18th June 2014, Brick Lane, London
As much as I hate to admit to it, being a lady of leisure is starting to make me climb the walls, and sadly not in an exercise related manner.
So I decided that it was time to actually take one of the countless courses that I've already paid for and have planned on completing for ages and ages. This was kicked off with PRINCE2 in order to officially be decent at project management.
In school, I was a big believer in last minute cramming as a studying technique. Sadly, nothing seem to have changed since 2004 when I aced my English exams by reading the six books I should have studied over the last three months, in one night whilst inhaling coffee and then lying my way through the essay questions. Apparently the true meaning of Grapes Of Wrath is that Hollywood is the American Dream. I don't think my teacher had ever read Grapes Of Wrath. Or anything Steinbeck for that matter. She should.
See, back in school I had some reasonable excuses for not being as well prepared for my exams as I should be; needing the study time to pick my graduation outfit, dating the cute bartender from the the next town or being the school party committee. Now, in theory, I should not be able to find any excuses - I've quit my job and I'm in no hurry finding myself a new one. I should have all the time in the world.
Instead, other things keep getting in the way. The fact that Criminal Minds are being taken off Amazon Prime in a month and I therefore need to get through all 10 seasons before then. The fact that it's too nice outside to be inside studying and I can't read anything on my computer screen if not indoors. The fact that maybe I wanted some cookies after all and obviously have to make a Tesco run to sort out the cookie situation.
On average, my studying kicked off at 10 pm, kept going until 4 am after which I got 6 hours of sleep with the intention to get studying again at noon. Six Criminal Minds episodes past noon, I obviously needed some fresh air and a nice run, before it was time for dinner and maybe just one more episode before it was 10 PM and by then, perhaps it was time to get studying again.
Somehow I managed to get my principles, themes and processes together in time for the exam. And proceeded aced it. Apparently, studying project management strategies isn't so different from Great Depression fiction.
Cramming is the shit.
Sunday 29 June 2014
Friday 27 June 2014
153. At Night at Ronnie's
15th June 2014, Ronnie Scott's Jazz Club, Soho, London
As Hell's Bells had the audacity to have a birthday on a Monday, we celebrated this wonderful occasion by going to see a jazz band rather than doing tequila shots in a dodgy night club until dawn. We are officially old.
Seeing that I missed out on Flatmate's birthday due to dying from the flu, I was happy someone else arranged an outing at Ronnie Scoot's so I wouldn't have to be one of the weirdo's going to jazz clubs by themselves drinking pretentious chiantis. I fear being one of those people as much as they fear being caught drinking a pint of Fosters at an old man's pub.
As it turns out, this was a rather low key and chilled out for a jazz club. Which is a great thing, seeing as I seem to lack the ability to part take in deep, meaningful conversations about the inspiration behind a bridge of a song, that isn't a bridge seeing as jazz music doesn't even have choruses. I still don't know when I'm suppose to clap as there is no way to identify the end or beginning of a jazz song. At Ronnie Scott's, at least I didn't have to discuss the original inspiration behind Blue River with a guy in a beret.
You would think that after 29 years on the planet and 13 years of friendship Hell's Bells would answer the question of 'what are you drinking' with something other than 'I'm fine for now thanks'. I therefore made it my mission to keep a full glass of alcohol with a side of juice in front of her at all times. Because that's what real friends do.
If only it didn't take absolute ages to get a drink. Let's face it, jazz clubs on a Monday night aren't busy, so to have to wait 20 odd minutes for a vodka soda does not make me want to bring on my jazz hands, nor does it assist me in helping Hell's Bells forget that 30 is lurking around the corner. I didn't even need them to put ice in it!
I also learned the hard way that jazz clubs do not carry sparklers, in my attempt to get Helen a birthday cake replacement. You can however always set a lemon on fire and decide it's close enough. And Helen seemed to enjoy her Mai Tai cake more than any other cake we could have served her.
Of course no birthday is complete without a jazzy version of Happy Birthday. Such a great thing a jazz singer, plus band was at hand. I am also fairly sure you're not allowed to kill people on your birthday, which is why we are all here today.
To sum it up, an entire night of jazz and slow coming cocktails - not my cup of tea. Celebrating my dearest Hell's Bells existence by setting fire to things - much more my cup of tea.
Happy Birthday Hell's Bells!
As Hell's Bells had the audacity to have a birthday on a Monday, we celebrated this wonderful occasion by going to see a jazz band rather than doing tequila shots in a dodgy night club until dawn. We are officially old.
Seeing that I missed out on Flatmate's birthday due to dying from the flu, I was happy someone else arranged an outing at Ronnie Scoot's so I wouldn't have to be one of the weirdo's going to jazz clubs by themselves drinking pretentious chiantis. I fear being one of those people as much as they fear being caught drinking a pint of Fosters at an old man's pub.
As it turns out, this was a rather low key and chilled out for a jazz club. Which is a great thing, seeing as I seem to lack the ability to part take in deep, meaningful conversations about the inspiration behind a bridge of a song, that isn't a bridge seeing as jazz music doesn't even have choruses. I still don't know when I'm suppose to clap as there is no way to identify the end or beginning of a jazz song. At Ronnie Scott's, at least I didn't have to discuss the original inspiration behind Blue River with a guy in a beret.
You would think that after 29 years on the planet and 13 years of friendship Hell's Bells would answer the question of 'what are you drinking' with something other than 'I'm fine for now thanks'. I therefore made it my mission to keep a full glass of alcohol with a side of juice in front of her at all times. Because that's what real friends do.
If only it didn't take absolute ages to get a drink. Let's face it, jazz clubs on a Monday night aren't busy, so to have to wait 20 odd minutes for a vodka soda does not make me want to bring on my jazz hands, nor does it assist me in helping Hell's Bells forget that 30 is lurking around the corner. I didn't even need them to put ice in it!
I also learned the hard way that jazz clubs do not carry sparklers, in my attempt to get Helen a birthday cake replacement. You can however always set a lemon on fire and decide it's close enough. And Helen seemed to enjoy her Mai Tai cake more than any other cake we could have served her.
Of course no birthday is complete without a jazzy version of Happy Birthday. Such a great thing a jazz singer, plus band was at hand. I am also fairly sure you're not allowed to kill people on your birthday, which is why we are all here today.
To sum it up, an entire night of jazz and slow coming cocktails - not my cup of tea. Celebrating my dearest Hell's Bells existence by setting fire to things - much more my cup of tea.
Happy Birthday Hell's Bells!
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| The Birthday Girl and her Mai Tai Cake |
152. Japanese Omelette Towers
14th June 2014, Abeno Too, Soho, London
When I thought no more culinary genius could come out of Japan, there was Okonomiyaki.
Celebrating that Miss Ukraine had finally returned to the Land of the Living after handing in her dissertation, we went to sample this mysterious yet delicious dish served at a lovely little Soho venue.
Great service can really make or break any establishment, be it Michelin starred gourmet restaurants in Paris or a Hong Kong hole-in-the-wall. Because of this, I took a liking to this place as soon as I sat down next to Miss Ukraine who had in exactly five minutes of being there been befriended by the chef.
Said chef was in all fairness quite easy to befriend and also had the patience of a god damn saint, putting up with my one million questions on the detailed history of Okonomiyaki, all the different types of Okonomiyaki and the specific background as to how a white English guy chooses Okonomiyaki as a full time profession. Not even my own parents have ever dealt with my questions for that long.
If you google Okonomiyaki it will tell you it's a Japanese pizza, which clearly indicates that there are people in the world who have never had pizza. Some will say it's like a pancake, and a brunch expert like me can promise that is not the case. Closest thing to it in the Western World I'd say is an omelette. Only with cabbage and extra everything. And by everything I mean everything. Everything as in pork, mushrooms, prawns, lotus roots, some type of beef and three different sauces on top of each layer of the Japanese omelette tower.
Whilst waiting for all of the layers to finish up, there was the sake menu to tie us over. It was bigger than the food menu. My kind of place this is.
After a giant wooden glass of sake, the omelette tower was good and ready to be ruined. It was the closest to smashing sand castles a grown up can get without making a small child cry. On top of all the fun I was having destroying it, it tasted yummy. Whilst I initially suspected it may be too much even for an extra side dish junkie like me, it all went together perfectly and I will definitely be having Okonomiyaki again soon. Especially if the lovely chef who puts up with my nonsense and gets me my drink before I can say sake to me is there.
Who would have known cabbage and eggs could be so tasty?
When I thought no more culinary genius could come out of Japan, there was Okonomiyaki.
Celebrating that Miss Ukraine had finally returned to the Land of the Living after handing in her dissertation, we went to sample this mysterious yet delicious dish served at a lovely little Soho venue.
Great service can really make or break any establishment, be it Michelin starred gourmet restaurants in Paris or a Hong Kong hole-in-the-wall. Because of this, I took a liking to this place as soon as I sat down next to Miss Ukraine who had in exactly five minutes of being there been befriended by the chef.
Said chef was in all fairness quite easy to befriend and also had the patience of a god damn saint, putting up with my one million questions on the detailed history of Okonomiyaki, all the different types of Okonomiyaki and the specific background as to how a white English guy chooses Okonomiyaki as a full time profession. Not even my own parents have ever dealt with my questions for that long.
If you google Okonomiyaki it will tell you it's a Japanese pizza, which clearly indicates that there are people in the world who have never had pizza. Some will say it's like a pancake, and a brunch expert like me can promise that is not the case. Closest thing to it in the Western World I'd say is an omelette. Only with cabbage and extra everything. And by everything I mean everything. Everything as in pork, mushrooms, prawns, lotus roots, some type of beef and three different sauces on top of each layer of the Japanese omelette tower.
Whilst waiting for all of the layers to finish up, there was the sake menu to tie us over. It was bigger than the food menu. My kind of place this is.
After a giant wooden glass of sake, the omelette tower was good and ready to be ruined. It was the closest to smashing sand castles a grown up can get without making a small child cry. On top of all the fun I was having destroying it, it tasted yummy. Whilst I initially suspected it may be too much even for an extra side dish junkie like me, it all went together perfectly and I will definitely be having Okonomiyaki again soon. Especially if the lovely chef who puts up with my nonsense and gets me my drink before I can say sake to me is there.
Who would have known cabbage and eggs could be so tasty?
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| This guy knew how to pour sake! |
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| How to drink a cup full of sake. |
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| Layer non-pancake |
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| Every single side possible. |
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| A topping or two! |
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| And some toppins on the toppings. |
Thursday 19 June 2014
151. The History of the Orange Chairs
14th June 2014, Geffrye Museum, Hoxton, London
Part of this whole blog project is to motivate me to actually go and get things I'm talking about doing, done.
Going to Geffrye Museum is one of those things that I 'just haven't gotten around to'. This is in spite of living basically next door to it for two years and a five minute walk away from it for the prior three years. I am after all the queen of procrastination.
So, all said and done I made it to my old stomping ground and met up with my friend Babushka at Haggerston, primarily so I could get a bit of nostalgia down me by taking the 242 bus and stare into my old bedroom window. The new people are using it for storage and I didn't see my shoe closet anywhere. The new people also seemed a bit uncomfortable being starred at from across the street. People are so sensitive these days.
After a quick coffee and successfully scaring the man at the table next to us by crawling in under it and smashing my head on his right knee, we were off to the actual museum.
Museum like the Geffrye one, I can get onboard with. No crazy odd unidentifiable art, 500 years worth of evolution or anyone sitting in a box painting her toe nails with her tongue. No, this is on the history of the home. Totally relatable. Most people have a home and people have always had places to live and keep their chairs and beds and tables and shoes. And shoes.
It turns out that Geffrye Museum has an amazing little herb garden for me to get excited about seeing as my attempt to grow herbs on my balcony ended up in what can only be referred to as a spice massacre. It would seem like most plants don't appreciate sitting in the shade next to the train tracks. Luckily, the guys at Geffrye's did a much better job than me.
In true inclusive spirit Geffrye's have a kiddie trail throughout the museum. You know, flaps at each section with questions on the origins of the interior piece in question, be it a wallpaper or a porcelain plate. Educational and funny - it had a dog with glasses on it. Dogs don't wear glasses. Silly dog.
So me and the 5 year olds skipped ahead, turning the flaps and learning about the history of all the furniture and homes, from the orange fluffy 60's arm chairs to the servant quarters of the 18th century estates. This whilst Babushka and the grown up walked at a normal pace behind us. At some stage I was even told to calm down before I broke something.
Learning is fun!
Part of this whole blog project is to motivate me to actually go and get things I'm talking about doing, done.
Going to Geffrye Museum is one of those things that I 'just haven't gotten around to'. This is in spite of living basically next door to it for two years and a five minute walk away from it for the prior three years. I am after all the queen of procrastination.
So, all said and done I made it to my old stomping ground and met up with my friend Babushka at Haggerston, primarily so I could get a bit of nostalgia down me by taking the 242 bus and stare into my old bedroom window. The new people are using it for storage and I didn't see my shoe closet anywhere. The new people also seemed a bit uncomfortable being starred at from across the street. People are so sensitive these days.
After a quick coffee and successfully scaring the man at the table next to us by crawling in under it and smashing my head on his right knee, we were off to the actual museum.
Museum like the Geffrye one, I can get onboard with. No crazy odd unidentifiable art, 500 years worth of evolution or anyone sitting in a box painting her toe nails with her tongue. No, this is on the history of the home. Totally relatable. Most people have a home and people have always had places to live and keep their chairs and beds and tables and shoes. And shoes.
It turns out that Geffrye Museum has an amazing little herb garden for me to get excited about seeing as my attempt to grow herbs on my balcony ended up in what can only be referred to as a spice massacre. It would seem like most plants don't appreciate sitting in the shade next to the train tracks. Luckily, the guys at Geffrye's did a much better job than me.
In true inclusive spirit Geffrye's have a kiddie trail throughout the museum. You know, flaps at each section with questions on the origins of the interior piece in question, be it a wallpaper or a porcelain plate. Educational and funny - it had a dog with glasses on it. Dogs don't wear glasses. Silly dog.
So me and the 5 year olds skipped ahead, turning the flaps and learning about the history of all the furniture and homes, from the orange fluffy 60's arm chairs to the servant quarters of the 18th century estates. This whilst Babushka and the grown up walked at a normal pace behind us. At some stage I was even told to calm down before I broke something.
Learning is fun!
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| The Museum. |
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| Good old proper green house |
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| More Greenery |
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| Herb Garden |
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| Catnip |
Wednesday 18 June 2014
The List, Thus Far
18th June 2014, Brick Lane, London
Having reached 150 out of my bucket list, I'm recapping the items ticked off to date. Another 350 to go folks!
Having reached 150 out of my bucket list, I'm recapping the items ticked off to date. Another 350 to go folks!
- Try Oysters: They're just as slimy as they look.
- Cut Down On Coffee: Although successful, it feels like I've removed a bit of my arm only having a cup a day.
- Visit a Pop Up Pub: I really am not a beer drinker.
- Go Up Heron Tower At Night: I just love that lift!
- Eat Duck With Waffles: Surprisingly yummy and unweird!
- Try Nail Art: A-maze-balls
- Watch a James Bond Film: Daniel Craig in trunks or not - still not sold.
- Go Sled Riding With My Nieces: Nearly killed a child, won't be doing that again.
- Try Elin's Cinnamoffins: Hell yes!
- Buy an Advent Candle Stick Holder: Swedish for grown up
- Find the Best Bloody Mary In London: Bloody Marvellous at Beard To Tail, the name is not misleading.
- Go to Panto: He's behind you!
- Get a Christmas Tree: We had one sparkly Christmas!
- Spend Christmas in Swedish: Christmas for commies.
- Learn How to Cook Goose: I'm a goose genius
- Go for a Trip with my Bestie: Mexico baby!
- Visit Dallas: The golden city of Ewings
- Go See Tacky American Christmas Decorations: Some people have too much time, ttoo much money and too much Christmas spirit
- Go to a Line Dancing Bar: O for Awesome!
- Wear a Cowboy Hat in Dallas: Trying to be J.R. Ewing
- Visit Mexico: Arriba!
- Eat Tacos in Mexico: Actually prefer them in the UK...
- Drink Margaritas in Mexico: Very much prefer them in Mexico
- Visit a Turtle Orphanage: It's official - any baby animal is cute!
- Celebrate New Years on the Beach: 'There are bubbles in my champagne!'
- Swim with Dolphins: I am totally getting a pet dolphin when I grow up
- Get an iPad: Stepping into the 21st century
- Visit Hooters: About as pathetic and silly as I expected
- Buy Tequila with a Maggot in it: Yeah, still haven't tried it
- Spend a Beach Holiday Not Frying Myself: No crayfish for me this year!
- Explain VHS to a Child: That'll make you feel ancient
- Learn How to Cook the Perfect Steak: Never need to visit Hawksmoor again!
- Try Carb Free Noodles: Kid of like I'd imagine rubber bands with sweet chili dip would taste
- Try Carb Free Bread: Who knew broccoli would make for yummy sandwiches?
- Have Afternoon Tea at the Bluebird: Making you feel like a Made In Chelsea cast member.
- Go to Tramshed: Chicken fit for kings!
- Write a Non Bucket List: Some things are just for stupid people.
- Go Ice Skating: Being a Viking did not help
- Try Shellack: Chip free!
- Read a whole Economist Edition: Never doing that to myself again
- Have Brunch at Hoi Polloi: Name was funnier than the food
- Drink a Mrs Branning: Taste just like I'd imagine she would
- Visit Spitalfields City Farm: Donkeys!
- Buy Le Creuset Casserole Dishes: Yes, food tastes better when it's cute!
- Cut Bangs: You and me Zooey.
- Learn how to use my Hoover: Not so impressive is it?
- Make Home Made Mojitos: I am the Mojito Master!
- Try a Curve Treadmill: Banana shaped treadmill - what could possibly go wrong?
- Go Inside the Gherkin: Not as spectacular as I'd had hoped!
- Find a Decent Cocktail Bar in Canary Wharf: That only took years!
- Go on a Blind Date: Awkward!
- Go Vintage Shopping: Still prefer new clothes.
- Drink a Goldfish Bag: Massive disappointment.
- Buy a Proper Coat: Proper but pink.
- Get my Eyebrows Tinted: I no longer look like a cancer patient.
- Go Running in Battersea Park: Posh people run the same as bohemians.
- Have Sunday Roast at Hollywood Arms: Pretty pub, boring roast
- Try Online Dating: Meh....
- Try Multi Dating: Double Meh....
- Cross Millenium Bridge: No Death Eathers attacked me.
- Go see a Paul Klee Exhibition: Cultural marvel me.
- Try Peruvian Food: Another raw fish to love.
- Have Drinks at Mr Foggs: Officially my new favourite cocktail bar.
- Eat Dinner at a Michelin Starred Restaurant: Little food and big glasses of wine.
- Give the Higginssons a Proper Send Off: Sad faces!
- Go see the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition: Wild Life even I can get on board with.
- Get a Proper Suitcase: No more giant backpack for me!
- Going on a Trip with Hell's Bells: We survived!
- Visit the Caribbean: Yah Man.
- Test Scuba Diving: I was truly gifted.
- Try Para Sailing: No one fell in the water and was eaten by sharks.
- Go to a Rum Tasting: On the beach in the sun - great plan!
- Attend a Beach Party: Nothing says par-tay like sand everywhere. Everywhere.
- Swim into a Pool Bar: Why cool off post drink?
- Have Dinner at New Street Grill: Where I ate a sweater disguised as a steak.
- Have Drinks at Bengal Bar: Awesome garden!
- Go Feed the Ducks: Me, the toddlers and the little old ladies.
- Say Goodbye to Mrs Higginsson: More sad faces!
- Try the Chocolate Shop at Brick Lane: Chocogasms.
- Celebrate Little Man's 2nd Birthday: And only yesterday he was a baby!
- Check Out London Balthazar: Manhattan Magic!
- Try Soufflé: Gooey and icky.
- Have Dinner at Giant Robot: No robots in sight sadly.
- Make Pirate and Princess Themed Cupcakes: The birthday cupcakes I never had at age six.
- Assemble an IKEA Product: By my frickin' self!
- Do Multi Colour Nails: Pulled them off.
- Turn 29: Inevitable
- Eat Lobster Benedict: Stroke of Genius at Riding House.
- Visit W Hotel: Still not getting the hype.
- Watch the 1st Season of Girls: Lena Dunham, I think I love you.
- Take a Few Months Off: Still going, still loving it.
- Try Ladurée Macaroons: Gorgeous French fluffiness.
- Learn How to Make Lentil Soup:I can move into the Hippie Village any day now.
- Have a Meal at Elk in the Woods: Soggiest full English in London.
- Go to Forge & Co: That 70's show, with food.
- Try Soldiers and Eggs: Breakfast cleverness I had missed in spite of 7 years in the UK.
- Try Red Church Coffee: Black Gold
- Dye My Hair Pink: Turning myself into a My Little Pony
- Go to the Phene: I thought the Made In Chelsea kids only liked fun places
- Learn to Poach an Egg: How hard can it be?
- Thread My Eyebrows: Pain, severe pain. But beauty is pain I hear.
- Eat Eggs PIG at Beard To Tail: Oh my goodness.
- Watch The London Marathon: Why run when you can watch?
- Buy a Pair of Casadei Shoes: Italian masterpieces.
- Have a Louboutin Manicure: Well it's cheaper than the shoes....
- Show My Sister New York: Finally, my sis met the love of my life.
- Have Drinks at a Manhattan Rooftop: Why see it all from the ground?
- Visit Katz' Deli: Someone was less impressed than I.
- Go to Spotted Pig: Thankfully no suspicious spoiting whilst we were there.
- See Grand Central Station: About flaming time.
- Go to Harlem: In one word; fan-freaking-tastic!
- Try Waffle Fries: Two of my favourite things all rolled into one.
- Walk Across Brooklyn Bridge: That is one hell of a walk!
- Have Brunch at Market Table: I just love an NYC brunch!
- Go to Little Italy: Sadly, no mafiosos.
- Go for Drinks at the Fable: Not so fabulous.
- Buy a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles top: Feels like I'm finally one of them!
- Make the Best Mac'n'Cheese in the World: The experts have spoken!
- Check Out Ministry of Stories and Hoxton Street Monster Supplies: I always want to do my shopping there.
- Go to Anti Gravity Yoga: Gravity there was.
- Test a Sleeping Pod: Could do with one for the flat please?
- Try a Back Facial: And then I realised I don't see my own back.
- Have Dinner at Archipelago: Eating the whole of the Jungle Book.
- Go to a Poetry Reading: With my favourite poet.
- Visit the V&A Museum: Museum of fabulous.
- Have Sunday Lunch at Anglesea Arms: I'm still claiming Mr Dickens credit
- Learn how to Skip Rope: And 20 years later she's got it.
- Buy Wonder Woman Converse Trainers: It's you and me and awesome, Diana.
- Have dinner at a Jazz Club: All god apart from the food poisoning.
- Say Goodbye to Little Man and Co: Even more sad faces!
- Try Cross Fit: Never again.
- Pickle Beetroots: Still have a fridge full
- Go To 98: Great birthday venue!
- Visit the Ceramic Museum: The best of my home town.
- Visit the World's Greatest Cheese Store: The less sarcastic best of my hometown.
- Visit My Nieces in School: I still suck at sitting still!
- Go Inside Stockholm's House of Culture: So what it was only for lunch?
- Have Dinner at Grand Escalier: The secret garden of Stockholm.
- Go for Drinks at Anglais Rooftop Terrace: The bets of Stockholm in summer.
- Have Dinner at Pocket: You and me, Pontus.
- Watch Searching for Sugarman: Best documentary for ages
- Try Bi Bim Bap: Hot plate!
- Visit the Martini Factory: Best martinis in town.
- Survive an Episode of Honey Boo Boo: Barely.
- Celebrate the Swedish National Day in Style: Depends on your definition of style.
- Make my nan's cookies: It was close enough.
- Go to a Matisse Exhibition: Doodles!
- Visit the Southbank Food Festival
- Go to Maison Trois Garcon: What's French for bland?
- Get Over My Angelina Jolie Hatred: It's OK, we're friends now.
150. No Hard Feelings Angie
15th June, Vue Cinema, Islington, London
I've held a grudge against Angelina Jolie since Brad Pitt divorced Jennifer Aniston in 2005. Needless to say I was on Team Aniston.
And yes, I know that if a man cheats, the other woman is really not the one to blame for it although us ladies are great at acting as if that is the case. I really don't condone that behaviour normally, quite the opposite. I am frequently the one preaching to my friends' that if your boyfriend sent dirty pictures of himself to another woman, she probably didn't trick him into it. If he ends up sleeping with another woman, she most likely didn't cause him to slip and fall inside of her. If he falls in love with another woman, it is not because she actively tried to get him away from you and slipped him a love potion. It's all the responsibility of the cheater, not the person they're cheating with. Still, men's cheating continue to be at the fault of the other women. 'She knew he was taken' the girlfriends and wives will moan accusingly. Well, didn't he know that?!?! Oh the hatred against these other women, these vixens, actively devoting their lives to luring our husbands and boyfriends into their beds, backseat of his car and the backrooms of night clubs. These poor guys clearly can not be safe from their own lusts with all these other women ready to snatch them from their true loves.
See, guys don't do this. I have had male friends be cheated on and I have had female friends cheat on their boyfriends. This happens just as frequently if not more than the other way around. Yet never, literally not once, have I met a guy who's blamed the man giving it to his lady for said lady agreeing to having it given to her. They still get pissed off, heart broken and devastated though. They get pissed off, heart broken and devastated with the girl who actually betrayed them. Which makes sense as it is them who you trusted and who took that trust, threw it on the floor, poured gasoline over it and set it on fire. I should have been born a man and therefore not have to pretend to get the illogical emotional games of other women.
For reasons listed above, my utter disliking of Angelina Jolie, based on a divorce I really know nothing about and a presumed cheating in a marriage she was not part of is rather ridiculous. It was time to end the Angelina boycott after nine years running.
At the end of the day, she is great at her profession (they don't hand Oscar's out without good reason unless your name is Gwyneth Paltrow), an admirable view on family values and she supports the causes few others are brave enough to take on, that also happens to be causes that I personally am very passionate about.
So in my attempt to get over my disliking of miss Jolie and hopefully also deal with my hangover in an air conditioned movie theatre, I went to see Maleficent.
Sleeping Beauty was without a doubt my favourite film growing up and it's still up there in the top three with Clockwork Orange and The Graduate. I will still watch it regularly and most definitely think it's Mr Disney's best work.
So trying to get over my Angelina Jolie annoyance by watching a prequel to a film I hold so dearly to my heart is obviously quite risky and may not only mean my mission has failed, but it may also ruin my Sunday afternoon feel good fix for all eternity.
I'm not even embarrassed to admit that I actually prefer the Angelina Jolie version of events, she's given the Disney villain more depth than ever before. I do love a good villain, but I love them even more when you look beneath the surface. It's a gorgeous piece of film and Angelina Jolie really shines in it, it has all the pixies, trolls, magical crows and dragons that I'd expect from the original and it has bit of a feministic statement towards the end. You don't have to wait for the prince to come and save you, a message I still think isn't made clear enough to little girls of 2014.
Angelina, I am sorry for hating on you all these years. Now all I have to do is get over my disliking of your hubby.
I've held a grudge against Angelina Jolie since Brad Pitt divorced Jennifer Aniston in 2005. Needless to say I was on Team Aniston.
And yes, I know that if a man cheats, the other woman is really not the one to blame for it although us ladies are great at acting as if that is the case. I really don't condone that behaviour normally, quite the opposite. I am frequently the one preaching to my friends' that if your boyfriend sent dirty pictures of himself to another woman, she probably didn't trick him into it. If he ends up sleeping with another woman, she most likely didn't cause him to slip and fall inside of her. If he falls in love with another woman, it is not because she actively tried to get him away from you and slipped him a love potion. It's all the responsibility of the cheater, not the person they're cheating with. Still, men's cheating continue to be at the fault of the other women. 'She knew he was taken' the girlfriends and wives will moan accusingly. Well, didn't he know that?!?! Oh the hatred against these other women, these vixens, actively devoting their lives to luring our husbands and boyfriends into their beds, backseat of his car and the backrooms of night clubs. These poor guys clearly can not be safe from their own lusts with all these other women ready to snatch them from their true loves.
See, guys don't do this. I have had male friends be cheated on and I have had female friends cheat on their boyfriends. This happens just as frequently if not more than the other way around. Yet never, literally not once, have I met a guy who's blamed the man giving it to his lady for said lady agreeing to having it given to her. They still get pissed off, heart broken and devastated though. They get pissed off, heart broken and devastated with the girl who actually betrayed them. Which makes sense as it is them who you trusted and who took that trust, threw it on the floor, poured gasoline over it and set it on fire. I should have been born a man and therefore not have to pretend to get the illogical emotional games of other women.
For reasons listed above, my utter disliking of Angelina Jolie, based on a divorce I really know nothing about and a presumed cheating in a marriage she was not part of is rather ridiculous. It was time to end the Angelina boycott after nine years running.
At the end of the day, she is great at her profession (they don't hand Oscar's out without good reason unless your name is Gwyneth Paltrow), an admirable view on family values and she supports the causes few others are brave enough to take on, that also happens to be causes that I personally am very passionate about.
So in my attempt to get over my disliking of miss Jolie and hopefully also deal with my hangover in an air conditioned movie theatre, I went to see Maleficent.
Sleeping Beauty was without a doubt my favourite film growing up and it's still up there in the top three with Clockwork Orange and The Graduate. I will still watch it regularly and most definitely think it's Mr Disney's best work.
So trying to get over my Angelina Jolie annoyance by watching a prequel to a film I hold so dearly to my heart is obviously quite risky and may not only mean my mission has failed, but it may also ruin my Sunday afternoon feel good fix for all eternity.
I'm not even embarrassed to admit that I actually prefer the Angelina Jolie version of events, she's given the Disney villain more depth than ever before. I do love a good villain, but I love them even more when you look beneath the surface. It's a gorgeous piece of film and Angelina Jolie really shines in it, it has all the pixies, trolls, magical crows and dragons that I'd expect from the original and it has bit of a feministic statement towards the end. You don't have to wait for the prince to come and save you, a message I still think isn't made clear enough to little girls of 2014.
Angelina, I am sorry for hating on you all these years. Now all I have to do is get over my disliking of your hubby.
Tuesday 17 June 2014
149. Another Three Boys
15th June, Maison Trois Garcon, Shoreditch, London
Don't you just hate getting your great expectations completely smashed when you are on top of it all suffering from the hangover from hell?
Maison Trois Garcon really had so much going for it. It's connected to one of the most renowned restaurant groups in East London, is located right in the middle of the part of Shoreditch that is still cool and it has an awesome, quirky interior that looks super intriguing and inviting. I like a place with a Wizard of Oz neon sign, balloon lamps and animal heads on fabric.
I do however also like a place where I will get my coffee eventually. Especially on a champagne hangover. And let's face it, I'm not a petite person, it's not like it is hard to spot me if I stand in front of you. I take up a far bit of space. Especially not when I am the only costumer there, waiting at the counter for someone to take my bloody order.
In the end, when someone from the staff of 6 finally acknowledged my being there amongst the other 4 guests of the café, someone attempted making me a latte. Meanwhile, I had a look around the place and checked out the merchandise available for sale - lingonberry jam, Chinese teas, porcelain dolls, dog faced cushions - in the greatest of detail. And I mean great detail, because after 10 minutes of waiting for the simplest of coffees at a close to empty coffee house, that was all I could do to keep myself entertained. Apart from eating cake, and my champagne hangovers only craves coffee, sans cake.
Finally getting my coffee and I obviously expect it to be good, seeing as they took enough time to be thorough with it. Oh how I should stop making presumptions with a positive twist, because they rarely come out right. I've had hospital coffee out of machines that tasted better, or for anyone having visited a London hospital - that says hell of a lot. Plus the sleeve was too big for the mug. At this stage of annoyed, frustrated and grumpy, that mattered massively.
Do over and do it properly.
Don't you just hate getting your great expectations completely smashed when you are on top of it all suffering from the hangover from hell?
Maison Trois Garcon really had so much going for it. It's connected to one of the most renowned restaurant groups in East London, is located right in the middle of the part of Shoreditch that is still cool and it has an awesome, quirky interior that looks super intriguing and inviting. I like a place with a Wizard of Oz neon sign, balloon lamps and animal heads on fabric.
I do however also like a place where I will get my coffee eventually. Especially on a champagne hangover. And let's face it, I'm not a petite person, it's not like it is hard to spot me if I stand in front of you. I take up a far bit of space. Especially not when I am the only costumer there, waiting at the counter for someone to take my bloody order.
In the end, when someone from the staff of 6 finally acknowledged my being there amongst the other 4 guests of the café, someone attempted making me a latte. Meanwhile, I had a look around the place and checked out the merchandise available for sale - lingonberry jam, Chinese teas, porcelain dolls, dog faced cushions - in the greatest of detail. And I mean great detail, because after 10 minutes of waiting for the simplest of coffees at a close to empty coffee house, that was all I could do to keep myself entertained. Apart from eating cake, and my champagne hangovers only craves coffee, sans cake.
Finally getting my coffee and I obviously expect it to be good, seeing as they took enough time to be thorough with it. Oh how I should stop making presumptions with a positive twist, because they rarely come out right. I've had hospital coffee out of machines that tasted better, or for anyone having visited a London hospital - that says hell of a lot. Plus the sleeve was too big for the mug. At this stage of annoyed, frustrated and grumpy, that mattered massively.
Do over and do it properly.
 |
| Crispy bread, mugs and ornaments. Makes total sense. |
 |
| Love me a bit of the Wizard of Oz |
 |
| Yet they can't make a coffee right... |
 |
| Just looks so promising and then... Nothing. |
148. Cultural Foodie Hub
8th June 2014, Southbank Food Festival, Southbank, London
I love the fact that London completely comes to life as soon as the sun comes out and after months and months of rain and people being everything but upbeat, you suddenly can take the party to the street and find your dinner and drinks for next to nothing whilst enjoying the greatness of outdoors London. I am of course, talking about the various markets of London
Currently spending too much of my time on the same markets and their respective pubs, I decided to venture to more exotic stomping grounds. In other words, crossing the river and going to Southbank.
Now I really do love Southbank, especially in summer. However, I only tend to recall this love for the area when I'm actually at Southbank, which tends to be once a year. Kind of like that ex boyfriend you only hook up with when your new relationship goes down the drain or it's simply been a while since someone praised your existence. And like with Southbank, you can never in the moment remember why you didn't just marry him and have his babies already.
Southbank is one of favourite strolling areas in London, in spite of having to climb over a multitude of tourist to move forward. But unlike other tourist filled areas of London (Oxford Street, I'm talking about you), Southbank well makes up for it's crowdedness by having the best summer atmosphere in London, by having the Globe Theatre, Tate Modern and the greatest book market in London, by being the place where I had my first glass of Pimm's and, now, by hosting the Real Food Market on Southbank Centre Square.
I've been to quite a few food markets across London, both the Farmer's variety and the ones focusing more on cooked food. And quite frankly, they're usually pretty much the same no matter which one you go to, with a burrito stand, a falafel stand and a pair of girls selling average looking cupcakes thinking they will be Hummingbird's successor. They never are and having bought a book on cupcake making and dressing in vintage clothing whilst having a massive ego is not necessarily going to be the magic recipe of building a baking emporium.
Due to my prior experience of food markets I wasn't overly excited entering this one, but found myself pleasantly surprised upon my arrival. This wasn't solely because they had an ambulant cocktail bar, but it did help. Nothing like a bit of rum to put things into a positive perspective!
The market had all the classics, without being the same dull market food available across London. These were classics with a twist and enthusiastic stall holders which at the end of the day is what makes the difference.
Two cocktails finished, balancing the third cocktail in one hand and a slow roast duck roll in the other I climbed up the stairs to the Royal Festival Hall, sat down at the top and spent the rest of my afternoon people watching, enjoying the views of the river and once again coming to the realisation that this city really is the greatest in the world.
London, I really do love you.
I love the fact that London completely comes to life as soon as the sun comes out and after months and months of rain and people being everything but upbeat, you suddenly can take the party to the street and find your dinner and drinks for next to nothing whilst enjoying the greatness of outdoors London. I am of course, talking about the various markets of London
Currently spending too much of my time on the same markets and their respective pubs, I decided to venture to more exotic stomping grounds. In other words, crossing the river and going to Southbank.
Now I really do love Southbank, especially in summer. However, I only tend to recall this love for the area when I'm actually at Southbank, which tends to be once a year. Kind of like that ex boyfriend you only hook up with when your new relationship goes down the drain or it's simply been a while since someone praised your existence. And like with Southbank, you can never in the moment remember why you didn't just marry him and have his babies already.
Southbank is one of favourite strolling areas in London, in spite of having to climb over a multitude of tourist to move forward. But unlike other tourist filled areas of London (Oxford Street, I'm talking about you), Southbank well makes up for it's crowdedness by having the best summer atmosphere in London, by having the Globe Theatre, Tate Modern and the greatest book market in London, by being the place where I had my first glass of Pimm's and, now, by hosting the Real Food Market on Southbank Centre Square.
I've been to quite a few food markets across London, both the Farmer's variety and the ones focusing more on cooked food. And quite frankly, they're usually pretty much the same no matter which one you go to, with a burrito stand, a falafel stand and a pair of girls selling average looking cupcakes thinking they will be Hummingbird's successor. They never are and having bought a book on cupcake making and dressing in vintage clothing whilst having a massive ego is not necessarily going to be the magic recipe of building a baking emporium.
Due to my prior experience of food markets I wasn't overly excited entering this one, but found myself pleasantly surprised upon my arrival. This wasn't solely because they had an ambulant cocktail bar, but it did help. Nothing like a bit of rum to put things into a positive perspective!
The market had all the classics, without being the same dull market food available across London. These were classics with a twist and enthusiastic stall holders which at the end of the day is what makes the difference.
Two cocktails finished, balancing the third cocktail in one hand and a slow roast duck roll in the other I climbed up the stairs to the Royal Festival Hall, sat down at the top and spent the rest of my afternoon people watching, enjoying the views of the river and once again coming to the realisation that this city really is the greatest in the world.
London, I really do love you.
 |
| Cocktail bar with wheels. The world needs more of these. |
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| I'll dare one of you to have the Pickleback and keep it down |
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| Chicken Galore |
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| Probably the coolest DJ in the land. |
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| Now that's a burrito with a difference if you ever saw one. |
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| Beak at a Bargain |
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| Bill at a Bargain |
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| Pasta with fries? |
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| Sushi Bomb! |
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| Froyo Mobile |
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| Just like in Cuba! |
 |
| Charles would be proud. |
Sunday 15 June 2014
147. The Master Doodler
8th June 2014, Tate Modern, Southbank, London
As previously established, art is not really my thing.
But on the very short list of artists whose work I really want to see, Matisse is definitely topping it.
This is only partially because I wrote an essay on him for art class finals circa 14 years ago and he is therefore probably the only artist I really have any in depth knowledge of. And yes, I was so completely and utterly shit at art in the 9th grade that in order to get me a pass, the teacher had me write essays when the other kids tried to draw fruit bowls and make tree sculptures out of papier mache. To this day, my artistic skills are still limited to colouring books.
Also, seeing as I have the artistic attention span of a 5 year old, Matisse meets the criteria of what I need to get from an artist for their art to work for me; lots of pretty and bright colours, an interesting backstory - frequent frenemy of Picasso - and pieces that are not so abstract that they become unidentifiable. Naked blue ladies can never be anything other than naked blue ladies, you know.
Even if I do carry a strong annoyance with many pretentious artists from the 20th and 21st century, calling just about any silly instalment or inkblot pieces of art, it is only modern art that works for me. Stillebens of bananas and wine, portraits of dead people with massive noses (why did they always have massive noses back then?) and pretty pictures of landscapes does nothing for me. I especially dislike the landscape variety, it feels too much like I'm out in the nature and we all know that is an unlikely occurrence for good reasons. Fact is, I once had to leave a Monet exhibition because it felt too much like I was out committing the greatest of sins to human comfort, camping.
A frequent visitor at Tate, I know exactly where the most important places are. Restaurant and gift shop. They really make this culture thing worth your while. And after two big glasses of wine, a bowl of olives and 20 pages of Vogue I was ready to get art appreciating.
I mean no disrespect when I say that the exhibition it was a tribute to doodling. In my opinion, good doodles are worth 100 paintings of sunflowers.
There were the manic doodles that made no sense, the less manic ones that kind of made sense in my semi tipsy head and then of course the blue naked ladies, that in all fairness are not really doodles as such. But other than that, the exhibition had the most awesome doodles there ever was and so many vibrant colours I felt like I had stepped right into the 60's and stumbled upon some serious LSD fumes.
It has dawned on me that I did some very similar work in the studio of my dad's advertising firm in 1990... Watch this space.
As previously established, art is not really my thing.
But on the very short list of artists whose work I really want to see, Matisse is definitely topping it.
This is only partially because I wrote an essay on him for art class finals circa 14 years ago and he is therefore probably the only artist I really have any in depth knowledge of. And yes, I was so completely and utterly shit at art in the 9th grade that in order to get me a pass, the teacher had me write essays when the other kids tried to draw fruit bowls and make tree sculptures out of papier mache. To this day, my artistic skills are still limited to colouring books.
Also, seeing as I have the artistic attention span of a 5 year old, Matisse meets the criteria of what I need to get from an artist for their art to work for me; lots of pretty and bright colours, an interesting backstory - frequent frenemy of Picasso - and pieces that are not so abstract that they become unidentifiable. Naked blue ladies can never be anything other than naked blue ladies, you know.
Even if I do carry a strong annoyance with many pretentious artists from the 20th and 21st century, calling just about any silly instalment or inkblot pieces of art, it is only modern art that works for me. Stillebens of bananas and wine, portraits of dead people with massive noses (why did they always have massive noses back then?) and pretty pictures of landscapes does nothing for me. I especially dislike the landscape variety, it feels too much like I'm out in the nature and we all know that is an unlikely occurrence for good reasons. Fact is, I once had to leave a Monet exhibition because it felt too much like I was out committing the greatest of sins to human comfort, camping.
A frequent visitor at Tate, I know exactly where the most important places are. Restaurant and gift shop. They really make this culture thing worth your while. And after two big glasses of wine, a bowl of olives and 20 pages of Vogue I was ready to get art appreciating.
I mean no disrespect when I say that the exhibition it was a tribute to doodling. In my opinion, good doodles are worth 100 paintings of sunflowers.
There were the manic doodles that made no sense, the less manic ones that kind of made sense in my semi tipsy head and then of course the blue naked ladies, that in all fairness are not really doodles as such. But other than that, the exhibition had the most awesome doodles there ever was and so many vibrant colours I felt like I had stepped right into the 60's and stumbled upon some serious LSD fumes.
It has dawned on me that I did some very similar work in the studio of my dad's advertising firm in 1990... Watch this space.
 |
| Cut Outs = The Original Version Of (CTRL+C ) + (CTRL+V). |
Wednesday 11 June 2014
146. Just Like Grandma Made Them
6th June, Brick Lane, London
My grandmother made the best cookies in the world!
She was also the funniest little old lady there ever was and I still miss her like mad. She was the one who taught me how to wear lipstick and perfume and every day even after the young age of 80 she always dressed in her blue skirts and white blouses having done her hair each morning. And every single time I visited or called her, the final thing she would say to me was 'Are you having fun? It's important, make sure you're having as much fun as you can'.
Every birthday up until I was 15 she would make her nut meringue cookies with chocolate butter cream for my birthday parties and they were the highlight of the birthday. Then again, my parents never gave me that pony.
Now I'm not great at baking. Especially not pretty baking. I can make fairly tasty brownies if necessary, but they tend to look like someone sat on them. I do however have all of my grandmother's cookie recipes in my possession and ahead of the Swedish National day I decided to make an attempt at actually baking some of them. Seven to be more exact.
Luckily for everyone attending the Swedish National Day festivities, my baking attempt was not as disastrous as I would have expected. I did not set the kitchen on fire and I didn't poison anyone. The cookies did however look very little like my grandmother's... I suspect I'm not patient enough to make the egg whites as fluffy as they're suppose to be, I over heat the oven to speed up the process and I'm in an extreme hurry to lick the bowl after I'm finished and that may have something to do with the rather unpretty results.
Although they may not have looked as nice as when my grandmother made them, they were all crazy tasty.
Thanks Grandma!
My grandmother made the best cookies in the world!
She was also the funniest little old lady there ever was and I still miss her like mad. She was the one who taught me how to wear lipstick and perfume and every day even after the young age of 80 she always dressed in her blue skirts and white blouses having done her hair each morning. And every single time I visited or called her, the final thing she would say to me was 'Are you having fun? It's important, make sure you're having as much fun as you can'.
Every birthday up until I was 15 she would make her nut meringue cookies with chocolate butter cream for my birthday parties and they were the highlight of the birthday. Then again, my parents never gave me that pony.
Now I'm not great at baking. Especially not pretty baking. I can make fairly tasty brownies if necessary, but they tend to look like someone sat on them. I do however have all of my grandmother's cookie recipes in my possession and ahead of the Swedish National day I decided to make an attempt at actually baking some of them. Seven to be more exact.
Luckily for everyone attending the Swedish National Day festivities, my baking attempt was not as disastrous as I would have expected. I did not set the kitchen on fire and I didn't poison anyone. The cookies did however look very little like my grandmother's... I suspect I'm not patient enough to make the egg whites as fluffy as they're suppose to be, I over heat the oven to speed up the process and I'm in an extreme hurry to lick the bowl after I'm finished and that may have something to do with the rather unpretty results.
Although they may not have looked as nice as when my grandmother made them, they were all crazy tasty.
Thanks Grandma!
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| Raspberry Caves, Oatmeal Cookies, Nut Meringue Cookies, Princess Cake |
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| Toffee Cookies |
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| Dream Cookies |
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| Swedish Themed Brussels Biscuits. |
Tuesday 10 June 2014
145. Happy Birthday Sweden!
6th June 2014, Brick Lane, London
6th of June, 1523 was somewhat of a big deal.
It was the year when the man considered our first proper king was elected and funnily enough was also the last king to ever be elected as he was the one to kick off hereditary monarchy in Sweden. Cue cross country skiing adventures trying to flee angry Danes, getting up in the Pope's grill and the royal kids getting killed off with arsenic spiked pea soup. Strictly speaking the skiing happened before he was king, but some maniacs still ski the same crazy distance in his honour every year, so I'd say it's still worth noting.
Due to this election, 6th June is considered to be the day of Swedish independence as a nation seeing as king Gustav Vasa had made it his mission in life that far to stop the Danes from killing us all. Silly Danes. And he was rather successful seeing that as of this day, Sweden was ruled by the King of Sweden instead of the King of Denmark.
There are debates on whether or not this is the real reason we celebrate our national day on this date in question as quite a lot has gone on 6th June in Sweden. I have however decided this is the real reason because the king was elected in my hometown back in 1523. Plus I do love a man with a beard and that, my friends, king Vasa had. A ginger one at that.
The national day only became a national holiday 9 years ago so we are still growing our traditions around this, but sadly, not a lot of people celebrate it in the way Sweden deserves. We are after all the country of ABBA & Bjorn Borg, we were one of the first countries to allow women to vote and to ban forced marriage, we have stayed clear of war almost as long as Switzerland and we are the inspiration for the best Muppet of all. I'm not saying we should go over the top and all 4th July on our national day, but at least some celebrations would be in order.
So I took matters into my own hands and arranged for a Swedish themed dinner in celebration of my Mothership. And somehow this dinner of four or five turned into a party of at least 15 and all the vodka we could drink.
Some crazy person - you know who you are - suggested I'd just get people to buy take out and come to my house. I do not do take out parties. Pizza on the floor at pre house warming parties, sure, but not ordering take out to any other parties! That is not proper hostess behaviour.
Instead I cook and bake for three days until I never want to see a spatula ever again. Seven types of food and seven types of cookies and cakes is what it takes for me to feel like I've accomplished something. And seeing as I had no leftover meatballs the next morning, I would say people enjoyed it! I would even say they enjoyed themselves until 3 AM when I believe the last person left the flat. Apart from the police man sleeping on our couch. But that's OK, he was more or less invited.
I feel extra Swedish now. I might even do the ski thing next year. If someone pushes me at least 85 kilometre of the 90 kilometre distance.
6th of June, 1523 was somewhat of a big deal.
It was the year when the man considered our first proper king was elected and funnily enough was also the last king to ever be elected as he was the one to kick off hereditary monarchy in Sweden. Cue cross country skiing adventures trying to flee angry Danes, getting up in the Pope's grill and the royal kids getting killed off with arsenic spiked pea soup. Strictly speaking the skiing happened before he was king, but some maniacs still ski the same crazy distance in his honour every year, so I'd say it's still worth noting.
Due to this election, 6th June is considered to be the day of Swedish independence as a nation seeing as king Gustav Vasa had made it his mission in life that far to stop the Danes from killing us all. Silly Danes. And he was rather successful seeing that as of this day, Sweden was ruled by the King of Sweden instead of the King of Denmark.
There are debates on whether or not this is the real reason we celebrate our national day on this date in question as quite a lot has gone on 6th June in Sweden. I have however decided this is the real reason because the king was elected in my hometown back in 1523. Plus I do love a man with a beard and that, my friends, king Vasa had. A ginger one at that.
The national day only became a national holiday 9 years ago so we are still growing our traditions around this, but sadly, not a lot of people celebrate it in the way Sweden deserves. We are after all the country of ABBA & Bjorn Borg, we were one of the first countries to allow women to vote and to ban forced marriage, we have stayed clear of war almost as long as Switzerland and we are the inspiration for the best Muppet of all. I'm not saying we should go over the top and all 4th July on our national day, but at least some celebrations would be in order.
So I took matters into my own hands and arranged for a Swedish themed dinner in celebration of my Mothership. And somehow this dinner of four or five turned into a party of at least 15 and all the vodka we could drink.
Some crazy person - you know who you are - suggested I'd just get people to buy take out and come to my house. I do not do take out parties. Pizza on the floor at pre house warming parties, sure, but not ordering take out to any other parties! That is not proper hostess behaviour.
Instead I cook and bake for three days until I never want to see a spatula ever again. Seven types of food and seven types of cookies and cakes is what it takes for me to feel like I've accomplished something. And seeing as I had no leftover meatballs the next morning, I would say people enjoyed it! I would even say they enjoyed themselves until 3 AM when I believe the last person left the flat. Apart from the police man sleeping on our couch. But that's OK, he was more or less invited.
I feel extra Swedish now. I might even do the ski thing next year. If someone pushes me at least 85 kilometre of the 90 kilometre distance.
 |
| Happy Birthday Sweden! |
 |
| Sweden Mani! |
 |
| Full on cooking in my moose apron! |
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| Sirloin and béarnaise pizza! |
 |
| Meatballs and beetroot salad! |
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| Vasterbotten cheese pies, chanterelle tarts, vodka and beetroot marinated salmon. |
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| More meatballs and wraps with moose salami |
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| Swedish Cookies and Cakes! |
Monday 9 June 2014
144. Honey Boo Hoo Indeed
1st June 2014, Brick Lane, London
Seriously, do they not have Child Protective Services in Georgia?
I guess it's fair to say Here Comes Honey Boo Boo is something of a television phenomenon. Even Jennifer Lawrence referred to it on Letterman once.
So after hearing a lot of stories about this show I figured I have to watch it and subsequently added it to the List.
Oh Dear Lord, I should not have done that. There are so many things wrong with these people that I quite frankly don't know where to start.
But let's start with the pageants this kid is being put in on a regular basis. I've had an issue with parents putting their kids through children's pageants for as long as I can remember. The whole concept is just disturbing. You dress your child up like a soft core porn star from the 1980's and have her prance about in front of judges and an audience who will then determine whose child is the prettiest. And the judges... Which adult in their right sense of mind will take time out of their schedule to watch little girls dance around in bikinis and more make up than I wear on Halloween?!
To then hear the mother tell her kid to stay off the onion rings as it makes her look chunky is rich coming from a woman who weighs well over 20 stone and is most likely not staying off the onion rings! I agree that kids should not eat onion rings, but not because that'll make them look chunky in their bathing suit!
This exemplary mom also thinks it's just splendid that her 17 year old actively tried to get herself pregnant because she had her babies in her teens, didn't finish high school and she turned out OK.... Sorry, living in a barn, serving your children onion rings with every meal and sexually exploiting the youngest one of the bunch by putting her in what is basically child cabarets is not turning out OK.
I've been ranting a lot about the mother of this family, but what about the dad? Firstly, Sugar Bear is not a name. I wouldn't even eat Sugar Bear candy if there is such a thing. And judging from his teeth, Sugar Bear should have stayed off the candy too. And I hate to make this an issue about the teeth, but throughout the show, that was his biggest contribution - bad teeth. Other than that he basically was on the couch observing his grand kingdom of crazy.
The list of things that upset me throughout watching season one of this freak show is too long, I could probably make a blog solely about everything that is concerning with this family of head cases. Poor children.
Four hours of my life that will not get back and I have officially lost faith in human kind.
Seriously, do they not have Child Protective Services in Georgia?
I guess it's fair to say Here Comes Honey Boo Boo is something of a television phenomenon. Even Jennifer Lawrence referred to it on Letterman once.
So after hearing a lot of stories about this show I figured I have to watch it and subsequently added it to the List.
Oh Dear Lord, I should not have done that. There are so many things wrong with these people that I quite frankly don't know where to start.
But let's start with the pageants this kid is being put in on a regular basis. I've had an issue with parents putting their kids through children's pageants for as long as I can remember. The whole concept is just disturbing. You dress your child up like a soft core porn star from the 1980's and have her prance about in front of judges and an audience who will then determine whose child is the prettiest. And the judges... Which adult in their right sense of mind will take time out of their schedule to watch little girls dance around in bikinis and more make up than I wear on Halloween?!
To then hear the mother tell her kid to stay off the onion rings as it makes her look chunky is rich coming from a woman who weighs well over 20 stone and is most likely not staying off the onion rings! I agree that kids should not eat onion rings, but not because that'll make them look chunky in their bathing suit!
This exemplary mom also thinks it's just splendid that her 17 year old actively tried to get herself pregnant because she had her babies in her teens, didn't finish high school and she turned out OK.... Sorry, living in a barn, serving your children onion rings with every meal and sexually exploiting the youngest one of the bunch by putting her in what is basically child cabarets is not turning out OK.
I've been ranting a lot about the mother of this family, but what about the dad? Firstly, Sugar Bear is not a name. I wouldn't even eat Sugar Bear candy if there is such a thing. And judging from his teeth, Sugar Bear should have stayed off the candy too. And I hate to make this an issue about the teeth, but throughout the show, that was his biggest contribution - bad teeth. Other than that he basically was on the couch observing his grand kingdom of crazy.
The list of things that upset me throughout watching season one of this freak show is too long, I could probably make a blog solely about everything that is concerning with this family of head cases. Poor children.
Four hours of my life that will not get back and I have officially lost faith in human kind.
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