The C word

So once again months of fret, fury and fierce women in Primark; that magical time of year is upon us. But you don't really need a calender to know that, all you have to do is check your Facebook for a stream of festive bullshit about turkey and Toy Story.

I know this because I'm one of the main contributors to it. VALIDATE ME VIA THE MEDIUM OF LIKES.

I also know it's Christmas because my mother dear has cracked open the annual bottle of Malibu. Only to finish her second glass with a chorus of, "Do you think I have a fat arse William, DO YOU?".

I've now learnt that the response, "Sure it gives something to hold onto, bit of jelly on the plate" was not the desired response.

Especially when it was from me. Whooopsies.

I've also gotten to that stage of the day where I'm so far gone into the festive food carnage that even the Bounty celebrations are starting to taste good. I can actually hear the ripples of my layers of fat as I turn round in bed to plunge my hand into the tub. If a Zombie apocalypse does however happen I'm at a major vantage point, fuck you all and your thigh gaps - I give you a week.

The big C also marks the annual amalgamation of those relatives your bonded to purely because someone in your immediate family is bucking someone in theirs. And those never ending fucking probing questions. I'm pretty sure there are STI tests out there that are less invasive.

"Yes, uni is fine. No, I don't have a boyfriend. Yes, I probably have put on weight since last year".

Somehow I feel the last two are connected...

Alas, the festivities are over for another year and it once again becomes socially unacceptable to have half a litre of Bailies before noon. But when was I ever someone to societal norms stand in my way, "yes I am eating chicken in a library and I'm bloody well enjoying it".

With this I prepare to enter into the festive food coma of no return and wish you the warmest of Christmases. And most likely a fairly repetitive new year. Over and out! xo

Titty tales and Kitchen fails.

Once again I'm furiously typing from the confines of a corporate empire posing as a coffee shop under the guise of duck egg blue paint and staff that are far too friendly given the miserable cunts they're pumping caffeine into. I think if I worked in a coffee shop I'd occasionally swap to decaf just to fuck shit up. Having a bad day at work? It's gonna be even worse now you just dished out £3.20 for a lukewarm liar. Ho ho ho.

I'm also feeling oddly liberated due to the fact I've decided to boycott my bra for the day under the safety of my christmas kitty jumper. However I currently feel like a trampoline. I pray to jebus I won't have to run at any point this evening, I don't think I'm quite ready to experience self inflicted whiplash. Though god knows it's a titting time bomb.

Alas, I've digressed on the subject of chesticles. I do however feel like I've gained an insight into the mind of a fifteen year old boy, all I need to do now is wear copious amounts of Lynxx Africa to mask the smell of awkward masturbation and I've basically nailed it.

Which they unfortunately won't be doing for another good few years. You're keeping the good people of Kleenex emplyed lads, let's wank away the recession!

The impossible has also happened, I've fallen even more in love with the sultry siren of the kitchen. Nigella Lawson, master of the muffins and lady of the lines (allegedly). I personally think it's given her a bit of an edge, or rather taken it off in her experience. I really do hope this marks the start of a narcotics nosh revolution. Jamie will show you how to make the most of your joint, Gordon will give you tips to inject flavour to your food and speed to your soul.

Come Dine With Me just took on a whole other dimension.

I on the other hand, am so socially shit that the closest I've ever really got to drugs is having one Beechams too many in the face of the winter sniffles. Someone call for an intervention quickly - I'm too sad to exist. But hey, who needs drugs when you can flash your vagina to your housemate while wearing a green wig solely with the help from good old Mr Gin. You can keep your crack!

And I can probably expose mine sometime within the near future.

I once again thank you for persevering with my nugget of narcassism and narcotics, stay beautiful you bastards. xo

Teen tears and Twitter fears.

Watching a documentary on bat shit crazy One Direction fans in a marketing seminar today has really put my teen years into perspective. My experience wasn't so much throwing tear stained training bras at Harry Styles, more seeing how many Kinder Bueno bars I could consume during an episode of the Fresh Prince.

Four and a half, if you're wondering.

 I guess I've just never really understood the concept of intense fandom. If Brad Pitt didn't want Jennifer Aniston in all her blonde, braless glory; then he sure as hell won't want me and my unrelenting morning breath. Or as I like to call it, "L'eau de DON'T FUCKING BREATH ON ME". 

Available in all good retailers now.

But I guess the intense fandom come obsession is only propelled by the cyber schlag that is social media. I know I've fallen victim to it's cruel ways before - "I wonder if I like enough of his posts will he like me?". I found this was highly effective! If ensuring you are promptly defriended... But hey, whatever. His abs weren't even that good in this years holiday snaps. I much preferred last years. It also appears heavy breathing isn't welcomed in a lecture... squares.

Maybe the problem is that I just wasn't cool enough as a teen to even fit into the subculture of band fans. My fingerless gloves not quite homeless enough, fringe not quite sided enough to merge into the MCR fan minority. When I was a young girl, my father took me into the city and told me to stop wearing so much bloody eyeliner.

You'd think given five or six years these waves of social leprosy that I give off would start to subdue. Well you'd be wrong. They're just better packaged these days. You can't polish a turd, but you can sure as hell lacquer the fuck out of it.

The reason I know I haven't advanced? I'm currently sitting in the depths of the library seductively sipping a flask of parsnip soup. Now, now boys - form a queue. But hey, who doesn't love a good glug of soup on a chilly December Tuesday? Every fucking person in Belfast that's currently queuing outside Boojum it appears. As much as I love burritos, I refuse to queue for something that prohibits eye contact while being consumed. You know what I'm talking about.

 I once again have to thank you for giving up your time to take a look through the window into my sham of a student experience. Monday night means getting mashed at the student union - not getting mellow on cheddar and chutney. But my god do M&S do an outstanding Caramelised Onion relish. Until next time, my lovely lads and ladys. xo

Beanie hats and broken hearts.

Due to the events of my day I've came to two conclusions;

1. I am a living, breathing ball of awkwardness.

2. I wear too many hats.

I think there's a link between the two things -  I'm just not critical or motivated enough to find it. Some may say the continuous wearing of hats indoor is indicative of the hipster culture. I say I have shit hair that isn't safe for human eyes. Think of it as Hairoshima.

My day started once again with the age old debate of "Bed vs Education". As do most days. Do I get up, drag myself down to the bus - or resume my position as the filling to my duvet burrito.

But I then came to the conclusion that when I'm a pencil-skirted power wanker at the top of the corporate ladder I'll be able to have a kingsize in my office. Hell, my office will be a bed. People won't know whether they're going for a board meeting or dandering around Ikea. Here's the annual report, and have a free mini pencil while you're at it.

So eventually, after tapping my snooze button more than Kanye at an arse covention. I managed to drag myself out of bed and salvage some sort of attire from my floodrobe.

I want to shake the person's hand who came up with the concept of leggings. All the practicality of trousers with a waistband that hides more sins than the catholic church. It means I get to have my cake and eat it. Then eat it again. And again.

So legging clad with a hat to hide my greasy locks I ventured to the bus stop, only to be met by minus temperatures that would promptly turn testicles into chestnuts. That's one game of conkers that you'd never forget. Due to the Arctic conditions, my right eye had kindly decided to produce an endless stream of tears. This prompted an elderly lady at the bus stop to but down her Lidl bags, sympathetically pat my on shoulder while saying, "Don't worry love, he's probably not even worth it".

It's reassuring to know I give off that, 'The only men I can trust are Ben and Jerry' type of vibe to strangers. I did have a bar of galaxy in my hand at the time, but that's completely besides the point. Happy, taken women eat chocolate at bus stops too, right?

Right?!

Thanks for reading and  you stay classy now Belfast. xo

The closest I'll ever get to cosmopolitan is a cocktail menu.

I've just realised that I've managed to spend an entire months wages in just over 48 hours. My debit card probably thinks it's a gigolo now, having been excessively fondled in the name of pretty goods.
  
I may be eating rotten value beans for the next month but hell, at least I'll be doing head to toe in overpriced attire! They say life's a catwalk after all. And I'm the straggly, stay fucker that not even the crazy old cat-lady wants.

Maow.

Also nothing quite justifies a hard days work like a pair of disgustingly expensive shoes that you'll stagger home in, step in dog shite and never wear again. But hey, all work and no shoes makes Julie a fucking grumpy bastard.

I never claimed to be a poet.

But enough shoe talk, I realise that not everyone shares my enthusiasm/obsession for attempting to make feet look pretty. Because let's admit it, they are fugly. FUGLAYY. Not even an IV drip full of the melty chocolate from the inside of those wee red Lindor sweets would make me rub a person's feet. And I mean that chocolate is the epitome of food porn. My digestive juices are flowing as we speak.

That's another great mystery that haunts me. Not religion. Nor philosophy. How in the name of all that is chocolatey DO they get it melty in the middle? You can already clearly see that my higher education is £3,450 well spent a year.

As I'm currently sat in quite a trendy bar off Oxford Street sipping a double gin&tonic (I only do things in double measures, drinks, dancing, D's). I ponder whether I'm ever destined for a life like this. Or if it'll be a more menial nine to five desk job where the highlight of my week comes in the form of an M&S meal deal.

But my god, do they do a good ham bap.

I've also noticed that unlike in Belfast, here I seem to be somewhat exotic. Who knew that a ginger 'fro and the look of severe anaemia could be alluring. All I need is a guitar, some quirky lyrics and Ed Sheeran will be shitting his begs.

I discovered I was of more interest in the big city when a charming young Caribbean gentleman remarked,

"Helllll ye got some big ass bootay fer being such a white gurrrl."

Clearly all those two for Tuesday's, three for Thursday's and five for Friday's are paying off. Thank you Sir stuffed crust. I may never fit into a pair of hotpants, but hell, I am the proud parent to a litter of food babies! They grow up so fast these days.

Over and out, y'all! X

London's calling! And so is my bank.

I've found it. I've found the promised land. It's not so much milk and honey; more triple denim and tubes.

 My arrival at this glossy utopia was confirmed when I placed an abnormally large foot (I'm convinced it's a genetic design to counter balance my eternally expanding baby feeders), onto the platform in Victoria station. Only to be greeted by a sea of bankers and well polished brogues. Not a zip infested super-dry jacket or Paul's boutique blazer in sight.

PRAISE JESUS!

I was completely enamoured by the hustle and bustle, not to mention the stubble coated stallions that seemed to occupy every coffee kiosk within a five mile radius. I'll have a hazelnut latte and a clean pair of knickers thank you very much.

Getting the bus to the airport at 5am has also affirmed my suspicions that only the pariahs of our society ride on public transport between the hours of 1-6am. I witnessed a thirty something year old man furiously brushing his non existent locks for a good five minutes, only then to pull out a baby blue Nintendo and play Nintendogs for the remainder of the journey. It's times like these that I really feel for the shareholders in Durex. Kleenex however, well that's another story.

But then again I was taking public transport at 5am. So I guess I also fit into this creep infested category. Which I have no doubt anyone who knows me on a personal level could confirm. But come on, who doesn't occasionally wake up beside an empty packet of poultry after a heavy night of drinking?!

Actually, don't answer that.

 For all those shopping enthusiasts among you, I have two words - Oxford Street.

It's like they've taken all your hopes, desires and insecurities and designed a densely packed few streets where they can sell you the solution. Think your arse is too big? A nice pair of overpriced spandex disco pants from Urban Outfitters will help sort that.

I say this as I'm currently walking back with more knitwear than a retirement home. If I saw myself on the street I'm pretty sure I'd think "what a hipster cunt" and roar Coldplay limits. But I'm too busy instagramming the shit out of every meal to acknowledge my hypocrisy.

Alas, with three days left in this glorious city there's a lot of sights to be seen and culture to corrupt! Stay classy, because I sure as hell won't. X

A Belfast Friday

Waking up to the all to familiar drone of my alarm I questioned the individual playing god with our timetable for the semester, and how long it had been since they last had the ride. Because people who receive regular human contact would never suggest stripping a bed of it's inhabitant between the hours of 12 and 8. Bastard.

Thank god for coffee is all I can say. If I ever graduate I think Starbucks deserve credit for a good 82% of my attendance. That and wiping out the independent coffee industry. We'll have that with a splash of milk and a sprinkling of capitalism, thanks.

As always I digress; scrolling through The Guardian online has become something of a habit for me, hence my urge to add "Alas!" Into a conversation at any given point.

Alas, I digress further. So after paddling down the Lisburn road I finally managed to catch the bus and make my way to the establishment that's supposed to mould me as a person. I think someone decided to deligate me a novelty penis shaped mould. As much as I enjoy what I study, I constantly feel like I'm in a PE class where I've made the fundamental error of forgetting my kit.

TRACKSUITS. EVERYWHERE.

I always enjoy the irony in that apparel made specifically for exercise is often used to disguise the lack of it. Elastication for the nation.

So a few sheets of Oxford paper later (yes, I'm a stationary snob and extremely proud) I finally decide that a coffee is the only thing that can resurrect me from my soggy, sportswear induced slump. And god did it ever. You'd never think something that causes heart palpitations could be so comforting. I also have came to the conclusion that despite brining a book on Nietzsche (I thought it was a type of chocolate they sold in Lidl), and wearing items of clothing with elbow patches, I will never, ever be cool. I'm just far too enthusiastic about everything. I get a buzz from crossing the road diagonally and discovering dyson air blades in restaurant toilets. But you know something, I'm totally comfortable with eternally filling the trendy, try hard niche. To UrbanOutfitters!

Excuses,excuses.

So I was incredibly over zealous with my prediction to blog/spill my mental cognitions via the internet on a daily basis - but in all fairness I do think I've had quite an eventful few weeks.

Between pouring pints for punters eagerly riding the steamboat at Tennant's Vital, reliving my teen years at the Coach (a vile, under age cesspit of wkd induced drunkiness which attempts to disguise itself as a "club"). Any my latest adventure, which I'm currently still on, which has involved attempting to be metropolitan in Poland for a week.

When I say metropolitan, it was more a boarder line albino Northern Irish girl sitting outside with a book on Schindler's factory while puffing on a Marlborough menthol. C'est la vie, non?

No.

I thought dialogue via the internet would encourage me to be a little less convoluted than usual - a chance to practice the art of succinct and precise communication. Yet here I am, producing line after line of viral vomit. I once again apologise. It is however somewhat cathartic. I'm sure my friends, although they're probably not aware of it yet, are experiencing some relief from my constant yammering and attempts to be humorous. And I wonder why my best friend is constantly clutching a glass of red wine.

I hope this entry can serve as a life lesson to all you readers, never, ever, EVER make the mistake of going for a few "casuals" the night before a flight. I can genuinely say that was the most horrific two and a half hours I've ever experienced. I felt like someone had hallowed out my skull and filled it with marbles. A dull, continuous rattle periodically coupled with the urge to projectile vomit down the isle.

I was also skankily clad in last nights clothes, dirt smeared up my arm and shame across my soul. It's safe to say that in my war with the devil's buttermilk (vodka), I have been completely and utterly annihilated. My dignity and emotional stability being the two main casualties. But as they never say, "When in Krakow!".

I'll give you a moment or two to mentally digest and prepare for the next installment of my euro envision, thanks again persevering with me!

"You should really blog about this shit" Okay, I Will!

For me blogging had always been one of those illusive activities restricted to the Carrie Bradshaw types of this world. It was the property of exciting, cosmopolitan women with fast and fashionable lives, each day overflowing with "catch up coffees", gallery viewings and mani-pedis (still not quite sure what the hell that actually entails?!).

However after being a newly pledged singleton after three years a few months in to my first year of university, YES I know I was farrr too young, but as Alanis Morissette says you live and you learn! Or if not you fuck up time and time again and just get on with the repercussions. So with a newly formed alliance of vodka, low cut tops and some of the most endearing yet at times unstable friends, I decided to explore the unfamiliar territory which was and still is Belfast as a single student. It was during this experience that I started to accumulate stories of drunken encounters and just general fiascos that would result in my friends recoiling in a mixture of shock and hysteria the next day.

I realise at this point I have a slight narcissistic air about my antics, but I can promise you for months and months I was extremely incredulous when my best friend would respond with, "Only you Julie, only you!" to my stories. Because let's be honest, we all feed people the bullshit we know they want to hear. But after encouragement from various friends and Facebookers (because let's be honest the two are very different things -  one you want to have a drink with, the other you want to throw a drink over), I finally decided to digitally document my exploits in hope I can bring some entertainment, (and no doubt a certain amount of self inflicted shame) to the fellow wanderers of the web.

So from here on in I both thank you and apologise for what you are about to read, xo.