22 AND ON THE SHELF

Spineless pricks and neighbours’ dicks

Hello. I’m sorry. I know this has been a ridiculously long hiatus but finally something has happened to rouse me from my creative slump.

I was going out with a bit of an idiot you see. He was 25 and had never been on a plane without adult supervision. When he finally did he hit Las Vegas, fucked some trollop on spring break and cried because he thought he had aids. I comforted him - I can never take that back. 

My friends had been too kind to tell me that he was so wet he needed a salad spinner and love was blind. He also had really nice cheek bones so maybe it wasn’t.

It was these events that prompted me to up sticks and move to East London. New digs, new job, new boyfriend. I’ve moved in with a mate from uni and being the charming girls that we are we invited the neighbours to join us for drinks before dinner in the garden.

They pitched up at 8:30 and before long it became clear that food was not on their radar. Before that night we had pigeonholed them as absent Stephanie from the top floor and Barry and Andrew, the couple who live upstairs and make frequent noise complaints.

Before long we realised that in fact it was Stephanie who batted for the other team when she asked to invite her partner. Barry and Andrew were both straight and both psychiatrists. This is good news as I am clinically insane, but bad news because I have been sunbathing topless all Summer.

One thing led to another and we were all pretty pissed. Stephanie’s girlfriend insisted on making us a local delicacy from her native Berlin. We were treated to bizarre onion rostis with smoked Salmon. That’s when I noticed she was gone.

My housemate will remain nameless in this tale. Her shame attacks have only just subsided and I can’t torture her further. I rushed upstairs to Barry and Andrew’s flat to be told by Andrew that they were in need of some privacy. Thinking on my feet, I flew down the stairs and positioned myself in-between them, politely turning to Andrew and saying,

"It’s not that I don’t think you’re a nice guy, it’s just that I don’t think she would be doing this if she were sober."

My housemate was in fact so far from sober she could barely see. There was nothing I could do to pry her from the psychologists arms. Andrew called me a cock block and tried to push me towards Barry. Barry is 5 ft 3, engaged to a Turkish woman he has just met and believes himself to be  responsible for Apartheid because he had lived in Rhodesia as a child.

When I could entertain Barry’s ramblings no more I admitted defeat, returning to my bed alone to wait for my housemate to return. She woke up the next day in Andrew’s bed with no knickers on.

She still doesn’t know what happened. That said, we haven’t had any more noise complaints.

Lights, Camera, Action

Sitting in a car park, in the dark lashing rain, eating cheese and onion crisps. This is how I found myself in the lead up to my first  porn shoot.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that I have turned to the life of a sex worker. My career history has not been without its ups and downs, but its a life behind the cameras I have chosen, making a documentary, about porn.

When I was told that I would be assisting on a porn shoot, My thoughts were thus: I will either return home with a whole new bag of tricks, or I will never want to have sex again. My anticipation was heightened when I discovered that the shoot would be vampire themed. Bring it on I thought. Porn with props.

It soon transpired that we were not the only film crew there for the show. A ‘professional pick up artist’ (read sexist pig) was there filming some achingly hipster vice style piece, casually winking at me while Brooklyn told us how much she loved it when men spaffed on her face. 

He told me that he was an expert at picking up women. Of course, we as a sex are all helpless at the hands of a man who has read ‘The Game.’ I told him that last time I’d checked, I was in fact a woman, and that given the choice, I would rather shag my Dad.

Undeterred, he told me,

"I can read you like a book" I replied, "Sorry mate, but the book’s in fucking French." 

Attentions returned to the scene at hand, where a porn star named Monty (real name Floyd) was furiously masturbating in the corner, trying to get an erection. We were asked to leave, and when we returned they were ready for action. Expecting to see a faultless performance by two professionals, I was instead reminded of myself, when drunk. 

Thrashing together like two wildebeests, their rhythmless humping was something to behold. Brooklyn screamed in fake ecstacy as she clambered onto Floyd, dry as a bone. Clearly feeling the pressure of a larger audience, he stopped, frequently losing his hard on while Brookyln rearranged her extraordinary breasts. I honestly had no idea that nipples could point in different directions.

By the end, the room smelt like old socks and I left in a bid to avoid the inevitable finale. Alas, on my way back from the bathroom I ran straight in Brooklyn.

'Oh excuse me babe, I've got jiz all over my face!'

Quite.

Agent Orange

This is a tale that I’m sure will resonate with many.

We’ve all got a friend with a questionable other half. You’re not sure what they see in them and you hope that it wont last. Most importantly, you should always keep your distance. This is a story about what happens when you let them into your home, and you’re not sure if or when they’ll ever leave.

6 months ago, my boyfriend’s housemate decided to move his girlfriend into their house. She had come over from America to study in England and would only be there for a few months. *Jenny baked cookies and was helping dilute the rent. She was also studying full time so wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. It seemed like a no brainer. How wrong they were.

The first time Jenny met Sean she was high on MDMA, It was 5 o’ clock in the evening. On a Tuesday. After introducing herself and announcing her passion for psychology, she proceeded to get down to business.

"Just so you know I am a really open and free person so I like to ask a lot of personal questions."

Over the next few hours she proceeded to rhapsodise about the benefits of mind expanding drugs whilst gurning and interjecting with questions about Sean’s sex life. And therefore my sex life. I immediately hated her.

Braced for the worst, I had my first encounter with her in a more sober yet no less forthcoming mood. She burnt my arm with the AGA door and told me she loved reading people. I do not like to be read. She then explained that a chance encounter with the ducks in the local park had really resonated with her and she loved being at one with nature. As if throwing bread at birds put her on a par with Bear Grylls.

Once I’d been told how erotic she found the sight of her boyfriend’s (presumably not flaccid) penis I knew we could never be friends. We needed a code name. Something American. And something bad. I settled on naming her after the catastrophic biological warfare used in the Vietnam War. She was from henceforth, known as Agent Orange.

Things only went downhill from there. Agent Orange slept all day and stomped around all night. She would run down the corridors at 6 in the morning, giggling and pretending to be chased. She would then appear in the kitchen like a thundercloud in nothing but a pair of pants, presumably showing the boys what they were missing. She attended a fundraising dinner at the Houses of Parliament in a body stocking and once stormed into Sean’s room late at night to ask if he ‘wanted to play.’

She would endlessly lecture us about how deep and intelligent she was when in fact she had bought an online degree from Harvard. Arguments she could not win face to face, would be followed up with essays backed up with psychological literature. Her passion for becoming a psychologist became even stranger, when she admitted that her own personal mental health issues would make it highly unethical for her to practice psychology as a career.

Meanwhile, her boyfriend and a man we considered a friend, seemed completely oblivious to the growing tension within the house. Is it possible to ignore the fact that all of your friends hate your girlfriend?

Things reached a climax when she was found slumped in a corridor at a party, after having been overwhelmed by the experience of meeting her boyfriend’s ex. Literally floored by the prospect of ‘sharing a lover’ with someone she had just met, she remained there dazed and motionless until somebody gestured to take her away. 

Meanwhile, feeling in the house was growing ever more hostile. Sean fantasised about having her deported, others hoped for much worse. Grasping at straws, the only respite we could hope for would come from her imminently expiring visa. 

Our prayers were finally answered, when Agent Orange decided to buy cats. Fuelled by hatred and thrilled to have a genuine cause for argument, Sean accosted her and refused to allow her to keep a pet. She was leaving for America soon and their care would fall to everyone else. A cat is for life, not a semester overseas after all.

It was in the wake of this encounter that things became clearer. She wasn’t planning to leave after all. Something had changed. Before we knew it, they were moving out, but Agent Orange wasn’t leaving the country.

When the truth came out, our jaws hit the floor. During their last visit to her parents in America, they decided to get married. She now has a visa and will be darkening our shores indefinitely. Thankfully she now lives in Highgate, although there is a small issue in that nobody knows the location of her key.

If a strange American asks you about psychology on the street, stay back. We don’t know what she’s capable of.

*I’ve changed her name so I don’t seem like a bitch. If she knows I write this blog then I’m done for anyway. At least I’ve tried.

The predecessor to Tinder

londongrumblr:

Do you think I’m sexy?

It is no secret to my friends and family that winter and I do not mix.

Some people delight in sitting by a warm fire with the curtains drawn. I turn on my SAD lamp and start window shopping the shit out of lastminute.com. 

There are many reasons I hate winter. The cold. The wet. Tights. But my real gripe with the colder months is that almost overnight, I find myself about 40% less attractive. 

Every year, Winter brings about ghostly pallor, over eating and an almost permanent red wine mouth. This time however, I had resolved to be a babe.

After having greeted my boyfriend for the second time, looking like I’ve been dragged up from the bottom of the ocean, I decided that enough was enough. I was going to get sexy.

I kicked off my preparations for my romantic evening the night before the event. My routine got off to a typically rocky start, with a bucket of chorizo pasta and some drunkenly slapped on fake tan. Still, I kept faith and fell into bed, smugly expecting Elle Macpherson to greet me in the morrow.

Unsurprisingly, I awoke the next morning to find that I was not in fact a golden brown sex goddess, but a tangerine in pants, my pores secreting the delightful aroma of a digestive that has been lost down the back of the sofa for a month.

I scrubbed myself with all the exfoliator I could find and slapped on a vat of passion fruit scented moisturiser to mask the smell. I looked and smelt like an over ripe fruit.

The beautification did not stop there. I rushed off to Clapham for a wax with heavy handed Heather and emerged onto Lavender hill with the look of a woman who has survived a natural disaster. I began slowly waddling to Tesco.

Having purchased all the ingredients for ‘most romantic meal of all time.’ I headed back home, laden with produce. The gate was in sight. The thought of exfoliator was driving me forward. Then the inevitable happened. I tripped, I fell, I dislocated my ankle and my shopping flew all over Coldharbour lane.

A bus on the other side of the road stopped in the middle of the street and 20 rubberneckers gathered around my pitiful motionless body. Ambulances were called, tears were shed and my boyfriend arrived to pick up the pieces. 

I am now back in Scotland, the land of recovery and have resolved that either I must accept that looking vile in winter is part of my charm or move abroad. 

I think its back to lastminute.com for me.

I’ve gone and written a TV show - and I need your help.

Hello all who are kind enough to continue reading my blog. I have exciting news. I have written a pilot for a comedy-drama and some production companies quite like it. Huzza!

My only problem is that I do not have an agent, a necessity for negotiating development deals and to prevent me from signing my life/house/dog away because I do not understand paperwork.

I’ve been a busy bee and have cobbled together a treatment which I have slightly clumsily displayed as a website.

https://tottyisasitcom.squarespace.com/ 

What I really need now is for people to start looking at it so that the important people take notice.

I’m creating a facebook page, on which I will share plot developments, character details and snippets of the developing script. All in exchange for page likes and twitter followers of course, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.

So if you’re reading, please mention this to talent agents, people who know talent agents and people who are related to talent agents.

Why not mention it to someone who works at a production company while you’re at it? I certainly don’t need all my eggs in one BBC basket.

Any leads will be massively appreciated. If this ever actually gets made, the most helpful person will win a walk on role. How’s that for incentive?

So if you’ve ever wanted all of these stories brought to life on screen follow me on twitter at @22andontheshelf  or like this facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/tottyisasitcom

I have not forgotten that I’m posh. I just don’t fancy boys in fleece gilets.

It’s that time of year again. I have just spent a glorious weekend in the social bubble that is Rock in Cornwall. I prepared myself for rock pools, red trousers, and royals and set off for the best weather of the year so far.

I adore Cornwall and am constantly reminded by the friends who never fail to invite me back every year that in spite of ‘the BBC rubbing off on me,’ I am just as posh as everyone else. I was also under the illusion that this year, I had done an especially good job of getting back to my roots.

This illusion was shattered when I was approached at a barbecue in 30 degree heat by an old friend. Said friend looked at me with genuine concern, and uttered those fateful words I had hoped to avoid.

‘Babe. Apparently you were really left wing in Cornwall.’

Shit. I really thought that this year I had mastered my poker face. I didn’t bat an eyelid when a boy told me a 20 minute story about his struggles to find an engine big enough for his new boat. I endured endless anecdotes about hunting and even found time to be utterly charming to the Marquis of Reading. 

I wasn’t quite prepared however, for the inexplicably named, Cousin Anthony. 

I happened upon Cousin Anthony in the pub one evening, after an extraordinary drinks party where I was introduced to a very burnt boy who told me within 5 minutes that although his cock was small, he was ‘very good at cunnilingus.’ Walking out into the smoking area I looked up to see three boys in red trousers and fleece gilets, singing at the top of their lungs:

'WE WENT TO PUBLIC SCHOOL DOO DAA DOO DAA'

As if anyone could have ever thought otherwise. It’s worth mentioning that Cousin Anthony is not my cousin. We are not in any way related. He was never the less confused on this matter and still believes that I must have been the daughter of ‘loopie old uncle Will.’ I also don’t think that Cousin Anthony is necessarily bad, or mean spirited. He really just doesn’t know any better.

When he had finished his performance, the man who was to become known as Cousin Anthony lowered himself from his makeshift stage and came to sit with us. He greeted me with a sly grin; usually the reserve of pervy middle aged godfathers or Fagin in Oliver Twist.

'So, I guess you're another girl who's woken up to find themselves in Jimbo's bed…there's no use denying it you've all been there.' 

Taking a second to process who this Jimbo character was, I realised that he was in fact the incredibly keen huntsman from the day before who had expressed his joy that none of us had regional accents. I then had to consider what made Cousin Anthony think that I would ever wake up in bed with somebody called Jimbo and willingly come back to this pub for more? Did he think I was a slut? Or worse, a Tory?

I managed to keep my cool until I heard what Cousin Anthony thought he was doing in Cornwall.

'Oh, you know how it is. I'm just paying the poor. Holding up the micro-economy.'

I finally lost it. I broke down in horror, but instead of chastising him I found myself hysterically laughing. Because as awful as Cousin Anthony’s views are, I have learned that sometimes you have to pick your battles, or at least your battlefield. The Oyster Catcher was not mine.

I have happily concluded that If the worst bit of gossip that came from that weekend is that I was rightfully accused of being left wing then something must be going right. I can’t wait for next year.

Achilles Knee

So I have a shit knee.

This isn’t news to me. I’ve known that my knee was shit since its first episode, when I fell 10 inches from a bouncy castle slide onto soft grass and dislocated my patella. 

I was 17 and it was my sister’s 8th birthday party. Her friends still think that the ambulance that arrived was part of the children’s entertainment. 

In the year following this incident I suffered two further incidents and made the executive decision to have OPEN KNEE SURGERY to make sure that it never happened again. This weekend, my open knee surgery, which involved many, many needles being stabbed into body (of which I am mortally terrified) proved futile. 

Last Friday I got drunk. I got drunk to celebrate the nearing of the end of January, to celebrate the fact that I no longer wanted to hibernate in my house for the rest of time and to celebrate my friend’s birthday. I also decided to wear pyjamas that were just that bit too long when I went to bed that night. I tumbled down one step in a skull printed onesie, and my knee cap fell out again. 

The paramedic was a moron. He kept asking me if I wanted any more heroin. If you mean morphine douchebag then yes. I want all of the heroin. My onesie was cut off and I spent the night in King’s College hospital. The pits.

I am writing this on the sofa, at my parents house in Scotland. My mother has built me a lair in the sitting room and screams blue murder every time I try and move. I can’t go to the loo without her beady eye checking I dont put my foot down for one second. Clearly this woman has never used crutches. I’m going to have the biceps of Madonna by the end of this run.

Mum has also decided to put me on a ‘healthy healing diet’ and has blocked my passage to the fridge. Yesterday I went to go and find the fish she had left me for supper and was confronted with a corpse. In her absence I crutched my way to the freezer and found a chicken kiev and chips.

The worst thing to have come out of this whole hellish experience is not that my leg brace makes me look like a cross between Hannibal Lecter and Forrest Gump. It’s that my mum has put me in the bath. Twice.

Something Nasty in the Woodshed

Sitting at tea yesterday I was struck by the concern on the face of a friend.

"Has everybody finished eating," she announced with an ominous tone. "I need to tell you about Hassan." 

This summer, while packing for her holidays, Amelia was met with a nasty surprise. Approaching her shed to look for her suitcase, she noticed a mysterious flash of gold through the crack of the door. On closer inspection she determined that what looked like an abandoned Olympic medal was in fact a Koran, on top of a bed, next to a box of Thornton’s biscuits. Unbeknownst to her, Amelia had a room mate and she named him Hassan.

Not knowing how long this unwanted housemate had been lodging with her and concerned about his uninterrupted view into her bedroom, Amelia called the police.

The policeman who sauntered over seemed unperturbed by the situation and suggested that Amelia wait for the intruder to return and politely ask him to leave. Looking to avoid confrontation, Amelia suggested that the policeman wait outside instead. He left a note.

By this point, Amelia had worked out that a phone that had gone missing from her bedside table was removed while the latch on her door was faulty. Despite having his handy Koran for moral guidance, Hassan had turned to a life of crime.

Eventually the Koran disappeared and Hassan has not been seen since. He has however left a token of his appreciation.

Amelia’s mother came to London with some lovely things to drop off at her house. Asking where to leave a bag including a white company dressing gown and other such delights, Amelia was adamant that it should not go in the shed as Hassan might come back and steal it. She therefore suggested that it should go in a smaller shed, next to Hassan’s lair. 

Amelia retrieved the bag, put it in her room and went back to shut the door to the smaller shed. That’s when she noticed the smell. The smaller shed was Hassan’s loo.

Horrified, Amelia realised that as well as using this room as an en suite urinal, Hassan had been defecating in doggie bags, tying them up tightly and throwing them in the hole.

How’s that for gratitude?

I am not cool anymore (Amsterdam)

I turned 25 this weekend and to celebrate, I decided to crash a friend’s holiday to Amsterdam. This happily coincided with a club night at which our friend was DJing and it seemed like a faultless plan.

There was an international dance music conference filled with promises of late night after parties and exclusive guest lists. Not so long ago, this would have been a dream, but of late I’ve been finding my tastes have begun to lean towards the middle aged.

I wanted to go on a canal tour, visit Anne Frank’s house and eat my body weight in cheese. We did manage a couple of these things, but not before we left an irrevocable blight on the Dutch dance music scene forever.

Our friend, DJ Anna Wall has built her career on being a bit cool. She can DJ, she knows her way around Hackney and she has a friend called Chiniqua.

She has also made the fatal error of befriending a gaggle of rahs like myself, who like to believe that the fact that we refuse to live in Fulham makes us slightly edgy. Normally she gets away with it. Usually I know not to talk too much and deliberately avoid getting onto the topic of music with anyone she works with, lest I expose myself as a fraud.

This time she wasn’t so lucky. After exploding into an after party called ‘half baked’ where an enigma called Bruno (no surname) had reluctantly put us on the guestlist, we immediately sought the nearest slightly raised platform and began to throw shapes. We each leapt on Bruno in turn and smothered him with red wine kisses, thanking him for his extraordinary generosity in allowing us to dance and buy overpriced drinks in what I think in hindsight was some form of museum.

We then hurled ourselves into the crowd to dance like drunk mums at a wedding where, having acquired a couple of souvenir fans, we began to trample all over the dance floor in what we believed to be a coquettish manner.

The next day, we slunk to the airport in shame and began to look through the photos. Even more shocking than the red wine mouths and the ‘smouldering glances’ being made from behind our fans, were the photos of Bruno, standing alone, nervously aware of our presence but desperate to ignore us while we subtly tried to take photos of him from the distance. Not since K Middy’s boobs has a long lens been so keen to capture its target. 

The real shame is that instead of royal baps, all we got was a club promoter with a cool haircut.