Salut!
This past week I went to Côte d'Azur for a spell, ate fish, drank white wine, spoke broken French, got strange little sunburns and packed while so hungover that I forgot to bring a phone charger, underwear and sunscreen. In case you’re wondering, it costs £45 to buy a charger for an iPhone 11 at Gatwick Airport. Yet I persevered.
Now it’s time for the latest and greatest. Potential ghost update below…
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Cher this post
Cher has finally broken her silence after her boyfriend got into a nightclub bust up in Cannes last week with Travis Scott.
I have goosebumps.
Cher is the embodiment of what I like to call ‘Facebook cousin’ and that’s part of her enduring appeal. Everyone knows that she’s a poster. And she’s very good at it. As Facebook cousin, her next post will be asking what time the shops open on a public holiday instead of just looking it up, or posting close-up Android pictures of a well-done steak, or making a Facebook album to commemorate a lovely weekend of jet skiing and drinking Coronas with a lime wedge, of course. Facebook cousin rides for her man. Facebook cousin has a big, boisterous circle of girlfriends. She is chaotic, but she is happy, and she owns a home, and I will likely not. I love you, Facebook cousin. I love you, Cher.
Throwback/throwing it back
For some inexplicable reason, I Want You by Savage Garden has been my Hot Girl Walk anthem lately. It’s five songs for the price of one, and it completely slays. It makes me want to have two wines, put on a teeny, tiny strappy dress and perilous platforms and hit a light-up dancefloor.
Big city life
Maybe it’s because I grew up somewhere where everyone knows each other and all behaviour is thus carefully monitored, noted, judged and shared, but I just love coming home from a holiday and being back in the city.
I really do love walking down the street, sobbing my eyes out for one reason or another (Pisces moon) and having nobody bat an eyelid. I love seeing someone take their leashed cat for a walk. I love locking eyes and smirking with a stranger when something empirically insane happens in public. I love the anonymity, being nobody, just a face in the crowd, just hoping to get through the day unscathed. I didn’t love it when a man pulled a single hair out of my head on the bus yesterday, but we move. That’s the city living toll, hun, take it or leave it.
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Sofa-r out
I have to admit it, I might have spooked a little too close to the sun these last few weeks. After yammering on and on about the paranormal lately, something out of the ordinary has finally happened to me. I got home from the gym last night (brag!) to an empty flat. Smack bang in the middle of the sofa, perfectly placed, was a print that’s supposed to live on a shelf a metre or so above where it now sat. It was as though it was patiently anticipating my arrival home, like a pissy mother waiting for her drunken teen to sneak in from a party.
The two prints that usually sandwich the one that was now positioned on the sofa were undisturbed, as were the two plants that also call the shelf home. I took a photo for posterity, sent it to my flatmate Ruby, who was gone all weekend thanks a LOT, and gingerly continued on with my evening.
I know what you might be thinking. So what, a print fell down and now you’re being weird about it. Well, here’s the thing, OK, I’m actually not. First of all, apart from sobbing in the street from time to time, I’m mostly sane. Second of all, I don’t actually want to be haunted, I just want to be included. Third of all, it is almost impossible for this print to have fallen off this shelf and landed the way that it did. It would be a miracle of physics for it to fall over, then slide off the shelf, then bounce onto the sofa without then ricocheting off.
So, I’m flummoxed. If someone was trying to haunt me, they didn’t do a very good job. The print, while lovely, has no significant meaning that one could use to send a message from the other side. The alternative to science or the paranormal is that maybe someone broke into my home, stole nothing, put the print on the sofa as a hilarious bit, and then left. Wait, what if they didn’t leave? What if they’re still in the flat, hiding under one of our bed’s, just waiting for a chance to, I don’t know, turn a vase upside down?? Please excuse me for a moment, I have to pace around my flat with a knife until Ruby gets home.
Deja vu
Larry Connor, a real estate billionaire Patrick Lahey, and a deep-sea explorer, are dying to get themselves into a submersible and explore that damn Titanic. Yes. YES.
Why? Well, Larry Connor told The Wall Street Journal that: “I want to show people worldwide that while the ocean is extremely powerful, it can be wonderful and enjoyable and really kind of life-changing if you go about it the right way.”
Here’s the thing, mon frere, I think the submersible that imploded immediately just last year was kind of life-changing, in that it changed people from being alive into being dead.
I don’t think it’s nice when people die, but I did just spend an evening in gauche, soulless Monaco, so if a billionaire wants to endanger their own health, consider me unbothered. If, with everything going on in the world, your priority is to rehabilitate the public image of submersibles — go ahead. Perhaps use a Wii remote this time. Good luck!
Shut upppp
Barack Obama, war criminal and chronic yapper, has some thoughts on President Biden’s ceasefire proposal. If you haven’t read it, let me summarise it quickly for you here:
If the passive voice was a person, it would be this fuckin’ insidious moron. Did you know that Obama gave more money and arms to Israel than any US president that came before him? Before he left office, he granted Israel a military aid package of $38bn USD to be used over the following 10 years — an increase from $3.1 to $3.8bn per year. At the time, it was the largest military aid package from one country to another in human history.
The man has blood on his hands, the blood of the men, women and children whose lives, lineages and legacies are being wiped off the face of the earth, and he uses those hands to tweet his insipid end-of-year playlists and both-sides’ing bullshit. Rot.
Free Palestine.