Eye Eye
You can now find me over at my new blog, I Could Have Been a Novel. Sorry Livejournal, it's not you, it's me and all that.

Plus, if I read one more whiny post from a certain community, I might track all of the main culprits down and individually boil their heads. It's time to stop being a spectator of other people's misery and start living a bit. It's time to write.
Tapes and Tapes

I've listened to this song six times today. And, if it plays its card right, I might listen to it six more.


I'm one of the best, You see
Two years ago today, I met mcgazz for the very first time. Although I'd spoken to him extensively via Twitter, Livejournal, long emails and even longer telephone calls, I had no idea what to expect. I don't think I'll ever forget the first time I saw him. I was shaking so hard that I could barely stand and my legs in their bright pink tights must have looked as though they had the consistency of jelly. It took a very large Whiskey and Coke before I could even speak to him, and even more of them before I could work up the courage to actually kiss him. I don't know what he must have thought of me in that first hour or so - I must have come across like a right nutter. Or a deaf mute. Either way, I doubt that I particularly looked like good girlfriend material.

And yet, despite all of that - and a whole heap more - we're still together. Hell, we live together now and everything. He even built me a bookcase for my extensive record collection the other day, and rearranged them all into alphabetical order. If that's not love for you then I don't know what is. And if that wasn't enough, we're engaged.

I'd like to think that it was me deciding to dye my hair red that encouraged him to ask me to marry him. Or maybe it's my cooking. Or perhaps it was a displacement method so I wouldn't keep asking him if we could get a cat. Or maybe he just wants me to sign a prenup so he can get my SodaStream if I somehow die in a 'mysterious accident'. Whatever it is, I still think he's insane for wanting to spend the rest of his life with an idiot like me. Indeed, I keep waiting for him to turn around and tell me it was all a joke. He hasn't yet, but then again, there's still time.

Tonight we'll be going out so we can celebrate with lots of meat and lots of wine. I'll do my hair and wear my new dress. But most of all, I'll give thanks for the fact that, finally, I will be spending the rest of my days with the love of my life. And that he loves me too. I think I might finally be getting used to that idea.
Tapes and Tapes

I miss getting dressed up to go dancing in grotty clubs on Saturday nights. Throwing shapes on packed dancefloors with a fag in one hand and a cheap whiskey and coke in the other. Aching feet, inappropriate shoes, a song on my lips and nothing but sheer racing-pacing pleasure in my heart.


GOOD: Two rather major food-related-developments have taken place in my world recently. Firstly, I'm in the Independent today talking about online cookery clubs of all things. I'm not too keen on the picture of me that they've used, but seeing as I look like an obese Easter Island statue on camera at the best of times, I suppose it's not too bad really. And at least they got my really rather fine Lego Head Kitchen Scales in there, providing me with epic cool points (I think).

Secondly, I've started my own food blog. It's called 'From Bootle with Love' and will be focusing on food and drink culture in the North West of England. Also, I'm planning on putting some recipes on there which are a little too complex for Domestic Sluttery. So far, I'm not entirely sure that anyone's bothering to read it, but never mind - I'm a stubborn little miss at the best of times, and intend to keep writing it until people come to their senses and realise I'M THE BEST actually decide to pay some notice to it. Oh, and naturally I'll keep plugging it to all and sundry too - which means I'll probably be around here even less than I am at the moment.

I'm having all sorts of issues with Livejournal presently - and keep deviating between whether I'm going to keep writing here or just jack it in entirely in order to save my own scant grip on sanity. I've still not made a decision yet (and knowing me, I'll probably keep checking it anyway as I have a horrible habit of getting drunk and reading previous stuff I've written), but yes, if you're wondering why I'm not around here as much as I used to be, that's why. Well, that and the fact that I'm horrifically busy with important web lady stuff* of course.

BAD: I had my three month appraisal yesterday where my boss praised my professional attitude and business like manner. So of course this morning I had to have a meeting with a client where everything that could go wrong did go wrong. When I got to the meeting room it was locked and I had to run around our building looking for the key. My laptop decided not to work. And - worst of all - just I was showing the client out, the heel of my shoe decided to skid on a patch of newly polished floor leading to me going arse over tit in front of them. CLASSY. I appear to have a horrible habit of falling over at the moment - just the other week, I was walking to work whilst wearing some lovely summery (and ludicrously high) wedges when my wobbly gazelle legs decided to have a bit of a moment - leading to me falling over in a rather spectacular fashion and flashing my knickers at passing traffic (which included a packed bus). Seriously - either the pavements of Liverpool don't agree with me, or I'm turning into Frank Spencer. Oooh Betty.



My Brain

I was unexpectedly taken out to dine at Liverpool Cathedral last night. The food was unadventurous, yet adequate - a situation which was more than made up for by the copious amounts of wine on offer. I left at 10pm just as the covers band started playing, and the whole situation started to worryingly resemble a plot from Peep Show (I was even asked to dance by an academic who looked like Johnson - although, I am ashamed to say that I ran off to the toilets before I could take him up on his kind offer). I walked out of the cathedral just as the sun was setting over Liverpool, and from my vantage point at the top of Duke Street, I could see the Liver Birds flapping their wings, and my adoptive city spread out below me like a riotous patchwork quilt of possibilities. Being one of those hideous old romantic types (and more than a little drunk), I pulled out my ipod and stuck on The Icicle Work's 'Love is a wonderful colour' for my walk down to Central Station, playing it once-twice-three times for good measure. It was that kind of a night.

I have lived in Liverpool for nearly a year now, and I grow to love it more and more which each passing day. I love its history, its secrets, my friends and - perhaps most importantly of all - the fact that it's the first place that isn't Manchester where I truly feel at home. Perhaps I feel so safe in Liverpool because (bar a few unexpected blips here and there), all I've ever known here is happiness. I feel like I've managed to wriggle myself into its fabric and now give out hints and tips about all its plus points like I've lived here all of my life.

It's strange, isn't it, the attachments we form to a place. I was in London last weekend and, whilst I was there, I decided for better or for worse to say Hello to a few old haunts. I don't know why I did it - perhaps it's because that my memories of my time there have been resting quite heavily on my shoulders recently. I've been spending a worrying amount of time contemplating why things went so badly wrong towards the end of my time there, and whether there was anything I could have done to change things. A Sunday afternoon bus ride through the city reminded me of words, places, events and people I should probably try harder to forget. Before I knew it, I was wandering around UCL, peering into my old History department, marvelling at all the changes that have been made to the old place. And then, I sat on the steps of the library building in the main quad, squinting at the sunlight and crying my eyes out at things I'd shoved to the back of my brain for six long years, calling my Dad, Paul and James to try and drag me back to the fact that it wasn't 2004, but 2010, and that I didn't live on my own in a grotty little bedsit above a dry cleaners on the Caledonian Road anymore, and that people really did love me, and I wasn't alone and everything was really fine, better than fine in fact.

On the train home, drinking beer out of glass bottles and rubbing the grit of the past from my eyes, I realised it was pointless regretting past misdemeanours I couldn't change. What happened, happened. It's made me who I am, and well, I quite like who I am at the moment. For the first time in nearly 28 years, I am comfortable in my own skin and really don't want to be anyone else. Everytime the past bobs to the surface, I'm going to brush it aside, and think of happier things like life and love, good music and good sex until it goes away again. I have no desire to let the misery of my past destroy the happiness of my future. Never worry about what going to happen, I take it cool. Forget London. Love Liverpool. My new city. My new future. My home.


Eye Eye

I could write a long post about how I feel about the advent of a Tory government (and the prospect of having David Cameron as Prime Minister), but once again, The Fresh Prince of Bel Air manages to sum up my feelings better than I ever could.

Oh well. I did always wonder what it would have been like to work as a journalist in the 1980s. I suppose I'll find out soon enough, eh readers?


Tapes and Tapes
Balls. This probably won't mean anything to anyone not connected with Manchester, but it appears as though Oxford Road's favourite pavillion of Marilyn Manson impersonators - Jilly's Rockworld has gone into receivership - thereby closing its doors for good. And, alas, it appears as though it's also taken the bloody Music Box with it.

Ker-rist. Is nothing from my teenage years sacred any more? I was never the biggest fan of Rockworld, but that didn't mean I wanted to see it close down. It made up part of the rich tapestry of Mancunian nightlife - and it was always fun to walk past it on a Friday night and see all the Metallers stood outside there necking cheap cider, like a row of neon-coloured-dreadlocked-exotic creatures. And when I was at school, the Friday night Rockworld all nighters (and the casualties you'd find from there wandering around Piccadilly Gardens at 7am the next day) were pretty much legendary. As for me? Well, I only went there a few times. Twice when I was 15, with my mental Manics-fan first love (who is now a bald skateboarding English teacher who is married with a kid and lives in Canada), and last year with annakey, triplescience, mintlaugh and various other miscreants. I danced to Hocus Pocus by Focus and got so drunk that I chatted up a bus driver so he'd drive me back to my parents house. And he did too! Fun timez.

In truth, I'm probably more gutted about the demise of the Music Box. Back in the midsts of time before I moved to London, I used to work in the bar of the Cornerhouse across the road from there. Often, when we finished our shift on a Saturday night, myself and a few of the other members of staff from there would hop over to Mr. Scruff's night to drink beer, dance in an inappropriate manner, laugh at the camoflage netting on the ceiling and smoke fags (and - very occasionally - something a mite stronger). I had some cracking nights out there, as did many other people I know, and it's more than a little gutting to discover that such a great little venue is now gone for good (even if, as reports suggest, it's been on its uppers for a good long time now).

I suppose it's a sign of getting old when clubs you know and love finally decide to close their doors for good. I keep waiting for someone to tell me that they've finally decided to close down legendary Indie shitehole the Star and Garter - and not just because its toilets contravene numerous Health and Safety regulations.

On paper, the world looks a bit shit at the moment, doesn't it? Malcolm McClaren's dead, Rockworld's closed down, David Cameron's seemingly fucking everywhere and no one has kicked either The Pope OR Richard Dawkins in the balls yet. Still, I had an absolutely blinding piece of news from someone in a very high place, and *fingers crossed* I might soon be receiving enough money in my bank account to take myself and my bird on a rather spiffing long distance jaunt. So it's not all doom and gloom I suppose, even if I might be wandering around Manchester next time I'm there quietly whistling The Scorpion's Wings of Change to myself.


Tapes and Tapes

Apparently Malcolm McLaren died this morning in New York. Despite him being a bit (well, ok, a lot) of a knob, it's still a bit shit. He was only 64 as well - now he'll never be able to claim his Senior Citizen's Bus Pass!

Because I am a lush, I'm going to celebrate his life in the only way I know how - by drinking beer and prosecco cocktails whilst dancing around my house to Double Dutch and Buffalo Gals. Why don't you all join me?