Tag Archives: Rant

American Apparel – A Study in Life Without Organs

the_tap_pantyEver notice how the American Apparel store looks like a Unicorn stumbled in, drunk and shot a hot stream of uninterrupted Unicorn pee onto every visible surface?

This could be the reason why I can never resist popping in and rummaging through their technicolour racks – and may well also be the legitimate reason for absolutely no smiles, or even a hint of pleasure on the faces of its snake-hipped employees?

Or is it the fact that they just really fancy a big sandwich, since oxygen just isn’t enough to sustain them anymore?

This might not be fair, of course, since many many of the ‘trendy’ stores, in every city in the world comprise a team of poe-faced pre-pubescent but really, it just seems so more apparent here.

It has to be something to do with the contrast between the candy-coloured hoodies and the pale, hungry looking sales girls.

I guess it’s hard to have to deal with the fatties coming in with the intention of buying garments that were designed for Swedish runway models.

And it must be just awful to have to calculate the cost of the items that don’t round up to a neat $42 but how can you be in such a Carebear-friendly environment and still look that miserable?

I walk past the window and get excited. Not that any of the items were designed for my arse but seriously, for just that split second, it feels as though anything at all is possible.

I could buy that Jennifer-Beals-in-Flashdance-esque sweatshirt in Muppet skin pink and all will be right with the world.

American Ap-a-rell.

American Appa-ral?

On a tangent: where do you girls store your inner organs anyway? I’d love to know. Sure, you’re probably mere months from your sixteen candles, but I never looked like that at that age. When did girls start getting so whippet-like?

Do you just run on sheer youth?

Still, you know what, I won’t boycott the store. I’m not anti-skinny/beautiful/youthful and I’m not insecure about myself just because I am all curve.

We are all beautiful in our different ways and I can see a whole list of pros in being either way.

And they do have a scarf that has piano keys on it.

Sold to the lady at the front with hips!

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Jog On, Ladies

Women’s jogging groups. Really what on earth is the point in that, if not just to bug the living bejesus out of me? I can’t begin to imagine.

Girls don’t jog in England. They sit on couches eating deep-fried Mars bars belching out God Save the Queen like all good ladettes.

They have far better things to do with their time. Like get pregnant and start fights on the top deck of buses.

They do not swarth their frames in techno-lycra and pound the sidewalks, tutting loudly if you dare to walk along one.

The cunty jogging fiends expect pedestrians to part like waves for them as they thunder through, don’t you mere mortals realise that they have somewhere really important to be?

Oh, that’s right. They don’t. They do this for their own pleasure.

I think I might actually buy it if they really did look like they were having fun. But all these perfect non-fat latte girls with their Coach handbags just look so miserable. They toss their 300 haircuts and they look like they want to die.

I’d rather have my bottom and the ability to take the piss out of myself anyday.

Give me by pot belly and a lifetime of hilarity please. I wouldn’t swap these crow’s feet for the world and you can keep your perfectly manicured hands off my laughter lines, thankyouverymuch.

I think I have to get out of Vancouver and stop doing the job I do before the pleasantly cynical old lady that lives in the basement suite of my soul gets ideas above her station and starts demanding more.

So ladies, go for it. Next time I’m selfishly blocking a pavement with my damn curvy arse, feel free to elbow me out the way.

I shan’t be following you. I’m going my way.

Jog on.

Facebollocked

facebooked_mom-1Apparently, there are rules in this life.  Rules we are supposed to adhere to in order to lead a full and fluffy existence.

We’re not supposed to eat the yellow snow, for instance, for fear of contaminating our temple-like bodies with something icky.

Thank you notes are important after you have been gifted, particularly by a family member you see but once a year and who presents you with the worst fucking tat known to man.  Not sure if this is a rule but it sort of is, so go with it.

There are relationship rules, friendship rules, work rules – boundaries, processes, bundles and bundles of scratchy red tape to get caught up in.

Life is peppered with so many ‘oooh don’t’s that it is sometimes possible to forget what living is actually all about: flipping the bird at convention and leaping before you look.

Anyway.  I digress.

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An English Gal in B.C

A funny old thing has happened in the twelve months since I arrived in Canada.

I’ve become patriotic.

Yeah I know.  That sentence alone has me reaching for a bottle of jiggling pills, but it’s the truth and I don’t know why.

(Or do I?)

I realise that this is the second post on here to discuss British culture, but you know what, fuck it, this is our blog and I am English and I’m proud so I shall continue, thank you very much.

(Defensive, much?)

Anywhoo, there it is.

I left England for many reasons.  Adventure.  To find myself.  Simply just to get out of Dodge – but partly also to get away from the things about England that make me want to shoot myself in the face, such as Chav Culture, Victoria Beckham, rising housing prices and the Richard & Judy Bookclub.

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