Confessions of a Staler

Once again the new academic year is upon us; bank accounts blessed by the silent sugar daddy known as the student loan. I feel being on my third spin of the student waltzer has left me jaded and cautious. Six shot ladders and a three meat kebab you say? I could get a week's worth of groceries AND top up my metro card with that!

Somebody call the fun doctor, we've got a case of shite craic over here!

The start of the new semester also marks the release of a ripe batch of freshers, bar crawling their way across Belfast; armed with newly established independence and a 'fuck it!' attitude. Quite literally. Being out among the Hollister clad herds of them I feel like something of a twenty-one year old cougar, having a fresh faced boy yell "CHEST" at me. Is he so devoid of female presence that he's taken to playing body parts bingo when he's out on the rip? And if so what's the prize for a full house - a semi?

If so god help his anti-viral software when he discovers the dark side of the internet...

Though I really can't claim the status of a together, mature individual either. Nothing reflects on the current state of your life quite like having the thought, "FUCK, where should I hide the multi-pack of Mini Cheddars currently sitting on my desk?!", while your friend ascends the stairs to your room.

They're behind the TV, just in case you were wondering.

*they is now it. What can I say, they're bloody small bags.

You know what else makes you question your capabilities as a supposedly functioning adult? Standing emptying your knicker drawer out in front of your young, handsome landlord at 8pm on a Sunday. He was replacing a broken set of drawers in my bedroom btw, this isn't how I try to impress men.

"Hey baby, wanna come watch me pour an ocean of heavily elasticated knickers on to the floor?"

Anybody? No?

I'd say your loss but that's an utter lie. Oh well. I've got a bag of cashews and a copy of Mary Berry's Baking Bible screaming my name. Nuts and buns lads, nuts and buns.

À bientôt, you beautiful bitches.

A Mid Summer's Night's Rant

It's been a while since I've indulged in a cyber rant, probably to the benefit of sane minds everywhere. This is due to a mixture of pure neglect and six day weeks cavorting with a hot oven and piping bags.

I've swapped the tracksuit infested corridors of Jordanstown for chef whites and a permanent coating of sweat. Getting the train home everyday while coated in a sticky mixture of eggs and icing sugar, I feel the need to try and convey to the other commuters that I'm not a knock off porn star in trainers - I wash my clothes, I swear!

Febreeze counts, right?

...  

On the other hand my current state of employment makes for an interesting drunken introduction,

"What do you do?"

"I'm a baker"

"Are you really? Isn't that the type of job only the well spoken Nigella types do?"

I then proceed to drunkenly whip the cupcake tattoo I have on my thigh out, to which the dubious doubt of my profession disappears. As if getting a baked good tattooed on you is the initiation into becoming a bona fide baker. All those hordes of middle aged, French patisserie chefs walking around with croissants inked across their chests.

I wonder does Mary Berry have a cheeky wee Batten-berg tramp stamp?

This summer has also bore the beautiful fruit that is Couple Come Dine With Me. Never have my Friday nights been occupied by back to back episodes of a programme that makes me feel both hungry and lonely in equal measures. I've entered a whole new level of eating my feelings. Think Bridget Jones meets Man Vs Food - Adams Vs Every type of BBQ Crisp ever made.

And I mean EVERY type.

The ascent into August has also made me aware of what little time I actually have left in my degree, a mere two semesters to finally get off the coast wagon I've been riding since GCSE and make use of the Ikea desk I forced my ex in to buying back in the Summer of '12. Maybe this will be your year desky, just maybe.

But more than likely it'll remain littered with the excessive piles of washing and empty crisp packets. Smokey BBQ to be precise.

I once again thank you for your endurance through this written babble of consciousness,
Until next time xo

The burnt Barca Blues

What's red, white and needs a shower? Right now, me.

 Just one day of exploring the sun soaked streets of Barcelona is enough to get my Ulster fry on. I'll have a side of after sun with that, please. But I really shouldn't be complaining, burnt in Barcelona is much preferable to the grey haze of Belfast for a few days.

 Oddly, My 'norn Irish decent has also proved something of a novelty with the men... Don't get me wrong, I love a good flirt just as much as the next person - and then some. But I feel like I've been released into a monastery with a 'libré' sign around my neck, especially when confronted with an observation that "they don't make the Spanish girls like you, they're all bones and brown hair". Who knew too many variety boxes from Wok a Moley would one day pay off?!

 No one, because it doesn't. I'm still single.

 The city is incredibly beautiful though, the Guadiana inspired architecture flooding the streets with intricate brickwork and awe-inspiring archways. My Instagram account is going into meltdown, as is my friends' list... I never can resist a little travel brag...

 I think I possibly subconsciously got so horrifically burnt so when people exclaim how positively lobster like I am I can exclaim, "oh, I was in barcelonaaaa'. If you encounter this you have my full permission to punch me in the face, god knows I could do with the human contact.

 As exams loom I now have to face reality and bury myself within the lifeless labyrinths of the library, though reality is I'll be perched in every coffee shop within a two mile radius - scouring the internet for sociology journals and Game of Thrones memes. Most likely the second part. After all - Winter is unavoidably coming. My education? Not so much. Keep charismatic you beautiful people of Belfast xo

Come Fly with Me

I've done it. I've finally grew the pair of lady balls everyone's always assumed I had. I'm traveling - solo. Barcelona here I come - the garish carrot orange hues of Easyjet promising adventure and memories to be made. That and you'll be sat beside a Carlsberg fuelled stag do playing 'rate the flight attendant's arse'.

Here's hoping for an all male crew.

With sickly filter coffee in hand I reek of a new traveller - nervous anticipation and Trip Advisor. The hombres Espanyol are in for a treat...

That's provided they like pasty Belfast girls who say 'cunt' too much.

Cunt.

I honestly don't know what to expect on this virginal voyage, chorizo and culture? Sangria and singed shoulders? Either way, camera in hand I plan to capture as much of the European euphoria as possible -  and take a break from the rum steeped Saturdays of Laverys.

Hasta la vista, lads. Xo

Sun Cream and the Ad Man's Dream

Summer; where the skirts are short and my dove roll on is pushed to it's absolute limits. When they say 24hours I take it they don't mean human hours? Because I can barely get 24 minutes out of this aloe Vera bad boy.

 There's something so infectious about those golden rays that make us crave carbon-crusted burgers and drinking on the street. It's risen above 15oC? Hell whip the Strongbow out and let's have Kid Rock's 'All Summer Long' on repeat. Yes Cool FM - I'm talking to YOU.

 Me? I don't really like summer all that much.

Yes, you've read correctly. Due to my albino like complexion anymore than 5 minutes without factor 50 and I look like a piece of bacon in a dress. Which actually may improve my appeal to the opposite sex.

Now where's that babyoil...

Don't get me wrong, it's sure as hell a lot nicer perusing around the streets of Belfast without the constant grey drizzle rendering your hair eternally frizzy. But when it gets to that point where you can't tell if you're perspiring or going for a paddle in your own bodily fluids - I'll pass thanks.

Though I can't deny there's nothing I relish more than whipping out the 'aule sundress and sandles, suddenly turning into an extra from Mad Men. Though I'm more likely be busting balls in the boardroom than swapping diet tips over typewriters.

My diet tip? I like to go by the 5:2 rule - Five meals a day, twice daily.

Thank you once again for your endurance with my written rampage, stay beautiful xo

I can't get no sleep.

I am shite at sleeping. I know to look at me it doesn't seem like that. “There’s a girl who sleeps like a log and eats like a horse” And shits like one too most likely.

But surprisingly I don’t sleep very well at all. When you don’t sleep you get to discover the hidden elements of the night you couldn't have imagined existed. For me this has been Classic FM – the amalgamation of Mozart and the middle class. The presenters sound like they've been found by someone going into Harvey Nicholl’s with a net and some caviar.

Munching your cardboard Lidl cornflakes to the sound of John Sushi – being brought into the small hours of the morning with Margarita Taylor. Nothing screams private education and polo like having a cocktail or a Japanese delicacy as a first name.

If that was to happen in my family I’d probably have been named Battered-sausage Adams.

Mmmmm... Battered sausages.

There’s something so soothing yet gravely intimidating about individuals who use the words, ‘whom and alas’ without being ironic. I can’t even read the word alas without picturing images of Dumbledore going all wise on Harry’s parent-less ass. But that probably says more about how my mind works than the general consensus on the word ‘alas’.

The reason I’m so aware of the obvious difference in class between myself and the Classic FM presenters? I’m currently residing on the upper Lisburn Road. Where the grass is green and the trust funds are pretty. I think they can smell my labeless scent when I’m walking down the street. That or I just look like a busty tramp – which incidentally would probably be my rapper name. 

Busty Tramp – keeping the flow tight and the necklines low.

Again I thank you for persevering with my filth riddled ramblings. Keep ‘er lit. xo 

No motivation and Pop-tart appreciation

I think my mind hates me. I decide to stew in my onesie with Netflix on repeat and my hand firmly planted in the depths of a pop-tart box instead of going to class. The result?

It guilt trips me harder than Robert Pattinson at couple’s therapy.

You thought Kristin Stewart was miserable before? Just you wait now Sir Smoulder-a-lot isn't slipping it to her any more.

So as an attempt to avoid the wave of bed induced guilt I've decided to make my best attempt to grace the academic establishment with my busty presence. Ginger ‘fro brushed and doused in Beyoncé's perfume – which I assumed would smell more of squat sweat and Swarovski diamonds as opposed to mandarin with a hint of vanilla – I've finally made it to class!

Oxford paper in hand, ready for a lecture of mind moulding knowledge and enlightenment!

The Reality? Drawing pictures of muffins with faces while periodically tilting my head to the side to appear deep in thought. Albeit that it may be about bearded men and chicken nuggets... There has to be a website for that somewhere.

Most likely a self help page.

Do you ever wonder how those people do it? You know the individuals who can complete an assignment without doing a line of espresso at 3am with Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’ on repeat.

A friend does that... I heard...

What the hell do they have for breakfast? Wheatabix and life coaching?! It’s usually Shreddies and a sob in the shower for me.

And my housemates wonder why the plug is always clogged...

I once again thank you for joining me on my journey of self indulgent scribbles and singleton in the big ‘shaft – keep your heart and vodka strong. X 

Cakes, Curves and Webcam Pervs

I always thought those individuals who say, 'I love my job' were bare faced liars. Or just overly optimistic prats with too many self help books on their shelf. But it appears it's not just a well packaged lie Steve Jobs has sold to the nation. It's an actual reality.

I, Julie Adams, bloody well love my job. 

And no - I haven't got a job as one of those larger ladies who eat cake on webcam for the freakish feeders of the internet. Though god knows I'm still very open to the idea... Eat a packet of jammy dodgers for a fiver you say? Pass me the bloody packet let's give these thighs some thunder.

Well - more thunder I guess you could say...

Conversely I have now somehow acquired my dream job as a baker. An apron claded creator of all things sweet and sinful. Weight Watcher's elzebub if you will. Because after all - you don't make friends with salad. Gillian McKeith can vouch for that first hand. 

And with my new venture into the culinary word I've finally decided to accept the fact that the closest I'll ever get to a thigh gap is if by developing rickets. If I look like I enjoy eating my own cake - people might enjoy eating it too, right?

That and having a chest that Jack Sparrow himself could find without a map renders excercise hazardous. The reason I know this? I attempted my first jog in about six months the other day - the end result? I returned home panting like a moustached serial killer and sweating in places I didn't know existed. Did someone say bikini body? 

That's if you like yours with built-in bingo wing arm bands.

So I'll continue my awkward shambles of a life with the added label of 'baker' to my current list of 'gin drinking ginger' and 'that crazy girl with the tits'. 

But hey - if I die tomorrow at least they'll remember me. It may not be in as a lady of class and composure, but gingers can't be choosers. 

Until next time - xo.

Some of my 'buns'. (Bracing myself for the puns...)

A table for one, please.

What a difference six months makes. I bet you just sang that. I know I did. As a result I'm now getting filthy looks - it appears it's not appropriate to serenade the person sitting next to you in the library. No one can say romance is dead.

Well; actually, I probably can.

Saying as the closest I come to human contact these days is brushing up against someone when the bus makes a sharp break. Nothing gets the old blood rushing quite like public transport. Can I have an all day ticket and partner for life please?

I jest, being single isn't all that bad. You have the freedom to do whatever the fuck you please without a single 'what are you doing now?' text. Saying that - my response on Saturday night would have been something along the lines of, ''Making pea soup and stalking pictures of bearded men on Instagram, you?'

I wish that last line could be a humorous exaggeration - but it's hard to deny with a kitchen that looks like Flubber's just hosted an orgy.

But I'm not so jaded that I can't still appreciate the public expression of true love. Or at least liking someone enough you give them a good shag and the occassional M&S Dine in for two deal. All I can say is that they seriously underestimate how much two people can eat. Or one person for that matter...

I still feel a warm smile creep across my face when I see an elderly couple - hand in hand, with matching grey parkas strolling down the street together. The timeless serenity broke periodically by chirps of, 'Did you let one rip Jim, I bet you bloody did!' and 'Oh god, I really shouldn't have had that fourth cup of tea...'.

I think anyone who can endure more than twenty years of having to lie next to another sweaty body and peel their crusty underwear off the bathroom floor deserves nothing but admiration. And vodka. Lot's of vodka.

I note the difference six months makes as once upon a time I was a lady of the Limelight. And Laverys. Hell, most of the alcoholic establishments of Belfast. I use the term 'lady' very loosely here. Very loosely indeed. Nothing says 'introduce me to your parents' like pushing your bare arse up against a kebab shop window.

Why am I single again? Oh, yes. Now I remember.

Shame. So much shame.

Until next time you beautiful people xo

The Post Berlin Blues

Generic "I'm in Berlin" profile photo

They say heaven is a place on earth. They weren't bloody lying. I've seen it. I've felt it. I've smelt it. And it's bearded with the aroma of beer and curried sausage.

No, it isn't your drunk uncle in the chippie - it's Berlin. The living, breathing utopia of liberation and legal drinking on the streets. A gin on the commute to work you say? Good show, sir! 

The temperature however, was a pessimistic bastard who didn't dare peep his head into the positive digits. Everyone suddenly turned into a drunken European Bambi, with fingers as numb as Kristin Stewart's facial expression. But in all honesty, the chill only added to the metro-chic the city seemed to ooze from every tastefully graffitied street corner. A lifetime away from the penis infected "street art" of Belfast. Not that I'm saying penis's can't be beautiful, but it's hard to appreciate something that often looks like it's from the reduced section of Tesco's deli.

50p? I think I'll give it a miss, thanks.

The few days in the captivating capital also gave me a free pass to embrace my crippling hipster urges. Drink this non-commercial beer while listening to electro music in and old power factory. While wearing a beanie. Well, if I must! And yes, even as I'm writing this I'm contemplating throwing a sharpened vinyl at myself. #youdontmakefriendswithhashtags

I've now come back down to earth with an almighty thud, thrown back into the depths of uni and work. An amalgamation of early starts, shit hair days and attempting to serve the general public without using the phrase, 'No I don't work here, I'm just wearing this libido killing uniform for the bant'.

Ahhh, La vie est belle.

*Bullshit.

I'm also trying to come to terms with once again being submerged in a city where culture is having a croissant with your copy of The Belfast Telegraph in the morning. Unless it's made with the blood, sweat and red wine induced tears of a baker named Pierre, I don't want to touch that flaky imposter. Which is coincidently my nickname when I don't use Head&Shoulders.

And with this short insight into my fleeting euro adventure I bid thee Auf Wiedersehen. And goodbye. And bonjour. xo

New Resolutions and a lack of solutions

So it's that time once again, where gyms everywhere praise the lord for guilt and gluttony. If I see one more instagram picture of a smoothie I'm going to engage in a vitamin vendetta against those health conscious pariahs. Oh, is that a spin class you're all doing? Excuse me while I just leave my rich, gooey chocolate brownies here to cool. You conscientious, attractive cunts.

I see my relationship with chocolate and cheese as that of an ethical duty - I'm keeping the workers of Cadbury employed! And those of the Spanx company come to think of it... But hey, my non existent man might need something to hold onto, right? Or a blanket of belly to keep him warm at night. I didn't think it was possible to self-inflict nausea via your own mental description. It turns out I'm very much mistaken.

You have to laugh at the mass panic on January 1st when the world declares it's time for a "new chapter" and a "new them". I love the thought of someone creating a new Facebook profile to cater for this "new them" - so long to drunk photos and too many cat memes. Well, for the next three weeks anyway. Will power can be strong. But a vodka and coke is always stronger.

My resolution was not to be a quitter. I've been this shit for 20 years what's the point in quitting now? Long live Nutella by the spoon!

I also have solemnly accepted the fact that no mater how many times old Mr Hindsight flirts with me post exams, I'm never going to be a reviser. The reason I know this? I have an exam tomorrow morning and I'm currently in the process of baking a sun dried tomato and parmesan loaf. I may not be able to talk in depth about marketing communications, but hell you organise a bake sale and I will bring it like Mary Berry on acid.

But who knows, maybe by some sort of miracle I'll absorb some profound, last minute academia and go Aristotle on the examiner's ass.

Though most likely I'm going to get hand cramps and ink stains from endless streams of non-specific bullshit.
Did someone say a 1st? No? I didn't think so.