A Letter to New Look

Dear New Look,

Hey. Hi there, buddy. So this weekend I fell over in a pair of your shoes. Now I know what you’re thinking: if I’m going to wear silly shoes like this…


…It’s my own fault if I fall over. I agree with you. Nothing makes me more apprehensive than seeing a gaggle of girls tottering around in what is essentially a glorified and more dangerous version of bucket stilts, waiting to see which one pounds  the pavement first. However, you will be surprised to hear that I was not wearing those shoes, but these:



I’m not angry. Just hurt. Really, really hurt. You need to put a warning on your flat shoes. Maybe just let people that you don’t grip the bottom. Let people know the soles appear to be coated in Nickelodeon slime. Just pop a little note inside the shoe that says ‘WARNING: These shoes are not suitable for people who plan on running round corners.’

Because that’s what I was doing. I was running round a corner when my agility failed me once again. I slipped and hit every single pointy bit on the left side of my body including my elbow, knee, ankle and a little bone that sticks out in my hand.

So basically my ankle has been reduced to a sock-full of dust where my bones used to be. It’s pretty gruesome, so there’s no need for a picture. The nurse said it would be harder to put back together than the Battle of Trafalgar jigsaw puzzle she’s been working on. That is a true story. Don’t look any further into that though because it’s definitely true, and you can take my word for it. I’m a very trustworthy person, and that’s not coming from me, that’s just what my friends say. They call me Pascale “Trustworthy” Day, and you can trust them too because most of them have degrees. So let’s not bring up the need for evidence because it’s really not necessary, trust me (because you can).

Instead, here is a picture of my hand, which I also hit pretty hard on the way down.

IMG_3108 As you can see, it’s covered with a plaster, and underneath that plaster is another plaster, because I can’t get the first plaster off. It has fused to the scab that is currently forming and will probably be a part of me forever. I’ve also got a booboo on my knee which is very stingy :(.

And before you ask no, I don’t need a Wah-mbulance. I was already in hospital at the crack of dawn this morning to try and get me some crutches. Because I need them to get to work, not because I want to guarantee myself a seat on the train. (That’s another very true fact. You can trust me, remember?). They didn’t give me any, but it was okay because my boyfriend and I got to use my wheelchair to do some suweeeet donuts in the car park which made the excursion totally worth it.

I’ve always thought very highly of you, NL. I’ve always had your back. Even when my friends said that your clothes lose their shape too easily and that all your white tops always have foundation marks around the neck. I say “Nah, they’re alright”. Even when one friend said “Their shoes are festooned death-traps,” well, I didn’t disagree, but the important thing is I didn’t agree either. (I can’t tell you who my friend is because Kate would kill me. (Kate Smith.))

But could I say the same now…………..?

We’re both adults here, New Look. I’m not a monster, and I know you aren’t either. SO GIVE ME WHAT I WANT AND I WON’T SQUEAL:

  • One day’s pay for the sick day I have taken
  • My dignity restored
  • The four hours I spent watching Skins on Netflix back
  • A pair of socks that will fit over my cankle
  • Eventually a new ankle
  • Maybe a new hand – only time will tell
  • Let me be your fashion model for next season – I’m really good at breathing in and I look swell in a chunky knit I promise

Think it over. Get back to me. I hope we can sort this shit out.

Your Compadre,
Pascale Trustworthy Day

But Oh, To Be Free.

Today, I found out that Robin Williams had died. And I honestly could not be more bummed about it.

As a nineties baby, I was too young for Mork and Mindy, but was of course very familiar with his family films – perhaps too familiar: my Mrs Doubtfire VHS tape was so worn that in the end I could barely even sing along to “Dude Looks Like A Lady”. As a child I would do various Robin Williams impressions that were spontaneous but frequent and, as to be expected, I was very unpopular. I concluded that the only person who can do Robin Williams impressions is Robin Williams.

I was so shocked. I remember where I was when Michael Jackson had died, and Diana; the two most prolific celebrity deaths of my lifetime. With MJ, I was in a pub when a Mexican wave of gasps spread through the room of blustering drinkers. I knew that this was another one of those moments. But it was somehow different, somehow bigger, and it felt so much worse. Obviously no death has precedence over another – a life is a life after all. But this hit me hard. Trying to pass a few stray tears off as bleary-eyed tiredness, I realised this was the saddest I had ever felt over the death of someone I didn’t know. I was genuinely devastated. I found myself doing solemn hotdog impressions to everyone I had contact with for the rest of the day. A lady in Starbucks thought I was having a stroke.

I think it’s because he reminded me of my dad. I’m sure he reminded a lot of people of their dads. Williams was a big, hairy, feverish ball of energy. He was a shape shifter, jumping franticly from comedy to drama to thriller and back again with such ease.

What we failed to notice was the darkness that was surrounding him. Or rather, just how close it loomed in recent years. His lifelong demons were public knowledge and very occasionally we captured rare glimpses that there may have been something wrong, which are more informed with hindsight. It is terribly sad and, as always with mental health and addiction, it is misunderstood.

I have young, vague and unwanted recollections of seeing depression and an ongoing view into addiction that never ceases to be heartbreaking and infuriating all at once. It is crippling for everyone involved, and sometimes there’s no solution: sometimes therapy just doesn’t work. Narrow-minded people will blame Williams for his “selfish” addiction and, subsequently, his “selfish” death. But those people are wrong, and severely misinformed, and have a very two dimensional view of this situation. Both depression and addiction are sly and sneaky illnesses. They circle the confines of your mind; they feed of off fear and sadness and anxiety, getting bigger and stronger and, ultimately, they know the right time to pounce. Both change you into a person you don’t know or recognise. But as someone who has seen addiction up close, I know that it does not make you a bad person. Addiction takes you away, and replaces you with one of the most dangerous versions of yourself. But it’s not really you.

I obviously did not know Robin Williams – I doubt many people really did. His experiences of these things are probably very different to what I know of it. Depression and addiction come in all shapes and sizes. To me, it seems insane for people to comment on the circumstances of his death without really knowing anything about it. Which is why I’m inclined to say that everyone should focus on his life, rather than his death, like his widow Susan Schneider asked from his fans this morning.

So whether it’s having a food fight, rolling a five or an eight, setting your tits on fire (don’t set your tits on fire), farting in a tin, putting your face in a cake, going to see about a girl or sounding a barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world, do whatever you want to remember the man that changed the world of comedy for the better. When I think of Robin Williams, I think of an awesome childhood. I hope that wherever he is now, he is happy. O Captain, my Captain.


The Day Queen Shattered My Dreams

On Wednesday afternoon I received a fantastic piece of news. I was told that the rock band Queen were going to be officially opening the new, improved and unashamedly sexy Reading train station on Thursday morning. So, as a BIG Queen fan and an even BIGGER John Deacon fan (Freddie who?!?! Am I right or am I right? (I am right)), I decided to run down to the station the following morning in the hopes of seeing them perform a few of the classics. As I stood in the 30 degree heat for 45 minutes next to a child that insisted on throwing his half-full Ribena carton repeatedly at my head, it became obvious that the band were a no show. I was as upset as the kid; I was throwing metaphorical juice boxes at everyone’s head. Then, just as I thought things couldn’t get any worse, an elderly lady appeared in the space reserved for my favourite band. Everyone was staring. I could feel the frustration of the crowd as she began bumbling around, and I took it upon myself to speak up on behalf of the people of Reading. I shouted to the OAP “HEY LADY, GET OUT OF THE WAY WE’RE WAITING FOR QUEEN”, and at first I don’t think she could hear me, but after the third time she was helped into her vehicle by a nice, well dressed chap, probably from her nursing home, and driven away. A disappointing day overall.

The old lady

The crazy old coot


Go To Prague If You Enjoy Things That You Probably Shouldn’t

Great news: as of last month I am back in employment. That means after three months of travelling the world, exploring vast regions and cultures, facing all my ridiculous fears by scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef, paragliding off a very big hill and pooing in a public toilet, discovering myself through some of the best times of my life as well as the very dark time, I have now returned to my old place of work. Only I’m in a worse position with longer hours and shittier pay. So hooray for me.

A month or so ago, my boyf and I took a little holiday to Prague. It was nice and I would recommend it to anyone; except the easily offended and people who don’t enjoy drinking beer, astronomical clocks, sadomasochistic sex, extreme pain and more beer.

My initial reaction was that Prague has the cleanest, most civilised sex shops I’ve ever been in. There’s no fucking about in these sex shops. No one goes in there to guffaw at a butt plug. You get the feeling it’s not some dirty little secret to the Czechs – they practically skip through the entrance and grab a trolley as the shop bell gaily tinkles as if to say “it’s 10am and I’m ready for something in my arse!!”

The trolley thing took me by surprise. Erotic City is obviously based on the Supermarket Sweep era of shop design. It’s clean and neat and all the shop assistants still have mullets. There are even inflatables you can pick up along the way. Unfortunately, though, shopper are not encouraged to run through the isles, following sexual riddles and filling their trolley with as many nipple clamps as possible in a minute to win a cash prize or a top-of-the-range cassette player.

Erotic City sounds daunting. A whole city of erotica? I mean, I’m as sexual as the next sexual person, you know. I’ve watched Eurotrash. I’ve read most of Fanny Hill. I’ve drank through a willy straw at a hen party. Yet not even I could handle a whole city of erotica. Jeez Prague, chill your tits. Can’t we just have an Erotic Village? Erotic Hamlet even?

There are many beautiful things to look at in Prague. There’s that astronomical clock and stuff. But there are much more fucked up things to go and look at, and that’s way more fun. Upon visiting the sex machine museum and the medieval torture museum, I was unsure whether I had in fact just made a U-turn and walked straight back into the same building. It’s kind of terrifying how similar they are. Or exciting, depending on how messed up you like your bedroom activities to be. I recommend both if you enjoy feeling uncomfortable around total strangers.

The sex museum features a tiny erotic cinema where you can go and find out what it feels like to be a 1920s Pee-Wee Herman.  Although not always clear what was happening, I decided that this pornography was probably Prohibition Era porn. It felt like the couple in question had spent all night at a speak-easy and returned to her boudoir for a bit of fun, but hadn’t expected how much the moonshine was to affect their motor skills. It was awkward; there was a lot of falling over, a lot of nonsensical experimentation, and a lot of bored expressions. But I had to hand it to them, it was realistic.

The Medieval Torture museum presented to us an equal amount of humiliation, leather and boobs as the Sex Museum except that, worryingly, there were far more men failing to cover their awkward boners in the torture museum.

One device made me feel something that I imagine is the female equivalent of a man watching another man getting kicked in the testicles. It’s called the Judas Cradle, and it looks like this:


The unfortunate culprit was placed upon the wooden prism and then weights would be attached to their feet until…  gross stuff happened. Another medieval favourite was the Two-Man Saw…

medieval saw

… where the accused would be hung upside down by their ankles as two people would take a gigantic saw and merrily cut the poor sod in half as a nice Sunday bonding activity.

Shit the bed, these guys must have done something pretty messed up the get themselves sliced down the middle by these two dapper young gentlemen, right? RIGHT?

‘Fraid not, compadre. A homeless man was given death by sawing because he PREDICTED A STORM. A woman was impaled on the Judas Cradle because she was a QUARRELSOME GOSSIP and MIGHT have been a witch.


Just for ease, I have compiled a list of people that, if we were to exist under Medieval ruling, would most certainly be killed:

1. Everyone.

Seriously, everybody would be done for. Take me, for example. I bloody love a good gossip. I would have been dead aaaaaages ago. And I’d be taking every single writer of Heat Magazine down with me. You couldn’t swing a gossip mag without being hunted down and impaled until dead. For example, other sinners include, but are not limited to:

Weathermen: DEAD for predicting storms

The inventor of those microwavable lavender neck pillows: DEAD for witchcraft

All of the Loose Women: DEAD for being quarrelsome old women and gossips

Steve Jobs: DEAD for wizardry

Your mum: DEAD for saying it might rain later

Your grandad: DEAD for saying on the day before your birthday “I think someone’s going to get a birthday present tomorrow!” and therefore PREDICTING THE FUTURE

Pharmacists: DEAD for selling you Lemsips and thus WITCHCRAFT and WIZADRY

It is slightly baffling that no one is looking at the inventor of the Judas Cradle and questioning that SOB. Why wasn’t anyone looking at the contraption and saying “so you have made a stool… that bad people sit on… and then it goes straight up there… into their nether-regions… until it impales them and they die? Right, right. I see where you’re coming from, Geoff, but… don’t you think that’s a little weird bro? Really? Not cool, man. I’m out.” What kind of fucked up Dragon’s Den was this guy a part of that, instead of throwing him in prison where he belongs, celebrates his weird contraption. And what was the selling point for the two-man saw, I wonder? I guess nothing says friendship and teamwork like looking into the eyes of your bestest broseph as the blood of a Gossiper smatters across your grinning lovey-dovey faces.

And so concludes our trip to Prague. If you require any further information on what Prague has to offer, why don’t you just go there yourself, you uncultured fucks.

My Week In TV

It is a staple in the diet of the unemployed to consume as much terrible television as possible. As an unemployed person with their fate in the hands of the recruitment agency gods, I have abided by the unemployment bible and consumed as much shit TV as I can this week. I am positively plump with awfulness which includes, but is not in any way limited to: Snog Marry Avoid, Benefits Street, The Undateables, Eastenders, and all daytime shows on E4, comprising mostly of some trollop called Revenge where everyone is rich and hiding a big secret and shagging each other, which is very similar to every other E4 drama.

When I decided to write a TV blog post, I thought, “I’m going to WATCH television like it’s my JOB”,and so every day I put on my uniform – pyjama bottoms, a hoodie, no bra and my duvet – and I’d watch TV like a drooling vegetable, making extensive notes like this:



Sometimes the TV even made me feel better. It reminded me that no matter how bad things get, it could always be worse. Case in point: What Happens in Sunny Beach…


Yeah, ok, so I haven’t had a proper need to brush my hair or wear pants for the past three weeks, but at least my mum won’t have to watch a fermented version of myself stumbling around on a beach, my breast breaking free from my bikini top as I choke on a pair of Cool Whip-slathered testicles for a free fishbowl.

I’m also very grateful that I am not one of the girls that has had sex with either of these total boner pups:

Having obviously skipped their sex ed classes to smoke paper round the back of the bike sheds and throw wet tampons at the bathroom ceiling, it comes as no surprise that these two “can’t do it” when it comes to condom etiquette. Look at the one on the right, he can’t even dress himself properly, poor git.

At one point some girl get completely naked on a bar for a competition. Now, this may be a sign of my age, but if there was anything that would put me off going into a bar it’s a girl slut dropping completely naked just inches away from my Woo Woo.

But to anyone that now feels infinitely depressed about our generation, I say: never fear, Gloria Steinem Y2K is here:



AKA Dr Drew’s Sex Rehab without Dr Drew or any effort to maintain abstinence.

Not content on Lee Ryan getting all the attention for being the biggest Fidiot (fucking idiot) in the Big Brother twatisphere are fellow BB bumholes, sex addict Luisa Zissman, and hat novice Dappy, who wears his creepy moustache like some kind of terrible lip-liner.


Dappy Constavavalanostos; musical skidmark and drug-dealing son of Disney’s Jafar, was arguing with Zissman mere hours before. But as if by some Big Brother MIRACLE they’re now getting along like a house of fire; licking each other’s nipples, shoving their crotches into each other’s faces and talking about sex and banging and blowjobs or something. I don’t know. The sexual frivolity all blurs into one big licentious blob in the end. Where’s Lionel Blair’s shower tossjob? That’s my question.

Lee Ryan’s stint in the big brother house has not been bad for everyone involved, it would seem. Fellow boyband derp Duncan James – also known as the only man to occupy every grade of the Kinsey scale depending on how much media coverage he’s receiving – has been back allowed into several Z-lister clubs with Lee’s omelette-whisking companion, Masterchef Jasmine Waltz.

Duncan has described the accusations that he and Lee had some sort of romantic tryst during their time in Blue as “laughable”. I wouldn’t quite say that they were laughable myself, considering that Lee has admitted to experimenting with men and Duncan has the ability to switch to Kinsey Six when needs be.


The Voice was another show I enjoyed this week, but not because of all this singing and life-changing bollocks. My favourite part of The Voice is watching new co-host Marvyn Humes’ utterly insincere begs for a chair spin to the judges whilst standing awkwardly with the families of the musical hopefuls. He seems wholly uncomfortable and unnatural in his role as a male cheerleader. Watch this:

Or, if you can’t be bothered to watch my badly put together Marvyn Montage, watch this Marvyn vine, which is just as poorly done but much shorter.

I also watched the news. The news is rarely quite so comedic, but when THIS story came to light…

….it was hard not to laugh, but in a disbelieving and frustrated way; the kind I do when trying to help my mum send an email.  

This old todger believes that the UK storms and floods were caused by gay people being happy and marrying each other. Apparently the letter containing David Silvester’s pious plop and monochromatic view of the world was delivered to David Cameron in April 2012, probably by carrier pigeon or telegram. Mr Silvester said that he predicted severe weather conditions were due to occur when same-sex marriage was to be legalised. I wonder if he predicted the massive shit storm caused by such a homophobic forecast, too.

Also Justin Bieber was arrested for drink-drag racing but no one gives a shit.

Game of Thrones is Very Misleading.

When I heard that season four of Game of Thrones was coming to our telly-boxes real soon, I was all like Jeeeesus, how much of this shit can people take? Surely even Celebrity Big Brother is better than GOT (as seasoned Throner Boners call it), and that’s just a bunch of big-titted idiots bumping uglies with the UK’s most braindead boyband has-been. That’s until I found out that I’d got it completely wrong, and Game Of Thrones was not in fact an extremely elaborate and expensive game of musical chairs in which participants dance to medieval music, and the one who doesn’t get a throne when the music stops must remove all their clothes and wait for Peter Dinklage. It’s a real TV drama*.





*I have not watched Game of Thrones.

Suck It, Starbucks.

As my mum has decided to return to the Dark Ages and get rid of her internet for a while I have no choice but to find public places to do my blogs/look at Facebook. You may be thinking that I don’t need the internet to write these blogs, but you would be wrong – how else am I supposed to procrastinate and be late posting every week?

It’s hard to choose which place is the least cliché to work in. The answer is: there is nowhere that is the least cliché. Wherever you go, you are sat with your laptop in public, looking like a massive attention seeker. And writing a blog doesn’t make it any easier – the only way my public life could take more of a hipster turn is if I took a selfie whilst wearing my ultra-fashionable glasses and GEEK tee, my laptop and maybe a healthy salad lurking somewhere in the background; uploaded it to Instagram with the following caption: NEW BLOG POST, YO #salad #yolo #creative #lifeofablogger. However this would never happen because I could never afford a Mac; instead possessing the crumbiest HP mini on which the keys don’t work properly and the battery falls off if not supported correctly.

Today I have gone with Starbucks. I have outstayed my welcome in Costa the past couple of days. Now the only other place I can take shelter is the library, which smells like moth balls and unwashed charity shop clothes; or a pub which, at this time of day (2.15pm) is full of lonely alcoholics who either threaten to take you on a date or threaten to take you outside and stab you in the vagina as they flop, inebriated, onto your tabletop.

Sometimes these blogs take me a while to write. Mostly because half of the time is spent watching episodes of Breaking Bad on Netflix. So in order to be in a coffee shop without getting asked to leave I need a constant stream of beverages that aren’t just my usual tap water. So since becoming a key member of the LOOK-AT-ME-I-WRITE-IN-STARBUCKS club, I’ve been expanding my coffee horizons. The downside of trying lots of different coffees is that I usually end up walking a very fine line of having very intense writing sessions and a hyperactive personality disorder.

The worst time of day to be caught in Starbucks is around 3.30pm. You know school’s out when it stops smelling like coffee and the room becomes overwhelmed with the scent of about twenty different impulse body sprays. A typical GSCE “study sesh” by students from the local grammar schools consists of a five minute debate on Lord of the Flies, then two hours eagerly discussing last night’s Made In Chelsea, awkward boners, blowies, boob-grabs and the “Diet Coke Diet” (a can o’ coke morning noon and night, coffee as a treat, and a Babybel after P.E if one is feeling a little woozy – probably to help replace all those calories lost from standing around and TALKING during netball practice (burn!)).  When I was their age, I was still getting stuck in the baby swing at my local park, drinking copious amounts Sunny D and reluctantly making the transition from vest to bras (late bloomer). Now kids buy coffee and chai tea and shop at Victoria’s Secret and give blowies? What the eff! Mixing sex talk with a social commentary of “William Golding’s, like, total masterpiece, basically”? It’s like being in a room full of slutty Matildas.

However, when I’m on my seventh hour and millionth caramel latte, and the dark roast smell begins to mingle and react with the hairspray and Lynx Africa in the air, it begins to cloud my brain and my other personality comes out; hyper and manic. It suddenly becomes very hard to resist flicking all my hair over to one side and bounding over to them like an awkward bull in the most pretentious china shop, squealing “Oh my GOD you guys I love Lord of the Flies when I was in school I didn’t even know what a conch was I didn’t do well in my GSCE’s HEY GUYS do you like One Direction? You know the popular boy band? Do you like their songs because I like all of them especially the one about being beautiful or the one about being so fat you can’t fit in your jeans – you guys like Harry? Yeah you like Harry! Do you have Instagram? I’ll add you! Yeah I’ve had sex before” but I don’t know what stops me more: looking like Starbucks’ resident paedophile or shitting my pants from all the excitement.

Instead I do not take my eyes off my laptop – not because I’m too busy writing, but because I don’t want to make eye contact with anyone else in there. I just can’t accept that acknowledging nod from the guy in the thick-rimmed glasses with the Airbook that says “K’aw, look at us writers, hey! NO LOOK AT US. WE’RE BOTH WRITERS. LOOK AT ME – I’M WRITING MY NOVEL DEBUT”, because it means I will have to admit the dire position I’m in right now. Of course we’re not both writers. We don’t get paid for this! I’m paying for a muffin in coppers for Christ’s sake! We’re just unemployed dreamers who like to pretend that we gonna make it real big one day. And the only thing worse that admitting I’m writing a novel in Starbucks is admitting that I’m writing a blog, which requires much less commitment. I have no qualms in raising my voice to him over the hum of Starbucks’ Jazz Café CD to let him know: “WE’RE NOT THE SAME! I’M ONLY HERE BECAUSE I STILL LIVE WITH MY MOTHER AT 23 AND SHE WON’T BUY ME ANY MORE INTERNETS!” Because I would feel less ashamed to do that. See, I like to do my writin’ and my dreamin’ from the comfort of my darkened bedroom. At least there I don’t have this bitch prizing the last five pounds out of my barren purse for a fucking jaffa cake:


 Go suck a dick, siren.

Paranoid Activity: THE PITCH

What if Paranormal Activity wasn’t called Paranormal Activity but Paranoid Activity, and Katie and Micah’s house wasn’t really haunted they just think it’s haunted because they’re all edgy from smoking too much dope, and Katie is all like “OH MY CHRIST WHO OPENED ALL THESE CUPBOARDS IN THE KITCHEN?!?!?” but it was just her because she got the midnight munchies and decided to make a ketchup sandwich.


2013: The Year I Earned An Assload Of Cash And Spunked It All Over The World.

If I wrote down everything I’ve done this year, it would fill at LEAST half an A4 piece of paper. So in the spirit of New Year’s reflection, here’s my year in a nutshell.


Wined And Dined


Made New Friends


And also, a big shout out to this guy…


…Who I would like to add was NOT dead.

Momentarily Changed Race



My Immune System Is Against Me.

They say travelling makes or breaks you. Well, my trip definitely broke me before it did anything else. Ten weeks in Thailand, Singapore, Australia, New Zealand and Dubai was a journey of self discovery; and the main discovery was that my body hates me and everything I like eating. As of now, I can no longer consume:

-          Bread

-          Pasta

-          Cake

-          Pastry

-          Beer

-          Crackers

-          Crisps

-          Chips

-          Soup

Basically all the fun foods. I am now that person that I hate in restaurants that asks for all sauces on the side and will only eat the croutons in the salad if they are gluten-free croutons. And y’know what really pisses me off about gluten-free food? You have to pay more for it! A gluten allergy is not a cheap allergy, let me tell you. It’s an allergy for rich people. It’s probably what made King Henry VIII look so fat. Why do I have pay £2.50 extra for my Pizza Express pizza when it’s got less ingredients in than everyone else’s pizza?! Why have I got to pay double for a ham sandwich in Asda that’s like eating a slice of water-logged pig skin between two pieces of cork? I have been robbed of my gluten and I’m giving more money? It makes no sense.

After 3 days of eating absolutely nothing but still looking nine months pregnant, I took a little outing to Byron Bay hospital (because it was free, not because I was being melodramatic) to see if they could make me look less with-child. They could not help. In fact, what they did do was pretty much the opposite of helping.

They made me pee in a polystyrene cup which was then passed around and looked at by everyone in the hospital; not all of them doctors – I’m pretty sure I saw some janitors and receptionists having a good ol’ ganders. I was put in a cubicle next to a large group of ‘ard-looking lads who had been in a punch up, and was asked the following questions:

“Have you been pooing a lot?”

“Have you been farting?”

“You’ve been throwing up everywhere, yes?”

“If I poke your tummy here, do you feel like you need to go for a poo?”

The volume in the ward just did not justify the doctor asking me these questions in such a loud voice. The boys next door had stopped comparing war stories to listen to my tummy trubbz. It was worse than the medical centre in Koh Samui, where the doctor wore socks with sandals and had no teeth. I left with $26 worth of useless medicine and my dignity in a polystyrene cup.

I also found out the gross way that I have some sort of allergy to mosquito bites.



I’m Also Allergic To THE SUN.

ImageHey there, good lookin’

This happened in Phi Phi, Thailand after a looong day sunbathing. Too long, some might say. My friends tried to make me feel better by telling me that it wasn’t that bad, and that if it’s any consolation, I look a little bit like a cat.

Dumbest cat ever.

I’m A Closet Tourist-Photograph Whore.

Here’s a picture of a nice building that I took:


I then took a picture of this building ELEVEN MORE TIMES. ELEVEN PICTURES OF ONE BUILDING. I don’t even know what that building is! As important as you feel it is to take a million pictures of the same thing – just in case you forget what it looks like when you take a couple of steps to the left or whatever – just don’t bother. One is sufficient. Sometimes none is sufficient. I took a picture of this placemat one evening at dinner:


Completely unnecessary picture that says fuck all about my trip. Believe me, no one can be bothered with that. No one wants to sit and look through your placemat pictures. Not even your mum.

I’m Still Terrified Of Everything.

Especially heights. But I did face my fear doing this stupid paraglide. This picture expresses how I feel about altitudes of the high variety:


And so 2013 is over. I’m particularly looking forward to 2014, mostly because I like writing the number 4 (my 3s are abysmal; similar to what how a child would draw a 3 when copying The Magic Pencil for the first time). However, with the cold I have at the moment I will be bringing in the New Year looking less like this…


… And more like this.



See you on the flip side, boners.




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Things I Learnt At School: Part One.

As exam time looms close once again for all year elevens – which I only know about because there’s constantly students bitching and moaning about it on the radio – it dawned on me: it’s been six years since I left school. That makes me feel old.

I hated school, because it was shit. But it taught me a lot. Not the lessons obvs, because I swear half my teachers were in some sort of probation programme. No, school taught me a lot about LIFE. It made me the woman I am today: neurotic and overly defensive. Here are some important things school taught me.

1. Pretty Much Everyone Hated Me

This is, of course, apart from a few people in my year who didn’t even know who I was. On my last day of school, all the leavers congregated in the assembly hall to scrawl noncommittal goodbyes and erect penises on each other’s school jumpers. I stood next to my friend as she got her t shirt signed by some guy in my year who didn’t know how to spell ‘good luck’. When he was done my friend said “Are you going to sign Pascale’s jumper?” and he was all like “Who?”

Who? WHO?! Oh, just the person who you’ve been throwing pencils at in maths for the past six years, you dickhole!

But apart from those guys, I was pretty hated. Not like pantomime villain hated, just a hate that comes from being wholly uncool – I could always sense everyone’s eye-rolls every time I spoke. It was my fault though. You see, instead of going outside and playing with my friends, I spent the majority of my childhood trying to eat copious amounts of Wotsits without my mum noticing whilst watching comedy shows that were way too grown up for me. The jokes I understood were few and far between, and I mostly just laughed if my dad did. I would then try and fit these jokes into conversations at school; consequently they made very little sense. As a result it made me quite unpopular. Did I stop? Fuck no! I carried on quoting The Man with Two Brains like there was no tomorrow! In later years I watched too much 3rd Rock from the Sun, and spent a lot of time trying to become Sally. Unfortunately this character only works in a fictional, comedic setting where there’s no risk of getting punched repeatedly in the boob in the woods behind your house and having Bubbaloo spat into your hair. Of course the whole being fat thing didn’t help either. Basically in terms of popularity, I was probably just above that girl who was rumoured to have shoved a carrot up her vagina (every school’s got one!).

2. Religious Education Teachers Make Their Living From VHS Players and Word Searches

No matter what anyone who works for Currys will tell you, VHS players will never be a dead technology whilst Religious Education teachers exist. R.E classes thrive solely on morally conscious tapes from the eighties and poorly constructed word puzzles. I must have seen If These Walls Could Talk at least ten times. (Hey, Demi Moore! You want me to take abortion seriously? Don’t cast Cher as a doctor, you fool!) And when they can’t seem to get the VHS player to work with the television – which is about 60% of the time – they switch to their only contingency plan: word searches.

Whoever thought it was a good idea to teach Religious Education at public schools did not think that one through. You are preaching entirely to the wrong choir. You think a classroom full of pierced bellybuttons and awkward boners want to complete an overtly religious word puzzle for the next hour? Do you think it’s going to teach them something? No! They will spend the first half hour trying desperately to find the word TITS, and the subsequent half hour shouting repeatedly that they’ve found TITS whilst bashing their heads against the table like the Neanderthals that they are. You know what, just go find the IT guy who knows how to work an ‘80s Sylvania and put A Distant Thunder on for the millionth time this year. Please.

3. Geeks Will Be Geeks

Geeks don’t change. Since the beginning of time there has been a set stereotype that always has and always will be conformed to, for some unknown reason. There are plenty of things that these geeks could do to help themselves, like:

  1. Carrying tissues, so that when they sneeze, all their snot goes there instead of the palm of their hand, the door handle and their pockets (in that order).
  2. Shave off that ridiculous whispy moustache – from a distance no one can tell whether it’s just a nose-shadow, or dirt.
  3. Buy trousers that don’t make you look like you’ve got a mum ass.
  4. Stop being a breeding ground for head lice.

You will usually find these people are now running the internet, in prison because of botched revenge plots or living life like Dustin Diamond.

4. Netball Is An Opportunity For Bitchez To Get SASSY

Netball is probably the only sport that girls don’t use their periods to get out of. If anything I swear netball teams sync up their periods for matches and use the sheer amount of oestrogen as a weapon. There’s something about netball that makes girls go fucking crazy. They take that shit so seriously!

Now, this is where I suspect a bit of my unpopularity came from. As with everything, netball has a distinct hierarchy: the best people were in the centre, and the further out you were, the worse you were at throwing, catching, shouting, and generally being a team player. For example, the two Centres would be poised on the circle centre court, ready to snatch that ball and looking into each other’s eyes the way Ernest Hemingway taught us to look at a charging rhino: WITH NO FEAR. Then a bit further out there would be Wing Attack, who would chat happily with Wing Defence until shit got real – then they had no qualms in using their arses as battering rams to push each other out of court and would lean so far forward over the goal circle that they looked like human right angles.

Then there was me: Goal Defence. Just happy that I wasn’t Goal Keeper (who had usually fucked off mid-match to have a spliff). I was always put in goal defence because I was tall, but that was about the only thing working in my favour. I had the reflexes of a sloth and as about as much dexterity as a newborn baby. And I fucking HATE things flying at my face. So I’d be messing around with my GD bib, turning it into a boob tube, eating skittles, adjusting my thermal vest, and before I knew it there would be a ball heading straight towards my noggin. I would mostly just smack it away with the palm of my hand out of shock, which – especially in winter – really fucking hurt. Sometimes I would catch it, which would be followed by simultaneous squawks of “PASCALE!”, “HERE IF YOU NEED!” and “BEHIND!” It’s amazing how impatient people can get in those three seconds you’re allowed to hold that ball. I would get so confused and nervous that I would pass the ball to someone on the opposite team just to get rid of it. And I didn’t care, because I couldn’t give two shits about netball. But my GOD, did I piss some people off! And in that sense, I can see why people didn’t like me. The only thing I ever put any effort into during P.E was getting changed quickly enough so that the lesbian gym teacher (a staple of every school) didn’t burst in when I was wearing nothing but my thermals.