Friday, 26 August 2011

Retarded Dog

Retarded Dog is a retarded dog yapping. I'm shocked and disgusted at the fact I watched it 6 times in a row, and now as I type I have it playing in the background. 
I find animals pointless and unnecessary, but if I were to kill all animals I would keep Retarded Dog alive so that it could perform to me privately. Along with this baby that farted at the same time it sneezed.
Watch it all then go back and replay 0:20 at least 14 times.

Sunday, 21 August 2011


I happened to be in the room while Celebrity Big Brother was on last night, and I may have accidentally absorbed some of its content. Now I feel bad about what I said about Amy Childs, because she seemed genuinely nice, and there was evidence that her vocabulary had expanded somewhat. I'm going to vote for her to win if she ever gets in the final, as an apology. And she's the only non-blonde female in there.
The gypsy wedding man, although not a celebrity whatsoever, provides huge amounts of entertainment - purely because I can't understand a word he's saying. Normally when I say I can't understand regional accents, it's because I'm being an arrogant middle class person. But this time I genuinely didn't even realise he was talking. I thought he was barking. I like to watch him blunder around, probably still trying to work out why he's there and how he got there. I didn't enjoy Sally Bercow's patronising conversation with him, in which she was being all respectful and Labour Party. It made me want to punch her, place her in a gypsy occupied area, and watch her try to navigate around all the broken glass as the gypsy children steal her shoes and money. I'm not saying all gypsies are like this, but I haven't seen or heard of any that aren't.

Saturday, 20 August 2011

Just subscribed to my own blog

I'm going to receive an email whenever I update it.

Amy Childs!?!??!?!??!?!?!!?!?!

I'm in Brighton again so I'm giving it another chance. Maybe this time it can make me indie. I haven't gone out yet though: I arrived last night, and all I've done so far is watch The Inbetweeners top 10 moments. I've realised that The Inbetweeners is probably the funniest thing I've ever seen in my life.
The top 10 moments program was good, but ruined by the appearance of terrible celebrities voicing their uninteresting opinions on characters and scenes. Two girls from The Saturdays occasionally chipped in and tried to be funny, but they failed because they are women. Some ridiculous chavs from Geordie Shore said some things but the accents prevented me from understanding, which was probably best. Their fatness and orangeness succeeded in offending me though.
They also had Amy Childs on there. Before, I'd only ever seen her in photographs in magazines or online. She seemed like a standard reality show failure of a human, fitting in brilliantly with the general ambience of The Only Way is Essex. I've never had the misfortune to actually see the show, except when I went to visit my gran at a nursing home and it seemed to be permanently on TV (the old people didn't mind or realise because they were slumped and hardly alive). So I hadn't quite realised the extent of human stupidity.
After watching her on this Inbetweeners thing, I look at the world with new, less hopeful eyes. The general format of her comments was this: describe the scene, say what she would be like if it happened to her, make some vacuous exclamations, repeat herself a few times, and finish with more exclamations. To her credit, she managed all this with a vocabulary of about 4 words, one of which was 'like'. Everything she said was the opposite of funny, but I couldn't even laugh at this fact because like the Geordie girls, she too was orange. I'm not even sure if she knew The Inbetweeners wasn't real. I don't think she knew what it was or why she was there. And one of the hairs of her fringe had come loose, infuriatingly.

Wednesday, 10 August 2011

Oh no

Every CCTV screenshot has about 7 logos in it. This rioting is such a bad advert for Adidas.

Tuesday, 2 August 2011


I've decided to become fat because I've discovered the world's best food apart from the Pizza Hut cookie dough dessert.

They are like brownies but less chocolatey and more godlike. I had 5 in one go.

Thursday, 28 July 2011

I used my camera

Did not know that I had a double chin.

Wednesday, 27 July 2011

Other people at bookshops

I hate other people at book shops. They don't do anything wrong, they just exist inconveniently. Yesterday I went to Waterstones primarily to ask about jobs, but ended up browsing for some nice arrogant books. Every time I started scanning along the shelves, some pleb would come drifting towards me, also scanning the shelves. There would be a moment of distress as they came ever closer, in which I would decide whether to give way or fight to the death with the pleb. Normally I would just change direction and pretend to stare meaningfully at some books I had already seen, for the purpose of avoiding the pleb. While I regarded these books I would want them to die. They were occupying my shelf.
Sometimes they come in groups. This is worse. They generally disperse, reconvening every so often in order to block off a section of the store and communicate loudly with each other.
There was this one particular pleb that would not move from the graphic novels section. Obviously I have no interest in the graphic novels section, but it was about 2 metres away from the classic literature section (I generally like to have a 3 metre radius separating me from the others). Every time I did a circuit of the store to check if the pleb had moved, he was still there.
Looking back, I'm quite grateful to that stubborn pleb and his uncommonly fervent interest in graphic novels. He was an excellent deterrent from the small selection of shit that makes up the classic literature section. Although I feel like a literary god when I read a 'critically acclaimed cult classic', it's a challenge to get through one without committing suicide. I end up becoming absorbed by the front/back cover, purely because they provide some respite from the badly written deluge of things that aren't interesting. Anything over 100 years old is unreadable, and Jane Austen is particularly bad.

Friday, 15 July 2011

Lottery winners

The £161m lottery winners are fat. 
They are going to spend it all on sweets. This saddens me.

Monday, 4 July 2011

Old people

I was just leaving the rose gardens the other day when I saw these two walking in through the entrance. I had my camera on me so I took a spycam photo. 
I admire these ladies for the sheer complexity of planning they must have done before leaving the (nursing?) home. They have made sure that they look completely different in every way. Quite clearly there has been some collaboration on choice of outfit: one wears a blue jumper and a cream skirt, while the other wears a cream jumper and a blue skirt. If I am not mistaken, the lady on the right's skirt is shorter and more raunchy, marking her out as being the bolder of the two. The left wears sandals, while the other has made a more sensible decision with loafers as the weather was not wholly clement. Their sun hats, while seemingly similar, are very different in design. The first lady's trolley is a four wheeler, while the other only has three wheels.
They're pretty much identical.

Sunday, 29 May 2011

Brighton malfunctioned

I've just come back from the centre of the indie universe. I was surrounded by vintage, retro, alternative, and gay. I practically couldn't move without seeing an undercut or an American football jacket or a shirt buttoned all the way up. Every other shop sold vintage Levis denim jackets or vomity beaded crop tops. There were people doing art in caf├ęs. Tiny art galleries which actually had people in. Incense. We passed some spray painted cars hanging up on a washing line with giant clothes pegs.
I bought a pen from Jack Wills.

Friday, 13 May 2011


I just saw Insidious and I'm really confused.
During the film watching process I was sprawled across 12 seats, clinging on to everyone with fear. I had a shirt over my head and eyes, and I was covering my ears. I practically didn't watch it.
When I got out the cinema I suddenly realised it wasn't even scary. Even now, looking back, I can't remember exactly what made me act like such a pathetic child. I feel like I was manipulated into thinking it was scary. In reality, it was a children's film.
The whole film was so filled with 8 minute pauses that only 2 things actually happened in it. On top of this, I was confused by the addition of two comical characters that seemed to serve no purpose but to be comical, trivialising all the horror. Obviously I was grateful at the time, as they saved me bricking myself.
I liked the music though. It was like amped up horror film music on steroids. It was violently creepy.
On the whole, Insidious contained everything it was supposed to: bloody handprints, superfluous Victorian children, inexplicable banging sounds, and laughing children. It also had an eponymously 'insidious' demon who was definitely paedophilic.

Saturday, 30 April 2011


I accidentally got slightly patriotic at the royal wedding yesterday, I have no idea where that came from.

Tuesday, 26 April 2011

Land of Deutsche

Never again am I going to a country where I can't speak the language. German is so completely opposite to any language I have ever studied that I literally had no hope. Every time I tried to order some currywurst mit brot I would blindly flail around in pseudo-German (dankers) before shamefully resorting to English, which of course they could all speak. I felt like a complete ignorant tourist.
On the odd occasion where the Germans weren't more apt at English than I am, communication fail ensued. Replying 'no thanks' to 'where are you from?' for example.

Wednesday, 23 March 2011

Greenpeace is a little bitch

I attempted to do my physics on whether nuclear power is a good way to reduce CO2 emissions. But something strange happened and it turned into a rant about Greenpeace.

I hate Greenpeace.

I've already mentioned how much I hate people who wear vegetarian shoes and buy organic and turn off the lights all the time. But I had only assumed that I disliked them. Then I found myself on the Greenpeace website and realised that I do actually hate environmentalists, loads.
Things started to go wrong when I was met by a little pop-up shouting quietly about some fisherman killing sharks and dolphins and other pretty marine creatures. They were asking me for my personal details. So after the massive effort it took to close the pop-up, I went on the page about nuclear power.
Obviously, they'd written a cute little essay on the evils of nuclear power and how it will 'result in a Chernobyl-scale accident once every decade.' Already I am hugely pissed off at their general ignorance.
Then I noticed that they had a quote from Patrick Moore in 1976, on how nuclear power is 'criminal' and 'dangerous'. On further research, I realised that Patrick Moore used to speak out against nuclear power, but now he is a supporter. But obviously Greenpeace won't remove the now-redundant quote from the page because they don't really care about nuclear power, they just want to campaign and complain about something.
I tentatively clicked on the 'Donate' page and was fairly irritated at the fact that the lowest suggested amount was $40. Then came the worst thing imaginable. The back button wouldn't work. I was trapped, with no choice but to donate. So I donated $40.

Monday, 21 March 2011


Prom's coming up. So I have my acrylics tomorrow, my dress alterations on Wednesday just before my full body wax, my eyelash extensions the day after, my spray tan in the evening and my teeth whitening appointment in the morning. Then I have my hair and makeup appointment followed by my pedicure.
Then I will sit in a tacky desperate hotel suite for 3 hours eating a chicken meal with tomato salsa followed by the height of class: profiteroles. I will look at the balloons. I will buy a soft drink at the bar. I will dance alone on the embarrassing dancefloor while the middle aged depressed DJ plays S-Club 7 and 8.
I'm going to make a Microsoft Word document of my favourite celebrity hairstyles, cropped and resized and annotated with Comic Sans. I will make a header and footer - 'My Prom Hairstyles' and 'By Fay Davies 23/03/11'. I will laminate it and take to the hairdresser's so she does my hair properly and makes me look like Megan Fox.

Sunday, 13 March 2011

Sunday, 6 March 2011

Happy owner of a sandwich toaster

A Spanish town has decided to reintroduce the peseta to boost the economy. This is from a BBC news article:

'One man visited the local hardware store this week with a 10,000-peseta note he had found at home, and had no idea what to do with.

He is now the happy owner of a sandwich toaster.'

Tuesday, 1 March 2011


Today I was surprised and humbled to find out that I can be held in citizen's arrest if I say 'Blimey' on the street. It is a shortened version of 'Blind me God' or something similar. Thus blasphemy.
So the next time I hear anyone say 'Crikey' (Christ), 'Oh my goodness' (nearly using the Lord's name in vain), 'Darn' (Damnation), 'Heck' (Hell), 'Cripes' (again, Christ), or 'Fuck', I will rugby tackle them and forcibly pin them down to the ground, while I wait for the police to arrive. When they do, I don't doubt that they will be eternally grateful to me. Doing my duty, keeping dangerous criminals off the streets.
Oh it turns out the blasphemy laws were abolished in 2008. So I won't be able to carry out my holy calling and protect our streets from mindless, savage criminals.

Sunday, 27 February 2011

I was right

What did I tell you? Ages ago in that post about why there are such skinny models? The fact that most fashion designers are gay and thus find the male form more beautiful, hence the amount of thin, shapeless women on the catwalk.
Well I was obviously right as the trend has just got slightly more extreme. Rather than have women starved into boyhood walk the catwalk, they've cut corners slightly. This article demonstrates it. A male model, modelling womanswear. He is the supermodel ideal, and just so happens to be a man.

Wednesday, 16 February 2011


Following the recent reviewer stance I seem to have adopted, I have decided to do a review of household cats. I do not have extensive personal experience of cats, as I have never owned one. However, I've met enough cats in my time to know that they are not fantastic mammals like us humans.
The first thing that makes me slightly sceptical of the whole point of cats is that they can't hold a conversation. They can't even talk or do sign language. For this reason, their company is not adequate or fulfilling. Some people, namely cat owners, have resigned themselves to this fact and decided to indulge in a cat anyway, but I could never compromise.
Following on from this, their intellect simply isn't on the same level as humans. So not only can they not talk, but they can't even listen, sympathise, or debate. I'm struggling to think what cats actually can do.
Another unfortunate defect of cats is that they're never actually there. Houses are like an occasional feeding and crapping place, and 90% of the time they are outside parading the streets, being sluts.
Physically, cats are hugely deficient. They might appear vaguely 'cuddly', but this is not in fact the case. Every time I have stepped out of my comfort zone and attempted to stroke a cat, either it slinks away or extends its claws like a little bitch. When I do manage to get a stroke in, I am often disappointed by the disgusting protuding spine. When I caress an animal, I do not expect to have to encounter all the knobs of its back bone. And that purr they do makes me feel like some sort of cat-pervert. Also, sometimes they try and wipe eye-gunge on you.

Saturday, 12 February 2011

Nails, Misfits, Skins, Camera

I've created a new trend. To paint the nails of only one hand. The basic principle is that you're too cool and nonchalant to paint the nails of the other hand. You just threw on some nail polish, did some other cool indie stuff, forgot about the other hand, walked out the house without having showered for 6 weeks.
Why didn't anyone tell me Misfits was so good? Yesterday I watched 6 episodes in a row on Youtube, and I was nearly dead from inaction at the end of it. Although some may say he is arrogant in person, Robert Sheehan (who plays Nathan) completely makes it. It would be nothing without him. I'm not even sure if he's a good actor or he's just playing himself, but he makes the other characters look wooden.
Compared to Misfits, Skins is a pile of embarrassing dung. I haven't even watched the latest episode. At some point in the next few days I will probably become bored enough to watch it, but I can guarantee it will be a painful 45 minutes.
Currently I don't have a camera. It's a slight anticlimax, considering the 14 or so excited posts before its arrival. The repair people will eventually get round to sorting out the incredibly bitchy line of pixels that dares to utterly demolish and ruin every picture, and I might even get it back in time for 'Formal Party'.

Sunday, 6 February 2011

I have been raped by Benefit

Yesterday I went all the way up to Chichester for a Benefit makeover at House of Fraser. The 'make-up artist', who had a questionably heavy layer of foundation on herself, slapped eight different products on my face. For instance, a tinted moisturiser which she praised and advertised for three long minutes while she wrecklessly applied it even though I had told her I already had it. Then she applied seven times too much primer. She even made me smell it so I could agree that it smelt like raspberry. Then, for fun, she decided to mix the moisturiser and primer together and build up another inch on my skin. Aftwerwards came an onslaught of blusher, eyeliner, two cream eyeshadows, concealer and lipgloss. When she had finished she showed me the mirror, and I made appreciative noises while she looked at me expectantly and asked 'So what would you like out of these products I have used on you?' I recalled that I only had £40 in my account that I would quite like to save. But when I walked out the shop I had five products in my bag and two raffle tickets to win some Calvin Klein underwear. I have no idea what happened. It was so confusing and terrifying. I don't even need primer. What the hell even is primer? And I think I might have bought that tinted moisturiser I already have. And at least two different forms of wrinkle fillers, and shoes.

Tuesday, 1 February 2011


She dies at the end.
I have just done most people a massive favour, because Black Swan is a sickening and traumatic potassium cyanide of a film. Don't watch it. For those of you that enjoy the sight of raw skin being peeled off a finger, then I am very sorry and feel shameful and malicious. I also suggest that you find help immediately as you are psychopathic, sadistic and terrifying.
After watching the film, I walked out the cinema in a disturbed trance. But I wasn't even disturbed. I was numb. Slowly, disgust crept over me. It wasn't till I had calmly and silently eaten my pizza in Pizza Express that it came back to me. All the horrifying details.
I'm not really sure whether Black Swan is about discovering your darker side, breaking free from the hold of an obsessive mother, exploring your sexuality, or a dangerous struggle for perfection. It is all of these, yet nothing of these.
The acting is good, I think, but I was too distracted by the frequent gore. Gruesome acts such as retracting a feather from a bloody scratch and unsticking webbed toes. The most excruciating moment was the overzealous nail cutting.
It was a weird film. Oh and there was ballet in it too; quite a lot of ballet. But it was overshadowed by pretty much everything else

Saturday, 29 January 2011


I am writing this review with absolutely no personal bias. The fact that the new lead character beat me to the role of Lyra in the Golden Compass has absolutely no bearing on the opinions and viewpoints you are about to hear.
So I opened up Skins Series 5 Episode 1 on 4OD, Youtube. I had to wait for a few adverts, but I was prepared to suffer because I like Skins. I was very pleased that the opening had remained largely unchanged because it is a defining aspect of Skins and is truly representative of its vaguely depressing, occasionally light-hearted and sometimes even surreal style. I don't give a huge shit about the opening but I thought I should start my review with some pretense of wisdom and taste.
Onto the story. In a decreasingly subtle and and ever typical Skins fashion, the episode starts with a main character getting ready for college. Franky is an androgenous looking girl who dresses as a clown nearly. I will not judge her acting yet, as all she has done is looked moody and performed basic actions such as putting on trousers.
The climax of the episode comes questionably early. The dressing is complete, and she now proceeds to leave the her house. Following her down the stairs, we get the impression that she has just moved here, and can only assume that she is a 'new girl'. Then, as she reaches and opens the door, two males wave her goodbye, giving inane and generic 'new college' advice. Franky has stepped outside. She is on the threshold between the safety of home and the unfamiliar, endlessly threatening realm of 'new college.' Now she says it - 'Bye Dads.' Sweet Christ. She has two dads. What a bountiful resource for exploration of a character's home life and, no doubt, a significant factor in storyline to come.
After that life changing bombshell it goes downhill from there. There were about forty minutes left, all of which were bland, awkward and confusing. I can't remember exactly what happened but it was predictable and disappointing. There are some other characters: two pretty ones and a load of dog-looking ones. Franky gets dolled up, then undolls herself again because of identity and self expression and other stuff. Humiliation, enigmas, misery. Random and unnecessary drug taking followed by running and spinning around in the shopping centre. That scene was fairly uncomfortable to watch and basically pointless.
I couldn't really get into it, but whether this was because of the empty storyline or the acting I don't know. The acting was diabolical. Possibly the worst acting I've ever seen. You know the acting is bad when you get the overwhelming impression that you're watching a bunch of actors, acting. It felt like Dakota 'Blue' Richards (Franky) was reading her lines for the first time. And that she had reading difficulties. I struggled to place 'Mini's' weird accent and this unnerved me greatly. There might have been other characters but I kept forgetting if I was watching Skins or that thing on BBC Switch called 'The Cut' which is so crap it's almost good.
It was disgustingly bad. I had to watch it again to make sure it really was that awful, and it was. I shall be watching next week's episode because there is nothing on TV at the moment, but I am disappointed and betrayed.

Thursday, 27 January 2011


My camera has decided that, following all the excited posts about upcoming Canon, it would be funny to have a software defect. In every single photo there is a thin horizontal line running part way across. This line is present on the final images and it is about two pixels high.
I hate this line. This line is subversive; an embarrassing blemish on the would-be perfection of the situation. Locating itself at exactly eye level, it can achieve the height of disruption and irritation, and it renders my camera completely disfunctional.
Prime example: (the line's vertical as it's rotated. It's near the right. Click photo.)

Forget Creative Auto mode. Forget slow shutter speed, long exposure and aperture settings - forget Portrait mode saturation and white balance. They are suddenly pathetic, trivial and useless, all killed by the line. My professional status is no more. Even Mario Testino is no match for the line.
I am becoming increasingly unnerved by Line. Google seems to have no record of it: I even went to the surreal and confusing realms of the 2nd page of search results with no success. I can only conclude that I am the only one in the whole world with this problem. My camera is sentient and it is ridiculing me.

Saturday, 22 January 2011

70s?!?! (and I'm a Photographer.)

Everywhere seems to be obsessed with the sartorial aspects of the 70s. Nearly all Topshop's current 'collections' are heavily influenced by the decade - with 'Abigail's Party' and 'Swedish Summer' stating 'we're playing by 70s rules' and 'fall in love with sweetly 70s style'. I can no longer go anywhere without seeing kimonos, polka-dot blouses with pussy bows, thick chunky platforms and flares. I thought this would be a fleeting, quiet trend: gone after 4 weeks and, as it is clearly a great embarrassment, never mentioned again. But I was wrong.
To my understanding, the 70s was the most disgusting decade for fashion. People wore flares a lot and round sunglasses. There were loads of hippies. Or was that the 60s? I forget. The point is that certain shops are taking huge liberties with their mimicry of this era.
For example, Topshop decided to make some hideous 'Navy Printed Wide Leg Trousers'. It turns out that it does, in fact, get worse than flares.

And with these 'Belted Culottes', New Look managed to surpass even the wide leg trousers in ugliness.

I have my new camera now and it definitely lived up to my expectations. I can now competently use 3% of its features and consider myself an experienced amateur. Tomorrow, I expect to achieve professional status, and soon my prints will be available worldwide. If you would like to book me for a photoshoot, I charge £600 an hour (I'm in ludicrously high demand) plus expenses.
An example of my work is this emotionally intense graveyard shot which marks the moment I discovered long exposure, or maybe slow shutter speed. It represents love, vanity, fear, death, love and fear. While it may look like a 'botched' shot, it in fact took hours of careful consideration before I perfected the lighting and 'composition'.

Thursday, 20 January 2011


I am one day away from being the owner of a digital slr camera - (Canon Digital Rebel TSi 500D) This means I am one day away from being able to adorn my blog with overexposed images with 'retro' blue/green washes. Ever keen and preemptive, I have already downloaded the 200 page instruction manual and read it. This means that, while I am in the favourable position of knowing how to use my camera, I have also become bored of it before I have even touched it.

Just like everyone else at the moment, I am suddenly obsessed with ballet. This is probably due to the Black Swan, as well as other balletic developments in the media. I only wish I hadn't given ballet up at the age of nine, after seven excruciating years. I didn't think this was possible - but I think I may be jealous of myself. My former stronger, leaner, and more culturally fashionable self.
Black Swan got a review of 8.6 on IMDb - a highly respectable score from the veteran of internet film review sites.
I tried to book tickets online but it turns out I'm too old to understand the internet and I failed miserably, so I had to resort to using the telephone and talking to a real person.

Saturday, 8 January 2011

I've done something a bit strange

This morning I woke up resolved to buy something online. So I went on the Topshop sale, and they had updated it.
Fifteen minutes later and it seems that I have ordered two prom dresses in the sale, one reduced from £170 to £50 and one reduced from £55 to £15.

Three other options that I bagged quickly before they ran out of size 6 were long Kate Moss dresses, which my mum dismissed as 'too old' because she still thinks I'm 8.
I am rather smug at the fact that I haven't spent more than £75 and come away with two potential dresses, and also at the fact that I used a £5 off voucher that you're only supposed to use on full priced items. I have effectively outsmarted Topshop.

Sunday, 2 January 2011

New year

Some say it is the new year. But something far more important has occurred.

I have discovered contraband in our household.

The culprit is 'Natural Touch, Rose 3% blended with Jojoba Oil.'
Everything about it is suspicious. From the way it says '3% blended with' in small letters (you don't notice how little rose is actually in there), to the very fact that it is AROMATHERAPY (however much rose they decide to put in it will still have zero effect).
At the bottom they write 'Rosa damascena - Simmondsia chinensis' because pretty scientific words lead people to believe a lot of intelligent thought has gone into this little vial of lies.
When I discovered it I swiftly took the bottle in a plastic bag and, holding it at arms length, demanded how it had found its way into our reasoning and fairly logical home. 

This aromatherapy bottle has calming properties, but I fail to see how this is possible when it in fact caused great panic and unrest.