I love @axlrose, he can be as late as he likes, that’s rock’n’roll, but it INFURIATES me that his tweets go over 140 characters!
A fun toy for boys and girls?!? Whaaatt??!??!
I’ll be interested to see how this pans out.
It’s spider season. This thing was the width of a pint glass.
Jeff Goldblum, putting the ‘ass’ in Jurassic Park.
To be fair, he had a cracking amusement park until someone else f*cked it up. He just needed a better HR department.
Watch ‘Some Like It Hot’ Club Noir style on Sunday 5th September at the Glasgow Film Theatre. I would love to go! Sounds like a great evening’s entertainment – and an excuse to dress up!
In light of the recent cat-bin scandal, I thought of seven types of people I’d gladly throw in a wheelie bin:
Fag Ash Flickers
The people who think it’s ok to flick their cigarette ash behind them as they walk – right into your path. That’s right mate, as long as you don’t see where it goes, it doesn’t matter. As long as it’s off your cancer stick so your wee fingers don’t get burnt, eh?
Sour Faced Simpletons
The ones who have a permanent grimace of distaste on their face. Cheer up, you may not like anyone or anything, but if you keep growling your face will stick like that permanently. You’ll have no way to display pleasure at the miracle of finding something you actually enjoy. Smile once in a while and maybe people won’t look at you and think ‘what a miserable bitch’ (even if, inside, you’re still a miserable bitch).
Personal Space Suckers
Take a seat, just not on my knee. I know this is a crowded train but I don’t need to feel the lining of your underwear against my thigh. Having my body pinned against the wall of a moving tin can isn’t my idea of a good commuting experience. But you’re ok, eh? That’s alright then. As long as you’ve settled into your seat (and half of mine), then everything is right with the world. GET OUT OF MY FACE!
The strangers who think it’s acceptable to say “you’re looking a bit tired”, “why didn’t you do this instead of that” or “how much did you pay for that”. Leave me alone. I don’t ask you how much you paid for your house, why you’re lathered in bright orange tint or question your decisions after they’ve been made. I leave you alone so you leave me alone and keep your remarks to yourself. I. Don’t. Even. Know. You.
Not the tin rattling kind, but the “Do you have a minute? Just one minute. Catching a train? I’ll walk beside you and do your head in with my fake student accent and my cool charity slogan t-shirt” people. The ones who get paid commission for each donation they get. The sharks. I give money to charity, I volunteer for charity, I sign charity petitions. I don’t want some arse with a tshirt and ID badge chasing me down Buchanan Street when I’m trying to get home after a long day at work.
“I’ve got somewhere to be and you’re not going fast enough! Move! Look at my car, are you looking at my car? It’s expensive!! Get out of my way! Why are you in my way? I’m going to sit so close to your bumper you’ll be counting my nose hairs in the rear view mirror. Then I’m going to swerve dangerously into oncoming traffic just to get past you and dash back in again almost swiping your car. Oh… red light.”
Shuffling forward, elbows out, eyes straight ahead, hoping I won’t see? Don’t think so. Or the “HEY! I haven’t seen you for aaages!” manoeuvre, where someone discovers a ‘friend’, jumps the queue and then just stays there. Piss off. Just because you shared a crêpe with someone in a dorm room five years ago doesn’t mean you automatically level up.
I was disgusted by the footage of a woman throwing a cat into a wheelie bin. I mean, she put him in recycling! I thought cat was more ‘general waste’.
I love this dress!
This is one of my favourite childhood photos, me and my brother. Notice what we’re watching. Haha! Yes, that is Julian Clary in yellow rubber. We’re transfixed (which, funnily enough is also the name for a cross dressing shop)!
There’s a Matalan clothing line for the older lady called ‘Soon’. Bit ominious, don’t you think?