Howdy Stranger!

Oh my gawd, HI!

Man I haven’t seen you in ages! What’ve you been up to? You won a beauty pageant? And got a promotion! And found the love of your life?! Well, that’s not surprising at all since you’re so delicious. Plus, yeah, I’ve been stalking you on Facebook, so I kinda knew already.

Where have I been? Well, I guess I’ve been having a couple of those weeks that kinda answer the ‘why did you move to London?’ question that bewildered locals always throw at me. All credit to my funemployed pal JJ, who is the BEST at fun-hunting instead of job hunting EVA. What have we been doing? Well…

We went to THE GLOBE for FREEZIES! Not only did that tick off a massive London To Do, but it was the first ever musical at the (reincarnated) home of Shakespeare… history on history baby! Plus, it was a modern take of a Greek classic of Euripides, that I’m sure I must have translated at some point in my Classical days (*casually brushes off shoulders of leather-elbow-patched tweed jacket*). AND… golden speedos. Need I say more?

What else? Well there was the taping of the show Catchphrase. All I can really say is that the only time I’ve ever seen or will ever see that show was in person. I totally thought that freaking ‘golden robot’ (according to Wikipedia) Mr Chips was a banana, like, you know, ‘banana chips’? That or he’s just a chip. But that ain’t no robot! If that irritation weren’t enough, the super Essex simple-sweetie sailed away with over 20gs in prizes, while I was stuck there watching the host do endless retakes at the end for all the lines he or the production team gaffed. Seriously, go to Graham Norton. He knows what he’s doing. AND he’s actually funny.

That same week we took advantage of the London Design Festival to get free booze. Sounds like a non sequitor? Well, it was promoting stones that you freeze to put in your drink instead of ice cubes so as not to dilute the mythical glory of our Northern neighbours’ godly nectar. Simple design genius perhaps, but I was only interested in the magic the uber-proto-hipster barmen wrought to make me like whiskey! Load it up with mint and lemon and lime and I’ll be all over it. Or rather it’ll be all in me. ASAP. My mouth is watering now for Mint Juleps. And if that Blue Grass band would please alternately score my life with their sultry southern hick hipstering and narrate my life with their surprisingly broad Brit accents, I’d be even happier.

Then there was the Butterfly Enclosure at the Natural History Museum, which brought back memories of the Otago Museum Butterfly House in 2008. Granted, this one had less wedding dresses and MUCH less booze, but it was equally sweaty and just as much makeup ended up in my boobs. But I did find my new favourite butterfly. Granted, I didn’t have one before, but this one was epic. On the outside, it was pure folliage. Like, you’d have to have psychic powers that connect to butterflies to distinguish it from a leaf. But when it flexed its wings open, its insides were a triumphant regalia of blue sapphires. Commonplace on the outside and glorious on the inside – if you tell me I’m like that butterfly, that’ll be a massive insult-complement combo hit right there. Possibly a fatal hit.

And of course there’s the resurgence of pub quiz at a new close-to-my-house-thank-bloody-gawd location. Usually during the music round I zone out while my team shouts ‘MotzBach!’ and ‘Unicorn #5!’ and I get nuffin. But this week was a random hip hop theme, and my team watched agape as I managed an answer for all 20 question parts and got enough to bring us up from about 9th to 3rd. Who knew I was so gangsta? Yup, me, that’s who. Bad Geeks 4 Life!

But sadly, and despite my #1 thug status, now that the infamous JJ is employed once more I’m rather at a loss.

You know, we should totally, like, hang out… Maybe we could get coffee sometime?

Or I guess I could just go back to those ER reruns…


I hear the pitter patter

Today I saw the city cloaked. The Shard wore a veil to shyly hide its heights while the Gherkin shrugged its shroud about its hunched shoulders in mourning for the Summer passed now beneath the ground. Ben tolled away, concealed as usual, but his mask was sheathed from the rest of us, the spires shooting blindly towards oblivion. Those circling the eye graduated briefly to those hidden heavens, only to return to earth, triumphant or disappointed, depending on the make of them.

Oh wait.

After complaining to you endlessly about first the cold and then the heat, I want to do anything but complain about the sudden onset of constant rain and creeping mist in London.

Therefore I offer up to you instead my equal-top-3-fave-poem EVA…


I can hear you
making small holes
in the silence

If I were deaf
the pores of my skin
would open to you
and shut

And I
should know you
by the lick of you
if I were blind

the something
special smell of you
when the sun cakes
the ground

the steady
drum-roll sound
you make
when the wind drops

But if I
should not hear
smell or feel or see

you would still
define me
disperse me
wash over me

Crush or be crushed

I recently read a LinkedIn Influencer Post that told me Business is like Candy Crush. ‘Pah!’ I thought, that’s ridiculous.

LIFE is like Candy Crush!

It’s addictive.
All us addicts know that Candy Crush is like Bejewelled on crack. There are bright whirligig colours, maniacally cawing bad guys, and never-ending impending doom. There might as well be wallpaper trains. Worst of all, you’ve turned into a creepy apple-cheeked little girl with bouncing blonde pigtails and no apparent motivation in life. Yup, we’ve all been there. And just like [your addiction of choice], the more you have, the more you need to feel satisfied. The dopamine hits hard as you crack that impervious level but the others paused on the underground platform don’t understand why you just… need… MORE.

Some people buy their achievements.
Candy Crush has capitalised on this human foible by encouraging players to buy extra moves or lives in order to complete a level. I’ve seen people berate those who will spend $500 on a phone and then refuse to drop 69p on an app, but if I’ve just spent £500 on a phone I ain’t paying a damn cent more for extra lives – that ain’t the sorta karma I’m after. But do any of us really know what we’ll do when the chances run out and the need or greed kicks in? The closer you are to that high, the greater the risk of doing anything at all to get just that little bit more.

Some people use smarts to get ahead.
For those of us too frugal to buy our way through life/lives, there are still LifeHacks to get you ahead. Here’s a CandyHack from me – move the date in your phone’s settings ahead and watch your lives replenish! Just make sure you put it back afterwards or you’ll wake up late for work the next day. Yes, this has happened to me – and this was the first time I realised my addiction was interfering with my ‘real’ life. I told myself if wasn’t hypocritical – it doesn’t advance you through the game, it just gives you more time to put the effort in yourself. Just like learning keyboard shortcuts, finding a new way to get a duvet in its cover (bane of my life), or any of the sweet skills here, you’re not cheating, you’re just finding extra time to be awesome. Right? riiIGHT?

Some levels are more interesting than others.
I dunno about you, but I really hate the chocolate levels. Sometimes I’m even tempted to just sit and wait and watch as the brown obliterates the screen square by square and the hope of levelling up slips away sweetly. Maybe you contemplate giving up as you try dully over and over, but suddenly and unexpectedly one candy ball leads to another and you’re back in friendly liquorice land.

Sometimes you get stuck.
I’m currently stuck at Level 140. The question is, do I keep hacking away at this seemingly-impossible level, while the enjoyment drains through repetition? Or maybe I could go back to the earlier levels I sailed through with a half-arsed job and see if I can really put the effort in and do them properly – get those illustrious triple gold stars? Is this giving up, or the wise choice? Is this in fact the harder, smarter path? Maybe having a perfect score will help to get past that final barrier? Or were some of the other levels were more fun anyway?

You’ve been playing too much and living too little.
Maybe you started playing as a coping mechanism – a way to ignore the crush of people all about you, on you, as the crowd squeezes you out like the chocolate unlevelling you. But maybe now the friendly candy colours are taking on a gleam of grinned victory, not FOR you, but against you. How typical that entertainment turns addiction, escapist hatch turns life-leeching trap.

Don’t let the chocolate take over. Don’t take the liquorice for an easy win. Let the bombs explode. Let the stones lie, or crack them, as you will. Why do you even need to clear that jelly?

Win or lose, just play the game. No, not the app. Clearly you’re in as deep as me. Let’s take a deep breath and delete shall we?

Crush it.



Update: haha, just kidding. I’ve totally got this under control. I can quit any time. I just don’t WANT to. What else am I gonna do on the Tube? Don’t worry I’m fiiiiiiine!

The apple of my eye

My baby came early!

Baby Apple (as yet unnamed) arrived at 0938 on 20 August 2013, weighing in at 2.38 pounds and measuring 11.8 inches.

It was an emotional day, but I wanted to stop by and let you know that Mum and Bubs are both doing well.

I suddenly understand the plight of parents the world over, as I am convinced that mine is the most perfect baby to ever exist, like, ever. If you disagree, well, you clearly don’t know what beautiful is.

I know you’re itching for piccies, so here is the moment of crowning glory (warning: gratuitous birthing photos to follow):

PUUUUUUUUSH (your credit card this way)!

PUUUUUUUUSH (your credit card this way)!

Now I know talking about afterbirth is a bit squeamy and everyone’s got their own ideas, but I’m seriously considering some umbilical art with this lot:


However there will not be any eating of the placenta. I had a wee nibble and it tasted suspiciously like plastic wrap and cardboard corners. Instead we will be having a special ceremonial burial for it on rubbish day – you’re all welcome to attend.

Now it may be controversial to ask for input on a baby’s name, but we can’t let this gorgeous sweetums remain nameless for too long, so please vote below!


While my warm squishy feelings make me lean towards Honey Boo Boo, I also relish the opportunity to say ‘Hmm… let me consult the Oracle’ on a daily basis. If you’re not as much of a dweeb as me, just know that all the other options are all relevant in ways that at least I know!

I’m sure y’all are just dying for more piccies/posts, but now that the bundle of joy has arrived, it’s time we caught up with some of the friends we’ve been neglecting throughout the pregnancy. Geordie Shore here we come!

Just *gif love a chance

A cheeky reblog to celebrate the Marriage Equality Act coming into action today in En-Zed – LOVE ALL THE PEOPLE!!!


Hell to the YEAH! The following is a totally ‘gay’ celebration of progress and happiness, as told by pictures. Some of them are moving. It’s like Harry Potter in here. If Harry Potter was super gay and magically happy! ACCIO PROGRESS!

The Marriage Equality Act passed in New Zealand parliament today with a 77-44 easy win.

This wasn’t exactly a surprise, considering the previous readings were pretty clear majorities as well. For once we’re not the first in the world either – just a lucky number 13. We’ve had civil union since 2005, but this still held back certain rights legal, medical, and reproductive. But no more!

But two parents who actively want a kid are clearly going to destroy that child, right? Coz homo is contagious?

I’ll admit up front that I’m biased because I have two Mums. Yes, okay, I technically have a Father. Fuck you genetics. But…

View original post 619 more words

How to write a blog (without a computer)

Anyone following the beer-dominated drama of my electronic life will know that it’s been a bit quiet around here lately thanks to the complete betrayal of the aforementioned liquid.

Two weeks without a blog post and I might as well have fallen off the face of this corner of the interwebs, so outdated have I become.

Call me Bebo. Call me MySpace. Call me Ishmael.


If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s how to write a how to post. So here is…

How to write a blog post without a computer (especially if you spilled beer on that computer and it is now forsaken to the Apple underworld).

1) Work it at the grindstone!

Holy PC Batman! Is that a computer you’re using day in, day out at work? Perhaps you can take a break from concatenating the shit outa that data and vlookup your blog? Your work doesn’t block WordPress? Bazinga! Oh. But it does have some skewiffiness (technical term) with the site, and now you’ve lost the titles on half your blogs? Great start.

2) Find an Internet cafe in your local area!

The amount of Internet cafes here in the East End of London is roughly equivalent to the number of drug deals I witness on a daily basis. Note however that the amount of cafes that also have computers available for use, rather than just wifi, is equivalent to the number of friends willing to come to my area on their own at night.  

3) Use Siri to write a blog!


Siri fail.

4) use yor phon to post a block!

do you kniw hie freaking hardnot is to post a blog by tqopyety tap yapping on thos vloody tiny screwn? heave forbid you tien off autocorrect. heaven forbid you habe the fattest thimbs in the jisiness. oh god. i just wrote jidiness dodnt o?

Yes the above was legit typing. I used to love but now I say THANK YOU!

5) Give up. Have a beer.

Soothe your soul with the devil that cursed you.



Something bad happened

You know the feeling.

Every muscle freezes rigid, eyes and limbs frozen in place, willing time into reverse or at least to hold as still as you. If you don’t blink perhaps the angels won’t reveal themselves as demons.

Heart and lungs drum and roll to a cacophony of off-beat jazz rhythms lacking a predictable melody.

The moment whizzes by like a deadline but its breath hangs in the air, all sour grapes and rotten luck and fermented failure.

You may sniff, at the stench of your own ineptitude, resplendent in your baffling idiocy. Or perhaps it’s an attempt to keep in all the vitriol that threatens to sink you, like a sailor stranded in a row boat hacking at the bottom of his own vessel.

You sleep, perchance to dream of a time before disaster. But cruelly and inevitably you wake to a hell of your own making. Like Sisyphus you force your hopes uphill, only to watch them tumble down again in a shower of what ifs.

Yeah… So I spilled beer on my computer.

I am hamstrung and heartbroken and I would offer myself up to SkyNet if only it would let me back into its world.

It’s so cruel that I write the most and most easily when drinking but now the drink has made this almost impossible. Do you know how hard it is to do this on a phone with these chubby thumbs?! Auto correct helps, and that’s saying something!

I pour out my plight to you only so that you know why things are quiet in this little corner of the interwebs.

Feel free to send love and money and unwanted devices my way!

Just *gif love a chance

Hell to the YEAH! The following is a totally ‘gay’ celebration of progress and happiness, as told by pictures. Some of them are moving. It’s like Harry Potter in here. If Harry Potter was super gay and magically happy! ACCIO PROGRESS!

The Marriage Equality Act passed in New Zealand parliament today with a 77-44 easy win.

Dance dance dance!

This wasn’t exactly a surprise, considering the previous readings were pretty clear majorities as well. For once we’re not the first in the world either – just a lucky number 13. We’ve had civil union since 2005, but this still held back certain rights legal, medical, and reproductive. But no more!

But two parents who actively want a kid are clearly going to destroy that child, right? Coz homo is contagious?

I’ll admit up front that I’m biased because I have two Mums. Yes, okay, I technically have a Father. Fuck you genetics. But he long ago rescinded his parental rights for the foreseeable ever.

What I do have is an ‘Other Mother’ as I call her, and I’m her ‘Sorta Daughter’. I made that up when I was ten and it stuck – cute huh? Blood relatives are great if you can get ’em, and if they’re kind, lovely people who treat you right. But what I think is also awesome are the people who choose to love you even if they don’t *have* to.

‘Gay’ is not contagious. What is contagious is either hatred or open-mindedness. Growing up with a variety of different types of people in my life made me open to new ideas and lifestyles. It did not make me gay or any other particular ‘type’ of person I saw in action. The effect it did have was to show me that many lifestyles, aspirations, and types of people were all wonderful and acceptable, and whatever of them I turned out to be would be okay. Not always easy, but okay.

Sadly, there are a bunch of fucktards whose ideas are so incredibly incomprehensible that I struggle to even begin. I don’t expect everyone to have the same opinions as me, but to the supporters of Protect Marriage NZ such as this guy:


I say:

Since I’m behind the curve due to the time diff (coz NZ is ahead of the rest of the world EVEN when it’s coming in number 13), I was all ‘COMMENT ON ALL THE STATUSES!’ because:

But that took me a really long time, because everyone on my facebook feed was all ‘Go NZ! You did it! Down with hate, up with love! Rrrrrespect for (most of) our politicians!’ etc ad awesomeness.

Not a single person on my feed was anti, or if they had little weird feelings in their little weird brains, they recognised them for an irrational piece of prejudice that they should deal with privately and certainly not publicise to the i-world.

During the campaigning I dug a lot of the pro-law-change websites that were all sarcastically like ‘how the world will change if gay people get married’ (cue blank screen) and ‘how gay marriage will effect you’ (cue blank post).

But now that the law has passed, I have to disagree. Maybe you won’t see it straight away. Maybe this is just a stepping stone. But it sure is a step in the right direction.

This will affect your life, whether you realise it or not, because the world is moving forward, despite the efforts of some to drag themselves and the rest of the world back into the dark ages.

Being allowed to marry their love may not help a gay person being beaten up behind a club or stop the offensive stereotypes on TV or end people who are different being exhiled from their communities. The Marriage Equality Act can’t eradicate douchebags, or change their opinions on two members of the same sex getting married, but as a tiny little super important starting point it has said:

So fucking deal with it.




*Title credit to the fabulous saradraws (see below). Yeah, I stole it. It’s called a collabo. Deal with it.

I knew it would be an alien!

Royal Spawn Update:

Day two and the ‘child’ is already out of the hospital and waving to hypnotised hoardes fawning over the steps of the portal to the other dimension hospital.

Tiny tiny fingers waving ‘hello, I will destroy you now’

I was always suspicious of the distinct lack of weight gain or bumpage over the course of Kate’s pregnancy, or I would have been if I’d given enough shits to read a gossip site during the period. Luckily, the Daily Mail showed me ALL THE PHOTOS in the immediate lead up to the bursting forth of the alien king.

Clearly that hush hush stay in hospital for ‘severed morning sickness‘ was in fact an early opportunity to hypnotise the poor commoner into hysterical pregnancy, and Will kept up the charade by inserting fake bumps under her clothing as she slept and feeding her Ipecac. Don’t blame poor Will, though, you know he only did it because Grandma Lizzie threatened to chop his balls off – the same as she did to his Daddy.

Now that the alien spawn has been placed in her oblivious arms, it’s only a matter of time before its ultimate plan is revealed. Those little fingers are clearly either signaling the home planet, or doing one half of a Monty Burns ‘ecccsssellent’ in anticipation of uncurtailed supremecy.


Stay tuned* for more late breaking headlines on the ultimate overthrow of the United Kingdom (and the rest of the world thereafter) by one hairless Windsor. And I’m not talking about Wills. Or Charles. Or Phillip.**

*Or alternatively, never hear of this again, we’ll see.

**Harry, you’re cool, gingas rule.



The littlest Prince


Dammit, I did not call that one. Barring velociraptors, I was completely gunning for a lass to take the #3 ranking in the ranking of pointless things.

The announcement came early this evening by way of smoke signals out of the Palace chimney – blue for boy, pink for girl of course – with the number of cannon fires from the Tower of London marking the pounds and the tolls of Big Ben denoting the ounces. Thus is was the Doctor – the only person capable of being in all three places at once – who broke the news to the nation by way of telegraphs sent to each and every home of Britain.

As the tiara-ed tyke was born on the hottest day in seven years, expert astrologers have predicted that his birth marks the beginning of seven years of sunshine, when the rest of the world will be bathed in ice while Britain regains its rightful place in the blazing sunshine and rules with a baby’s rattle. That or the sun will never rise again. I guess we’ll see in the morning.

Prior to the genital announcement, bookies had hard-ons odds on for ‘Alexandra’ as the leading ladies’ name. While ‘Diana’ was cold in the grave, I fancied ‘Georgina’, but ‘Chardonnay’ was coming on strong with 1000-1 odds to take the name from the pole to the palace.

Now that the peen has been seen, ‘George’, ‘Francis’, and ‘Charles’ are taking the lead in the totally-dull-and-unsurprising-contenders category. At least some of the other contenders – ‘Louis’, ‘Alexander’ and ‘Arthur’ – are better placed to enable the child to grow up with the healthy narcissistic megalomaniac complex this country needs in a future King!

Personally, my vote’s with ‘4real’.

Now that the sacred child has come of the commoner’s womb and revealed its most crucial appendage to the world, other aspects of the great-coming-forth of 2013 have taken forefront in the minds of the world’s media and world leaders are frantically convening to debate such pressing issues as:

  • Is it a Cancer or a Leo?
  • Did it really come out of her ladyparts?
  • What the hell is the royal family’s surname anyway?
  • When will we see Kate naked on a beach again?
  • What’s happening with that royal placenta?
  • If Queen Lizzie eats it, will she live long enough to spite Phillip out of the throne?
  • Who will be first to update the Royal Family‘s Wikipedia page?
  • Don’t all those people outside the palace have bloody jobs to go to?
  • Will Harry go full Robert-Downey-poon-her now that he’s been bumped down the list?

Well apparently the Royal Family are fans of holding out on us, so it may be days or even weeks until we learn the name of the future King – or at least the King of those few of us who will outlive Lizzie, Charlie, and Billy. Experts agree that only 1.24% of the current populace will live to mourn Liz (who sleeps in a vat of preserves), let alone the forehead-family.

Of course, experts also extrapolate that the bubs has increased the chances of the Royal Family still existing at such a future time by 23547%, as the whole world coos at the pudgy-wudgy cutesy-wutesy excuse to ignore the ACTUAL news.