27th July 2014, GI Jane Bootcamp, Sittingbourne
I'm not big on dancing. In fact, I really do hate dancing.
I have never quite understood why people will look forward to spending a Saturday night out dancing and treat that as the main event and not just what you have to do when you're fun drunk at 2 AM and all bars are closing.
It may have helped if I had any level of rhythm in my body, but I look and feel a bit like a disabled heffalump trying to sway to the pace of the music and failing enormously. So, no - dancing is not on my top 1000 list of fun things to do.
As with everything else here in life however, I will not write anything off completely until I've tried all possible outlets. Which is why I agreed to give salsa class a try. Maybe it wasn't that I didn't like dancing, maybe it's that I've been trying the wrong kind of dancing?
It wasn't why. It really is boring. And I don't have any level of feminine hip swaying movement capacity whatsoever. If anything the salsa class convinced me that maybe I was born to be a man after all.
Learning the steps wasn't to hard, what is hard is getting the steps to look less like stomping and more like floating. I clearly can not manage floaty movements.
So no, I won't be picking up dance class for my next hobby either.
Sunday, 21 September 2014
181. Ice Ice Baby
25th July 2014, GI Jane Bootcamp, Sittingbourne
This Viking does not do cold water. It's just not my cup of vodka.
As a child, I didn't even go in the water sprinklers on hot summer days and I most certainly would not go into chilly Nordic Sea water like most lunatics back home. The only time I'll contemplate getting in any other water than in my bath tub is potentially in a tropical sea.
But as I am a Viking, expectations are high on me to cope with these things. Mainly because I've made myself Viking ambassador of the world and will promote our toughness to anyone no matter how little interest they're showing.
Favourite Viking tale to tell happens to be about the saunas in winter. These beautiful outdoor pier saunas made for sweating and beer drinking with the expectation of jumping naked into the ice cold water outside when it gets too hot. Yeah I talk about them, but don't for a second think I'd ever do it myself. I'd never get that hot.
I did however figure it was time for me to deal with cold water - apparently it's good for your skin and exceptional for you muscles. Or some sadist is just trying to trick us all into suffering by spreading rumours like that.
So here I was, about to have my first ever ice bath and what better time could I have chosen. Hot day with the sorest muscles known to man following about 400,000 squats in the day. This is at least what I tried telling myself. Did. Not. Help.
When faced with the giant ice bucket I was suppose to hang out in for the next five minutes, every instinct in my body told me to run. Or actually, it was telling me to find a good place to hide since my ass and thighs would probably have self detonated had I attempted more running. I fought these instincts, and queued up to the bucket of doom.
I wish I would have picked a more graceful outlet for my determination to have an icey soak. I can barely get into bed without tripping and falling in face first - how I'd get myself into this bucket was a mystery to me.
But I did get in. Scraped my knee, splashed water all over the instructors and ripped my top, but I did get in. And it was not pleasant once in there. Contrary to what I had been told before getting in it was not refreshing, it was not relaxing and it most certainly did not relieve the pain. So it turns out, I have spent all these years avoiding cold baths for good reason!
Needless to say, I am not doing that again.
This Viking does not do cold water. It's just not my cup of vodka.
As a child, I didn't even go in the water sprinklers on hot summer days and I most certainly would not go into chilly Nordic Sea water like most lunatics back home. The only time I'll contemplate getting in any other water than in my bath tub is potentially in a tropical sea.
But as I am a Viking, expectations are high on me to cope with these things. Mainly because I've made myself Viking ambassador of the world and will promote our toughness to anyone no matter how little interest they're showing.
Favourite Viking tale to tell happens to be about the saunas in winter. These beautiful outdoor pier saunas made for sweating and beer drinking with the expectation of jumping naked into the ice cold water outside when it gets too hot. Yeah I talk about them, but don't for a second think I'd ever do it myself. I'd never get that hot.
I did however figure it was time for me to deal with cold water - apparently it's good for your skin and exceptional for you muscles. Or some sadist is just trying to trick us all into suffering by spreading rumours like that.
So here I was, about to have my first ever ice bath and what better time could I have chosen. Hot day with the sorest muscles known to man following about 400,000 squats in the day. This is at least what I tried telling myself. Did. Not. Help.
When faced with the giant ice bucket I was suppose to hang out in for the next five minutes, every instinct in my body told me to run. Or actually, it was telling me to find a good place to hide since my ass and thighs would probably have self detonated had I attempted more running. I fought these instincts, and queued up to the bucket of doom.
I wish I would have picked a more graceful outlet for my determination to have an icey soak. I can barely get into bed without tripping and falling in face first - how I'd get myself into this bucket was a mystery to me.
But I did get in. Scraped my knee, splashed water all over the instructors and ripped my top, but I did get in. And it was not pleasant once in there. Contrary to what I had been told before getting in it was not refreshing, it was not relaxing and it most certainly did not relieve the pain. So it turns out, I have spent all these years avoiding cold baths for good reason!
Needless to say, I am not doing that again.
 |
| No I love it in here. Really. |
Tuesday, 16 September 2014
180. You're In The Army Now
25th July 2014, GI Jane Bootcamp, Sittingbourne
On a whim, and after reading one too many issues of Now Magazine featuring a TOWIE bootcamp special, I booked myself into a one week boot camp.
It immediately seemed some people were surprised by said decision. I mean, why would a wine loving dirt-o-phobe who is in the midst of an intense romance with her hair rollers decide to hit the rural woods of Kent when she normally won't leave zone 1 without a fight?
The short answer ladies and gentleman - she used to have an ass and six months of leisurehood have meant she now has about seven.
So, on a sunny July morning, after a healthy breakfast of Sugar Puffs, off to the metropolis of Sittingbourne I was. In my Mickey Mouse hoodie. A girl needs to keep some class you know. And a hop, skip and rather bumpy cab ride later - I had a arrived at my home for the upcoming week. I could really have enjoyed the beautiful room and the gorgeous fireplace, the stunning views and the fresh air. Instead I put myself through one week of squats, after which, I really could not care less about the air or the room or the views.
I then proceeded to allow myself to be fooled by the man in the little shorts and the neat hair cut greeting us at the door to the weigh in. Here's a hint to any lady attempting this - don't be fooled by the hair, the shorts or the joking around, these masters of torture will make you run until you want to throw up or at the very least want to fake a seizure (I tried that and also learned - these guys will see right through any stalling tactic known to man).
You also have to hand it to these guys, it's an equal amount of pain each day, but a brand new way go gain it every session. Eventually you'll learn to be grateful for this fact. Eventually. Especially if you make your new mantra at 7 am each morning: 'At least it isn't hill sprints'. Believe me, being grateful at anything in life that is not a hill sprint will help you through it all.
To demonstrate the length to which these people went to make my life exciting and varied for the week, here's a breakdown, freely based on diary notes from camp:
Day one: I was finding myself thinking that maybe this wasn't so bad after a few minutes of ab work, a few semi push ups, a short run and happily admitting my temporary fatness being down to six months of wine, cheese and chocolate five times a day. The other girls seemed lovely and, most importantly, not easily offended which is a must to hang out with me after all. So with high spirits I entered the dining room with all my new found friends to found a yummy starter of soup and crackers. Three bites in and with an empty plate in front of me, I eagerly anticipated my main. That did not happen. So with an empty stomach, a mug of broth and of course my Mickey Mouse hoodie, I went to bed at 7.45 PM.
Day two: For a girl who has spent the last six months not even contemplating getting out of bed until noon unless there's a fire and no marshmallows are at hand - telling me to be ready for circuits at 7 AM was hoping for a lot. Sadly for me, the instructor guys had very little sympathy for my recent life style choices and therefore, circuits it was.
After the dinner mishap of the starter being the meal, I had no high hopes for breakfast. And although tasty, scrambled eggs and salmon without the Bloody Mary just does not give me that post work out brunch feel. Then I realised this was really a pre work out brunch and that those circuits were barely the kiddie version of the day to come.
After a full day of strenuous work out, celery sticks and nettle blisters the size of golf balls we wrapped the day up with a casual run. With a stretcher. And an imaginary injured man in the shape of sand bags and tires. Never have I wanted an imaginary man to just die already as after those 10 k.
After a refreshing ice bath in the man sized bucket and a truly filling dinner of steamed stuff, I was ready to take my sore body up to bed and pass out there. Lying down on the bed, I realise I am in too much pain to get my trousers off. In too much pain to turn Chatty Man off. In too much pain to crawl to the door and lock my room. In too much pain to even think of the day ahead.
Day three: Right, this is pain. A good pain. I guess. My ass hurt so evidently there is still a muscle or two in there. Good to know. I don't want to cry.
It was another day of 7 AM until 7 PM workouts and somehow, lugging the heavy logs and sprinting until my head (thighs, calves, whatever) was about to explode did not feel so bad today. Not even the ice bath at the end of the day was too terrible and I even found it acceptable being shoved into the water by the man in the tiny shorts. Apparently this bootcamp came with an extra side of acceptance where my truffle fries normally go.
And for dinner - roast. I thought it had been a cruel joke when our brilliant chef had told us this earlier in the day but there was actual roast there. I don't think I have ever experienced genuine chicken induced euphoria before.
To finish this rather positive day off on an even more positive note, there was a quiz. On candy. That was a bit mean. But I won, so I'm OK with that and on this particular evening, following an intense argument of the true heritage of Daim bars, I went to sleep a happy bunny. Still wearing my quiz gold medal. And of course the Mickey Mouse hoodie.
Day four: All the weekenders had left us to get on with their lives in the real world. Leaving us and our celery sticks behind to fend for ourselves.
To cheer us up, the trainers took us to a pool. There were no Pina Coladas. None. There were however in-water pull ups, some delicious gulps of pool water and several highly graceful beached whale imitations on my end.
By the time I got out of the pool and into my dry clothes, I was starving. Now, at that stage of hunger, you do not want to have to walk about a gazillion kilometres through a town centres whilst lunch is being served in every corner. Just saying.
With new arrivals having appeared as we got back for lunch, I decided to show them who was the boss and when I was told to crawl on the ground, jump over fallen trees and lug ammunition boxes around that afternoon - my God was I being a Viking doing it. A bloody, dirty Viking with twigs in her hair. Oh boy would my ancestors had been proud. The new ladies however primarily looked scared. People just can't take a primal war scream these days.
Day five: From Peggy Positive to being in the foulest mood known to man overnight. I was determined to pick a fight with just about anyone. Thankfully, in a group of 15 women, someone was bound to tell me what to do at some stage, which as per usual had the effect of rage unbeknown to man and total refusal to do anything along the lines of the suggested order. Just another reason I am not in the army folks. In fact, I'd probably be kicked off within 10 minutes.
Following a minor tantrum over a screwed up neck, the rules of netball and my general annoyance at other human beings, I went back to Duracell Bunny speed and an attitude so positive that Amelie from Montmarte would appear as a miserable bitch in comparison.
Day six: I was actually finding myself sad that it's nearly over. Who would have thought? I had started to take a liking to this country side bubble of healthy eating, exercise, herbal tea and looser trousers. Actually, this isn't entirely true. I am really fed up with herbal tea and want to see it dead. Preferably killed by a man size cup of coffee.
I proceeded with this penultimate day of bootcamp by getting myself and all unfortunate creatures stupid enough to follow me, lost for the third time on the same route. And this time there wasn't even a bearded man with two teeth and three dogs to give us direction through the nearest corn field.
I thought I had learnt to cope with the portion sizes and had even managed to stay clear of the contraband pear cleverly hidden in my room by one of the weekenders.
Then we realised there were blackberries in the woods.
Some may say climbing into a nettle bush in flip flops, wave away the bees with bare hands and getting your bra stuck in the thorns was a tad exaggerated. I'd say it was a cry for help. Never have I understood kids fleeing fat camp as I have this day. And it would all have been worth it, had the blackberries not been confiscated the minute we walked through the door back home. Back to the broth it was.
Day seven: And we hit the beach! OK, so it wasn't the Caribbean, they had no jazzy background tunes or waiters bringing you cold beverages every five minutes. But I was willing to pretend. At least until I was forced into water (cold and dirty), doing some sort of Iron Man hybrid out of water. As it turns out, it's no easier lugging tires or ammunition boxes or a 50 litre water bottle back and forth in water with your clothes on. Especially not whilst trying not to get your hair wet. I should probably have aborted that mission much earlier on.
Once finished with the water circuits and back on dry land, I looked like a troll covered in sand and with seaweed down my underwear. No I don't know how that happened either.
By the time they got me the celebratory one week survival glass of champagne I felt the strongest sense of achievement I have since high school - only without having to flirt with the substitute English teacher for an A. Following the sense of achievement I also had a sense of champagne tipsiness - apparently not eating more than 1200 calories per day for a week in combination with that one glass of champagne one easily affected me makes. I may have made an inappropriate joke to the man with the tiny shorts about the tiny shorts. I kind of even wished I was sorry about it which is the closest to an apology you will get me!
At the one week weigh in, I had dropped 9.5 pounds and 12 inches (surely that's at least one of my asses) and felt ridiculously proud of myself and didn't even want a cookie or ten to celebrate it.
This place is tough but oh my was it worth it and I'm heading back in November. Bring on the hill sprints!
On a whim, and after reading one too many issues of Now Magazine featuring a TOWIE bootcamp special, I booked myself into a one week boot camp.
It immediately seemed some people were surprised by said decision. I mean, why would a wine loving dirt-o-phobe who is in the midst of an intense romance with her hair rollers decide to hit the rural woods of Kent when she normally won't leave zone 1 without a fight?
The short answer ladies and gentleman - she used to have an ass and six months of leisurehood have meant she now has about seven.
So, on a sunny July morning, after a healthy breakfast of Sugar Puffs, off to the metropolis of Sittingbourne I was. In my Mickey Mouse hoodie. A girl needs to keep some class you know. And a hop, skip and rather bumpy cab ride later - I had a arrived at my home for the upcoming week. I could really have enjoyed the beautiful room and the gorgeous fireplace, the stunning views and the fresh air. Instead I put myself through one week of squats, after which, I really could not care less about the air or the room or the views.
I then proceeded to allow myself to be fooled by the man in the little shorts and the neat hair cut greeting us at the door to the weigh in. Here's a hint to any lady attempting this - don't be fooled by the hair, the shorts or the joking around, these masters of torture will make you run until you want to throw up or at the very least want to fake a seizure (I tried that and also learned - these guys will see right through any stalling tactic known to man).
You also have to hand it to these guys, it's an equal amount of pain each day, but a brand new way go gain it every session. Eventually you'll learn to be grateful for this fact. Eventually. Especially if you make your new mantra at 7 am each morning: 'At least it isn't hill sprints'. Believe me, being grateful at anything in life that is not a hill sprint will help you through it all.
To demonstrate the length to which these people went to make my life exciting and varied for the week, here's a breakdown, freely based on diary notes from camp:
Day one: I was finding myself thinking that maybe this wasn't so bad after a few minutes of ab work, a few semi push ups, a short run and happily admitting my temporary fatness being down to six months of wine, cheese and chocolate five times a day. The other girls seemed lovely and, most importantly, not easily offended which is a must to hang out with me after all. So with high spirits I entered the dining room with all my new found friends to found a yummy starter of soup and crackers. Three bites in and with an empty plate in front of me, I eagerly anticipated my main. That did not happen. So with an empty stomach, a mug of broth and of course my Mickey Mouse hoodie, I went to bed at 7.45 PM.
Day two: For a girl who has spent the last six months not even contemplating getting out of bed until noon unless there's a fire and no marshmallows are at hand - telling me to be ready for circuits at 7 AM was hoping for a lot. Sadly for me, the instructor guys had very little sympathy for my recent life style choices and therefore, circuits it was.
After the dinner mishap of the starter being the meal, I had no high hopes for breakfast. And although tasty, scrambled eggs and salmon without the Bloody Mary just does not give me that post work out brunch feel. Then I realised this was really a pre work out brunch and that those circuits were barely the kiddie version of the day to come.
After a full day of strenuous work out, celery sticks and nettle blisters the size of golf balls we wrapped the day up with a casual run. With a stretcher. And an imaginary injured man in the shape of sand bags and tires. Never have I wanted an imaginary man to just die already as after those 10 k.
After a refreshing ice bath in the man sized bucket and a truly filling dinner of steamed stuff, I was ready to take my sore body up to bed and pass out there. Lying down on the bed, I realise I am in too much pain to get my trousers off. In too much pain to turn Chatty Man off. In too much pain to crawl to the door and lock my room. In too much pain to even think of the day ahead.
Day three: Right, this is pain. A good pain. I guess. My ass hurt so evidently there is still a muscle or two in there. Good to know. I don't want to cry.
It was another day of 7 AM until 7 PM workouts and somehow, lugging the heavy logs and sprinting until my head (thighs, calves, whatever) was about to explode did not feel so bad today. Not even the ice bath at the end of the day was too terrible and I even found it acceptable being shoved into the water by the man in the tiny shorts. Apparently this bootcamp came with an extra side of acceptance where my truffle fries normally go.
And for dinner - roast. I thought it had been a cruel joke when our brilliant chef had told us this earlier in the day but there was actual roast there. I don't think I have ever experienced genuine chicken induced euphoria before.
To finish this rather positive day off on an even more positive note, there was a quiz. On candy. That was a bit mean. But I won, so I'm OK with that and on this particular evening, following an intense argument of the true heritage of Daim bars, I went to sleep a happy bunny. Still wearing my quiz gold medal. And of course the Mickey Mouse hoodie.
Day four: All the weekenders had left us to get on with their lives in the real world. Leaving us and our celery sticks behind to fend for ourselves.
To cheer us up, the trainers took us to a pool. There were no Pina Coladas. None. There were however in-water pull ups, some delicious gulps of pool water and several highly graceful beached whale imitations on my end.
By the time I got out of the pool and into my dry clothes, I was starving. Now, at that stage of hunger, you do not want to have to walk about a gazillion kilometres through a town centres whilst lunch is being served in every corner. Just saying.
With new arrivals having appeared as we got back for lunch, I decided to show them who was the boss and when I was told to crawl on the ground, jump over fallen trees and lug ammunition boxes around that afternoon - my God was I being a Viking doing it. A bloody, dirty Viking with twigs in her hair. Oh boy would my ancestors had been proud. The new ladies however primarily looked scared. People just can't take a primal war scream these days.
Day five: From Peggy Positive to being in the foulest mood known to man overnight. I was determined to pick a fight with just about anyone. Thankfully, in a group of 15 women, someone was bound to tell me what to do at some stage, which as per usual had the effect of rage unbeknown to man and total refusal to do anything along the lines of the suggested order. Just another reason I am not in the army folks. In fact, I'd probably be kicked off within 10 minutes.
Following a minor tantrum over a screwed up neck, the rules of netball and my general annoyance at other human beings, I went back to Duracell Bunny speed and an attitude so positive that Amelie from Montmarte would appear as a miserable bitch in comparison.
Day six: I was actually finding myself sad that it's nearly over. Who would have thought? I had started to take a liking to this country side bubble of healthy eating, exercise, herbal tea and looser trousers. Actually, this isn't entirely true. I am really fed up with herbal tea and want to see it dead. Preferably killed by a man size cup of coffee.
I proceeded with this penultimate day of bootcamp by getting myself and all unfortunate creatures stupid enough to follow me, lost for the third time on the same route. And this time there wasn't even a bearded man with two teeth and three dogs to give us direction through the nearest corn field.
I thought I had learnt to cope with the portion sizes and had even managed to stay clear of the contraband pear cleverly hidden in my room by one of the weekenders.
Then we realised there were blackberries in the woods.
Some may say climbing into a nettle bush in flip flops, wave away the bees with bare hands and getting your bra stuck in the thorns was a tad exaggerated. I'd say it was a cry for help. Never have I understood kids fleeing fat camp as I have this day. And it would all have been worth it, had the blackberries not been confiscated the minute we walked through the door back home. Back to the broth it was.
Day seven: And we hit the beach! OK, so it wasn't the Caribbean, they had no jazzy background tunes or waiters bringing you cold beverages every five minutes. But I was willing to pretend. At least until I was forced into water (cold and dirty), doing some sort of Iron Man hybrid out of water. As it turns out, it's no easier lugging tires or ammunition boxes or a 50 litre water bottle back and forth in water with your clothes on. Especially not whilst trying not to get your hair wet. I should probably have aborted that mission much earlier on.
Once finished with the water circuits and back on dry land, I looked like a troll covered in sand and with seaweed down my underwear. No I don't know how that happened either.
By the time they got me the celebratory one week survival glass of champagne I felt the strongest sense of achievement I have since high school - only without having to flirt with the substitute English teacher for an A. Following the sense of achievement I also had a sense of champagne tipsiness - apparently not eating more than 1200 calories per day for a week in combination with that one glass of champagne one easily affected me makes. I may have made an inappropriate joke to the man with the tiny shorts about the tiny shorts. I kind of even wished I was sorry about it which is the closest to an apology you will get me!
At the one week weigh in, I had dropped 9.5 pounds and 12 inches (surely that's at least one of my asses) and felt ridiculously proud of myself and didn't even want a cookie or ten to celebrate it.
This place is tough but oh my was it worth it and I'm heading back in November. Bring on the hill sprints!
 |
| GI Jane's - arrive a princess, leave a man! |
 |
| A selection of cuts and bruises |
 |
| Suddenly wearing white felt like one of my less great ideas... |
 |
| Me and the other torture victims. |
Monday, 25 August 2014
179. Lashing Out
21st July 2014, Guys & Dolls Parlour, Brick Lane, London
For quite a few years now I have been skipping what used to be my standard eye lash extensions for the sake of looking natural. Thankfully I have now come to my senses and realised that the natural look can be left with either ugly people or pretty 24 year olds who can still tell themselves it won't be all downhill after 25.
So back on Barbie lashes it was!
At my favourite place of prettification, the absolutely adorable eye lash pro tended to my skinny Scandinavian lashes whilst the Scandinavian in question was having an amazing nap. I kid you not, was so comfortable I most definitely snored and highly likely drooled a bit. Sometimes I do wonder why they still let me be a client there.
After waking up, my lashes are more awesome than those of most female Manga characters - I almost knocked myself out fluttering them at random strangers. I would have preferred knocking the strangers out, but hey ho!
Not sure why I stopped using extensions in the first place - but I definitely won't stop again any time soon!
For quite a few years now I have been skipping what used to be my standard eye lash extensions for the sake of looking natural. Thankfully I have now come to my senses and realised that the natural look can be left with either ugly people or pretty 24 year olds who can still tell themselves it won't be all downhill after 25.
So back on Barbie lashes it was!
At my favourite place of prettification, the absolutely adorable eye lash pro tended to my skinny Scandinavian lashes whilst the Scandinavian in question was having an amazing nap. I kid you not, was so comfortable I most definitely snored and highly likely drooled a bit. Sometimes I do wonder why they still let me be a client there.
After waking up, my lashes are more awesome than those of most female Manga characters - I almost knocked myself out fluttering them at random strangers. I would have preferred knocking the strangers out, but hey ho!
Not sure why I stopped using extensions in the first place - but I definitely won't stop again any time soon!
 |
| That's one hell of a picky job! |
Monday, 18 August 2014
178. A Sexier Kind of Butch
20th July 2014, Brick Lane, London
In a world where I tend to choose watching reruns of One Tree Hill than films of actual relevance, I can always rely on the Flatmate to occasionally force me into cultural awareness.
On this particular evening that meant Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Along with diabetes inducing amounts of Swedish candy. Whereas Flatmate is a great influence culture wise, he's not as great an influence when it comes to movie snacks.
First reaction to this movie classic; Paul Newman was freakishly hot. Like, insanely jumpable beyond Johnny Depp, Ryan Gosling and George Clooney combined. Then again, I've known this since the first time I saw Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and fell in love with Brick Pollitt. And now 14 years on, I still think he is one of the most beautiful men to have walked planet Earth - although I have since then realised why Brick Pollitt is an ideal crush for precisely no one at all.
Even though I hate Western movies with a vengeance - this movie seemed promising from the get go; other than Paul Newman it has the great Robert Redford and the even greater Katharine Ross (Elaine! Elaine!) in the cast, it's based on real life train robbers and it is the movie for which Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head was written for. And unlike most classics - this one didn't actually disappoint me.
The movie is fast paced - great for my ADD - hilariously funny in its' places and it has one of extremely few sassy and self sufficient female characters ever seen in a movie from the 60's. Come to think of it, you barely get that in movies today. But Etta Place lives on her own, takes care of herself and manages to look after her messy torn-between-two-men debacle without become a victim or a bimbo.
In short, I loved this film.
Now, did Paul Newman have any grandkids? Preferably male and preferably in their late 20's or early 30's? Let me know.
In a world where I tend to choose watching reruns of One Tree Hill than films of actual relevance, I can always rely on the Flatmate to occasionally force me into cultural awareness.
On this particular evening that meant Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Along with diabetes inducing amounts of Swedish candy. Whereas Flatmate is a great influence culture wise, he's not as great an influence when it comes to movie snacks.
First reaction to this movie classic; Paul Newman was freakishly hot. Like, insanely jumpable beyond Johnny Depp, Ryan Gosling and George Clooney combined. Then again, I've known this since the first time I saw Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and fell in love with Brick Pollitt. And now 14 years on, I still think he is one of the most beautiful men to have walked planet Earth - although I have since then realised why Brick Pollitt is an ideal crush for precisely no one at all.
Even though I hate Western movies with a vengeance - this movie seemed promising from the get go; other than Paul Newman it has the great Robert Redford and the even greater Katharine Ross (Elaine! Elaine!) in the cast, it's based on real life train robbers and it is the movie for which Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head was written for. And unlike most classics - this one didn't actually disappoint me.
The movie is fast paced - great for my ADD - hilariously funny in its' places and it has one of extremely few sassy and self sufficient female characters ever seen in a movie from the 60's. Come to think of it, you barely get that in movies today. But Etta Place lives on her own, takes care of herself and manages to look after her messy torn-between-two-men debacle without become a victim or a bimbo.
In short, I loved this film.
Now, did Paul Newman have any grandkids? Preferably male and preferably in their late 20's or early 30's? Let me know.
 |
| Yep, they made them better back then. |
177. Coco Bananas Indeed
18th July 2014, Coco Bananas, Battersea, London
After my epic fail at playing ping pong at Doodle Bar, we briefly considered calling it a night. It was 1 AM after all and another day tomorrow. Then we came to our senses.
That said and done, Crazy Canadian made a phone call, put us on a list and off to Bunga Bunga we went.
So when we arrive at Bunga Bunga and they don't have our names on the list I may have kicked up a fuss... And the angry bouncer's suggestion that I had a bad attitude may not have been completely uncalled for. However, I resolved this problem by demanding to speak to every single manager in the place and threatening to cancel every future reservation at Bunga Bunga held by anyone I have ever met.
In the end one manger allowed us to queue jump based on my 'refreshing rudeness'. I knew it was only a matter of time before my lack of manners would be appreciated as the asset it truly is. My time has finally come.
As we enter the club and my hand gets stamped with Coco Bananas I suddenly understand why we were not at the list seeing as Bunga Bunga is the club next door... I felt bad about my behaviour for approximately 5 seconds. I even considered apologizing to the angry bouncer. Then there were caipirinhas and didn't really care anymore.
Although Coco Bananas are marketing themselves as a Brazilian Beach Bar in rainy London but it felt very.... Essex. In Chelsea. That alone is an accomplishment, but not necessarily a good one.
There was nothing in this place to remotely put me in beach mode. Let's face it, the storm outside did nothing to help put me in that mode but neither did the very poor excuses for caipirinhas made by the incredibly slow bartender.
I did however get a cab home at 4 AM so clearly it wasn't all that bad. There was a lot of laughing, a lot of dancing and my Acne sandals will never be the same.
And the good news is... Bunga Bunga is still on the list!
After my epic fail at playing ping pong at Doodle Bar, we briefly considered calling it a night. It was 1 AM after all and another day tomorrow. Then we came to our senses.
That said and done, Crazy Canadian made a phone call, put us on a list and off to Bunga Bunga we went.
So when we arrive at Bunga Bunga and they don't have our names on the list I may have kicked up a fuss... And the angry bouncer's suggestion that I had a bad attitude may not have been completely uncalled for. However, I resolved this problem by demanding to speak to every single manager in the place and threatening to cancel every future reservation at Bunga Bunga held by anyone I have ever met.
In the end one manger allowed us to queue jump based on my 'refreshing rudeness'. I knew it was only a matter of time before my lack of manners would be appreciated as the asset it truly is. My time has finally come.
As we enter the club and my hand gets stamped with Coco Bananas I suddenly understand why we were not at the list seeing as Bunga Bunga is the club next door... I felt bad about my behaviour for approximately 5 seconds. I even considered apologizing to the angry bouncer. Then there were caipirinhas and didn't really care anymore.
Although Coco Bananas are marketing themselves as a Brazilian Beach Bar in rainy London but it felt very.... Essex. In Chelsea. That alone is an accomplishment, but not necessarily a good one.
There was nothing in this place to remotely put me in beach mode. Let's face it, the storm outside did nothing to help put me in that mode but neither did the very poor excuses for caipirinhas made by the incredibly slow bartender.
I did however get a cab home at 4 AM so clearly it wasn't all that bad. There was a lot of laughing, a lot of dancing and my Acne sandals will never be the same.
And the good news is... Bunga Bunga is still on the list!
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| Yep, that pretty much sums up the night. |
Thursday, 14 August 2014
176. Doodle Fail
18th July 2014, Doodle Bar, Chelsea, London
In this amazing London summer, it's almost criminal not to hang out in all the equally amazing outdoor spaces my lovely city has to offer.
Following a rather hilarious picnic in Battersea Park with Crazy Canadian and Co including the mandatory awkward bump ins of Chelsea residents, we headed off to Doodle Bar for continued mischief and late night frolicking.
Once in Doodle Bar, vodka sodas in hand along with the heels I could no longer walk in - we found the aftyer school club house that could even have made me agree to stay in school a second or two after the bell rang. But seeing as the after school club of my hometown didn't serve vodka or cute Aussie backpackers I did what any cool teenager would do and hung out at my boyfriend's house playing video games instead. Yeah I wasn't really the coolest of teenagers.... Luckily, I caught up.
As it turns out, even with a reasonable amount of vodka in me, I really do suck at ping pong. Not like in the exaggerated way I claim to suck at baking (I make to-die-for-brownies), DIY (why do it yourself when you can get someone else to do it for you?) and technology (just can not be bothered reading the manuals) - I really do suck. Big time. More than I suck at ring dips.
The ball is just way too small. There is no way to hit it with such a teeny tiny bat. In other words, my attempted participation was not highly appreciated. In fact, the guy on my team gave me the sort of look usually reserved for fat kids attempting ballet after which he sent me off to the giant crayons and the giant drawing board. I drew Pac Mans. People thought they were flowers. Clearly I suck at drawing too.
In spite of my general sucking at being a teenager a decade after completing my teen years, when adding vodka sodas and subtracting hormonal outbursts - the whole after school activity idea, isn't too bad.
I might even make an attempt at bowling next.
In this amazing London summer, it's almost criminal not to hang out in all the equally amazing outdoor spaces my lovely city has to offer.
Following a rather hilarious picnic in Battersea Park with Crazy Canadian and Co including the mandatory awkward bump ins of Chelsea residents, we headed off to Doodle Bar for continued mischief and late night frolicking.
Once in Doodle Bar, vodka sodas in hand along with the heels I could no longer walk in - we found the aftyer school club house that could even have made me agree to stay in school a second or two after the bell rang. But seeing as the after school club of my hometown didn't serve vodka or cute Aussie backpackers I did what any cool teenager would do and hung out at my boyfriend's house playing video games instead. Yeah I wasn't really the coolest of teenagers.... Luckily, I caught up.
As it turns out, even with a reasonable amount of vodka in me, I really do suck at ping pong. Not like in the exaggerated way I claim to suck at baking (I make to-die-for-brownies), DIY (why do it yourself when you can get someone else to do it for you?) and technology (just can not be bothered reading the manuals) - I really do suck. Big time. More than I suck at ring dips.
The ball is just way too small. There is no way to hit it with such a teeny tiny bat. In other words, my attempted participation was not highly appreciated. In fact, the guy on my team gave me the sort of look usually reserved for fat kids attempting ballet after which he sent me off to the giant crayons and the giant drawing board. I drew Pac Mans. People thought they were flowers. Clearly I suck at drawing too.
In spite of my general sucking at being a teenager a decade after completing my teen years, when adding vodka sodas and subtracting hormonal outbursts - the whole after school activity idea, isn't too bad.
I might even make an attempt at bowling next.
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| I can't get my hair wet! |
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