The internet is stuffed to the gills with listicles like ‘what kind of drunk are you?’, ‘the seven stages of drunkenness’, ‘fifteen types of drunk you’ll encounter in fresher’s week’, and if you’ve read as many of them as I have, chances are you’re a hot medley of nearly all of them.
As I sit here at my computer, sweating out my frost bite and sweeping flecks of dried skin that have fallen off my face onto the floor, I can’t help but think that January ain’t nothing but a big bag of dicks. (In this context the bag of dicks is a bad thing.) Continue reading
With the world reeling from several global tragedies and people taking to social media to express their disbelief, support, solidarity, sympathy and myriad other emotions and sentiments, the phrase ‘do you boo boo’ has never echoed more loudly.
Anyone that has any kind of contact with me, be it personal or virtual, probably knows I’ve just had my wisdom teeth out – and that’s because I won’t shut up about it. I constantly talk about how it went, how I felt and how I feel now. I give my poor flatmates regular updates on the state of the inside of my mouth, and the fact that whilst I slept through Saturday night no problem, I was up at 5am in pain on the Sunday night, and about how the stitches have started to come loose.
Now, I’m not so socially inept that I haven’t noticed, amongst the oodles of compassion, the eye-rolls or looks of ‘will this bitch shut up about her teeth already’. But, you know what, I’ll shut up about it when I’m good and ready to shut up about it. Continue reading
It all began in the early 2000’s. Lording over the plebs with my far superior vocabulary, I began to introduce LOL into my vernacular as a means to satirise, and ultimately mock, those who “genuinely” used it. A few months down the line however, and all sense of irony was lost. Amongst my day to day language LOL’s kept involuntarily surging forth, like that little bit of puke you choke back down after a shot of Sambuca. It became habit to suffix a half-hearted chortle with a LOL just to reassure those around me that I had indeed found something humorous. The act of laughing was now not enough.
Two varieties of pork dumpling from La Mian, Greenwich Market
It all began one fateful summer’s afternoon as my friend and I traversed London’s sun-drenched South Bank. I was hungover, hungry and happy to be lead, so when my companion suggested we pop into Ping Pong to gorge on some dim sum I was delighted to oblige. Continue reading
Last weekend I had the absolute honour of cheering on my mate as she ran the grueling 26.2 miles of the Brighton Marathon. Having already watched this beautiful woman (and two other gorgeous friends) run a 5k for Cancer Research early last year, I was some way aware of the ebullient emotions these kinds of events can arouse. But nothing could have prepared me for how moved and utterly humbled I would be cheering on the side-lines of the 2015 Brighton Marathon.
To the outside world I seem like the perfect human woman, ruling the social hierarchy with my impressive wit and indisputable good looks. Men and women alike look up to me as a pillar of success, mothers stop in the streets for me to kiss their babies, and everyone constantly asks for my unbeatable pad Thai recipe.
But in the sanctity of my private life I harbour a terrible, terrible secret. They say admitting you have a problem is the first step, so here goes… Continue reading
Prakashi Tomar. Screen sot from Hindustan Times video.
Caught in the ferocious grip of the ‘what the fuck am I doing with my life’ beast, I was beginning to feel overcome with despair and depression, unable to go on, unable to control my increasing need for melodrama and hyperbole, basically feeling, for want of a better (more dramatic) word, like a piece of shite.
It would seem that no matter what my circumstance or situation, good or bad, employed or jobless, deadbeat or superstar, this rather gross state of mind – felt particularly acutely in the early twenties – could come and bite me in the arse at any time, and on this occasion the little rascal had sunk his teeth in good. Continue reading
Whether it’s a rustic medieval town, colourful beach resort or vibrant city there is an undeniable energy to Italy, and its people are at the core. Quiet afternoons in sleepy towns can explode into vivacious nights as the tanned locals take to the streets, cafes and bars to revel each other’s company, and busy cities swell with the cacophony and chaos of gesticulating inhabitants conversing at decibel levels usually reserved for car horns.
Italians embody la dolce vita, placing family, food, coffee and culture – all the good stuff – at the forefront of their lives. I reckon we could all learn a thing or two from our European pals, so with that in mind here’s a few reasons why we should all be more Italian. Continue reading
Generation Fishcake 