Meditate in my direction…

Image result for clouds at sunsetThere is no such thing as a Cloudy Sky.

There is a Sky…

and there are Clouds….

Our Minds are naturally pure in state and it’s this kind of visualisation that helps to separate the Mind from its Delusions.













Netflix and Chill

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Last night I ‘Netflixed and Chilled’. Not in the Urban Dictionary sense of the term…. I literally just watched Netflix and Chilled. On my own. In my bedroom. Eating banana and honey on toast. Sipping on a glass of ice cold milk. In a glass. Through a straw.

Scientific studies could prove that Reality TV destroys one braincell per minute, Soap Opera story lines have got completely out of hand (literally everybody is being murdered or getting pregnant by their Mum’s new boyfriend) and I was way too sleepy for a full-focus documentary. So I went on Netflix to see what I could find…

The Big Short. 

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Initial appeal was the big cast – mainly Ryan Gosling who is usually a bit HIYA. Although I’m not sure he does it for me in this film donning a FakeBake and a Ketwig*…

Then I realised it was based on a true story – the best kind of film.

It’s been wildly accredited for it’s clear and simple description of complex banking terms – and the critics are right. I absolutely loved the Mortgage Jenga. The only bit I had to watch three times over was about 15 minutes deep when Margot Robbie is in a bathtub drinking Champagne and explaining subprime mortgages. I was far too busy perving off her flawless face to listen to what she was saying.

There are two big Heroes in the film for me and they’re both Weirdos in their own right. Number one is Michael Burry played by Christian Bale. A shoeless drummer with a glass eye, a penchant for heavy metal and probably one of the most fascinatingly intelligent and interesting brains I’ve ever heard of. The second is Mark Baum, played by Steve Carrell. A portrayal a zillion miles away from his “Nipple Fuck”-screaming role in 40 year old virgin. A man who’s optimistic about being pessimistic with a head like scarecrow, who couldn’t love that.

The story itself, however, is less than loveable.

I graduated smack bang in the middle of the recession but aside from an eight week period of joblessness, I came out of it completely unscathed. And I don’t think I ever realised the scale or severity of what happened….

5 trillion dollars of consumer wealth disappeared, 8 million people lost their jobs and 6 million people became homeless. And that was just in America…

The Truth is like Poetry.
And most people fucking hate Poetry.








The Ultimate Aural Orgasm



In terms of Motivationals I’ve dabbled in them all….Mind Management courses, Happiness books, Buddhist retreats, Meditation, Exercises, Walking, Thinking, Talking, Reading, Writing…

But I guarantee there is no better mood-lifting tactic than reading the lyrics of one of the greatest musical talents of our generation, a literary genius if you will….

Scooter………………………………………….Are You Ready?

Surely the entire band were absolutely smacked of their tits when they wrote the vast majority of these songs?  Take The Ultimate Aural Orgasm for example, an album released in 2007 with songs like “Behind the Cow” and “Ratty’s Revenge” and my all time favourite “Does The Fish Have Chips?”.

If this doesn’t brighten up your SuicidalTuesday, nothing will…….

Gonna get that breakbeat pressure,
Futuristic forces fight for fidelity

I am a fighter and not a writer,
I love my lifetime, blown in the night-time,
Wrap your head around this stuff, crew
You can’t nap it,
It’s the rough-rugged,

Alright now shake your hips,
One question,
Does the fish have chips?

I’m in love with myself,
Cause it’s good for my health
I drive a Rolls Royce
Cause it’s good for my voice.

Bo! Pure nasty habit, sadnedd I can’t have it,
Do your move, bust your style,
Gonna dance now rapid.

Alright now shake your hips,
One question,
Does the fish have chips?

Get this party started,
Doing out of my head,
Get this party started, yeah!

Well, this is the ultimate aural orgasm,
We got to make you rock,
And dance, ’til we drop,
Gonna get you outta your seat,
Listen to the words that I speak

Yeah – Shake your hips
And again,
Does the fish have chips?
Does the fish have chips?
Does the fish have chips?

How do I get off this bus?


………………………………..YOU’RE WELCOME. 

I Wear Lace Therefore I Am

Image result for red light district amsterdamI don’t care if you sex strangers to make a living, but I have serious issues with the fact you’re not wearing matching underwear.

My first impression of the Red Light District in Amsterdam, etched on my lace-loving mind for all eternity. One woman in particular stands out. She was toned with meat in the right places, wild blonde curls dangled loosely around her determined face as she stood there shuffling her hips semi-seductively beckoning clientele. I didn’t think too much about her story, where she had come from, why she had chosen this career path or if she was happy.  I just thought,

“What the hell was going through your head this morning when you put on an old neon yellow strappy bra contraption and a pair of grey granny knickers??”

I first fell in Love with lingerie whilst spending a year in Aix-en-Provence in the South of France. The French eat garlic and bloat themselves to death on baguettes but still manage to be one of the sexiest races on the planet. How? They love lace. They adorn their bodies with semi-precious fabrics like a tattoo made of Lust. They don’t walk, they Walz. They hold cigarettes like jewels. They sip Café au Lait like it’s Champagne. They’re just sexy as fuck, and they introduced me to the world of lingerie at the tender age of twenty-one.

At that time in my life I was reading two very influential pieces of literature; Discourse de la Methode by René Descartes (Cogito Ergo Sum/I Think Therefore I Am) and my monthly subscription of Elle Magazine. There was an article in Elle saying that no matter what you’re wearing on the outside, embellishing your body with beauty-full lingerie underneath can make you feel like a Supermodel. So just as René would, I experimented.

Image result for lace lingerie redI bought myself the most ugliest underwear known to Womankind to see how it would make me feel. Spanx are an invention of the Devil. Nobody should be subject to such eye-blinding lycra, not even a mirror in a darkened room. No matter how I beauty-fied myself on the outside, I felt hideous, repulsive and unwanted.

But on the days I wore a nice set, I had a new aura about me that you could almost see. It wouldn’t matter if I was wearing a binbag on top, I knew what I had on underneath and it somehow made me feel powerful. Particularly red lace, whenever I wore it I felt like Beyoncé on steroids. I could literally Run The World ten times over.

I wear Lace therefore I am. 

I didn’t choose the Mug Life, the Mug Life chose me.


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The world’s most ironic coffee order at around 1600 kcals a cup.

I’ve always held strong beliefs in the fact that drinks are like air and therefore do not contribute towards nutritional intake, so there was a time when I didn’t have any issue knocking one of these bad boys back on the daily.

Well actually they do contribute, and at 80% of a woman’s RDA, I think this calorific mathematical wizardry needs to stop right here, right now.

I will literally never forget when I lost my Caffeine Virginity. It was on the fourth floor of a grand Chateau overlooking Parc Monceau in Paris. I was over there on an intense training course with L’Oréal. It was day three, I’d been working 16+ hour days on minimal sleeps. My eyes were heavy and my brain was crying out for a nap – I needed a hit.

In such a chic setting, surrounded by some of the most interesting and intelligent people I’ve ever met, dressed de la tête aux pieds in my classiest of rags, I couldn’t really stand there necking a giant can of Red Bull….

I’d been seducing the Nespresso machine with my best copulatory gaze ever since the start of the morning break.. This was my first time and I was nervous. I wandered over coyly to make acquaintance passing an almost royal presentation of delicate French pastries and fruit. With every stomp of my heel against the parquet flooring I could feel my heart start to beat a little faster..

Oh god, technology. It looked so much more complicated up close and personal… I gently stroked the top of the small metal lever by means of introduction. It was cold and felt alien to me. I picked up one of the tiny foil pots and plonked it neatly into my white porcelain cup, placed the cup into the machine and pressed the button, waiting patiently for something to happen….

Awkward as hell to start but eventually very rewarding and addictive – I guess my first time was like any other. (FYI, the foil pot goes inside the machine, not your cup). And so what started as a Parisian fling, turned out to be a five-year love affair that shows no signs of ending. Not a day passes by when Caffeine doesn’t touch my lips…

But to give my blood pressure a break and more importantly to raise money for a local children’s hospice, I’m giving up my Friday Costa treat. If you want to be a hero, here’s how to get involved:

And you can learn a little bit more about the charity here:

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Friday Night Jazz Hands

It’s Friday night. On other occasions, I could be three drinks deep by 6 o’clock but tonight I decided to kick my weekend off with endolphins swimming around my veins. My gym instructor, however, had other intentions…

Image result for dance class funny

I’m in the gym studio ready for “Dance Fit” feeling psyched and ready to cut up a rug, well a laminate floor. The class is small, there are four middle aged women to the right of me and I get chatting to the lady on my left. She’s easily pushing seventy and is wildly overweight. The warning bells did not sound in my head. Let’s do this…

She was one of those gym instructors that doesn’t tell you what move is coming next, doesn’t count you in and although she can dance, seems to miss the beat more often than not. We’re all “dancing” to Bang Bang by Will I Am, one of my most favourite songs from The Great Gatsby and I’m jazz-handing the shit out of life. I almost feel guilty – by verse two we’ve completely destroyed the Charleston and side-step-clicked more than a Dad at a school disco.

Next it’s another favourite song from another classic film, Jai Ho from Slumdog Millionaire….

The problem with gym instructors who don’t speak is you end up spending the entire class predicting their next move. Have you ever seen toddlers dance? Yeah. That was us. Flapping our hands around making a few diagonal stomps, faces riddled with confusion. No sooner as we’d understood it was time to change the lightbulb she had us mimicking a snake charmer on ecstasy. The whole entire experience was bizarre.

25 minutes later I’m head down scurrying out of the class. I did contemplate saying I’d hurt my ankle, but realistically she’d only spot me five minutes later on the treadmill doing actual exercise, so I just ducked and ran. I literally work more of a sweat up cooking my poached eggs in the morning. What a waste of time.

I think the lesson learned here is screaming out at me loud and clear – Fridays are for Fun. Time to meet a few Tier Ones for a glass of vino or ten…