Category Archives: Apply Topically

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!


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

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.


This is round 2 of ‘drafts I never published’ but am now doing so because I’m on holiday with the parentals…

I wanted to let this one lie a little, as I’m far enough removed from the Boston Bombings that I certainly didn’t feel any right to comment on it in the aftermath.

What it made me realise, though, is that I’m certainly not as removed as I felt in lil’ ol’ En-Zed.

Going to watch the London Marathon a week after the horror in Boston was certainly more poignant, and 100% more nervey than I would have expected when I first thought I might ‘pop along to watch for a bit’.

Working my way on foot along the Canary Wharf section of the route I passed miles of happy families, tottering grannies helped by teenagers, tiny bewildered dogs, babies on leashes, handmade posters, and a 30 year old man waving “Go Mummy!” on a pillowcase – all wrapped in sunshine and oozing positivity.

The cheers went up the loudest at the tail ends of each category, encouraging those who needed it most, celebrating achievement wherever it came, cheering for the effort rather than the minutes per mile.

But there was a niggly fear as I got in amongst the tallest buildings and looked up to see the emblazoned names of some of the world’s capitalist finance powerhouses in 360 degree panorama above me. It didn’t help that the City Airport was so close that the underbellies of planes seemed to scrape the pointy tops of the glass canopies.

What if that glass shattered and fell? Well, there was a patch of grass to run into the middle of. What if the buildings shattered and fell? Then there was nowhere to run.

That’s what terrorism does, of course. I hate to bandy that buzzword around as the media does with such overkill, but it’s appropriate in this case. Terrorism is an act of unpredictable violence against unpredictable victims. It makes people afraid in otherwise innocuous situations: going to work, watching an event, boarding a plane.

Of course when these situations become ‘predictable’, the typical reaction seems to be a level of overkill that puts the ongoing fear right up front, such as procedures in airports. I was reminded of this on my way back from Amsterdam recently when I got the full boobilicious/crotchtastic pat-down (aka the ‘everything but the cavity’ search) and our flight was delayed by an overbooking.

Because a passenger was offloaded, everyone in the nearby aisles had to account for the baggage in the overhead lockers. Of course we all instantly realised this was in case the whole charade was a ploy to leave a B-O-M-B on board. Whispers flew around the cabin – what if it was a middle eastern person instead of an upset posh English girl? Would they have offloaded the lot of us to be ‘safe’? Maybe the best recruits for terrorist cells would be sweet pasty white chics?

These are of course the more obvious ways that terrorism comes to the fore, but then there are the subtle differences, such as the lack of rubbish bins in London, especially underground, apparently due to their device-bearing abilities. Ever since moving to London I’d meant to research the 7/7 bombings in London, but something always stopped me.

The 9/11 bombings are seared into memory so that I know exactly where I was and who I was with and what I was doing for that entire day, but the London bombings did not register so.

I think many of us had terrorism fatigue by then, so inundated by primarily-American media  about the impending further worldwide disaster that never quite came as predicted. I remember sitting in front of the telly as a 15 year old on 9/11 and saying to my mother, who I felt didn’t conceive the gravitas of the situation, ‘Mum, this could literally be the start of World War III‘.

And so when the London Underground erupted in a flash of fire and flying limbs, it just didn’t quite strike the same. As terribly callous and removed as that sounds, perhaps it was a bit like how most Westerners feel now when the CNN app pushes a notification saying 70 people were killed by a suicide bomb in [insert 3rd world country].

Bit removed + can’t comprehend + no immediate threat to myself = sad but [insert first world problems].

Post-Boston I finally researched 7/7 in London and found that some of the bombings happened on a leg of my daily route to work. If I had lived here then, I could have died, been injured, known the dead or injured, or at least had a story to tell. Considering how personally affected I was by the Christchurch earthquakes (having not actually been there), I am astounded that I have never heard a personal story of 7/7 outside of 2012 Paralympics coverage.

Do people put the stories and thoughts away in a box buried deeper than the Underground because that is the only way to cope? Nobody enjoys the airport rigmarole, but I find it worse to be trapped on a train between stations on the busiest line, nose-to-armpit with strangers, knowing that the thousands of people on the train with me are all sitting targets at rush hour.

Suddenly also at events I throw a stray thought to possibilities which inevitably linger beyond reason. Watching an Easter play in Trafalgar Square I worried I’d be lumped in with the religious; every Friday I’m concerned by those protesting a company that apparently makes military drones in my work building (the second tallest in the city); and attending Dawn Service on ANZAC day I wondered if anyone cared enough to hate Kiwis.

This is terrorism to me – the fear of the everyday.



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.


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.