Healthy is happy

When I gazed wistfully into my purse this evening, riding the Magic bus with my stomach rumbling unpleasantly, I was confronted with a lonely one pound coin, and reminded of that fact that I'd plundered all my monies on a completely unnecessary American Apparel purchase. I swore I'd never be able to spend money in that shop again without the luxury of my former staff discount, but they had a poly-cotton tie-dye t-shirt on sale I couldn't resist. Once again it looked like clothes would take precedent over dinner. However, then I remembered my favourite recipe for hard times, and one I also pull out for the curing of a lurg. I thought I'd share it with you as a gesture of goodwill. Here's my homemade lime and chilli noodle soup...

It smells and tastes much better than the grimey webcam picture does justice I swear

1. Fry an onion or two with some chopped garlic for 5-10 minutes until soft
2. When they're getting brown and delicious, throw in a dollop of curry paste (I used Patak's korma stuff - it's £1.70 a jar and has about 8-10 servings)
3. Boil up some el-cheapo vegetable stock in a pan
4. Squeeze the juice of a lime and grate some zest in too for extra punch
5. Add frozen peas and noodles
6. De-seed and chop up a small green or red chili (9p each from the Asian supermarket, holy bargain) and add that to the mix
7. Add your onions and leave everything to simmer for a couple of minutes, careful not to over do the peas
8. Chop up some coriander and leave it to swill
9. Voila! Serve with naan bread if you're hungry, or add coconut milk for some extra nourishment.

Television Personalities

The two weeks of hysterical coughing fits and general absence of fun I have endured at the hands of a nasty cough infection has not come to an end, but rather I have chosen to ignore my sickly lungs and creep out of self imposed germ hibernation anyway, even if I do wake up with chest pains after every sweet night of debauchery and delicious cigarette. Yesterday I went to see one of my all time favourite bands. Their entire back catalogue inspires me with a beautiful nostalgia for a life that I perhaps would've lead for a bit longer if I'd not packed my bags and left home as soon as I'd turned eighteen. The tongue-in cheek, childish, private joke mentality of the Television Personalities lyrics, and the whimsical, low-fi content to songs like Silly Girl and Magnificent Dreams (all-time fave) cause me lumps in the throat and relation on a level comparative to the sweetest childhood memories. Boredom, dreams, teenage aspiration and pretension are all themes in their early works, whilst the longer Dan Treacy battles through life, the deeper and darker the sentiments have become, culminating on Friday night into one of the most moving, shambolic performances I have ever witnessed.

Sat cross legged on the floor of Klondyke Social Club, one of those many hidden gems of an ex-working men's club that Manchester has tucked away in every obscure residential suburb, the gig was surreally perfect in relation to its setting. With flowery, ancient wallpaper, the general atmos of a village hall and the tragi-comic twirling of homemade Christmas decorations still half-heartedly attached to the ceiling, that seemed an allegory for the entire desolate set up, Dan Treacy's critical under appreciation and generally vulnerable mental state. The ridiculous twee-ness of the painfully small, twenty strong audience was made up entirely of cute, cardigan wearing couples and their hip babies, and members of the previous bands that had played. Between "Doris and the Jumpers" using a typewriter for percussion, and Womb's twee beyond belief ironing-board keyboard stand, it was a refreshing twist and my heart lept when I heard Dan Treacy's charmingly unstable mutterings from the corner of the room as he prepared for his own two man set.

Grumbling about not being able to play unless somebody bought him a drink, Treacy had the aura of a local public transport celebrity magnified into genuine indie icon. The kind who have a right to occupy that regal throne acquired on the back seat of the bus or metro carriage, with a can of tenants super, digressing tales to all who will listen,  and have forgotten more than we shall ever know. Except this man has done it in the same room as Nico and Kurt Cobain. With the audience helping him out with long forgotten song names and half the lyrics to his own songs long eroded by years of excess, Dan's terrifying, hilarious and moving banter plunged from awkward, painful homages to a dead girlfriend, complaints on the standards of Mancunian drug dealers, and having "more crack on his cornflakes" than Liam Gallager.

The intensity of the set was exacerbated by the sparse crowd, which enabled Dan to launch fierce diatribes at anyone who dared to get up to leave for a cigarette or the toilet, or weren't paying full attention to his art. "You look bored.", "I can see your knickers", "Elton John had a baby. He dropped it, so he bought a new one." where among the best lines of the night, along with the echoes of hits half remembered and half played between the two guitars. I spent the night completely inspired and enthralled, unable to avert my attention away from the fantastical, magic presence of the not-yet-man, not-yet-icon in the room. There was also a magnificent feeling of terror that was aroused when Dan Treacy gave me the eye, and made a direct comment about wanting my babies within minutes of stepping on the non-existent stage. I was tempted to try talk to my hero afterwards, but I imagine like most of the audience, was conscience of potentially being able to inspire anger or tears quite easily in this fragile man if the right respect wasn't carefully gaged and portrayed to him. All in all, the night was magic, tragic and best summed up through Dan himself. Carry on dreaming, please.

Six months into the past.

"Crawled foetal in stinking, cat haired sheets, weeping onto the already long dampened pillow. Lover You Should've Come Over was playing on repeat on the long abused ipod, along with some piteous Smiths albums and other cliches more painful than the sentiment at hand. Even the pity in the cats seemingly naive eyes was burning into the matted hair that lay strewn across the bed, neglected since the reawakening of that itching wound that's heartbreak, the scab that tears off easily to reveal a greater wound.
Three weeks spent sobbing into Kleenex, moping in pyjamas and watching daytime tv trash with your best friend since you were seven. Occasionally you go for walks on the beach, in the town that you loathe where the grey sky cruelly and defiantly pisses down wherever you might follow."

 

I'm so glad not to be in love anymore.

 P.S. Charlie Brooker's latest episode of How TV Ruined Your Life contains some pretty accurate representations of my sentiments. If you haven't see it already, I recommend you watch it.

Chesty.

So here I am, sat alone, stewing in my own disgusting illness and watching trash on 4od. Following a week of excessive fun I'm now reaping the consequences, and my original plans of sitting, alone and getting high have been quashed by a frustrating chest infection. Serves me right to spend more in drugs and cigarettes in the past week than on food, yikes. In saying that, lots of fun was had, including multiple, inebriated viewings of Slacker, tumbling around and embarrassing displays of affection on crowded dance floors, beautiful boys, and getting stoned and doing childish text-ins to a friend's radio show. I also bumped into someone from home who is apparently studying for a Law degree and dealing on the side, oh the irony.
On a supposed day of recovery we spent the day watching Twin Peaks, Leon, eating Doritos and debuting the Harry Potter drinking game, (Goblet of Fire), which would've been a lot more fun if the Dobby-clothes-swapping-card was done with more aplomb and if more Newcastle Brown Ale was guzzled. Our half drunken hysterical cries of "Trollll in the dungeon!" didn't seem to wash with the non Harry Potter/4chan fans as the night was cut short, but the Boy-Who-Lived hilarity continued throughout the weeked. In all seriousness, despite my wretched cough and hallucinogenic fever, this is probably the best Valentine's day I've had. No disappointments, no expectations, just my own company and an excuse to read and lie in bed for the next three days. Sweet.

A token of love from my best girl this Valentines <3

 

24hrs

Having only consumed one portion of veggie lasagne kindly cooked for me by Adam, since I mangled my bank card I've spent this period living on cigarettes and coffee, as well as the highly suspicious £1 bottles of Lambrusco obtained from the illicit student newsagents. The Smith's disco at the Star & Garter ended in more fun and debauchery than the usual one at Gulliver's. This could be something to do with the better selection of songs, better venue and ever so slightly more attractive clientele (see pictures of me and Rosie with an aging, stout Mozza look-a-like coming up soon). I was so immersed in Morrissey's lyrics I had some cringing feelings of nostalgia for my moping, miserable, small town self. These were quickly followed up by immense feelings of relief and euphoria when I realised; I'm no longer morose enough to directly relate to this. Looking around the room, which still had its fair share of middle-age-spread-wielding, washed up, but adorable Smiths fans, I felt proud that we all shared the power of the pitiable, of having  felt what Morrissey was feeling once upon a time with all our sorry hearts. Massively lame, but true. There was also an absolutely tragic moment when a guy we knew was cruelly rejected by his long time 'crush' on the dancefloor, which ended up in actual tears. At a Smith's disco. I genuinely find this too horrible to ruminate on, but my thoughts are with him. I woke up on Saturday morning covered in bite marks and bruises and have been feeling pretty disgusting since, though listening to some Nancy Sinatra and The Ink Spots has soothed it a little. Last night I managed to recuperate enough to accompany Adam to see The Vaselines. Frances McKee's dirty on stage banter inspired me to be as pervy as I wish until I'm her age. She's so cute she totally gets away with constant referring to dressing room threesomes, maybe if I was twee and Glaswegian enough I'd have the balls to express more filth to the world. Also they finished with the Divine cover, Think You're a Man which was pretty sweet, and a lot less annoying sounding live. I went back to my ex's flat again after as my old flatmate from Bristol was visiting, where we watched The Fall and then listened to some beautiful sounds, as my ex got drunk on Special Brew and ranted about how the only person he'd ever truly loved was himself. Ace.

Hungover.

Spent the entire day yesterday watching Beavis and Butthead in a dingy, ash filled flat in Rusholme with flickering lights and a bathroom that terrifies me. A mutual friend of mine and my ex's was in Manchester for the day so that is why I spent a good seven hours smoking and watching people play computer games whilst they took it in turns to shove a Lidl pizza in the tiny, filth stained oven. It was such a return to the past I almost felt like I'd never left, having spent most of our three year romantic liaison exactly thus. The new Manchester setting had the exact same atmosphere that I adore but continuously failed to make me happy. Eternal, comforting boredom, genius witticisms that will never see the light of day past the same four people. Drinking Special Brew, chain smoking, slagging off and rejecting the outside world because they're too good for it. Being hungover, staying in your underwear all day. Getting stoned, watching Ren and Stimpy. Different place, same feeling.

 

Woody Allen

Maybe it's something about being from a small, insular town where I was regarded for most of my teenage years as a gangly, undesirable freak by pretty much everyone except the acid taking skateboarder crowd (I say crowd, there were possibly two of them) in the year above. Where I was regularly  heckled by fourteen year old, radge kids in the sterile corridors of high school for being awkward, and openly mocked for my strange sartorial choices in the sixth form common room. Or perhaps since I was rejected by my former loved one this summer I've realised that failing to ever brush my hair and dressing like a twelve year old Blue Peter contestant might not go down well with university educated boys. But either way I'm still taken aback when I discover that people might actually want to, well, sleep with me. Usually subtle references to wanting to engage in such carnal acts completely escape me, naively dismissing late night, alcohol induced invitations to watch films as nothing more than that. There was a night in the summer when my friends looked horrified at my choice not to ignore a talkative old man I hadn't yet classified as an obvious pervert.

But there's something of a recurrent 'meme', if you will, in our friendship group that has the potential to be an outright euphemism for coitus, but with the perfect subtle pretence of cultural acceptability. I was first asked, "Want to come back to mine and watch that Woody Allen film we were talking about?" almost four months ago, following an ill advised game of Amy Winehands and a club experience I have almost no memory of (to the extent I didn't recognise the interior, save for the bathroom cubicle, on my return). For those of you who aren't familiar with Amy Winehands, the hardcore cousin of Edward Ciderhands, it is a debauched drinking games of the sorts entirely responsible for desecrating the student name. A bottle of finest rose in the price range of about £2 was gaffa taped to each of my hands, where upon I was forced to drink each bottle in quick succession to regain the use of my limbs properly, thus inhibiting going to the toilet, getting a drink of water, or brushing my ludicrously long hair out of my drunken, shameful phizog. Following two bottles of wine, a double vodka and three lines of kiddy coke, the Woody Allen line worked a charm, and although thankfully my memory was completely cleared of the events that followed, I think it was safe to say we never did get to the end of Manhattan.

Now that our memories have been both psychologically and chemically wiped, I'm actually really great friends with the instigator of that line, and he let me in on the shocking news that this was not indeed the first time he had used it. In fact, I was equally appalled and impressed to find out he's had a 100% success rate ever since it's aphrodisiac qualities were confirmed and he started using it on a regular basis. To add this this, as Wednesday night's events showed, it was spreading to the masses. I though it would be hilarious to turn the tables on the creator of the line, encouraging a very drunk and attractive girl who had the hots for him to ask him the very same. It won her a snog and a phone number, and, before the night was through, I had myself experienced the deja-vu of being invited to a Woody Allen marathon (the bare confidence implied of suggesting an entire collection and not just the one film is admirable).

I passed it off in my usual way as a drunken joke, or perhaps a coincidence that should only be taken at face value, but following the in depth conversation the Woody Allen Line creator  and I had this afternoon, I came to the conclusion that it may have possibly meant more. I've given it some thought, and although Woody Allen's socks and white underpants in Annie Hall immediately springs to mind, as not exactly the sort of sexual experience most red-blooded women pine after, I think it's something about the theme of an awkward, intellectual, neurotic who manages to secure absolute babes that does it. That and the sexual content of the films itself. The sort of guys who use this line are making their good taste in films obvious, as well as the parallel, 'well if a neurotic weed like Woody Allen can pull, so can I'. Not that they need someone as physically unstimulating as Woody Allen to bolster up their own comparative attractiveness, but maybe on some level they think just that. Or maybe it's just a perfect excuse to be able to get a girl back to theirs to watch the sort of hip films they know they'd love, but haven't worked their way through the entire back catalogue of. Opening my inbox once he'd left I pondered as I saw the message, you still up for that Woody Allen film night? x....

Cherry tobacco and 70s porn

 Today I had a swell time with the girls trawling around Manchester's finest retail establishments, including the porno riddled VHS dungeon that is the Empire Exchange, and C. Aston's tobacconists. Possibly my all time favourite seedy junk shop, the Empire has everything you could wish for, stacked with heaps of obsolete junk, sticky magazines and a creepy mannequin in every corner. Since I first came to Manchester at the tender age of fifteen and was desperate to find someone willing and old enough to have a pervy rifle through with, I've been meaning to give the old porn mags a peruse. Me and Rosie spent a good twenty minutes cutting through the protective papers, with the permission of a helpful shop assistant, to access the best of the crumbly 'Knave' and 'Fiesta' issues they had to offer. We also went to Aston's, an old fashioned sort of joint that a friend showed me in the summer that has sweet shop style jars of flavoured tobacco. I opted for the cherry and vanilla, having already sampled rum and black cherry, all of which are delicious.

My spoils: 'Knave' magazine from 1973, 'Fiesta', hideous shirt from Ryan's Vintage, Cherry & Vanilla tobacco, disposale camera photos

My premonition that my mangled bank card would stop working so that I'd be forced to stop spending money also scarily came true, and at the sacrifice of washing clothes and buying food I decided to spend my last tenner on a hideous shirt and a cocktail. Tonight we decided to check out this new chillwave night in that hub of cool Fallowfield, and unsurprisingly it was a total hipster nest, so we went back to mine instead and cackled at tonights episode of Gyspy Weddings. Oh and I got bored and dyed my rat tails barely-noticable pink once more.