Hell's testicles.

That's how warm it is.

Do you know Chas & Dave? They did that Rabbit song.



I lit them (well... minus Dave these days...) last week. Twenty songs that all sounded like the rabbit song - it was just about kinda sorta awesome. Buuuut of course it's music festival season here so I haven't been doing a hell of a lot workwise.

Well, except from ze day job, where my hours have been so massively cut that I spent most of last week in bed. But, I got a bonus, which is nice but it's the direct result of having premium wages cut. Balls.

But, what to spend with this money? I could be a massive big girl and not buy the blue Nintendo 3DS that I have been covetting since the dawn of time, or I could splurge and buy everything on my Amazon wishlist.

Decisions, decisions.

In the meantime, I have therapy advice and it is thus..

Angry tweeting is SO theraputic.

There's a drumming noise inside my head, it starts when you're around...

Sorry, had to quote a bit o' Florence there. That song's been following me around for weeks like the plague's nicer, more bookish cousin. You know the one.

Alas, I hath returned. And I have an alibi.

Remember my shitty laptop? It caught a virus which caught another virus which then caught a virus that downloaded viruses which made it download a virus that left my internet security swinging wiiiiiide (Nice lock. Pity the door's open.) open and so on and so on so that I got all frustrated and eventually associated everything to do with the laptop as evil, upsetting and expensive. And so the blog got put to the side whilst I used my shitty 14-year-old computer for three months. And then I bought a new laptop after Matt totalled mine by 'fixing' it and here we are.

Thrilling. I know.

So what's new? I totally missed this instragram thing. And LiLu has a name (The pwettiest name I ever heard) and Ask The Bloggess disappeared and CRAP. So much missed.

Me? I hit eighteen and got some tattoos. I'm a frickin' adult now. Rawk.

Tattoos: Boobage (Ow-fuckety-ow) and shoulder blade (Mmmm...)

                                  Click to enlarge, I guess.

Oh. And I got into college. Woopah! And debt, but that's another story. But not a long one so here: I got a storecard from work out of the goodness of my heart and now I owe too much money (I hate owing money) and the deadline is like 4 days before payday with 30% interest on the total amount. Oooshit.

But that is a basic summary of events, anyway. I'll blog again soon when I'm not caught between two-to-four jobs. Ciao!

18th June.

I'm baa-aaack...

Flash Bang.

Seething, dear people! Seething!!

I was about to light an aged rocker the other night at work (the one where I'm a lighting technician with full creative license, not the one where I'm a slave to the customers' every want and need) and was told by one of their crew that I wasn't allowed to do this, or that, or even this, and not even a tiny bit of that. God no.

I love lighting, I love the set up, the co-ordination, the complete, unwavering, exhausting concentration and the technical stuff right down to the tiny details, but I cannot stand not being able to go wild with the lights (within reason, I wouldn't use lasers and strobe lights during a ballad or anything). My middle name is practically Flash-Bang, for God's sake.

[From LightingDesignOnline.com]

I had to stand there for four hours, flushing out the back of the stage with three colours in a cycle. No flashing drum-rise, no flooding out the venue with pink, purple and blue light, no filling the stage with a different colour from each side, pulsing to the music, just fading red, green and blue in the background whilst the front of the stage stayed white and boring. Hell, I didn't even get to use the smoke machine! The horror!

Muchos Grr.

Just wait until I get my pyrotechnics license and THEN they'll be sorry.

BOOM.

Bloooooood. Say it with me. Bloooooooooooooooooooooooood.

Saturday is the new Thursday apparently. I've spent the last three days trying to get my files off the bobbing turd that is my laptop. And so, Saturday. Hi.

I went to the blood place and they weren't even there!!

It was in a church-esque place, which is enough to turn me to stone anyway, but I asked a woman the the desk if there was a blood donar thing going on today and her reaction looked eerily like this.

"Maybe at the Merchant Hall but certainly not here, young lady."

To which I thought, "Jehovah's Witness? Oops."

And so I took my blood home and fed it lots of chocolate.

My college interview is booked! Mum was sneaking around my house and found the letter. And opened it. And then told me all about it after work before I'd even had chance to close the car door. Muchos excitement. I'd be pissy about my mum opening my mail but I opened hers, annotated it, and told Facebook all about it.

Get with the times, Mum.

The Charity Post.

*cough*

A few weeks ago I got this scary letter from my beloved National Health Service:

Truly. It's love.

So I signed up. It's not like I'm using my blood right now or anything. And I'm giving blood for the first time this Thursday. But a friend told me that she had tried and they told her her blood wasn't heavy enough, whatever that means. So I'm full of questions:

What if I don't have enough blood? (I'm very pale and last time the doctors took blood from me, my arm started slurping.)

What if my blood is too heavy?

Shitballs, what if I have fat blood?

Fatty-fat fat blood. This is the best weightloss scheme I've had in a loooong time.

What if my blood turns out to be like.. black or something. How do I explain that I'm inherently evil?

Will I get a lollypop for being a big brave girl?

And so on. More on Thursday when I've braved syringe-wielding nurses and an hour of intense questioning about my medical history. Joy unbound.

Another thing I'm doing: Race For Life 2011 for Cancer Research UK. It's not the running around the racecourse all day or the vast amount of fundraising I mean to do before it that is the real chore for me. It's the pink. I have to wear pink! Blar.

I'll survive. I've seen a fantastic "Fuck Cancer" t-shirt on Amazon that I'm gonna wear like the less-than-discreet idiot I am.

And finally! Comic Relief: Red Nose Day. Something that creeps up on the Beeb (apparently that's Street for "the BBC") every year and it's usually awesome. I donated the last of my dwindling funds to them after David Tennant made me cry. Because he cried.  Meanie. It's awesome. Peter Kay's done a comedy single with Susan Boyle for it. Definitely worth a peek for shits and giggles. And all for a good cause. *wink*

Wargh.

All my little programs at the bottom of the screen are in the wrong order. I AM SO CONFUSED.

Wargh! Ten days?! How did that happen?

.. I have been thinking of you. Little blog baby's readers. Whilst I sit here in my freezing little (council) house somewhere in Northern England, freezing my lady-balls off, I've been trying to come up with something vaguely interesting to blog about.

The result? Nil. Nix. Nada.

I just finished a three-day stint at one of the local venues. In the last three days I've lit twelve bands and have the scars to prove it. One hand has seized up because of an unfortunate incident with a can of baked beans and a faulty can opener and the other is cramping because of the lighting controls.

The first night? My hands were so cold I couldn't keep the buttons pressed down at the right times.

The second night? I found the solution:

Multicoloured woolly wrist warmers. Bliss.

The third night? The music was awesome, the coke was less watered down than usual, and my hands were toasty warm.

Cheers.