My new favourite blog

Goths In Hot Weather.

Each Child of the Darkness is measured according to Gothiness and relative Sweatiness.

First blog to make me laugh out loud for ages.

*high fives across the blogosphere*

Triple espresso

Just interviewed the CEO of a newly launched social networking site.

Our lovely receptionist gave him a triple espresso while he waited for me to locate my dictaphone.

Cue: 20 minutes of sweaty, shakey babbling, the like of which would put an alchie in the grip of the DTs to shame.

Note to self: make sure interview subjects drink nothing stronger than a peppermint tea before the quizzing begins.

It is most off-putting.

Bastards

Me and The German (more of him later for newbies) moved down to Hove (insert obligatory ‘actually’) about seven months ago. It is a fine place. Salty licks of sea air wallop London’s cancerous smogs into the back end of next week, 52 times a year. My lungs have been pure singing.

However. In renting a small slice of ground floor joy, with sash windows, a parking space and room for the Teuton’s monster barbecue, we also gained a set of mental neighbours. Fully certifiable, marbles auctioned off, sandwiches sent to the soup kitchen, all out farcical fucking loonery.

Hilarious as living next to the real life inspiration for Shameless might appear to be (soothing pan pipes; Frank’s wasted eloquence), in truth it’s been about as much fun as eating a shit-flavoured Revel. And six months after the cunting and witchcraft started, we’re shipping out.

I hate moving house. It’s a ballache I can do without. The organising is just so crushingly dull I want to stab myself in the head for some light relief. But the silver lining comes in the shape of a rent free, swanky pad to occupy while we save up some wonga to buy a place. Erm. So yeah. We’re moving into my Mum and Dad’s place. Fact is, they’re never there, so it’s pretty cushy. Still, never thought I’d be seeking the temporary refuge of the family home at the age of 27.

In the meantime, I hope the evil bastards upstairs get their commupence in the shape of an eviction notice, a skanky council flat and a diet singularly devoted to shit-infused chocolates.

Once more unto the breach

About two years ago, this fine man made me sit down and start blogging. It was 2am and we were knee-deep in Moscow Mules. I am very glad he did. 

I sold my first blog within six months. To celebrate, my buyers and I drank sake and dined on sushi. They were adventurous types who enjoyed flirting with the rawest edges of that which lurks under the sea. Suffice it to say, that was the first and only time I have been forced above stairs, well before my tube stop, to pebble dash a bus shelter.

After some time spent peddling scurrilous gossip and lolling around the house, I secured a proper grown up job as a merry copywriting machine at a digital agency.

But in amongst all the exciting clicks and whirrs, I stopped doing my own thing and it’s made me feel a bit funny. So this is my new blog. My new thing.

Hello. It’s nice to be back.