Eden Open Mic Night - Raising for Francis House

When you say Sunday evening I think of curling up in the dark reflecting on the table dancing and lamp-post pole dancing of the previous night and crying about the Monday morning doom which is in close proximity.

This Sunday, however, I managed to drag my sorry little ass out of bed and get myself down to Eden in the Gay Village. I have to say my relationship with the village is that of a 'love-hate' one, I tell everyone I hate the place and it's inhabitants but secretly on most nights out I'll end up there at some point, it's like an involuntary homing call. But this time it was different, as it was a fundraiser for the fantastic charity Francis House, I felt a good cause was calling.

Francis House is a children's hospice established to ensure families with terminally ill children receive the highest level of care and support. All the services offered are free and include care at home, daycare at the centre offering the use of their fantastic facilities and aiding families through an indescribably difficult period.  As I know the fantastic host, Georgia, I grew to learn that one of the members of staff at Eden was closely connected to the charity and it's work, providing a very personal and fervent reason to raise money for Francis House.

Eden in itself is a very cosy and welcoming little bar/restaurant on the other side of the canal. Georgia, through much hard work (also known as flirting), managed to gain some absolutely fantastic gifts for a raffle including 3 tapas dishes and a bottle of wine at Molly House and one night's stay at the lush Le Ville hotel. Dressed as Miley for the evening, Georgia said herself, the real 'community feel' of the Gay Village shone through and she knew they wanted to help this great cause as best they could. 

I did manage, in a fit of anger, to launch my glass of Jerimiah Weed all over myself and the floor when I didn't win any prizes. Childish strops are my forte, wasting alcohol is not. 

Throughout the night, talented acoustic artists such as Ruth Derry and Jes Stretton kept the atmosphere buzzing and initiated a few singalongs, keeping the crowd entertained between the rounds of the quiz. Which by the way EDEN was not suited for the younger participants due to the fact I have never heard of ' Ducktales' or 'Round the Twist' ever before in my (evidently very short) life; making the other members of my team feel extremely old. 

Me being the absolutely mint team player I am, was the first to shove my hand in the air when a volunteer was requested. Wow. I can't say I've ever regretting anything as much in my life when the words 'sing-off' were uttered. All for a good cause I told myself as I awkward swayed about a stage getting all the words to 'All I Want for Christmas' by Mariah Carey so ridiculously wrong. 

A fun-filled night nonetheless and held for an even better cause; these events occur every month and I couldn't recommend a better way to spend your Sunday evening! Eden really becomes the hotbed of competitive fun with a big gay quiz night hosted by Mike Lee on every first Sunday of the month, so you're sure never to miss the drunken fun.

Congrats to the team and everyone who donated as they managed to raise over £500. So get yourself down to the Eden Facebook page and keep your eyes peeled for the next open mic or donate directly to Francis House to avoid the possible chances of participating in a sing off but miss the opportunity of seeing Georgia in near to nothing, WIT WOO.

London for the Hearst Editors Talk

Last Sunday at the delicious time of 9AM, bearing in mind I'd been out the night before and had yet managed to sleep, I hopped on a coach with my irritatingly well-slept and well-fed cousin for a 7 hour journey to London. Although feeling like my stomach was laced with poison and my head was about to implode, I did manage to catch a few winks en route down there despite the small child behind me doing what I can only describe as the can-can on the back of my chair.

Because we were there for a few nights we went and stayed with my other cousin in his university halls, he's an art student and goes to Central St. Martins, which apparently is super slick in the fashion world but me in my poncho and boots with holes in wasn't completely aware of this. 3 people shoved into a box room is tricky in itself, without enough bits of fabric to clothe a small family of hippos and some machinery that looked more suited to a medieval torture chamber than a fashion studio.

Stopping off for some cheeky crepes in Covent Garden

I like the concept of London; the picturesque gardens and majestic buildings but on a whole I dislike how impersonal everything is. The people are ridiculously rude and always look like someone just shit on everything they love, but then again so would I if i had to spend more than 2 minutes on a sweaty damp tube.

Anyway, so the reason we were down there was to attend a networking event with  the editors of the big dog fashion magazines like Company and Cosmopolitan etc etc, thus meaning I had to remove the poncho and place on something slightly more suitable. On arrival to the extremely posh hotel (the use of 'Maps' on my iPhone pretty much stopped us from wandering into the ghettos) we were handed large glasses of champagne which I shall never complain about and were thrown into a room filled with very stylish and eloquent people.


The best part of the evenings was by far the goodie bags, I'm sorry but free gin, benefit makeup, books, moisturiser and a Bananagram game was maybe too exciting for my short attention span and ability to be over the moon with the little things in life.

The Q and A was informative and gave insight into the big bad world of print publication, mostly though that you have to start making tea for some wanker (the wanker you'll end up being if you manage to be that successful) before you can begin to move up that dreaded ladder.

A fun outing nonetheless and possibly a step towards my future, who knows who knows, but for now I'll take the free gin and be 100% content.

The drunken mishaps, Serbians and 50 cent shots of Zante 2013 (PART ONE)

So, this tale starts ever so innocently with 6 friends sat in a back garden in matching t-shirts getting a little too excited about their closely approaching holiday.


Sadly, shortly after we left the house for some quality alcohol time before we got to the airport, the story didn't quite carry through the innocent theme. After arriving at the airport and playing Mum (top passport-holder-and-loud-friend-controller award goes to me), getting cheekily frisked and having a few of our bags searched, which is always nerve-wrecking with friends like mine, we finally got through passport control.

Ella and Jaymie then proceeded to drink a whole bottle of Jagermeister, forced some people on the plane to move seats due to the fact Ella was screaming 'IT'S NOT MY FAULT YOU HAVE A CHAMPAGNE LIFESTYLE AND A LAMBRINI BUDGET' down her ear after this woman told her not to kick her chair.

Anyone spot the drunken one?

When we eventually arrived in Zante, Ella and Jaymie (still extremely drunk) star fished on the floor in front of passport control, and then got on the luggage conveyor with all the suitcases and ran around for a while. Although I was doing my best 'I'm disappointed with your behaviour guys' look, when on playback it was absolutely hilarious. 

When we finally got to the hotel, we got greeted by the lovely hotel owners, the drunken stragglers who'd managed as far as the pool before stopping to snooze, and the security guard of whom we're still convinced was called Nestea.

The highlight of the week was easily the UV paint party, which was something ridiculous like 400 litres of paint and 1500 people. Personally, I've never had UV paint shot at me at high speed out of cannon before, but it was one of those epiphany-provoking moments that you really value your life as you feel like you've been shit on by a UV hippo.

Me being me, and my friends being my friends; I did have a few near death experiences along the way. Before we set off for Zante, I had a meagre two rules from Mamma Hope:
                1) No swimming in the sea at night
                2) No quad bikes.
I then went out to break each one of the rules and endanger life just slightly, but heyyyyy it's all part of the fun.

NUMBER ONE: After one too many 50 cent tequila shots, me and Jaymie decided that it would be a more than delicious idea to see if we could swim to the next Greek island. Yes.... the next island. We went in fully clothed (shoes included) and we must've swam for about an hour and a half, no exaggeration. When we finally half sobered up and realised it'd take us a good day to swim there, we tried to swim back..

...to find the tide was going out. We swam for half an hour against the current, and got no where. At all.

But finally managed to get back to shore, walk back home absolutely dripping wet and then throw up all over Jodie's balcony.  Waking up the next morning with 'LETTUCE LICKER' henna tattoed on my thigh wasn't so fun in that moment of uncertainty of whether it was, in fact a real tattoo.

NUMBER TWO: On the last day we decided we'd venture out and get some quad bikes. This was easily the best day time activity we did and ending up on the other side of Zante was beautiful. But, due to the fact you had to give in a driving license, I got Jaymie's for her and as we drove out of the shop together I went to show off to the ladies and do a u-turn in the road (fab showing off techniques I know) and managed to tip the whole quad bike, and myself, and Jaymie, onto the floor....

Suffice to say, the people at the quad shop just picked it up, laughed and let me get back on it.

(to be continued) 

Zzz...

Due to the fact I have been over-indulging in all free time this Summer, I have been far too hungover/drunk/working to keep on top of this blogging business which I am partially disappointed in myself for.

BUT on the other hand it has given me much fuel for interesting and embarrassing posts which I'm sure you're all chomping at the bit to read..... I'm lying, you've probably all been out enjoying yourself too much too even care; nonetheless I promise many juicy tales are currently in progress.

The art of flirting?

I really try to refrain from calling it an art, I don't think anything related to cringe-worthy chat up lines and asking the closest person whether they want a drink, should be called an art. For starters, everyone in that club/brothel/aquarium or wherever else tickles your fancy, wants a fucking drink, if they don't then you probably won't want to be with them anyway, due to the fact they'll be sober and you're probably not looking so smashing.

I write this post because today... I got chatted up. This is a rare occurrence for me. And it wasn't pleasant.

I was quietly minding my own business sat outside work after a gruelling 8 and a bit-too-long hour shift, reading my book and burning alive in my black uniform when one of my regulars peeks his head over my shoulder and exclaims 'oh you're reading!!!!'.

I felt like turning around and giving him a good slap, yes I'm reading this book I am holding.. What else am I doing with it? Feeding children in Africa with it? Using it to paint my nails with? Yes Sir, I am reading it.

So after his very intellectual and insightful comment, he decided to encroach on my personal space and sit so close to me he might as well have been wearing my flip flops. He asked me about what exactly it was I was reading, I told him poetry, he asked if I'd read him one, so I did.

He then told me I have beautiful eyes and a good heart.. How it progressed to that I'll never know.

Ladies, Gentlemen and anyone else reading this, if you want to try to chat someone up do not, at any point, start talking about how many children you want. HELLO this is the 21st century, I am still a child and I do not want any of my own any time soon. My interests are swinging from chandeliers naked and playing in paddling pools full of whiskey. Not cleaning up shitty nappies that I'm sure I didn't grow out of before you'd finished your degree.

Because he is a regular, we have an unwritten rule at work to not be rude and to comply with what they're saying; usually they'll back off after a while. So after the 19th time he asked for my number, I scrawled it on a rizzla paper (the classy lady that I am) and tried to get back to my book.. This did not work. He was still sat there. Staring at me.

This gentleman is about 30, he's a millionaire and he drives a Bentley. I told him my age. He still didn't leave. I told him many things I thought would put him off:

• That I wasn't interested in his materialistic possesions, 
• that I wasn't going to cook him the picnic he wanted, 
• that I wasn't willing to carry his children, 
• that I had an STD, 
• that my life was failing, 
• that my Dad was a drug lord, 
• that I have 14 toes
• that i'm married to my cat... 

Okay maybe I didn't tell him all those things, but they definitely ran through my mind.

He was relentless and he didn't leave, I had to leave. This wasn't nice, I felt stupidly uncomfortable and definitely was a little bit sick in my mouth.


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I'm not quite sure how flirting works anymore, chivalry is most definitely in it's dying days. Dying as in playing scrabble in a retirement home dying. I mean how freaked out would you be if someone turned up outside your house blasting a romantic love ballad from their boombox to declare their love for you; I'd probably throw my cats at them and issue a restraining order.

However much we'd like to pretend we'd love all that romantic super soppy vomiting up rainbows and happiness shit, really the truth is we're all probably more likely to respond to a Facebook message saying 'oh hey ur tits r well nice wana meet up?' than being asked out on a conventional date.

So much flirting these days occurs over social networking sites, which really is the most stupid thing that's come of this transfer to technology. You're sat staring at your laptop or your phone, talking to someone you've probably never met, or definitely never met sober, looking at pictures that have been professionally airbrushed and most likely getting their charming one-liners from their Mother.

I suppose we could be stuck in this little rut, maybe men grinding their sweaty junk on you in clubs, or girls slut dropping on your freshly polished shoes is the way we are to find our next victims? I hope for the sake of everyone on this planet, and definitely the next generation to come, this is not true.

University Road trips: Leeds and Newcastle

On the quest for a university; something the most of you will be undergoing at this point. Not usually the most enthralling thing on a whole, but an adventure to somewhere new none-the-less.

As I've grown up in Manchester, around the drunken homeless people screaming about cats and drugs and attending many a classy, and also many a truly scummy, venue for a night out, my question is do I search for a bigger city with a more thriving atmosphere or do I opt for a smaller, more cosy place to spend my 3 years studying?

Leeds Met
The first university I went to look at was Leeds Met. Being completely honest it was more for the idea of a day off college than truly invested time into my future (sorry Mum). The city itself was buzzing with charisma and I liked the fact that although it was a big city, everything felt intimate enough not to be intimidating. Plus it seemed like there was enough bars to crawl out of at any time of the day.

The actual university I was pleasantly surprised with, the building was new and clean; cleanliness being something I clearly took for granted at this point, as some of the other universities I've looked at actually looked better placed on an episode of 'Skint'. The lecturer was well informed and shot out a fiery hour of structured journalism chatter which impressed me greatly.

Sadly, after I'd attended my lecture in the prim, preen and highly equipped classroom, we escaped to a little bar opposite the Uni called Dry Dock, situated inside a ship, how exciting.. I know I was equally impressed with the university as I was with the boat shaped bar - which definitely tickled the students inside of us with the £5.50 burger and a beer deal.

After the burger, and the beer, and the sunshine. We didn't quite make it back to the university.. On the upper hand, we did make it to the closest area with shops. The fact that Leeds is only an hour away from Manchester makes it appealing, and also unappealing at the same time. Appealing due to the fact if I end up in hospital because I've drunkenly slipped on someones takeaway and broken my ankle, my relatives can come shower me in gifts and naked women. Unappealing due to the fact I wanna go far far away so my Mum can't come over and nag at me about washing up and not wearing the same socks 4 days in a row.

I shall be making a more productive (in the eyes of parental control) visit back to the university later in the year, without the distraction of cheap meat and friends who are most definitely bad influences but the little I did see, I liked and I shall be back with much more fruitful information when I return from my second visit.




Newcastle and Northumbria
A charming 3 and a half hour drive in the sunshine, my overly organised Mother and my equally as noisy best friend. I was excited for our little overnight stay in Newcastle and had been for a while, when we arrived at our Quayside Travelodge with mysterious stains on the curtains and beds similar to that of Auschwitz's; I can't say I was overly impressed.....

......then I remembered I'm not a hotel inspector and I wasn't here to decide whether the hotel was up to standards as I'm sure my student accommodation will be plastered in much more disgusting oddities than that of the Travelodge's.



 After anti-bacterialing the room, ourselves and all our belongings, we headed out into Newcastle for a cheeky look around. Settling for a hearty meal at Wagamama's in a square which held qualities similar to that of the a smaller Spinningfields if we're in comparison with Manchester.

My first impressions on Newcastle were positive ones, Quayside and wherever the Wagamama's was situated were funky and urban. But as me and Jay went out for the evening, the people weren't as friendly as I'd expected. We didn't go 'out out' due to the fact that we had to be up at stupid o'clock because my  regimented Mother had a schedule to attend to but we went to a few terribly scummy bars. Although we have a tendency to pick the more ruckus atmospheres so it could've just been a few bad decisions on our behalves.

Trying to get up at half 6 the next morning, after Jay had fallen next to her bed as we arrived back to the hotel after being heckled by 30 year old men on stag do's, was so much harder than expected. I felt like swinging my Mother around by her toenails as she kept insisting it was time to wake up. I fancied just asking her if she knew what desperado's was and if she did, why was she being so fucking inconsiderate...

Luckily, she did actually manage to draw us from the quilts due to the fact we did have open days to attend. As me and Jay nursed each other in the car on the way to Newcastle University, I wasn't overly sure what to expect. The course I was looking at for Newcastle wasn't quite what I'd thought, and although the buildings from the outside held stunning qualities, inside seemed a little shabby and run down. I can't say the course stood out to me, therefore I lost interest soon after that. Plus I had some hash browns at the S.U cafe and they tasted like cardboard, they were offensive. Students deserve good nosh, especially at posh uni's.

I have no words to even describe Northumbria University. The lecturer making the talk on the three Journalism courses offered, clearly had slim to no idea what she was even talking about. And the poor boy starting in September had questions for her she couldn't even begin to bullshit her way through without referring to a tatty piece of paper on her desk.

Prior to this we had to drop Jay off at 'Coach Lane Campus' which is situated just a hefty 10 minute drive from the town centre. Using the wonderfulness that is the iPhone 4 sat nav, we were taken through a council estate to a cut through to this delightful campus. I left Jay here feeling like it was the last time on earth I was ever going to see her little hungover face again; there was overgrown weeds surrounding a derelict playground, surrounded by derelict houses. I felt like I was going to contract some kind of disease asking the fat half naked lady where we were supposed to be going..

I've still not been to a university which has completely captured me just yet, I shall be waitttttting and bringing more updates as I go!

An eagerly anticipated 'holiday'.

A weeks adventure out to the other side of Europe, no parental control, sweltering heat and a group of frenzied teenagers that you're reluctant to call your friends. To the average Joe (over the age of 30 and anyone even partially sane), this seems like the idea of a living hell, and I suppose retrospectively it's not far off.

This Summer I have the unfortunate privilege of taking myself off to Laganas, Zante. Which outside the months of May to September is a beautiful Greek Island situated in the Ionian sea, surrounded by deep teal waters and quietly reserved locals. But during these Summer months, Zante welcomes the majority of Britain's wild youths with open arms; arms filled with shots, things on fire and sex.

Inside my brain there's some sort of pre-Zante party occurring where I have visions of myself surrounded by beautiful ladies in bikinis feeding me Pina Colada's on the beach whilst fanning me with their tits... Just maybe.

After jetting off to the oh-so luxurious Kavos last year, I have learnt some very very pointless tips that you're probably not going to listen to or follow but I feel if I don't tell you now I'll feel responsible for keeping them to myself.

1. Stay away, and I mean really far away, from FREE BARS

When a random stranger is screaming in your face '5 EUROS FREE ALCOHOL VODKA SEX VODKA YEAAAAAHHH', it's hard to A) decide what their native tongue is and B) wonder why your body is carrying yourself towards the voice.  Stay firmly out of the way of free bars.  Due how gullible we are these days, it doesn't matter how many shots of this eye-wateringly sugary syrup you down, you will not, by any means be getting drunk.

The best thing to do is find a smaller, usually quieter bar to start your evening with. Although it might be slightly more costly, everyone will look a million times more attractive than they did when you arrived, which is priceless when you're in competition to get a shag first.

    2. Always stick together; 2's or 3's or in your hundreds

I know the Mother Hen in me is becoming prominent. But after losing one of my friends, and after hours of running up and down the beach with one shoe on, screaming her name, solely to find her with her keks around her ankles in a fishing boat, it's pretty important that you don't let anyone (especially the slutty one) run away.

I suppose this relates more to girls, but if you wanna shag ladies, bring them back to your apartment. I'm 100% sure your friend doesn't mind waiting in the hallway (or the bathroom as it was my case) until you've finished doing the dirty. P.s - don't ask them to join in if you think it could be sufficiently awkward in the morning when the lad/lady has left and you and your friend wake up with your arse cheeks stuck to one anothers and your panties hanging from the chandelier.

   3. Don't be fooled by the over-friendly Promo people

They're usually well fit, it's their job to lure you into buying shitty tickets, to shitty nights with their huge tits, small bikinis and charming smiles. Don't fall into their appealing traps, or their cleavages because that can also prove difficult trying to get out of.

   4. Booze cruises

Be prepare to suck off bananas, lick nipples, dance half naked, intimately dance with the overweight man in speedos and drink tabasco. Super tip: DO NOT DIVE OFF BOAT IF YOU CAN'T, YOU WILL DIE (of embarrassment as the whole boat and what will feel like the whole world will be watching).

Preparing yourself for the upcoming

So, for most it seems Summer has indefinitely started. Although the realms of education are still overhanging upon the shoulders of most, the fun has arrived. I have already found myself waking up, half an hour late for work, with the glorious sunshine peeking through the curtains and proceeding to grumpily shuffle over to shut out the day to save my poor little head from hurting any more; vodka shots with no hands only seems fun when you're dancing on the bar with the delightful lady dressed as a cat.

You need to be prepared for any situations your alcohol-influenced self has to throw at you, like squatting behind a lampost at 3am because it was more hilarious than necessary, please remember your friends have cameras. Surely a trip to the toilet cannot be that hard, if Bear Grylls can make a tent out of pubic hair or whatever he does these days, then this should be a breeze. Also, waking up to a hundred text messages from your Mother along the lines of 'WHAT IS THAT PICTURE OF YOU ON FACEBOOK?!' 'DO YOU KNOW HOW DANGEROUS AND UNLADYLIKE THAT IS, YOU COULD HAVE BEEN ARRESTED!' is never really worth it.

However much it seems to be true, it is extremely important to remember that although tequila is your new best friend, you have not morphed into Beyonce, Lady Gaga or anything even remotely similar. In reality, with your hair slapped to your head and your mascara smeared across your face, you more resemble Jack Black after his final performance in School of Rock. After having someone approach me in a club and ask whether I was having a seizure, it seemed time to throw away my Beyonce dreams. Keep dance movements to a minimum, a little shimmy here and there and a casual 'I throw my hands up in the air sometimes..' has seemed to work a lot better than dropping to the floor to begin a new career as a member of Diversity. If you know you can do it, when drunk, then please by all means flaunt it.. But for the average drunken monkey, it isn't a fabulous idea.

8 weeks. That's a lot of days, even more hours and definitely more beer. Food is important, it seems even more so when you're the only one willing to venture to the takeaway and all your savage-like friends are waiting for you to bring back that lovely tray of doner meat to devour. But if you're on a week slash weekend slash 8 week bender, takeaways aren't gonna give you that bikini bod you want. Sometimes a big bowl of fruit for breakfast can give you the vitamins you need to feel slightly less like you've been squashed between SuBo's bum cheeks, and not make you pile on the pounds either!

Being in teenage years, we all find ourselves lodged in that fantastically unbalanced juggle of work and play. Play obviously being the more vital component to the cycle, as I've found myself many a time running out of work with my t-shirt over my head and knee skidding down the road in celebration whilst Katy Perry's 'fireworks' plays in my head. You look forward to being able to go and not have to sing on a street corner with your hat on the floor so you can afford a spray of perfume from the delightful toilet lady. But we all know how hard it is to drag yourself up and out when you've woken up in the arse-end of no where, with half of your dress on and spooning a bottle of whiskey.