Dame Edna Experience in great form yesterday: "My friends call me Flora, because I spread easily and I've been with everything in the fridge"
(note for bitful people from other universes: Flora is a kind of margarine, and The Fridge is a club in Brixton that hosts the Saturday gay night Love Muscle).
Meteor shower tonight after 10. I wish I had a boyfriend to lay in the garden with a bottle of bubbly and cuddle up looking at shooting stars and making wish upon wish.
Beautiful Bitful Brighton. I got there in a foul mood, mainly due to a very disappointing date the previous night (advice: when your date constantly asks you the time while having drinks, and if asked why, he answers "I just want to get into Substation before midnight" while politely inviting you to join him, there are high chances he is not very much into a romantic evening with you). So Substation it was, and not bad either.
The grumpy mood got worse as we got into Brighton at around 8:30pm and went bar hopping. Every single place was crammed with people, it took ages to get served at the bar so we had to plan and send one of us to get fresh drinks while the current ones were just started.
I eventually was won over by the joyful atmosphere, relaxed and got very excited about Wild Fruit, certain that I was going to have a great night out. And great it was indeed, apart from the fact that it had a jumpy start and took ages to take off.
First, we discovered that everybody in the 200+ person queue had a ticket, when we'd naively hoped that our tickets were going to let us jump it.
Then, my friends blatantly and shamelessly jumped over a barrier right in front of the bouncer and got in. I was the last one to jump and a hook got stuck in my crotch, right between the buttons on my fly (fashion hint: zipper flies are de rigueur from now on). I was obviously spotted by the bouncer who politely and calmly asked me to join the back of the queue. I was going to tell him that I was joining my friends but they were already way in. Nice friends ex-friends indeed.
I beat my personal record while playing Tetris on my mobile phone while the queue rapidly moved on, then I was asked to put my chewing-gum in a box on a table at the entrance. I spit the one in my mouth and put it there, wondering what the heck… Then the guy asked me to pick it up and place it in a bin, he wanted any packets of gum I was carrying. I searched my bag to check if I had (of course I did), told him I did not have any left (and placed the one I found at the very bottom of my bag, under layers of junk).
I wonder if they thought anyone decided that they were not going to do any E because of the lack of chewing-gum. I've seen people chew plastic bottle tops instead. And I seriously considered trading a stick of gum for sex favours.
Once having been searched, I checked my bag and quickly found my friends ex-friends, when the music stopped, the lights went on and we were all told to move outside. Bomb scare? Fire drill? Who knows. Out we stayed for the best part of half an hour, and then back in, at which point it was sort of hard to get into a fierce party mood (also considering that the walls around us were lined with security people scrutinizing our every move).
Nevertheless, the venue was grand (although a bit too highscool dance-in-the-gym for me). The music, on the other hand, was just like the evening: it kept building up and never truly took off.
Lights on at 4am and back to the house we were staying at, for an early Colombian breakfast while looking at the sun rising. Slept for all of 3 hours before being woken up by Daisy licking my face (friend's dog). Took care of that by breathing on her nose, which sent her off yapping in disgust.
The Yankee blogger has a cool guestmap. The Yankee blogger has very persuasive kick-ass threatening ways of making you sign it. I fell for it. And so should you.
Who is the most shaggable Six Feet Under (male) character? Vote now!
It's Friday and – dare I say this? – I stormed through this week kicking some serious ass.
I'm probably still on a high from a fabulous weekend, and there was no sign of Tearful Tuesday or Weepy Wednesday. Nor of Touchy Tuesday or Witchy Wednesday for that matter.
I was seriously fearing a Tragic Thursday but no, nothing. High spirits and loads of energy. I mean, I even went running every day this week. You see, me running is as rare a sight as Marcus using an umbrella. It just does not happen.
From the look of things, I doubt that this will be a Frightful Friday, as I've still got plenty to do, and a date tonight that I'm looking very much forward to.
Nevertheless, as my body is prone to behaving in the most bizarre ways sometimes, I wouldn't be surprised if I was suddenly hit by Soppy Saturday or Suicidal Sunday. So if you see someone (with very low swimming skills) stepping out of the post Pride Party at Wild Fruit tomorrow night and jumping straight off Brighton Pier, well, that could be me.
Some bloggers get to be in the Guardian, others end up in Boyz. I guess one gets what one deserves.
Actually, it might not be very wise to advertise this here, as I've just found out about it via Marcus, and I haven't got my hands on the paper yet.
Do I look good? Where was the photo taken? Was I sucking my tummy in? Does it involve acres of leather and several youths suctioned to my nipples? And it is a photo, isn't it? Not just a mug shot with the caption Beware: this man's ex-boyfriends all agree he can seriously screw up your life!
These days I only allow myself a handful of silly thoughts per day – if I had it my way I would live entirely in my own fantasy world.
So, today's totally useless question is:
has Paul Cattermole walked out of S Club 7 so that the others would have a chance to go to Riga on May 24th 2003?
It's reassuring to know that there are at least two persons out there who know what my pathetic little mind is going on about.
While we're talking food:
Am I jumping to conclusions too hastily, or is blogging actually bad for your health? Shall we sue?
I want it now! Any easier alternative to sheer willpower that might help me curb my excessively healthy appetite will always be more than welcome.
This David guy from Six Feet Under and I, well, how can I put it, we seem to lead parallel lives at the moment, according to his experiences from the past few episodes. With just one difference possibly (well, maybe two, as I don't stitch up dead bodies for a living): what he walked away from in the club, I enthusiastically jumped into last Saturday instead and, Dave boy, you've missed something big time!
Poignant quote from this week's episode:
Is dating like an excuse for you to see who you'd wished you'd been when you were my age?
Spot on, Kurt baby, spot on.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckety fuckety fuck.
I got home at 11, made myself a cuppa and rewound the tape I used last night for Six Feet Under.
Curling up on the couch with the snug confidence that originates from the thought that I could skip all the ad breaks, I started watching what everyone around me had told me was one of the best episodes so far.
5 minutes into the episode the tape jumped to 10 or 15 minutes later. I watched for another 5 minutes, then the same thing happened again. And again.
All I got to see was 20 condensed minutes of:
It might have been a special episode directed by David Lynch (although I did not spot any dwarfs). Or one of my housemates playing with the "stop" and "play" buttons on the VCR remote control while it was taping the show (in which case a few heads might roll before I move out of here).
I am sneaking into my housemate's room tomorrow night and watch the rerun on her personal precious posh E4 cable thing.
One of my best friends is dating one of David's best friends. Does that make us bloggers-in-law? And shouldn't more arrows be added to the RVT relationship chart?
But hang on, David is supposed to be one of my daddys. This is getting a bit confusing. And slightly incestuous.
And now it turns out I have a child who's going to be one month old tomorrow. And who is apparently also my sibling. I am lost.
You might not be incredibly tech-savvy and wondered (just like me) why sometimes on websites e-mail addresses are spelled something like: "(remove_this_bit)luca@bitful.com", or "mailatbitfuldotcom". It's simply in order to prevent crawling applications from going through your code, identify any email addresses there are in it and inundate you with junk mail.
A few days ago I was snooping around some website's source code (as I normally do when I want to find out how things work) and I saw that the email address was spelled with HTML characters (you know, those
mail thingies). I did the same with my text editor and it does seem to work, as I have noticed a decrease in junk mail to my bitful mailbox over the past week.
If your text editor does not show you a list of HTML characters (I personally use Textpad), you may find the whole table here.
Apparently simply replacing the "@" with the special HTML character "ʉ" will not eradicate the problem entirely, as spiders can detect it and replace it, as this article points out. I have a feeling that replacing the whole email address with special HTML characters may prove more effective, and it's easier to implement and more browser-friendly than using Javascript to do it.
I do not disapprove entirely of this widespread marketing practice, which might give some results if properly targeted, but sorry, I do not want bigger breasts, I do not need a mortgage yet and teeny lolitas certainly do not stir my nether parts in the slightest.
Off to Crash now.
If I manage to spot Mike in the sea of disco tits on horse tranquilizers, I'll definitely go and say hallo to him.
Ah, bliss.
Friends' barbecue cancelled due to bad weather, hence prospect of whole afternoon in bed with fat Saturday Guardian.
Note to readers outside the UK: the fat Saturday Guardian is not an overweight custodian who gets in bed with me once a week, but the weekend edition of a national newspaper.
Please welcome Sashinka among the Bitful people on the right-hand column.
A much-needed bit of fresh air worth a special mention, as I realize that I had been mainly reading weblogs written by gay men (or people who claim being gay men, for all I know some of them may very well be 75 year old lesbians).
Hang on a sec – how can I know that Sashinka herself is not a gay man? Or a 75 year old lesbian? After all, Sasha may be short for Alexander.
But then again: does it really matter?
One takes great care in rearranging one's CV for a specific vacancy, phrasing the covering letter just so and making sure one meets the deadline, and what does one get as a response?
So you are to late the position has closed.
Nothing else; no signature, no 'hello', 'goodbye' or, goodness forbid, 'sorry'.
Somehow I have the feeling I did not miss a great job opportunity.Now, if only this disturbing ringing in my left ear stopped bothering me, and I could thus regain full 360° hearing, I'd be in heaven.
You can never be too rich, too thin… or have too many friends in the media/entertainment industry.
I simply mentioned casually that I'd never been to a West End show and, courtesy of my friend Ian, I'm off to see My One And Only tonight with him.
Here's what the Guardian's weekly entertainment guide says about the show:
Musical based on the show Funny Face, directed by Loveday Ingram.
I keep being hunted by this Funny Girl vs. Funny Face confusion. Do I need to stay after school and write on the blackboard 100 times: Funny Girl –> Barbra Streisand, Funny Face –> Audrey Hepburn?
Oh dear. Poor Diana spent ages morbidly striving to be thin, and now they're commemorating her with a big round thing.