#ZaynPain & other more sobering events


So another week has gone by on our glorious planet, and the teenage population has gone into complete meltdown (along with a few more tragic older Directioners). Young honeys around the world are feeling the #ZaynPain and letting us all know about it. Literally everywhere. Like, it’s inescapable. The fans have now decided that they’re going to buy One Direction, like the boys are a real commodity for sale. Someone has actually done the maths so it seems legit. Maths = legit.


As per the mental internet, youngsters came out in their droves to #CutForZayn, a la the Justin Bieber smoking a spliff anguish of yesteryear. I’ve given shit to Internet trolls in the past on here and I will continue to do so; whoever had the bright idea of feeding young ladies with the bullshite that self-harm is a cure for Zayn Pain is a fucking massive prick. Girls (and boys), Zayn doesn’t need for you to draw blood to know that you’re missing him honeys, I’m sure his Twitter feed is enough to clue him in on the tribulations of your lives right now.CBBt8sHUgAAp-o2

Of course, the hilarious side of the Internet have their own cure for Zayn Pain in the form of the big bad Jeremy Clarkson. While the Directioners fandom is certainly on a vast scale, the elder and (hopefully) wiser Clarkson fandom (known affectionately as Jeremites – I literally just made that shit up let’s hope it catches on) is not small itself, and poor Top Gear fans have undoubtedly been suffering from Clarksonitis – the man is literally like a media disease, his face is everywhere. So to solve the world’s problems, trolls who are arguably quite funny have suggested that Zayn be replaced by Jez. Wouldn’t that be fucking mint hahahahha.

So while everyone in the world (myself included) has noticed that Zayn has flown the nest and Jeremy was pushed out with brute force, the more sane media has been reporting the sad loss of 150 lives in the Germanwings plane crash of Tuesday. Irrespective of who caused the crash, the tragedy is hard-hitting and you’d think it would be sobering enough to stop the outcry of Zayn Pain.

Zayn Pain really is a genius term.

I also got an iPhone 6 in gangster gold so we all know who the real winner is here.

Banger of the week:

the state of female double standards: Beyoncé’s L’Oréal pictures


It’s so hard to escape the trending columns this week, with so much showbizzy goodness to distract us from social and political monopolisation. Just to clarify: I’m totally team Amber Rose in the Muva vs. Khloe Kardash spat; there’s no escaping that Tyga should probably be helping out with his baby mama and not getting stuck into a 17 year old, but that’s just my opinion. Continue reading

giving up sugary shite (again) for lent


Today my morning has been sponsored by nutella, sugar and lemon juice, much like the mornings of many of us around the glorious United Kingdom. Our office has been overrun with sugar rushing officey types as we all celebrate (perhaps obtusely) because some guy who may or may not have existed and is now Kanye West took a trip into the desert to fast and pray. My morning looked a little like this: Continue reading

science says it’s ok that i’m late for everything


When it comes to just about anything in life, the rule seems to be that if science says it’s OK, it’s OK. For example, if nutritional science is telling you that it’s OK and even encouragable to be eating a blend of kale, spinach and broccoli for your brekkie, you run out and bag yourself a nutri bullet and fill that shit with anything green, in the hope that the gods of science will approve and make you slim, fit and healthy.

I for one am not one to argue with science (although I don’t own a nutri bullet and would prefer to eat a brownie than a handful of kale). We as humans have a lot to thank science for; the pillheads among us for their narcotics, the wounded among us for their medical prowess and ability to ease pain and heal, and now the lazy amongst us for their indissoluble theory as to why some people (me) are always late. Continue reading

becoming a work of art this valentine’s day


The thing I suck most at in life is being bad at things. While that might be an oxymoron, what it really means is that I am the worst most sore loser in the United Kingdom, probably; I tantrum when I can’t grasp how to do something and end up winding myself up even more. If you’ve read my post about my skiing incident, you’ll probably have gathered this by now; it’s not the most attractive trait in a person I’m sure. Late last year, when I moved into my beautiful house, I bought a shit load of Ikea furniture to swag out my room with and was fuming when it all arrived flatpacked – being less than gifted with common sense or with any practical skills, there was no chance I was getting any of it up myself. In fact, I tried to screw one of the screws into its corresponding little hole and failed, started crying, and ditched the whole job for my boyfriend to do.

One of the great disappointments of my life (woe is me) is that I’m truly shite at art. I could write you a great description of someone pretty easily and you’d probably get an alright idea in your mind of who I was on about (I would hope) but if I got out the paint brushes and attempted to draw them you’d end up with something like this that I just whacked out on Paint: Continue reading