I heard some girls started queing at about 3am. Lol ffs. It was 12euro like, even that knack that you suspect is living in yer wheelie bin was spotted buying one after shoplifting attempts failed. Luckily no one went overboard, which is more than the ‘Taiwan-ees’ can say

In Taiwan, the launch caused a stampede and left some people in hospital, prompting retailers in Singapore, Beijing, Shanghai and Jakarta to cancel the launch of designer Anya Hindmarch’s environmentally friendly bag.

I would have loved one of these bags, basically just to carry it around empty and show everyone how dedicated I am to camp outside Brown Thomas in some Hobos piss on Wicklow Street. Unfortunatly, I was working that day and didn’t even know of this launches existance until I was on my way home, when reports of the bags selling out were on the radio. I know, shame on me.

Don’t bother trying ebay, they are charging as much as 300euro for the fucking thing, wowz warra bargain. Just get a fake instead, you know you want to. SURE you’d buy the bag if you could get your hands on it, but it’s proving difficult. This is official permission to make your way over to the dodgy looking guy with the stall on O’Connell’s street and let him charge you 20 for it. It’s still doing the same job at the end of the day, besides ironically being sold in plastic bags.

The main message of Hindmarch’s (oh so sophisticated) creation is for the global social change movement, ‘We Are What We Do’, which is trying to encourage people to stop using plastic bags. No one actually cares about this message though or they would just go to Marks and Spencer and buy one of those attractive ‘granny green’ re-useable bags. The amount of attention this is getting, you’d swear it was one of a kind.

I still want one though.

Many would laugh at such a sight the first time, take a second glance just to check that you saw right, that’s fair enough. Second sighting, you laugh again and think to yourself that it must be the same tragedy from before. Third time… you KNOW it’s a different person, either that or the girl from before has become obese within minutes and has dyed her hair a tacky glowing yellow color. No, no, it must be someone else. Fourth time, this is taking the piss, it must be some new trouser pattern? Tenth time, you don’t even consider it strange.

This seems to be an ongoing trend in inner city Dublin these days. Whenever I dare to drive past these sort of areas, besides attaching a riot screen and a panic button, I have become acustomed to seeing young chav girls dressed in pajamas, ugg boots, and a columbia jacket or sports hoody of some description, usually stolen from the guy they slept with the night before, complete with his wallet and his freedom from any STI’s.

I didn’t take that picture myself, but have witnessed this pure, digusting, ‘style’, far too often. Just the other day infact. A girl, of about 16, crossed the road infront of the car, clutching a pint of milk, fully kitted out in her pajamas, slippers, and a jacket from primark’s finest. I was half thinking of revving up and carrying on at full speed. Kate Moss would not approve. I doubt even Vicky Pollard would approve.

Makes you wonder whether they actually wash, or is it just a continous cycle of pajama wearing. I mean, you get up, shower, change, get home, shower if you wish, change, and repeat. When you take out the prospect of ‘changing’ you are left with, get up, go, come back, sleep, repeat. Ew.

Maybe it’s just a simple message of ‘I’m ready for bed, so why not chance your arm, stud?’ Like the buggy they are pushing doesn’t portray this message well enough.

The stores doors opened, at exactly 12.01am, I knew this as I had set my uber cool alarm system to alert me the moment 11:59:59 had passed. I entered slowly,  cautiously. There it was, in my seeing range, my heart started beating fast, it was right infront of me now, I was reaching out, I touched it.

It’s smooth hardback cover sent shivers down my spine. The sense of euphoria I got from fingering it’s um, page things. I rambled to the checkout, not daring to take my eyes off it, incase it would be prematurely snatched from my grasp. I handed it to the bored looking clerk, and my heart jumped and started to beat rapidly, not knowing if it would ever return to my touch. I left the store in a daze, and pulled from beneath my ‘Toys R Us’ robes, which were a steal at £5.99, my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

What is the destiny of my hero? I opened the first page with utmost glee. Then, in a delicate fashion, flipped to the end.

‘Ninteen years later’ it read.

For fucks sake, I already read this shit on the internet.

Seriously though, where does this bitch get off charging such high prices, basically milking her fans for all they are worth. I wouldn’t pay that much to see my favorite band/singer, just out of pure protest. It’s absurb to think that someone deserves this kind of money for prancing around on a stage doing something that comes totally natural to them. Does she think she is some sort of elite? Obviously.

A hefty security team is also expected to protect her from prying eyes while in residence at Dublin’s Four Seasons Hotel. Reports suggest the 65-year-old singer will be guarded at all times to ensure fans or even hotel staff do not approach her or even look the performer in the eye. Funny girl.

If I came across her I’d challenge her to a fucking staring contest.

I almost felt bad for the smug smile than came across my face when driving around in a torrential storm of rain yesterday. Karma. Or else God is pissed off that someone is trying to rob his crown. Fancy that, fork out 500 squids to be muddy and drenched whilst a pissed off ‘deeva’ belts out yet another slow ballad that sounds suspiciously similar to the ten others that came before it.

My Mum was utterly disraught that she isn’t a moron and chose not to go the the concert. I was proud of this decision, but started to wish she had of. All of this morning I subjected to hours of Barbs LIVE in concert CD while she ironed. Luckily I soon became numb to the sound of aging hags, so much so that many a customers order at work fell on deaf ears.

Just another American that thinks all we do in Ireland is eat coddle. SIGH, you’re so predictable darling. I’d rather see you down a pint of Guinness like our man Justin Timerlake. At least he humoured the stereotype a bit.

Barbra. Babs, can I call you Babs? No? OK Babs, come back down here, it may be lonely and pays less, but please, come join us in reality. Before you get smacked into it.

There are dominant types of customers that appear on a regular basis in a coffeehouse. The knarky ‘in a rush’ type being the most irritating. They practically scream their order at you and shove the money into your face as if looking at it would be enough to register it.

Then there are the ‘tea ladies’, the 70+ women who like to order 10 cups of tea, presumably for a group, but this ‘group’ is suspiciously never in sight at that very moment. This type are unpredictable in that they can be either really nice and pleasant, or really bitter and, just plain old. The next are the, ‘I haven’t a fucking clue what I want, why I am here, or what the use of the english language requires.’ These people usually take about 3 minutes gazing at the menu whilst a large que gathers behind them, despite having been in said que for the best of 10 minutes. When they eventually order they mispronounce the item or order it without actually knowing what the fuck it is. Said people usually appear back at the bar 5 minutes later saying how disgusting their drink tastes.

Next in the door are the ‘Daddy’s little angels’ parade. They usually order complex, low fat iced coffee, with whipped cream on top and a slab of chocolate cake. They also, often than not use a credit card to pay for a 2euro drink. This group do not like human contact and usually are engaged in a conversation on a mobile, listening to music, or wearing sunglasses so all interaction with ‘peasant serving me my coffee’ is kept to a strict limit. Nearly closing up now, but oh, here comes ugly bitter complaining person. This person in question resides in ones own arse when taking a vacation from the top of ones pedestal. To fit into this group you must be unattractive, have a snotty tone of voice, and refuse to give anyone whom you consider below you, a moment of your time. These people usually order something simple and find 1001 things wrong with it, basically as each trip back to the bar means someone is forced to talk to them in a manner that makes them feel important. I can’t tell you how much joy people like this bring to baristas. We have great time making fun of you when you leave, or are at least out of hearing distance.

Just as we are about to lock the doors, in comes ‘regular’. Regulars are friendly, chatty, and order the same thing everyday until it gets to a point where you just put it on when you see them coming. Regulars take time to ask you how you are, and always appreciate what you give them. If something is wrong with it? Well hey, it’s a fucking cup of coffee. Get the fuck over it, and please divert your attention here. Regulars make shitty student retail jobs not suck ass. Does buying your fucking breakfast coffee make someone elses job suck less? It should! Think about that, fools. 

I’d like to conclude this post with a quote I read today in NME from Courtney Love

“I once went to Linda’s off my head and did a rap song. Linda has got the master somewhere. I was so deluded that Eminem was my biggest competitor and I had to take him down. And we both stayed up all night while I did rails and rails and rails of crappy powder and did this piece of shit rap that if it ever gets out I swear to God I’m gonna slit my throat.”

Courtney Love should get her fucking coffee from me. I could dose it with coke, while she raps in the background. THAT would make my job worthwhile.

To make matters worse each shop I went into seemed to be in one some joke against me, like, ‘turn off your air-con when she enters’ type thing. These shop entries could not be avoided however. The summer sales are now going on. They are just too tempting. I mean, it’s not even a bargain at the end of the day;

“Wow look, this is only 30e now!”

“Uh, it was 35e originally, and is a pair of socks.”

Who can resist Ralph Lauren socks? That’s the most genius thing I’ve heard all day.

Was flicking through Vogue when I should have been paying my friend some attention today when I met him for coffee. A picture of Cameron Diaz rocking the Dior jumped out at me.

I love this Dior collection by John Galliano, it was probably just the Stam ad campaign that done it for me. I love it! Anyway, my point being, it’s pretty much the same color as my debs/prom/whatever the fuck you call it, dress. The shop called today to say it was ready for pick up. Pity I am car-less and parent-less at the moment. I’m not feeling the blue accessories. Well actually I am, but it just seems so wrong and therefore feels so wrong to say.

Disclaimer: My dress is not actually that fucking hot.

Today I was proven correct, as I looked straight at this woman literally standing at her fucking ‘double glazed bay window’, gazing back at me. Her ’07 Merc and overgrown exotic berry bushes seemed to somewhat obstruct her view as she was bending and turning to get a better look. I felt like giving her a wave, but would hate to ‘disgrace’ my family like that. The estate may disown us. She was half expecting me to pull out a crowbar and start mindlessly vandalising her property. Stupid cow, how often do I have to walk by for her to realise that I LIVE there. I’m sure she takes notes on who enters and leaves, complete with time and date.

This estate is fucking boring. Since a mate from school moved away there is literally no one here I would bother having a conversation with unless forced. However, I don’t think conversation is necessary for the majority of people here, they already know everything there is to know about you.

It wasn’t always as boring. We used to have great summers dashing around on our bikes, all the kids, who have now all grown up and gone their own ways (or just become twats). Now it’s all little ‘Bretts’ and ‘Cocos’ riding their petrol powered karts while Mummy and Daddy stand around vacant bitching with other Mummies and Daddies about how Irene McClean from number 72 hasn’t cut her lawn in 2 weeks and how Jonny Jones keeps driving at a ridiculous speed, endangering poor little Coco because I can’t be arsed to actually pay attention to her instead of gossiping.

Gone are the days when we could rollerblade into kerbs, knock on empty looking houses and run away, built forts in overgrown grass, make forts on mounds of muck, have meetings in our back yard shed, balance on the top of walls, and hide behind cars without being bothered.

Now you’re accused of trying to hotwire it. The fact that you are 10 is irrelevant.

Favourite bands of yesterday, are hard to pick. I’d certainly stick Calvin Harris up there near the top, amazing atmosphere in the green room, improved further by the roof caving in and creating a waterfall amongst the crowd. The Arcade Fire and The Killers also showed us a good time, was pretty pissed off that I had to miss the majority of Daft Punk’s amazing set though. The Kooks disappointed me, they didn’t really seem into it. Even still, a crazy dance session to ‘She Moves In Her Own Way’ in a puddle ensued with some random people, who I’m guessing, had more alcohol than blood in them.

I must say, the place was pretty well organised, considering the amount of people in attendance. Food stalls mainly sold shite, which came in handy after a few too many Heineken mixed with bacardi and 2 week old sangria. ‘Two sips of that and you’re anyones’, the wise words of Megan. I did have a hard time walking through the crowds with a hot dog in my hand though. Many a person looked like they were about to pounce on me for a simple lick of it.

Despite the pain, despite the rain, I had friends, great live music, great drink, great craic, and a great skin exfoliant. Until next year, Oxegen.

Radio also lowers in standard the furthest you drive from Dublin. While listening to some bullshit talk show (just play music for fucks sake) I was pissed off, for want of a better word, at a competition that was being held on a clothing website, Simplybe.ie. The radio host and some, presumably fat bitch, representing the website were discussing what it means to be a ‘real woman’. A real woman, according to their definition, is ‘curvy’, and we all know that this is PC for fat. While criticizing the likes of Victoria Beckham for being too thin, and apparently not a ‘real woman’, the host seemed to almost praise the website, like they were doing fat women everywhere a favour.

Correct me if I’m wrong but isn’t being too thin exactly the same as carrying extra flesh luggage, in terms of health damage? Both are fucking you up. Calling curvy women, real women, is not only patronising to the fats, it’s also a fucking belittling insult to slender women. Pile on the pounds bitches, that’ll make you hot. Don’t believe your eyes when you look at a thin, slender woman and think, ‘wow, she’s attractive.’ It’s just the media fooling you, you really think that slobby mess over there is the hot one. She’s the only one realistically in your reach, do not aspire for more.

Terms to this competition?

Over 18′s only, size 14 to 32 women only, ROI residents only.

Is this not as bad as, size 0 and below women only? Yes, it is. The whole thing to me is just so condescending.  In fact, they should just spit it out. ‘Fat? Overindulge and it shows? We have sympathy for you! Come model for us and highlight to everyone that you are fat and you know it, afterall, you’ve just won a competition for it! We here at Simplybe are all about, diversity. We are giving you a chance, a chance to show the world that slender women are just an illusion, you are real.

Simplybe – giving fat women a chance, because they can’t get one without a special competition.