Friday, 21 October 2011

If you can't stand the heat,don't set fire to the kitchen.

I would describe myself as "domestically challenged" and I have no shame in being out and proud about it. Rather like I found it was no big thing for me to come dancing out of the closet, I find it just as easy to come running out of the kitchen.

If the kitchen hadn't come attached to the side of the flat I wouldn't even bother having one. I refer to it "as that place off the living room" and I only really ever go in there to chill wine or to wash my clothes. When I first viewed my flat it was the one room I casually popped my head around and then promptly turned my back on (which is exactly what I do to people I secretly hate  - but with a withering look and insults muttered under my breath).
I haven't really changed anything about the kitchen since I moved in. I've painted it a couple of times and I've thrown some red wine up the walls when I've been really drunk but much like the short, boring one in every boyband or the one with the really ratty weave in every girlband my kitchen is relegated to back up moves and silent harmonies while the bedroom, bathroom, living room and (walk in) wardrobe take centre stage and strut their stuff.

I don't know if my phobia of kitchens stems from my childhood.  The oven in our house was only switched on when my mother wanted to light a cigarette and if you wanted something to eat then it had better fit into a toaster. I've always maintained that my mother invented the "supermodel diet". She smoked cigarettes, only ever drank black tea (sometimes she would allow herself a slice of lemon) and she sometimes ate a slice of toast. Anything else was deemed "fattening". If there was a potato in the house it was only there for her to launch at the back of my fathers head.


I have been known to watch cookery shows but that's because I like to see Nigella Lawson sucking on her fingers and Jamie Oliver getting tongue tied over a root vegetable. Have you seen the size of Jamie Oliver's tongue? It's like a Parma ham on steroids. 
I saw him milking a cow once and I seriously couldn't tell where the teats began and the tongue ended.
I absolutely adore Nigella Lawson and her sluttish, suggestive ways. She looks as if it wasn't for the presence of a camera crew watching her every move she would be knocking back the cooking sherry, taking a nap on her granite work surfaces and burning the house down.
She's posh, she looks like she loves to drink and she's got money to burn. These are the kind of women who know how to cook but don't have the first clue how to tidy up afterwards. 

The main reason I go into my kitchen is because I have a chalk board attached to the wall and I like to write things on it to motivate me in the morning. Mostly really important stuff like "I will brush my teeth", "I will change my underwear" "I will pay my rent".
 I had to buy the chalk board because I had a habit of taking a pen to the walls. It was very upsetting for my ex partner when he walked into the kitchen and I'd daubed "RedRum, RedRum" in red marker over every flat surface. (If you haven't seen The Shining then you don't know what the hell I'm talking about).

Although I've never understood people who spend a lot of money on their kitchen I'm even more suspicious of people who have their bed in the same room as their cornflakes ( those who live in a "bedsit"). I know I sound a terrible snob but I think if I had to sleep in the same room as I boiled my beans and I washed my underwear I'd put my pillow directly onto the middle shelf and turn the oven up to gas mark six. 
My oven is handy for drying underwear, otherwise I wouldn't have one and as much as I ignore the room with the kettle in it I do like to use it to hide stuff. It's no use bringing someone home when you've got last Fridays takeaway fermenting under your duvet.
A kitchen is good for storage, but it's not attractive when you can lay flat out on the bed and turn the grill on with your toes, although if you can mix a cocktail without having to kick back the covers I'll be over like road runner.

My kitchen is really the most eclectic room in my flat. It's eclectic because it has things in there you should never find in a kitchen. I'm not talking about dismembered limbs or exotic animals. I'm talking about roller skates and violins. Stuff I pick up and think, "Ooo, I need that" "That will be really useful when I open my roller disco, kite flying emporium" "That stuffed penguin will look perfect on top of my washer/dryer".

I've actually bought some batons that I want to learn to juggle with. They are the type of batons that you set fire to and then throw high into the air. I'm thinking of putting on my roller skates, firing up the batons and doing a little routine.
I've wrote a little reminder on my chalk board to make sure I've switched the gas off first and removed all flammable objects because it's true, if you can't stand the heat, then don't set fire to your kitchen.





Wednesday, 5 October 2011

But you promised me you'd be dead by now . . . (adventures in gold digging)

The Duchess of Alba is recognised by the Guinness book of world records as having more noble titles than any other member of the aristocracy.
She is also recognised as being one of the worlds richest women with a fortune upwards of £3bn.
Every gigolo, Lothario and man for sale recognises her as a dead cert ticket to a life of luxury and excess.
I recognise her as being the mad old dame who occasionally pops up front row at fashion shows with a wig like Don King and a face like a camel.
The Duchess is 85 years old and has just married a "civil servant" 24 years her junior.
I've been doing my maths and 85 - 24 = 61.
To me 61 is a very late age to start gold digging (it's more akin to grave digging) but I'm guessing that the Duchess has mistook the title "civil servant" for "house boy" and her 61 year old toy boy has realised that if she doesn't drop dead soon at least she'll start forgetting to lock the safe and hide the car keys.

I've also realised that 61 can only go into 85 one and a bit times, which when you think of it, is more than enough for the old gal.

The world is full of "civil servants" ready to service the grand old dames of money and the billionaire old boys club will always be entertained by the Anna Nicole's of the world (god bless that cracked out cow) but in every relationship there is a trade off, from the council estates of Peckham to the Penthouse's of Manhattan to the Palace of Versailles, everyone has had to:
Put out to get ahead
Pay up to get some head
Or in the case of Versailles eat cake and then lose their head.

In a modern world, money talks and it's fluent in every language.

I have a theory that if you equate social climbing with rock climbing you get what every gold digger needs to learn = "Cock Climbing" (I've trade marked this so don't even think about stealing it).
It's pretty easy to learn if you use the same methods as rock climbing:
You start out practicing on the smaller peaks (career criminals)
You then move to the middle ground ( city boys and boy band members)
You find a safe plateau (minor royals and footballers)
You reach for your highest point ( Russian billionaires & hedge fund managers)
As with rock climbing your safety is of the utmost importance so always wear a safety helmet, carry a rape whistle and what ever you do, don't look down and don't let go.
Remember you maybe digging for gold but keep on looking at the stars.

When climbing up the social ladder it's very important not to leave any foot holds below you. Remember, anyone with a full head of hair and a full set of teeth is your competition and anyone with someone else's hair and a full set of false teeth is your quarry.
I know this is going to be controversial but it's important to try and stay within your ethnic group. The last thing you need is to bag yourself a billionaire only to find out that he's got 12 other wives back home. You really don't want to marry anyone who has a palace made of mud and straw, even if you flew in a private jet to get there.
The finest pork belly at The Ritz does not translate into being a pig on a spit and if you think you're "too posh to push" that won't go down well when you have to walk twelve miles to the nearest well (as in water).

It's important to learn your craft and stalk your prey, as I mentioned in one of my very first attempts at blogging, The Sunday Times Rich List should be daily reading material.
Start at those near the bottom and then work your way up. You need to speculate to accumulate so if you need to show the gash to get the cash, so be it.
No one got anywhere in this world by being a virgin except for the baby Jesus' mother (and that's never been proved beyond reasonable doubt) so throw your knickers to the wind and watch the cash start rolling in.

Once you've bagged your billionaire do not under any circumstances let him go but more importantly, do not under ANY circumstances let yourself go. You have now moved from the hunter to the hunted. Every waking moment needs to be spent primping, preening, tanning, toning, lotioning & potioning because I guarantee you, at the first sight of eye bags you'll be kissing goodbye to old money bags.  Always make sure you are the most attractive one in the relationship.
It pays much more if you have a million $ body when your billion $ husband only has a £10 face.
You are your own best bargaining tool, so if he asks for a kiss, you ask for a twenty.

Do romantic things like running his bath and leaving candles in the bedroom (always make sure he's wearing his flammable hair piece).
It's a really nice touch to leave petals on the stairs (they sure are slippery) and if all else fails, trade his cigars for firecrackers and offer to light them.

An element of surprise is great in a relationship so there is nothing wrong with waking him in the middle of the night while wearing a balaclava and brandishing a cattle prod.


If your billionaire is old a great way to keep him active is to insist on a strict exercise regime. Like a baby, he may want to sleep all the time but make sure he's up before sunrise doing laps in the pool (make sure it's unheated) and then when he gets out (cold & shivering) say if he catches you he can have sex (then get in your convertible Mercedes and put peddle to metal).

Remember, It's important to keep the romance alive by buying presents so treat yourself every goddamn single day.


You worked hard to get him now it's his turn to work hard to keep you.

So there you go, my guide for all the material guys and girls who are living in a material world is above and it's all you need to bag a billionaire or even dally with a Duchess.
Keep to these rules and I swear you'll have a ring on your finger and they'll be on their toes like a midget at a urinal.
Happy Hunting!

Contrary to popular belief, I've never gone drilling for OIL (old, ill & loaded) I've only ever gone digging for CRAP (creative, reliable, attentive & (full of) personality).