Posted in Picture, Video, Writing

What Happens in Thailand…Goes on the Internet

Maya

Over the past year I have been making some serious progress through my bucket-list of singledom. I have gotten drunk in Norway, Paris, Cyprus, Malta, Aberdeen, Yorkshire and London. I have been a token minge on a stag weekend in Frankfurt, had laser eye surgery, my teeth whitened, my tonsils removed, been heavily tattooed and am currently in the middle of getting most of my pubes lasered off for all eternity. I have had some pretty spectacular experiences, and a few terrible ones too, but without a doubt this year has been one of my most exciting.

I made this list when I first left Aberdeen at a time when if you’d asked me if I wanted a husband I would have said something along the lines of: “I don’t remember saying you could come up for air sunshine, this bitch don’t pay you to talk.” Recently, however, the once distant thoughts of vague maturity have been creeping steadily towards the forefront of my consciousness and it is for this reason I felt it important to have one last self-indulgent adventure before I began focussing on maybe calming down a little bit.  This adventure came in the form of a three week trip to Thailand and Cambodia with the most inappropriate human being I know, my sister Lisa.

Here she is sucking on a coconut
Here she is sucking on a coconut. Bitch loves coconuts.

Bangkok

Lisa had already been in Thailand for 3 months at a fat camp (or as she put it: “It’s a fucking fit camp”) so the plan was to meet up in Bangkok for a few days before we left for a week in Cambodia followed by ten days island-whoring off the west coast of Thailand. As is customary for any sort of Dingwall-organised activity, it all went to shit on day one when I arrived at my hotel expecting her to be there waiting for me like an excited, dribbling puppy.  Instead I received this phone call:

“Hey, it’s Lisa.  I’m still in Hua Hin, I had prawns last night and just shat all over the bath mat.  I won’t make it to Bangkok until tomorrow.”

Super!

"Two in the pink, one in the stink".......it's an old Buddhist proverb.
Shopping in Bangkok: “Two in the pink, one in the stink” must be an old Buddhist incantation.

Luckily it was pretty late and after nineteen hours of travelling I was feeling decidedly sticky so all I had the energy for was a shower before I K.O’d for the night.  Lisa and her flaming butt-hole met me the next morning and after a bit of shopping we began planning which ping-pong show we were going to go see that night. Because that’s really why we’re all here isn’t it? What’s that? Temples? Can a temple shoot a dart at a balloon from its moist loins? No. Fuck your temples.

I was excited about this, Lisa had told me about one girl she had seen who was firing bananas out of her chonch and trying to catch them in her mouth but she was so shit at it, they just kept hitting her in the face.  This was a pretty special mental picture and one that I wanted to witness for myself so we climbed into the nearest tuk-tuk with a high-five and an enthusiastic cry of “Let’s go see us some titties!”. We decided to go to Nana Plaza, “The World’s Largest Adult Playground” and see what it had to offer.

NanaPlaza
I thought there would be roller coasters. There were no roller coasters.

Upon entering the place (a courtyard surrounded by strip clubs) we were immediately accosted by a barmaid/prostitute who was determined to get us to drink in her bar. It was the only one without naked, borderline-adult females prancing around so we decided to have a drink there before going into one of the clubs to see a show. I ordered a jagerbomb because I needed to find my nerves. I was pretty terrified. All around us were western men pawing at depressed looking young girls. There was a lady-boy walking around in lingerie with one gravity-defying tit randomly hanging out of her bra and a bunch of creepy American guys playing Connect 4 with some prostitutes. Cheers guys, right in the childhood. I used to love that game, now it will forever be known to me as Connect Whore.

The barmaid came back over, this time with a friend, and both women started talking to us.  They asked us where we were from, said they liked my lipstick and then began telling us how difficult their lives were what with the whole prostitute thing, their only other option being to starve to death in a remote village. My sometimes shocking naivety and overwhelming desire to talk to strangers meant that this was a bad place for me. I believed most of what they said and even felt sorry for them at times.  Until this happened:

“It is so good to talk to woman as friend instead of man who want jiggy-jiggy all the time……unless you want more than friend?  You and your sister together, I give you good price? You buy me drink first?”

What the fuck lady?  So this whole relationship has been based on a twisted web of lies and deceit? You told me you liked my lipstick, I bet you say that to all the girls. Take your herpes and smashed-up vagina and get the hell out of my sight.

I needed a piss and to get away from these assholes quick so, being the caring sister I am, I left Lisa on her own and went in search of a bathroom….except the only toilet in the place was at the wrong end of a strip-club.  I drew back a stained, worn, velvet curtain and tried my best not to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Didn’t work. There in front of me dancing on a stage were three topless girls in bright white underwear with the deadest eyes I have seen on an alive person, bearing more than a passing resemblance to that creepy fuck who climbs out of the TV in The Ring. Sitting facing them were three Arab men, all whiskey-lipped and rapey-eyed, staring holes through the girls whilst they gyrated unenthusiastically against a dirty wooden pole. I just thought of all the vaginal splinters and aids and wondered how the hell I was supposed to go pee without catching something terminal/being murder-raped.  I got to the toilet and hovered above it until my thighs were trembling (about 5 seconds. I have no muscle tone), managing by a matter of millimetres not to piss all over myself. I drip-dried because of course there was no toilet paper and got the fuck out of there. Lisa was still getting propositioned when I got back so I just looked at her with Shrek Puss-in-Boots eyes and said “Can we go to a normal bar now?”

And so, 40 minutes after we arrived, we left that terrible place a pair of failures. I, more than anyone, wanted to regale you with tales of banana-induced black eyes and cigar-puffing uteri but it turns out the reality of these awful shows were just too difficult for me to stomach, and for that I am deeply sorry.

Next stop, Phnom Penh.

Cambodia

Hammock-five!
Hammocked off my tits in our hotel room

Phnom Penh smells of burnt matches and eucalyptus with just enough B.O. thrown in to be noticeable but not offensive. After a day of sightseeing in the capital we headed north to Siem Reap, a city which is home to the most ridiculously beautiful temples you will ever see (yes, Nana Plaza made me change my mind about temples. Marginally less paedophiles for a start).  We got ourselves the cutest, chubbiest little tour guide – think the Wilderness Explorer kid from ‘Up’ – and set off to the Angkor Wat Temple at 5.30am for the sunrise. It was worth it, looked like this:

sunrise

For the next couple of days we mostly partied in Siem Reap’s premier night-spot ‘Pub Street’, a 90’s throwback area of town with graffiti covered grunge bars, awesome old skater tunes blaring out onto the street and super friendly locals serving you every cocktail you can imagine (one of whom used to work on the rigs in the North Sea….aka free shots for Jillian!).  I could have stayed forever, I really loved it, but sadly our time there had to come to an end so we flew back to Phnom Penh before enduring a three hour white-knuckle taxi ride to Sihanoukville, a relatively isolated backpacker’s beach resort on the South West coast of Cambodia.

I was looking forward to this place. I had visions of arty, bearded, beautiful, bare-footed men playing beat up guitars and feeding me bullshit about how they had come here to find themselves. In this vision of mine I would believe said bullshit, fall temporarily in love with one of them and we would spend the next three days having red-hot sex by candlelight, perspiring in a thatched beach-hut perched on unblemished white sand, only stopping to drink beer, eat phad thai and skinny dip in the shimmering turquoise ocean (ideally an ocean that contained no seaweed or things that could kill you).

I was mistaken. Turns out “backpackers” is now a catchment term for any dickhead who is on holiday.  Sihanoukville is full of these cunts:

It was horrendous.  No one there was over the age of around 23 or had any idea how to survive in the real world. Even the beards were below par. They were the hipster kind, the ones that are trimmed so short that there is zero chance of getting any food stuck in there and is usually set off with a pair of oversized sunglasses despite the fact that the sun went down five fucking hours ago. It wasn’t looking good for us but we had to make the best of a bad situation so we joined an organised pub crawl….for children apparently. Lisa and I felt like lepers and no amount of vodka redbull buckets would help this. The place was an unashamed meat market, inebriated teenagers everywhere trying their hardest to either impale or be impaled.  Just as we were about to give up and leave, however, one of the guys from the pub crawl came over and actually started a conversation. Disappointingly he was a 20 year old overly-muscular, waxed, tanned, vest-wearing, guido fucktard from Ipswich who could barely string a sentence together, but at least someone was talking to us. Unfortunately, after only being in his company for about 10 minutes he came out with this little gem:

Guido: “Hey, can I like, you know, come back to your hotel room babe?”

Me: “Uhmm…….no, that’s weird.” (Secretly smug. Thinking I’ve still got it,  foolish youths still want a slice of this nubile pie)

Guido: “Sorry, I didn’t mean to come across as a creep, it’s just…well…I’ve always wanted to try a cougar.”

Mother. Fucker.

A cougar??? I’m fucking 33 years old! A childless, unmarried, free spirit of eternal youth, you chlamidia-ridden sack of mental illness.

We left, and I put two layers of Lancome Vissionaire on my face before going to bed that night.

The next day we decided that we would head to a different beach to avoid the throbbing masses of gap-yahs and guidos and managed to find one that was a bit more suited to a pair of rancid old dried-up cougars. We spent the day sunbathing (or in my case shade-bathing, drenched in factor 50, sweat pouring down my beetroot face), eating banana crepes, smoking menthol cigarettes and drinking iced tea.  We watched the sun set whilst infatuated couples walked hand in hand along the beach with their love all up in our faces and for the first time since leaving Aberdeen, it almost made me want a boyfriend. I will admit that I did get a bit philosophical about my future for a minute there on that beach, but it was short-lived. I soon composed myself and convinced Lisa to go to an open-mic night of poetry in one of the rock bars nearby. She was sceptical having never been to one before but I knew from experience that these can either be terrible cringe-inducing affairs or really quite impressive. Either way you’re going to have a good night.

David Barrtholomew Throckmorton

We turned up at Santino’s Rock Bar where a young (and very brave) Canadian girl was standing alone on stage reciting profound yet amusing poems about childhood, adulthood, how life is yours to live how you choose and fuck what anyone else says. I liked it, it felt fitting to my relatively new-found circumstances. After she was finished, an older Canadian gentleman with a braided beard and long grey hair took to the stage. I wasn’t sure what to expect from such an eccentric figure but what came out of his mouth was as hilarious as it was unpredictable. One of his poems was about his younger years in which he would give girls crack in exchange for sexual favours. “Air-tight” and “skull-fucking” are only two of the multitude of phrases I can remember from that performance. After he was done, I did my usual thing and annoyed the complete stranger for copies of a couple of his poems so I could share them with you (couldn’t get my hands on the skull-fucking one though, soz):

David Barrtholomew Throckmorton

Surgically Altered Self Fulfilling Prophecy

It started with falsies and a hair dye
When she was 12
And she hasn’t been true to herself since
3 breast enlargements
2 reductions
Excessive amounts of nips and tucks
A brutal physical exercise routine
Never feeling quite good enough
But by now
Nothing can hide the age
And the only benefit I have found
After all these surgeries
Is she gives great gummers
But never swallows
Still
Not quite good enough

Things to do at a Hostel or Guest House

Watch the parrot play with the pen
Shower, wash your shirts
Because they don’t get dirty
Just yucky and stiff
Pick a banana
Watch it ripen
Then eat it
Disassemble your hairbrush
Clean it
And put it back together
Remove the sleeves of a shirt
Stitch by stitch
Instead of just cutting them off
Make a pipe from a papaya stem
Make a grasshopper from a papaya leaf
Watch the tide roll in
Watch the tide roll out
Go for a swim in the ocean
Peel and split a coconut
Drink the milk
Put a chunk of coconut on the ground
Watch the ants eat it
(That’ll take a week or two)
Wear the remains as a pendant
Number and mark your beers
Before putting them in the fridge
See if there is a beer thief
Or you just get too drunk and forget
Try to figure out who is fucking whom
If any at all
Fill the newbies in on the scene
Pick up after someone
But don’t do their dishes
Sharpen the kitchen knives
And be a hero to everyone
If you are bored
You have found the limits
Of your imagination

What a guy!  We ended up having a brilliant night that ended with us sitting in a tree-house bar watching a Thai reggae band – and just like that we had salvaged our trip to Sihanoukville. Just in time too, the next day we were heading back to Thailand.

Phi Phi

Our front gate :)
Just our front gate 🙂

After a long-ass day of travelling we finally arrived at our modest beach bungalow on Phi Phi island. I had been warned about this place. People who had been there had said that I wouldn’t like it, it was full of tourists and tacky beach parties. I wasn’t so sure, we had been having a pretty subdued time up until that point and I was ready for some shameless touristy fun. At the weekend we headed to a fire show at one of the beach parties where I discovered that no matter how hideous the man, take his shirt off and make him throw bits of fire around and I will instantly want him on me.

They had a limbo competition too, the rules of which were simple: girls do it topless for a free bucket of drink, guys must do it naked. A total chubster decided he would go naked for a free shot but unfortunately for us he approached the limbo thing from the wrong side meaning that all his junk in all it’s magnificent, wrinkly, dangly glory was right there in our faces. I felt like we deserved the free bucket. The music they were playing was out of this world; dance tunes from years ago that you loved but had forgotten even existed. Needless to say I got suitably smashed and thought that getting involved with a fire hoop would be a great idea. I thought I was pretty heroic, successfully managing to run through the flames unscathed…until I woke up the next morning to find the back of my leg stuck to my sheets. I still have the scar but I quite like it, it reminds me of one of the best nights of that trip.

Stay classy Phi Phi
Stay classy Phi Phi

The next day we headed to the harbour colossally hungover for an overnight boat trip to Maya Beach, the place where the movie The Beach was filmed. Thankfully everyone on the boat was also hanging out of their arseholes so we didn’t have to engage in too much conversation. When we arrived the sun was just beginning to set, and being on the only tour to offer an overnight trip meant that our small group had the whole place entirely to ourselves. Facing out onto an unbelievably beautiful bay, we all lay around on the sand in a little semi-circle whilst our guide brought out his guitar and prepared to provide us with some tunes to accompany this breathtaking backdrop.

guide

All around us were couples lying in each other’s arms, the air was still, the sea was washing softly over the sand whilst the sun set over the violet horizon. It was the most romantic moment I have ever experienced. The guitar started up and just as a tear was about to plop out of my eyeball, our guide (whose English wasn’t very good) started to sing that sentimental classic “Fuck you, you ho, I don’t want you back.”  I’m not kidding, he couldn’t even sing either. He was screeching it at the top of his lungs, completely oblivious to what the lyrics meant. Lisa and I were absolutely destroyed, we laughed way too hard for way too long. He was going “Cam on guys! You know dees one right? Seeng along!!!” Oh, and we did.

After he was done, and with that ice-breaker on the beach having turned out to be more of an ice-obliteration, we headed into the trees for a BBQ with our new friends. I forced down a vodka redbull bucket but was still not feeling too hot so I was a little relieved when it was time to row back to our boat where we were sleeping for the night. When we got back on board, our guide (who was now not surprisingly my hero) suggested we go swimming in the deep, jet-black, terrifying, monster-infested sea. I was not up for this.  I decided to stay on the boat instead and watch as a crazy German guy from the group jumped off the side.

My photos were shit so here are some Google images.
My photos were shit so here are some Google images.

What happened next I did not expect. In this part of Phi Phi there are little plankton swimming around that light up when they are disturbed so when he jumped in, the sea lit up all around him like he was swimming in thousands of tiny little diamonds. It was like something out of mother fucking Avatar!! I was beside myself and jumped straight in after him. We all splashed around in there for as long as we could, the thoughts of ravenous great white sharks and, more importantly, any hint of a hangover rapidly disappearing.

bungalow
Opulent!

We got up the next day and sailed straight back to Phi Phi harbour where Lisa and I were catching a boat to Koh Lanta, an island to the East of Phi Phi. This was the last stop before I headed home and after all the excitement of the trip so far, the plan here was to do as little as humanly possible for the last three days. We stuck to the plan faithfully, so much so that it’s given me fuck all to write about but it was awesome.  We ate, drank, swam, turned up at a dog shelter and walked some dogs, had massages and slept in pretty fancy bungalows.

When the time came for me to fly home I was well-rested and more than satisfied that I had made the most of my time in these two top-notch countries. When I first booked this trip I was excited, I expected it to be similar to some of the other places I had visited (and loved) in that part of the world. But none of them were even close to Thailand and Cambodia where the scenery is so ridiculously stunning I felt as though I had been transported into an Elder Scrolls video game. The people there are so genuinely happy too, even the ones who have nothing, a quality that no doubt has a foundation in the Buddhism they practice – a beautiful philosophy that makes all of our religious fighting and flagrant materialism an embarrassment.

When you’re out there you very quickly find yourself adopting romantic notions about living there forever. Who needs things right? All we need is love and $3 a day to eat phad thai! We could totally do it, why can’t we do it? Let’s do it! It’s like they have some sort of airport-sorcerer waiting at arrivals casting mind-fuck spells on you at passport control. But like most spontaneous and irresponsible ideas, those dreams disappeared almost as quickly as they arrived. Lisa headed back to her fit camp in Hua Hin for 2 more months where she lost a total of 3 stone and became a badass at Muay Thai. I went back to London with a revised set of priorities and a clearer idea of what the fuck I want to do with my immediate future.

And so my ‘Bucket-list of Singledom’ Quest is complete. I’m not sure which achievement I’ve unlocked, probably irreversible organ damage, but I’m excited for the next level. A level I shall call “I Should Probably Stop Fucking Around and Find Somewhere to Live.”

Maya 2
🙂 Le Fin 🙂

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Posted in Picture, Video, Writing

Eurovision Extremism – A Radical Party Guide

eurovision logo

As those of you who are friends with me on Facebook will know from the onslaught of photos I have subjected you to recently, I had a Eurovision party last weekend.  Eurovision really is one of the highlights of my year. I have loved it’s overly made-up, shiny, happy, disturbing little face ever since I moved to Malta in the early 1990’s.  Over there it is kind of a big deal.  I remember being in a nightclub around 1996 when they turned the music off so everyone could hear the results – that’s right Usher, pipe the fuck down, it’s is Gina G’s time to shine.  On top of all this a good family friend of ours, Mike Spiteri, was Malta’s Eurovision entry for 1995.  Yeah you heard me, I actually know someone who has actually sang in the actual Eurovision Song Contest. You might say I am weaved into the very fabric of the establishment, buried so deep I think my balls may have just slipped in.

Mike Spiteri’s Eurovision Performance, 1995 (I have no idea who the man at the very beginning of this clip is, but I want him on me).

Unfortunately, when I am even the slightest bit vocal about my favourite event, I am usually met with one of the following reactions:

  • “But it’s shit.”
  • “But, no one can sing and the songs are shit.”
  • “But it’s so tacky and shit.”
  • “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so shit.”
  • “It shitter than the actual shit I just took, and that was really shit.”

Or the classic:

  • “I stopped watching it when we stopped winning.  It’s so political now, it’s not about the music anymore……and it’s also pretty shit.”

“It’s not about the music anymore”??  What has music got to do with any of this?  See, the problem here is that people are thinking about the Eurovision like it is some sort of song contest or something.  It’s not a song contest.  With the obvious exception of Mike Spiteri of course, the songs are generally terrible, often tacky, commonly cheesy and almost always ten years behind regular music.  The key to enjoying the experience is letting go of the musical concept.  Let it go.  Just accept the fact that you will be hearing nothing but shite for three hours straight and I promise you you’ll start to enjoy it for what it is: Essentially The European Championship for girls.

It is about the excitement of watching all of our continental neighbours coming together to compete in a light-hearted and slightly bewildering atmosphere.  It is having the opportunity to wave fuck-loads of flags around and pretend to be patriotic.  It is the provision of an entertaining environment in which to rip the shit out of any country whose border isn’t in direct contact with ours (i.e. all of them).  Do you know how many Nazi jokes were thrown around my living-room the other weekend when Germany came on?  Fucking hundreds.

Look at his massive face.  The man does not want to be here.
Look at his massive face. The man does not want to be here. I think he even said in a backstage interview that he was having a shit time.

If that’s not entertaining enough for you, then the occasional inappropriate performance should keep you interested. This year, for example, the Ukranian entry consisted of a visibly uncomfortable man suffering from severe gigantism standing awkwardly on stage dressed as the giant from Jack & the Beanstalk. Little bit racist. There was also a lesbian kiss at the end of Finland’s performance, but they weren’t even real lesbians! What’s wrong with hiring lesbians? If you’ve got a lesbiany job to do then it’s only fair to hire some lesbians. They’ve got bills to pay too, you know. In fact, half of the shit that goes on on that stage should not even be allowed. This year alone they violated about fifteen separate human rights laws, how anyone cannot enjoy watching that is beyond me.

And in answer to those who say it is all “political”, I say this:

Denmark won this year.  Famously a real heavyweight in the political arena.  The problem you have is not with the political nature of the voting, you’re just annoyed that Britain isn’t winning anymore.  There’s nothing we can do about that.  Like powdered mashed potato and soda-streams, the UK was incredibly popular in the 70’s and 80’s but after a couple of illegal wars we are no longer the top dog.  What was once the most powerful and desirable cheerleader in the High School of Europe is now a fat, abusive, self-harming single mum with a drinking problem. It’s time for other countries to have their turn in the spotlight – and if they all want to vote for each other instead of us, that is totally fine by me. I don’t really blame them – and anyway, although the scoreboard may look slightly suspicious in places, the best song does generally always win in the end.

So, as a radical Eurovision extremist, I feel it is my duty to convert the Wogan-denying infidels of the UK.  In order to do this, I have been hosting Eurovision Parties most years since 2004.  I want to rid the world of its Euro-cynicism one social gathering at a time and it’s working.  It’s slow, I mean I think in the last nine years I’ve converted about three people, two of them children, but any progress is good progress.  If you’re sitting there thinking that you would like to help the cause by hosting your own Eurovision Party then you, my friend, are in luck because I’m about to get all Pippa Middleton on your ass…

I think you will find the similarities in our party etiquette uncanny, yah?
I think you will find the similarities in our party etiquette uncanny, yah?

—————————————————————————————————————————————————-

A Handy Eurovision Party Guide

By Jillian Dingwall

You will need:

  • Friends
  • Eurovision Scorecards, Sweepstake and Poster (pictured below, download them here)
  • Pictures of Terry Wogan
  • A Word document containing the flags of all the participating countries
  • Party Bags
  • Half the contents of your nearest Pound Shop
  • A Crown from Burger King
  • A packet of Wagon Wheels
  • Sausage Rolls
  • A shit-ton of alcohol

(Preparation time = 3 days)

DAY 1

T minus 2 days until the party

Today you will have two jobs to do: Sort out the prizes and buy all the drink.

Head to your nearest pound shop where you will find not only your prize bags, but everything you will ever need to put in them.  You can award any amount of prizes you want but I usually award them for 1st, 2nd and 3rd place.  Buy literally the most shit things you can find, making sure to include a few items with Union Jacks on them – it looks more professional if you stick to a vague Eurovision theme.  This year my prize bags included a Fray Bentos Steak & Kidney Pie for one, a Buck’s Fizz CD, a Justin Bieber watch, a British flag tea-towel and a Union Jack themed cake-decorating kit.  Once you have sorted out the main prizes, buy some small party bags, a packet of Wagon Wheels and a couple of large bags of sweets.  These will be divided up equally and handed out to each guest to take home at the end of the night.  If you’re waiting for an explanation for the necessity of Wagon Wheels then, please.  Kill yourself.

Next, head to the supermarket to get booze, stopping at Burger King on the way to steal one of their cardboard crowns.  Buy as much beer as you can fit in your car, remembering to make use of the glove-compartment space and gaps underneath the seats.  In terms of things that aren’t beer, it’s nice to have a focal point at a party and ours is usually some sort of sangria-punch concoction created by Billy, however this year my friend Alison made Eurovision cocktails which were way better.  Finally, do not forget the Jegermeister.  When you get home, sit at the dining-room table and prepare all of your party bags whilst listening to your other half tell you how much of a fucking weirdo you are.  Make sure to hide the bags in a cupboard so the guests do not find them before the official “reveal”.

If you've got time, why not go and get your nails did?  I got mine done here: GelUs
If you’ve got time, why not go and get your nails did? I got mine did here: GelUs Nails

Day 2

T minus one day until the party

I’m not going to sugar-coat this, today will be the most stressful day of your life.  Today, not only must you buy all the food, you will also have to do all the printing and decorating.

When you are buying food it is best to adhere to the following guidelines:

  • Make sure there are sausage rolls.   If I turn up at a party and there are no sausage rolls, that party is dead to me.   Don’t be a dick, give the people what they want.
  • Any food you buy has to be penetratable and strong enough to hold a toothpick. i.e. no weird pasta or salads.
  • Buy toothpicks

It is now time to get down to the business of printing all of our Eurovision paraphernalia.  The reason we must leave this job until the last minute is because of the stupid semi-finals (which I would not recommend you watch by the way, it can ruin the surprise).  You won’t know which country is participating in the finals until today and the BBC do not update their scorecards until the late afternoon because, you know it’s not like we want a professional, instantaneous service for our fucking license fees or anything.

Word document layout
Word document layout

When the BBC have finally got their act together, print off the following documents IN COLOUR:

  • A scorecard for each guest.
  • One sweepstake.
  • A few posters.
  • 3 – 4 copies of your Word document with all of the finalists flags on them (the flags must all be the same size in a 2 x 5 format like in the picture on the left).
  • Some nice pictures of Terry Wogan – I prefer to use pictures of him smiling and generally enjoying life, however the one of him on Points of View with the tight trousers and detailed penis outline is equally acceptable.

Take one set of flags and cut them all out, google the shit out of each one to make sure that you know 100% which flag corresponds to which country and then write the country’s name neatly on the back.  Set these to one side for now.  Cut out another set of flags and, along with your British Entry posters, use them to decorate your living room.  Cut out the remaining flags and cellotape them to toothpicks, these will be used to stick into your sausage rolls and mini Cornish pasties, etc.  Finally, take all of the photo-frames you have in your living room, remove the boring pictures of your children and replace them with pictures of Terry Wogan.  He may not be our commentator anymore but in British Eurovision culture it is seen as a mark of respect to acknowledge him in some small way.

Day 3

Party Day

Get up and clean the absolute asshole out of your house.  Leave a few things casually lying around, a towel over a radiator or an off-centre cushion on the sofa to present the illusion that you have given your house a quick, casual tidy-up as opposed to spending five hours cleaning the bastard thing.  Now get yourself in a shower because you stink and your guests will be arriving at any minute.

Once everyone has turned up and they have been given a drink (or in my case, have poured themselves their own drink because I am a pretty basic hostess), place all of the flags with the country’s names written on them into a hat and pass it around.  Depending on how many guests you have, get them to pull out two or three flags each.  Write the names of each person and the countries they have drawn into the sweepstake.  Put this somewhere where you can’t spill drink on it.

As well as cocktails, a Eurovision Encyclopedia was provided for research purposes.
As well as cocktails, a Eurovision Encyclopedia is provided for research purposes.

By this time the contest should be just about to start.  Make up your Eurovision cocktails and hand them out before explaining how the scoring system works.  It’s pretty straight forward really, they must score each country out of 12 depending on how good they think they are.  They can go back and change their scores right up until the first results are read out.  There is literally no purpose to this, it’s just a way of encouraging debate and people seem to enjoy it.

A promotional B&W shot of me giving out the party bags. I'm going to put it on our propaganda leaflets.
A promotional B&W shot of me giving out the party bags. I’m going to put it on our propaganda leaflets.

Top tip: It is helpful to write little notes next to your scores to serve as a reminder, because by about half way through the competition you will be so drunk you will have forgotten what the first acts were like.  For example, this year I thought the girl who sang for Russia looked a little bit like those lucky trolls from the 90’s, so I wrote “90’s Troll” next to her score.  This really helped me later on when, after my seventh Jegermeister, I was lying face-down in the back garden covered in someone else’s vomit.

After the last performance is over, put the food out while you are waiting for the final scores to be revealed (for the love of God, don’t forget to put the toothpick flags in).  The results part of the show is a bit on the lengthy side so if you want to mute the TV and stick some tunes on, go ahead.  I prefer to leave it on because the utter nonsense that comes out of each country’s presenter is almost as funny as the performances themselves.  Finally, when the winning order is announced, hand out the prizes to the guests who pulled out the corresponding flags (bestowing the Burger King Crown of Victory upon the head of the person in 1st place).  When the evening is coming to a close, give a Wagon Wheel Party Bag to everyone else as a thank you for not moaning about how shit the Eurovision is.

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So there you have it, a handy guide which if followed correctly, should result in you hosting the greatest Eurovision party ever known to man.  It’s a ‘go hard or go home’ kind of affair and there will be times when you may doubt your abilities as a host or even lose faith in the contest altogether, but if you believe in yourself like you believed in Bonnie then you will reap the rewards. Just remember this simple motto: “If you think you have gone too far, go further” and I guarantee you they will be absolutely fizzing at the slit to do it all again next year.

The best Eurovision Party guests EVER!!
The best Eurovision Party guests EVER!!
Posted in Video

Brush Strokes & Ball Hair: An Octet of Aesthetic Atrocities

If you’re anything like me, you will dislike visiting a site only to be told to click on a link which will open up yet another page in your browser.  It is just unnecessary hassle.  In saying this, however, please make an exception in this case, as myself and the phenomenal Christian Porter have joined forces to create an article for the magnificent www.gamecola.net.  It discusses the rise of the latest app craze, DrawSomething….that’s a total lie, there is no discussion, it is just a collection of child-like and offensive drawings of genitals, murder-rape and swear words.  There is also a photograph of me with a moustache and a baguette if you’re into that sort of thing. Which I know you are.

http://gamecola.net/2012/04/nsfw-brush-strokes-ball-hair-an-octet-of-aesthetic-atrocities/

This one didn’t make it into the article but it is by far my favourite DrawSomething creation to date so I stole it.

“Election” by Christian Porter

Thank you, love you, bye.

Posted in Video

Skyrim – Bethesda Have Given Us a Shit Video!

In the immortal words of our Lord, Justin Timberlake:
“Jizz. In my pants”.

I know, the entire video consists of looking at a wall whilst listening to a very impressive – and in no way overdramatic voiceover – but I am still jizzing entirely into my pants. Despite the fact that the title sounds a little bit like gay aeroplane cloud sex, I nominate Skyrim as my new best friend. I just wish I didn’t have to wait until November to meet him.

Posted in Picture, Video, Writing

Lady Gaga Touched Me and Now I Have Aids

Things I hate and why:
Disease-ridden, sausage-smuggling fucktard – Lady Gaga.

Because:

-She looks (and I’m pretty sure smells) like she’s been dead for over a week. Someone needs to spray her with Febreeze. The advert says that it is for awkward objects that are difficult to wash, and I don’t think I’ve seen anything more awkward than Lady Gaga – she dances like a drunk, Downs Syndrome baby giraffe.

-She is so emaciated that her teeth are constantly exposed because she doesn’t have enough skin to stretch over them. There is literally nothing that annoys me more than people whose faces are so malformed that they are physically incapable of closing their mouths so they just walk around all day with a stupid tooth face.

-She uses the word ‘paw’ instead of ‘hand’ (e.g. “Put your paws in the air”, a real sentence that she really said). She clearly does not know the difference between paws and hands so I propose that we put her in that little meat dress she wore to highlight gay rights (still don’t see the connection) and kick her into the lion enclosure of the nearest zoo. I’m pretty sure she will die knowing exactly what a paw is and that can only be progress.

-Her boyfriend is the most smoking hot thing I’ve ever seen. If I ever got my hands on him he’d wish he was never born. I’d ruin him.

But there is no need for me to bore you with written explanations as to why she is such a mong-chote when she does such a wonderful job of demonstrating it herself in this ear-bleeding, eye-melting, fan-made tribute video:

 You know who was also ‘just being himself’?  Hitler.

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Things I love and why:
Hilarious children’s programme and recipient of the British Comedy Award for Best Sketch Show – Horrible Histories.

Because:

And:

 

Here’s the problem though. If Lady Gaga’s new video is anything to go by, turns out that she is actually the Grim Reaper from Stupid Deaths, one of my favourite sketches in Horrible Histories, and I am not happy about it.

Look!

Note the stupid tooth face.

Is nothing mine, Lady Gaga?  Could you not just let me have that?  It’s CBBC for fuck’s sake, if I can’t get away from your Hepatitis spores there then where can I go?  There really is only one place pure and fragrant enough to protect me from the Gaga’s omnipresent sticky residue – Kate Middleton’s bosom.  I wonder if she will let me nestle in there when I go to her wedding/get drunk in a London park next month…….Hold me Kate, hold me!