Adventures in Londonland

This is yum. Make make, eat eat, now now.

2011-05-22T17:20:00.002+01:00

I keep giving this recipe to people so thought I'd put it up here for ease of distribution...

Beef stew with dumplings

Takes 25 mins to prepare, 3 hours 40 mins to cook
Serves 6 (midgets) or 4 (normal people)
358 calories per serving, 12g fat (4g saturates) (based on midget-sized portions).

2tbsp sunflower oil
450g stewing steak, cut into 5cm (2inch) pieces
2 medium onions, finely sliced
2 carrots, sliced (not too finely)
350g swede, peeled and cut into chunks
2tbsp plain flour
150ml Guinness (or red wine if you're not a Guinness fan)
300ml hot beef stock
2tsp dark brown sugar
1tbsp Worcestershire sauce
1 bay leaf
1 thyme sprig

For the dumplings:
200g plain flour
3tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp dry English mustard (though I've just used normal mustard before and cut back slightly on the water added)
1/2 tsp salt
50g low-fat vegetable suet
2tbsp mixed freshly chopped herbs (like parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme)
150ml water (though you'll probably find that's too much)

Preheat the oven to 150 degrees Celsius (or 130 if you're using the fan oven). Heat 1tbsp oil in a large, flameproof casserole dish or heavy bottomed pan and brown the beef in batches. Set aside.

Add remaining oil to the pan and gently fry the onions and carrot for 10min until softened. Add the swede and cook for 2 mins

Return beef to the pan, sprinkle in the flour and cook for 1 min. Gradually stir in the Guinness and stock. Add sugar, Worcestershire sauce, bay leaf and thyme and bring to the boil. If you haven't cooked in a casserole dish, transfer this mixture to a casserole dish now (it need to be fairly deep (about 10cm high by 15cm wide, or bigger). Cover and cook in the over for three hours. The beef should be so tender you can cut it with a spoon.

To make the dumplings, sift the flour, baking powder, mustard and 1/2 tsp salt into a bowl. Stir in the suet and mixed herbs. Using a flat-bladed knife, stir in around 150ml cold water (or less if you use wet mustard. Either way, stir the water in gradually and stop as soon as you've created a soft dough, you don't want it too sticky).

Divide dough into 12 and roll into balls. Drop on to stew, spaced evenly apart. Cover and cook for 20 mins until puffed up. Remove lid and return to the oven for 5 min to finish cooking dumplings.

Serve with seasonal vegetables.

eHarmony

2011-04-07T22:32:00.008+01:00

www.eharmony.co.uk

Cost: £100+ if you’re an idiot like me and forget to opt out of the automatic monthly payments. Or £34.95 per month if you’re not an idiot like me.

eHarmony markets itself with words like ‘values’, ‘beliefs’ and ‘marriage’. After you’ve filled out an in-depth character analysis survey and set up your profile you will be sent compatible matches – usually averaging around half a dozen per day. There’s no search function available and you won’t be able to see your matches’ pictures until you’ve opened their profile. At eHarmony looks don’t matter, it’s all about the ‘personality’. Basically, it’s the ugly fat kid of dating websites.

The men: short, fat and bald. Or perhaps that’s just the kind I’m actually compatible with (and explains why my predilection for tall dark and handsome has failed me so far). I don’t mean to be shallow or anything… oh fuck it, yes I do. They all looked like Uncle Fester and I’m more of a Gomez kind of girl.

Pros: If you’re not as shallow as me, or if you’re also short, fat and bald, eHarmony is your ideal dating arena. It could also give you the opportunity to try a new kind of man-flavour: ugly yet tasty, anyone?

Cons: I paid £34.95 per month to have my inbox cluttered up with profiles of fugly men, then, after setting eHarmony emails to ‘spam’, forgot my subscription and ended up £100 out of pocket. If you’re thinking: “Good! That’s karma for writing such a bitchy blog post”, please read this article.

There are so many dating websites out there... which one should I choose? Part 2.

2011-03-27T13:38:00.009+01:00

Match – www.match.com

Cost: £29.99 per month

Match touts itself as the UK’s largest dating website, with ‘more dates, more relationships and more marriages than any other’. You can browse members’ profiles and then either ‘wink’ at or email the potentials. If you’re both online at the same time there’s also a live chat feature.

The men: Frankly, a bit mundane. Match is designed to appeal to the masses so they have succeeded in attracting a lot of mainstream bores. You know the kind I mean: he thinks he’s fashionable because he wears a white shirt out clubbing and well travelled because he visits mum in Cornwall once a month. However, there are so many fish in the match pond you’re bound to find a marlin amongst the guppies.

Pros: Easy to navigate, plenty of men to browse through, no weird quirky features... oh god it’s so blah I can’t get inspired to write anything vaguely witty... a good site for internet dating beginners.

Cons: Cancelling your match subscription could be more painful than any of the mundane dates you go on. Match automatically debits your account each month if you don’t opt out, and to opt out you actually have to phone them and explain yourself. The conversation goes something like this (and I’ve personally experienced both versions):

Be Naughty In London – www.benaughtyinlondon.com

Disclaimer: I registered with this site purely for research purposes. Ehem.

Cost: Free!

Sick of all this ‘love’ crap and just want to get laid? Be Naughty In London offers casual online dating for naughty singles. Apparently, more than 7 million people have already joined, but I’m willing to bet at least 20% of those memberships are bad practical jokes. You sign up and register your ‘tastes’ – toys / same sex fun / groups etc – then, regardless of whether you have written anything in your profile or have a photo, you will be bombarded by messages from men with erect penises as their profile picture. Hoorah!

The men: Horny and apparently obsessed with literature. Of the seven unsolicited messages I received, five of them were from men asking how many books I read each year / whether I prefer fiction or non-fiction / what book I think should be made into a movie etc. There’s nothing in my very limited profile about reading, so I just don’t understand where all this culture bullshit came from... perhaps I’ve cracked some secret man code? Ladies: if a man ever approaches you in a bar and asks who your favourite author is, BEWARE.

Pros: It’s funny as hell! I suppose if you’re having a REALLY dry spell it might serve a purpose? Ew.

Cons: Aside from most members looking like (and probably being) serial killers? You’ll receive regular, very inappropriately titled emails alerting you to potential shags. Trust me, you’ll quickly learn not to check your personal emails in an open office...

There are so many dating websites out there… which one should I choose? Part 1.

2011-03-09T18:06:00.007Z

Guardian Soulmates: http://dating.guardian.co.uk

Run by the Guardian newspaper, it’s your standard internet dating website that lets you browse other members’ profiles and exchange emails.

Cost: £32 per month

The men: As you’d expect from a website run by an intellectual, left-wing newspaper, many Guardian men fall into the ‘media wanker’ category. They’re frequently good looking and will sweep you off your feet with discussions about politics (liberal) and religion (atheist/agnostic).

Pros: You don’t have to pay to create a profile or read emails, so you can subscribe and then wait until you hear from a hottie who can string a sentence together before you fork out the cash.

Cons: The competition is stiff. One of the most interesting parts of the site is a ‘Most Popular’ table, which ranks the 20 men and 20 women who are receiving the most attention. In general, I believe women tend to be better looking than men, however this takes it to a new level. The Natalie Portman and Charlize Theron lookalikes can also write good and do charity work on the weekends. Good luck!

Lovestruck: www.lovestruck.com

Split up by major cities, Lovestruck lets you meet ‘single professionals nearby’. The idea is that you register according to where you work and can then meet up for lunch dates or after work drinks.

Cost: £35 per month

The men: If you like ‘city boys’, Lovestruck is for you. Personally, I get a bit bored with talk of mergers and acquisitions, however as well as paying for your dinner they may well put you in a taxi home and charge it back to their company account. That said, I do work near The City, so perhaps if you were Camden-based you’d find a more alternative male.

Pros: An ‘elite membership’ option lets subscribers receive emails from non-paying members. Because many men on Lovestruck own hedge funds and the extra cost is nothing to them, that means you may be able to contact men without having to spend a penny. (Just after I typed that I realised it’s a euphemism for urinating. Sorry, this isn’t really the place – if you’re into watersports please refer to the ‘Be Naughty In London’ blog, which will be posted shortly.)

Lovestruck also holds free singles nights at bars in the city, which you can read about on the website. You show up and are given a red straw to indicate that you’re on the prowl, then are left to your own devices. I haven’t been, but a friend tells me they’re always rammed.

Cons: The ‘free for lunch today’ and ‘free tonight’ buttons lets you promote your imminent availability to all subscribers. Frankly, it comes across as a bit desperate – I prefer to play slightly harder to get and also have better things to do with my lunch break than Russian roulette-style dates with neighbouring bankers. What if you went on a terrible date then had to face him in your local Pret every day afterwards? Cringe.

That's all for now folks. Part 2, including match, mysinglefriend and benaughtyinlondon will be posted shortly.

Happy dating!

Men Love Bitches And Cows

2010-07-29T21:38:00.026+01:00

Hello? Goodness, it’s dusty in here. It has been a while since I posted anything on this lonely little blog... almost one whole year, infact.

I’m very sad to tell you that during this time something truly tragic happened... My phone died, taking all my numbers with it.

Sorry, dear reader, I know how you loved to hear my oh-so-wacky tales of texting phonebook strangers and generally getting no response. Unfortunately, any plans to contact more weirdos have been well and truly scuppered: now I’m struggling just to get in touch with my mother. Or maybe she’s just screening my calls. Bitch.

Anyhoo, this blog is going through a rebrand. This is beneficial for three reasons:

1) Cutting back on my rendezvous’ with strangers means I’m less likely to be found floating down the Thames in itty bitty pieces
2) The whole concept was, quite frankly, a bit weird in the first place and I’m mildly embarrassed
3) ... Actually I can’t think of a third reason, I was just told in English class at school that you should always group things in threes because it’s more poetic. Or maybe that was photography. Or sex education

So, onwards and upwards.

I was visiting a friend a few nights ago and she started raving about a book she’d just read: ‘Why Men Love Bitches: From Doormat to Dreamgirl – A Woman’s Guide to Holding Her Own in a Relationship’. Apparently, this modern-day bible has changed her life and I must also read it, because it will really help me. I appreciate the concern but can see three major flaws in her logic:

1) I am already a bitch
2) I am not in a relationship
3) ... fuck it.

The book sounds suspiciously similar to ‘The Rules: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right’, which was given to me by another well-meaning friend many years ago. It contained gems like:

• Don't talk to a man first (and don't ask him to dance or propose marriage to him). If you do all the chasing he will feel like a weakling for the entire marriage
• Don't meet him halfway or go Dutch on a date - let him pay all the expenses; and
• Don't rush into sex: why buy the cow when he can get the milk for free?

Seriously, who writes this rubbish? A recent survey found a disproportionate number of women who have followed ‘The Rules’ are now floating down the Thames in itty bitty pieces while their husbands have absconded to Thailand with a fake passport and cash for hookers.

Okay, I’m sick of writing now. If you’re still looking for some words to entertain you I suggest the following:

Your Team

2009-09-01T00:14:00.012+01:00

Don’t worry, I’m back! This blog has been on hold while I travelled the world (Italy), landed myself a new job (yay) and discovered number three on the list of men I would like to have sex with (Mike Patton*).

I’m pleased to see that, despite my hiatus, this blog has received a number of visitors throughout August – mostly thanks to my previous post full of drug keyword spam. A special hello to Carlos, who was kind enough to leave a comment telling me he “needs to buy cheap Cialis Online because last week he bought tramadol but he spend a lot of money and in this moment he don’t have enough money”. Fuck the recession, eh?

I have just come back from ten days in Italy, where I learnt lots of really interesting and important stuff. Did you know the phrase “got the wrong end of the stick” originated in ancient Rome, when there were large communal toilets and, instead of toilet paper, people used sponges on sticks? As a joke, Romans would sometimes turn the stick up the wrong way so when their toilet buddy reached for his arse-wiping apparatus he’d get a nasty surprise. I wonder if it was also the origin of the phrase “beat the shit out of him”.

During my stay in Rome I met two delightful American girls who introduced me to an equally delightful game called ‘Your Team’. They have asked me to pass on the knowledge to you, dear reader, in the hope that you will gain as much entertainment out of it as we did, so here you go:

YOUR TEAM: When you spot someone crazy/ eccentric/ psychopathic etc., turn to your friend and say “Your Team”. The aim is to allocate crazy people to your friends’ teams before they have a chance to do it to you. When the psycho is talking to you or within hearing distance, it is also a subtle way of saying “oh my god, this person is a fucking psycho” without risking a punch in the face.

My team currently consists of three or four creepy homeless men, a crazy-eyed Italian woman who tried to convince me that I was a witch, a 16-year-old wannabe Casanova and an overweight gentleman wearing orange stubbies and a pumpkin for a hat. Thought: wouldn’t it be entertaining if you could actually turn them into a real team and get them together to play football? Yes it would.

Over the next few months I’ll attempt to update this blog as frequently as possible, however I’m starting a big new important grown-up’s job next week (fingers crossed there are no pumpkin hat wearers on my new team), so there may be another hiatus on the way.

Be good! And please feel free to send me any updates of your Your Team adventures.

P.S. Chelsea: Remember the man who tried to give you a pigeon on your way to work the other day? Your Team.

* Behind 1) Johnny Depp and 2) Robert Downey Junior.

Cheap Drugs. Tramadol. GBL.

2009-06-27T11:41:00.011+01:00

A few blogs back I asserted that ‘sex sells and therefore overt sexual references might drive my hits up’. I was wrong. It turns out that drugs sell. My reader tracker thingee is telling me a number of people visited this blog after searching for ‘GBL health food store London’. Sorry folks, I’m fairly sure you didn’t find what you were looking for. Try Holland & Barrett, but get in quick because Ol’ Brown Eyes is banning GBL soon. Then try here instead: http://www.airfox.net/gbl-eu.php. Before indulging, please ensure you’ve sorted out any paperwork: www.willdrafters.com. I suggest donating to the Rehabilitation for Addicted Prisoners Trust and you’re also welcome to bequeath good stuff to me (FYI I’m looking for a decent stereo with an iPod dock).

Demerol.

Shame about MJ: a true legend. I remember, aged ten, dressing all in white with a trilby and one glove and teaching myself to moonwalk. Does that mean I should consider him an inspiration? Nick Griffin would disagree. What surprised me about Michael’s death was the speed at which people went from shock and mourning to piss-taking. My favourites so far:

Coroners are investigating Michael Jackson’s cause of death. So far it’s been narrowed down to:
a) Sunshine b) Moonlight c) Good Times d) Boogie.

Why does Michael Jackson like twenty-eight-year-olds?
Because there are twenty of them.

Farrah Fawcett died and went to heaven. God was a huge fan, so he promised to grant her one final wish. She wished that all children on earth would be happy and safe. So God killed Michael Jackson.

Cialis. Viagra.

For those of you who keep asking: no, the guy my flatmate accidentally sent 75 blank text messages to still hasn’t replied. In fact, we recounted them and she had actually sent 77. She is fabulous.

Fact of the day: in some US states you can call #77 on your mobile to dial the police – I wonder if he contemplated this.

Valium. Diazepam.

I’ve just texted Bastien the link to this blog. I await his comments with anticipation. After much coercion I also caved and given my father the link: not looking forward to those comments so much...

Steroids.

Stranger Danger

2009-06-25T00:13:00.009+01:00

I was on the tube reading the London Lite this evening when I came across an article about a girl who died from a GBL overdose. I learnt that GBL is a legal drug that can be purchased from health food stores and is often used in date rapes. Then I turned the page and read about the court case of a man accused of abducting and murdering a girl before burying her in his back garden. Then I got off the tube and made my way to my date with Bastion the Phonebook Stranger.

We’d agreed to meet for a drink at my local pub. As I navigated the cobblestones and tottered towards my final destination several thoughts crossed my mind:

I still have no idea who this man is. He is not a friend of my flatmate nor, as far as I can tell, a friend of any of my other friends. He is a stranger.
Stranger danger.
Never get in a car with a stranger. Never accept anything from a stranger. Never go off alone with a stranger...
Alone. I am alone and nobody knows where I am.
They do! My blog readers know I’m out with Bastion.
Nobody reads my blog.
Fuck.
Ow. I shouldn’t wear these high heels when I have corns.
I shouldn’t wear these high heels when I have corns and may need speed and agility to escape.
Speed is a drug, like GBL.

I arrived at the pub ten minutes early*. Through the window I could see it was empty, save for a couple canoodling in the corner and a bored bartender. Dutch courage was needed so I ordered a gin and tonic. This pleased me because now Bastion couldn’t spike my drink easily and, if yesterday’s fears were realised and he did decide to throw it in my face, it wouldn’t stain.

I positioned myself at a table facing the door, and I waited. A man walked in and peered around. I could see him panicking on the inside so I waved and called out: ‘Bastion!’. He smiled and walked over.

Bastion is actually spelt Bastien. His parents live in Paris, he works in real estate and used to have a materialistic Australian housemate. Once upon a time he looked at a room in my flat but we’d just offered it to someone else. And then I forgot to delete his number from my phone. We talked about travelling and smoking and painting and the origins of English. All in all he seemed normal, un-strange and unlikely to have a propensity for drugging, raping and/or murdering. Then he offered to buy me a drink and give me a lift home in his car. I hesitated, looking down at the London Lite peeking out of my handbag.

“Thanks, but I’ll walk.”

And I tottered the 15 painful minutes home.

Another Phonebook Stanger mystery solved! Must get those corns sorted.
________________________________________________________

* The early arrival is a trick I employ when meeting up with people I don’t know well. If you get there first you don’t have to endure those excruciating seconds when you walk through the door and have to peer around for your acquaintances while trying to look cool and calm, even though on the inside you’re panicking because you just know they’re sitting right in front of you, waving and calling your name but you can’t see them because you’re a bit retarded**.

** This is not as retarded as my flatmate who left the keypad on her phone unlocked today and sent a record 75 blank text messages to somebody. Somebody she has a crush on and is trying to ‘play it cool’ with. Somebody she then she called to leave a voicemail explaining that she’s “not a psycho stalker”. He hasn’t replied: he must be horrified! Ha! She is fabulous. Anyway, we’re off topic now, please scroll back up and keep reading my riveting Stranger Danger tale...

Date Arranged and Man-Drought Explained

2009-06-23T11:23:00.007+01:00

Phonebook Stranger Bastion has been relentlessly contacting me to arrange a meeting. He’s suggested drinks and gigs and he’s ending his texts with kisses. Fuck. I’m starting to regret starting this Phonebook Stranger business. What do you say to a man who thinks he wants to date you, when you know he’s actually more likely to want to throw his drink in your face when he works out who you are? You don’t want to see him, that’s for sure.

So, in an attempt to diffuse a potential drink vs face situation, I went with the truth and boldly confessed that I am the former flatmate of his friend – the woman who cruelly rejected him. His response:

“I know someone by that name living in Acton but he never had a Kiwi flatmate. Still okay for a drink? x”

So I’m back to square one. Who the hell is Bastion? I shall be finding out on Wednesday evening when we rendezvous for drink in Soho. I’m going to stick with clear liquids just in case it’s a trap.

I’m not quite sure how I feel about catching up with a man I used to know but have totally forgotten – it’s a bit like blind dating for the Alzheimer’s patient. Let’s hope the outcome is more reminiscent of The Notebook than The Memory of a Killer.
________________________________________________________

Thought of the day: A new study has found that homosexuality is a necessary biological adaptation for the survival of species: more albatrosses turn gay when there is an imbalance in the male-to-female ratio. Could this explain the Great London Man-Drought?

A Matt Elf

2009-05-31T18:53:00.012+01:00

Good flatmates are a rare commodity. Having wasted many hours of my life interviewing unemployed bores I have become incredibly ruthless in my selection – why waste time talking to no-hopers when there are important cultural activities to be undertaken, such as beer drinking, television watching and sleeping? As such, I have developed two essential criteria that must be met to pass the first interview. Flatmates must be:

Friendly and chatty, but not so friendly and chatty that they’ll talk all the way through Britain’s Got Talent

Attractive, so when I hear them having sex it’s not too disturbing, but not so hot that I want to shag them myself

If they don’t fit the bill the interview is rapidly ended and they’re bundled back out onto the street. Some people would call this rude, I prefer the term “efficient”. This upfront approach can cause problems though. One particularly memorable situation arose when my French flatmate, who was moving out, told me his anonymous friend would be taking over his room. I was dubious:

“Does he fit the Two Essential Criteria?”
“Er, what two essential criteria?”
“Number one: friendly and chatty, but not so friendly and chatty
that he’ll talk all the way through Britain’s Got Talent, and number two: oh…”

(Here, I realised I was talking to the flatmate who was the very inspiration for number two. One balmy evening a quiet beer had turned into six and the hot Frenchman became rather irresistible. Then he suddenly decided to move out and criteria number two was set in place. Do you know that an anagram of flatmate is Fatal Met? I feel it is quite appropriate in this situation. Another anagram is Flea Matt. This is not appropriate, but quite funny.)

“What’s the second one?”
“Um, tidy.”

Regardless of his positive assurances I requested to meet the friend before making a decision. A good thing too, as it turned out the friendly, chatty French friend was only friendly and chatty when speaking French. As my grasp of the language is limited to “voulez-vou coucher avec moi” things may not have got off on quite the right foot. I told him I didn’t think it would work out and bundled him back out onto the street, never to be seen again, and recruited a lovely English girl to live with me instead.

It was a rather awkward situation for all involved, but luckily flat rejection tends to be a bit like sex with an ugly teenager: painful but quick.

That is, of course, unless you text them six months later having forgotten who they are.

I am currently negotiating some tricky text messages from Phonebook Stranger Bastion a.k.a Boring French Friend. I worked out who he was shortly after contacting him, but unfortunately he doesn’t appear to realise that I am the rude bitch who rejected him in favour of a woman. He has been enthusiastically texting every couple of days with further information to help me “figure out” how I know him. He wants to arrange a meeting. I have been very, very busy…

In other news, someone decided to stuff a heated ready-meal through my letterbox on the weekend. Being a reasonable, rational person, I naturally assumed that this was a simple delivery error and sent off the following letter to help prevent future problems:

“Dear Sharwoods,

I am writing to express my deep concern that your products are not suitable for home delivery and request that they be redesigned and repackaged accordingly.

Upon arriving home at 3am on Saturday morning I found that one of your products - a curried chicken, rice and potato-based meal - had been delivered to my house. Unfortunately, because of its letterbox unfriendly design, the courier was unable to fit it through the mail slot in the door and, as a result, the product had been crushed, rendering it entirely inedible and leaving a rather unpleasant mess.

I would appreciate a hasty response to this letter – all of my mail now smells like curry and I am much aggrieved.

Kind regards,
Zoe"

No response yet – don’t worry, I’ll keep lobbying until the problem is rectified.

Errol and Evolution

2009-05-06T21:54:00.009+01:00

I’ve always been a fan of blogging but never before had the time or motivation to start, so I’m very pleased to report that this one is evolving.

You may not realise it, but two weeks ago this was a blog of iniquity. I reasoned that, because porn sites are popular, overt sexual references would get my hit rate up (so to speak).

I titled my first blog “Phone Sex (No! Not really, well there’s potential...)”, drafted a blurb about how I’d prefer to be off shagging someone than writing this, then posted an up-skirt photo at the top of this page (it’s gone now, don’t bother scrolling back up).

Now I’ve refined my approach somewhat and removed my full name so potential employers who Google me don’t realise I’m actually an immature reprobate.

As for my initial quest to contact phonebook strangers, I did build up the courage to return Errol’s phone call... It went something like this:

Z: “Hi! It’s Zoe. Sorry about the random text, I’m going through my phonebook contacting all the people I can’t remember so I thought I’d get in touch.”
E: “Wow, that’s really cool. I wonder how we know each other... How about I describe myself and see if it rings a bell?”

As we exchanged vital statistics the conversation morphed from innocent catch-up to interesting phone date. Errol is 5’10”, has brown hair, olive skin and works for a major TV broadcaster. Check, check, check, check. Phone date going well, but we still couldn’t work out how we knew each other.

Suddenly he had a brainwave: facebook!

A few clicks later we’d friended each other up and were peering through personal details and pictures. Errol has a Porsche. Check.

Unfortunately, we still couldn’t work out how we originally met. We reasoned it must have been in a club, where we’d fallen for each other and then, in a devastating twist of fate, suffered simultaneous bouts of amnesia.

E: “Are you single?”
Z: “Yup!”
E: “Wow, this just gets better and better!”

I started visualising myself in his Porsche. We were laughing and sipping champagne. We were regaling our young children with the tale of how Mummy and Daddy almost never met... Then I uttered the fateful words:

Z: “Hey! You should read my blog. Make sure you post a comment...”

Errol never left a comment. Infact, he hung up moments later and I haven’t heard from him since.

I’m still deciding whether it was the up-skirt picture or untimely phone sex reference that did it. This is why my blog has evolved. This is also a prime example of why being demure is one of the most important qualities in a woman.

The Demure Lure

2009-04-29T21:14:00.005+01:00

I have a friend who believes that being demure is one of the most important qualities in a woman.

Demure: (adj.) coyly decorous, sober or sedate.

She is none of these things. In fact, all who know her regularly argue that the antonyms fit much better: immodest, vulgar, naughty... Case in point last weekend when she skulled a bottle of champagne on a street corner, was refused entry to one of London’s most notorious gay clubs, told to go to McDonald’s to sober up, got into a fight over a chicken nugget and then returned to the club with Macca’s receipt in hand to demand entry.

That said, she is also a fabulous con artist and is currently perfecting the art of convincing strangers that she is a lady. And the boys love it.

Taking notes from her book, here is the beginner’s guide to demure pulling:

You are a virgin. Announce this to everyone within earshot and keep reiterating it whenever possible. I.e., “sorry, I can’t pole dance this evening because I might break my hymen”.
Wear fake eyelashes: they give the impression of doe-eyed innocence. Avoid the rainbow glittery type or people will think you’re a) a gay man or b) Princess Eugenie.
Change your name. A survey once found that men think girls with the names Rachel, Sarah and Kelly are the sluttiest. You are not a slut, you are a virgin. A virgin called Elizabeth.
Align yourself with angels, doves and other demure stuff by wearing white. If it rains you’ll look just like Kirsten Dunst in Spiderman when Tobey Maguire kisses her upside down, and if you go to a club with black lights you’ll look like a beacon of virginal light and your friends won’t lose you.
Don’t, under any circumstances, make the first move. Bat those fake lashes, smile and let him come to you. If he’s not taking the bait ask a friend to help reel him in: “Excuse me, my cousin Elizabeth thinks you’re gorgeous but she’s too shy to tell you. It’s a shame, she’s only allowed out of the convent this weekend because it’s her 21st birthday”.
Blush when he says anything suggestive. This double-whammy trick indicates that you’re a delicate maiden, while also reminding men of an engorged vagina. If you cannot achieve a natural blush try the following cheats:
Pinch your cheeks. Make sure you do this when he’s not looking or he’ll think you’re mental and you’ll never get laid.
Hold your breath. This is used to best effect if you can pre-empt his suggestive line, hold your breath for 15 seconds and then develop the flush right on cue. To really cap it off try simultaneously inserting a cute giggle.
Drink more. Beware: this will also result in a red nose and be very apparent later in the evening when all the sweaty cherry-popping sex has caused your makeup to run.
Adapt your vocab. ‘Cheers’ becomes ‘thank you’, ‘bog’ becomes ‘ladies’ room' and ‘cunt’ becomes ‘goodness’.
Men love a DD (Damsel in Distress). “Oh goodness, I’ve lost my wallet and my friends. How am I ever going to afford this Long Island Iced Tea and the taxi home?”

Happy pulling!

First Contact

2009-04-25T19:59:00.002+01:00

How do you introduce yourself to someone who you think you should know but can’t remember? It’s comparable to waking up, hungover, next to a stranger and experiencing the ‘what-the-hell-is-his-name?’ moment. Do you ask him outright, exposing yourself as a drunken disgrace, or just rifle through his wallet for ID while he’s in the loo?

With wallet-rifling not an option I decided to text the following re-introduction to Alan Wass, Bastion, Clarissa, Danielle, Errol, Is, Mark and Paul T Drip - my gaggle of phonebook strangers.

Zoe: “Hi there, sorry if this is a strange text. I’m just clearing out my address book and found your number but can’t remember who you are... Thought I’d say hi. Zoe (kiwi girl!)”

In hindsight, I should have waited until I wasn’t in an office full of bosses and gossips to send off the messages, as 30 second later my mobile started ringing: “Incoming Call: Errol”.

Holy crap. I could see it now:

Zoe: “Hello?”
Errol: “Hi, it’s Errol”
Zoe: “Hi, Errol, do I know you?”

Cue curious looks from colleagues

Errol: “I’m not sure, what do you look like?”
Zoe: “I’m 25, about 5’6”, dark hair, green eyes, pale skin. Do you drink Jägermeister out of mugs?”

Cue angry glare from boss

The ringing was getting louder and my boss was already doing the angry glare thing. So I panicked and hung up.

Not a great start, but it was very encouraging that my phonebook strangers were responding. The phone made noises again and a message appeared:

Is: hi zoe it is ismini we must have met ages ago trying to remember as well hope you are well too

And, just like that, phonebook stranger #1 was identified! Is and I were colleagues at my first job in London where I was a personal assistant (before they sacked me because I’m too disorganised to look after my own diary, let alone someone else’s). Together we revolutionised the workplace: enforcing the popular ‘Bring Cake For The Office On Your Birthday’ rule and instituting a reorganisation of the stationery cupboard.

When starting out on this venture I hadn’t thought beyond figuring out who the phonebook strangers were and then either keeping them in or removing them from my phonebook, happy in the knowledge that I am familiar with all who reside there. Then Is posed an interesting idea:

Is: we should catch up for a drink sometime

Why, yes we should. I texted back the affirmative and we have promised to catch up shortly. Hoorah! Friends reunited and the promise of a drink. This is turning out better than I anticipated. The phone beeped again.

Clarissa: Think we met at marie claire’s birthday lunch a few months back? Not sure to be honest... Hehe i’m Maltese if that helps!

Who the hell is Marie Claire? Perhaps I have early-onset Alzheimer’s. I did put the remote in the fridge the other day...

Zoe: “Haha, I think I remember now!...

(no idea)

...I have a habit of collecting people’s numbers and never seeing them again. Might be fun to meet up for a drink sometime?”

Clarissa: “Would be rather funny! Am heading back to Malta on Tues for good... Unfortunately will not be able to meet up and solve this mystery!”

I was tempted to ask if she was free to catch-up this weekend, but too scared she’d say she’s busy washing her hair. Girls are tricky! I suddenly understand why my flatmate goes on courses to learn how to pick up women (sorry for ridiculing you, Adam).

I have written Clarissa off as a lost cause and turned my focus back to the remaining six phonebook strangers. Unfortunately, Alan Wass is an ‘unknown recipient’ (no kidding!) and the messages for Danielle and Mark are still floating about in the ether. Bastion and Paul T Drip are yet to get in touch.

Now I just need to build up the courage to return Errol’s call...

Phone Sex (No, not really! Well, there's potential)

2009-04-23T23:43:00.008+01:00

Have you ever looked through your phone’s address book and thought: “who the fuck is that?”

This evening I have discovered my address book is home to the following mysterious strangers:

Alan Wass (surely not THIS Alan Wass: http://www.myspace.com/alanwassmusic... could it be?)
Bastion
Clarissa
Danielle
Errol
Is
Mark
Paul T Drip

My finger momentarily hovered over the delete button, but then I got to thinking… who are these people? No, who are they REALLY?

With no last names to speak of (aside from Mr Wass and Mr T Drip (which looks likely to be a crafty pseudonym)) the ever-reliable Google can’t solve my dilemma.

I suspect that at least two of the eight strangers are, indeed, not strangers at all - merely long-lost friends who I met and bonded with while consuming shots. Of Jägermeister. From a mug. In rapid succession.

As I am always extremely cool, calm and witty when drinking, it does seem surprising that these folk have not been in touch. Maybe I was supposed to call them and now they think I’m just one of those bastards who say they’ll call but never do?

Well, I’m not one of those bastards. So I’m going to call them now.

Actually, I’ll text in the morning. Non-verbal contact at a reasonable hour is probably preferable considering the remaining six strangers are likely to be a mix of best-forgotten lovers, former landlords and actual friends who will be pissed off I’ve forgotten them. Oh, and maybe Pete Doherty’s guitarist.

Wish me luck.