When there's nothing decent to watch on a Friday afternoon.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good TV, must be in want of new shows. And I am privy to the disappointment such a man shares when faced with the drab selection of lackluster programmes. But gone are the bleak and dreary days of endless and unrewarding channel surfing. Here is the future of entertainment.
1. Juvenile Delinquents: Age 4 and 3/4
A 12 part BBC Two documentary following the lives of ten four year olds as they navigate their way through their first year of incarceration. Follow as they undergo the hardships of a harsh and brutal prison environment with only one sugar free juice box a week. Critically acclaimed for its raw and unrefined portrayal of youth crime, Juvenile Delinquents refuses to tiptoe around the truth. An unprecedented look into the lives of the smallest, most dangerous members of society. Rated five gurgles and two thumbs up by toddlers everywhere.
2. Get Wretched
A one off, two hour special in which Jay-Z and Kanye West compete to turn Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream into a 3 minute chart topper. Following each star over the course of one hectic week in November as they juggle their daily struggles and compete to win the title of Shakespearean G 2k16, learn what it truly means to be a rapper in the 21st century. An awe inspiring, emotional journey of perseverance and will power told through spoken word. Including Drake's brilliant first performance of his brand new song, A Dagger I See Before Me.
3.Promotion Or Die
In which 7 brave thirty-somethings compete strenuously against one another to win the promotion of a lifetime. Who will answer the most phone calls whilst submerged in the middle of a shark infested ocean? 7 ordinary receptionists. One shark infested ocean. A once in a lifetime opportunity. Who will win and who will die? Coming this December. A TLC reality show that puts Big Brother to shame.
4. The Black Cat Gang
A show following the covert observation of a group of Mafia owned black cats as they roam the streets of New York. A dangerous and breathtaking adventure into the multi-million dollar underground tuna trade and the lives of the most prominent feline gang members. A spectacular programme delving deep into the family dynamics of each black cat member, uncovering the strain of criminal activity on each clowder and cat society as a whole.
5. A Creature Of Habit
A longitudinal televised study following 4 young boys as they make the transition from teens to adults whilst separated from their identical twin counter parts. Watch and take part in this interactive ITV series as they grow and become self reliant members of society. We find out to what extent nurture plays in a person's development.
6. Bonquisha, and what?
A 10 part satirical comedy, finally putting to bed why you can't touch a black girl's hair.
A 13 year old sarcastic and brave Bonquisha takes on the world, educating others on the dangers of self entitlement, overgrown egos and ignorance. Stripping the world, one episode at a time, of douchecanoes, sensless goats and uneducated swines.
Most things, in theory, sound like good ideas. As proven by Dragons' Den: A show in which brave and fearless entrepreneurs trek to a BBC studio made to look like the top floor of a run down parking complex and try to persuade 5 multimillionaires all sat perfectly on seemingly extortionate priced leather chairs, made by Shaolin monks no doubt, (because every multimillionaire has their hobbies after a long day of raking in enough profit to buy a small town in Albania plus its inhabitants) to invest thousands in their enterprise. All in the hopes of turning them into highly profitable businesses so they too can one day have the ability to sit on one of the five chairs and have their butts graced by Chinese ox leather.
Each episode shows a smattering of entrepreneurs as they enter the 'den' and pitch their ideas to the 'dragons', all offering a percentage of their business in return for a wholesome investment and the backing of one or more of the five dragons. There's really only one iddy biddy little problemo. You, my friend, must have an extremely profitable and sustainable idea. A lot of these ideas in theory, are pretty good. In real life, ehhh not so much. Which leads me to Saturday morning.
In my ever constant pursuit of becoming one of those uber cute tumblresque girls people are always tweeting about, I learned that there were really only three things I needed to do.
1. Go to the men's section and pick up a grey, long sleeve shirt way too big for my being. Because aesthetic.
2. Learn how to make pancakes.
3. Master the art of the messy yet somehow perfect top knot.
Being the nappy headed, short fro'd cheapskate that I am, I did neither 1 or 3. The pancakes though, seemed almost fool-proof. Almost. So I took myself to the store, scanned the aisles, and left with a bag of pancake/ Yorkshire pudding mix. (Because we can't always have what we want, okay! You got to compromise!) That is in addition to the clotted cream and chocolate chips of course. I know where my loyalties lie, and that is in the isles of sugary creams and confectioneries.
The steps were simple. Simply mix 120 grams of mix with 250ml of water and one egg. SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME HOW I DONE MUCKED THAT UP!!!! Because I did not in fact create pancakes. No, no, no. I had created the physical manifestation of the spirit the pastor had purged out of the woman at the wedding when I was ten. (It's a long story.) I had strong conviction however, that the chocolate chips and the clotted cream would turn that demonmongery that lay before me into something less satanic. I could redeem myself!! With a handful of hope chocolate chips, I prayed and commenced sprinkling. The reaching for the cream, I spooned with ambition, the contents of the tub.
But in the end, I had undoubtedly worsened the situation. I would never be the Tumblr girl I had little belief that I could actually be. So I grabbed the chocolate chips, sat down, and ate the remainder as I watched TV.
The moral of the story here is that pancakes suck. TEAM WAFFLES!!!
Also, currently slaying my entire existence is Greyson Chance. Less commonly known as my salted yam fry.
Also known as the culinarily-challenged guide to making stew.
Firstly, let's address my absence. Why was I not here? Well, I was fighting dragons in Southern Europe... is what I would have used as my excuse for not blogging these past two-ish months. But then I saw the film Wanted (the one with James McAvoy where he kills the organisation that made him believe his father was trying to kill him) and realised that telling you that I was learning to curve a bullet around Angelina Jolie sounded way cooler. So I'm sticking with the latter.
Tomorrow night I cook for my family. Or at least I attempt to cook. My main aim is to not poison anyone. Anything substantial that I achieve during the process will be in the hand of God my saviour and holy spirit. Amen. I however hold the belief that when the Lord said, "Let not your child be free with a spatula and garlic cloves if she/he does not wisheth" that He spoke it with truth. So I shall declare that it will not be the fault of mine if I fail to produce anything more than a pot of spicy tomato sin.
But in order for me to be the good West African girl I truly know I can be( seriously wife me Jace Norman) and not be disowned by both sides of my family, I have a list of steps and ingredients. What you produce at the end of it is not my problem. I created this post with nothing but a shady looking set of ingredients written down in my memo app.
Ingredients you will need if you wish to die of food poisoning:
- 1 decent looking onion about yay big.
- 2-3 garlic cloveicles
- 2 tins of chopped tomatoes - Even if you're like me and you believe that tomatoes are a mistake. Mine are from Costco because I didn't take business for a year just to spend an extra three British sterling pounds on canned iguana sweat.
- 2-3 tablespoons of dark soy sauce
- Oil (Any oil at all. In the end it all tastes like baby sweat anyway.)
- A teaspoon of powdered chili ( Because why not ,eh?)
- A singular green pepper. (Or any coloured pepper at that. Be spontaneous with it. Be free man. Get loose.)
- Meat of choosing. Or meats, if you're feeling real carnivorous.
1) Dice everything.
2) Make fire. I hear stoves do this well.
3) Put a pan on the fire but not directly on the flame.
4) Let the oil heat till it sounds like that sound that popping candy makes when popping candy makes sounds in your mouth sometimes.
5) Cook the meat well well my child. (That step is only funny if read in a Nigerian accent.)
6 Add the veg to the cooked meat chunklets.
7) Let the veg saute in the meat juices. Yum!
8) Add the iguana sweat.
9) Add spices and salt to try and disguise the taste of iguana sweat.
10) Let it all simmer for a unknown period of time.
Siobhan ( pronounced Shi-vawn, because I know y'all are probably like, the hell?!) was the cutest Jewish boy in my year. Granted, he was probably the only Jewish boy in my year. And now that I think about it, he might not have actually been Jewish. In fact the only true distinction I can actually make is that he was definitely was not Jamaican. That and that he certainly wasn't a Jehovah's witness. But he was cute man. Dare I say it, even cuter than my younger self. And I had cheeks for days guys. One of my most prominent memories of him however, and simply for its sheer ridiculousness, was during that one particular break time.
In my younger more careless days (I was five, of course I was careless Stella. You Pollycock.) I was a wild child. (I occasionally stole counting pebbles from the tubs when no one was looking.) I was so wild in fact that I wore lipstick once and managed to go the whole day convincing people it was my natural lip color. I didn't. None of them actually believed me. But I maintain the statement because, dreams dammit!!! My wildest endeavor though? Well that was when I tried to kiss him.
You see, Siobhan was a Caucasian dream boat. Now, he wasn't Troy Bolton material, oh no. But the boy had game. And by game I mean the ability to drink milk from a milk carton without the entire contents somehow ending up on his jumper as apposed to in his mouth. We were five. It was a feat. So it's easy to see why I had a soft pot for the guy. But why I tried to kiss him though, I will never know. Oh the wound! The wound, my friend, is still raw. But I'll bullet point it.
I of course was looking popping in my blue cardigan. The blue bringing out the brownness of my beautifully vaselined skin.
He was looking lit in a blue jumper and black trousers.
The interactive whiteboard was on and he watched while I stared at the side of his face for way too long.
And whilst we both sat cross legged and suffering from major carpet burn, Siobhan still blissfully unaware of my staring, I leaned in.
I suppose the only thing scarier than getting chased by a stray dog is being faced with eleven year old girls. Girls with such fire and untamed mouths, they could burn cities in a single breath. And it's not just their bad breath.
There's a pathway near my school. A sort of tared line between two small woods. The pathway itself is pretty small and winds awkwardly as it progresses, but it could probably fit 4 people. 3 if they're doing that annoying thing where they walk in a horizontal line and stop everyone else from getting past. Which, to my constant dismay, people often tend to do on the way home. On most occasions it's the 3 or 4 people. On the dreaded other occasions it's the huddle of eleven year old hell dwellers. Also referred to as:
The preteen association of irritable idiots
The power league of arsewads
The day mares
The alliance of adolescent tosks
The confederation of four foot mini beasts
The not so metaphorical pains in the backside
The backstreet bad'uns
And my favorite- The mini mafia.
But I guess I should explain.
There are certain laws one must follow. These are unspoken but understood. Accepted and abided by. And they are followed to the best of one's ability. No exceptions. No arguments.
These are the laws of motion. The laws state that when walking upon a pathway in a group, said group should never at any point pause for a longer than 10 seconds and or arrange themselves in a line. This simply to prevent the tale I'm about to tell you.
I do not like the later bus. I do what it takes to make the first on almost all occasions. I do however purposely pace myself to avoid it at times. It's notorious for being the most populated of buses after school ends, and nothing sucks more than being surrounded by a crap ton of humans just when you thought you'd escaped the suckers.
I probably should have left earlier that day. Or perhaps just early enough to avoid the mass of eleven year old bodies stretching the entire width of the path. But I didn't. That is when they attacked. They lunged and tore away at my coat with claws the size of spears. I ran, dropped my bag and my friend. I had to outrun them. Or at least just her. And I did. But I never saw her again.
The moral of the story guys is that you probably shouldn't ever think that my posts are going to end in anything substantial or life changing. Or helpful for that matter. I should, for legal reasons, also state that they're not a 100 percent true. But umm, I guess this was fun, right? No? I suppose not. I'll see myself out.