We don't have much time

As a rule, I tend to look down on people who get crushes on celebrities. Idiots. And as for people who get crushes on fictional characters, well: Double Idiots.

But every time Jack Bauer backflips into a deserted warehouse with his gun, declaring breathlessly that "we don't have much time!" something happens in my knickers that makes me say, "right then Jack. I'll just pull them off the one leg then, shall I?"

There is nothing more boring than...

Other people's dreams
"So I was walking down the street and all of a sudden I saw this guy I used to date so I called out to him but all of a sudden he turned into a big rat so I followed him down a sewer and then all of a sudden it was my old history teacher but before I could talk to him I realised it was time for lunch and all of a sudden I was at my friend's place where we ate roast pork and yada yada yada..."

If I was to write that as a short story, you really wouldn't find it very entertaining. So why do you think I'm interested in you telling it to me?

Other people's taxes
Once again I am late with my annual tax report. I will probably try to tell you all about it. If so, please tell me to shut up.

Slim girls complaining about being fat
Next time someone asks me if those jeans make their bum look big I'm going to reply, "No, your bum makes your bum look big".

Reality TV
When is this craze going to die? I predict that on the next Big Brother final, while they’re all parading around on that catwalk, a sniper sits in a tree and takes them all out: bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang! Nothing will be able to top a live Channel 4 pseudo-celebrity slaughter, so after the fuss has died down we’ll move onto something else.

Trying to get the duvet back in the duvet cover
This one's self-explanatory, I think.

Overuse of ellipses
Especially common on blogs... it's almost like nobody really thinks before they type... rather just let their thoughts spill out... and we have to kind of just keep going with them... not really knowing where or when they're going to stop... or even if they'll ever stop at all..... and then of course there are those who don't realise three dots is all it takes.....and some use four or five......or even six or seven.......or nine or ten............

And finally...
People who complain too much. Like this.

I can never fly economy again

The best thing about Business Class is, quite obviously, the free bar.

I realise that the kind of people who can afford these tickets don't care one way or another about the price of booze, but within me lies an eternal student I guess, because I was all over that bar at the first class airport lounge like a drunk in, er, a first class airport lounge. It isn't even staffed. You just walk around and help yourself. No measures or anything, just free-pour bottles. Like being at a really great party, only without all that fag-ash in the ice bucket.

Unfortunately, the high-class drinking binge did nothing to calm my fear of flying. I nearly had a full-blown panic attack when I realised the pilot was female. Fuck, I had to take some deep breaths. Bjarni, appalled by the chauvinist pig in me, made me toast our free champagne to equal rights. I was too terrified to object.

To equal rights!

And one time, at band camp...

For my Icelandic class I have to write a short story about something that has happened to me. Anything at all. Well, preferably something I know most of the words for. So maybe something to do with "beer" or "things you can buy in the supermarket".

Quite a few things have happened to me that I would like to write about. But I can't figure out what will be both a) the most interesting and b) the least complicated. So I have narrowed it down to this list:

1. The time I cut off a dog's ear whilst working at a poodle parlour.

2. The time I seduced a man by leaving a different piece of fruit on his desk every day for a fortnight.

3. The time I showered naked with Björk.

Trouble is, my past-tense Icelandic is really shit, like, even shitter than my present tense. Which could be the whole point of the assignment, now that I think about it.

My friend Carrie

Sometimes when I'm writing my blonk I feel just like my friend Carrie Bradshaw, author of popular New York column "Sex and the City".

It almost makes me want to prance around my apartment in my panties, Marlboro Light in one hand, laptop in the other, asking myself pertinent questions such as, "what happens when the Choo is on the other foot?"

I am an amazing chef

Startling, I know. But the dinner I cooked for my guests was utterly fabulous. The salmon was tender and moist; the roasted spring vegetables delicious; the haricot vert crisp and fresh; the mint vinegarette delightful. Really.

The only mistake I made was with the frigging "celeriac". I don't know what the hell celeriac is supposed to look like so I just bought some strange looking thing from the root vegetable section, hoping for the best. It wasn't celeriac. It was gross. I think it was some kind of root-herb thing because it tasted like shit. But I let my guests spit it out politely into their spring-green napkins and we carried on regardless.

The next evening, David—my flat-mate, father figure, and personal chef—arrived home from crossing the glacier. His poor face was dropping off in crusty chunks from frost-bite and he was rather exhausted, having spent a week blindly pulling a sled through a howling blizzard. So I made the exact same meal again for him. He was a bit bewildered by the sudden change in me ("you're all grown up! I go away for one week and you learn how to cook!") but delighted by the results ("this salmon is delicious, mmm, mmm, mmm mmm mmm mmm" etc). I'm quite relieved: I had begun to feel a tad guilty about making a joke of his impending death, and yet hadn't wanted to delete that post from my blog had he actually fallen down a crevasse and died. I hate deleting posts.

So yes, next time you're hosting a dinner party, forget Jamie Oliver's forums, just drop by my blog and pick up some tips from me.

I am rubbish at Icelandic

Really. One of the new guys at work is reading the same children's book as me for his homework. He's only been in the country two months. I've been here several years!

I keep finding out that I've been saying things wrong all along. I do have a tendency to speak in advertising headlines. For example, when I've meant to say "oh, that's exciting" when somebody tells me their sister is coming to visit, instead I've been saying "ooh, the tension mounts!". Which seems a little over the top.

I'm still too shy to talk much Icelandic at work, although I have to say that I am rather brilliant at it downtown on a Saturday night after a pint or two. I once met Björky's son in a pub, who complimented me on my awesome pronunciation after I asked him what his social security number was (I think I was trying to ask his age, but got confused along the way). Complimented by the spawn of someone famous, that can't be all bad.

Anyway, I have sworn to do better with my language skills this year. Am fed up of being boring foreigner turning all conversations back to The International Language all the time (that's English, not football).

2p taste explained

One of the symptoms from my terrifying deadly virus scare the other day—the copper taste in my mouth—has been explained to me by none other than celebrity blogger Belle Du Jour, the infamous London call girl.

In one chapter of her book she describes the taste of spunk as "eating an oyster from a 2p coin".

I did eat quite a lot of, uh, shellfish at the weekend and was undoubtedly confusing the side effects of my actions as being part of my terrifying deadly virus.

Fuck the starter

I've spent the last 24 hours in a frenzy about not being able to cook. Visiting Jamie Oliver's forums didn't do much to boost my confidence. It was mostly teenagers discussing their culinary disasters and saying "lol".

Young Mum: i cant tell you about my first time when i tried to cook a beef casserole lol it cooked for 4 hours and nothing happened in the end i threw it in the bin and went to the chippy and i cryed my eyes out coz i tried my hardest lol.

If Young Mum ended up in tears, what's going to happen to me? Surely she must have much more catering experience than me, having a mouth to feed and all that. So, panicking, I decided to forget the stupid casserole idea and called my parents out of desperation.

Thanks to my father, I now have step-by-step instructions on how to prepare a main course that will give me an air of domestic-goddessness, much like that woman off the telly. My New Gay Best Friends™ are bringing a traditional Belgian desert, and my mother has advised me to "fuck the starter". As in, not bother.

I will report back.

The Worst Books I Have Ever Read

Olivia Joules and the Over-Active Imagination by Helen Fielding
I thought this might be a fun read after the fun read that was Bridget Jones' Diary, but sadly I was wrong. Should have guessed really considering the shite that was Bridget Jones II: The Edge of Reason. Anyway, some English woman, Olivia, gets involved in something she shouldn't and ends up finding Osama Bin Laden in a cave. I think she has sex with him too. She has sex with someone, anyhow, who doesn't call her back. Or something.

The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger
I only have one real grievance with this book: why is it every blogger's favourite? Is it the only book you ever remember actually reading? It's on everybody's list. EVERYBODY'S. Don't lie. I know you just went and edited your profile.

The Lovely Bones by Whatshername
Starts off brilliantly, I mean, who isn't fascinated by murdered schoolgirls? But it later dissolves into rubbish, probably somewhere around the "heaven" bit. Which is quite near the start.

The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown
Urrfffggh. See previous rant.

Anything by Iain M Banks
Okay, this one's maybe a bit unfair, as I haven't actually read any of his books, but fuck it. I just find it really really annoying that he puts out 77 science fiction novels a year and only, like, 3 regular novels a decade under his M-less pen-name. I hate sci-fi, goddamnit. I don't care about other planets, no matter how amazing those worlds are he creates. Don't try to convince me. I want more Prentice McHoans, more Ken Notts, more Whits. I want more wanking, cheating, sex-cults, and whiskey drinking. And I want it all to happen on Earth.

Life of Pi by Some Bloke
I loved this book when I started it, really. Not only did I find the whole zoo thing fascinating, but I really got swept up in the reality of the boy-on-boat-with-tiger image. I mean, I honestly believed it was possible. It wasn't until half-way through this bastard story that I got my common sense back and began to feel preached at. Should have spotted it sooner. God I hate fables. Speaking of fables...

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
Um, what? It's like trying to read the bastard Bible. No thanks.

Ásta La Vista

The lovely Ásta is unable to attend my wonderful traditional Welsh dinner party due to prior engagements, which leaves me with the dilemma of whether to a) bask in the attention of a male-only guest list—yes, half of them are gay, but they do find me rather fabulous, which makes me feel a bit like Kylie. Why DO gay men love Kylie anyway?—or b) try to balance things up a bit by inviting Thóra.

Now that's a real dilemma. My friend Thóra is gorgeous, great company, entertaining, and a general delight to have around. On the down side, however, she is much funnier than me and has far better stories to tell.

Hmm. Have to give this one some thought.

Chef

Just to clarify: my flat-mate, father-figure, and personal chef, David, will be unable to cater at my dinner party as he is currently struggling through a week-long ski expedition across Iceland's biggest glacier in freak weather conditions.

He is due back on Thursday but I'm not really expecting him as he is probably dead.

Pretend Welsh Dinner Party

I am a big fan of dinner parties. I love to eat, I love to drink, and I love to talk about myself in an environment in which I have complete control over the music volume.

So, this Friday I'm inviting five friends over for dinner at my house. Unfortunately, I'm not much of a chef. In fact, the only dishes I can even vaguely muster up are Italian in origin, and there's no way I'm feeding spag bol to Logi, just back from his second home in Milan for the holidays.

I've decided to go for something that I can prepare the day before and stick in the oven when needed, under the pretense of "traditional Welsh cuisine". However, the only dish in this category I can actually think of is Welsh Rarebit (cheese on toast — nothing to do with rabbits, disappointing I know), so I think I will have to make some kind of casserole and bluff my way through. Something with leeks, no doubt.

What will they know about Welsh cuisine anyway? My guest list comprises of: Logi the Italophile (and sometime Italophobe, depending on his mood); Bjarni my other half (half-Icelandic, half-Yank); The Lovely Ásta (make-up artist and all-round bringer of good vibes); and My New Gay Best Friends™ Wies & Dirk (Belgian, gay).

I have no idea whether or not this group will gel, probably not, but who cares? At least I will have a captive audience for the night. Literally captive. It's Good Friday and all the pubs will be shut.

Might I Die?

For the last few days I have been dizzy, nauseous and have had a copper taste in my mouth — like I've got a 2p coin stuck to my tongue. My balance is off too. Cycling to work this morning I casually leant back, took my hands off the bars, dropped them to my sides, and promptly veered into the gutter and nearly fell off. I looked a right tit.

So: nauseous, dizzy, copper-taste, tit-like. These symptoms sound like the beginning of some kind of rare yet deadly virus to me. Any ideas?

Gymnophobia

Fear of nudity. All British people are born with this disorder (except for maybe a tiny percentage from Tunbridge Wells who believe being naked in public is okay as long as it's confined to restricted areas on sunny foreign beaches once a year).

I had it bad before I came to Iceland, where I had it beaten out of me with a wooden stick. Literally; by the warden at the swimming pool. There is only one thing worse than being naked in front of people, and that's being shouted at for NOT being naked in front of people and then being made to strip in front of people.

Icelanders are notoriously hygienic, and they all get soapy in the shower together before getting into the pool. Signs are made in 30 different languages demanding that all foreigners do the same, complete with body diagrams showing you which bits to pay special attention to. Don't think you can get away with keeping your togs on. You can't.

The Da Vinci Code

I am fully aware that we must not judge a book by its cover. I am also aware that we shouldn't pay too much attention to reviews. But I am pretty sure that we are entitled to judge a book by its first 4 pages.

Last night I fell asleep safe in the knowledge that I'm not missing out on anything by skipping the other 496.

Update:
Okay, okay, I am reading the frigging Da Vinci Code afterall. But only out of desperation as I was off work sick yesterday and had nothing better to do. Turns out that I like a brilliantly crafted yet badly written unfeasible pile of bullshit thriller as much as the next person, as I am almost finished it already.

So far, my favourite part of the book is the disclaimer on the first page, which states that "all descriptions of artwork, architecture, documents and secret rituals in this novel are accurate" – as if stealing all the interesting bits from his art historian wife somehow excuses him from having written little gems such as:

Sophie looked over. 'You're kidding, right? We're going to visit a knight?'

Langdon gave an awkward smile. 'We're on the Grail quest, Sophie. Who better to help us than a knight?'

It's like Scooby Doo for grown-ups (or Harry Potter for kids). But, again, I can hear myself mocking hypocritically. And I'm sure it will redeem itself in the end as, the way things are going now, everything is pointing towards the lovely yet determined Sophie discovering that she is the great-great-great-etc-grandchild of Jesus Christ the Lord.

Marvellous!

Interesting...

I’ve always hated “interests” sections. Much more than “about me” sections. I think it’s the list thing. I’m always a little dubious as to what counts as an "interest” exactly. The pub? Pool? Well, it's a sport, isn't it? I remember in school I would always list tennis. Don’t worry, I’ve never played tennis in my life. But it’s a generic hobby I felt obliged to have in order to stop myself feeling inadequate.

These days I’m more honest with myself. Okay, I admit that including both “graphic design” AND “typography” on my profile is pushing it a bit (must pad it out), and I don’t really find “working out” all that interesting (just trying to stop myself getting fat) but, overall, this blog's interests section is the most honest I’ve ever been.

Some of the most amusing interests at other blogs:

– Chatting
– Encouraging friends
– Laughing
– Being a better person
– Breast-feeding
– Writing to death row inmates
– Text messaging

Actually, three of those interests came from the same blog; I'm sure you can figure out which ones. I know, I know, I’m in no position to mock, but “text messaging” — what?!

Like a Wirgin

Don't get me wrong, I love my Body Combat teacher; she is fit and tiny and gorgeous and energetic and inspiring and everything a gym instructor should be.

But I'm going to have to say something soon about the noise. She has one of those Like-a-Virgin-esque microphone headsets, and can't resist singing along to whatever song it is we're bouncing around to. That would be fine if she was wearing a pointy bra, like Madonna, or could actually sing, like, er, Whitney Houston, but she doesn't and she can't.

It's embarrassing.