I love haiku, the ancient Japanese form of poetry, but you wouldn’t know it from these horrors I dreamed up waiting for a train yesterday. Because I realised, as the wind blow litter and rain into my actual face, that if we all pooled the money we as a human race had collectively spent watching either one of the Charlie’s Angels films at the cinema we could have eased the poverty of a large portion of the globe.
But alas. We did not. Because given the choice between feeding one more starving moron and watching Lucy Lui dead eye her way through a stripper routine I know where my bucks are going, baby.
Kicky boom women
Sometimes they are in outfits
Look at my hair, wheee!
This film should be called
“Charlie’s Angel’s : Jesus Wept”
or “Shouty Pain Gang”
Who the hell was Boz?
Did he have a golden cock
which jizzed diamonds?
Here comes Tim Curry!
Is it good he is in this?
Face falls. It’s Bill Murray.
Giggle! Tits! Roundhouse!
Groin shot like you wouldn’t believe
Your dad looks turned on
I rode a motorbike into a convent the other day. Flustered some nuns.
“Young lady!” the elderly sister with the cataracts said, “This is a House of God!”
“Well now,” I replied, jumping off the bike as it screeched to a halt, “it’s the House of RAD!”
and I moonwalked into the vestry and flipped everyone the bird.
It’s hard to be relevant when you’re this old, so bitches best stop hatin’. Instead, check out this boner inducing apron I bought myself. Oxfam, £2.99 and all the whelks they could eat (none)
And this! Skirt! In electro tartan! It was one fair poundlington and is made of all the wool. Someone recently described it as looking a bit Vivienne Westwood and I tried to nod coolly while inside me there was a spontaneous inferno of joy and jizz.
Ladylike dress in black cotton with a nine foot wraparound belt which makes me look dignified and elegant and shiz. Also like a ladyninja with razor blades in her brassiere. Oxfamijamidingdong £7.99 (I know, but what the heck, right?)
THIS JUMPER COST TWENTY FIVE PENCE NEWSFLASH
I know I’ve mentioned it before but it bears repeating – I’ve got a bike you can ride it if you like, but only if you’re under five foot four and built like a slender Twiglet. I got this bad boy on Freecycle. It has an original bell and brakes and is ab-crunchingly joyful to ride, especially when someone is telling you to get the fuck out of their way or beeping at you with their beeper from their automobile because they are riding in their steel and metal deathcages and you are IN THEIR FUCKING WAY, MAN. Still, Freecycle, for free, from a lovely lady.
You know what I love? Hip Hop. For every misogynistic, homophobic, teeth-grindingly unimaginative asshat of an MC (Chris Brown) there is a perpetually inventive, beat driven shamelessly ego pumped styler out there ready to take the Mic (Kool Keith).
I can’t rap. I think we’d both be a little more comfortable if I get that out there now. For all my homegirl ghetto credentials (I literally failed my Maths GCSE like, twice) I’m no better at lyrical alchemy than I am say, unicycling or cooking pancakes. In fact I’m so bad that my long awaited rap odyssey (‘Urban Street Tough’) failed within the first five minutes with these lines;
“If it don’t rhyme, it ain’t a crime,
You want me to do time?
Shutup! You’re lyrics aren’t any better than mine.”
Then I beatboxed a solo for twenty minutes while a girls crotch gyrated inches from my face and hair.
So I’d pretty much given up on hip hop until I read this tweet yesterday from Original Gangster, Homie, Bodycount Banger and star of the HBO drama Law and Order, Ice T:
People are always shocked when they find out I don’t drink, smoke weed or get high….. I always felt it COMPROMISED my hustle.
This is so mindbendingly brilliant I keep getting drawn back to it like a Goth to eyeliner.
IT COMPROMISED HIS HUSTLE. I think we can all learn a lesson there and that lesson is don’t do anything which compromises your HUSTLE. From anal sex to making jam, from Downton Abbey to Compton, from double denim to strikes on Syria, here is the world’s most brilliant excuse for anything at any time in any place ever in the world, like ever.
With that in mind I’m sharing with you some trinkets I recently picked up for very little cashmoney, yo.
So fresh it’s mountain fed and purer than triple distilled Vodka this real silver necklace consists of three dinky little charms – a heart, a cross and an anchor. So Love, Faith and Sailors. Whatever. This cost me a BITCHIN’ TWENTY FIVE PENCE-INGTONS.
A tin a tin, good for keeping things in. I’ve put the tiny still beating hearts of mice and hamsters in there in their barely congealed juices but you could use it for earrings or biscuits too! Tin (Of Small Rodent Death) Fifty Pences
“A Knife, A Fork, A Bottle and A Cork, that’s the way we spell New York.” Dillinger was of course wrong here, but what isn’t wrong is this art deco Disney New York City badge which is less a fashion accessory and more a MASSIVE hint to the cosmos that I’d like to go there one day and bask in it’s unparallelled weirdness.
I’m out homies. Peace.
“Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman,” sang Tammy Wynette, the woman who won the prize for Having A Name Which Sounds Most Like A Sanitary Product® in ’82 and ’84.
(Last years winner was Flo Rida, pictured at the award ceremony below)
I’m off point. So Tammy thinks it’s hard to be a woman does she? She’s not fucking wrong. But what she failed to mention is that sometimes it’s hard to be anything. Sometimes it’s hard to be a badger. Sometimes it’s hard to be an atom. Because the key word there is sometimes. It’s so vague it’s almost ethereal. Like a mist. Like an insubstantial ghost. Like a fart trapped in a trouser leg. Sometimes.
I’m not a fan of advertising, and not just because Bill Hicks tells me it’s alright to hate ‘em. I’m not a fan because the snooker playing Hoffmeister Bear from the eighties used to freak me out to such a degree that I’d have to blow into a brown paper bag for the duration of the ad breaks. Thanks a lot, advertising. One thing I’ve noticed though, is their use of very vague, non-specific words which appear to tell you something scientifically proven which has been discovered in tests and polls which might offer you answers but in actual fact reveals very little that is tangible. Much like that last sentence.
Take any advert for any beauty product ever. BUY THIS, WOMEN!! YOU AREN’T YET GOOD ENOUGH!! BE YOUNGER!! SORT OUT YOUR HAIR!!! YOU CALL THAT A COMPLEXION? YOU LOOK LIKE GANDALF’S CROTCH!!! YOU’RE SHIT!!! WOMEN!!!!
It’s hocus pocus snake oil salesmen nonsense, and the advertising industry is stinking rich because of it. Of course it is. I buy crap all the time. I buy things I’m lulled into thinking I need because somebody is an eel-like contortionist when it comes to language and YES I’LL TAKE TEN OF THEM. I used to buy anything which was ‘scientifically proven’ because it’s SCIENCE, and SCIENCE is never wrong, right kids? And Proven is such a solid, grounded word. Essentially what ‘scientifically proven’ reads like – at least to a lab rat like me is – ‘This Really, Really Works And Science Has Proved It’ when in fact it may as well be endorsed by Beaker from the Muppets. It means nothing.
Those brand taglines? Mean nothing. ‘I’m Loving It?’ Nothing. ‘Just Do It’. Nothing. ‘Washing machines live longer with Calgon’. Uh-huh. Nothing. It’s sick how much we buy into this – so much so that an entire industry thrives on it and prominent advertising spaces sell for mega bucks. A thirty second advert in the first half of the Superbowl costs nearly Four Million Dollars. If any eccentric millionaires are reading this and want to film themselves doing something absolutely FILTHY for the fill thirty seconds in unflinching eye watering detail with über surround sound then please, please, please…
…Just Do It.
Dude the eighties called. They’ve taken out a restraining order against that rad suede and leather butter soft batwing cropped jacket with the shoulder pads you bought for £8 today in Help the Aged. That shit’s so fresh think you’re going to need a lawyer.
Here is a montage of this jacket, eighties style. <’Turn It On’ by Kim Wilde plays>
I love this enamel teapot. It’s happy. It’s got a Tetris design going on, although I saw the face of Hitler in a scone earlier so I’m not the best judge of patterns and shit to be fair.
Happy pot, 99p. Oxfam.
“Nee-naw Nee-naw we’re the style police, and we’re arresting you on suspicion to WOW.”
You know what? I like this dress. It’s dinky and sweet and look-at-me-I’m-a-kinky-librarian but also the material is that heavy duty sixties stuff which feels like canvas or a brillo pad. Also the dress weighs forty pounds so I get tired in it just getting up the stairs. I’ve been sat here in it for nineteen hours. Send help, I can’t lift my arms. Still, £6.99, also Oxfam.
Sorry! What? Sorry! You what? This could go all on night. If you remember this version of the game ‘Sorry’ chances are you also remember rationing, Chuck Berry and homosexuality being a crime punishable by prison in the UK. The thing I love about this game is the unapologetic bluntness of the marketing. ‘Play It And Be Glad’ it demands.
Read the Important Notice from the Instructions. If you’re playing it for more than twenty five minutes YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG YOU CLUELESS PROLE! Don’t expect to enjoy the first four games very much, just get them over with. After that you will achieve near orgasmic levels of JOY and ENTHUSIASM. Read EVERYTHING SLOWLY and carefully in as many different TYPESETTINGS AS we CAN muster. Sorry! the game, just twenty pentagles.
You ever worked in the hospitality industry? I have. I’ve dealt with the tits, twats, prats and gits which make up the 90% of the general public which doesn’t include my friends, family and YOU obviously, darling.
The very best thing about having to serve people relentlessly on a day-to-day basis is the free floating dread you get about having to go into work every day for low wages and long, anti-social hours. That and the tips, right?
Still, I forgot myself for a moment the other day. It was hot and I was sticky. (I don’t ‘do’ heat in the same way fish don’t do, you know, ‘breathing air’ or Jedward do ‘calming the fuck down for five minutes’.)
The heat got to me and in a fit of pique I wrote to the manager of Bills incandescent with sun-fuelled rage that I had been charged a couple of quid for a glass of soda water.
I know, right? Fucking loser. You should see the email I sent. Ugh. I literally don’t know what to do with it. It is poisoning my inbox every time I look at my messages. I’ve had to call a young priest and an old priest to dispose of it for me. In my defence I was in a filthy mood, but still. Yikes.
Still the guy from Bills sent me back a BRILLIANT response. If you’ve ever worked with a hostile, overbearing individual in any capacity you will recognise immediately what he is doing. A reply so ripe with charm and politeness that you cannot possibly find fault with it, even though – and here is the important bit so listen up – even though he is being deeply and sincerely sarcastic. I’ve done this and I suspect you have too. Teeth grittingly polite with an implied FUCK YOU so barely concealed it’s made the front page of Vogue.
“Please accept my sincere apologies for failing to charge you appropriately for a soda water.” It begins. “Clearly we have charged you far too much for such a simple drink. Simply not good enough and we must do better.”
Already you’re thinking alright mate I get it, don’t go over the top.
“I have reviewed with my team in Lewes the correct way I expect any non-menu drink request to be charged. In this case a degree of common sense was needed and we clearly didn’t deliver that. I’m so sorry for letting you down.”
That last bit is my favourite. As though I’d suffered a compound fracture of moral responsibility.
“A briefing and coaching session for our front of house team has taken place in light of your experience.” He agonises, with a degree of self flagellation which even martyrs think is excessive,
“Thank you for providing me with this opportunity. I will be keeping a close eye on their abilities with this in the future.”
Touche Scott, you brilliant man. I’m sorry I behaved like a complete twathat over a can of soda water. If I’m honest with you, I thought it came from a soda gun. I didn’t know you used cans. I DIDN’T KNOW YOU USED CANS. I’m sorry you even had to indulge my shitty complaint. If I ever meet you we will go for a drink.
You’re buying, right?
I was taken to court the other day. I rode in on a motorbike and the judge said “Miss Pearce, may I remind you that you are here for crimes against MEDIOCRITY. How do you plead?”
So I rode my bike in a ten minute Wall of Death around the courtroom wearing a stars and stripes bikini and on my last lap I flipped the Judge the Bird and said;
Then my hella handsome lawyer came over and put on a pair of Ray Bans.
“Girl,” he said, “Is your name Mount Etna? Because you are smokin’!”
This bag. This bag. This bag in a photo of a bag. Vintage 80s patchwork leather in which I can fit a toddler and two Uzi nine millimeters. It’s massive, is what I’m trying to say. And never been used. Ten golden pounds.
This tiny religious picture which is so glitzy and camp even Liberace is saying “Dude. That’s way over the top.” ONE POUND AT A SCHOOL FETE. #thuglife
This skirt. Looking at the pattern of the fabric makes me feel vaguely high. Still, under a fiver, vintage St Michael in a teeny tiny size which I can just about squeeze into but can’t make any sudden moves in, or dance, or walk. Or breathe.
This Sparkle & Fade sweatshirt which looks like a bedspread I had as a teen. A POUNDY WOUNDY WOO.
Handmade child’s dress. Fabric straight outta Sesame Street. Matching bag for my three year old’s lipstick and painkillers and shit. Twenty Five Ruddy Pence.