anyone really think that's a good idea?

Marriage, schmarriage. You wanna get married, we'll get married. You don't, we won't. I don't honestly care either way. Unless you have a green card, in which case form an orderly queue below. So far only Tood has offered, but I'm a believer in healthy competition. Females may apply too - I'll pay the flights to Toronto if necessary.

Posted by eurotrash at 8:04 am
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[September 24 2003]

Menage a zero.

Because she said something horrible about me to Paul last night and won't tell me what it is, today's "repulsive entry" must yet again centre around the homicidal maniac that is Freddie Firestarter.

And her legendary Failed Threesome.

I shall start by admitting that this story reflects badly on all of us. Mainly because we were all of us, without exception, completely and utterly off our tits. That means extremely intoxicated, for our American cousins. Mashed, ratarsed, arseholed, pissed, trashed and totally, completely fucked (except Freddie, heh heh).

It started innocuously enough. We were all going to a party some girl was having in a pub in central London. We were even drinking beer, rather than wine, so I reckoned we couldn't cause that much damage. Until Freddie did her USUAL and made us all drink a round of Aftershock - not so much a drink as paintstripper for the brain. That's kind of where I lose it. I should also mention that my tri-annual shag (we'll call him TAS for short) was at this party. The chap I used to get together with when rather drunk about three times a year for competent, unemotional sex. But I'd decided I didn't want to end up with him, so apart from saying hi, managed to avoid him all party long.

So far, so innocent. We could have just jumped in a cab and gone home and a legend would never have been born. But we didn't do that. We decided to go to another party. And that is where it got nasty.

I remember arriving at the party, but not knowing where the hell I was. Never mind. I walked into the party, sat down on the sofa and hey ho, here comes TAS, one hand holding a joint, the other grabbing my thigh. So much for my morals. The rest of the party is pretty much a blur of drink, drugs and snogging. Although I found out later that SOMEONE (you know who you are) was in the loo doing coke with the DJ, a tedious girl had a fight with a bloke she'd just snogged when she found out he had a girlfriend, and Freddie ended up lying on a pile of coats chewing the face off this really cute guy.

I didn't see any of this, I was way too far gone. And what neither Freddie nor I knew, was that this party was, quite literally, around the corner from our apartment. One single block away to be exact. But first she, and then about half an hour later, TAS and I, called cabs. Conversation with the cab controller must have gone something like this:

Me: "I need a cab please."
Controller:"Fine where are you?"
Me: "Hang on" [off the phone - "Where the fuck are we? What? Where? What address? I dunno. You speak to him. Tell him where we are. Wherever that is."]
Random Person: "We're at 53 Blah Blah Street, Kings Cross"
Controller: "And where are you going to?"
Random Person: "Hang on" [off the phone - "Where the fuck are you going? Where? OK."] "They're going to Caledonian Road, Kings Cross"
Slightly puzzled controller: "You do know that will cost £10?"
Random Person: "Whatever."

So we got a cab. Around the corner. And it did indeed cost £10. Ah well.

In the meantime, Freddie had got home with her snog and a friend of his. All was going well and Freddie managed to manouevre the snog into bed and the friend onto the sofa with a duvet for comfort. But the friend was drunk. Very drunk. And for some reason he wasn't happy with our sofa. I don't blame him, it was rather uncomfortable. A sofa more for passing out on, than sleeping on. And he wasn't ready to pass out. Not without a fight. Literally.

So he goes stumbling into Freddie's room and demands that he and the snog leave. NOW. He's cross for some strange psychological fuck up all his own. Freddie manages to get him to lie down on the bed, trying to calm him down. Which is pretty much where TAS and I came in. Drunk and somewhat bewildered, as by now, the friend was extremely pissed off. Freddie had managed to take her clothes off, under the bedclothes (you GO girl!) and so TAS and I were confronted by Freddie, naked, in bed with two men and having a massive argument with one of them. It appeared to be the *angriest* menage a trois in the history of group sex. We stood, gawping in wonderment and witnessed the following historic exchange:

Friend: "Shut up, you stupid Aussie slag!"
Freddie: "I'm a KIWI!"

Well. You tell him.

TAS and I sneaked into my bedroom and carried on listening to the increasingly bitter fight. I like to think we would have intervened if it had got violent, but then I reckon Freddie could take most men in a fight, so we wouldn't really have been needed. And then it happened.

BOTH men left. And there was Freddie. Alone under her duvet with just the memories of what could have been. From two men to zero in under an hour.

The girl has class. Of a sort.

Posted by eurotrash at 12:33 pm
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[September 23 2003]

Hair today, gone, well, a few months later, actually.

Sharing an apartment with someone can be dangerous. While I don't have the statistics to hand, I'm sure flatmates do actually kill each other on a regular basis. Squeezing the toothpaste from the middle of the tube can be dangerous if done often in the face of anal-retentive opposition. Especially if accompanied by aggravated leaving of the cap off.

Although I will admit to having a rather large poker stuffed up my arse, I'm a surprisingly laid-back flatmate, as I know Freddie Firestarter will agree. Too relaxed, on occasion. Which is how the War of the Hair started.

Freddie and I were made for each other in flatmate heaven. Some people find life an almost intolerable burden where one thing just seems to go wrong after another (Me). And some people are just on one long happy alcohol-induced holiday (Freddie). Despite our philosophical differences (I can spell it, Freddie just likes to drink it), we were apartment soulmates. Freddie didn't mind that I didn't hoover, and I didn't mind that she brought thirty drunk friends round for an Elvis karaoke party at 2am. Regularly. We had an unspoken agreement. I slept through her shenanigans (remind me to tell you about the failed threesome one day), and she did the hoovering.

Until the day. The day I had my hair cut.

When I lived in England I had a fabulous hairdresser called Liz who used to come to wherever I lived and do my hair. Usually I'd remember to put a black bin bag on the floor so I could scoop up all the hair afterwards, but for some reason, I didn't this time. So Liz cut my hair in the living room. And afterwards I think I had to go on a business trip, so I left, serene in the knowledge that the FLATMATE WHO DID THE HOOVERING would clear the hair up.

But no. The worm had turned, it seems. When I got back from my business trip, the hair was still there. Well. Someone was reneging on the deal. That could not be allowed to happen. I would like to think that I left the hair there as a way of teaching Freddie a lesson. Freddie does the hoovering and Eurotrash sleeps through her drunken orgies. Fair trade and all that. But it was simpler than that, I confess.

I just didn't really notice the hair after a few days. And after a couple of weeks, well, it was really just part of the decor. To me. And this is why I ultimately won the War of Hair. Because I am happy to live with hair on the floor. It doesn't get in my way. It doesn't make my life any more painful than it already is. It's just hair on the floor. It can't hurt me.

And here's why Freddie ultimately lost the War of the Hair. Because she over-estimated me. She thought she was engaged in a battle for my soul. She figured I was fighting her on this. That I actually WANTED to clear up the hair, but was trying to make a point that SHE should do it. Poor deluded soul. So although the hair on the floor annoyed her to the point of homicidal violence, she steeled herself to leave it there, even though every fibre of her body wanted to clear it up, so she could teach me a lesson and make me a better person.

So the hair stayed there. Unnoticed by me and on painful sufferance for Freddie. And it stayed there for quite some time. Maybe a month or so. It became like an extra flatmate. Silent, but always there.

And the hair would still be there to this day if Freddie hadn't come to her senses and raised the white flag of surrender by finally getting the hoover out. She finally realised that the war had been lost a long time ago when the embryo that was to become Eurotrash missed her place in the queue for the cleanliness gene. So life returned to normal.

Freddie did the hoovering. Eurotrash did the sleeping. Status quo ante bellum. Show over. And I won. As I usually do. Never over-estimate me.

Posted by eurotrash at 5:00 am
Thirteen comments were posted (add / view)

[September 22 2003]

International Arrivals

There is something to be said for the being the mongrel child of immigrant parents.

I'm a big fan of the EEC for one simple reason. Passport control. I was born in one county, grew up in another and had parents who were from two different countries entirely. Three of the countries involved were European and the other was (I have to admit) Canada.

Coming back into America is usually a breeze. Because the Americans understand a thing or two about job creation. As you stomp off the plane at Newark airport a reasonable number of white-shirted stern immigration officers saunter over to their booths, and providing you're on the front-ish of the plane and you walk like somebody speeded your tape up, there isn't much queue and you're through the foreigners channel in maybe 20 minutes. If you're white, female, Canadian and on a plane from somewhere that isn't the Middle East or Africa.

Hurrican Eurotrash hit Heathrow airport two hours later than she should have done on Saturday morning. And the eye of the storm was fearsome to behold, as she was forced to travel scum class, as she, rather than her employers, was paying. Nothing like sitting with the poor people to put me in a bad mood. But never before have I been so glad to be three quarters European. The queue for immigation into the UK was monstrous. It snaked all the way around the huge room and back out into the corridor. Thousands and thousands of tired, hungry people, a significant number of them desperate for a cigarette I'll bet, backed up almost to their plane doors.

I'm no brain surgeon, but it struck me that all this misery could have had something to do with the fact that there were roughly three immigation officers on duty in the face of a tidal wave of jet-lagged misery. That's very British, somehow. Flexibility? Never heard of it, mate. Meet that extra demand with a stiff upper lip and absolutely no extra resource. Heroic failure is a national characteristic.

I had to sneak by by squashing against the wall so I could get to the "You're ok, you can't be a terrorist, you're from Europe" queue which blithely waves us past with a cursory glance at the magic red book. If I didn't have a European passport as well as a Canadian one, I think I'd still be there. Queuing. And chewing the carpet in my tobacco withdrawal. If they're going to make you wait three days to enter the rain-soaked paradise that is England, they could at least give you a fucking room to smoke in.

But I breezed through and it was just another hour or so waiting for baggage while the luggage of suspected suicide bombers trapped behind me on flights from Jeddah ('nuff said) and Cape Town (oops, you're not white!) spun aimlessly round the carousel.

Since then, I've mainly been asleep, jet lag and the harsh deprivation of travelling coach class having taken their toll. This morning I had a dream about blogging. I dreamed that Snowshoe was telling me off because I'd forgotten to link to someone. She was cross because it was someone I really ought to have remembered to link to and now they were offended and it was all my fault. I can't recall if she was *virtually* telling me off, or whether she was telling me off in person. Which would be odd as I have no idea what she looks like.

Anxiety dreams about virtual life do not bode well for my mental health.

Posted by eurotrash at 1:28 pm
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