Sarsparilla: La guerra entre Britanica y Él Perú
There is a peruvian custom that forbids anyone eating avocado and egg at the same sitting, didn’t I know? I sulk violently, and eat his damn egg, as I’m beginning to realise that anything I make is British, and therefore poison. It will never be eaten.
Our Judges said:
“Draws you in to a delicious blend of nationality, love and oh yes… food.”
“Positively glowers with passion. And Britain washes up…”
The next Post Of The Week will be announced on Sunday evening.
Please note that nominations for next week cannot be accepted until then.
1. City Wendy in the Windy City:VD:Romantic Day or STD?
This is a doily occasion, an occasion made popular by decorated empty kleenex boxes, glitter, and cards with cartoon Winnie-the-Poohs holding pots of honey on their big bulging bellies and declaring, “I’m sweet on you.” This day is for children, not full-grown adults who have advanced vocabularies and extended means of communication with which to express their feelings every day of the year.
2. Life on Earth and Other Accidents:Pod People
I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone so singularly unreadable and passionless.
3. Little.red.boat: The Public Transport Smile Handbook
Sly, secretive, conspiratorial, wicked, it’s the smile that acknowledges that not only are you listening in to the lurid details that your fellow passenger is divulging to her best friend, via the medium of crappy cellphone and filtered through the rest of the carriage, but that someone else is too.
4. MC Atzluit: Iggy Pop-Lust for Life
Here’s the real deal about reviews. The prefix ‘re’ means ‘to do again.’ So you’re viewing the art objects a second time when you review it. But what would an actual view look like? Perhaps you could set a video camera up and catch someone listening to a song for the first time. You could then study his facial expressions, the way he blinks or nods his head. Or, maybe something like this…
5. Sarsparilla:La guerra entre Britanica y Él Perú
There is a peruvian custom that forbids anyone eating avocado and egg at the same sitting, didn’t I know? I sulk violently, and eat his damn egg, as I’m beginning to realise that anything I make is British, and therefore poison. It will never be eaten.
6. Sometime Funny is All I Have: Sunday Silences
The image of myself, last night’s make up slithering down my face, hair unbrushed and clutching a tattered plastic bag full of clothes, staggering through the door to ask for caffiene in husky tones was too much for me to bear. Instead I sat on the steps above the kerb, next to a car with an “I Love Whitstable” sticker in the window, and started writing in my notepad.
7. The Overnight Editor: Getting Old in the Head
You kids won’t mind paying for Uni? Though our education was free?
Yeah and sorry we raided your pensions, for ours - based on last salary.
The baby-boom buckled the system, us living too long is the cause:
See, retirement’s a birthright for our generation we just can’t afford it for yours.
8. Tremble: My Choice
Getting my victuals at Choice means associating with certain undesirable aspects of my demographic. It’s kind of like holding a mirror up to myself, except in the mirror’s reflection I’m wearing white iPod ear buds, a Jack Spade messenger bag slung around my shoulder, adult sneakers from Camper, and I’m checking my RSS feed from a Blackberry. I would hate this imagined reflection, if he didn’t have such excellent taste in snacks.
A beautiful revolution: Stuff in the air at 1 a.m.
Met a girl I used to know. Have a drink. Stuff in the air. Ask about her current fortune. She shakes her head. I light a cigarette and remember the past. Passionate. Car crash. Hanging on for both our lives. How about you, she asks. I shake my head. Lonely, she sighs, licking her pink glistening lips with the tip of her tongue. I nod. Stuff in the air.
Read more …
Our judges said:
Beautiful. I’ve been on the other side and this was a painful reminder of what could have been.
NOMINATIONS FOR THIS WEEK ARE NOW CLOSED.
The shortlist will be appearing shortly.
The next Post Of The Week will be announced on Sunday evening.
Please note that nominations for next week cannot be accepted until then.
1. A beautiful revolution: Stuff in the air at 1 a.m.
Met a girl I used to know. Have a drink. Stuff in the air. Ask about her current fortune. She shakes her head. I light a cigarette and remember the past. Passionate. Car crash. Hanging on for both our lives. How about you, she asks. I shake my head. Lonely, she sighs, licking her pink glistening lips with the tip of her tongue. I nod. Stuff in the air.
2. An Unreliable Witness: No ball games, please.
Magnolia is an evil colour. Whichever interior designer it was who first came up with the idea that it speaks of calming and soothing and reassuring and home should be shot in the knees until they dance.
3. Fire & Knives: St Valentine’s Day massacre.
And so, for one blissful night, the balance of power shifts away from the whiney, demanding and unpredictably fickle customer and firmly into the hands of the restaurateur. Along with the week prior to Christmas and Mothering Sunday this is a time he can be sure of filling every available seat several times over. If you can’t fill a place on Valentine’s night you have no right to call yourself a restaurant. In fact, in most towns the UK you could stick red napkins in the mugs in a soup kitchen and sell tables. Shove a rose in a jam jar and you’d be sold out six months in advance.
4. [from fuck-up to] fab!: high maintenance.
I refrain from launching into a woe, thrice woe, poor little me tirade and bite my lip so hard I can taste blood. I am not after charity. I am very good at what I do, I work very hard and by the way, she never had the courtesy of acknowledging receipt of my CV - instead, I found out about new appointments - none of which bearing my name - via the internal newsletter.
5. Girl with a one track mind: Three.
I’ve always done a yearly round-up of blog posts on this date; today is no different, barring the fact that this last year has been the oddest I have ever experienced. What was once my private life has now become public, in its most literal sense. I’ve been proud that my writing crossed into the book medium this year; I’ve been gutted that I lost my anonymity in the process. Here are the highs and lows of the past twelve months.
6. KristyK: I love my grandpa.
The man stood naked in the middle of the yard. He was starving to death and the bones holding up his skin stood out in sharp contrast to his round belly. His teeth had long since fallen out and when he grinned it was with a gaping black hole that was too large for his face. Trucks carrying American soldiers rolled through the gate of the prison and the man, alone in the center of the court, started dancing a jig.
7. Little Red Boat: Another night in paradise.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“That noise. What was that?”
“I didn’t hear a noise.”
8. Neonbubble: Cat Pee.
You see, I have a cat and that cat - being an animal - expels fluid waste from its body using its teeny, tiny cat penis. Okay, maybe compared to other tabby cats the penis is a monster both in length and girth but I’m not prepared to do any research in that area. Suffice to say: it’s smaller than mine. Really. Beside the point, though. The point - if I remember correctly and dispense somehow of the image of cat genitalia in my mind at the moment - is that fluids, when they aren’t being regurgitated or drooled at the speed of light from one end of his furry body, instead prefer the option of ejection via the teeny, tiny penis.
9. Petit Hiboux: Madonna and Whore.
I am angry that segments about women like the Today Show segment even exist, because they are not complex and thoughtful evaluations of modern motherhood, they are idiotic and prejudiced stones of judgement that are all too easy to hurl at this society’s favorite punching bag. It’s like some horrific national itch that no one will collectively face and eradicate because it’s too fucking enjoyable to drag it out into the harsh light of day and watch it scab over again.
10. Reluctant Nomad: Felicitas - a year on.
It’s coming up for a year since Felicitas, a friend of mine in Maputo, carefully planned her suicide by writing suicide notes to various friends before taking an overdose. As far as I’m aware, it was her only suicide attempt. It worked. She put the suicide notes on a ‘memory stick’ with instructions for a friend on how to email them to the people concerned.
11. Timorous Beastie: How to get a free lunch.
I got Mutt No. 2, Honza, when he was twelve years old. He was a silent little dog, who didn’t bark or lick or run. He was deaf, he had warts and the pink, glistening end of his knob routinely dangled perilously close to the carpet/grass/foot of the person he happened to be sitting on.
12. Tired Dad: Signifier / Signified.
Interior. Day. Corporate Headquarters of TopShop or any other manky High Street clothing emporium selling dreams of whoredom to twelve-year-olds. And that, oddly, are only actually frequented by slightly tense-looking women in their forties who can be seen asking after Size 12’s and getting laughed at.
