commuting is crap
commuting brings out the very worst in people. there is a sort of madness that descends on that daily schlep to and from work. if i leave the house about 15 minutes before i really need to, my journey is not too bad. sometimes i can even sit down the whole way! sadly, human beings are not sensible and the snooze button on my alarm is a constant temptation. so i generally leave on time. and that’s the big mistake… to leave at exactly the right time to get to the office at 9am. oh my god! who knew such rudeness could even be thought of at that time of the morning.
everyone seems to think that they are a gift to the world of work and that somehow they would be missed (or even remembered) when they arrive 30 seconds late. this leads people to the very precipice of insanity. as if pushing on to the train that is belching people off onto the platforms, is going to somehow speed things up. that as soon as his or her royal highness has got on, the train will slam the doors closed and speed them to their destination without stopping at another station.
then there are those who seem to be oblivious to the fact that they are standing on your foot. how can you not notice that you are standing on my foot! and then when you pull your foot out from under their hoof and go “ow”, they either look at you as if you’ve gone completely barking or give you that look that says “how could you inconvenience me by jamming your foot under mine?”
then there are those who are all too aware of where they’re shoving their body parts. i always have my bag strap across my chest, with the bag itself firmly covering my girl bits. we run the risk of pregnancy and venereal disease with every journey. what is it about wht, wandering hand trouble, that has made men believe that it is acceptable in any way at all. are they not in control of their extremities in the same way as we are? do they imagine we like it!? females traveling on the tube should be issued with handcuffs and there should be special wht rails in every carriage. what a fine collection of pervs we’d have by the end of rush hour.
there is an urge to be individual and assert your unique and special personality at all times but it is not recommended while commuting. one sassy sex kitten can hold up the flow of traffic for hours. put your clothes on girl and get with the programme.
and on a final note, and i’ll probably get a deluge, well maybe one, of letters of complaint, please please please invest in some toiletries. a roll-on deodorant costs less than a kebab and will save you having a pong that a skunk would be proud of. thank you.
off to catch the tube…
ps no tube today or thursday due to national strikes… commuting is crap
tell me why, i don’t like mondays
since starting a proper job, almost three weeks ago (!), i’ve noticed something odd about the days of the week. they have taken on certain significances that are very different to the ones of a professional diva.
mondays are filled with dread and loathing, mingled with deep regret at having spent the precious weekend lolling in front of the telly box.
tuesdays are hideous mood swings. between feeling lucky at having an actual job and wanting to jump out of the nearest window.
wednesday midday. the optimists are feeling smug that half the week is gone. the pessimists are reaching for the vodka due to the indisputable fact that half the week is still to come.
thursdays.
ugh.
almost there but still a long way to go. a mistake on thursday could mean a weekend spoiled.
or (blessed are the optimists) that there’s tomorrow to fix it.
friday.
friday,friday,friday.
how we love friday. friday is the day when you turn round and say ” what the fuck. it can’t possibly be worse by monday”
“two days off”
“at last”
breathe
slow down
friday evening…
don’t fall asleep… or you might not wake up until monday. enjoy.
enjoy!
fucking enjoy!!!!!
saturday.
oh. my. god.
two days off.
why the fuck am i awake at 6.30am?
bugger
sunday.
peaceful sunday… shit work tomorrow…what time is it? sunday movies. what time does the last one fini…sh..shhhh
shit!
monday!
*@$#!!*#@$!%$@#$$!##@$$@#
have you missed me?
i’ve been off in the land of tech and implementing other people’s blogs and fixing my own grown-up one. and i have neglected my 4 and a half readers here at bad mathematics. loyalty doesn’t exist in the fast moving world of blogs. one day you’re in and the next, you’re out (in the immortal words of heidi klum)! so what’s been happening in the world of the bad mathematicians? summer is over and the gloom of the economic crisis has hit the band pretty hard. not least because we are unable to afford our favorite rehearsal brand of whisky. an essential component of a good old knees-up. but all is not lost… a cheap alternative, while very uncool, helps ease the pain of being unable (and unwilling) to fork out 18 euros for the bog standard brand we have grown to associate with the band. on the bright side, we are getting together every week and are recording our jam sessions. we are also planning on having some “come down to the studio and act all enthusiastic in the background” sessions. check back soon for details…
silly, silly people
i am rather shocked today. i was innocently surfing about (wishing there was some actual sea involved) and came across several lists of stupid 999 calls and, of course, i immediately wanted to share this idiocy with my six readers. so here we go with my top ten in no particular order.
Caller: My wife’s left me two salmon sandwiches which was left over from last night… and I’m a sat in the chair here and she’s out there decorating. She won’t put any food on or anything for anybody, I don’t know what….
Caller: Hello… I know this is gonna sound stupid but a pigeon’s been run over… and I’ve got no money to phone the RSPCA or anything…
Caller: I want to know what year the internet first came out I can’t remember.
Caller: Hi. I’m next to the M32, city centre… there’s an M32 city centre sign. Can you inform Animal Rescue that there’s a grey squirrel with no hazelnut trees please.”
Caller: The emergency is… I am at Lockleaze… and I would like to get home…
Caller: There’s no emergency except that there are no buses in Crow Lane…
Caller: Well, I don’t know who to call. Can you tell me how to cook a turkey? I?ve never cooked one before.
Caller: I’m in Huntingdon, looking for Homebase and I can’t find it.
Caller: “I’ve dropped the remote down the back of the settee and I need someone to change the television channel.”
Caller:“I’ve had a dream that I was unconscious and I’ve just collapsed.”
while it’s generally very amusing to poke fun at the foolishness of people, i am disturbed that people with genuine emergencies often complain about not being able to get through to 999. what am i supposed to do next time there’s a spider in the bath?
stupid baby names
it’s been a while since i wrote any nonsense here and much has happened in the world. not that i noticed while it was happening. the big news was that chelsea clinton got married to some bod called marc. no idea when mark came to be spelled with a “c” or when it became acceptable to name your child after an area in london but there you go. people are strange. in other celebrity news, alicia keys married someone called swizz beatz and now we have a silly name competition on our hands. the prize used to be held by the artist formally known as prince who became this unpronounceable symbol
jordan and peter andre called their daughter princess tiaamii, poor child. life is hard enough for kids without inflicting ridiculous names on them too. but they didn’t start this cutesy nauseating trend. bob geldof and paula yates should be held partly accountable for fifi trixibell (and paula again for heavenly hiraani tiger lily with michael hutchence) but they are not the worst offenders. here’s my list of the worst of the worst:
shannyn sossamon (i had to look up who the hell she was!) called her boy, audio science.
geri halliwell settled on blue angel for her girl? boy?
arthur ashe’s boy(?) is called camera.
david duchovny and tea leoni skipped the thinking up names bit and went straight for kyd.
jermaine jackson continued the rampant insanity in the jackson family and called one of his kids jermajesty
but i think the prize has to go to mr frank zappa who cursed his children with the names moon unit, dweezil and diva muffin
i should point out that my name, cassi with an “i” is not to be included in this diatribe about silly names. it is a unique and rather beautiful name, befitting of a diva but if i was having to name a child these days, i’d go for something that would really stand out like george or mary. the naming equivalent of not having a tattoo or having real boobs.
what’s the silliest name you’ve heard?
having an open mind
i often pride myself on being open-minded but i came across this quote the other day and it got me thinking…
if you keep your mind sufficiently open, people will throw a lot of rubbish into it
william ornton
the dictionary defination of open-minded is being receptive to new and different ideas or the opinions of others. this can often be detrimental to one’s health especially mental. it means that you actually have to listen to the ideas and opinions of insane people before you make up your mind what you believe about the issue. if you’re an opinionated git, you can skip that step and just stumble blindly onwards, knowing that you are right, regardless of what other people think.
take your good old-fashioned racists. how simple life must be for them. black people are less than human and don’t count and should be gotten rid of. simple. they don’t even have to argue their case or listen to alternatives because their mind is made up and that’s that. same for creationists. flat earthers. alien conspiracy theorists and sarah palin. the bliss of ignorance.
if you are, and i’m sure you are because you are reading this, like me, undecided on some things, curious about other people, willing to change your mind, open to being proved wrong, you will have to suffer being inundated with off-the-wall, crazy, stupid, disgusting and sometimes, downright dangerous thoughts and ideas of others.
for example, i had to actually go (forced to you understand) and look into the flat earth society, to find out what they’re on about. This is from the Guardian interview with the president daniel shenton:
The Earth is flat, he argues, because it appears flat. The sun and moon are spherical, but much smaller than mainstream science says, and they rotate around a plane of the Earth, because they appear to do so.
Inevitably, Shenton’s argument forces him down all kinds of logical blind alleys – the non-existence of gravity, and his argument that most space exploration, and so the moon landings, are faked. But, while many flat Earthers have problems with the idea of orbiting satellites, Shenton navigates the London streets using GPS. He was also happy to fly from the US to Britain, but says an aircraft that flew over the Antarctic barrier would drop from the sky, and from the planet.
according to conspiracy theorists, man has not landed on the moon, aliens built the pyramids, paul mcartney died decades ago and was replaced by a look-alike, the jews/jesuits/(insert group of your choice) are planning to take over the world. and so on, ad infinitum.
advice for myself: stop surfing the internet looking at other opinions on issues (especially lunatic fringe and right-wing nutjob sites). they are bad for my health. start thinking nice thoughts about harmony and rainbows and everyone just getting along.
have a good weekend…
i’m turning into my mother
i know, i know, i’m far too young to be a parent but the truth is that certain indiscretions in my past resulted in an offspring who is now taller than i am. when this lunking teenager was born, i swore that i would be a cool mum. how could i not be? i’m in a rock and roll band for crying out loud. but the sad truth is that it’s easier said than done. much of the advice that my mother gave me was absolutely sound although at the time i thought she was a raving loon. and she only embarrassed me most of the time, not all. usually by simply being within 100 yards of me when i was with my cool friends.
so now it’s my turn to be the extremely unhip, embarrassing, stupid and irritating mum. i seem to manage to achieve this status on an alarmingly regular basis. yes, i am the sad old fogie that has to ask what that thing on my child’s neck is when it’s obviously a love bite. i’m the git that still asks whether teeth have been brushed when they obviously haven’t. i’m a fully paid up member of the “call the kid to find out when he’s coming home so that his friends can take the piss out of him” brigade.
i am pretty up to date with 21st century communication but have no idea what ///(0^^st. ////\\\\\\\\ means. (i made that one up but that’s what his friends facebook status updates look like). it’s my turn to cringe at the kid’s lack of vocabulary and swearing for every other word when he’s with his mates even though i have been known to curse like a bloody trooper. i also find myself rolling my eyes at his total incompetence in the kitchen. at his preening which doesn’t seem to include actually putting dirty clothes in the dirty clothes bin. at his attention to detail when it comes to how he looks and not to the enormous filthy elephant camped out in his bedroom.
yes. i am my mother. i have finally given up trying to be different. trying to win the “coolest mum on the planet” award. here is my list of stupid things that have come out of my mouth that i swore i would never say:
- i told you so
- is that a girl or a boy?
- if so and so told you to jump off a bridge, would you?
- what you need is a good hiding
- you’ve got the memory of a sieve
- because i said so
- just wait till your dad gets home
- we did have computers when i was your age
- what is he saying?
- you don’t know how lucky you are
- oh, you’ve always been like that
- are you really going out like that?
- how many times do i have to tell you?
- do you think money grows on trees?
- when you’ve left home and you’re earning your own money….
- when you start acting like a grown-up
and so on and so on. i’m not proud. i apologise to all kids for the stupid things that we say to you. but don’t blame us, blame your grandparents. you’ll find out this when you have your own children. or is that another cliché?
now go to bed!
how to beat writer's block
writer’s block is a real person.
he’s sitting on my desk right now, poking his tongue out at me. he thinks he’s cleverer than me by pointing out that everything i write has been written before only better. he cackles very loudly at my complete dependence on spell check and my blatant disregard for grammar. even the lack of capitals at the beginning of sentences is a source of endless amusement for mr. block. the problem with this unwanted guest is that he doesn’t seem to understand simple instructions like “go away” or “you’re not welcome here”. in fact, the more he hears those words, the more he digs his heels in.
one of the worst traits of wb is that he’s a frequent visitor. one of those annoying people who turn up unannounced on an alarmingly regular basis and declare that they’ll be staying “for a while”. you have no idea for how long. could be a few hours. a few days. forever? sometimes he brings along members of his family. uncle yousuck, auntie giveitup and cousin bigfatfail. and they all seem very content to set up camp in your living room and banter endlessly while you’re trying to “hahahaha she calls it writing!” work.
in a seemingly endless battle to keep this irritating little pest away, i find myself procrastinating, surfing nonsense on the internet and playing mafia wars. what i should be doing is writing the little bugger out of existence. there’s nothing writer’s block likes less than being ineffective. my muse (who shall remain nameless for now but she knows who she is ;-)) sent me a poem the other day. it’s not often you get a bit of real culture on this blog but i don’t think there’s any harm in it every now and then. you never know, it might even do you some good. it certainly did me.
if you lose your pen by ruth forman
and all you find is a broken pencil on the floor
and the pencil has no sharpener
and the sharpener is in the store
and your pocket has no moneyand if you look
again and all you find is a black Bic
and the Bic you need is greenand if it appears beneath the mattress of your couch
but the couch is dirty and suddenly you want to clean
beneath the pillows
but you have no vacuum and the vacuum is in the store
and your pocket has no moneyit is not your pen you are looking for
it is your tongue and those who speak with it
your grandmothers and doves and ebony spiders
hovering in the corners of your throatit is your tongue
and if you cannot find your tongue
do not go looking for the cat
you know you will not find her
she is in the neighbor’s kitchen eating Friskies
she is in the neighbor’s yard making loveif you cannot find your tongue do not look for it
for you are so busy looking it cannot find you
the doves are getting dizzy and your grandmothers annoyed
be still and let them find you
they will come when they are readyand when they are
it will not matter if your pockets are empty
if you write with a green Bic or a black Bic
or the blood of your finger
you will write
you will write
divalicious
thank you, shooshoofication, for today’s word: divalicious
as anyone who is anyone knows, the word was actually invented to describe me. and i was pleasantly surprised and rather flattered to see that it has made an entrance into the urban dictionary. i was, however, somewhat dismayed at the references to beyonce in relation to being divalicious. i will be contacting my lawyers, if they ever recover from their seemingly endless hangovers, in the very near future.
being divalicious is not as easy as you might think. much thought and endless pampering goes into this state of being. one does not wake up in the morning looking as fabulous as a hot fudge sundae. no, dear four readers (my goodness, this blog is getting popular!), i am old mature enough to admit to having risen from my bed looking as if i’ve been dragged through several hedges. backwards and forwards. on more than one occasion. as you ab fab fans will know already, it’s not easy to maintain a divalicious life when you don’t actually do what the peasants call “an honest days work”. vodka and fags don’t come cheap.
celebrities are always whining about the paparazzi who follow them around wherever they go. they should be thanking their lucky, lucky stars. imagine being the original fabulous diva, spending hours getting ready for a trip to the supermarket, opening the front door and finding not a single photographer or screaming fan lying in wait. how far the mighty fall. i blame the publicity department for this obvious and devastating case of extreme laziness. you’d think that they could find one national newspaper, or even a local rag, who would be interested in my rubbish bin.
on the one hand, i can honestly say that i do enjoy the fact that i can now leave the house in plastic flip-flops and tracky bottoms that are a tad short but i would appreciate a little interest when i’ve spent 5 hours and several thousand pounds on myself. is that too much to ask? i think not.
i leave you with the words of patsy stone, who sums up the problems faced by us divalicious beings, who have been cast aside for the younger, talentless, gaudy versions of everything we hold dear:
she tried to crowd surf and the tide went out
autopsy of a gig
the gig came and went way too fast and i have left it for a few days, as usual, to comment on it. i hate to write anything about what went down straight away. i’m usually too caught up in the emotion and adrenaline of the night to be coherent. i also don’t want to do an autopsy, as the title suggests, because it’s not particularly constructive to obsess over what could have been or should have been.
i’m happy about what we did and i think everyone who made it had fun and that’s what counts.
which brings me to my gripe…
why so few people ? our lovely friends and fans, who wade through hell and high water to get to many of our gigs (if not all, amazingly enough), are fabulous. i am still amazed by the strength of their support and i thank you for making it all worth it. other people had very good reasons why they couldn’t make it. and this rant is not about them.
what i am utterly pissed off about is that not one person came to after dark on the off chance of seeing a good band. i know we were competing against european music day (free concerts in virtually every main square in town) and it’s june and people are almost pathological about going inside in the summer but really…
is it too much to ask for a venue to actually advertise bands ? i don’t just mean us. i mean send out listings to magazines/newspapers/online. when i was touring years ago, our publicity department (one person) used to send out the press release and venues themselves would flood the city with advertising. isn’t it in the interests of the venue to get punters in? we do a pretty good job of selling ourselves about the place but i strongly believe that the reason why good bands fail here is because they are totally unsupported. venues judge you on who you can personally drag into your gig. i felt like saturday was a prime example. we were (probably) invited because it was a difficult night. if we’d got a big crowd there, we might have been given more saturdays in the future. right now, i think it’s more a case of “well, you didn’t get people there last time, so why should i put you on again. i’ll give you wednesday (a notoriously slow night).
i’m not asking for anything than i would expect any business person to do. it’s not like many venues are thriving! there are hardly any left.
but i don’t want to feel used. to fill in for your popular cover bands. or to bring in a few punters on a difficult night. or to be blamed for not succeeding, having worked hard to get a gig together.
i know we’re not cool. we’re not the next big five minute wonder. our music demands a little work on your part. you can’t just come to our gigs and have a few drinks, nod your head and feel like you had a brilliant night. we want to make you think. to listen to the words. to feel those moments when it feels like you’re going to fall off a cliff but somehow you don’t. but if you do, it’s into a thrilling freefall. our music is not for kids… or sheep.
having said that, we know how to have a fucking great time.
rant over for now.
we have to come up with new strategies. obviously free porn wasn’t enough to get people through the door… 😀
bugger
would you adam and eve it ? the management ™ has served me with some legal nonsense that i am supposed to respond to within the week ! you may read the full notice here at you have been served. i will be marching down to my lawyers office again today to see what can be done about this whole mess. i’m not sure i’ll get any joy out of either of them because i am reliably informed that they were out on the razz last night.
the most irritating thing about this whole issue is that we have a gig coming up very quickly (saturday june 19th at after dark) and i have a thousand and one things to do in preparation. manicures, haircuts, facials, full body waxing, botox and crash diets, don’t just magically happen. one has to work at it and as you know, i am between personal assistants at the present time. my personal trainer has gone awol again too. i think he got the hump when i threw my dumbbells at him. big baby.
not to mention, i have to go to bloody rehearsals now. you would think that after eight years of playing live, we wouldn’t need to practice so much! oh well, such is the life of a busy diva. i’ll just have to grin and bear it as usual.
and where’s that chauffeur when you need him? probably run off with the personal trainer. i always suspected they had a soft spot for each other.
bugger.