Boys are weird

Now, it’s a common phenomenon that men are from Mars and women are from Venus.

In essence, we think and act so differently, it’s surprising that so many of us decide to get married and put up with these huge disparities for the rest of time.

I’m starting a series. A series of stories that highlight some of the strangest ways I’ve known blokes to act. And I want your help. Every week, or how often I see fit, I’m going to furnish you lovely people with a story about a boy, (or a girl for that matter), acting weirder than weird.

In return for you being entertained, I want yours. Email them, tweet them, tell me in the pub. But I want to hear them.

Here’s how we start. This week’s edition:

Chelsea Ben.

Oh Chelsea Ben. Where art thou? If only I knew if you’d be reading this.

So. Let me set the scene. Hannah comes round to mine 6, 7, maybe 8 Sunday’s ago. We have a chat, chill out for a while. I realise I have no milk when offering up a cuppa. Answer? Pop to the shop and pick some up. Course not. Let’s go to the pub.

Off we toddle. I may add in at this point that I am wearing a top I wear to bed, some jeans and have scraped my hair up into an original Croydon facelift top knot. Make up – non existent. Sex appeal – in the gutter.

So. There we sit. In the garden. Of the local. I think at this point we’ve had two beers.

Along comes, as we now know him, Ben.

He makes a vague attempt to talk to us about buying a cigarette from us and determining what times the local news agents shut. As chat up lines go it wasn’t champion, but at least he made the effort. Off he pops to furnish himself with more cigarettes and before his return I go to the bar. Upon arriving back at my seat I find that not only have we been joined by Ben but also his friends, Billy Bob (long story) and Gentle Giant Jeff. Transpires Ben doesn’t have a nickname like the others so we give him one.Chelsea Ben. He doesn’t support Chelsea but won a bet that day on the blues so we decided to call him Chelsea Ben. After another two beers, Hannah and I obviously thought we were hilarious.

Pretty sure he supported West Ham. Anyway, I digress.

The night draws on. It’s apparent Billy Bob, real name Barry, has a thing for our Han. She’s having none of it. But he has world class banter so we let it continue. Ben’s quiet but quite sweet. Laughs along and all is swell. Several more beers later, they call last orders and despite the boy’s pleas Han & I head home.

Or so we think.

Uber, I cry. Out whips my little lady’s phone and low and behold ‘No car’s available’. Gutted. Only thing for it.

“‘Nother drink?” – famous last words.

Into the next pub along we walk to be met with Billy Bob, Gentle Giant Jeff and ah…lovely Chelsea Ben.

Billy Bob entertains Hannah with tales of what he would love to do to her given half the chance and I get chatting to Chelsea Ben. Lovely bloke, really humble and really quite funny. Bit of a nervous twitch which makes me warm to him. But fit. Really quite fit.

Last orders call for the second time in the night, Hannah finally gets in her cab and there stands Chelsea Ben & I.

‘I’m off’ I call, as he starts to tell me he lives down by the church (at the end of my road), so I say he can walk me home because well, I like to think it’s 1956 and people still do that.

So he does. Gent. Talks about his family and his want to be a fireman. What. A . Piece.

Asks me for my number at the end of my road and we part company without him seeing where I actually live, because it isn’t 1956 and he might be a nutcase. I leave with somewhat of a crush. He texts me straight away asking when he can see me again. Lush.

Texts back and forth all week, good banter, solid chat.  Asks me out for a drink and I gladly accept.

I tell him that I’m off to the races that Saturday, but the week after suits me just fine.

Fast forward a few days to Saturday. I’m out all day, few texts flying back with old CB and he asks if I’ve had any big wins. Han, I & some other friends get off the train at East Croydon and fancy a night cap. In the meanwhile, I’ve received a call from ol’ Chelsea Ben. I’ve not answered.

We’ve tipped into The George and I’ve headed to the loo. Check my phone. ‘Chelsea Ben – 20 minutes ago’

‘Was just ringing to see if you fancied a drink on your way home, I’m going to call into The George on the way back from work’

I reply

‘How weird, I’ve just walked in The George with my mates, let me know when you get here’

Chelsea Ben ‘I know I just clocked you walk in, come say hello I’m at the bar’

I leave the toilet, go to my friends, repeat the story.

‘Ah yes, there he is in the grey jumper’ lovely ol Hannah shares.

I, fluff up the hair, and walk on over. Check with Dean how I look. Better than last week I’d imagine as I’m out of the PJ top and now in a frock with lipstick on. Well, it’s the races init.

Chelsea Ben’s at the bar on the phone. He waves, I wave back. He smiles. I action to him that I’ll come back cos he’s on the phone.

He gives the thumbs up and a wink.

I return to the table. ‘Ah, he’s on the phone’ I say, ‘give it a minute and I’ll go back over’

Take a sip of my drink, look up to chat to Dean and what do I see?

Chelsea Ben.

Walking straight past my table and out the bloody pub.


Oh yeah. Off he fucked. After asking me for a drink twice. Asking me to come say hello. He then jogs on.

Clearly the cute, little green number I thought I was sporting actually made me look like a troll who lived under a bridge.

I have the hump so message him ‘Well…that was weird’

Of course no reply. Another one bites the bust I think. ‘He was a knob anyway’ Han cries.

Oh no wait. It gets better.

Roll forward 1 week. I’m on holiday in France. Get some wifi, check my phone.

‘1 New Message – Chelsea Ben’

‘Hey – :)’

Yep. That actually happened.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I think it was the emoji that finished me off.


Boys. Are. Weird.

Now – get your stories over to me. On the double.



When you’ve known each other a million years

It’s been a weekend of long standing friendships.

Dean, Laura & I stayed in the pub on Friday and realised that it’s been 15 years since we started chatting on MSN and generally annoying the hell out of each other.

We spent Saturday night around a group of lads that have clearly been friends for yonks, made clear by the low levels the ‘banter’ stooped when referencing each others sex lives.

I got home on Saturday to a postcard from Josh on his travels, another one of my longstanding counterparts, and he managed to even rip the piss out of me from India. 12 years and still ripping me apart.

It made me realise that there are certain things that only happen when you when you’re in a longstanding friendship. And they are all marvellous.

You know things such as;

  • You will be completely outrageously rude to each other all the time. And then just go to the bar like you just casually asked what the weather was doing outside. See ‘Alright you absolute bellend, would you like a pint’?
  • You don’t have to explain your back story. When they refer to someone at work as ‘knobface’ you know they mean the girl in accounts that has been holding up their expenses since the dawn of time. And you kind of hate her a bit too.
  • You also know the structure, names, surnames and wives names of each others entire workplace. You know who to hate, who to fancy and who you should be scared of when they shout at your mate.
  • You never have to ask what the other one wants to drink. When you get to the pub first, you order your usuals and sit and wait.
  • You know to NEVER speak about what happened that time in Year 10 at that house party. You don’t even bring it up when you’re on your own. You just don’t do it.
  • You clock people in bars that the other one will find attractive before they do. Dean is well good at this game. ‘Oi oi Jo, he’s a bit of you’. Joker.
  • When shit gets real. You know loss of jobs or seriously ill family members or a boyfriend that runs off with a 45 year old (ahem – hashtag true story), you rally round no matter where you are. You sense when the other one wants to talk about it. You sense when they don’t. You sense when you just need to take them out,  buy them a shot of raspberry vodka and sit and wait for the tears to come.
  • You sometimes meet up and sit in near silence. Because you’ve been on the group whatsapp all week but you just fancy not being in the house. You know the fine details off all of your pals weeks, but it’s still nice to sit and jam around the same table.
  • You have the best stories about each other pissed up. The best stories that you always tell new people when you meet them. And you spend ten minutes cracking up. Only to realise that your new buddies weren’t there. Because they weren’t in Malia 07. So it’s not so funny for them.
  • You can spend hours laughing at each other’s romantic history. Because everyone else knew the guy with a dodgy rucksack and a child (and probably a wife) was a bad idea, but they let you run with it just so they had ammo in 5 years time to rip you. And they still do.
  • You genuinely care about each other’s family. Like they’re your own. They might as well be.
  • You see each other at least once a week. Sometimes twice. Normally three times. Cos it’s easier than going out with that new crowd you met through the gym.
  • Sometimes you just speak in grunts. ‘Mate, pass the urggggh’…*silently hands over the menu and carries about their business*
  • You can call each other and it not affect your friendship. ‘Pal, I love you but you are being an absolute thick prat and I can’t even handle your noise, see you tomorrow’. You get what I mean.
  • You know that when you say, ‘don’t mention it to anyone else’, you know that means that everyone else in your little team will know instantly. It’s just people outside of that you don’t want knowing how drunk and naked you got.


Here come the boys….

So last week I wrote a post about what men really find attractive in the celebrities of today. It was a popular one and men and women alike were shocked at the responses. Old, young, larger, smaller, it turns out that all girls are someone’s cup of tea.

It got me thinking that us girls aren’t the only ones with hang-ups. Blokes get insecure and many of them think that we are all just after a Ryan Gosling look-a-like to take us out for a drink and lend a hand with the washing up.


I put the question to the females of the Facebook & Twitter world to see which celebrities we actually find attractive. Hopefully, boys, you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

Roll up roll up.

Up first.

The boys from Sunday Brunch, of course. Because they are hilarious, handsome and sometimes get pissed before 12pm live on air. Swoon.

Yes, Yes I want to wake up to you both on a Sunday.

Mr James Corden. Please, feel free to laugh me into bed, any day, sweetheart. We all just want to marry Smithy.

Rod Stewart. Some guys really do have all of the luck. Short? Old? Do we care? Do we hell.

Andy Peters – he’s been breaking our hearts since Live & Kicking.

he really is getting better with ages. God, damn.

Tom Selleck. Personally, I’ve loved him since 3 Men & A Baby

And then there’s the general Eastenders section.

Alfie Moon – it has to be Shane Ritchie as Alfie Moon apparently. My mate Laura actually uttered the words ‘I just want him wrap that nasty leather coat around me when I’m naked’. There you go Shane, if you’re reading.

Come on, we all want an Alfie Moon in our lives.

Max Branning. Yep. Sometimes we just really fancy a bald, ginger, suspected killer. Come. To. Mamma.

He’s Lady London’s favourite.

Fat Boy. Cos you’re so funny. So kind. AND SO PRETTY.

it’s just the way he calls Dot ‘Mrs Branning’. LOVE HIM

& throwing it back to the one, the only. BEPE DI MARCO.

Moving away from Eastenders, but another popular one.

Mr Peter Andre. I’ve been assured that it’s nothing to do with the Iceland ads.

Yeah, I’ll be your mysterious girl.

The Matrie d’Fred from First Dates. I’ll just go on a date with you please. Thanks. Bye.Jimmy Mistry. From the cobbles to the dance floor. He’s won over a lot of us.

 Then there was my three favourites.

Jackie Chan. Did not see that curve ball coming.

Michael Palin. Yep. Michael Palin.

Rhino from Gladiators. I wasn’t surprised by his entry (I mean look at him) just surprised that my sister had been holding a candle for him for the best part of twenty years!

& then there was the one that everyone voted for. David Beckham? No. Tom Hardy? No. Idris? No.


Larry Bloody Lamb, that’s who. Preach!

So you see my point boys. Get a bit chubby, grow a bit old, we won’t care. But it’ll probably do you a favour to get a job on Eastenders!

LL x

rachel and monica

The joys of living with your bestie.

We are currently celebrating 21 years of Friends. The smash hit, US sitcom that followed the lives of 6 best friends. 2 sets of whom lived together.

Joey & Chandler.

Monica & Rachel.

And what a bleeding great show it was.

This month also celebrates a year of me living with my best mate. Here she is. Old Juppers. That’s us doing our promo shoot for our own version of the show Croydon Friends. The coffee shop near us is full of wrong’uns so we just stay put and drink it on our sofa. But seriously, so Monica & Rachel right?!

Whilst having our standard Googlebox night in, we decided that living with strangers in a house share would be pants. Because there’s certain things that come with living with your best mate. Certain things that set it apart from living with people you found on Gumtree.

Things such as.

Well you know, you’ve been best friends for years so you have mildly identical tastes in TV. You never row over the remote and spend a lot of time in the living room, rather than couped up watching your own shiz in your room.

You buy EVERYTHING with your initials on it. Because. Well. Why wouldn’t you do that?

Cos we're called Jo & Sarah. Ya gettit?

Cos we’re called Jo & Sarah. Ya gettit?

You don’t have to leave shitty notes on the fridge about the state of the bathroom, because you both just clean when it needs doing. No rotas. No rage. Or sometimes neither of you can be bothered (current mood). But your ok living in each other’s dirt for a day whilst your apathy for Flash spray subsides.

You’d never dream of labelling your food or having separate shelves in the fridge.

Ah you bought Nutella. I love Nutella. I ate all your Nutella.

Your too good to me, man. And you love me too much to get mad at me. Boom.

If you both happen to be in on a Friday night, you’ll no doubt end up putting the world to rights over bottles of prosecco on your balcony. And then whacking Spotify up to an evicition worthy level and dance around to the Grease soundtrack til 4am.

You’ll go halves on furniture and know when the time comes that you eventually (never) leave each other’s busom, because one of you is moving in with a romantic partner (gah!), you’ll let the single one keep the sofa. Cos she’s your mate. And what’s a hundred quid?

You don’t mind when they have their mates over. Because they’re your mates. And that’s just a bonus.


Sometimes you play each others Tinder when your watching Eastenders. Cos you know what the other one likes. More than you know what you like. It’s weird.

Automatically, you make teas in two. Even if the other ones not in. Just habit. Sometime you make 3 just in case the other one pulled.

You open their window and give their room a little air out when they are on holiday. Because, well, you don’t want her coming back to all of that mustiness.

You have your own little responsibilities. One’s in charge of the joint account. One in charge of the electric bill. You never think to check the one that isn’t yours. Cos the chances of her robbing you are slim to hilarious.

The other one can sense when you’ve got the hump with work, you’ve got period pain or that bloke hasn’t text you back. They just plonk tea down next to you, put First Dates on and don’t say anything until you’re ready to unleash a hellish hour long rant. Then they listen. Laugh at you. Find First Dates on catch up because you spoke over it. Tell you to shut up this time.

You have several ‘life’ chats randomly on a Saturday morning. Because you refuse to take advise from anyone else.

You come home rather than going to the pub when the other one needs cheering up. Order pizza. Get fat. Watch Thelma & Louise.

But seriously, how good are my pjs?

But seriously, how good are my pjs?

Notice that you pull the exact same faces at the TV. Realise you’d make excellent Googlebox viewing.

Watch TV box sets like you’re a couple. Wait for the other one to get in before jumping ahead a epidsode.

Consider buying a dog, like you’re a couple.

Basically become a little bit of a sexless couple.

& last but not least, my highlight.

Have really serious conversations mid-way through take-aways. My favourite from this week

‘But mate, if you saw me on Crimewatch, would you call in?’

‘Nah mate, I’d probably be there when you were committing said crime. And I can’t afford this place on my own’



Plus Size? Half Size? This is what men really think is beautiful…

So the absolute babe that is Ashley Graham took New York Fashion Week by storm this week by appearing, wait for it, in her undies!

Such a stunner and doing an amazing thing for female body image and general perception on the female form across the globe. Bravo. I mean, look at her. Any bloke in his right mind would jump out of his pants the minute something that good looking emerged from the bathroom.

It of course begged me to ask the question. ‘Who do you find attractive?’ to my male friends and colleagues. I questioned them all to tell me their top 3 celebrity crushes.

I was interested to see if I’d be bombarded with Rhianna’s, Michelle Kegan’s and Kendall Jenner’s. Or basically the thigh gaps that make up FHM’s 100 Sexiest Women.

I was wrong. What I got back not only shocked me, but did my heart some good. Girls, it transpires they aren’t all after a washboard and a pair of double F’s.

In fact what it made me realise pretty quickly is that the age hold phrase holds true. Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder. And one man’s cup of piss may be another man’s cup of sweet mumma tea. And we all need to take note. Just because one kind doesn’t fancy you, doesn’t mean you need to stop eating for someone else to.

Here’s the top celebrity crushes the blokes I know have. And they’re an amazing diverse bunch. All hail the normal, diverse, and downright surprising crushes.

Now. Pass me a cake. Cos I feel like superwoman today.

Sheridan Smith. Obvious one but also has the air of ‘normal bird’ about her which does my heart good.

also, not a twig. Hurrah!

Kerry Washington, in Scandal. It’s a power thing.


Claudia Winkleman. With constant reference to how funny she is. Funny girls win. Boom!

Hettienne Park. I’d never heard of her but she came up a lot!

Victoria Coren Mitchell. Transpires they like a brainy lady. And someone who can own them at poker!

Carol Vorderman. By far the most popular choice amongst all ages groups. Something about an older woman with a calculator, ey boys. Cougar Alert!

Kim Cattrall – talking of cougars. Filthy cougars. Apparently the lust dates back to Mannequin days. Who knew.

Christina Milian. Taking it old school with a bit of girl next door, achievable chic. She’s been a popular one, I will not lie. And I can see why. I mean, I would.

Super Nanny. Who knew?! Again. Must be a power thing. Getting off on the thought of the naughty step is it?

Alicia Keys. Again, tipped the polls just under Carol Voderman. Get that piano out girl

Meg White from The White Stripes. Holler..She is, and I quote ‘cool as fuck’. Get your instruments out ladies.

Susanna Reid. Need we say anymore. Yes. Please. I’d like her to be on my actual sofa every morning.

Mel B. ZigaZigaaaaa. I loved this one.

& then there was the real suprises….

Jane Beale. I mean. Fair enough. But shocked. I was shocked.

Alex Polizzi.I personally didn’t see that one coming.

And then there was my absolute favourite.

By the longest mile.

Meryl Streep. I didn’t even ask why. Because I just knew.

So ladies, see what I mean? Everyone, is someone’s cup of tea!

Happy Friday



double egg

20 reasons why Croydon isn’t actually terrible.

So it’s got possibly the worst reputation of all of the London borough’s, and I’ll be honest until a few years ago I was part of the hate brigade.

However middle class art dealers meant my Brixton dream came to an end last summer & I’ve been a CR convert since. I’ve been knocking about here since I was a kid and now I’m a full blown resident.

Yes, there’s parts of it that deserve the reputation it has but other reasons that actually make Croydon pretty damn fly.

And here’s just a few of the things we love.

  1. OK, first and foremost. Reggae Alley. We all know it. Drummond Road’s answer to Mr Marley, bringing smiles to shoppers since the dawn of time! You know where I mean. Blasting out tunes down by that dodgy arcade since you were a kid.

2. Then of course there’s the fact, that no matter what part of Croydon you are in, you are never more than 2 foot from a Weatherspoons. Curry Club? Well..yeah, it’s nearer than Sainsbury’s. DO IT.

3. And even if you aren’t in a Weatherspoons, a round will still cost you a fraction of the cost it will in the centre of London. Because you are in Zone 5 and they understand that actually, it’s not OK to charge £5 for a pint of warm lager. Well unless you’re in The Treehouse.

4. Ok, The Treehouse, lovely little pub. And where near enough EVERYONE has been on a first date. Because the tables are made out of actual tree trunks (gettit!?) and well it’s just slightly more upmarket than The Skylark. You know they fancied you if they ever took you there!

5. It’s the home to arguably the finest football team on earth. And if you don’t care about the football…they have an outstanding cheerleading squad. EAGLES.

Personally, only paying attention to the man dressed like a bird.

6. You may well be in Zone 5 but you’re still in the centre of London in 20 minutes. BOOM.

7. Talking of being close in proximity to things, you are never more than 15 steps from a chicken shop. And the choice is endless. My favourite of the moment is Rio’s, nice & healthy little take away, that.

Pah. Who am I kidding….Morely’s for life.

Two piece me up, boss

Two piece me up, boss

8. Forget Kate Moss, we bred Dane Bowers. The one. The only. Dane Bowers. For his musical ability, not his sexual exploits. #anotherlevelforlife


9. We’re also getting a Boxpark next Summer, which basically makes us Shoreditch. Bring your beards and your top knots. We got this!

10. That’s not to mention the rooftop/ car park/ cinema that’s already residing down on Dingwall Road. Ever. So. Trendset.

11. Then there’s the fact that it is home to the wonderful thing that is Surrey Street Market. One of London’s only remaining fruit & veg markets. And it’s still as busy as ever. TWO FOR A PANNNND.

Since 1276. Get me.

12. The Garden At The Dog & Bull. Nothing more to say.

dog and bull, dog and bull. dog and bull

13. Actually, the bar staff at The Dog & Bull. Who needs to order when they present your drinks when you walk in? Top local.

14.  Sod it, basically. In general, The Dog & Bull. Reason enough that Croydon is golden.

15.On the subject of Surrey St, there’s that fancy new St Matthew’s Yard. And the epic Bgr & Beer. Smoky, mismatched, meaty goodness. Well priced and for a minute you forget you are just behind a shitty multiplex. Love that place.


16. It gave birth to Dubstep. And don’t you forget it.

17. No matter what, you will always find a night cap. Even if you have to end up in The Ship on a Sunday. Or in Reflex on a Tuesday. Or worse still….Bad Apple on a Wednesday. You can always find a reason not to go home.

18. It’s the home to so many epic greasy spoons. My favourite. The Double Egg at the top of Pawsons Road. Kim, god love her, is a chip frying genius.

19. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle used to live there. Yep, you heard. Mr ‘I’m just gonna casually write Sherlock Holmes’ used to live on Tennison Road. HASHTAG CULTURE.

20.  It’s the size of stamp, so you’ll always run into an old face. Sometimes it’s nice to see an old school friend in the Slug & Lettuce. Sometimes it’s great to run into someone you used to work with when casually having a little browse round the place that used to be Allders.

 Less pleasant seeing someone who’s seen your boobs at the George Street tram stop. Oh GOD.


The thing about house parties

So, this week saw the birthday of my best mate. Being the shy and retiring type that she is, she decided to just have a quiet gathering at home.

All mingling and canapés was it?

As if. I’m talking more absolute battery and a couple of pizzas.

What is about house parties that just means you stop having any knowledge of how you made it home? What is it about them that always means it follows a particular pattern?

You know the pattern..

You arrive, all nicely dressed, hair done and have a really great catch up with your bestests…

Then you decide it’s a good idea to crack onto the booze. The booze that’s already there. The booze that you brought with you in abundance. The booze that keeps magically appearing with every new arrival at the party.

Or in the case of last night. The 11 litres of gin and tonic. The beginning of the end.

Would also like a special mention to be made to Steven’s mates, who brought 60 cans of beer along to the party. There was 3 of them and they were genuinely concerned that they might run out.

Then once you’re all nicely loose, you start the selfies. Because you are having the time of your absolute lives and you want to share it with the world immediately. And cherish this gin induced memory for life. You ensure that your new found mates (normally a guy from your mates work) are in said selfies and you are straight on old faceyb to make life long friends with them.

Manny really does have the worlds longest arms.

Then it gets to about 11pm and you realise that you are a similar level of drunk and it becomes apparent that actually you find everyone hilarious. So you enter into the ‘stupid giggle’ phase. And that lasts all the way through yet another bottle of red.

Then the selfies get worse. But you think you look like a glamour model so that’s great too.

Then another hour of life changing conversations on the balcony passes and you start making really rash decisions. You make plans for the following week, you agree to all club in and buy a house so you can have parties like this every week.

Or you go one better and do what the boys did last night. And book a holiday.

This is them, proud as punch that they’d all got hold of a flight to Prague. Whilst massively intoxicated.

Then we all know what comes next. It’s 1am. CALL PIZZA GO GO now.

You order all of the pizza in all of the world and suddenly realise that nobody has any cash. Call emergency whip round for any bit of shrapnel anyone can find. Launch £50 in 50ps at the poor delivery driver. All fall on the pizza and enter into a 20 minute silent feast. Before cracking open the 400th bottle of wine.

It’s about then that the 2005 playlist comes on, you all pretend your 15 again and spend a solid half an hour breaking out your best Usher impressions.

Then out of nowhere it’s 4am. Someone’s stacked it in the kitchen. Someone else is being rather ill over the bath. A few others are still doing shots of Jager.

Then there’s always one. That despite the pizzas and the18 cans of lager is still hungry.

So obviously needs to hammer into the birthday cake.

The hangover’s been pretty world ending.


Impatience is the virtue


I read an article this week about how our constant need to multi task is killing of our brain cells.

Sadly, it wasn’t referring to a woman’s ability to load a washing machine, send three emails and cook a four course dinner all with one hand.

It was referring to how we multi-task with technology.

You know how guilty we all are of clicking onto Facebook when we are waiting for an attachment to download at work, and simultaneously sending back a tirade of abuse to the 14,000 Whatsapp groups we are in.

Having the opportunity to click click click away whilst waiting for something else is not only killing our brain cells but it’s making us super impatient.

We can’t just simply wait for stuff anymore, because there’s always something else we could be doing/checking/tweeting about.

How do I know we, as a nation, are getting impatient.

Key indicators.

  • We can’t even wait for three whole minutes to hail a black cab anymore. We are on Uber, requesting a car, whilst having a wee before we’ve even left the pub. Why stand on a street like a normal person when you can be from bog to cab in one stride?
  • We can’t wait until we meet up with friends to tell them how we are. We must instantly tell the world and it’s mum our current mood, share with them a photo of our dinner and a selfie of us taking a shit the minute it’s happened. Status updates are the sign of the impatient man.
  • We can’t possibly wait until we get home to buy ourselves some clothes/home furnishings/bog rolls online. We must do it on an app, on a crowded train, and then pay through the nose to have it the following morning. Because waiting 3 days for a parcel like a sane human is far too much to ask. Not as insane as asking someone to go to an actual shop to buy what they want and have it right then and there. That shit cray.
  • We’ve stopped being able to wait for an old school text to send. We must Whatsapp. All the time. And then worry when we don’t get an immediate response the minute we’ve seen the infamous double blue tick. Whatsapp – the home of the headfuck.
  • We’ve become so impatient that typing words out is even too much hassle these days. Why say what I need to when I can spell it out with four emjois? Speed is of the essence!
  • We can’t wait to get to the station to pick up a newspaper. We must know all of the days headlines, in 140 characters, before we’ve even got our arses out of bed. There’s not enough time clearly to stop, smile and collect a Metro from the poor bastard freezing his knackers off at East Croydon.
  • We haven’t even got time to put a pin number in anymore. It’s all swipe and run these days. Swipe and bloody run. Swipe and run away with someone else’s money, more like. Contactless – a criminals free pass.& the biggest indicator of all…
  • Our ability to queue has dwindled beyond belief because of the joys of speedy boarding, self service checkouts and ApplePay. Five years ago we were more than happy to line up for our lunch in an orderly and controlled fashion. Now, we’re three people back in Pret and the guy at the front has the audacity to pay in cash. And out of nowhere you want to chuck your Dolphin Friendly Caught Tuna Baguette at the bastard’s head and scream ‘WHY ARE YOU NOT PAYING WITH YOUR WATCH?!’



My New Favourite Place In Soho – Trisha’s

How I’ve missed this place for the 26 years on this planet, I’ll never know. 
Welcome to Trisha’s. 
Sometimes called The Blue Door.
Sometimes called New Evaristo Club.
Sometimes called That Little Place On Greek Street That Nobody Knows The Name Of. 
Behind the little blue door on Greek Street, Soho lives an underground drinking lair that makes you feel like you are part of a really special little gang. The place doesn’t look like it’s been touched since it opened in 1940-something and it’s charm hits you like a strong scotch.
It’s dark, the bar looks like the side board in someone’s kitchen and you’ve got to walk through the loos to get outside for a smoke. You feel like you’re at home. Or the home of one of your best mate’s Mum’s who’s been on the lash for 60 years. 
Even the light switch is just on the wall like it would be if you were indoors. Word for the wise tho, don’t turn it on. That doesn’t go down well.
It’s chintzy, it plays Frank Sinatra and the landlady still sits at the end of the bar. 
Drinks are cheap for Soho. £15 for a bottle of decent red. £4ish for a spirit and a mixer. And the bloke behind the bar is the friendliest guy you’ll come across. 
But most importantly, you feel like you are part of a really exclusive club. And that you’ve been let in to a brilliant little secret. 
The doorman is a hero, they sell Walkers and the toilets are nice & clean, again like you’d expect in someone’s house. 
It’s free to get in on school nights, and only £2 entry on a Friday and a Saturday.
Get yourselves down there…we loved it last night. 

 3dx, 57 Greek St, London W1D 3DX

 A must. 

Dating App No-No’s for you, boys

Just a few words to the wise. If you’re after a date on one of the hundred dating apps flooding our phones, then please avoid the following. Taken from a variety of sources, mainly the girls at work!
Us girls aren’t digging them. 
1.Ayt Bbz.
I’m neither 15, nor do I have the IQ of a worm. Please, please have more respect for my intelligence and spell things correctly. And don’t use ‘ayt’ as your first greeting. Please.
2. The Bathroom Selfie
I’m really pleased for you that your last ab popped out in the gym today, but all I can see is how long it seems to have been since you cleaned your bath. And it’s making me want to be a bit sick. Also, is that a pair of socks on the floor? Or your pants? Ew.
3. The Low Slung Jogging Bottom
Leave something to the imagination. For the love of god.
4. Sunglasses Wearing
The odd sunglasses shot is fine. But not in every picture. Eyes tell a million stories and I need to see yours. Mainly just to see if you fall into either the ‘Axe Murderer’ or ‘Potential Father Of My Children’ category.
5. The Vegas Shot.
Call me old fashioned, but a picture of you holding two bottles of Grey Goose, in a pool with 16 half clad blondes doesn’t scream ‘husband material’ to me.
6. Tattoo Close Ups
I’m not considering going out for dinner with your right shoulder blade, so just your face is fine for now. Thanks.
7. Emoji smut.
It’s not big, and it’s not clever. Spelling out various sexual acts with little yellow people is not the way to my heart. Even if I do find some of them pretty impressive.
8. Group Shots.
Please don’t make your primary picture one of you among 4 other people. It’s highly likely that I’m just going to prefer your mate. And he’s probably married. It’s just sad all round.
9. Love at first swipe.
Marriage proposals straight off the bat are mildly horrifying. Just saying.
10. Compliment carnage.
Nice eyes. Lovely
What a lovely smile. Sweet.
Head straight in for boob praise. Doubtful.
11. Too Keen.
I like persistence in a man. But if I don’t reply to your message, please don’t re-send a number of messages such as the below. It can be off putting.
‘Oh, no hello then?’
Clearly not
‘Oh come on babe, have a chat’
Not your babe, no.
Or one of my favourites.
‘You’re not my type anyway’
Thanks for stopping by dickhead.