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Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

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Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

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Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

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Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Just to prove that I can be creative even when I'm lying around on the sofa with a broken pair of comedy sunglasses and a crap camera phone.

Sex and The Inde

I find the idea of a sex column in The Independent slightly horrifying. But for some reason, Catherine Townsend's Sleeping Around exists, nestled between recipes for organic cheesebread and comment on politicians' family portraits (Gordon Brown's kids are cuuuuute!).

Reading about sex in the Inde whilst on public transport feels rather like sitting next to an over-confident, Oxbridge-educated twenty-something, loudly discussing blow jobs on her mobile phone on the 08.32 to Waterloo while everyone else is trying to do the crossword. It's not hot, it's bizarre, bemusing and a little bit embarrassing. And, try as I might, I cannot - as I gaze at her half-chopped up self leaning out of the page in a staged "sexy" pose and black cardie - imagine Catherine Townsend lashing a lover to the bed or shopping for mouth gags.

I don't think it's her fault, perhaps it would be easier to take if the tone was more cheeky, less smug and the column was in More magazine. At the moment, it feels like the prettiest young writer in the office was marched to the keyboard and instructed to come up with something part Carrie Bradshaw, part Belle de Jour. Perhaps I am just the wrong kind of person to be reading the column. If I ever encountered a lover who tried to get me going by downloading an adult podcast onto my iPod, I may very well have to leg it.

Freddie

Freddie Strike
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Look what my friend Clara made! In her tummy!

What will they think of next.

Elizabethan Trivia

Blue
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Elizabeth is an alright name, I reckon, although I forget I am called it sometimes as nobody really uses it.

According to Wikipedia, there have been many Elizabeths (and Elisabeths) of note, including John the Baptist's mum (well actually she was an Elisheva, but that's how all the kids were spelling it back then), four saints, several empresses, two queens of England, two Belgian princesses and future queens of the Belgians, and lots of other queens and princesses scattered around the world.

There's also a whole stack of famous non-royal, non-saintly Elizabeths. One of these was the late Elizabeth Hulett aka pro wrestling manager "Miss Elizabeth", who was known as the First Lady of Wrestling and was married to "Macho Man" Randy Savage. Personally, if I was called Randy Savage and was a professional wrestler, I'd probably just stick with the name Randy Savage. She died in 2003 after overdoing the Xanax, steroids and vodka.

And who could forget Elizabeth, Electress Palestine and Queen of Bohemia? Also known as the Winter Queen and Queen of Hearts, she was born in 1596 and was the daughter of James VI of Scotland/James I England and Ireland. The gunpowder plotters wanted to kidnap her stick her on the throne when she was nine, so it's probably a good job they all got their heads chopped off instead. The sods.

Then there's Elisabeth, an erotic actress better known as Sexy Miss Lizz, Queen of Farts - a five foot fart fetishism specialist (which is funny, because I have a strong dislike of fart jokes) who was once filmed breaking wind on a cake. I think the term "erotic actress" is probably pushing it a bit in this case, but far be it from me to piss on her chips. Although maybe she's into that too.

The First Lady of Wrestling, the Queen of Hearts, the Queen of Farts. I wonder what they shall call me when I am gone...

I'm so hip it hurts. I mean, my hip hurts.

London postbox
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Attend Oxford or Cambridge universities and people will assume you are posh, clever, and probably a bit pleased with yourself.

Study at RADA and people will assume you are a talented actor, and probably a bit of a pain in the arse.

What does it mean to have gone to a university that is currently advertising its clearing courses (and yes, one of them is my course) on Popbitch?

*****************************************************
Experience Goldsmiths. Different attitudes. Opinions
matter. Choose Anthropology, Community and Youth
Work, Computing, Cultural Studies, Design, Education,
English, History, History of Art, Media Theory,
Music, Politics, Psychology, or Sociology.

http://www.goldsmiths.ac.uk/clearing
e-mail clearing9@gold.ac.uk
*****************************************************

"I've always been a scrubber" - Boy George
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POPBITCH _ _ _
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| |_) | (_) | |_) | |_) | | || (__| | | |
| .__/ \___/| .__/|_.__/|_|\__\___|_| |_|
|_| |_| 17.08.06 ISSUE 313
Free every week: to subscribe/unsubscribe
*****************************************************
Eh?

I know Goldsmiths is trendy, the Independent described it only yesterday is "eternally hip". But advertising on Popbitch is pushing it a bit, isn't it?

I loved Goldsmiths. I'd go back if I could. The place is so fucking laid back its horizontal. With the exception of the visiting Japanese history of art students, who would get up at 8am to chop carrots into matchsticks then rush quietly off to the library, everyone was exceedingly chilled. I don't really see my friends from college that much and marvel at people who still do everything with "uni mates", I couldn't bear the idea of having to spend the rest of my life hanging out with people I happened to meet in 1996-9.

Goldsmiths was voted one of the coolest brands in Britain a while back in the Superbrands report, beaten to the top spot only by Selfridges, Dazed & Confused, Agent Provocateur and Hakkasan restaurant. It may not churn out prime ministers, but it has spunked up Alex James, Graham Coxon, Julian Clary, Damien Hirst, Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood. And Lucien Freud, my favourite painter.

New Cross was an utter, utter dive when I was living around there, apparently the de-diving squad has been in and tarted up the place up now. The tarting up, I'm told, includes the New Cross Tavern (The Tav), where the pool room was accessed by hopping from dry tile to dry tile through the permanently flooded gents' toilet. Julian Clary, Vic Reeves and the legend that is Laa-Laa the Teletubby launched their careers on the stage in the back room, but I never saw anything along those lines. Less Vic Reeves, more a slightly mad bloke with a lazy eye offering female students what he claimed was powdered amphetamines but apparently was glucose, cupped lose in his grubby palm.

There weren't any black-tie balls, I have yet to find occasion to wear a ballgown. Most people wore head to toe Carhartt - carpenters jeans and those funny hoodies that felt like they were made out of wetsuit. When I graduated (the same day Harold Pinter got an honorary degree, which was weird), there was a bit of a do on the lawn, they everyone went home for a spliff or took their parents to the pub. The reason I chose Goldsmiths is that it had no medics, scientists, mathematicians, no sporting teams or sporting culture to speak of, no braying, pearl-wearing idiots and because it was in London. Having lived just outside zone six my whole life, I was gagging to experience London properly. And my god, did I. It was fan-bloody-tastic.

But I was never aware of the university being achingly hip or any of that carry on. There's nothing achingly hip about mouldy, death-trap flats in Catford or spending 12 hours bunking off in the Union, drinking Jack Daniels and coke and eating Nik Naks. I'm not sure who would describe the Wednesday night Club Sandwich event as really fucking cutting edge, and I'm thinking in particular of the weekly Michael Jackson medley at the end. "Are you coming to Sandwich" was certainly not the rallying cry that had a hotbed of creative talent gelling its geometric fringe, yanking on its Peruvian yaks' wool booties and leaping on a skateboard down to the Tianamen building (seriously). It was more shit-faced female students snogging each other to get the boys to buy them drinks. I am not friends with any young British artists, actually the one girl I do keep in touch with works as a librarian for the civil service.

Perhaps the whole cool thing is a conspiracy by Lewisham Council to trick media wankers into moving to south east London? Maybe I was so busy reaching for the lasers that I failed to nurture friendships with shark picklers? Perhaps all the cool people hid when I was around? Or maybe I'm just SO FUCKING COOL, the coolness couldn't touch me. Yeah, that'll be it.

Please open immediately

Please open immediately
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Seriously Revenue chaps, please tell me the self-assessment form you sent me is just a bad, bad, confusing dream and I will wake up soon to find that all I actually have to do is tell you how much I earned and at what point I earned it.

The first instruction was simple enough to understand: "Open immediately". Well, I've already got that wrong (although three months after I got it surely isn't too shabby).

But am I offsetting my claim against earnings outside of allowances on total pocket/birthday/Christmas money received in the tax year 1983-4? Where is the extra form in which I detail the poems inside the birthday cards? Did I sign up for gift aid? Would I like any tax owing to be assigned to Beryl Reid? Would I like to use my tax code to fund criminal gangs in Bolivia? If Lucy drinks .7 litres of water and Sam leaves the house at 7.42am, who gets the Scalectrix for Christmas? I don't know, tax people! I DON'T KNOW.

Clever flatmate Caroline Vorderman (not her real surname) has taken me through the Form of Fear and pointed out the bits that I need to fill in. Just thinking about it makes my throat close with terror. If she wasn't there to guide me, I'd probably end up accidentally donating my car to an orphanage and falling down dead on the floor with a stress-induced heart attack.

Hopefully, this will never have to happen to me again. The two months that I was shoved mercilessly out of the warm and cosy cottage of P.A.Y.E and into the icy wasteland of self-employment will, I believe, scar me for life. Thank god they heard the frantic clawing at the door and let me back in.

Canary Wharf

Canary Wharf
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

I'm struggling for something to say today - I've had a few abortive attempts at humour but quite frankly, I was getting on my own tits.

So I have resorted to the camera phone, although all the super snaps of the regatta fireworks have, of course, come out SIDEWAYS.

Anyway, I've been meaning to fish one this out of my phone for ages. I took it during a very wibbly boat party but thought it had come out quite crisp - that's what it looks like on the phone screen. Turns out it looks like somebody's dropped some acid and started with photoshop, but I think I like it.

Bora Bora

Bora Bora
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

I haven't been blogging because I've had the week off work, which was marvellous. I heartily recommend it, I actually feel refreshed today. Considering I spent the first half of the week in Ibiza with Marion and Deidre, this is no mean feat. We thought we might as well pop over there to celebrate the Deidre's recent 30th birthday and mine too, even though it isn't until October.

The reason this picture of the Bora Bora beach bar is sideways is that the "rotate" button on Flickr doesn't work on my computer. Slightly annoying, but it probably does convey the angle I was on when I took it. On our first morning, Marion and I innocently set off on a stroll to see Playa D'en Bossa beach. But when we were within ten meters of the sacred sands, the heavens opened and we were confined to a bar for, ooh, at least an hour. Luckily, our time there was not wasted as a kindly local bestowed ale upon us, and educated us in the local grappa-esque liquor... thingies of the island. So by the time the rain clouds (pictured) were buggering off over the sea, we were having a tremendous time at Bora Bora, swilling down half pints of Ameretto discussing how generally brilliant everything and everyone is and how much we love them.

Needless to say, it didn't last and we were back to hating everything and everyone following a short siesta.

After having a spankingly good time at Space, laughing at the ponces in DC10 (we thought "explosion in a c*nt factory" summed it up), circling the swimming pool on a misappropriated lilo, spending a cloudy Tuesday nibbling what have to be the most enormous Wotsits I've ever seen, and FINALLY getting our paella, we felt we'd been sufficiently mugged by the glowering gangs of murderous, espadrille-sporting, mullet-flicking villains that no doubt control every night club, family pub, Spar, bar and hire car on the island, and were ready to leave. Thank f*ck we made it back just before the airports went absolutely do-lally bonkers. I can just imagine the clammy, officious security types squirming with delight in their snug-fitting nylon suits as they forced miserable, rain-spattered, poly-poncho-wearing travellers to stow their potentially lethal air pillows, Opal Fruits and copies of Heat back in their suitcases. I probably would have had to mutter something quite strong. Terrible business.

Mad Mel

Mad Mel
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

I know Mel Gibson's dad is an evil Holocaust denier and Mel himself is a sneering bully who thinks his wife his going to hell because she's the wrong kind of Catholic, but this comment from "influential talent agent Ari Emanuel" (whatever) about his anti Semitic comments really made me giggle. It sounds like a line from South Park The Movie:

"At a time of escalating tensions in the world, the entertainment industry cannot idly stand by and allow Mel Gibson to get away with such tragically inflammatory statements."

And Lo, as the bile-tinged drool of Mad Max didst hit the Malibu freeway, yea, the prophecy was fulfilled and Suri Cruise didst rip asunder from her Beverly Hills compound, striking terror into the hearts of God's children as she didst drag the souls of the righteous down unto Hell. And Him out of My Name Is Earl and Her out of Dharma and Greg didst reign down bombs on the Baldwins, and Shiloh Nouvel Jolie Pitt didst weep crystal tears into the hot dust for Paradise was once more lost and the Fires of Hell burned again the City of Angels.

Americans are idiots sometimes.