The Cani Invasion: Quote of the Day

If you're in England, you might well be watching the new E4 series for Halloween, Dead Set. If not, I don't recommend you panic because it's pretty much just "28 Davina Mcalls Later" with all the standard plotlines and incidents one expects from zombies. Complete with zombie-in-the-safehouse, run-for-supplies and first-meeting-with-zombies moments. All boxes checked, then.

Maybe I've been spoiled by World War Z, but I do wish they'd be a bit more imaginative if they really must make more zombie stories.

Anyway, that's beside the point - what I really wanted to do was share a Canimal quote that creased me up with laughter during last night's episode.

One of the characters, the Big Brother TV producer who's a complete twat and highly unpleasant to the woman he's trapped in a room with, was having, to put it delicately, a bit of a poo in a bin.

Cani: Well you can't really blame him, I'd need to go if I was that scared.
Me: I think actually it had more to do with the three tubes of Pringles and bottle of champagne he had in the last episode.

*brief pause*

Cani: That doesn't sound like Pringles.

Canimal Zephyr, Defecation Expert. Who knew?

Fight like the star you are

I am typing this from under six blankets, wearing gloves and a hat and fluffy slippers and shivering while my nose runs. Yes, I have succumbed to the weather and am sick as a dog - which I mainly blame on being out in Camden when the snow hit last night. It was, however, totally worth it.

Best Mate and I went to see Fightstar at Proud Camden, which is a fantastic little gig venue stroke art gallery in a converted stable, so the fairy lights and stone floor are set off by the bar, seating areas and merchandise room being each in their own individual stable. Hard to explain, fantastic to wander around in.

Now, I know most people can't quite get past the idea of Charlie from Busted being capable of making legitimate music, but I assure you he can - and he looks ever so pretty while doing it. They even go quite far into growling metal territory and do so surprisingly well. Don't believe me? Give it a go...


It was also fantastic for eye candy - lots of boys in eyeliner for my viewing pleasure. As it was very loud and I couldn't hear a thing, I suggested to Best Mate that I write a text saying "You're the hottest guy in here" and show it to one particular yummy specimen. She perfected the line by suggesting I say to him, "I wanted to text you this, but I didn't have your number".

Best chat-up line ever? I'm thinking so. I chickened out, of course, but maybe I could try it on Charlie...

Happiest Day of the Week

Seriously. You should have seen me beam with pride. Could have done with a bit of a grammar check, but who's complaining?

Now to teach the world when to use "which" and "that".

The Cani Invasion: Day 2 (ish)

Pictorial evidence of drunken behaviour - always the most positive way to commit a good evening to memory. On Cani's second day here in Londinium Town, Loaf and Willis joined us for an evening of alcohol and far too much food, packed tight in my miniature flat with glasses of vodka and (once Willis arrived) champagne.

There are plenty of pictures with which to bore you because Cani and I were enthusiastic subjects (unlike poor Loaf and Willis, who very patiently wielded the camera and were thrust in front of it while we insisted on endless angles and poses for everyone).

Still, nothing wrong with a good set of shots, eh? Our day of drinking began suitably early, with a vodka and coke thrust towards Loaf the second he walked through the door, our glasses refreshed constantly as we watched silly movies (Doom might be daft, but Karl Urban needs to give me babies), administered to our hair (that would be Cani's dye-and-straighten extravaganza) and ate muffins and Rolo doughnuts (best invention ever? I'm thinking so).

At some point we wandered into Second Life for a discussion about the relative merits of skins and eyes, as you do, and spent some time shouting drunkenly at Thema and Autumn (and others, but my memory is a little fuzzy).

Eventually Willis arrived, and had to be fetched from the station. Nobody fell over on the way, not even Loaf. Absolutely not, no stumbling at all.

We headed - after a phenomenal amount of fussing and photo-taking, into Kingston, the idea being that we show our faces in Oceana, a huge club I've never actually been to but boasts a French parlour room, a New Orleans lounge and lots of other swanky bits and pieces that I took to imply sofas to collapse on and more alcohol.

Our plans were very slightly scuppered, however, when I tottered off to the bathrooms, managed to slip on a wet patch (I'm trying to avoid guessing what it was, if that's all the same to you) and knocked myself out on the way down. At least a thousand people woke me up asking if I was alright, to which I replied a thousand times that I was absolutely fine and staggered to my feet. Promptly passing out again for a little nap on the floor. The lengths I'll go to to nan are obscene.

So that was that, sadly - no clubbing for us, just a gentle bus ride home supported by Loaf, who may very well be the loveliest man on the planet and deserves yet another medal (thank you Loaf!). I was fine, you'll all be very relieved to hear, but a little woozy and sporting a cute little bump on my forehead (still bloody hurts).

So, like the fashionable set we are, we ended the night with The Devil Wears Prada in our jim jams. What better way?

The Canimal Invasion: Day 1

As many of you already know, I am blessed with the company of a Canimal for the next couple of weeks, which is certain to result in plenty of mayhem and an awful lot of shopping. It did last time, at any rate, and a repeat performance is no bad thing. Fewer cartoon bollocks this time though, I'm hoping.

Within half an hour of arriving (dragging behind her the most impressively voluminous suitcase ever engineered by the hand of man), she was scampering around my flat with a pig shower cap on her head and plying me with jewellery-based goodies straight from Paris. Which I shall, of course, make sure everyone is aware of when I wear it. It's from Paris. Paris, that's right. Huge rings, red and black, metallics - apparently she's perfected the art of styling me in real life as well as Second.

After a nice long nap (and you call ME a nan) during which I pondered whether to hang things from her, just as we would any of us do if she went afk (I didn't, because my self control knows no bounds), we went for a drink and a chat and a chicken salad in the pub. Fascinating picture, I know, but here for the sake of documentary evidence.

Now it's movie hour, and she's all curled up warm, comfortable, fed and watered on the sofa, so my mothering instincts are satisfied and I can finally stop fussing and fetching. Early night, you see, in anticipation of tomorrow's extravaganza with Loaf and Willis, for which I intend us to need all our energy.

She's threatening to wear the pig hat. Heaven help us.

Public Service Whine

Today was supposed to be the sacred, long-awaited day of joy and excitement on which I purchased my new iPhone, ridding myself for good of EVIL T Mobile and the complete lack of signal I get even at home - which, incidentally, is 3/4 of the way up one of the bigger hills to grace the capital city. If this is a signal black spot, where the hell are the white ones? Speaking on the phone involves hanging out of the window, just like it did in the 90s.

Just to complement this, I've never had a phone break on me before I signed up with these Beelzebubs, but I managed to flip the top off the flip-top they palmed off on me, and the one I have now, the Samsung U600, gives me very special feelings of hatred. At first it made its ill temper known by going a bit peculiar when I texted and switching itself off when it felt like it, so that sometimes it would take me half an hour to send one measly text. Not all the time, just when it felt like it.

I got a bit rageful with its wilful behaviour during Doctor Who, while desperately trying to ask a friend with inside info what was going to happen, and threw it against a wall. This did not, to clarify, solve the problem.

Though that's not what broke it, oh no. It threw a strop about lord only knows what while I was innocently bobbing about in a club with Laura and switched itself off for good. They replaced it, with the same model, but even though this one behaves itself, it still gives me special feelings.

Since the summer I've been pining after an iPhone, not least for its GPS facility, which, with a bit of luck, will prevent me from trotting off in the wrong direction quite so often. And to have lightsaber duels with Tim, of course. And to replace my cumbersome, ancient iPod, which these days qualifies as an antique. And finally because it's quite the most crush-worthy electrical object I've seen in a good long time.

But I've been cheated out of my iPhone for another month, thanks to the evil bastards at T Mobile, who lied about when my contract was up. Displeased doesn't even begin to describe it - T Mobile, I curse thee!

Norence Frightingale

We're booked and ready to go! During a perfectly selfless trip to W*P*D's on Wednesday (that's such a fib, but we'll go with it) to administer comfort food and sick-bed companionship, we successfully booked our flights and hotel for February's American extravaganza.

It came about quite by accident: W*P*D mentioned in a blog post that she wanted to go back to New York, I squeaked that I would give my right kidney to join her and from there it speedily spiralled into a coast-to-coast trip taking in Los Angeles and Las Vegas, where I had been promising for about a year to take myself to visit Vici and Ther.

We've managed to get flights there and back for a ridiculously cheap £350 each, and we've even secured seats at the back so I can do small child googly eyes out the window and W*P*D can shuffle back and forth to the toilets whenever she wishes.

We've also booked a hotel right in the centre of NYC, apparently very close to Madison Square Gardens and within easy distance of everything from the Empire State Building to the Met. Fortunately for me, W*P*D is an old hand at the NYC thing, so I will be trotting around after her still making my small child big eyes.

After five nights there, we fly over to LA, where we will be staying with Vici and Ther and, at some point, with Lisa Marie Presley's private chef. Which is just cool. We'll be spending the weekend in a cosy lodge in Big Bear and, apparently, skiing, which, as it may well result in me breaking everyone's bones, isn't likely to increase my popularity levels.

And then we drive to Vegas (I have insisted we stop at a proper diner and have fries and a slice of pie, and I want a matronly waitress to ask me if I want a coffee refill, like they do in the movies) for another five nights, where we will be trusting Vici to show us a good time... somehow I think my hangover will still be lingering in April.

Mostly I want to see all the places, do all the things and eat all the food you see in the movies, from shopping on Rodeo Drive to tucking into mac and cheese. I want to completely revamp my wardrobe, go to cool indie concerts and swanky restaurants, shout for taxis, visit massive casinos and museums, scream on rollercoasters and go googly eyed yet again as we wander round the movie studios.

In other words, I am going to be a small, excited child for the duration and will probably need to be put on a leash.

Bus Addendum

When I tell people I have absolutely no interest in having children, ever, for any reason, they occasionally give me a look I have come to recognise should be interpreted as meaning: "Ah, now, you'll change your mind when the right man comes along".

My decision was given new strength on the bus home today, however, when a small boy in a pushchair took a liking to me.

He was happily playing peek-a-boo with me, giggling away as he grabbed my trousers and tried to copy my crossed eyes. He was a cheeky chappy and highly appreciative as I went through my repertoire of baby-amusing techniques.

Having run out of new ideas, I got bored and stared out of the window.

It cried.

She's going as fast as she can

A weekend with Best Mate (and Best Mate's Fiance) is never an ordinary affair, nor would I wish it to be. Thus I present a picture-based diary of the last couple of days, complete with quotes, anecdotes and discussion points for the keenly interested.

During the initial phase of 'becoming inebriated', Anton and I decided to spy on the neighbours out of the bedroom window, soon realising that, rather than hiding our actions from potential tattle-tales, we were illuminating ourselves for all to see with an exciting lit-window-based framing device. Cue even cunninger plan to hide our shame with a curtain, thus transforming ourselves into a pantomime curtain beast.

After which sparkling success, Best Mate blew our minds with a stunningly convincing impression of Plato at the local rave. It was beautiful, man.

Shortly after which we perfected our joint impression of a Push-Me-Pull-You.

Then the conversation turned to Wicked, which we have been planning to go and see together since, oh, I think January, when Best Mate began reading the book version and promised faithfully to finish as fast as she possibly could so we could see it.

Now, the relative reading speeds of Best Mate and myself are infamous. I read like Johnny Five from Short Circuit, while Best Mate (thanks to her brain rebelling against enforced reading at university) goes at a sedate, steady, nan-like pace. One evening, for example, while reading in tandem, I completed 63 pages of my book to her 13.

Me: Have you finished Wicked yet?
Best Mate shakes her head and looks shifty
Me: Oh my GOD but you promised you'd hurry! How can y....... you are hurrying, aren't you?

And finally I bought a fluffy coat that matched Best Mate's fluffy coat and we did snuggly hug poses for a while before launching me off on my most badly executed weekend travelling mission thus far. It's a miracle I'm home, let me tell you. Let me also tell you that bus drivers lie and should not be trusted to know their own routes.