Once bitten, twice shy?

From today's Mirror:

Insect nest in girl's skull

Surgeons who examined a voluntary worker back from Africa found a nest of insects growing inside her skull.
Sherry Fuller, 31, was unable to speak clearly, her limbs began to twitch uncontrollably and she collapsed on her return to from Madagascar.
Doctors found larvae growing in a cyst in her head, causing pressure on her brain.
They used powerful drugs to kill off the tiny worms.
They also treated Sherry, from Southend, Essex, for malaria, tick-like insects in the soles of her feet and a 6in worm in her intestines. She said: "I will think twice about going to Madagascar again."

Twice? TWICE?! I should bleedin' cocoa!

Working on the Sabbath

I'm at work today. I don't really have to be here, but I thought it wouldn't do any harm to show a bit of willing. I'm not being eager, though. Eagerness is frowned upon. I'm aiming for 'yeah, whatever, I'm like, at work', tinged with an unobtrusive streak of 'but I'm awfully keen to progress my career, Ma'am!' *clicks heels, fetches tea, polishes poinsettia*

I haven't worked on a Sunday for years, but it still feels exactly the same. Sitting on the tube on the way in, I had the same peculiar, parallel universe sensation that I used to get when I was a sales assistant at Body Shop. I was at university in London and worked from Friday to Monday to make up funds. Friday morning I'd be miserable as all hell as the wretched Circle Line hauled my sorry ass into High St Ken, while the workers of the world smiled dreamily at the thought of a lazy day and the weekend ahead. On Monday morning, I'd be beaming as the knackered masses trudged in to commence a week of drudgery, while I anticipated skipping off home for a long lie-in. I mean lecture. Whatever.

Working on the weekend just doesn't feel right. Like going out with your knickers over your trousers, or no bra on.

Mind you, I'm not the only one of my friends working today. Although the rest of them are all dotted all over the globe being terribly glamorous - gigging in Spain, event organising in Kuala Lumpa, and shooting in Egypt (for TV, not at camels). And of course, Andrew is in NZ doing that editing thing that he does. That that. I hope they are all safe, happy and SUNBURNED AHAHAHAHAHAAA! Only joking. No I'm not. Yes I am. No, I am. Really.

Aussie love-in

I was feeling a little guilty last night for first of all slating Saffas on the tubes, and then for attacking that fat Aussie bitch for ramming her unpleasant carcass onto the train the other night.

You know, there are annoying Australians, and South Africans. But I am also aware that the majority of humans on god's green earth would probably get on my tits, if I were to encounter them. I'm just a crabby old cow, and people are just kind of, annoying.

I have a lot of lovely Aussie friends, so in the spirit of not painting myself as a miserable racist cow, or stoking the burning beds of anti-Australianism, I thought I would share some of the things that I love about the good people from the Land Down Under. And I'll do the same thing for South Africans. Just as soon as I can think of something. Heh.

Good things about Australians:

Aussie chicks don't take shit

Before I had female Australian friends, my limp attempts to fend off sad pervs in bars would fall on deaf ears. Said sad pervs would then wreck the evening by wittering on for hours about their dull lives, somehow thinking this would drive me and my friends into a state of frenzied lust.

These days I swivel around on my bar stool, fix them with a drop-dead look, sneer, and bellow: "Rack off, loser, I'm talking to my mate," before swizzling back around and resuming my conversation as if nothing happened. Strident Aussie chicks rule.

Neighbours and Home & Away

Brilliant dramas. Offering a balance. Like yin and yang. Without them, my days as an unemployed person, I mean freelancer, would have had no structure at all. I would have been a confused, pyjama-clad daytime TV victim, sleeping through Phil and Fern, eating dinner in front of Doctors and sitting up all night, wide awake watching Get Stuffed at 3am. And Alf Stewart. What can I say? Except, "strewth, call the ambo ya flaming gallah! Is that you, Ails?"

More to come tomorrow. For now I am leaving to eat, drink, be merry, and eat some more with some fabulous people. Hurrah!

Tube Etiquette - part thingy

"Can you move down, please?"

Picture the scene. It's rush hour. You're running late. It's snowing outside, but down in the underground network, it's steaming like a builder's armpit. You and a coupla' hundred of your fellow city dwellers are rammed, elbow-to-elbow, toe-to-toe, groin-to-groin, in an antiquated District Line train carriage. Everyone is hellishly bandaged in winter coats, scarves, gloves, laden with baggage, grimly clutching onto rolled up newspapers that there's no room to read. You're so close you can see every pore, smell what your neighbour had for lunch. Hell, stick out your tongue and you could probably taste it. Passengers stare down, up, blankly into space, anywhere but at each other. As the carriage sways, people lose balance, unable to move their feet to accommodate the shift. Again and again, the weight of bodies exploding against the doors causes the engine to cut and the to train to bang to a halt, nearly toppling suited commuters as their restricted arms flap like seal flippers, searching in vein for something to grab onto.

The train pitches into St James Park station. The doors squeal open. A few people shuffle out mumbling excuse me, a few more wait to shuffle on. And a fearsome Aussie woman with ghastly orange lipstick rams herself into the miserable throng, bellowing in a mightily pissed-off voice: "Can you move down, please?"

Lady.

(a) Don't get on the train
(b) Ditch the damn backpack
(c) Lose some goddamn weight
(c) Get the hell back to Australia

Forgive me a moment of soppiness

I've been pouring the Scissor Sisters album directly into my ears like delicious disco custard all this weekend. Yes, I know I'm about year behind, and boy, did I hate Comfortably Numb when I first heard it. But now I realise the error of my ways. I also realise that what I actually hate is Pink Floyd (pfft - pretentious, melodramatic waffle). And that Jake Spears is some kind of deity.

It is so exquisitely put together that I can't even bear to skip back my favourite tracks, or play them on a loop like a mentalist. The album makes me look back with a big smile on every Sunday morning I've spent getting my dancing shoes mucky with all the gays and gals, the freaks, the swinging has-beens, the teens and the part-time drag queens. Even though I did actually go to HomeBase this weekend.

I'm kind of hooked on Filthy/Gorgeous, and how I hope it's true that Scissor Sisters is slang for a lesbian sex act.

And the soppiness - Mary MADE ME CRY on the train this morning. Because it reminds me of how Andrew (reason for blog) looked after me when I had my heart broken. I'm not entirely sure if he loves the tone that's in my laugh, or indeed if he would be mad keen on the idea of forgetting all the things that bring him joy if I could have one day of pure and simple happiness. But I kind of think he would have done, at the time. And I don't know what that song is really about, but to my ears, it sounds like a love song from a fag to his troubled hag. And that's some of the best love a girl can have. Sniff.

Brilliant new weight-loss plan

Rosemary Connolly - hang up your leotard!

Slimfast - shake in your boots!

Weight Watchers - um, watch out!

For the weight-loss craze of 2005 is upon us.

Be prepared to be captivated, inspired, amazed, by... THE NOMAD PLAN!

Yes fatties, it's true. You CAN shift that flab with a simple plan that fits in with your busy lifestyle.

The basic principles are staggeringly simple. All you need is a bunch of heavy sh*t, an oversized bag, and a flat that's waaaaaheyheyhey out on the end of the train line.

The first step is to plan to go out and arrange to stay at someone else's house. Don your office clothing, making sure you sport footwear with a spiky heel. Cram all your remaining shoes in an oversized rucksack, along with every sparkly top, pair of jeans, practical jumper, flirty skirt and stitch of underwear that you own. Now chuck in half the contents of your bathroom cabinet, and maybe an extra scarf.

The next part is easy! As you stagger to work, you'll quickly feel the heavy bag compacting your vertebrae and knocking you off balance. Work that rucksack!

Now all you need to do is make sure that you don't get a chance to catch the last train home for the next six days. Every torturous march to a party, every prolonged lunge down the street in search of a cab, every new morning with a different walk to the station from someone else's spare bed or sofa will help you master your misery and rule those rolls!

As the days go by, why not make life even more difficult for yourself? Every time you go back to work, collect or purchase heavy books and magazines to drive your heels even further into the mud - and work those wobbles!

THE NOMAD PLAN. IT'S BRILLIANT.

Rubbish joke corner

Due to the impending glitzy bash (at which I shall be sporting the grease-stained skirt and the acrylic jumper), I am unable to post anything hilarious, ranty, insightful, or original.

Until normal service resumes, please make yourself at home, and do feel free to enjoy these rubbish jokes:



A vulture boards an airplane, carrying two dead raccoons.

The stewardess looks at him and says, "I'm sorry, sir, only one carrion allowed per passenger."



Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused Novocain during a
root canal?

His goal? Transcend dental medication.



A group of chess enthusiasts checked into a hotel, and were standing around in the lobby discussing their recent tournament victories.

Eventually, the manager came out of the office and asked them to disperse.

"But why?" they asked, as they moved off.

"I can't stand chess-nuts boasting in an open foyer."

Oh, the glamour, the romance

I am attending a rather glamourous event for work tomorrow evening. There will be real celebrities there in actual dresses that were designed by designers and everything. They'll probably have matching shoes.

These are my current thoughts regarding outfit selection:

How old does a dress have to be before it stops being so over and becomes vintage?

Will anyone notice if my shoes are wrecked with grub from drunken nightclub dancing?

Could I pass off a stubborn grease stain (incurred thanks to an over-enthusiastic jab at a chocolate fountain with bit of marshmallow) as shabby chic?

I am just waiting to be whisked off (by the District Line) for a romantic Valentines meal of probably a burger in an as-yet undecided restaurant. Isn't valentines Day cringey? I am in little danger of receiving a present or card though - in fact I have been informed in no uncertain terms that I will not. Now all I need to do is avoid candlelight and stuffed toys for another four and a half hours, and bingo! Home free.

Tube etiquette: part II

White South Africans. Be quiet.

Far be it from me to judge a whole race on an accent. But whatever beauty you may or may not hold in your heart, your voice sure is ugly.

And hey, calm down! There's no need to shout! It's an enclosed space - your 'bru' won't be having any problems hearing you recount a hilarious tale about this fat Aussie chick, bru, who drunk so much snakebite that she spewed up pink shit in Christoffel de Kock's lap behind the bins at the Redback.

Botox bonanza!

I am going to a TV launch party tonight where guests are invited to sample Botox.

There's nothing I especially fancy getting needled, but on the other hand - free Botox! Hmm, let's see. I could:

Have my whole face frozen into a mask of unsmiling grumpiness, so I fit in at work
Get my feet filled with the stuff so I can walk in heels
Remove traces of emotion and apply to become a contestant on 'Call My Bluff'
See if they'll zap my blinking mechanism so I can start staring competitions with freaks on the underground.
Remove every single line on my body and tell the Weekly World News that I recently hatched, fully formed, out of an egg
Inject all my sweat glands so I no longer perspire and can unnerve people in saunas

On the down side, a frozen mug may impair my ability to scoff free booze and nibbles, so perhaps not.

Then again, knowing my love of free stuff (my life mantra: If it's free, I'll have two), don't be surprised if you see me looking, well, unsurprised for a couple of months.

Monthly newsletter

Monthly newsletter
Month... four, is it?

Dear Andrew,

This week you will have been gone for, ooooh, quite some time.

Yesterday, I was dusting my room, and looking at the shamelessly poseurish passport picture you left me before you went away. I had placed it on the shelf in a shot glass (effortless/arty - no?) in front of the 'You Made Me Gay!' card you got me for my birthday, and next to a photograph of my friend Daniel, who also went to live in New Zealand. Sheesh fellas, I can take a hint, you know?

Anyhoo. Before you went away, I tried to make you stand still and look pretty while I took photos of you and of us, in case you died in a plane crash, or were accidentally knocked unconscious by a seal in the sea, and drowned. I still haven't had the film developed. I don't actually think I know where the camera is. But I want you to know, if one of your politicians with dreadlocks gets too stoned, falls off his skateboard and knocks you down, fatally impaling you on the bill of a nearby kiwi bird, I will find that camera. If you somehow gain possession of a magical ring, and have to venture far from the Shires and into the terrifying badlands of Middle Earth with your adoring Hobbitty pal Sam, I will develop that film, and keep those pictures forever.

I realised the other day that, unless I am getting my months muddled up again, you will be back in the grimy, expensive, danger-pocked, flea-riddled, germ-smeared, rain-addled, over-populated hell hole that we call 'home' next month. Gosh! Do you need picking up from the airport?

When you get back, you will find that there have been changes. I bought some new jeans. A whole Celebrity Big Brother has passed, not to mention an I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here. Will you even know who Joe Pasquale is? Or Kenzie? Busted have broken up, and Desperate Housewives will be well into the first series. Will you have seen it? Where will you be up to with The OC? Will we be able to discuss storylines without ripping asunder the space-time continuum, or having a fight? At first, it will be hard. But you know that I will be here, and all the Scoobies will be here, to guide you though the difficult first few weeks.

Andrew, when you come back, you will have written a whole book. You will be a writer. This means that you won't have any money and, for a while, you will have to eat horrid economy spaghetti, and sleep on the ground. You may have to go to cheap bars offering two-for-one Bacardi Breezers, frequented by substandard gays who have crabs. But before the lice shampoo bubbles have burst, you will re-connect with slightly mean-looking, over-quaffed people who are outwardly really happy and totally reckon themselves and can get you on the guestlist for stuff, but are crying on the inside. And one day, you will have a book launch, and you can invite them, and pat them on their product-coated heads, and then never talk to them again.

These are exciting times for you, as you plan to cross oceans and make your dreams come true. I say to you, as you steel yourself for the heady, scary, difficult and thrilling times ahead - if you only remember one thing from these days before the storm, it should be this:

Don't. Forget. My present.

All my love,
Lizzie

Gin - brilliant

Did you know that gin is an antispasmodic? Because I didn't. Something to do with Juniper berries, apparently.

What this means, in a nutshell, is that ibuprofin and hot waterbottles are riiiiight out the window. Cheap double gins are my new best friend.