Friday, 4 November 2011

Luck of the....Penny

I have just realised WHY I'm so unlucky in love. 

Mirrors. Not only do the bastards remind me of my terrifying morning look, they are also in my way too often. For example, a couple of weeks back I casually knocked my extra large mirror over and it smashed... in dramatic fashion.

And I slowly began to discover how the prophecy of bad luck was indeed factual

By 3pm that day, I had already missed a seminar, walked into a tree and then proceeded to be unveiled in the changing room by a 2 year old boy who started announcing 'NAKED GIRL NAKED GIRL'....

Delightful. Bastard mirrors. 


Bon nuit mes amours. Oui oui, desole desole. I have re-located to gay Paris and my my, it’s very very gay. Currently longing for my own boudoir en Angleterre but I shall get over it and just write some posts. 

Alors. Life has been busy. Apart from the usual shite that goes on in my day to day living, and the frequent moments of je-ne-sais-quoi that equal my life, I am rather enjoying Paris. Yes, I still bump into awkward strangers and attract the most peculiar of men, but alas, I feel very Parisien and am slowly finding my feet. I have decided that I want to ooze culture asap and sprout off quotes from Voltaire’s tales or a Moliere script. Give me time. I will be a culture queen with a passion for French men and coffee in NO time. 

A mature cheese or a fresh egg?

Last week, I had an epiphany. What is this new culture where beautiful women are obsessed with having a toy-boy? I used to believe entirely in ‘feeling young and footloose’ but news of Ashton Kutcher broke my heart and confirmed one fact to me: toy-boys suck ass. Ashton, a very handsome boy, marries a rather Goddess-like (if a little botoxed up) Demi Moore… and finds a younger ‘thing’ within a couple of years. Gah. Toyboys, I repeat, suck ass.  This was the conclusion I came to last week and I set about trying to find a man who would ooze maturity and just be so delicious, I’d be rendered speechless every time he came near…. like a good cheese or a beautiful wine. (on that note, I tried Camembert yesterday. Orgasmic to say the least….who needs men when you have cheese?)

Anyway, in a fortnight, I have found myself in three compromising and totally mysterious situations…all with older men. First, I was caught off guard by no other than the King of Older Men, Monsieur George Clooney. And, for the record, I wasn’t smooth and he is by far one of the most handsome men I have ever seen and I was unbelievably overwhelmed and wanted to jump on him and just let him have his wicked way with me there and then and and and



Seeing him reignited my determination to find this ‘perfect, charismatic older man’. Preferably A George Clooney, but I am prepared to settle for something a litttttle less fabulous.  Begrudgingly. I was definitely the most shameful member of the crowd at his premiere shouting ‘GEORGE! GEORGE!’, amongst the cream of Parisienne cinematographers and normal human beings. But it was George Clooney for Christ’s sake! My behaviour was totally excusable.  

One soiree avec mes amis, I found myself talking to a taxi driver enroute to my petite boudoir. I told him I loved Paris, the city of love. 

This comment OBVIOUSLY meant that Joel from Haiti wanted MY love. He was so persistent in getting my number, and I just couldn’t for the life of me give him a fake one. I know that apparently giving a fake number is a skill learnt at the age of 16, but after receiving more attention from my own dog than boys at that age, I have not developed any of those…’skills’. My conscience just plays such a massive part.  So instead, after about 8 minutes of rambling in which time he had turned off the engine and parked up at the side, I took his number. As I left the taxi fairly swiftly, he told me he’d wait for my call. Alas, I fear my romance with Joel from Haiti, aged about 45…. is not to be. 

I wasn’t going to suddenly start thinking that Paris was not the city of love after just that experience. I still had faith.  One must give cities a chance. After the next incident, I fear Paris needs a couple of chances. 

I was on the RER at a God forsaken hour catching an early morning flight. Sans make up with about 3 hours of sleep to my name and a puffy face that would compete with a hamster, I sat on the train reading my book totally minding my own business. I feel that however unladylike this may sound, it must be said to really emphasise the context and my mood at that time: I had seriously bad wind. 

And then this man appeared on the seat next to me and for the next 40 minutes, he sat on his iPhone talking to ‘Azhib’ and staring at my breasts. This was not at all subtle in that he had to turn his head to the left to stare at them. I was uncomfortable, but in Paris I have grown accustomed to random staring at the mammary glands. I feel like Nepal Buddhist tour guides prepared me for that: Parisian perverts, BRING IT ON. But, this man was a lot older than my own father and of North African descent and I thought that he’d just give up after a while. 

But, NO. He clearly wanted his early morning fix. Eurgh.

When his stop was coming up (Aulunay Sous Bois for future reference) he tried to get my attention and got a piece of paper and a pencil out of his bag and ‘romantically’ left me his number on the seat. 

I died. Mortified. I had to text my mother I was that shocked. I thought after ‘is this what it has come to?!’ Because, Paris being the city of love seems to be a myth right now. I came to the conclusion that day that an older man was definitely not worth it. 

Then, tonight happened. Nothing exciting, don’t get your self too excited. I was catching up on 90210 and Annie, this awkward character meets an older man who is just dreamy. I’m sat here now sipping on my brew whilst Paris dances the night away and I’m listening to the classical song from Love Actually. My conclusion of ‘no older men’ has just gone out the window, but so has my ‘no toy boy’ rule.  I feel that age should be limitless. I know what I love, and that’s charisma and humour, age is just a number. Of course, if George Clooney adored me, I’d be completely ok with that. Similarly, if the curly haired one from One Direction felt an instant connection with me, I’d be just as ok about that. I feel I must be more open-minded if I really want to find that Monsieur Correctamundo.

On the plus side, no pervs hassled me enroute back into Paris. So, all is not lost. Perhaps this really IS the city of love?! Or, maybe I was on the ‘lucky’ train. Anyway, demain I will open my eyes to the world of possibilities and embrace what lies ahead in true British style. And besides, who needs men when you have cheese, wine and fresh bread? 

I am Britist; I am fabulous; I have a great rack and I love my red lipstick: practically dynamite. Pass me the Camembert, get me a brew and I'm off to embrace the most important thing in my beauty sleep obviously. 

Monday, 26 September 2011

Boxercise, Schmoxercise

When my flatmate and I heard about a local boxercise class, images of bodies like Rosie Huttington- Whitely sprung to our minds promptly leading us to book in for the soonest class. After turning up 10 minutes late to lots of agro from the (arsey)trainer we joined everyone else in a punishing hour of, well, punching….and more punching…finished off with just a couple more punches
My body was crying 'FUCK' for the entire time.
What was once a wonderful idea soon became something else; to cut it short lets just say we aren’t feeling that wonderful movable by the end. I had to MAKE my friends buy me cake just so that I could function in an orderly manner because I can't actually PHYSICALLY move my arms. I now understand why Amir Khan has SUCH a great body. Punches = a Wolverine-esque appearance/Miranda Kerr bod.
Saying this, it is doubtful that i will be going back. Even though there is something rather calming about the whole ordeal, you know, the feeling that of punching your partner with the pads on, imagining it is an ex-boyfriend you would quite happily beat the crap out of given the chance.... I value 'moving', something i just haven't been able to do...for about 3 days now. 

Must dash, I hear my name being called...'Miranda Kerr!' 'Miranda Kerr'.... ish.  

Thursday, 15 September 2011

Sweet Jesus, make me a man.

Hier soir, I was minding my own business shopping in the local centre commercial (i've decided that speaking French creates a certain aura of sophistication... it's a phase. It will pass)when I saw a couple holding hands. Literally, just that. And, I suddenly began to sob like a baby. Actual tears gushed from my eyeballs. Absolutely mortified, I ran into the local coffee shop to have a good old brew and I bought a massive piece of cake to compensate for my sudden loneliness. As I sat down, fucking couples were everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Was it a September Valentines day yesterday? No. Is it a romantic month? No. THEN FUCK OFF ALL OF YOU

Yes, I'm slightly bitter. Where the fuck is my 'prince of my labia' in the famous words of Samantha from STC. But, I'm not usually THIS pathetic. I was absolutely mortified at not only my sudden hate for every lovedup.duo around me, but also at the fact that I was sobbing like a lost monkey. The ordeal then continued when I sat lonely with my brew and spilt the jug of milk all over my cake. 

So, there I was. Lonely and bitter with a soggy piece of cake and panda eyes. Even my worst nightmare would have felt some form of pity for me. I couldn't understand for the life of me why I was sobbing so incessantly. There was absolutely no reason. I see couples all the time. Yes, I am (horribly) single but c'est la vie, no need to blub.

This morning I wake angrily and it dawns on me.... it was my hormones. And I spend the best part of my morning cursing my sexuality. My behaviour generally confuses me. 

An Unloved Looney.

Needless to say that after yesterday's ordeal, my parents were NOT in my good books. My mother especially, because she generally drives me loca/up the wall/fucking crazy. I asked her to pick me up today from town, sharing a car with your entire family can sometimes send you into a mental lockdown. So. I walked, but fuck me, I needed a lift back. Too much walking = excessive chaff-age. 

I'm going to say that after an hour, she STILL hadn't turned up. Very, very late. I was a little (ok a lot) pissed off. When I finally saw the car heading towards me ever so bloody slowly (the cheek!), I naturally stormed into the middle of the road, blocking her and flailing my arms angrily to emphasise my pissedoffness. Rightly so.  

Mid-tantrum, it suddenly dawned on me that this car...was NOT my car and that a poor innocent family were staring at me, frozen to their seats clearly wondering which mental hospital I had just escaped from. 

And then mum calls to say she's forgotten about me. 

An unloved looney. Marvellous. 

Wednesday, 14 September 2011

Afternoon Nap= Error.

Autumn leaves are falling and I can feel the air getting HEAVY. Hence my regular decisions to fall asleep at about 2.30pm daily. I adore to sleep in the nudders whilst the wind attacks my bedroom window, and I'm protected by my trusted teddy, knowing full well that when I wake, I can prepare my dinner without having to wait hours. Bliss. 

This very afternoon, I decided to take a nap. I was disturbed by the phone ringing; I'd forgotten I was meeting a friend at exactly that time. SHITE. So, I ran to bathroom whilst on the phone to her, apologising profusely, completely naked, and then fuck. The alarm goes off. My parents (yes, i still live at home) clearly didn't hear me so presumed i was elsewhere. I don't know the code. Fuck shit tit balls bollocks. I'm panicking downstairs, blackberry in one hand pressed to my ear, other hand preoccupied with the alarm box....still naked. Then, that awful moment when the doorbell rings and the over-protective neighbours are peeking through the windows in the kitchen, doing their 'bit' for the community.

And I'm STILL naked. 

Friday, 29 July 2011

Sleepy....story time?

So, I don't know if I'm incredibly innocent, naive or downright stupid, probably all three but this evening, I just couldn't sleep. So, I thought I'd search on my phone for an adult night time story to read. 

'Free Erotic Sex Tales' was NOT what I was after. 


Too many people have revealed to me that they did indeed spot me and my breasts in the long outdoor queue for the sweet shop yesterday. And yes, I was the only adult. 


Oh. Dear.

 I just attempted to drive whilst eating a krispy kreme.

Never again.

The juicy jam filling splodged onto the steering wheel; panicking, i began wiping away at the goo which resulted in humiliating random beeping caused by my distressed hand gestures. I resorted to licking it off but then nearly crashed into a parked car. 
Desperate not to lose any more deliciousness I stuffed the entire thing into my mouth then cruised through the town looking ridiculous with my hamster pouches. 


Sunday, 24 July 2011

life lesson no.1

Note to self: In future, never place yourself on a spindly, make-shift-looking rope swing that sits delicately above a puddle of water, especially when alone. You are too heavy. Your arse is obviously going to drop right into the water. And now you have to walk home alone looking like you've wet yourself. Marvellous.

Yours, Penny Lane. xxx


Imagine the situation:

You are in a luggage container. Indian men galore. You are wearing hideous trousers that have become too large (one too many curries). You have the milkiest coloured botty. And, you have the spottiest rash all over both your left and right cheek. 


Now, IMAGINE leaving the luggage container to buy a Sprite. Now, hear a shrill from your friend in the background as you walk away from the container, thinking you are holding up your trousers. You hear the words...'THONG!!!!'

Now, IMAGINE realising you had just exposed your milky white, spotty botty to an ENTIRE luggage container FULL of Indian perverts and a platform of strangers.

I need not imagine. Twas pretty grim.

Yours, Penny Lane. xxx

(needs no title)

I was asked by a 26 year old MALE Indian virgin what it felt like 'to have someone inside you'.

I was, quite literally, rendered speechless. An absolute first.

Yours, Penny Lane. xxx

'i practically grew a pair of testicles'

'How so?' I hear you ask. Well... for some time, I have wanted a be able to say 'yes, moi, je suis une L.A.D', only momentarily, you know? For a couple of seconds I wanted so desperately to believe I had 'manned up' and done something kkkkrezy, lived on the edge, gone wwwwilld and basically, all that's associated with being naughty.

So, when I jumped onto the luggage container of an Indian train, I thought that the next 14 hours would be pain free and I would be able to say to my friends that I had truly slummed it and been a massive lad. Alas, this was not to be.

Instead, it seems that most Indians are fascinated by (breasts) white skin, (breasts) girls and (breasts) eyes. Never have I ever had so many mobiles THRUST in my face, or been mentally undressed for 14 hours (at least, I don't think so). My travelling companion and I realised that sleeping was far from the agenda when she felt a pair of hands (not her own) on her breasts, and I had to use my LonelyPlanetIndia guide to protect my vagina. Bliss.

I also ended up in an opium den in a rather innocent fashion. The hardest drug I have ever really had for shiggles is....Calpol, so I wasn't totally 'up' for this new experience. But, how was I supposed to know it was an opium den? The three 25 stone cows guarding the outside of the den did not suggest foul play at all. Even though they were standing in the brick, shabby hall of a house.

The intoxicated gentlemen who led us there was probably a litttttle bit suspect. Ah. All part of life's colourful tapestry... i think.

Yours, Penny Lane. xxx

god gave women.....breasts.

I ventured forth into Nepal for some culture emersion. I felt I had reached that point in my life where I needed to appreciate the world around me.


By day 2, I had been informed by a (bitter) buddhist guide that I had 'nice' and jiggled his chest. For some bizarre reason, I thought he said 'eyes' and thanked him before it suddenly dawned on me that he was in fact referring to my mammary glands, my bust...basically, my knockers. Bastard. But, compared to actually having one of my 'knockers' GRABBED by an Indian as I waited in Delhi traffic only two weeks later, that buddha situation has faded into great insignificance. 

The pilgrim city of Varanasi was a honey pot, a HONEY POT I tell you, of randy pilgrims all semi naked with only an orange loin cloth 'protecting' their manhoods. Whilst having a deep chat about pilgrims and religion with a skinny, loin-clothed (i'm going to say naked) pilgrim, I couldn't help but feel he was staring at my breasts the ENTIRE time. Talks about Gandhi whilst anticipating a pilgrim erection: slightly uncomfortable.

Ah. The joys of life.

Yours, Penny Lane. xxx

good morning... (naked) stranger!

So, I got the email. And the outcome? My beautiful friend lasted 45 minutes in the wonderful Klute a couple of nights ago, before being utterly seduced by a strapping Rugby player (we've all been there...haven't we?) A night of drunken passion resulted in an 'eurgh, did i really?'-esque expression when faced with the reality of his face at 8am the next morning. He soon left the vicinity of her bedroom, naked, picked up his jeans, grunted his way in to the kitchen, then into the room of a startled housemate, then FINALLY, the door. Still naked. I think I found this so amusing; do you think he realised he was naked as he passed people on the road at 8am? I'm hoping he was like the Emperor from that tale, The Emperor's New Clothes. Fucker. 
Yours, Penny Lane xxx

Monday, 20 June 2011

'All women need great dads.'


I don't even know what to say, except: Dad you are now the SECOND most embarrassing father in the world. Much Love.

Yours, Penny Lane xxx

Saturday, 18 June 2011

i ♥ tigers

One of my wonderful friends is a Norwegian crazy called Tiger Lily. She is as crazy as her name suggests. She is one of my collected eccentrics AND she deserves a post because, because, life is definitely more fun/crazy/random when she is around. Everyone needs a naughty Norwegian in their lives, this is a fact. (ask my auntie)

Yours, Penny Lane xx

Friday, 17 June 2011

exams versus reality versus klute

Exams mean we recluse (to recluse: to hide away from communication, people, general human beings and resort to the comfort of books and revision guides). I personally HATE this period of my life (who the fuck loves it?), where I live in my Dad’s Mad Dog joggers and jumpers that have seen better days and definitely smelt a lot juicier. I even resorted to deactivating good old faceyb. This, I must say, was the best idea I have had since I decided that wearing a onesie on a night out would be liberating (it was). But, it’s the time after exams that I find almost equally disturbing.

Why? Because, after 8 weeks of reclusing-it-up, suddenly, I am thrown back into the realm of society and face the ordeal of many an awkward situation, or an immediate, cringe moment. I planned random events for almost immediately after my exams, and since my last (ordeal of an) exam, I have NOT STOPPED. The most exciting/traumatic part of the week so far, definitely has to have been the moment where I realized I couldn’t blag my way into India in true Irish-like-my-dad fashion, and that I needed a VISA… in a matter of days. Brilliant. MASSIVE COCK-UP.

But, HAY. Shit can sometimes hit fan, but in the words of Bob Marley, ‘everything gonna be alright’. And, I will be off to India as soon as I can, no matter how postponed it may be. Visa. Will. Arrive. Visa. Will. Arrive. Visa. Will. Arrive. Pray for me, yeah? I’m not religious, but moments of selfishness and insanity take over when I feel like the help of some sort of God would be greatly appreciated. I say the Hail Mary when I take off on a plane. Then say 'fucking hell' as soon as I spill the drink down my leg half way through the flight. I am a 21st century hypocrite. An evening of Bridget with my besties and a fabulous rendez vous with my favourite Tiger are the highlights of my week. In the famous words of the beautiful Bridget Jones, ‘what a gripping life I do lead’. Preparing at home for summer means I can’t help but wonder what drama is ensuing oop-norf. The student town of Duzza holds what should be described as one of the Seven Wonders of the World: Klute. Smirfs, onesie-clad-orange people and Hitler-like dressed students have graced the floors of this hidden gem. A honeypot of sordid tales and saucy (naked) truths, it has been the base of many of my friends’ escapades, escapades that cause eyebrows to raise incredibly high. These shenanigans range from lesbian lunges in return for free drinks, to ‘accidentally’ spilling a quady-voddy over someone, to pretending that it’s ‘oh-ma-gad so crammed’ that you are forced to dance ‘on’ someone cause space is limited. Basically, in Klute…anything goes. I can only guarantee that stories in the next post will be outrageous. And, I can't wait to post it. 

Last three songs to come up on my shuffle:

Chase & Status : End Credits
Joni Mitchell: A Case of You
Cee Lo Green: I want You

Needless to say, at 3:16 am, babysat-ed-out and indian visa-ed-out, I am feeling rather random. Although, both Cee Lo and Chase have got me excited for Summer. Joni has just made me happy.

Yours, Penny Lane xx

Losing the cheeky blogging 'V'.

Why...Hello. Welcome. Welcome. Welcome fellow fiends, amigos, brothers, homies...HI.

Ok ok, before you jump to the conclusion that because I'm a blogger, I'm definitely a dick head because (deep breath) you think blogging is for dick heads... I want to be TOTALLY HONEST with you: I am a dick head. Wow. I said that word THREE times. Swearing in the first blog? BAD. But, it needs to be said. I am okay with a lack of appreciation/an abundance of appreciation. This blog is merely a means of recording my life for my own entertainment (ok, and also entertaining a couple of people); even if I cringe and cry at the situations I land myself in, I think that I will definitely appreciate my stories when I'm old and sleepy and a, let's face it.... a bit boring. Everything I share is based on my own life, but I have, have, have to share stories of some of my friends' crazy moments too, because they're just too priceless to ever forget. My home and my university accommodates a WHOLE LOTTA CRAZY. It would be selfish to not share some of the tales.... APOLOGIES IN ADVANCE to my ANONYMOUS victims. 

If you're lucky, you'll get a bit of music, or perhaps a photo thrown into a post. Just cause I'm probably feeling generous and lovely that day. 

So, losing the cheeky blogging V: kind of a big deal. 

Yours, Penny Lane xx