This Would Be More Glamorous If I Lived In New York City.


I have a female friend who is incredibly astute.

“That’s the problem with being female in a big city,” she said recently. “You’re always either hunting for an apartment, a job or a guy”.

Living in London is like living in the worst video game ever. You can’t pause, you don’t get a second chance and you never die. Just you and eight million other freaks aimlessly wandering this damp shitfest of a conurbation where the default setting is autonomic hyperactivity so high, there’s no way a discreet smile can be interpreted as anything other than life-menacing.


I didn’t realise they decorate the hamster wheel of compartmental destitution for Christmas. They do. In the really fucked up way that makes a rodent really excited because the bars of his cage got a fresh lick of paint. Hey! You! Don’t be hoodwinked into toying with the notion that your pathetic existence is meaningless and vapid. Look at all the things we have to offer! You can pay for your ride through tunnels of dust contactlessly. You get nectar points. Everything you drink is about to taste a hundred times better because WE JUST STARTED POURING EVERYTHING INTO CUPS THAT ARE RED!

The world also just got infinitely more exciting because Samsung have brought out a “notebook” that spontaneously combusts as its way of telling you it’s fully charged and also, what the fuck?

I’m a writer.

We have two tools we can exclusively call our own. Notebooks and pens. We’ve been around for thousands of years. Ten minutes, you’ve been on the scene and you’ve already violated the very elements that constitute us. Now everyone is a “writer”. I see them, polluting my headspace with their toffee nut proliteriat while I cling mercilessly on to my one remaining pleasure. Writing on 22×7 squared Clairefontaine notebooks with a brushed vellum paper weight of 90g/m².

Now I’m both angry and sad because the fancy pink grapefruit I bought to cheer myself up was rubbish so I’m going to go enter my customer receipt survey on the Waitrose website for the chance to win £500 in vouchers that can never ever happen because my postcode is too bourgeois.

Didn’t I Just Talk About Owning Less Stuff? In Which I Buy More Stuff, I Guess.


Really, Sports Direct?

Forget your abysmal pay scandal. I had one iota of respect left for you. And now I’ve lost it. I’d delve into one of your giant mugs to find it, but hey, we’re dealing with your merchandise here, so apparently.. fuck it, right?

Cutaway public service announcement here for all budding retail thieves. Those giant need an industrial strength magnet to remove me anti-theft tags they stick on things as an incentive for you people to actually pay for your shit? Don’t trouble yourself perfecting the art of removing them on live ammunition in-store.  Just order from Sports Direct. They’ll deliver it right to your door, tag intact.

Really, it’s a great look. Nice striped Quicksilver hoodie. I can rock the bad girl look on a good day. This thing, though? I look like I’m under fucking house arrest. To be fair. Buying knockdown price high street sportswear online. On a weekday afternoon. From Sports Direct. I may as well be on actual house arrest. Violating my parole, spending my unlawfully-claimed benefits money while my children eat frozen potato smilies from Iceland and it doesn’t matter that ketchup just went up in price because the Jeremy Kyle Show Aftercare Team will help me with my traumas.

Really fucked off they had to pick the Quicksilver to mess up. Really? Of all the crap I bought, you had to chav out the most bourgeois item of them all? You couldn’t have just played along and stuck the tag on something more Londsdaley? Solid one star for effort, there.

This part you should be especially proud of yourselves for, though. Of course I’m going to email and complain. I don’t want a hoodie with a security tag I can’t remove. I want you to send me a replacement and a stamped addressed returns pouch so I can take your shitty customer service and post it right back to your thick-skulled heads.

The customer is king. Golden rule, right? How about a little pride in your product, though? I mean we all know it’s fall apart shit held together by whatever chemical formula you get when you mix child sweatshop tears with council estates, so it’s not like I’m expecting a product with an actual worth above £0.08, but, I don’t know, couldn’t you at least pretend?

Dear Rebecca, as a gesture of goodwill, we will refund the original postage & packing cost. Regards, Angel, Sports Direct Customer Service.

Dear Angel, many thanks for organising the dispatch and delivery of the replacement item. I have received it. I have not however received any returns pouch or envelope with which to deliver the faulty item back to you. Could you please send one? Regards, Rebecca.

Dear Rebecca, I can confirm you may dispose of the item. Regards, Angel.

Congratulations, Sports Direct. You’ve literally now confirmed your merchandise, even “higher end” to be de facto worthless.

I should organise knitting workshops. In young offenders institutions. £0.08/hr. The outcome would be of greater value than the contents of your shelves.

Ooh, look. An email from Sports Direct. They have a sale on!