Several things have happened this week, all of which have lead me to conclude one thing : I need to get laid.
As I mentioned in my previous post, a significant amount of time has passed since I last had a roll in the hay. I probably shouldn't use the word 'significant', since this suggests that, prior to that time, I was swimming around in a vat of women. I wasn't. Although, as a side note, if anyone owns their own swimming pool, I would quite like to try that.
Currently, the future of my nether-regions looks pretty bleak. I have no girlfriend, no love interest (mutual, that is), and all of the attractive women I know are either in relationships, or are that particularly volitile breed of lesbian, who I refuse to show any interest in, for fear they will confesss their undying love for me after two weeks, and shave my initials into their pubic hair.
The problem is, my need for a bit of how's-your-father has never been greater. This I can conclude from three and a half things...
One. I am really getting into DIY. In the last three weeks, I have painted the fixtures in my bathroom, my piano, and my wall. Last week I even started designing a custom-fit MDF rack for an awkward space next to my shower. If peeling the labels off beer bottles is number 5 on the 'Sexual Frustration' scale, this is about 52.
Two. While attending a recent 'Fuel Girls' event at the Den in Holborn, I got so excited at the prospect of seeing boobies that I nearly vomitted, and had to spend over half an hour in the loo being wiped down with cold paper towels by the toilet attendant.
Three. All my dreams end in sex, regardless of their content. I could be dreaming about going to the denist, or being in the Wizard of Oz, but I can gurantee, at some point, someone's getting mounted. This means that over the last month, I have had sex with my denist, Judy Garland, my old singing teacher, my best friend Jenna, and Jane Lynch, who plays Joyce in the L Word. In my mind.
Three point one. I have started to find Jane Lynch, who plays Joyce in the L Word, attractive. Hot even. She is 3 years younger than my mum. That is some kind of wrong.
Obviously, the easy answer to my problem is to get a friggin' lady-friend. But I fear, with things the way they are, women will be able to smell the desperation on me like a particualr funky cologne (funky as in stinky, not as in Prince. If I smelt like Prince I would be sorted).
In order to pull successfully, I have to stop thinking like a pervert. So, I will do as any middle-class woman would do in my situation - I will take up a hobby, and immerse myself in it until I forget I have a vagina. There isn't much more room in my flat for DIY, so I think a domestic hobby, like sewing or knitting might be a good plan. Maybe I can knit myself a woman, who will keep me warm at night and not insist on talking through Waking the Dead.
....
*cough*
Friday, 9 October 2009
Thursday, 1 October 2009
Snozcumber.
It has come to my attention, since the demise of thelondonpaper, and my subsequent move to the world of cyber-journalism, that there is a small percentage of the lesbian population who are gravely misinformed about the sort of person Katherine Richardson is. So, herein lies a revelation. Sort of.
Last week, I received a lovely message from a lady (a fan lady) on The Book of Faces (referring to Facebook this way brings me everso slightly closer to my dream of one day being Macaulay Culkin in The Pagemaster).
Anyway, she wants to go on a date. Great, I say. Fellow journalists have told me to stay away from dating 'fans', but, truthfully, I needs to be taking whatever I can get. I assure her that I am much more cool/attractive /funny than my column suggests, and that they edit that out so I don't intimidate my readers.
So, in response, I get a list of possible events we could attend. Film night at Nottinghill Arts Club, that painfully trendy night Mannequin in Shoreditch. Cocktails in some undergournd bar of Great Eastern Street. I'm kind of nonplused by all this. Most of them require me to have a shower, which is always a drawback. I suggest to my date that maybe we should just 'hang out'.
This doesn't go down too well. Don't I want to do something totally awesome? Don't I want to go to this gallery off Brick Lane where this videoartist has been filming himself eating crayons for 24 hours? Amelia's Magazine gave it, like, 8 out of 10. And they are such bitches.
Then it dawns on me. My date is misinformed. My date thinks I'm 'cool'.
This has actually happend to me before, this mistaken identity. 3 weeks ago, I was at the Abbey pub in Camden, celebrating my friend's final music night. A pretty girl came up to me and asked me if I was "that girl from the paper". I confirmed this. And then she said, "Oh, right. Wouldn't have expected to see you somewhere like this!"
Assumedly, our friend thought that I spent my spare time in Hoxton, attending live art performances with titles like "Fuck Your Mum, Yeah?", and trying to avoid anything touching my hair. Not standing on a table, at a folk night, with the half-swallowed contents of a party popper hanging out of my mouth.
Unfortunately, I am a disappointment. No matter how interesting my hair, I will always be, fundamentally, a bit of a loser.
I know what you're thinking. I'm in denial. I am actually a fucking superstar with a talent for self-depreciation. Well, in response to those critics amongst you, I have decided to create a definite list of ten reasons why I am not cool, aptly titled 'Ten Reasons Why Katherine Richardson Is Not Cool'.
1) Although I like the song 'How Soon Is Now?' by the Smiths, I genuinely prefer t.A.T.u's cover version.
2) I know how to capitalise t.A.T.u properly.
3) The other day I went to Other People's Property in Dalston. The photographer there was taking pictures of all the attractive people in the venue, and all the less attractive but well-dressed people too. After 2 hours of not being papped, I approached said photographer and asked if he could take a picture of me and my friends. He obiliged.
There are around 100 pictures of that event on the OPP's Book of Faces page. I am not in any of them. I'm pretty sure they just edited us out in favour of some hipster in a lycra jumpsuit.
4) I haven't had sex for over 5 months.
5) On Tuesday, I avoided a social event to stay at home and watch the 1989 cartoon adaptation of The B.F.G. On my own.
6) The first time I met Noel Fielding, I didn't know who he was. The first time I met Lorraine Kelly, I hyperventilated.
7) I was a teenage goth.
8) I downloaded a DOS simulator for my computer so I could spend my spare time playing King's Quest IV: Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow. My favourite kinds of games are games that come on 12 floppy discs and have characters like 'Ali the Pawshop Owner' and 'Billy the Boisterous Bookworm'.
9) I own every record Mark Knofler has ever made.
10) Girls don't like me.
Put that in your cool pipes and smoke them. I should get a badge or something.
I am considering sending this list to said pending date, together with a request that she come round to my flat for piela and Paul Simon. However, I feel once the illusion as has faded, and she realises I'm basically a mildly-autistic teenage boy in a lady suit, she will run for the hills.
Rice and peace,
Kat xxxxxx
Last week, I received a lovely message from a lady (a fan lady) on The Book of Faces (referring to Facebook this way brings me everso slightly closer to my dream of one day being Macaulay Culkin in The Pagemaster).
Anyway, she wants to go on a date. Great, I say. Fellow journalists have told me to stay away from dating 'fans', but, truthfully, I needs to be taking whatever I can get. I assure her that I am much more cool/attractive /funny than my column suggests, and that they edit that out so I don't intimidate my readers.
So, in response, I get a list of possible events we could attend. Film night at Nottinghill Arts Club, that painfully trendy night Mannequin in Shoreditch. Cocktails in some undergournd bar of Great Eastern Street. I'm kind of nonplused by all this. Most of them require me to have a shower, which is always a drawback. I suggest to my date that maybe we should just 'hang out'.
This doesn't go down too well. Don't I want to do something totally awesome? Don't I want to go to this gallery off Brick Lane where this videoartist has been filming himself eating crayons for 24 hours? Amelia's Magazine gave it, like, 8 out of 10. And they are such bitches.
Then it dawns on me. My date is misinformed. My date thinks I'm 'cool'.
This has actually happend to me before, this mistaken identity. 3 weeks ago, I was at the Abbey pub in Camden, celebrating my friend's final music night. A pretty girl came up to me and asked me if I was "that girl from the paper". I confirmed this. And then she said, "Oh, right. Wouldn't have expected to see you somewhere like this!"
Assumedly, our friend thought that I spent my spare time in Hoxton, attending live art performances with titles like "Fuck Your Mum, Yeah?", and trying to avoid anything touching my hair. Not standing on a table, at a folk night, with the half-swallowed contents of a party popper hanging out of my mouth.
Unfortunately, I am a disappointment. No matter how interesting my hair, I will always be, fundamentally, a bit of a loser.
I know what you're thinking. I'm in denial. I am actually a fucking superstar with a talent for self-depreciation. Well, in response to those critics amongst you, I have decided to create a definite list of ten reasons why I am not cool, aptly titled 'Ten Reasons Why Katherine Richardson Is Not Cool'.
1) Although I like the song 'How Soon Is Now?' by the Smiths, I genuinely prefer t.A.T.u's cover version.
2) I know how to capitalise t.A.T.u properly.
3) The other day I went to Other People's Property in Dalston. The photographer there was taking pictures of all the attractive people in the venue, and all the less attractive but well-dressed people too. After 2 hours of not being papped, I approached said photographer and asked if he could take a picture of me and my friends. He obiliged.
There are around 100 pictures of that event on the OPP's Book of Faces page. I am not in any of them. I'm pretty sure they just edited us out in favour of some hipster in a lycra jumpsuit.
4) I haven't had sex for over 5 months.
5) On Tuesday, I avoided a social event to stay at home and watch the 1989 cartoon adaptation of The B.F.G. On my own.
6) The first time I met Noel Fielding, I didn't know who he was. The first time I met Lorraine Kelly, I hyperventilated.
7) I was a teenage goth.
8) I downloaded a DOS simulator for my computer so I could spend my spare time playing King's Quest IV: Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow. My favourite kinds of games are games that come on 12 floppy discs and have characters like 'Ali the Pawshop Owner' and 'Billy the Boisterous Bookworm'.
9) I own every record Mark Knofler has ever made.
10) Girls don't like me.
Put that in your cool pipes and smoke them. I should get a badge or something.
I am considering sending this list to said pending date, together with a request that she come round to my flat for piela and Paul Simon. However, I feel once the illusion as has faded, and she realises I'm basically a mildly-autistic teenage boy in a lady suit, she will run for the hills.
Rice and peace,
Kat xxxxxx
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