Moral of the story: Don't fuck with me or I'LL WRITE SHIT ABOUT YOU, BITCH.

There has never been a point in time where I have been technology's bitch. Ne-verr. This may be because up until the age of 12 I talked to computers. You know, just in case they could hear me (IT COULD HAPPEN).

I stayed up late on my 11th birthday too to see if Hagrid or Dumbledore or even fucking Harry Potter would come along and tell me I was a witch or a goblin or something.

This is actually true.

But that's beside the point. I was an... imaginative child.

Anywho, for whatever reason, computers love me, and I love them... mostly.

I have this one computer which I got for my 12th birthday (I rock a laptop these days) and it's now home to every "The Sims" PC game that was ever released.

Every. Single. One.

I have a lot of time on my hands.

And I happen to be in love with The Sims.

Except I can never play it properly because my computer is s-l-o-w. And now The Sims 3 has been released (don't judge me. No, seriously, stop it) I'm in a pissing crisis, yo.

Something HAD to be done.

(NOTE: I've been saying that for four years.)

So after suffering a mini-meltdown over compatible parts and other technical gumph witnessed by my BFF Main Gay.5 who is just an absolute computer bastard because he knows everything, I headed down to the local suppliers.

Enter "Man", formally known as Computer Jackass.

He was the kind of guy who thought he was better than everyone else because he had a shiny badge on his shirt and SO WHAT, HUH? SO DO I! SEE? IT SAYS BON JOVI ON IT AND EVERYTHING.

He slimed up to me, actually ADJUSTED HIS FUCKING BADGE and asked if I was lost.

"Erm... yes. I'm looking for a RAM memory board, 1GB, DDR?"

He takes me to a stand I must have missed.

"I'm afraid we don't have any of those."

"Is this not it?" I ask, picking out exactly what I needed.

"Umm, yes. That's £49.99." He tells me.

FIFTY FUCKING QUID?!

"Why?" I toe the edge of a spaz attack. "It was £35 on the website."

"Well yes..." He says like it was blindingly obvious. "But that doesn't cover installation."

"I can install it myself, can I have it cheaper?"

"Are you sure you know what you are talking about? Because we don't do refunds."

I'm slowly seeing redder and redder.

"Good, because you won't be seeing me again." I snapped.

And then he gave me the look. The look like I'd kicked him in the balls the week previously.

= HOSTILE.

He huffs and says "I'll take you to the till." And storms off. A victory dance would have totally appropriate right then.

I owned that bitch.

And better yet, my computer runs smoother than a baby's butt.

You better believe that babies' butts can run. My sister's did it once, it landed on my foot.

Helpline for all your theatrical needs.

I have something to confess.

Once upon a time I used to watch Eastenders.

What is Eastenders, you say?

Eastenders is probably the most ridiculous of all the soaps aired on TV. It's set in Walford, East End London and the characters and plot are completely unbelievable.

Thankfully I've seen the light.

Occasionally there would be a message after a half hour of some far-flung plot which would say 'If you have been at all affected by tonight's programme and would like someone to talk to, please don't hesitate to call this number, free phone 0800 etc. etc. etc.' and it was only last night when I was reliving some of the more insane moments of the show that I realised how stupid that was.

Please call if you slept with your uncle and ended up pregnant, and then your mother found out but promised to help you after banning your uncle from contacting you again, pretended the baby was hers after you somehow disguise one pregnancy and fake the other. Your baby grew up thinking she was your sister and then with the return of your uncle it all got spilt out. You had several arguments with your family before going to your real daughter in the middle of the street and starting an argument with her at which point she yelled "YOU AIN'T MY MOTHER!" and then you yelled "YES I AM!" which caused a turning point in your life and became one of the most memorable moments in the show. Thanks for lending us your life story by the way, it saved the show.

Please call if you were shot into a canal twenty years ago and were presumed dead, but then returned at which point your adopted daughter threw a fit for not telling her and kinda refused to speak to you for a little bit. She then got off with your real son whilst you had an affair with one woman, betrayed your wife and sell out one of the mafia family of the East End. You then were summoned to the pub where these three women showed up and beat you to death with a dog-shaped doorstop. They then put you in a hole and cemented it over, and you were really dead. By the way, how are you calling us?

Please call if your father who supposedly died twenty years ago came back just after your boyfriend got killed in a fire trying to save a complete bastard called Trevor and you were told you couldn't have kids. You then slept with your adopted father's biological son and got pregnant despite being told by the doctors that you couldn't have kids, your father was killed by a dog-shaped doorstop, and your brother/boyfriend got killed by a boom-boom stick- I mean, gun, leaving you alone, pregnant with a normal-sized baby delivered only five months after concieved. Strange times...

Please call if you are the doctor at Walford Surgery, and you're gonna be fired if you fuck up one more time. Thanks for putting your name on the line for us, man. It means a lot.

Please call if you are the doctor AND had an affair with two women who you thought were sisters but in fact were mother and daughter. Yeah. They were surprised too. I wasn't.

---

I think the show lost it's grasp on normality in around 1985.

To those who have been affected by the programme, heed my warning: DO NOT spend your time calling these people for two reasons.

1. Talking about it won't help you. GET YOUR LIFE IN CHECK.

2. They are probably corporate leeches. ITV were.

I DON'T CARE if it's a free helpline, my point still stands. Suck it up.

Situations in which I like to blast my music:

Oh... What am I saying?

Situations in which I love to blast my music:

- In the ENT department (Ear, Nose and Throat) of York hospital, where they either can't hear you, can't speak to complain or can't talk without sounding like Gonzo from The Muppet Show.

-At the dentists, preferably when in the chair, so at least you can't hear the drill.

- When walking through one of the big parking lots around York where it echoes so it's like a cheap surround sound system. I should so just get a parking lot in my bedroom.

- When babysitting. Nothing like corrupting youthful minds to get your own back on their parents...

- When my sister's trying to watch TV. What? She doesn't do me any favours.


- Lunchtimes in Fulford Youth Centre, sat on the floor behind the pool and football tables.

- Hip Hop with JJ in the school quad when we're trying to put off doing some last-minute work before the exams. ("Oh God that was good." "Yeah we should totally just listen to that again some time.")

- Long car journeys, make them l-o-n-g-e-r I say!

... But my favourite one of all has to be listening to Eminem in the supermarket. There's nothing like walking around with a weird grin on your face because Eminem just recommended that we all "shove a gerbil in your ass through a tube".

Good going, man.

For some reason I always text in full English.

[Alternative title: C U L8er]

Text sent to my mum yesterday:

"'March 1933: After the Reichstag Fire over 25000 people were taken to official camps...' And thus concludes how much I have learnt since my room was invaded in June 2009. I have 60+ years of three different countries' histories to memorise for tomorrow and it would be BEYOND DIVINE if someone would let me try. I give it five minutes before I completely lose my shit. Have a nice day."

I'm really close to the end of the exams and also absolutely drained, so I might not post much (aiming for twice a week) while I recover from the longest seven weeks of my life since... the seven weeks before this one.

Fourteen weeks.

Whatever.

Basically, I'll be back after I:

> Burn all my books/uniform and perform a tribal fire dance.
> Convince my parents to let me go on a residential trip next year so I can go fall out of trees and get stuck in mud.
> Defuse the wrath of a cousin who is mad at me because I cut 80% of my hair off and didn't give it to her. (she luuurves real-hair extensions... crazy lady.)
> Have an all-out pavlova fight with Anna which she doesn't know about yet so shhh...

In which I learn that telling birds to 'chill' doesn't work.

Today something happened.

Yes. Believe me in that today, SOMETHING did happen.

Something PROFOUND.

Something AMAZING.

Something that had enough of an impact for me to shout "Oh for fuck's sake!" well within the hearing range of my elderly neighbours.

I was about to leave the house in a tearing dash because I was late for an appointment at the hospital which is on the other side of York when I heard something... strange...

Something that sounded uncannily like a bird flapping its wings. In my house.

Queue: "Oh for fuck's sake!"

I figured nobody would believe me unless I caught footage of the thing so whapped (love that word... Don't think it's a real one) out my camera.

Et voila.



"Chill... stay still. Chill, chill, CHILL."

I tried to be reasonable. I really did. But it just wouldn't listen to my pleas.

In short: Pidgeons suck. Pidgeons really suck.

A Cherry I never want to lose.

Since I first started Fulford School back in ye olde summer of '04, there was someone who instantaneously became the biggest pain in the ass ever: Cherry Smith.

Can we get a picture of me and Chez over here please?



Umm... No. Not quite.



Ahh... There we go. Honestly... You can't get the staff these days.

So anyway. This is Cherry, some 4.8 years after we first met. Please note that for about three of those years, we could Not Stop Arguing.

Not even to save our own mothers. No. Arguing came first.

But then, something magical happened. Something so magical I don't even know what it was.

We suddenly had the ability to get on alright. I have no idea how this happened.

And now? We are awesome. Completely and unanimously awesome. So awesome we can't ever come into close contact in case it causes too much awesome. That's how awesome we are.

So imagine the possibilities when Cherry joined Twitter.

Mwahahahaha...

Round 1: Cackling as I watch her try to work out how the hell to use Twitter...

First tweet: "wondering how the hell Twitter works and if I even know anyone on here SAVE ME!!!"

...And then read all her tweets as she tries to find my profile. NICOLE, WHERE IS NICOLE?!

Round 2: Exchange of in-jokes that probably make us look like Communist fuck-buddies.

In regards to our history exams: "Remember the hotness the Lub(b)e caused... And that Stalin was a Communist, not a fairy."

Round 3: ZE GOOD FRENCH CAKE.

(...And other ways to remember what you learned in class.)

Me: "Ja ja le gut FRAAANNNCE CAKE YOU EAT IT LIKE DOG AND SHIT IT OUT AND YOU EEET IT EGEN YOU PEASANT."

Cherry: "You cannot use the French and German language together, it is a crime, have more respect!"

Me: "THE DUTCH DO IT!!! And you'd better believe me and the Dutch have a v. good rapport after my last Amsterdam weekend..."

Round 4: Ya momma's so fat...

Me: "Ya momma so fat... when she walks out in heels she strikes oil! BOOYAH!"

Cherry: "Yo momma's so fat she has her own postcode! Suck on that!"

Me: "Ya momma's so fat I had to take a train and two buses to get on her good side, yo!"

Cherry: "Yo momma's so fat when she jumped off a bridge, she went straight to hell!"

Me: "Ya momma's so fat that when she fell in love she broke it!"

Cherry: "Yo momma's so fat she had to go to SeaWorld to get baptized!"

At which point I gave up and let her win because she probably has a whole Google search engine of Ya Momma jokes at her disposal.

Cherry: "Yay! WW3 has ended!"

Me: "Make sure you tell ya momma..."

Round 5: FINALE - Pulling a Britney.

So today it was widely broadcast that I would be getting my hair cut. Why was this so controversial? Because I never cut my hair. Ever. It was the best part of a metre long. So when I returned home with the second most short hair I've ever had in my life from 3 years onwards, it had to spread around.

No less than three hours later, I threatened to pull a Britney and shave it all off.

Literally TWO SECONDS LATER, Cherry had responded.

Cherry: "Nicole you look gorgeous, I absolutely love your hair, don't do a Britney please you will look ridiculous! You look gorgey, love you!"

Can you not feel the hysteria behind that tweet? The panic?

10 out of big shiny 10 for the single most passionate tweet of the year.

Except in July when someone proposes to their girlfriend over Twitter.

You know it'll happen.

And at this late point I have come to three conclusions:

1. I love Cherry.

2. I use Twitter too much.

3. Pulling a Britney is not cool, kids, not cool.

I rest my case.

Love actually isn't all around.

I have noticed something appalling.

Out of the people in my troupe of oddballs I am persistently 'The Responsible One', also known as 'Grandma', or even 'Oma' if we are feeling our inner German (oo-er). I supply the condoms, explode at people if they, say, let their sort-of-not-but-still other half go around stealing things from HMV (though after this week's incident I'm feeling more forgiving), I roll my eyes when people go all mushy with each other, and perhaps storm off if I'm having an off day (5 out of 7 days a week).

But then I suppose that when you're perpetually single you tend to err on the side of 'aged' and forget how to act your age until someone shoves ice down your bra and you are forced to fight to the death on a trampoline for the sake of your pride, or lack of it.

Wait, what was I saying?

Ahh yes. I'm getting old. See? Senile dementia, right there.

Maybe that's an overstatement. I'm like a spinster - Bridget Jones without the capacious knickers.

And according to Love Actually and Bridget Jones' Diary, love can only occur inside of London, and as a Northerner, I know this would never work, because there is a North-South language barrier to consider on top of lots of other things, like congestion charges and Prince Charles.

However... I have a plan to conquer this. It is a proven fact that if Person From England goes over to America, they find Person(s) From America and live happily ever after. It's true, it was on Love Actually AND The Holiday, and if that's not solid proof I don't know what is.(And also to a lesser extent, this occurred on Sky Captain And The World Of Tomorrow, but we needn't go there. Ever. No matter how much Jude Law there is.)



So this is my plan. Like Colin Frissell himself said, "American girls would seriously dig me for my cute British accent".

Well, not girls.

No, really.

Ah, fuck it. I'll just go celibate with Susan Boyle.

Update: Trust no one because they don't trust you.

There's been a development in relation to yesterday's incident and I feel I have to share it, because that's what I do.

In the last thirty hours or so I have become paranoid. My sister has hidden my passport so I don't become one of those people who takes their passport with them everywhere in case (just on the off-chance) some guy asks for I.D. when you are clearly not fourteen.

So today I went to the shop to buy some bread, and there was a new sign next to the counter saying '1. THINK, DO THEY LOOK 18? 2. ASK THEIR AGE. 3. ASK FOR I.D.'

I handed over the loaf of bread with trembling hands.

"Uhh... Am I old enough to by bread?" *Meaningful nod at the sign* "Because I know where my passport is now, my mum hid it under the printer. It's not alcoholic yet, it only does that when the yeast ferments and releases-"

The cashier is looking at me, the line of people behind me is looking at me. I'm sure even the bread is looking at me.

"Umm..." *nervous giggle* "I'll just take the bread."

Next time I go there I think I'll plead insanity.

Get me the number of a reputable lawyer. Now.

Today I went to the big-ass shopping outlet just outside of York.

Designer Outlet, meet Blog, Blog meet Designer Outlet.

Designer Outlet is home to every big brand you can imagine and then some, and because it's an outlet you can buy things in bulk for less than anywhere else.

Then you realise that the brands are too expensive and fuck off home fuming over the time you wasted.

Makes for a good day out.

After this ritual I dragged my sister back to York for some more shopping, namely at HMV - the only place in York that sells a decent amount of DVDs since Zavvi went bust.

Ahh... Let me tell you that HMV has never let me down, from there I have obtained many things... Superman shirts, countless albums and DVDs, posters, games... the works.

So why oh why when I go to buy a cert-15 movie does some cocky shit ask me for ID?

Why?!

"Well," He said. "I can't sell you this without some I.D."

I honestly felt the tiny strings of calm popping in my head. Do I look fourteen?

It takes quite a bit for me to lose it completely, but this guy really found the target.

I listed all the various bits of I.D. I had on my person, "School library card?" [Note: It has never been used.] "Bank card?", "National Insurance Number?".

And he was just all: "They might not be yours."

I saw red. And at this point I'm going to have to highlight the difference between what I said and what I thought.

Now look here you surly bastard...

"But... all the details here match. All of these are mine." I whined. Probably not the best idea when trying to prove my age.

"You could have stolen it."

"..."

FUCK YOU, MAN.

"Well, whatever. What do I need to prove my age then?"

"Photo I.D. A passport or a driving license."

DO I LOOK LIKE THE KIND OF PERSON WHO CARRIES A PASSPORT AROUND WITH ME? WHAT IS THIS? EAST FUCKING BERLIN?!

"Right, okay, thank you."

---Charged home---

"WHERE'S MY PASSPORT?!"

My dad was mildly alarmed. "Uhh... what?"

"I said, where is my passport? And my driver's license, and my birth certificate, and that certificate I won in that K'Nex competition." (It may not have looked like that.)

Typical question: "Why?"

"Because, Father, I want to march back to HMV and shove it all up the arse of the guy who didn't let my buy my fucking DVDs."

So me and my dad searched the entire house for my goddamn passport which I must say my mum has hidden VERY well because now the only conclusion I can come to is that she has a nagging fear that I am going to flee the country soon because of all my talk of Seattle and living with my homies in a ghetto in South Chicago and let us not forget Finland which I love very very much.

We could not find that damn passport anywhere.

Next time I go to HMV I will be taking my passport, my birth certificate, a bus pass, ten years of medical record, my dentist and that guy's death certificate.

That'll fucking teach them.